Morton Subotnick on the Creation and Legacy of Silver Apples of the Moon
By Etan Rosenbloom, Director & Deputy Editor, Marketing & Communications • April 21, 2011
Earlier this year, ASCAP composer Morton Subotnick’s electronic work Silver Apples of the Moon was added to the National Recording Registry of the Library of Congress. The piece is undeniably one of the most historically and aesthetically significant works in the canon of electronic music. The sequencer technology that was designed to realize Subotnick’s otherworldly soundscapes would prove hugely influential, soon becoming de rigueur for electronica music creators and presaging the rise of DJ culture. Silver Apples was also the first electronic work commissioned by a major label specifically for the disc medium. In this in-depth interview, Morton Subotnick expands on the creation and legacy of this seminal piece of music.
I wanted to start out asking you about your life before Silver Apples of the Moon. What started your interest in electronic music?
I was a clarinet player, and I was actually a good clarinet player. When I got out of high school in ‘51 in Los Angeles, I was one semester at the University of Southern California, where I passed all the music requirements on the first day. I was on scholarship on the clarinet and decided I would audition for the Denver Symphony. I went off and played with the Denver Symphony. And I was in Denver for a couple years, got drafted into the Korean War, and came out and ended up in San Francisco, where I did graduate school. I had been stationed in San Francisco so I stayed there when I got out of the Army, went to Mills College, and played extra with the San Francisco Symphony. But all that time I was writing music, traditional music aimed for traditional instruments, and writing for the theater and things like that. I had a commission in ‘57 or ‘58 to do music for a production of King Lear in San Francisco, and decided I’d try out the new electronics that had just come into being -- in 1955, I think the first studio was -- and really fell in love with the electronic medium.
I didn’t like writing music with tape recorders because you had to cut and splice and do all that, but I just loved the idea of it, and that was it. By 1960 or ’61, I had decided I was going to give up playing the clarinet as soon as I could afford it, and start working on new media with electronics and visuals and various things. I didn’t like the way it was going, so I “commissioned,” so to speak. We had started a new center in San Francisco, the San Francisco Tape Music Center, and I put an ad in the San Francisco Chronicle for an engineer who would help build a machine that would be more user-friendly than cutting tape. We went through a couple of people and finally ended up with Don Buchla. He essentially built, with my input, probably the first synthesizer back in 1961, although it didn’t get finished until 1963. It ended up in New York and that’s what I did Silver Apples of the Moon on.
What was it about Buchla’s synthesizer that convinced you to use it for Silver Apples of the Moon?
Well, he was building it according to my design. I was trying to picture what I would need to create the kind of electronic music that I would want to do. What I had when he got finished was what I had dreamed of it being. So it was sort of the other way around. I dreamed it and he designed and built it.
So in a way, Silver Apples of the Moon was in your mind for years before you put it together?
Well no, not the piece itself. Here I was, playing the clarinet, touring doing Brahms and Beethoven, playing chamber music and playing in the San Francisco Symphony when they needed me, and trying to compose music. I thought what I saw was the possibility one day of having a studio in your home and to create a whole new music, where you would be where music could become a sound. A studio art, where I could have an idea and try it out. Instead of putting it on paper and having musicians play it, I could actually try it out directly, listen to it and redo it, just like a painter would, and I would end up with an object that would cost a dollar (in 1960s money) that would just come from me directly on this disk, and people would be able to listen to it. I would be the composer and the performer and the listener, then send it off, and other people could listen to it. That’s what I dreamt of in the early ‘60s before Silver Apples.
It was just that idea. I didn’t know what kind of music it would be. I did believe that it should be a music for that medium, not just any old piece of music that got recorded and put out -- a whole new kind of music. I used as a model for myself the metaphor of Chopin and the piano. He used the concert grand in a way that just wouldn’t have made sense as anything but solo piano pieces. It was (media theorist Marshall) McLuhan’s idea that “the medium is the message,” that his piano music and the piano were linked together in a very special way. I was looking for something equivalent with a record. What would a record be if (the piece) never got performed on the stage, just for the record?
