It has long been observed that the surest way to stop the pulse of a waning movement in Art is to put it in a box, and hand it over to the academic vultures to dissect. Once the game is over the analysts move in, meticulously labelling all the component parts, and placing them in dusty cabinets, whilst the more sparkling gems get polished up and neatly laid out in display cases. Today the seizure is often pre-emptive: whilst the music industry desperately struggles to find that next thing that will keep pop alive a little longer, universities and colleges all around the country are setting up courses in "contemporary music" where students can dismember the latest offerings whilst they are still warm. Ok, the extended metaphor is overlong, but the point remains valid, and it is in the world of serious contemporary art music that the effects are most vividly presented.

It started with a couple of simple confusions. Firstly, born of the far-reaching advances of science in the early 20th century, the notion arose that, even in art, a detailed observation and analysis could reveal the mechanisms of greatness. The works of certain composers seemed to back this up. A study of music by Beethoven or Bach reveals ever more fascinating relationships between notes and structures that seem to indicate a direct correlation between these subtle complexities and their value as artists. Even more exciting, analysis gives added value and comprehension to a number of the more "difficult" composers of the early 20th century. When, after the shocking revelations at the end of the Second World War it was deemed by many artists necessary to strip their works of Romanticism altogether, this analytical approach to understanding the mechanisms of music became the basis of a new unromantic musical language, or rather languages, and the academic study of music became the necessary hoop through which budding composers must leap, at least to the height of Master, if not Doctor of Music. This ultimately resulted in a second confusion: that for music to be Art it had to be difficult, challenging, and structurally motivated.

Now of course we would expect our feted composers to know their subject, but in Art, study should be tempered by emotion, technique by inspiration, and these qualities cannot be analysed; as a result, this focus upon analysis led to a number of notable historic composers being completely sidelined within the walls of the universities: for historically there have been two basic types of composer, those that labour away perfecting every detail of the work and thus giving the academics plenty to unravel, such as Beethoven: and those that seem to effortlessly dash off masterpieces, without pause for revision, relying almost entirely upon that elusive creature, inspiration such as Beethoven's contemporary, Schubert.

In 20 years studying composition in universities and academies I have never heard a good word said about Schubert. His forms are usually simple and straightforward, his sometimes-striking harmonies are rarely structurally prepared, he even cheats in symphonic sonata form, getting out of rewriting the transition section in the recapitulation by shifting the whole section up a 4th. On one occasion, when I was 17, I had, what should have been a half hour lesson with a certain well known composer and one of the sharpest minds in contemporary music, that turned into a six hour argument in which he tried to convince me that Schubert was basically a poor composer. I can understand this from an academic mind, for Schubert gives you so little that is self-consciously clever; but to me, and a large part of the world audience for classical music, he remains one of the truly great musical creators of all time. Another good example would be Schostakovich [sic.]. I recall mentioning to another pre-eminent musical mind, that I was rather partial to Schostakovich. He looked at me, genuinely rather puzzled, and declared "What! You like all those interminable crotchets and quavers?!" Yet a cursory glance at the concert listings for any major city around the world clearly shows that Schostakovich is one of the most frequently performed of all 20th century composers, even now, over 30 years after his death. In simple terms, the problem is that the academic mind looks at the scores, and as a result, it rarely actually listens to the music. A score filled with straightforward crotchets and quavers may look dull, even elementary, but it can also sound like Schostakovich.

