Writings About Music - Volume 3, Issue 1

PRODUCTION TEAM Editors Andrew Burrows (editor-in-chief), Adam Behan, Aoife Cuthbert, Cathal Kavanagh Cover Art Audrey Chew Ernern, Caitríona Sheil With thanks to Caitríona Sheil, Shauna Donnelly, and the DU Music Society Shauna Caffrey The Central Societies Committee The TCD Association and Trust The views expressed herein are the personal views of the contributors and do not reflect the views of Writings about Music Design and Layout © 2016 Writings about Music Content © the contributors except where otherwise stated

Table of Contents Editor’s Introduction Andrew Burrows The Counter-Reformation and the Music of Tomás Luis de Victoria Adam Behan A Cut above the Rest: Castrati in Context Caitríona Sheil Social Structures and Stimuli in Dublin’s Eighteenth-Century Musical Sphere: A Thriving Musical Scene, 1740–1780 Conor Cavanagh What do studies on the processing of tonal music tell us about the comprehension and enjoyment of atonal music?

Laura Eaton On the Reading of Graphic Scores Eoin Howley The Music of Twin Peaks and its subversion of Television Scoring Convention Aoife Cuthbert Intertextual References in Michael Nyman’s Score for the The Draughtsman’s Contract Lara Gallagher The Female Voice and Image in Heavy Metal Shauna Caffrey Dennis and Eccles’ Rinaldo and Armida: A Musico-Dramatic Analysis Adam Behan An Historical Overview of Cyclic Form Andrew Burrows

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Editor’s Introduction Andrew Burrows I am delighted to present this year’s edition of Writings About Music.

This year’s journal builds on the success of previous years’ editions in providing both a platform to students to present work of which they are rightly proud, and reading material for all of those who are interested in music. I hope that the material covered by the different papers will provide the reader with new insight into the world of music, as presented students.

I am pleased that we have been able to publish papers that have arisen from a range of different subjects. Of the nine contributors to the journal, four are students of subjects other than music. In calling for submissions and selecting papers, we tried to be as open as possible to papers on cognate fields, rather than limiting our attention to purely musical studies. Our understanding of music relies on so many areas of expertise—sociological, historical, psychological, and philosophical, to name but a few—and our aim was to provide a range of modes of comprehension. I feel that the papers that we received and have published reflect that diversity of contributory understanding.

The first three essays examine the backdrop for aspects of music-making at different points in history. Two of these examine religious context: Adam Behan explores the influence of the CounterReformation on the music of the Renaissance composer Tomás Luis de Victoria, while Caitríona Sheil studies the role of castrati in church choirs from a philosophical viewpoint. Conor Cavanagh, meanwhile, offers insight into musical life in eighteenth-century Dublin.

After this group of three comes a pair of psychology-based papers: Laura Eaton studies the cognition and processing of twelve-tone music, and Eoin Howley considers graphic scores using tools from Gestalt psychology.

Music in popular culture is the topic of the next group of essays: Aoife Cuthbert analyses music from the television show Twin Peaks, Lara 1

Gallagher studies music from the film The Draughtsman’s Contract, and Shauna Caffrey explores Heavy Metal from a feminist perspective.

Finally, as is appropriate for a musicology journal, we have two papers that are more purely musicological: Adam Behan presents an account of a little-known opera, Dennis and Eccles’ Rinaldo and Armida, and Andrew Burrows studies the rise of cyclic form during the nineteenth century.

From this short summary of papers herein presented, the breadth of interest in music and its richness as a topic for study are clear.

I hope that I have given some flavour of what is in store as you browse these pages, and that you will gain some insight into this most abstract and yet universal feature of human existence. At a time when scientific activity and modes of thought are afforded such importance, it is important to remember that the Arts have a central role to play in society, and the understanding of music and all its facets is a key part of that. The aim of this journal was to contribute to that understanding, and I hope that you, the reader, will not be disappointed.

All that remains is to thank those without whom this could not have happened: my fellow editors, Adam, Cathal, and Aoife; CaitrĂ­ona Sheil, Shauna Donnelly, and all those in the Music Society; and those in the CSC and the TCD Association and Trust, whose generous financial support made this journal possible.

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Adam Behan

The Counter-Reformation and the Music of Tomás Luis de Victoria Adam Behan The ideals and ordinances of the Counter-Reformation were established during the twenty-five sessions of the Council of Trent, held intermittently between the years 1545 and 1563. Though the issue of sacred music represented only a minor concern for the Catholic authorities during these years of reform, in the twenty-second session of the Council, held in December 1562, decrees were passed which directly concerned the function of music in religious services. 1 Music was to be banished from the church in which, ‘whether by the organ, or in the singing, there is mixed up any thing lascivious or impure’. 2 This brief ruling was preceded by a much more elaborate consideration of music in the church in the initial preparations for the twenty-second session; indeed, the original version has since been frequently cited by music historians. Broadly speaking, it deals with two prevailing problems in church music: the use of ‘profane’, or unholy, material in sacred settings; and the unclear declamation of the text as a result of polyphonic composition.3 More recently, it has been emphasised that this original wording was discarded for the more succinct and less insightful ruling quoted above. The version preferred by music historians was not published, and thus not officially approved by the Council of Trent.4 In fact, the Council actually said as little as possible in relation to music. The twenty-fourth

K. G. Fellerer and Moses Hadas, ‘Church Music and the Council of Trent’ in The Musical Quarterly 39/4, 576–594 (576).

2 J. Waterworth (ed., trans.), The Council of Trent, (https://history.hanover.edu/texts/ trent/ct22.html, 7 January 2016).