I was asked to talk at a lot of different places, and I told the story of what I was just telling you, about how the medium is the message. I would give this talk whenever I was asked to, and I would say “Someday, people will rise up and say ‘We’re not going to record musicians playing music that was intended to be played on the stage. We won’t replace musicians with a record. We’ll commission composers to write pieces for this medium, and leave recorded versions of regular music on the 78, so we would never really replace it.’ We’ll rise up and say ‘It’s not ethical or moral to replace musicians with records, but we’ll ask composers to write new music for this new medium.’” It was fortuitous that I was working in my studio in New York when I was asked to do the first one for a record. That was an amazing coincidence.
So Silver Apples of the Moon was essentially a commissioned work for a record?
Yeah. I’m in my studio in New York, in 1966, and I worked 12 to 14 hours a day. Through the night, in addition to daytime hours. Around three or four o’clock in the morning, rock band people would come in after they played. I was just down the street from where they all played on Bleecker Street, and lots of guys would come in and sit around and watch me work. One night, this guy comes in around three in the morning wearing a business suit, and he gave me this whole talk about morals and ethics, and I thought he had been to one of my talks and was walking in and making fun of me, so I kicked him out. He said “We’d like you to be the first one to do this” and I kicked him out of my studio. The next morning when I got home, I picked up a record, a Brandenburg Concerto I played every morning to relax me and put me to sleep. Turns out it was a Nonesuch record, and this guy had said he was the president of Nonesuch Records, which seemed like an odd name for a label.
I didn’t realize that was the label I’d been listening to. I tried to reach him all day and I couldn’t. There was no phone number for Nonesuch Records, and that next night around the same time, around two, three, four o’clock in the morning, he walked in again and offered me $500. I was about to say “I’ll do it for nothing!” and he put his hands out and he said, “Don’t say a word, don’t kick me out again. We’ve been talking all day long and we’ve decided to offer you $1000.” So I said “I’ll take it!” and that was the commission for Silver Apples.
Morton Subotnick in his Bleecker Street studio
That was Elektra/Nonesuch’s founder, Jac Holzman, who walked in?
That was Jac Holzman, yeah.
Did you have to recalibrate your approach to the piece, knowing that this was going to be specifically recorded for disc?
Well you know, even the phrase “recorded for” doesn’t really work. I was already working on what I considered to be a record. Everything I was doing at that time was aimed at this idea of what I now call the “three person model:” the composer, the performer and the audience being one person. I was already doing that for the better part of a year. The idea was not to actually conceptualize an entire piece, but to think in terms of a kind of gut feeling about what one wants to do, and actually play with it, mold it like you would a sculpture or painting. I would start to work, and then I would listen to it, and that would bring new ideas. You start something, and then you listen to it and ask it to tell you what it wants to be next, and you just keep working that way until I don’t know what, because no one had actually done that before. So I followed that process, and (Nonesuch) had given me a date which was 13 months away, so I just aimed myself at 13 months and kept working, and it gradually took form. 13 months later, two days before it was supposed to go, I put an ending on it and brought it in. And that was Silver Apples of the Moon.
I’m trying to fit your working method in to the standard dichotomy of improv vs. composition.
It is improv, but what I did was to listen. I would do something and consider it like music. I considered sound as gestures in time, so I would imagine something that was fluid and hanging and swirling in sound, and I worked with that image until I got something that I liked. That might take two to three weeks, and I kept working until I got it really refined. Maybe three weeks of constant working on it, and then listening to it, putting it on tape and getting a feeling of where it would want to go next. I would begin to add to that and edit it. I could edit it directly on the synthesizer, you know – turn knobs until I got exactly what I want. So it was improvisational, but it wasn’t an improv, because I would write some notes down to myself, and try this, and try that. It doesn’t really fit any model. It’s somewhere in between composing and improvisation. It is, in fact, the way I imagined a painter worked. It was more like painting than it was a (musical) improvisation. The big difference is that with an improvisation you are in it, whereas I would be in it and then out of it.
It reminds me of the process of two songwriters jamming on an idea and then shaping that into a song. In essence, you were jamming with the Buchla synthesizer.
Right. I guess songwriters might do that. The big difference there is that if you’re writing a song, you’re writing something short enough that you don’t have some of the larger issues you have when you’re writing a 30-minute piece. Also, there’s form. You have a text you’re working with, so you have a lot of objectivity you can deal with. But this was brand new, for me anyway. This was a wide open field. There was no formal element that I could apply to it. The only limitation was that the record had to be turned over, so I decided it would be in two parts. 15 minutes and 15 minutes. Roughly.
