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Category: Art

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Architecture Art Civilisation (TV series) Demography Industrial Revolution Kali Yuga Kenneth Clark London New York

Civilisation’s “Heroic Materialism”

Originally I posted this article on April 25, 2012. But now that I have been postulating that the One Ring of greed and power—that we might start calling “the Aryan Problem”—could be the main factor in the West’s darkest hour, I am moving it at the top of this blog.

Below, some excerpts of “Heroic Materialism,” the last chapter of Civilisation by Kenneth Clark. (For an introduction to these series, see here.) Ellipsis omitted between unquoted passages. Also, the headings don’t appear in the original text:

The westerners’ new god: Mammon

Imagine an immensely speeded up movie of Manhattan Island during the last hundred years. It would look less like a work of man than like some tremendous natural upheaval. It’s godless, it’s brutal, it’s violent—but one can’t laugh it off, because in the energy, strength of will and mental grasp that have gone to make New York, materialism has transcended itself. It took almost the same time to reach its present conditions as it did to complete the Gothic cathedrals. At which point a very obvious reflection crosses one’s mind: that the cathedrals were built to the glory of God, New York was built to the glory of mammon—money, gain, the new god of the nineteenth century. So many of the same human ingredients have gone into its construction that at a distance it does look rather like a celestial city. At a distance. Come closer and it’s not so good. Lots of squalor, and, in the luxury, something parasitical.


Blake’s Satan

One sees why heroic materialism is still linked with an uneasy conscience. The first large iron foundries like the Carron Works or Coalbrookdale, date from about 1780. The only people who saw through industrialism in those early days were the poets. Blake, as everybody knows, thought that mills were the work of Satan. ‘Oh Satan, my youngest born… thy work is Eternal death with Mills and Ovens and Cauldrons.’

The [slave] trade was prohibited in 1807, and as Wilberforce lay dying in 1835, slavery itself was abolished. One must regard this as a step forward for the human race, and be proud, I think, that it happened in England. But not too proud. The Victorians were very smug about it, and chose to avert their eyes from something almost equally horrible that was happening to their own countrymen.

In its early stages the Industrial Revolution was also a part of the Romantic movement. And here I may digress to say that painters had for long used iron foundries to heighten the imaginative impact of their work with what we call a romantic effect; and that they had introduced them into pictures as symbolising the mouth of hell. However, the influence of the Industrial Revolution on Romantic painters is a side issue, almost an impertinence, when compared to its influence on human life. I needn’t remind you of how cruelly it degraded and exploited a mass of people for sixty or seventy years.

What was destructive was size. After about 1790 to 1800 there appeared the large foundries and mills which dehumanised life. Long before Carlyle and Karl Marx, Wordsworth had described the arrival of a night shift ‘that turns the multitude of dizzy wheels, Men, maidens, youths, Mothers and little children, boys and girls, Perpetual sacrifice.’

The terrible truth is that the rise in population did nearly ruin us. It struck a blow at civilisation such as it hadn’t received since the barbarian invasions. First it produced the horrors of urban poverty. It must have seemed—may still seem—insoluble; yet this doesn’t excuse the callousness with which prosperous people ignored the conditions of life among the poor on which to a large extent their prosperity depended, and this in spite of the many detailed and eloquent descriptions that were available to them. I need mention only two—Engels’s Conditions of the Working Classes in England, written in 1844, and the novels written by Dickens between 1840 and 1855. Everybody read Dickens. But his terrible descriptions of poverty had very little practical effect: partly because the problem was too big; partly because politicians were held in the intellectual prison of classical economics.

The images that fit Dickens are by the French illustrator Gustave Doré. He was originally a humorist; but the sight of London sobered him. His drawings were done in the 1870s, after Dickens’s death. But one can see that things hadn’t changed much. Perhaps it took an outsider to see London as it really was.


Degenerate architecture

At the beginning of this series I said that I thought one could tell more about a civilisation from its architecture that from anything else it leaves behind. Painting and literature depend largely on unpredictable individuals. But architecture is to some extent a communal art. However, I must admit that the public buildings on the nineteenth century are often lacking in style and conviction; and I believe that this is because the strongest creative impulse of the time didn’t go into the town halls or country houses, but into what was then thought of as engineering. In fact, all modern New York started with the Brooklyn Bridge.