3 Fellerer and Hadas, ‘Church Music’, 576; Howard M. Brown and Louise K. Stein, Music in the Renaissance, 2nd edn (New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1999), 279.

4 Craig Monson, ‘Renewal, Reform, and Reaction in Catholic Music’, in European Music 1520–1640, James Harr (ed.), (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2006), 401–421 (402–4).

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Writings About Music session is further enlightening in this regard; concerning ‘the proper way of singing or chanting’ and ‘the specific regulations for assembling in choir and for remaining there’, the ‘provincial Synod’ would have authority.5 This effectively meant that concerns over music would be dealt with locally, rather than being prescribed on a uniform basis by the Council. Thus, sacred music after the Council must be considered locally as it is characterised by diversity throughout Europe. 6 What would have been the attractively simple option of analysing Victoria’s music in relation to the decrees of the Council is thus rendered far more complex.

By extension, there were no uniform ideals or ordinances in relation to music in the Counter-Reformation. While the Council remains important in so assessing the music of Victoria, the local context in which he was working must also be considered.

This emphasis on locality complicates matters. In 1565, Victoria was enrolled in the Jesuit Collegio Germanico in Rome, the city in which he would reside until his request to return to Spain was granted by Philip II in 1583. Given that we are considering the Missa O quam gloriosum est regnum, which was published in Rome in 1583, the prevailing attitudes towards sacred music in Rome in the aftermath of the Council of Trent are vital. The importance of the congregation tasked with implementing reform in Rome after the close of the Council has been pointed to.7 Within that congregation, two cardinals in particular took an interest in the area of sacred music: Vitellozo Vitellozi and Carlo Borromeo. It is interesting to note that, despite not being explicitly ordered by the Council, Borromeo still considered reforming singing, ‘so that the words may be as intelligible as possible’ one of their fundamental objectives.8 He requested of the composer Vincenzo Ruffo

Waterworth, The Council of Trent (https://history.hanover.edu/texts/trent/ct24.html, 07/01/2016), 219 6 Craig Monson, ‘The Council of Trent Revisited’ in Journal of the American Musicological Society 55/1 (Spring 2002), 1–37 (26–28).

7 Lewis Lockwood, ‘Vincenzo Ruffo and Musical Reform after the Council of Trent’ in The Musical Quarterly, 43/3 (Summer 1957), 342–371 (343–345).

8 Ibid., 348.

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Adam Behan to compose music to these prescriptions. The results of these experiments give us an indication of the clarity that was expected.

Fig. 1. Ruffo, ‘Gloria’, Missa Quarti toni.9 Even in cases involving successive entries, Ruffo took steps to ensure that the text would not be obscured, thus complying totally with Borromeo’s demands.

Fig. 2. Ruffo, ‘Credo’, Missa Primo toni.

Though this style was thoroughly experimental in nature, it served as the point of departure for Ruffo in his later sacred 9

The Ruffo examples shown here can be found in Lockwood, ‘Vincenzo Ruffo’, 360–362.

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Writings About Music compositions, which did remain largely chordal in nature.10 We can now turn to Victoria’s music with both an idea of the kind of reforms being sought in sacred music in the post-Tridentine period, and examples of how an important reforming composer put these into practice.

Victoria composed only sacred music. Borromeo was in particular concerned with settings of the Mass Ordinary, as his requests of Ruffo show, and so Victoria’s Missa O quam gloriosum est regnum is apposite.11 Borromeo’s ideals embodied those of reformed music in Rome in the aftermath of the Council. By assessing each movement of this mass within the historical context outlined above, we can draw conclusions as to the extent to which Victoria’s music conformed to the ideals of the Counter-Reformation.

Fig. 3. Victoria, ‘Kyrie’, Missa O quam gloriosum est regnum, 1–4.

The Kyrie not only embraces polyphony, it begins with a double fugue from the motet on which the mass is based.12 The tenor subject is

Ibid., 363–365.

Ibid., 349.

12 For a comparative analysis of this Mass with its parent motet, ‘O quam gloriosum est regnum’, see Eugene Casjen Cramer, Studies in the Music of Tomás Luis de Victoria (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), 253–260.

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Adam Behan answered a fourth higher in the altus, while the bassus subject is answered at the octave in the cantus.13 For the second iteration of ‘Kyrie’, each line then takes up the subject it has not already sung. At no point does the crucial ‘Ky’ syllable sound simultaneously in any two parts, and only at the cadence at bar 11 does the syllable ‘son’ sound together in all four parts, signalling the end of the section. Clearly, Victoria thought that the intricacies of polyphony trumped the desire for complete intelligibility of the words, at least in setting the ‘Kyrie’. However, it could also be argued that, given the brevity of the text being set, this kind of polyphonic technique was permissible. It is also arguable that staggering the entries of the word ‘Kyrie’ actually accentuates rather than obscures the meaning, and attains a level of intelligibility higher than mere speech could.

Furthermore, the setting is not indulgently melismatic, which would constitute another means of obscuring the text.