Sometimes in the afternoon, people would stop on Bleecker Street and look up, because during the summer I’d have the windows open. I was getting concerned that I was getting so involved in my own piece that I would not have an objective view as to whether something was too long or too short, so one day I invited four or five people from the street right up to my studio, and borrowed some chairs from my neighbor, and put them down and said “Okay, I’m going to play this for you and you can listen, but when I’m done I want you to just leave. I don’t want you to ask questions or to say anything. I don’t want you to tell me what you think or anything. I just want you to sit and listen.” And I put a chair down for myself and sat among the four or five people, and I heard everything differently, and then ushered them out of the room.
I used that as a model for how to get objective again. To hear it through other peoples’ ears. That was a serious thing that you couldn’t do easily with any kind of improvisation, because you were inside. You couldn’t place yourself as a pure listener.
You mentioned how the piece was divided into two parts so it would fit on a single LP. Were there any other meaningful differences between the halves of Silver Apples of the Moon?
With Silver Apples, the first side eventually became a kind of “trip,” and I meant that in a double meaning…I didn’t take drugs, but it was a kind of hallucinatory trip of both a physical voyage and an imaginary one, in terms of the kinds of scenery that you would never physically see. But I did that in terms of sound, and I had it just sort of transmute from one area to another without much of a transition. The second side was one long (trip), whereas the first side was a series of them. The second side had a kind of rhythmic ostinato, which would carry it to one long huge voyage within one kind of space, and that was what I had intended from the beginning as a sense of difference between side one and side two. When it became a CD, I couldn’t call it side one and side two anymore. It almost felt sacrilegious to put it on one side where there’s no side two. I really conceptualized it as literally turning it over. You could do either side first, you know? It wouldn’t matter.
I’ve run into that issue. It’s an ongoing debate between me and my friends, about whether classic albums that are reissued on CD should be preserved as is, or whether it’s better to have bonus tracks added.
I think what you’re talking about is similar to the folks that would argue that the original intention is always best.It depends on the music, but certainly if you’re recording a piece that existed already in the concert hall, it really doesn’t make any difference what you do, because it was never intended for a record anyway. But I think when you got to popular albums, they really did intend them as long playing records. The entire album fit into one album, and all the pieces on it were carefully thought out as to which one goes where. Which is very similar to what I was doing with a record, whereas (in the case of recording) Mozart string quartets, however many you can get on a record was all that counted.
I think there were a lot of relationships (between popular music and) what I was doing – not the music itself so much, but the way in which I thought of the recording of the record was very similar to the way the pop world was beginning to look at it. Certainly rock and roll bands were thinking of things they could do on the record that they couldn’t do in the concert hall. They practically had to bring a recording studio into the alleyway of the hall in order to make it sound like what the people were hearing at home. So there were a lot of overlaps there. Over the years, I had a lot of people from the rock world in my studio, talking and listening to what I was doing. But not stylistically, because I wasn’t doing pop music content-wise.
Some of the critical reactions to Silver Apples of the Moon talk about it in comparison to the other electronic music coming out at the time and before – like Stockhausen or Varèse – and how there was more of a rhythmic pulse in Silver Apples compared to those others. To me, that argument seems to imply that those critics are looking for something that’s more listenable or approachable. Did you and your colleagues at the San Francisco Music Tape Center think of the music you were making as accessible to the public, independent from academic circles, or was that not at all a concern?
No, it wasn’t really a concern at all. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I think it was probably true to everyone. After all, out of the Tape Center came the first instance of pattern music with Terry Riley’s In C. What was a concern for Terry and myself, and I think it was true for other people as well, was that we were searching for a new music. Everybody found their own place, and some of it might have been relatively obscure, but only because that’s what they wanted to do, not because it was something that was supposed to be done. This is true of Steve Reich, who had his first public performance at the Tape Center as well, two months after In C. He actually played on In C, and that was the beginning of his pattern music.
For us, 12-tone music and the post-Webern music, which included what Stockhausen did and so forth…those were all things that we admired very much but were not what we wanted to do. We didn’t want to follow that.
I think that the post-Webern movement that went through most of what was happening for another 10-15 years, from 1960 (on), seemed to be kind of acceptable. It was actually the tail end of what one might call modernism. I did a piece with the Anna Halprin Dance Company in 1965. About five years ago, the performance we did in New York of that piece was called “The first instance of postmodern dance.” A company was formed to tour (with that piece) and has been touring Europe and the United States, almost 30 performances in two seasons. I think what we were doing, although no one would have called it that, was in many respects a reaction to modernism. Nobody thought in those terms, but I think that’s what was really taking place if you look back on it.