In this series I have followed the ups and downs of civilisation historically, trying to discover results as well as causes; well, obviously I can’t do that any longer. We have no idea where we are going, and sweeping, confident articles of the future seem to me, intellectually, the most disreputable of all forms of utterance. The scientists who are best qualified to talk have kept their moths shut.

The incomprehensibility of our new cosmos seems to me, ultimately, to be the reason for the chaos of modern art. I know next to nothing about science, but I’ve spent my life trying to learn about art, and I am completely baffled by what is taking place today. I sometimes like what I see, but when I read modern critics I realise that my preferences are merely accidental.

Western civilisation has been a series of rebirths. Surely this should give us confidence in ourselves. I said at the beginning that it is lack of confidence, more than anything else, that kills a civilisation. We can destroy ourselves by cynicism and disillusion, just as effectively as by bombs. Fifty years ago W.B. Yeats, who was more like a man of genius than anyone I have ever known, wrote a famous poem.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Categories
Ancient Greece Art Athens Evropa Soberana (webzine) Friedrich Nietzsche Homosexuality Pederasty Sparta (Lacedaemon) Sword

Sparta – XIV

This specific chapter of Sparta and its Law has been moved: here.

If you want to read the book Sparta and its Law from the beginning, click: here.

Categories
Ancient Greece Architecture Art Athens Beauty Evropa Soberana (webzine) Homer Iliad (epic book) Indo-European heritage Metaphysics of race / sex Music Oracle of Delphi Plato Sparta (Lacedaemon) Zeus

Sparta – XII

This specific chapter of Sparta and its Law has been moved: here.

If you want to read the book Sparta and its Law from the beginning, click: here.

Categories
Ancient Greece Ancient Rome Art Aryan beauty Homosexuality Metaphysics of race / sex Pederasty Plato

Homosexuality in ancient Greece?

Oh! That my spirit were yon Heaven of light
To gaze upon thee with a thousand eyes

—Plato

apollo_sauroctonus



Tomorrow Sunday I won’t post any entry here to leave my visitors the opportunity to read carefully my latest entry on “Women and marriage” in Sparta. The uttermost importance of what the author says in that post is explained in my “metaphysical” comment in that thread.

Since that post is related to Eros in Ancient Greece, the issue of other forms of Greco-Roman sexuality should be addressed.

It irritates me that LGBT deviants and writers like James O’Meara want to usurp the legacy of the classical world to rationalize their lifestyles. The fact is that the missing color in their rainbow flag—the Hellenes’ infatuation with handsome adolescents, not adults—was the only form of homosexuality tolerated in some Greek and Roman cities. This had nothing to do with the contemporary “gay” movement or sex between coeval adults.

As a dilettante in classic literature I tried to say something about it in “On classic pederasty,” but there are people who are far more knowledgeable than me. Today, surfing the internet starting here, I found several posts by a blogger in The Phora that complement what I have said. The erudite blogger, Ixion, is the one who uses as an avatar an image of the Virgin Mary; you may skip the other comments in that thread, “Debunking Ancient Greek Homosexual History.”

But all of this is a distraction related to my differences with Counter-Currents: what really matters is the subject of hetero-sexuality in Ancient Greece.

Categories
Art Friedrich Nietzsche Music Stefan Zweig

Dance over the abyss

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

If you look into an abyss, the
abyss, likewise, looks into you.



This self-addressed pæan of intoxicated happiness is, I know, regarded by modern physicians as a morbid euphoria, as the last pleasure in a decaying brain, as the stigma of that megalomania which is characteristic of the early stage of paralytic dementia. But Nietzsche talks clearly and incisively amid the ardours of intoxication. No other mortal, perhaps, has ever in full awareness and without a trace of giddiness leaned so far and seen so clearly over the edge of the precipice of lunacy.

No doubt the light that sparkles here is a perilous one. It has the phantasmal and morbid luminosity of a midnight sun glowing red above icebergs; it is a northern light of the soul whose unique splendour makes us shudder. It does not warm us, it terrifies us. It does not dazzle, but it slays. He is not carried away as was Hölderlin by an obscure rhythm of feeling, is not overwhelmed by the onrush of melancholy. He is scorched by his own ardours, is sunstruck by his own rays, is affected by a white-hot and intolerable cheerfulness. Nietzsche’s collapse was a sort of carbonization in his own flames.