The ‘Sanctus’ and ‘Agnus Dei’ are similar in the length of their texts, if slightly longer. It is therefore not surprising that Victoria treats the opening of the ‘Sanctus’ with similarly elaborate polyphony. In this instance, the subject presented in the altus is answered by an inverted form of its subject in the cantus; this fugal idea is then replicated in the bassus and tenor at the interval of a fifth.14 The ‘Benedictus’ opens with fugal writing, and includes a number of melismatic quaver runs.15 Polyphony, therefore, remained an important cornerstone in Victoria’s compositional approach.

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Tomás Luis de Victoria, Motet and Mass: O quam gloriosum est regnum (London: Eulenberg, 1978),

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Ibid., 24.

Ibid., 28.

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Fig. 4. Victoria, ‘Sanctus’, Missa O quam gloriosum est regnum, 1–6.

The ‘Gloria’ and the ‘Credo’ are distinct in having much longer texts. Indeed, the examples of Ruffo’s settings examined above both involve extracts of text from these movements. With more text comes the need for a more fastidious setting if the words are not to be obscured.

Fittingly, the ‘Gloria’ explores a far more homophonic setting than the fugal writing seen in the ‘Kyrie’ and ‘Sanctus’.16 The opening three bars involve the tenor and bassus singing ‘Et terra pax hominibus’; the cantus and altus enter in bar 4 with ‘bonae voluntatis’.

Fig. 5. Victoria, ‘Gloria’, Missa O quam gloriosum est regnum, 1–6.

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Ibid., 7.

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Adam Behan The text is made clearer by not involving every vocal line in an overlapping texture, while musical interest is retained by employing different combinations of voices for different lines of text. As the texture builds up with all four voices from bar 5 onwards, Victoria reinforces clarity by pairing the cantus and tenor, and altus and bassus, together on the text ‘Laudamus te. Benedicimus te’. Victoria thus explores the middle ground between the Ruffo examples we have observed, and the fugal writing in the ‘Kyrie’ and ‘Sanctus’.17 While recognising the need for greater textual clarity than in the other movements, the variety of means with which he achieves this indicates that musical interest was always paramount.

Fig. 6. Victoria, ‘Credo’, Missa O quam gloriosum est regnum, 51–62.

Victoria nevertheless still employs fugal techniques in this movement, such as at ‘in gloria Dei Patris’ at bar 84, which reuses the same double fugue from the ‘Kyrie’.

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Writings About Music Despite obvious differences between his settings of the short-text and long-text movements, Victoria’s compositional style strays quite elaborately away from the Borromeo-Ruffo model. Bar 51 of the ‘Credo’, however, offers a sudden textural change.18 Bars 51–62 are written in an almost uniformly homorhythmic style. The change to triple meter is also unprecedented at this point in the piece. Finally, Victoria employs rests between sections of the text as in-built punctuation marks.

This section adheres more closely to Ruffo’s experiments than anything heard up to this point in the Mass. Only the ‘Hosanna in excelsis’ section at bar 42 of the Sanctus comes close to replicating this clarity; interestingly, it is the only other section of the Mass composed in triple time.19 Yet bars 51–62 in the Credo are quite harmonically exploratory, moving through a number of different tonal areas, and using each of note of the chromatic scale except for E flat. The silence of the rests serves a dramatic function rather than to merely break up the text. There remains a sense, throughout even this passage, that Victoria is concerned with the persuasive effect of his Mass setting on a musical level, rather than merely on a textual level.

Victoria was a thoroughly pious and unflinchingly devout Catholic. As a composer, this manifested itself most evidently in his uniformly sacred output. This output, however, does not seem to have corresponded to the strict interpretations of Borromeo and Ruffo, two significant Counter-Reformation figures in the musical world in Italy.

As we have seen, the matter of defining the ideals and ordinances of the Counter-Reformation has proved complicated; the vision of one, and the musical experiments of the other, provide a parameter against which to measure Victoria’s music. Victoria’s persistence with polyphony and intricate fugal patterns completely contradict the ideas that these two set forward. While taking measures to clarify the text in the ‘Gloria’ and ‘Credo’ movements, he never compromised on musical persuasion for the sake of textual clarity. It must have remained for Victoria that music served to heighten the experience of the text, rather than simply as a 18 19

Victoria, O quam gloriosum est regnum, 17.

Ibid., 26–27.

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Adam Behan mechanism for communicating it. Ultimately, it was this approach to sacred music that won out. Victoria’s music did not embody the ideals of the Counter-Reformation, but it did come to represent it. It is telling that it is Victoria, rather than Ruffo, to whom we now look as a master of sacred music in the late Renaissance.

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Writings About Music

A Cut above the Rest: Castrati in Context Caitríona Sheil “I was born at Naples” said he “there they geld two or three thousand children every year; some die of the operation, others acquire a voice more beautiful than that of women, and others are raised to offices of state. This operation was performed on me with great success and I was chapel musician to madam, the Princess of Palestrina.”1

An historical overview Castrati first appeared in Italian music around the middle of the 16th century, but eunuchs have been present throughout history.2 Playing a large role in politics and court life throughout antiquity, there is evidence of eunuch singers taking part in ecclesiastical music in Byzantine churches as early as the 4th century AD. 3 Byzantine musical notation indicates that music of a high pitch was regularly sung by either falsettists or castrated monk singers. 4 Western crusaders would have been exposed to these eunuch choirs during the campaigns of the 11th century.5 With women banned from taking part in church music until the 16th century,6 any soprano or alto parts performed before the castrati’s appearance in church music were performed out of necessity either by boy sopranos or adult males singing falsetto.