(Normally), a record is a recorded document of a piece that’s intended for the concert hall that very few people will ever hear. What it represents is that concert hall piece in a form that it was not intended to be, and you get to know it that way. And I thought, “What if the record becomes a medium, and if 100 years from now, it would be the new chamber music?” I used that (idea) on Silver Apples. That is what I say in the liner notes, that this is perhaps the new chamber music. I thought to myself, “You’re not going to take it off the shelf to listen to it to get used to it so you can hear it in the concert hall. This is what you would pick off the shelf to listen to at that moment.”
I tried to imagine the kind of experience where I would go to my shelf and pick off a record and put it on – what kind of experience would I really want? Not what great piece of music am I going to do that people are going to go to a concert hall to hear, but what in that record? And I think that’s what led me to the various listenable things. The accessibility was there, not because I wanted it to be accessible, but because if I want to sit down and listen to some music right now, I don’t want to work at it. I want something to take me somewhere in my living room, and on my sofa, wherever I’m sitting. And actually it’s very close to what actually finally happened. That’s what we go to recordings for in home. To sit down and listen.
Ballet Rambert dancing to Silver Apples of the Moon
Photo: Catherine Ashmore
The concept of pulling a record off the shelf changes a little when you think of Silver Apples of the Moon in an interdisciplinary setting. As you mentioned, it’s been used as the music for various dance pieces. Did those choreographers consult with you about how to make the music and dance interact that still honored the spirit in which the piece was created?
No. The first one who did it – Glen Tetley – came to me after he did it and told me what he did, and it seemed very fascinating to me. He choreographed that for any number of companies. I could almost live off the royalties from ballet performances during those years, because there were so many of them. He was really prolific. He did Silver Apples of the Wild Bull, and every company had that in their repertory for years, and he did many companies. It was ballet, not modern dance. And I never thought of that as a problem. I mean, I wasn’t a purist. It wasn’t like you could never use this unless you were sitting on your living room sofa.
So no, I didn’t have a problem with that, and nobody ever asked my opinion. Almost every record was turned into ballet, and I never got word. I would just find out either from royalties, or (when) someone would call me on the phone and say, “You know, such and such was used by such and such company.” In fact, later on, in the ‘80s, I made three interactive live pieces. I called them “imaginary ballets,” because no one would commission a score from me, even though my music was used so much for ballet. They had my records, so why should they bother?
Tell me a little bit about your reaction to Silver Apples of the Moon’s popularity. It was a hit for Nonesuch and paved the way for things like Wendy Carlos’s Switched-On Bach. Were you surprised at how well it did?
I was completely dumbfounded, as was everybody else. I got a certain amount of money from my publisher at the time for my instrumental music. They gave what was called an advance on royalties, but you never were going to make enough to ever pay back. I don’t know what I got – $400 a month? $500 a month? It wasn’t much, but it was something, and they were doing it to help keep me alive. Then they would pay for copying and things like that.
So when you did a recording which they never expected to sell more than 200 records at the most – that was a big sale, in a year – the record company would take 50% of your royalties. At first they were taking 50% of not very much money, of almost no money. When Silver Apples came out it sold over 10,000 that first year. It was such a discrepancy that I went to the lawyer of the publisher, and I said “This isn’t what was meant by your taking 50%!” And he agreed and changed the conditions of the royalty split. That’s how surprising it was. It was just a total shock.
Did you feel like the piece was an artistic breakthrough at the time?
It was a failure for me in the sense that – I was able to do an orchestra piece called Lamination, that Lukas Foss recorded for Turnabout, that was basically the first side of Silver Apples of the Moon with a recording going and an orchestra playing at the same time, almost the same music. In the sense that the content was not totally within the Chopin context, that it didn’t have to be electronic, that some aspect of it could have been orchestral. And so from that standpoint I didn’t feel I had quite accomplished what I intended to. It wasn’t until nine or ten years later that I finally did a piece where I felt that I did something that only belongs in the living room on a record, that has no other place and could never be performed in any way. That was Until Spring and then A Sky of Cloudless Sulfur. It took me a long time to get to that point, but I wasn’t disappointed.