He commanded the German emperor to go to Rome in order to be shot; he summoned the European powers to take united military action against Germany, to encircle his fatherland in a ring of iron. Never did apocalyptic wrath shout more savagely into vacancy, never did so glorious presumption scourge a mind beyond earthly bounds. His words issued like hammer-blows striving to demolish the edifice of established civilisation. The Christian era was to cease with the publication of his Antichrist, and a new numbering of the years was to begin.

“No one has written, felt, suffered in such a manner before; the sufferings of a god, a Dionysius.” These words, penned when his mental disorder had already begun, are painfully true. The little room of the fourth floor, and the hermitage of Sils-Maria, not only sheltered the man Friedrich Nietzsche whose nerves were breaking under the strain, but also served as the places from which were issued a marvellous message to the dying century. The Creative Spirit had taken refuge beneath the attic roof heated by the southern sun, and was bestowing its entire wealth upon a timid, neglected, and lonely being, bestowing far more than any isolated person could sustain.

Within those narrow walls, wrestling with infinities, the poor mortal senses were stumbling and groping amid the lightening-flashes of revelation. Like Hölderlin, he felt that a god was revealing himself, a fiery god whose radiance the eyes could not bear and whose proximity was scorching. Again and again the cowering wrench raised his head and attempted to look upon the countenance of this deity, his thoughts running riot the while.

Was not he who felt and wrote and suffered such unthinkable things, was not he himself God? Had not a god reanimated the world after he, Nietzsche, had slain the old god? Who was he? Who was Nietzsche? Was Nietzsche the Crucified; the dead god or the living one; the god of his youth, Dionysius; or both Dionysus and the Crucified—the crucified Dionysius?

More and more confused grew his thoughts; the current roared too loud beneath the superfluity of light. Was it still light? Had it not become music? The narrow room on the fourth floor in the Via Carlo Alberto began to intone; the shining spheres made music; all heaven was aglow. What wonderful music! Tears tricked down his face, warm tears. What sublime tenderness, what auspicious happiness! And now, what lucidity! In the street, everyone smiled at him in friendly fashion; they stood up to greet him; they made obeisance to him, the slayer of gods; they were all so delighted to see him. Why? Why?

He knew. Antichrist had appeared upon earth, and men acclaimed him with hosannas. The world hummed with jubilation, was full of music. Then suddenly the tumult was stilled. Something, someone fell down. It is he, himself, in the street, in front of the house where he lodged. He was picked up. He found himself back in his room.

Had he been asleep for a long time? It seemed very dark. There was the piano. Music! Music! Then, unexpectedly, people appeared in the room. Surely one of them must be Overbeck. But Overbeck is in Basel; and where is he, Nietzsche? He no longer remembers. Why does the company look at him so strangely, so anxiously? He is in a train, rattling along the rails, and the wheels are singing; yes, they are singing the “Gondolier’s Chanty,” and he joins in, signs in an interminable darkness.

He is in a strange room, and always it is dark. No more sunshine, no light at all, either within or without. People talk in the room. A woman among them, surely it is his sister? He had thought she was travelling. She reads aloud to him, now from one book, now from another. Books? “Was not I once a writer of books?” Comes a gentle answer, but he cannot understand. One in whose soul such a hurricane has raged grows deaf to ordinary speech. One who has gazed so intently into the eyes of the daimon is henceforth blinded.

Categories
Art Friedrich Nietzsche Music Stefan Zweig

Flight into music

der_kampf_mit_dem_daemon

For many years music remained a private amusement to which Nietzsche delivered himself up in a spirit of irresponsible pleasure, with the pure delight of an amateur, a pastime altogether outside his main “mission” in life. Music flooded his being only after the philological crust had been removed, only when his erudite objectivity of outlook had become disintegrated, when his cosmos had been shattered as if by a volcanic eruption.

Precisely because he had pent up these primal springs of his nature for so long behind the damns of philology, erudition, and indifference, did they gush forth so vehemently and penetrate into every crevice, irradiating and liquefying his literary style. It was as if his tongue, which had hitherto sought to explain tangible things, had suddenly refused its allotted task and insisted upon expressing itself in terms of music. Even his punctuation—unspoken speech—his dashes, his italics, could find equivalents in the terminology of the elements of music.

