To call a piece boring is unprofessional, for it expresses reaction rather than opinion, and does not being to suggest appraisal. Yet last night the sole element of Larry Austin's piece that I could drawn forth and retain was boredom. I suspect the boredom was organic to the work (although unwilled by Austin) and not some chemical response meanly manufactured by me. Now willed boredom, like Warhol's or Cage's or Stein's, or like the hypnotic repetitions of African musics which entrance and alter us, is okay. It's not for me, but it works. I'm not persuaded that Larry Austin knew what he was doing. Nor did his ignorance result in the (supposedly primitive) charm of an Ives or a Satie, rather than in the mortal wish of one listener to expire in self-defense [sic]. So I can only describe his piece as boring. (Let him be warned that continued exposure of his own children to those ultraviolet lights flashing around Hunter College's stage will incur incurable maladies.)