Cage and the Birdsongs

During summer of 1974 I hung around the developing Boulder poetry scene. There was a guy from New York  there named George who was going to publish one of my fledgling poems. He was a big wheel from the big world who knew things. One of those things he knew about was John Cage who was going to do a reading from Thoreau’s journals in a couple of days. George told me and every young poet he encountered that Cage loved it when spontaneous sounds, bird calls, cat calls, whistles occurred while he was reading, that these sounds would add to the sonic texture of Cage’s performance.
The evening came for the Cage reading. The great composer projected random words from Thoreau’s journals on a giant screen. There was absolute silence. “b-r-r-r-ro-K-K-Keeee.” Cage spoke in an urgent whisper.
Syllables, vowels, aspirants: Cage proceeded.
From the darkness a sudden whistle burst forth, and then an animal growl, a bird noise, a cat call, farts, a kazoo, laughter.
Cage suddenly ended his performance. He stomped off the stage and engaged the interrupters in the midst of the crowd. An angry verbal exchange ensued. The kid poets said they were just contributing to the random sounds Cage was making. In a fury, Cage screamed they didn’t know what they were talking about. There was a link between intent and the provocative noises. This was different from random sound. At the way back of the room almost in shadow George folded his arms, and leaned against the far wall. He smiled.