In the case of the Church, developments in music throughout the medieval and Renaissance period led to choral music with much more elaborate or important solo parts, commonly given to the highest voice.

Vocal dexterity and strength therefore became a requirement for performers of church music. The papal conservatory set up by Pope David Wootton (ed.), Candide and Related Texts (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2000), 23.

Shaun Tougher, Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond (London: Classical Press of Wales and Duckworth, 2002).

3 Patrick Barbier, The World of the Castrati: The History of an Extraordinary Operatic Phenomenon (London: Souvenir, 2001), 123.

4 Piotr Scholz, Eunuchs and Castrati: A Cultural History. (Princeton, NJ: Markus Wiener Publishers, 2001), 271–91.

5 Tougher, Eunuchs in Antiquity and Beyond, 109.

6 This is due to the Pauline ban on women’s participation in the Church from Corinthians 14:34.

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Caitríona Sheil Urban VIII (1623-1644) saw the papal choir grow to 32 singers, and after this any soprano lines were sung not by trebles but by castrati.7 Under the supervision of the papacy, church choirs expanded in the 16 th century to include the Papal Chapel, the choir of St. John Lateran and St. Maria Maggiore in Rome, along with choirs in Venice, Bologna and Milan. All conservatories competed for the best singers, and none could survive without the sopranist’s voice. In Roman churches there were approximately 100 castrati at the end of the 17 th century, with numbers doubling by 1780.8 Despite the considerable role that these singers played in the life of the Church and in the development of ecclesiastical music, the Vatican adopted an ambiguous role towards the singers themselves. The term castrati was avoided, with the men instead being termed ‘sopranos’, ‘falsettos’ or ‘spagnoletti’.9 The Vatican simultaneously condemned the act of mutilation, while employing castrati in church music from the 16th to the late 19th century. Any individual apprehended in the practice of the operation was “subject to excommunication [yet] the castrati sang in all the churches of Italy, including the pope’s chapel”.10 The Catholic Church was the last institution to make use of this voice type, and the sheer number of choir schools set up by the church significantly contributed to the proliferation of sopranists.11 The teachings of the Church on mutilation of the flesh were unfavourable, yet authorities turned a blind eye to the existence of castrati in choirs; somehow it was musically acceptable. Milner argues that the thirst for high standards of music meant that ecclesiastical law purposefully neglected to ban castrati and adopted an ambivalent attitude towards the unpleasant practice in favour of the sacred music produced by the singers.12 It was not until 1902 that Pope Leo XIII signed

Scholz, Eunuchs and Castrati, 271–91.

Ibid.,, 271–91.

9 Ibid., 271–91.

10 Enid R. Peschel and Richard E. Peschel, ‘Medical Insights into the Castrati in Opera’ in American Scientist 75/6 (November–December 1987), 578–83 (580).

11 Barbier, The World of the Castrati, 122–35.

12 Anthony Milner, ‘The Sacred Capons’ in The Musical Times, 114/1561 (1973), 250–52.

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Writings About Music an order banning castrati from the Sistine Chapel. 13 The last known castrato died in 1922.14 The process of castration itself is rather a distasteful topic, and varied greatly according to region and practitioner. No accurate records of the specifics of the operation survive, as it was technically illegal. 15 Generally speaking, the term refers to the partial or entire removal of the testes before a male reaches sexual maturity. This would prevent the generation of testosterone, preserving the vocal chords and range of a male voice that had not yet broken.16 The boys would still grow to full male height, often growing taller than other men although remaining beardless. When coupled with the chest cavity and lung capacity of a full-grown male, the voice type combined the vocal range of a treble with the machine power of an adult male. This resulted in a strange hybrid of vocal styles, the like of which cannot be replicated today. It was said to be unlike either a boy soprano, male countertenor, or female singer’s voice. Concerning the physical after-effects of the operation, Heriot presents two alternate theories. First it is posited that victims of the castration operation often suffered an ‘early loss of voice and an untimely death’.17 Alternatively, Heriot also postulates they had an average life expectancy for the period and retired ‘on the average, at about the same age as other singers’.18 Instead he claims that it seems to have had very little effect except in terms of psychological hurt ‘in an age when virility was accounted a sovereign virtue’. 19 Peschel and Peschel provide a pragmatic critique of this rather casual claim, including an overview of the medical effects of the operation.

Specifically, they cite various physical and psychological consequences including abnormalities caused by ‘primary hypogonadism’ along with

Barbier, The World of the Castrati, 122–35.

Alessandro Moreschi was director of the Sistine Chapel, and the only castrato ever to make solo recordings. These have been compiled into an album released by Discover Classical Music, entitled The Last Castrato: Complete Vatican Recordings.

15 Peschel & Peschel ‘Medical Insights in the Castrati in Opera’, 581.

16 Ibid., 579.

17 Angus Heriot, The Castrati in Opera (London: Calder and Boyars, 1956).

18 Ibid., 63.

19 Ibid., 63.

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Caitríona Sheil the obvious lack of sexual maturity.20 The consequences of the operation itself will be assessed in later sections of this work.