The details of each work are vibrant with music, and the works as a whole read like symphonies. They no longer belong to the realm of architecture, of intellectual and objective creations, but are the direct outcome of musical inspiration. Of Thus Spake Zarathustra he himself says that it was written “in the spirit of the first phrase of the Ninth Symphony.” And how better can I describe the opening of Ecce Homo than as a magnificent organ prelude destined to be played in some vast cathedral? “Song of Night” and “Gondolier’s Chanty” resemble the croonings of primitive men in the midst of an infinite solitude. When was his inspiration more joyous and dancing, more heroic, more like a lilting cadence of the Grecian music of antiquity, than in the pæan indited during his ultimate outburst of happiness, in the Dionysian rhapsody? Illuminated from on high by the pellucid skies of the South, soaked from beneath by the waters of music, his language became as it were a wave, restless and immense.

Music, limpid, freedom-giving, and light, became the dearest solace of Nietzsche’s agitated mind. “Life without music is nothing but fatigue and error.” “Was a man ever so athirst for music as I?” He, the solitary wanderer cast out by the gods desired only that they should not rob him of this one consolation, this nectar, this ambrosia which eternally refreshed and reinvigorated the soul. “Art, nothing but art! Art was given us that we might not be slain by truth.”

The world had forsaken him; his friends had long since gone their ways and ignored his existence; his thoughts strayed forth on interminable pilgrimages. Music alone walked by his side, accompanying him into his final, his seventh, solitude.

When in the end he fell into the abyss, she watched over his obliterated mind. Overbeck, coming into the room after the catastrophe, found the unhappy madman sitting at the piano, his fingers fumbling the keys in a vain effort to find the harmonies so dear to him.

Categories
Art My pinacoteca Vincent van Gogh

The Red Vineyard

The Red Vineyard

Painting of the day:

Vincent van Gogh
The Red Vineyard ~ 1890
Pushkin Museum

Categories
Art Hadrian Homosexuality Julian (novel)

JVLIAN excerpts – XI

“Why were you so ungrateful to our gods
as to desert them for the Jews?”

—Julian, addressing the Christians

Julian

The Memoir of Julian Augustus

I arrived at Piraeus, the port of Athens, shortly after sunrise 5 August 355. I remember every one of the forty-seven days I spent in Athens. They were the happiest days of my life, so far.

I engaged a cart and driver after considerable haggling (I was able to bring the driver’s cost down to half what he asked: good but not marvelous). Then I climbed into the little cart. Half standing, half sitting on the cart rail, I was borne over the rutted road to Athens.

The sun rose in a cloudless sky. Attic clarity is not just a metaphor; it is a fact. The sky’s blue was painful.

My first reaction was delight at anonymity. No one stared at me. No one knew who I was. I looked a typical student with my beard and plain cloak. There were dozens like me. Some were in carts, most were on foot; all of them moving toward the same goal: Athens and the knowledge of the true.

On every side of me carts rattled and creaked, their drivers cursing and their contents, human or animal, complaining. The Athenian Greek is a lively fellow, though one looks in vain from face to face for a glimpse of Pericles or Alcibiades. As a race, they are much changed. They are no longer noble. They have been too often enslaved, and their blood mixed with that of barbarians.

[Chechar’s note: See Pierce’s take on this subject]

The Dipylon Gate was as busy in the early morning as any other great city’s gate might have been at noon. It is a double gate, as its name indicates, with two tall towers on the outside. Guards lolled in front, paying no attention to the carts and pedestrians who came and went. As we passed through the outer gate, our cart was suddenly surrounded by whores. Twenty or thirty women and girls of all ages rushed out of the shadows of the wall. They fought with one another to get close to the cart. They tugged at my cloak. They called me “Billy Goat,” “Pan,” “Satyr,” and other less endearing terms.

With the skill of an acrobat one pretty child of fourteen vaulted the railing of my cart and firmly grasped my beard in her fist. The soldiers laughed at my discomfort. With some effort I pried my beard from her fingers, but not before her other hand had reached between my legs, to the delight of those watching. But the driver was expert at handling these girls. With a delicate flick of his whip, he snapped at the hand. It was withdrawn with a cry. She leapt to the ground. The other women jeered us. Their curses were splendid, Homeric!

