In a recent article for the New York Times titled “Why Composers Want to Write Operas for Children,” Jeffrey Arlo Brown profiles a group of contemporary composers who have found an unexpected refuge in children’s opera after years of working within the constraints of academic modernism. The composers describe the experience as “liberating,” but not for the reason you might expect.

In 1995, I received a commission to write a new work for the Australian National Academy of Music. So, I composed a small string piece called Diesque, which was neoclassical in style, melodic and structured. But when I arrived at the National Academy, I was summoned to a meeting with the Australian composer Larry Sitsky. He did not hide his reservations. “I don’t like what you’ve done or approve of it,” he said, “but I will defend to the death your right to write music like this.” A week later, the director of the National Academy, Trevor Green, sat in on a rehearsal. He went white, stood up, and walked out. Shortly after, I was informed that my piece would not be performed. When I confronted Green about this decision, he gave me a response I have never forgotten: “The audience cannot be allowed to hear this music. It will set the cause of modern music back a decade.”

By the late 20th century, audiences outside conservatories were weeping to John Williams’s Schindler’s List theme, thrilling to the melodies of The Lion King, and filling Broadway theatres for Les Misérables and Phantom of the Opera. But inside conservatories, contemporary classical music had become a severe and esoteric form, financed exclusively by taxpayers and performed for diminishing audiences.

The reasons for this can be traced to the early 20th century, when Western composition took an abrupt turn away from its historical trajectory. Before then, every composer—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms—built upon the past. They were not enslaved by tradition, but they honoured it. Brahms famously delayed writing his First Symphony because he feared comparison with Beethoven. This was and is the struggle of all great artists.

Arnold Schoenberg changed the terms of that struggle. Instead of grappling with the shadow of Beethoven and Brahms, he redefined the problem entirely. Rather than striving to meet the daunting standards set by his predecessors, he rejected the premise outright. Melody, as it had been understood for centuries, was dismissed as outdated. Tonality, which had structured all of Western music, was declared irrelevant. In its place, Schoenberg introduced the twelve-tone system, which ensured that no note was ever prioritised over another. This not only shattered traditional expectations, but it also—and perhaps intentionally—insulated his music from direct comparison to the past.

The 20th century then became a race to see how far composers could distance themselves from the expectations of history. While regular audiences embraced jazz, film music, rock, and Broadway, classical composition drifted further into intellectual esotericism. Serialism, musique concrète, and the so-called New Complexity movement emerged, each more alienating than the last. Minimalism, the most palatable of the modern styles, survived largely because it smuggled tonality back into composition in the guise of high-minded experimentation.

By the late 20th century, this ideology was no longer just dominant—it was enforced. Gatekeepers of contemporary music—academics, funding boards, critics—ensured that any deviation towards accessibility was dismissed as regression. Writing music that audiences might enjoy was seen as an act of defiance. Many composers who sought to embrace melody or emotion found themselves dismissed as reactionaries, their work rejected before a single note was heard.

Classical music was one of the first fields to impose the self-censorship that now pervades so many areas of intellectual and cultural life. As in many industries, criticism of the dominant ideology is met with swift and severe consequences. Careers, grants, and commissions all now hinge on silent acquiescence. In public, everyone repeats the dogma; in private, they hum something else.

In the early 2000s, an opera by French composer Philippe Manoury caused a scandal in the palace corridors because it contained a major chord in the third act. A high functionary of the Paris Opera confided that he had almost lost his job over it. This was the work of Pierre Boulez, who wielded immense influence over the French avant-garde through the IRCAM (Institut de Recherche et Coordination Acoustique/Musique) while he belittled the French public for their lack of taste and discernment.

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This problem was exemplified in the 1990s, when I met a prominent composer of the New Complexity. Addressing a class full of eager young students, the composer admitted that he was uneasy before the premiere of his new orchestral piece with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra—not because of artistic nerves, but because he had absolutely no idea what the music would sound like. A friend had jokingly called his work Augenmusik—music for the eyes, not the ears.

The consequences of this development can still be felt today. In Brown’s Times article, the composers describe the experience of writing opera for children as “liberating.” What these composers have discovered is that children’s opera is the only place where they are allowed to write music that people actually want to hear. In the world of serious composition, melody and accessibility are still suspect. In children’s opera, they remain acceptable.

Brown suggests that children naturally gravitate toward avant-garde sounds. If that were true, one might expect to hear playgrounds filled with kids humming Schoenberg. Instead, they sing Disney’s Frozen. No one has to tell a five-year-old to love melody. The fact that professional composers with years of training must flee to children’s music to rediscover this basic truth is not an amusing quirk—it is an indictment of an entire musical establishment.

Some might argue that the damage is irreversible, that the great rupture of the 20th century has made the classical tradition inaccessible to all but the most committed listeners. The evidence suggests otherwise. Every time a composer dares to embrace melody and emotional resonance, audiences respond. Film composers like John Williams, Ennio Morricone, and Joe Hisaishi have created orchestral works that reach millions. Broadway continues to thrive while modern opera struggles to fill seats. Even within the world of contemporary composition, the most beloved living composers—Arvo Pärt, John Adams, Philip Glass—are those who refuse to reject beauty entirely.

At the time my piece was banned, I threatened to go to the press. Instead, an arrangement was made: I could record the work with musicians from the National Academy, but it could not be performed. On the day of the recording, Trevor Green—the same director who had banned the piece—helped set up the equipment. He allowed only one take. There would be no corrections. If there were mistakes, they would remain. Then, as we packed up the gear, something happened.

He began to whistle. And not just any tune—he was whistling the third movement of Diesque. When he realised what he was doing, he looked at me and blushed. A few minutes later, he did it again. And then a third time. Each time, he caught himself, he was more embarrassed than before. It was a small, unintentional betrayal of everything he claimed to believe.

The greatest trick of the 20th-century avant-garde was convincing composers that audiences are the problem. They are not. The real problem is fear—the fear of being compared to Beethoven and falling short, the fear of writing something sincere and being dismissed as sentimental, the fear of embracing beauty and being accused of nostalgia.

The future of classical music will not be saved by theories or manifestos. It will be saved by composers who have the courage to write what they love. And if that means setting the course of modern music back a decade, or even a century, so be it.