Igor Stravinsky, Paris, France, 1913 Debuted his new ballet The Rite of Spring Tapping into the primal essence, telling a tale of virgin sacrifice The violins shrieked, the trumpets roared, the theatre shook Though the bohemians on the floor were intrigued It was a bit much for the bourgeois in the balcony Murmurs of discontent turned to cries of outrage as the show went on “We paid good money for these tickets!” the aristocrats whined Igor stood up and yelled “Go to hell!” as the clamor grew to drown out the orchestra competently Stravinsky didn’t kill no one, didn’t steal nothing, didn’t tell a lie He just created something that some traditionalists didn’t like Dmitri Shostakovich, Moscow, Russia, 1936 Showcasing his latest opera when Stalin strutted in Low and behold, two days later the newspaper read: “Coarse, primitive, and vulgar” “Muddle instead of music” “Petty-bourgeois 'innovation’” One by one every critic rescinded the appreciation they had initially bestowed Funny how they all saw the error in their ways at the same time This was not music for the common man, they said He must make amends on his next symphony or else And so he stuffed his 4th in the drawer and began to work on his 5th Within a year the Great Purge had begun Dmitri saw friends and relatives alike sent off to the Gulag and put on the firing line The 4th collected dust and faded into the back of his mind Shostakovich didn’t kill no one, didn’t steal nothing, didn’t tell a lie He just created something that some bureaucrats didn’t like Ornette Coleman, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 1949 Playing saxophone in a local rhythm and blues band He just got fired from the traveling minstrel show for bringing too much bebop to the stage But the kid didn’t learn his lesson or even think to change his ways No, that night he ripped into a solo that caught the audience off-guard He probably played a few notes outside the key, made his horn scream like a banshee And so afterwards they met him outside and beat him to a pulp They teared his instrument from his hands and slammed it on the ground so hard that it could never be played again And what did Ornette do? Knowing that he would likely provoke hostility again he bought a plastic saxophone Much cheaper to replace Yeah, that’s the kind of ingenuity that molds the shape of jazz to come Ornette didn’t kill no one, didn't steal nothing, didn’t tell a lie He just created something that some ruffians didn’t like Paradise has been described in a thousand books As vivid as the mortal mind can picture Still they never tire to hear of its magnificence Why would you deprive them an encounter with salvation? In their eyes you have betrayed your mission A waste of a messiah Prometheus taking fire back from man Returning it to the gods Feeding them back to the vicious night just when they thought you would bring them the sun Didn’t kill no one, didn't steal nothing, didn’t tell a lie (Didn't tell no lie) Just created something that some people didn’t like

Have I studied beauty to exhaustion? Does the pursuit of knowledge strip it of its magic? Will I ever comprehend the layman’s ears again Now that I can speak this cryptic language? Love and joy are so effortless to arouse Because we’ve prescribed symmetry as their symbol To conjure the grotesque, though a thankless enterprise Is the one true final challenge of the master And in this final challenge he rejects his teaching And scorns all shallow favor with the crowd I would be appalled by your applause, by your approval It would only serve to indicate my failure I could’ve given you fools the show that you wanted to see I could’ve made you weep like a widow standing over the casket I could’ve given you the thrill of soldiers on the cusp of triumph I could’ve made you certain that, certain that there is a god But certainty is dull and only ever a symptom of a lacking curiosity After all, you would only come to wonder more about your own salvation Perhaps I will return you to heaven for one sweet moment of the ecstasy you crave But only just to show you, just to show you what it's like for an angel, for an angel to fall Burn, Paris! Burn! Burn! Burn, Paris! Burn! Come on you bastards, throw whatever you’ve got upon my stage Jeer and scoff and scream until your voice gives out That is the latent beauty of this mayhem, of this dissonance You can only magnify its power with every disruption I want you to be furious I want you to be scared I want you to be shaken Disgusted and disturbed Nothing would please me more than to see you embody the spirit of my opus and spread its glorious havoc out into the city streets Burn, Paris! Burn!