You were talking about how different Silver Apples is from all the other electronic stuff that was out. It still stands separately from everything; it isn’t just part of a movement, and none of my pieces were. I felt very satisfied that I had broken that post-Webern barrier and found my own language. Stylistically, I did create a music that I really would want to go to my record shelf and pull out.
I was really surprised and delighted about the popularity – I mean why not? I was at the top of the charts for almost six months with Silver Apples and the next one (The Wild Bull) as well. And you know, it still sells a fair amount. It’s not huge, but it sells better than any other recording I’ve got out, still after all these years. That’s a lot of years! And I think people still feel that way about it, that it’s something they’d like to listen to. So from that standpoint I knew at the time that I had done something.
The piece was elected earlier this year to the National Recording Registry. Clearly this is an indication of its historical importance, but I wanted to get a sense of what relevance you think it has to the music that’s being made today.
I think the things I did predated what was going to happen with records, especially the pop use of records and recording material and so forth. I don’t think it was because I was so smart, that I was predicting things, and I don’t think it’s because people followed me and copied it. I was thinking about what was special about electronics and the medium of the record. I think I was anticipating what other people were going to discover as they started working with it.
(Silver Apples) was very tied to the use of the synthesizer which Don Buchla designed and built. Though I had a huge say in the metaphoric conception of it, it was not a musical instrument with a keyboard, and the sequencer became the heart of the instrument, and that was conceptualized before there was a sequencer. There were no sequencers out in the world. We were dealing with that on paper. (Robert) Moog came to see me in my studio in ’65, ’66, ‘67 after Silver Apples came out and said, “Everybody wants a sequencer. Can you show me what a sequencer does? Isn’t that just a loop?” And I explained to him “No, it’s not just a loop.” You could do this and that and the next thing…and then he built his first sequencers after that. So the whole notion of drum machines was much later to come. Someone sent me a url for a blog where people were trying to figure out what kind of filter I used in Sidewinder, which was my fourth piece in 1971, and they had answered the blog by saying, “I don’t know if you guys know this but Sidewinder was written one and a half years before the filter that you’re talking about. So he couldn’t have possibly used that.”
Is there anybody in the pop, hip-hop or electronica working today with whom you feel aligned aesthetically?
I don’t know how to answer that question. It’s a very dumb thing to say, but I don’t listen to a lot of the contemporary music. We go to concerts a lot, and I hear a lot of young people, and I hear older people, but I don’t listen to recordings (often). When I listen to recordings I do them the way I anticipated doing it when I did Silver Apples. I pull something out, or I’ll download something. I’ll listen religiously to a single piece of music for a month, every day, or take it to the gym and work out while I’m listening to a piece of music, and that’ll usually be a different piece. It could be anything from a raga to a Bach Brandenburg Concerto. I started listening to (18th/19th century Austrian composer) Hummel about six months ago, because he was more famous than Beethoven in his day, and I wanted to see what he sounded like. Occasionally it will be a contemporary, but I’m not one of these avid listeners of records. I don’t have this wide range of listening; I don’t listen as a researcher of who’s doing what, except in concert when I go.
I guess I figured that since there are so many bands from the late ‘60s onwards that owe a large debt to your innovations, there would be at least something that you picked up on your radar over the years.
I didn’t. And I didn’t know that that was happening actually, until I was asked a number of years ago…when the Knitting Factory was first becoming well known in New York, and they hadn’t built their other (venues) yet, the guy kept calling me on the phone and said, “Would you be willing to play at the Knitting Factory?” and I kept saying, “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Finally he called me a fourth time and I said, “Do you know what kind of music I do?” and he said, “What do you mean, do I know what kind of music you do? Of course! I know everything you’ve written. So does everybody else around here.” And I said, “Really?” He said, “Yeah.” And I said, “Well I guess I could do that.” Then I came down and there was this whole following, 200, 300 people. It wasn’t like some big rock star (reception), but they were sold out, and people were sitting at the doorway that couldn’t get in. People were coming up for autographs. And again, it was not like this major thing, but I was dumbfounded. I didn’t realize that that was happening.
It got reviewed in the New York Times, and then I got an email from someone from Brussels who said, “I didn’t realize you were alive and still doing things. Would you like to do it here?” And the next thing I knew, I was on this little electronica tour. I was at Queen Elizabeth Hall with these young bands and I had a wonderful time. It was great. And so every once in awhile it sort of picks up.