I arranged my tunic. The sharp tug of the girl’s hand had had its effect upon me, and against my will I thought of lovemaking and wondered where the best girls in Athens might be found. I was not then, as I am now, celibate. Yet even in those days I believed that it was virtuous to mortify the flesh, for it is a fact that conscience increases intellectual clarity. But I was also twenty-three years old and the flesh made demands on me in a way that the mind could not control.

Youth is the body’s time. Not a day passed in those days that I did not experience lust. Not a week passed that I did not assuage that lust. But I do not agree with those Dionysians who maintain that the sexual act draws men closer to the One God. If anything, it takes a man away from God, for in the act he is blind and thoughtless, no more than an animal engaged in the ceremony of creation. Yet to each stage of one’s life certain things are suitable and for a few weeks, eight years ago, I was young, and knew many girls. Even now in this hot Asiatic night, I recall with unease that brilliant time, and think of lovemaking. I notice that my secretary is blushing. Yet he is Greek!

♣

The driver indicated a large ruin to the right. “Hadrian,” he said. “Hadrian Augustus.” Like all travelers, I am used to hearing guides refer to my famous predecessor. Even after two centuries he is the only emperor every man has heard of—because of his constant traveling, his continuous building and, sad to say, his ridiculous passion for the boy Antinoüs. I suppose that it is natural enough to like boys but it is not natural or seemly to love anyone with the excessive and undignified passion that Hadrian showed for Antinoüs. Fortunately, the boy was murdered before Hadrian could make him his heir. But in his grief Hadrian made himself and the Genius of Rome look absurd. He set up thousands of statues and dedicated innumerable temples to the dead boy.

Antinous Mondragone 130 ADHe even declared the pretty catamite a god! It was a shocking display and permanently shadows Hadrian’s fame. For the first time in history, a Roman emperor was mocked and thought ridiculous. Yet except for this one lapse, I find Hadrian a sympathetic figure.

Categories
Ancient Rome Architecture Art Indo-European heritage

Why whites cannot reassert themselves?

In a recent discussion thread I said:

The Imperial Church started to destroy entire libraries and invaluable monuments of the classical world that represented the very soul of our Indo-European heritage and ancient wisdom.

Mister Deutsch, a commenter, responded:

Amen. And that’s why whites cannot reassert themselves; their foundations were destroyed and replaced with a Semitic god.

The core problem is a confused spiritual identity; all of the other issues, be it miscegenation, liberalism, capitalism, Marxism, scientism, the cult of the bourgeois consumer, etc., are all the by-product of de-Aryanization via Christianity.

See the posts of Manu Rodríguez that I have translated from Spanish to delve deeper into this subject.

♣

Below, the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina: a partial ruin that was turned into a church, but you can still make out the impressive front steps and portico today. At one time, it looked like the model below. It was built in 141 by the Emperor Antoninus and dedicated to his wife Faustina, who had died.

Temple of Antoninus and Faustina

In the Middle Ages the temple ruin was converted to the Church of San Lorenzo. Today, it is one of the strangest churches anywhere. On the forum side, the steps and columns are still visible, as is the inscription to Antoninus and Faustina, with a church roof and entry on the opposite side. During the Middle Ages the forum was all under 10-20 feet of earth, so today with the ground excavated you can see the church and what remains of the original structure.

Categories
Art Beethoven Degenerate art Music

On the electric guitar and more

“I apologize as it’s not my purpose to browbeat you, but your promotion of said ‘music’ is prima facie evidence that the West is defunct.” —Iranian for Aryans

Music is the external side of the soul. If a culture’s soul is rotten, the external side of that culture must be rotten too.

Together with sexual mores and architecture, music has been my litmus test that shows that many white nationalists have not rejected the rottenness of our world.

In another thread the illustrious Roger said:

You are right that jazz requires some skill from the performer. What it does not require, however, is discipline from either the composer or the performer. It is inherently transient because of its improvisational character—if not for audio recording technology, alleged classics like Kind of Blue would have no posterity. The only thing that most jazz musicians bother to compose is what they refer to as the head, whilst the rest [is] improvised. Their structure is a binary A-B-A-B-A-B-A form: A represents the head, and B represents the improvisational passages led by each of the soloists. It is about showmanship and impulsiveness. That might be impressive for unruly teenagers and permanent adolescents, but it is not serious music. The mere form and structure of jazz prevents it from integrating any thoughtful counterpoint and orchestration. The harmony tends to be very basic and trite.