Now there is nothing wrong with little clubs evolving that have their own idiosyncratic fetishes; it all adds to the richness of the human experience, and there are indeed moments when I might choose to listen to something free from the historical (and some would say elemental) constraints of melody harmony and rhythm, and on such occasions I am glad of its existence. But the problem arises when the reality of economics and politics come to bear. Contemporary classical music is economically a unique art form. Traditionally a composer is judged on their grand statements for large forces, and to put on a premiere of a large work is extremely expensive. In reality, it is virtually guaranteed that such a concert will inevitable run at a substantial loss, and, as a result, it is almost impossible to put on such a concert without public funding. With general decreases in Arts funding these opportunities are becoming fewer, which places huge responsibility upon those who allocate such funding in terms of representing the cream of English talent. Ultimately the decision of who gets performed (particularly among younger composers) is placed in the hands of boards of academic composers and conductors in marathon score reading sessions. Of course, if you have a huge pile of scores to look through, your eye is going to be caught by those that look interesting. And this is the problem. Great music does not necessarily look interesting; it is the sound that moves the soul. And, as I have said, often through means that cannot be analysed (I will call this the Schubert effect).

I would like to challenge a long-standing myth; that musicians can read through a score and "hear" it. Certainly when you are dealing with a familiar musical style, (say that of Mozart or Beethoven, where the parameters of the language are limited and you know what to expect) it is possible to get a clear impression of what it may sound like. But when faced with hundreds of scores, each with their own idiosyncrasies, their own aesthetic, and up to 30 instruments playing at a time I would suggest that it is quite impossible. When considering the Schubert effect it is clear that the alteration of single note can change the entire tone of a musical phrase, and I would suggest that such subtleties will all too often be missed by reading panels. The extent of this obsession with score-reading was brought home to me whilst studying at the Royal Academy, where the sound of a piece of music was NEVER discussed, though the score would be analysed most comprehensively. The suggestion that music was a communication between the artist and the audience was entirely taboo, and when the audience was mentioned at all it was usually in connection with its ignorance in not understanding the profundities of this allegedly great music (whatever it may be).

This gulf between the artist and the audience has left many composers uncertain, or rather deluded, about what their function may be. Whilst studying I was, on three occasions, asked to write an essay entitled "what is the role of the composer in today's society?" The fact this subject is open for debate at all illustrates the fundamental problem, and I am yet to hear the definitive answer. In the 19th century and earlier, when all the great works of the standard cannon were composed, the answer would have been obvious: to write music! The question of its function was irrelevant people wanted music and composers wrote it. Today the question is all too pertinent because generally neither the public, nor the musicians particularly want it. The economics clearly prove that. And a number of myths have arisen to justify their existence.

Myth no.1:
Great artists create for posterity, for the future enlightenment of mankind. This is a modern notion and a direct child of Romanticism, the very aesthetic that post-war Modernist composers were attempting to discard. When looking back over the undisputed great works of the past, there is no reason to suppose that an eye to the future was any part of the motivation. Certainly, before Beethoven, composing was a job, done to commission, and with immediate and often disposable consumption in mind. A handful of performances was all that was expected in the lifetime of the work.

Myth no.2:
Great works are often not understood in their own day because they are ahead of their time. This is a great way of prolonging the apparent value of rarely performed "masterpieces". There are historically very few examples of this being the case. The example always quoted is that of last works of Beethoven, particularly the Great Fugue from the late quartet op.130, which was rejected as impossible by his patron. The prophetic books of William Blake might be another case in point. But I would suggest that any comparisons between oneself and these great artists is bordering upon ludicrous arrogance. It is now nearly 100 years now since the early alleged "masterpieces" of Anton Webern (who some cite as the most important composer of the 20th century) were written and yet they are still largely absent from the concert hall, and CD sales are not yet booming, so when will his greatness finally be appreciated?

