Old Fogy: His Musical Opinions and Grotesques

In Short

This collection of essays presents the persona of "Old Fogy," an irascible, elderly musician who writes letters to The Etude to rail against the fashions of the early twentieth century. Through his sharp, erudite, and frequently hilarious critiques, he argues that the art of music peaked with Beethoven and Bach, viewing everything that followed—from Wagnerian opera to modern concert-hall etiquette—as a descent into affectation and technical hollow-headedness. It endures as a vivid, idiosyncratic portrait of a man clinging to the aesthetic standards of a fading, romanticized past.

The Story

The narrative follows the wandering thoughts and travels of Old Fogy, a self-described "dynamic" personality who resides in seclusion at his "Dussek Villa-on-Wissahickon." Opening with his reflections on his own training, the narrator establishes his identity as a seasoned survivor of the rigorous pedagogical traditions of Czerny and Liszt. He posits that music has suffered a decline since the death of Beethoven, and he views the modern concert-goer as a fickle participant in a "fashionable fad."

The journey moves abroad, as the protagonist travels to Bayreuth, expecting to find a sacred musical sanctuary. Instead, he is disillusioned by the "swaggering" and cynical culture of modern Germany, which he finds at odds with the naïve, sincere spirit of the masters he worships. He turns his critical eye on Richard Wagner, whom he labels a "clever charlatan" for his use of the leitmotif—a device the narrator dismisses as a "leading-motive game" designed to hoodwink the "weak-minded." His disdain for this trend continues as he recounts his first experiences hearing Wagner’s operas, which left him feeling physically ill and questioning the exorbitant cost of modern performances compared to the Mozart he once enjoyed for pennies.

As the book progresses, Old Fogy shifts his focus to the piano. He offers deep, affectionate analysis of Chopin, Bach, and Schumann, framing them as the essential pillars of genuine musical expression. He advocates for a "pure, bright, elastic" touch, lamenting the modern trend toward "orchestral" piano playing that seeks volume and "smashing chords" at the expense of clarity and color. Throughout these reflections, he frequently returns to the necessity of Bach as the "touchstone" for all great composition; without the rigor of Bach, he claims, even the most brilliant modern works are destined to collapse.

The narrative arc concludes with a shift from memoir to satirical fiction. Old Fogy describes a bizarre encounter with a "wonder child"—a hundred-year-old virtuoso paraded before a crowd by greedy relatives—which serves as a cynical commentary on the commercialization of musical talent. The narrator ultimately retreats to a remote villa in Europe, where he continues to write, shielding himself from modernity, reading old books, and finding solace only in the hope that true art might one day be protected from the "gaping herd."

How It Unfolds

The nostalgic opening The narrator introduces himself as an irascible, aging musician who rejects the modern claim that musical progress exists. He sets the stage by mourning the loss of the classical tradition and asserting that no genuine music has been created since Beethoven.

The disillusionment of travel The protagonist visits Bayreuth, only to find the experience ruined by cynical, modern attitudes and a lack of authentic feeling. He uses this disappointment to launch a scathing attack on Wagner, whom he views as a manipulator of public emotion.

The technical manifesto Moving to the piano, the narrator discusses his favorite composers and the proper way to approach the instrument. He argues for a return to finger-based technique, positioning Bach as the eternal, necessary foundation for all musicians.

The satirical conclusion The book shifts toward fable, detailing a grotesque spectacle involving a centenarian prodigy exploited for profit. The narrator concludes his journey by withdrawing into complete isolation, vowing to hold his pen against the tide of modern taste until the end.

The People

Old Fogy is the central consciousness: a sharp-tongued, deeply opinionated, yet profoundly sensitive man who values "tone-quality" and tradition above all else. He is motivated by a desperate desire to protect the art he loves from what he perceives as vulgar commercialization and technical laziness.

Rafael Joseffy, the dedicatee of the work, appears as the narrator's ideal, representing "perfection" and a "lofty, detached style." He acts as a foil to the more bombastic, "orchestral" pianists the narrator detests, serving as the living embodiment of the discipline Old Fogy longs to preserve.

Various "modernists," critics, and Wagnerians represent the obstacles to Old Fogy’s vision. Whether they are students or rival writers, they are depicted as "weak-minded," obsessed with "isms" and "ologies," or driven by the desire for sensation rather than the sincere, quiet study of the masters. They are the target of his wit, consistently failing to meet his impossibly high, romantic standards.

In Its Own Voice

"I contend that there has been no great music made since the death of Beethoven; that the multiplication of orchestras, singing societies, and concerts are no true sign that genuine culture is being achieved."

Old Fogy sets his central thesis in the introduction, framing the entire history of music as a steady decline.

"I want a pure, bright, elastic, spiritual touch, and I let the tonal mass take care of itself."

Describing his ideal piano technique, the narrator contrasts his preference for clarity against the "hammer-like" modern style.

What It's Really About

The book is an argument against the democratization and commercialization of the arts. It explores the tension between "genuine culture"—which the narrator associates with the private, intellectual, and spiritual study of Bach and the masters—and the performative, "machine-made" nature of the modern concert era. Beneath the cranky tone, the book asks a haunting question: can an art form survive if its audience demands constant novelty and sensation rather than the quiet, difficult work of understanding its foundations? It is a plea for the "elect" to preserve the essence of music, even if that means hiding it away from a society that has lost the ability to truly listen.

Why Read It Today

Readers who find modern music criticism overly polite or devoid of personality will find a refreshing, if sharp-edged, companion in this book. It is a work of high intelligence and deep musical knowledge, though it is unapologetically snobbish and bound to the prejudices of its time. Modern readers may find his dismissal of Wagner or his archaic references to obscure nineteenth-century pedagogues challenging, but the vigor of his writing—and his genuine, burning love for the piano—transcends the narrowness of his opinions.

To read it is to inhabit the mind of a man who feels he is living in the "twilight of the gods," watching the world abandon the things he holds most dear. While his attitudes toward "modernity" are clearly those of a man born in the nineteenth century, his frustration with the "fashionable fad" of art appreciation feels surprisingly current. The book is best approached as an atmospheric, highly entertaining character study. You don't read it for objective music history; you read it for the pleasure of encountering a voice that refuses to be quiet, a critic who demands that music be treated as a sacred labor rather than a consumable good. It leaves you with a lingering, melancholic appreciation for the stubborn, vital power of tradition.