I’m starting to do that again now, actually. I’m going to be doing concerts; I already did a couple of them with a visual artist from Germany. Because my opera (Jacob’s Room) just got premiered in Europe, and so I’ve been going around to those performances and doing other concerts around it. Buchla’s loaned me his new Buchla, so I have the 200e, and I’m performing on that and giving lectures on the original Buchla. It’s actually a long evening, an improvisational hour-long event using materials from Silver Apples and A Sky of Cloudless Sulfur plus a lot of new stuff that I’m just improvising with. What’s nice about it is that I couldn’t do this in the old days. This new one Buchla’s got is analog and digital, so I could have memorized pop settings all over the computer, and I could make it a much more varied performance then I could ever have done back in 1965. I could only record on tape, then come back and redo and redo, and now I could do all of that in real time. It’s fun.
1963 - San Francisco Tape Music Center crew (left to right):
Tony Martin, Bill McGinnis, Ramon Sender, Pauline Oliveros, and Morton Subotnick (seated)
When you were in San Francisco and New York in the ‘60s, were you inspired at all by all the cultural upheaval that was surrounding you?
Well, I was in San Francisco from around 1955 until 1965. It was kind of a historic moment when I made my decision in 1961 not to do any more instrumental music as such, and to do media pieces. So I had made this piece (Sound Blocks: an Heroic Vision) with visuals, two tape recorders, four musicians and Michael McClure speaking from the end his poem, “The Flower of Politics.” This was 1961. The psychedelic movement wouldn’t have started for another two years, and I don’t think The Beatles were known yet. And this predates all of that. The piece was this monumental success – I mean people were shouting and yelling that they loved it, and I was in the review of the Chronicle that said this was a new art form and so forth, and this is what I decided I’m going to do.
So there was zero influence from the movement that one would have thought this came from, and so then I decided what I needed to do was to take each medium, visuals, sound, everything, and start from scratch and find out what how to really do it. This was the whole thing, but I had to break it apart. I started with the electronics, because that was the thing I knew least about at the time. There wasn’t any.
So I can’t tell you honestly if I was influenced by anything. It was an influence that I didn’t know about. The opera that just got premiered in Bregenz is the final result of the work I did in 1961, and it came to total fruition two months ago, but it’s taken me half a century to get to that place where I got it all put together. And yes, I’m sure I was influenced from moment to moment, but I actually consciously stayed away from influences so that I could realize what I intended in 1961. That’s what I’ve been doing for the last – it’s almost 50 years, isn’t it?
I was thinking more about the social unrest that was going on. Whether you feel your music was a reflection of that, in your breaking with tradition, or the use of technologies that were becoming cheaper and cheaper for the average person.
If I was influenced, it was by the transistor, the credit card and Marshall McLuhan’s idea that “the medium is the message.” I’m actually in the process of putting a book together about this. What influenced the kind of metaphors I wanted to place on myself had to do with pulling out the record and listening to it, and what would you really listen to. The idea that because of the transistor, technology would be cheap and people wouldn’t even need money to buy anything, because they’d have a credit card. That meant that the world was going to change radically in the next few years, and I wanted to be a part of that. That’s what led me in that direction. But it wasn’t a style, and it wasn’t a music. It was the idea of moving away from the academy, and from a kind of “-ism.” And forming the notion that everything would be available to everyone, in every sense of the word, was very powerful. I didn’t know what it meant, but it was. I knew what it meant socially, and that was very influential – that knowledge at that point was very, very influential in terms of my thinking.
Again, it was a few years before the impact hits. It wasn’t like I saw it out there in this full-fledged form. It was that I knew it was going to be there, and I wanted to participate in helping to form it. I must say, I’ve had a number of awards in my lifetime, but I was more satisfied, made more fulfilled by the fact that Silver Apples was put into the National Recording Registry than I was at the moment it was popular in the ‘60s. It meant that I really did participate in that, as I had hoped to do, that I was part of something. It makes me feel good just talking about it. It’s great to have worked so hard at something, and to say in whatever little way that I did it, you know? I really did do it. That’s why when you ask questions about influences, it was really my intention to be influential. Not necessarily musically, but just part of helping this thing along so that it would get there faster, and to participate in it in some kind influential way.
Find out more about Morton Subotnick at his website: http://www.mortonsubotnick.com