As for heavy metal, I don’t deny that people like Steve Vai and John Petrucci are capable performers with their electric guitars. Their problem is that they adore a bastardised conception of music, and they seem unable to perform without using artificial amplification and/or sound effects (which automatically close the instrument off to subtle dynamics and articulation). The electric guitar is one of the worst inventions of the 20th Century. Its steel strings create a sound which is not at all conducive to interesting polyphonic music (unlike, for instance, the classical guitar music of Fernando Sor). You will seldom hear an unaccompanied electric guitar, and if you do, it will be no more appealing to the ears than the accompaniment of an overbearing drum kit, a bass guitar, a screechy “singer”, and perhaps a keyboard synthesiser.

degenerateIt might also be added that jazz and rock music are both highly repetitive. The song you have posted is a good example. Not only are the lyrics juvenile and unpoetic, “sung” in a lacklustre fashion, but the lauded guitar solo is unmusical and (as expected) affected by irritating wah-wah sound effects. James O’Meara might enjoy it, because it is filled with bent notes and whammy bar movements, defying the twelve-tone equal temperament which he so opposes. It certainly does not require the same discipline from the performer as, for example, Joachim’s cadenza for Brahms’ violin concerto. There is no attention to ornamentation (e.g. staccato, legato, trills), harmony or dynamics, and there is no real craft involved. Joachim’s cadenza has all of those things, and it requires a very high level of skill to perform all of the double and triple stops—and that’s just the cadenza! It is the least interesting part of the concerto, in my view, as I find Brahms’ orchestration far more compelling and ingenious than any violin solo. The third movement is more exhilarating than anything one can find in heavy metal, regardless of how much the New Right wishes to think of it as “Viking” music (as if!).

You also wrote:

We can not listen to Beethoven all day, we also need a more basic entree to lighten our daily burden, which is “folk music”. Which has to be reinvented after a total extermination process since the 40’ties.

This is wrong on several counts. Starting with your last point, it is not true that folk music needs to be “reinvented”. I rather like Breton and Scottish folk music, and I can testify that these are two very strong living traditions. If you visit Lorient during the first two weeks of August in any given year, you will have a hard time making it down a street without hearing at least one busker (or a group of them) performing traditional music. People flock in from all over France and Europe for the “interceltique” festival in Lorient, and the enthusiasm on the streets is a stark reminder of Old Europe (there’s rarely a black face to be seen, either).

I love it, and I find the music of the Breton bagads delightful. The sound has a wonderful sense of discipline, and the better ones have a strict regimentation of the different sections of the band. It is well-suited for outdoor events in general, and street parades in particular. This is just one example to show that the folk traditions in most European countries have not suffered a “total extermination”, contrary to your claim. Most people are disconnected from them in the West (many favouring the modernist music you offer as an alternative), but they still exist, and enough people take an active interest for competitions, festivals, sessions and concerts to be regularly staged. The strong rhythm of this folk music is designed to complement traditional dance forms like the hornpipe, the an dro, the hanter dro, the gavotte and the reel, incidentally (this is also a function of much classical music). Jazz dancing is a different thing altogether, as is the frenzied idiocy of rock crowds. To compare the two is laughable. One of them serves the cause of decency, and the other serves the cause of debauchery.

As for the first point, nobody is suggesting that we ought to “listen to Beethoven all day”. There is so much variation in the Western classical canon that it would take at least a decade to properly absorb the full catalogues of all the major composers—and that’s without even mentioning the all of the lesser-known composers of merit (neglected or unesteemed composers still have more value than slimy modernist music). Beethoven is the acme of late Classical music, but there is obviously more to it than him alone. Frequently played favourites in my house include Dowland, Buxtehude, Bach, Monteverdi, Josquin, Dufay, Byrd, Haydn, Elgar, Schubert, Rachmaninoff and Dvořák, with many others in between. It is not hard for an attentive listener to hear the distinctions between each one of these composers, nor to understand what it is that unites them as part of the same broad musical tradition.

I think it comes down to this question: are we to behave as animals or as men? Their music appeals to the body because of the primacy of its rhythm (and, in the case of rock music, its deliberate, artificial loudness). Western music, on the other hand, appeals to the soul. This is something that you appear to be contemptuous of with your comments about “repression” (a favourite word of the feminists). I do not hold out much hope of convincing you to reject the sensualism which underlies your assumptions about the purpose of music.

(Source: here)