The idea of the castrati is a strange one to our modern sensibilities—using castration seems an incomprehensibly extreme means of preserving the voice and achieving musical purity in a young boy. Yet castration during the period under study was not unusual, and had heretofore been used as a tool of subjugation and punishment throughout antiquity.21 Yet as Peschel and Peschel assert ‘only in Italy, however, were castrations performed on prepubertal boys for musical purposes alone’.22 The main difference between the eunuchs of antiquity and the castrati, it can be argued, is the influence and role of religion in the origin and preservation of the practice. There must, therefore, have been a reason or indeed value placed on the voice itself that was seen as justification for the enormous suffering that would have ensued from the operation, whether successful or unsuccessful. In his work ‘The Sacred Capons’,23 Milner identifies a papal bull of 148224 as instrumental in the integration of eunuch singers into church choirs. The bull reorganised the choir of St. Peters to include four eunuchs, prompted by a change in musical style towards the end of the 16th century which leaned toward much more ornate and complex music.25 While the advent of a more florid fashion of musical notation and performance undoubtedly contributed to the proliferation of the castrati, there must be an underlying social system or thought process that perpetuated the practice, which is what we will attempt to understand here.

The role of modern sexual theory This section explores the role that early modern ideas on human sexuality may have played in the rise, proliferation and fall of the castrati. Early theological writings were less than favourable about the

Peschel and Peschel ‘Medical Insights in the Castrati in Opera’, 578.

Ibid., 578.

22 Ibid., 578.

23 Milner, ‘The Sacred Capons’, 250–52 24 Entitled Ad Perpetuam Rei memoriam.

25 Richard Taruskin, Music from the Earliest Notations to the 16th Century, The Oxford History of Western Music, vol. 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 604.

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Writings About Music role of women in the Church and society. Primary among them is St. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians which states: As in all the congregations of the saints, women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the Law says. If they want to inquire about something, they should ask their own husbands at home; for it is disgraceful for a woman to speak in the church.26 Banning women outright from participating in sacred music is not an obvious contention of the above passage, but the early popes interpreted this extract in an extremely literal fashion.27 The ruling of the Church on the place of women left composers with the option of either writing for low voices only, or looking elsewhere for a voice type capable of singing the high florid melodies that were becoming commonplace throughout the 16th century.28 Thus the eunuch singers observed in Eastern music by Western travellers and crusaders were adopted into the Church so that sacred music could continue to develop for use in worship and for the glory of God. 29 The practicality of using castrated male singers can be understood in crude supply and demand terms, but the purpose of this work is instead to explore the thought processes that were used to justify such a barbaric practice from the mid-16th to late19th century. The Pauline ban on female participation (as outlined above) was a necessary but insufficient condition for the rise and proliferation of the castrati.30 An exploration of pre-Enlightenment views on sexuality is necessary to understand the social context of the castrati.

A useful model to apply in this case is provided by historian and sexologist Thomas Lacquer in his work Making Sex.31 Although not a philosophical text, the model put forward therein can be applied to

Corinthians 14:34.

Heriot, The Castrati in Opera, 63.

28 Taruskin, Music from the Earliest Notations, 604.

29 Scholz, Eunuchs and Castrati, 271–91 30 John Rosselli ‘The Castrati as a Professional Group and Social Phenomenon, 1550–1850’ Acta Musicologica 60/2 (1988) 143–179.

31 Thomas Lacquer, Making Sex (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1990).

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Caitríona Sheil thought processes concerning gender and sexuality that existed around the 16th century. Lacquer makes an important distinction between preand post-Enlightenment theories of sex, termed one-sex theory and twosex theory respectively.32 This is developed in part from the writings of Galen of Pergamon, medic and philosopher, who described the male form as the sexual standard, the female body subsisting as an inferior version of male sexuality.33 Women lacked the ‘vital heat’ which played an important role in reproduction.34 Male and female were therefore like varying degrees of a single sex. Lacquer’s work argues that throughout the entirety of the early modern period, views on sexuality could be considered as one-sex oriented.35 This is supported by writings of the Ancients on sexuality. Plato dismissed any significant difference between the sexes when arguing for equal participation in society and government: But if the only difference turns out to be that females bear offspring, while males mount females, then we’ll say that this doesn’t yet bring us any closer to proving that men and women are different […] and we shall continue to think that our guardians and their women should have the same occupations.36 The theory that there is no true sexual difference to be observed between men and women was also adopted by Aristotle, derived from empirical observation of the animal population. The comparatively larger physical forms of male specimens, along with their capacity to produce seminal fluid, the ‘seed that engendered offspring’ 37 led him to the conclusion that women were inferior. Similar to Plato’s belief than men beget while women merely bear children, Aristotle’s teleological philosophy held that men were the superior sex that drove reproduction, whilst women acted as passive vessels. The one-sex Ibid., 25–62.

Ibid., 25–62.

34 Amy Bix, ‘Medicine’ in Women, Science, and Myth: Gender Beliefs from Antiquity to the Present, Sue Vilhauer Rosser (ed.) (California: ABC-CLIO, 2008), 135–40 (136).