Myth no.3:
Increasing sophistication is the way forward. It has been said by some that Beethoven killed classical music, and I believe there is some mileage in this argument though the responsibility is not his. Beethoven's undisputed towering genius (he was considered the greatest of composers even in his own day, despite his anti-social eccentricities) has cast a shadow over the classical tradition ever since. Endlessly studied by composers in the hope of finding clues to his genius, he became the reference point to which many have referred ever since. Certainly he took structure and form to new and extraordinary heights of self-reference and complexity, and when compared to those before him it is easy to mistake this increasing sophistication for the essence of his vision, and therefore the most valuable lesson he can teach us; but that is missing the point. Beethoven's genius lies in his contemplation and expression of what it is to be human, and the extraordinary philosophical journeys he takes us on through the juxtaposition of gestures, harmonies keys etc. To only see the cleverness of form is like looking for the essence of life in a cadaver. It is another example of the Schubert effect: that which can be analysed is preserved and built upon, that which is intangible is discarded and ultimately forgotten. By the turn of the century, when Schoenberg was attempting to establish the pre-eminence of German music through the invention of serialism, Beethoven had become the very God of Structure; and Schoenberg's dismantling of melody and harmony was virtually done in his name. Now, 100 years later, the influence of serial composition techniques is only just beginning to fade, and yet none of the works exploring that technique have truly entered the cannon.

These myths remained unchallenged well into the late 1980s, strangely supported by the notion that since there was virtually no audience for any new classical music, it was just a fashion thing, or a sign of the times, and the world would eventually catch up with them. But by the 1990s a few composers, who had in various ways rejected wholesale the aesthetic perpetuated by "Modernism" demonstrated that the public was in fact hungry for new classical music that it liked. The tremendous success of John Taverner's "The Protecting Veil" and the operas of Philip Glass were to shake the foundations of the contemporary music establishment and their uncompromising stance. Certainly in my experience the reaction was patronising both to the composers and the audiences. Taverner was "merely writing in a pastiche of Russian Orthodox choral music", Philip Glass was banal and meaningless, and the audiences just wanted something pretty to listen to. What was certain was that this couldn't be serious art music as it was far too simple, repetitive and nave: yet their music is among the most performed of any contemporary composers since Britten, and audiences are voting with their bums on seats. What is clear to me is that these composers had something to say, however simple it may be, something which cannot be said in words and yet is expressive of the human experience: and because they have something to communicate they are not afraid to do so in a musical language that can be understood.

Since then there has been a notable change in the tone of British contemporary classical music. The uncompromising structural motivation is still there, but it has been prettified with the occasional moment of lyricism or a glimpse of harmony, never enough to actually make sense of the work but a reference to something reminiscent of music. And the critics have loved it: difficult art music that sounds a little like real music! And the word "genius" has been bandied around most generously. The recent premiere of Tom Ades' violin concerto is a good example. He has recently been hailed as the "new Britten" and even the "new Mozart" because his music, being difficult, is clearly art, and yet is mildly lyrical and occasionally even musical; and I am sure it says a great deal about the nature of musical structures, but when compared to the works of the great composers, which surely such accolades suggest is appropriate, it is strangely unmoving, unemotional and, dare I say it, a little tedious, which is what you would expect from someone who is predominantly a fine academic.

Just imagine: if 90% of fiction was written by academics; if 90% of theatre productions were written by academics; if 90% of films were written by academics: it does not take much thought to conclude that the Arts would not be quite so varied and vibrant. And yet music seems to be a special case, because the route to getting your music played is almost exclusively through academic study. The great composers of the past were not academics, and in some cases may not have been intellectually clever, for that is not what Art is about. Music has always been about the communication of something human which cannot be addressed through other means, be it a feeling, a movement, or a philosophical / emotional journey. If communication itself is undermined by the incomprehensible nature of the language I find myself wondering if anything is genuinely being said, or if all the bluster and complexity is merely a smokescreen for a lack of communicable content. It is truly a unique phenomenon: an Art which has no concern for its audience, and whose audience is deprived of the right to judge it; an Art which can only truly be understood by those with a PhD. There are no easy fixes, but awareness of the issues is always a good start.

 It is in everyone's interest that this confusion between cleverness and artistry is at least debated before the whole ship sinks in the face of the ongoing economic crisis in the Arts. I am reminded of a quote from Salvador Dali: when asked if he considered himself a genius he replied "I am too intelligent to be a genius. Now Picasso – he is a genius, because he is also a little bit stupid".