Well, I’m kind of joking, I’m not going to, you know, “review” this thing, but it might be interesting to offer an insider’s account of the affair, which, at its very best, offered a few moments of genuine revelation, but at its worst, left you scarred by realizing just how much America does not value its own contributions to the cannon of classic musical thinking.

I’m talking about the John Cage Birthday Tribute, now in its 15th year, which was held Wednesday night–what would have been Cage’s 95th party–at the atrociously drab Parish Hall at St. Mark’s Church. FOR REAL!? A birthday tribute, to one of the most iconoclastic (and iconic) composers in the history of classical music, who made his home in New York City, who has undoubtedly altered the global concept of music and influenced several generations of musical thinkers (American and international), who I guarantee will ever be held in higher esteem as time passes and the sheer audacity of his work proves increasingly courageous and certifiably unprecedented–St. Mark’s Church wouldn’t, you know, donate the Sanctuary?

Now, I haven’t done the research to see what the dealio actually is, but I’ve heard enough on the street to suggest that the Church can be a prickly party to deal with.

And to be honest, the thought in my mind, as I wound my way from the front gate, all the way into the back, and picked up my little black-and-white, 8 1/2 x 11, single-fold, copied-on-the-rickety-xerox-machine-in-the-back-office program, I was like, Who the fuck are the people behind this shindig? I assumed it couldn’t have been any of his inner posse. Where was Merce? Off at the real celebration at the Westbeth Studios or some shit.

Then, just as my friend had arrived and I was about to lead her away from what I was sure to be some depressed trap of non-Cage-affiliated-do-gooders, there was old Merce being hoisted up the back steps in his wheelchair! The loverboy himself! I grabbed my friend by the arm, giddily, swung us around and said, “Now it’s an event.”

Inside the hall was standing room only, which was a good sign. But the average audience participant definitely gave off that crusty old New Yorker from the good old days aroma: this was distinctly a pre-digital affair.

Before the “events” began, a woman announced that a bouquet of flowers, an arrangement of yellow roses and green hydrangeas, which at that point had been benignly resting on a table against a wall, had been sent by the ever-presently haunting Yoko Ono. To this revelation, there was a weak, dulled and delayed reaction from the audience, which added to the already fantastically awkward atmosphere.

The program held a long list of “Participants” who were invited to either read a “mesostic“-a thoroughly unsatisfying genre of graphic poetry [update: unsatisfying to listen to] that Cage had a penchant for using-or to “create their own Cage-inspired event.” Most people (including philanthropist, Nina Winthrop) deferred to reading one of Cage’s mesostics; several from a series devoted to Joyce’s (the author, not the theater) Finegin’s Wake. Others wrote their own. Holly Anderson took especially self-congratulatory time to articulate to the audience that Cage had called her mesostics “one hundred per cent pure.” Whatever the fuck that means.

The main problem with an event like this is the “Cage-inspired”-ness of it; i.e. the participant order was selected at random from piece of paper in a basket–cute, right? I would guess the last thing Cage would care to attend was a pow-wow of sycophantic acolytes who were trying their darnedest to emulate/imitate his work. I could be wrong. But this, invariably, took a hard turn toward the literary-poetic, which is the least interesting–and least important–of all of Cage’s work. All of the mesostics had the ring of Beat Generation spoken word; a time when you could recount your quasi-spiritual, semi-drug-induced self-absorption to a throng of congratulatory “cool daddio”s.

There were, however, some moments of rarefied “happening.”

Marjorie Gamso and Elena Alexander did a movement improv while reading out of a Cage book. They took turns with the volume, reading passages at random, shoving the open leaves into each other faces then bending over to touch the ground. A playful (if creepy) moment ended their event with a play on the words “figure” and “figment.”

Jack Waters, Peter Cramer, Marc Arthur gave the most lavish performance. One read a volume of Cage while Nico from the Veltvet Underground played over the sound system. He stood with his back to the audience, begging for audience to audibly respond. Another hopped through the audience wearing tighty-whities and a pair of angel wings while holding a long stick at the end of which dangled a little stuffed toy. And the most riveting of them–I honestly don’t know who is who–was a waifish young one who played with a plastic bag stuffed full of white feathers. He took them out a little at a time, then began stuffing fistfulls into his mouth, only to open his mouth wide and let them plume out and fall to the ground. His performance culminated in diving head first into the bag and pulling it down around his waist. His body gasped and thrashed as if in ecstasy (or asphyxiation) until he tore through the top and a cloudburst of feathers billowed around him.

But the coup-d’Cage came when Gerald Busby–a wonderful old queen of a composer–spoke about music and piano playing while an electronic composition played in the background. His comments were wise and witty. In speaking of how his alma mater, Yale, considered Cage’s music, he said simply, “They didn’t give John much space.” Then he went off into this awesome tangent about theories of piano playing that propose that the energy comes from the ass! And when he discovered Glen Gould’s playing, he rightly observed that Gould was able express the “machanism of the piano,” and applying the buttocks metaphor to Gould, suggested that perhaps Gould had figured out “how to stick his finger up the piano’s ass.” Bravo, you dirty bastard! Here’s to wishful thinking.

In my own Cagean tributary, I gave myself, and my friend, 60′ and 00″ to experience the event, upon the expiration of which we left. I’d be happy to know what else might have gone on.

In quite a literal sense, Cage was a revolutionary composer. We have come out the other end (the ass hole?) of his experience and, culturally, we seem to be back at the same place. Although a few devoted friends (and fans–it might be difficult to tell the difference) might gather once a year to recognize his legacy, sitting at a piano and not touching the keys in almost any concert hall today would still incite people to walk out and cry foul.