35 Lacquer, Making Sex 25–62.

36 Plato, Republic, Robin Waterfield (trans.) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993) 166.

37 Kathleen Crawford, European Sexualities: 1400–1800 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 102.

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Writings About Music theory also applies here. Aristotle considered a castrated male to be more like a woman than a man, for the removal of the testes is similar to a fundamental change in a body’s first principles.38 Medievalists like Augustine and Aquinas follow the ‘anti-sexual precedent’ of Plato. 39 They would have dismissed sex entirely were it not for biblical teachings on multiplying the earth. 40 Scriptural influences led them to identify and defend monogamous marriage as the superior form of sexual relationship. Aquinas developed an eightfold truth on sex, including the arguments that the only moral function of sexual intercourse is procreation and that females are inferior to males.41 This methodology proscribed non-marital and nonmonogamous sexuality, including sex for pleasure’s sake. The growing influence of early Christian morals led to a postlapsarian view of sex, complicated by ideas on morality and complications of the will as discussed in the previous chapter.42 When coupled with the Church’s fear of sex as the root of sin and the privileged place given to asceticism, understandings of sex as a reproductive tool dominated until the advent of the scientific methodology. Discoveries in anatomy and biology led to more modern, post-Enlightenment theories of sexuality rooted in biological dimorphism.

Lacquer’s theory on the perceived lack of sexual difference between men and women allows us to conclude that before the Enlightenment there was a system comprised of two distinct genders but only one sex; man was the superior sex and woman was a distilled version of that single sex. Sex was then viewed in terms of reproductive purposes, and not for pleasure alone. Medievalist philosophers like Aquinas argued that we are caretakers, not owners, of the bodies that God has shaped for us, and this could have been used as justification for castration with an artistic goal in mind.43 Zaccaria Pasqualigo, a priest of the Theatine order, stated that a boy’s throat was worth more to him Lacquer, Making Sex, 31.

Robert Baker and Frederick Ellison, Philosophy and Sex (Buffalo, NY: Prometheus Books), 3.

40 See, for example, Genesis 8:17.

41 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Contra Gentiles, Book 3: Providence pt.1 Vernon J. Bourke (trans.) (Notre Dame, Ind.: Univ. of Notre Dame Press, 1975).

42 Lacquer, Making Sex, 54.

43 Rosselli ‘The Castrati as a Professional Group and a Social Phenomenon, 1550-1850’, 143–79.

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Caitríona Sheil then his testes.44 Pasqualigo’s contention subscribes to the medievalist assumption that considerations of bodily pleasure are inferior to use of the body as a tool for facilitating worship.

Similar to asceticism, philosophical conceptions of sexuality can be linked to the ecclesiastical use of castrati. When castrati first started being used in the Church in the mid-16th century, sexual fulfilment was not prioritised or seen as a human need, but merely for the purpose of reproduction. It was only with the development of ideas on personhood

by Enlightenment philosophers that the idea of castration became increasingly unacceptable. One-sex theory assists us in understanding how castration of young boys was not necessarily treated with the same revulsion that would likely arise were such a practice to be reintroduced today. When we place asceticism alongside this early modern theory of sexuality as male-dominated, the teleological nature of sex results in a thorough lack of participation in the act for the sake of pleasure alone.

20th-century feminist literature in particular has been influential in emphasising sex for the sake of sex,45 but there was no such right to enjoyment in the era of the castrati. This had the effect of dulling the importance of sexual acts, and subordinated sexual pleasure to the pursuit of aesthetic perfection in worship.

This subordination was central to justifying castration as a practice. A core aspect of early modern sexual theory was the disassociation of eros from sexual acts:46 the capacity for sexual love was totally removed from the act of reproduction. The moral palatability of the castrati was underpinned by the teleological nature of the reproductive act, there were therefore no negative moral repercussions attached to the sexual disfigurement of young boys. It is therefore doubtful whether the castrati would have come to such prominence in society had the early modernists been operating under a different model of sexual theory. Had the moral value of sex been attached to its nonreproductive capacity, the moral justifications for the castrati would no

Decisiones Morales, 1641, used in Rosselli ‘The Castrati as a Professional Group and a Social Phenomenon, 1550-1850’, 143-79.

45 Baker and Ellison, Philosophy and Sex, 14.

46 Lacquer Making Sex, 58.

44

19

Writings About Music longer have been coherent.47 The complex intersection of sex and morality can again be attributed to the writings of early Christians.

Observing how humans appeared to have little control over their sexual organs, Augustine viewed this response to a stimulus as an “element of original sin to be overcome”48.

Society today still has a continuing problem with sexual morality, largely due to the Judeo-Christian perspective inherited from early Christian writers. Due to the supreme authority of the Church throughout European history, this viewpoint has pervaded and become the primary viewpoint of sex.49 Freud has identified Judeo-Christian influence as completely at odds with the natural functions of human sexuality.50 A rather more sophisticated alternative is offered by Nagel in his essay Sexual Perversion, where he suggests treating the sexual impulse as if it were any other corporeal requirement.51 Such an argument perhaps appears obvious, yet conflicts with the end-driven philosophy of the medievalists that had such an influence on the perception of sex. If society were to treat sexual need the same way we treat hunger, as a requirement to be sated, it would remove any nebulous, residual moral attachments to the act.

The moral monopoly of the Christian faith allowed moral and philosophical justifications which drew on asceticism and early modern views of human sexuality, and were used to condone systemic and pervasive child mutilation for nearly 400 years. It was not until the 19th century that traditional gender roles and issues of sexuality started to be challenged, which correlates with the decline of castrati and their eventual ban from church music in 1902.

Baker and Ellison, Philosophy and Sex, 5.

