I am a violist, and have, in the course of my 33 years as a professional musician, performed many new works in the Contemporary Music genre, often under unusual circumstances. I have something of a reputation as a 'champion' of new music, probably because I like the really difficult repertoire (I find it challenging). Others would rather not spend the time learning music which is extremely awkward on the instrument (sometimes actually impossible), possibly ugly (an aesthetic judgment), and enormously time-consuming. Most new music is a first performance, a 'premiere', with all of the bugs screaming to be worked out.

As the founding violist in the Group for Contemporary Music at Columbia University, in 1962 I was performing the first compositions combining live (now called 'acoustic') instruments and tapes, electronically synthesized material, and other new cutting-edge technology. Over the years, I participated in compositions where I was called upon to sing, speak, play percussion instruments, run through the audience, whistle and rub my foot on the floor (while simultaneously playing the viola), and so forth. I have been instructed by the composer on what to wear for the performance and how to look longingly at another musician (while playing the viola). In 1975, I played electric viola for Frank Zappa in one memorable set of concerts, in which he asked me to use the wah-wah pedal (familiar to guitarists), play 'grotesquely', and (most difficult) to appear on the stage in formal black orchestral attire, but barefoot.

In the Spring of 1994, I was contacted by a composer who informed me he was writing a new composition for viola, shakuhachi and sho. Would I be interested in premiering the work? He told me he had a doctorate in ethnomusicology and had long wanted to write a composition using the traditional Japanese instruments with a western instrument. "Yes," I said, intrigued by the combination and the chance to do something yet again different. I have long maintained that it is the duty of performing musicians to lend their efforts to new music, and give composers the best opportunity to be heard, but after my experiene with this new composition, I am rethinking my attitudes. The story you are about to read is true.

I was unacquainted with this composer, and, as the weeks approached the performance date, I became uneasy because I had not heard from him or seen the music. I called him. "Oh, yes, I'm beginning to get a feeling for what I am going to do," he said. That made me even more uneasy, because in the years I have been performing new compositions, I have encountered all sorts of difficulties , including notes written which are out of the range of the viola, tempos too fast to generate the notes written, expanded techniques, and so forth. I have also performed new music which was just plain excruciatingly difficult, requiring hours of practice. (New music is never a well-paying occupation, and, in this case, I had understood it to be no-paying employment.)

A few weeks later, I received a call. "We cannot rehearse until the week of the performance because the shakuhachi player will be in Japan." "I need to see the music, anyway," I replied. Two weeks before the performance, I arranged that one of my viola students would pick up the music and bring it to me at his lesson. The student informed me the composer was nowhere to be found. I called. "Oh yes, I haven't written anything down but it's beginning to take shape in my mind. I will bring over the music as soon as it's ready." It never appeared.

One week before the performance, we scheduled a rehearsal at the composer's home. I arrived to find the composer running out the door, wild-eyed. "I'm going to the Xerox place so you will have a score to read from". The sho player arrived, and I watched with interest as he plugged in a hot plate and proceeded to direct it at a bundle of pipes in a circle - the sho. "What are you doing?" "I am warming it up," he replied. "May I hear an A"? He played a G#. I said, "no, I need an A." He said, "that IS an A." (I thought, uh-oh.) "Are you going to transpose?" "No, "he said, "the sho plays certain notes and certain chords and that is what I am going to play."

The shakuhachi player arrived, unpacking the bamboo vertical flute which is played so expressively. "May I have an A?" I inquired. He played a B flat. I said, "what was that?" He said, "that is A on this instrument. It's a little sharp." (uh-oh, I thought).

The composer returned with large unmanageable sheets of score, with all parts scribbled out on one score but not lined up rhythmically. I thought, well, I have dealt with that sort of thing before. I broached the subject of pitch. "You know," I said, "the sho is flat and the shakuhachi is sharp." "Oh " he said, surprised. "I didn't think of that." I remembered that this person had a doctorate in ethnomusicology from one of the most respected institutions in the country. "So is intonation going to be an issue here?" "Oh yes," he said," you answer the shakuhachi with the same material he plays, so it should sound the same." "Well, I can tune my strings sharp, but what about the supporting chords in the sho?" "I don't know," he replied.

We spent the rehearsal trying to achieve some common ground in the pitch arena, correcting the numerous copy mistakes in the score, picking up the music off the floor where it kept falling (the composer had neglected to provide chairs or stands for the rehearsal, so we were sitting on the sofa and I had the music propped up on my open viola case). I also attempted to learn the style of 13th century gagaku (Japanese court music), as notated in 20th century notation, by imitating the bend and turns of the shakuhachi player, who was in turn trying to play flat on his instrument to match the sho. The composer played a large drum ("to keep us all together" he said) but his rhythm was irregular and he was distracted by the reality of composition. That is, he was hearing what he wrote for the first time.

After three hours struggling with this ten minute composition, we quit. The shakuhachi player informed us that the only other scheduled rehearsal was impossible, because he had a (paying) job. We agreed to meet at 6 PM on the day of the performance.

This concert was a function of one of the Universities at which I teach, but the campus had been heavily damaged in the Earthquake of January, 1994. The performance had been moved to the local two year college, which for many years was the agricultural school for the Los Angeles area. The day of the concert they were having a rodeo, and when I arrived at the music building, a Country-Western band (amplified) was playing at deafening levels for the barbecue, immediately outside the room we had reserved for our dress rehearsal. Now, the shakuhachi and the sho are both generally quiet instruments, so in the course of our rehearsal, I never did hear them at all. I was, however, preoccupied, because, having spent the week recopying my part on a few manageable pages, the composer rushed in with a completely new viola part. He had rewritten the composition. So, at 6:30 PM on the night of the performance, I was hastily erasing and copying new notes to be performed at 8 PM. Incidentally, it was one of those rare days in May, it was raining like the proverbial cats and dogs. At least by concert time the country western band had quit, but the smell of barbecue lingered on outside the auditorium.

Yes, we did complete the premiere performance, and I'm not sure what the audience thought about it all, but when I arrived home, I had a big glass of wine and practiced saying "NO" "NO" "NO".