Sadly, though, the afternoon didn't quite pan out. On paper, Mr. Mackey's Deal seemed ingenious. The guitarist and the drummer improvise against the orchestra with some sonic wildcards thrown in -- recordings of a ringing telephone, a puppy's bark, and the honk of migrating geese. In practice, the only thing that really worked was the orchestral reaction to these sounds. Right at the start, for instance, Mr. Mackey's orchestration neatly amplified the melancholy purr of the ringing phone. What didn't work was the relationship of the orchestra to the pop-culture soloists. When Messrs. Frisell and Baron played, the scoring didn't sound so skillful; it left no clarity around them. Nor did the orchestral music have much to say, even if it sometimes marched with an easygoing playful lilt. Mr. Frisell, by contrast, improvised with a languid precise elegance. Mr. Baron's light, drizzled patter supplied perfect commentary. I'd rather have listened to the soloists alone.
As for Aporias, it was much more serious -- procession of requiems ("requia") for departed figures in the arts -- and an even bigger letdown. Mr. Zorn, in his downtown incarnation, was the mischievous inventor of works that took their life from improvisers much like Messrs. Baron and Frisell. His music was unpredictable, switching gears without notice, and unfolding with the crazy logic of a child at play.
In Aporias, all that remained was the unpredictability. The orchestra functioned, despite the serious theme, almost like a gigantic box of toys. Four percussionists would bang on three sets of tubular bells, with manic precision. Later they'd clap their hands. Still later, the low strings would play a rich, deep meld, with faint violin harmonics glowing far above. These, and all of Mr. Zorn's other effects, might have succeeded, if the best of them had gone on longer. Instead, they had no focus. They started and stopped so many times that each new departure seemed pointless. Not even Stephen Drury's sharply driven piano solos -- or his spiffy white suit and shoes -- could hold the thing together.

I found myself retreating from the edge. I wanted musical satisfaction, and one throwaway piece on the program was at least comical. This was John Cage's Suite for Toy Piano, orchestrated by Cage's friend Lou Harrison. In its original form, the music -- indeed written for a toy instrument -- is light and tinkly. Mt. Harrison made it gigantic maybe as an affectionate joke.
But for music that really gripped me, I had to turn to what by ACO standards would rank as solid, conventional stuff, Roger Sessions's Symphony No. 2, a 12 tone work from 1946. Sessions often is described as "rugged," maybe because his music bristles with atonal complications, but that's not what I hear in it. First, I hear transparency. Here's a man who knows how to write for orchestra. There's a lot going on, but everything has light and air around it.
Next, I hear melodies that are rapt, motionless, and utterly ravishing. Mr. Davies, a Sessions specialist, phrased them with detailed care and the orchestra responded like the superb thoroughbred it mostly is, revealing just one persistent weakness: The violins aren't as strong as the other sections and get ragged in their highest range.
There’s something odd about this music, though. Like any good classical symphonist, Sessions starts and ends his work with fast movements, saving the slow parts for the deep interior. But these quicker movements don't really move. The rhythms sound as if they ought to be propulsive, but somehow aren't, maybe because they sound a little forced.
Had Sessions found the right bottle for his wine? I didn’t think so; his symphonic form was too conventional. That made me feel as if I'd floated into limbo. I'd started the afternoon with high hopes for the rebels, but Messrs. Zorn and Mackey needed more traditional skill. Sessions, on the other hand, should have broken with tradition. What a dilemma this seems to be, I thought, for anyone who wants to write classical music! How do you handle this magnificent old instrument, the symphony orchestra? How can you honor its strengths, so thoroughly exploited in the past, while at the same time you're burning to say something new?

Wall Street Journal, January 21, 1997