Donald Verene, ‘Sexual Love and Moral Experience’ in Philosophy and Sex, Baker and Ellison (eds.), 110.

49 Ibid., 110.

50 Freud ‘Civilised Sexual Morality and Modern Nervous Illness’ Sexualprobleme. Bd. IV., 1908; reprinted in Sammlung; Zweite Folge, E. B. Herford and E. Colburn Mayne (trans.).

51 Thomas Nagel ‘Sexual Perversion’ in The Journal of Philosophy 66/1 (January, 1969), 5–17.

47 48

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Caitríona Sheil

Conclusion The world and role of the castrati within the Church appears increasingly complex upon closer inspection. The operation required to produce the infamous voice was so invasive that it is difficult to reconcile the methods with the intended outcomes in true consequentialist fashion. The more is understood of the social and philosophical context of the castrati however, the better their sacrifice can be understood.

The significance of historical context which should not be underestimated, in particular the role of the Pauline ban on women in limiting the supply of singers for church choirs. 52 A musicologist might look at the prevalence of the practice as simply responding to a requirement for talented, vocally dexterous singers to perform the increasingly complex soprano lines in church music. This work, however, seeks to arrive at an understanding of the dominant thought processes throughout the early modern period that may have contributed to the longevity of the sopranist’s role in an ecclesiastical setting. Primary among the contributing factors was the brevity and power of the ancient texts’ views on women and sex, which were then adapted and exacerbated by the early Church. The Church’s dominance in terms of ethics and moral thought throughout the 16th century up until the Enlightenment contributed to a deeply ingrained, Judeo-Christian set of morals. This affected society to such an extent that the systematic and continuous castration of pre-pubescent males was carried out in service of the Church. The young boys subjected to castration were stripped of their sovereignty, authority and dominion over their own bodies and personhood. The fact that it was perpetuated by the supreme moral authority at the time makes the practice all the more difficult to reconcile.

Early modern views of sexuality were firmly slanted in favour of masculinity as the dominant sex and women as a subset of this. 53 When synthesised with the myopic lack of focus on individual sexual pleasure, this resulted in a viewpoint that completely failed to recognise the 52 53

Corinthians 14:34.

Lacquer, Making Sex, 24–62.

21

Writings About Music importance of a healthy sexual experience in forming individual experience. This work makes no claim of expertise regarding the specific medical consequences of the operation undergone by the castrati, but this is demonstrated in a rather persuasive argument put forward by Peschel and Peschel in their medical overview of the operatic castrati.54 The operation was the same for ecclesiastical or operatic singer alike, so identical physical effects are applicable to the church castrati. Peschel and Peschel propose that the primary hypogonadism caused by the castration process resulted in a slew of ‘psychological and physiological consequences far more extraordinary – and devastating – than just the preservation of a high-pitched voice’.55 This included underdeveloped sexual organs, abnormally long limbs and fat deposits that led to obesity.56 Aside from the physical harm caused, Peschel and Peschel provide an account of a singer who fell in love with a woman and was never fully able to unite with her due to his emasculation. 57 This indicates the forced asexuality imposed upon the castrati; they were in all likelihood incapable of having normal sexual relations with partners regardless of gender. Such descriptions of physical deformities and mental anguish cast the procedure into sharp relief, and quickly dispense with any romantic ideals of sacrifice in the name of a higher purpose. The aesthetic appeal of a voice so supreme that it caused spontaneous fainting58 seems to pale in comparison with the very real suffering undergone by the castrati both as children and into adulthood.

To paraphrase de Beauvoir59, these men were most certainly not born, but instead became castrati. This was imposed upon them by a society that valued aesthetic pleasures and worship more than sovereignty over the body. This fundamental right to personhood was stripped from them before they could reasonably be expected to understand the consequences this operation would have on them throughout their life.

Peschel and Peschel, ‘Medical Insights into the Castrati in Opera’.

Ibid., 578.

56 Ibid., 581–2.

57 The castrato in question is Filippo Balatri, who described his torment in his autobiography Fruitti del mondo.

58 Barbier, The World of the Castrati, 76.

59 Simon de Beauvoir & Howard M. Parshley, The Second Sex (London: Vintage, 1997).

54 55

22

CaitrĂ­ona Sheil However, to condemn the practice outright without broader philosophical background does a disservice to all the individuals that were subjected to the operation, survived, and gave their lives to music in a way not fully understood by a modern audience. While the end does not (by any stretch of the imagination) justify the means, a better understanding of the schools of thought that informed the society and lives of the castrati allows us to acknowledge and appreciate their sacrifice in moral and philosophical context.

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Writings About Music

Social Structures and Stimuli in Dublin’s Eighteenth-Century Musical Sphere: A Thriving Musical Scene, 1740–1780 Conor Cavanagh I cannot sufficiently express the kind treatment I receive here, but the politeness of this generous and noble nation cannot be unknown to you, so I let you judge of the satisfaction I enjoy, passing my time with honour, profit and pleasure.

George Frederick Handel, 1741.1 In considering the concept of music as a high art-form in eighteenthcentury Dublin, it is difficult to understate the intricacy of art music and the aristocracy. Dublin’s social composition was very much the product of a discourse directed by the tastes of a colonial governing class. This governing class unremittingly recognised that a patronage of the arts was an essential ornament of elegant living, and the role of music in providing this more refined sense of identity was considered essential.

The high level of subscription to the music scene of 1740 Dublin is testimony to this. The role of music in society can be seen most clearly through a close examination of the relationship of music and politics, the exotic influx of foreign composers and the role of the musical venue from 1740 to 1780.

It is necessary to discuss the extent of the polarity evident throughout various genres of music in eighteenth-century society. A clear gulf existed between native Irish traditional music and the art music of the ascendancy class. The London fashion in terms of musical taste very much directed the musical development of Dublin as the century progressed. Harry White has highlighted this, examining the manner in which traditional Irish music is presented. Any appearance Horatio Townsend, ‘An Account of the Visit of Handel to Dublin’ (http://www.askaboutireland.ie/aai-files/assets/ebooks/241Handels%20Visit%20to%20Dublin/241-Handels%20Visit%20to%20Dublin.pdf, 19 March 2016), 51.

1

24

Conor Cavanagh of “folk music” in eighteenth-century discourse such as memoirs, travelogues, poetry or periodical references, characterizes the native Irish musical tradition symbolically in one of two ways. One way was to harden the notion that a noble and ancient tradition was in existence previously, thereby romanticizing its artistic credibility in direct contrast to the degraded state of Ireland under English rule. Alternatively the presentation of traditional Irish music may have been exploited to accentuate the notion of the existence of a barbaric race, meeting salvation with the grace of English rule.2 White’s argument is accurate but it is unlikely that traditional music was entirely peripheral in Dublin’s eighteenth-century society; however when we consider the vast amount of documentation of art music in comparison to the indigenous tradition, there is little doubt that classical music was the eminent art form in Dublin.

The political turmoil that demarcated the seventeenth century had finally quelled following the end of the Williamite War. Dublin would eventually settle into an era of prosperity and peace, the likes of which it had never experienced. The rapid increase in population from 60,000 in 1700 to 140,000 by 1760 would suggest that a polarisation of the rich and the poor was further defined.3 With the increased wealth of the Anglo-Irish emerged the proclivity for entertainment. Considering Ireland’s relatively isolated geographic position on the edge of Europe, one might suspect that it would be somewhat devoid of any panEuropean influence. However the influx of a tidal-wave of respected Italian composers throughout the century would suggest that the musical life was both supportive enough and attractive enough to make the journey from the continent worthwhile. It is also worth considering that the Dublin stage may have acted as a springboard for composers who wished to penetrate the London music scene. That concerts were central to the lifestyle of “the quality”, and later to a broader audience as the century progressed, is difficult to argue against when we consider

Harry White, The Keeper's Recital: Music and Cultural History in Ireland, 1770-1970 (Notre Dame: The University of Notre Dame Press, 1998), 13.

3 Brian Boydell, A Dublin Musical Calendar (Dublin: Irish Academic, 1988), 11.

2

25

Writings About Music the wealth of critiques, references and advertisements visible in newspapers of the era.

The starting point of 1741 is a sensible one when considering the centrality of music in Dublin’s society. Handel’s visit to Dublin promotes the notion that the ethnic tradition of the ascendancy class may be have been confronted by the need for a controlling ideal. This would provide an opportunity to focus their musical principles and by extension allowed an artistic vision to occupy the centre of the cultural stage. White has suggested that Handel’s visit could prove such an idea was in fact a reality.4 This fundamental association of public music and public virtue was not by any means unique to the Dublin ascendancy; nonetheless it was on a scale that was wholly unparalleled when we compare the cultural vivacity of Dublin to that of London at the same time. Messiah was written specifically for a Dublin audience and the work’s cultural Christian piety was extremely popular among those who nurtured both a political and moral sense of belonging in Dublin’s society. The London musical scene by comparison was fundamentally constituted by a beau monde which was merely concerned about culture primarily for the benefit of one’s social status. However, attending a concert to be merely “seen” should not be dismissed as capitalisation on a chance to exclusively raise one’s social status. Since subscribing oneself as a player in the game that was the public sphere was fundamentally built on one’s social endeavours, attendance was more presumed as a social norm in London life than in Dublin.5 This would suggest that music was very much an audience-focused art form in Dublin, a discipline that was completely focused on satisfying the needs of an audience. Brian Boydell has suggested that any attempt to plant a general label on the type of audience attending concerts is a dubious task, when we consider the mix of interests and social classes when attending any concert today, let alone in the eighteenth century. 6 However, the whole notion of social status has a much less significant

Boydell, A Dublin Musical Calendar, 25.

William Weber, ‘Musical Culture and the Capital City’ in Anglo-Irish Music, 1780-1830, Ita Margaret Hogan (ed.) (Cork: Cork University Press, 1966), 77.

6 Boydell, A Dublin Musical Calendar, 12.

4 5

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Conor Cavanagh bearing today than it did in the middle of the eighteenth century.

Concerts in the eighteenth century were highly attractive magnets for the elite.

The influx of foreign composers, as already briefly touched on, provides an important insight into the role of Dublin music in the international context. Throughout the eighteenth century, many Italian musicians prospered on the vigour of musical activity in Dublin. Despite his outdated work, Henry Grattan Flood provides a worthy overview of musicians, which he extracted from the various Dublin newspapers. The 1731 foundation of the music hall on Fishamble Street geared towards performances given by internationally acclaimed contemporary composers and performers arriving into the city, primarily from Italy. 7 Geminiani’s arrival in 1735 from Italy set the bar for compositional standards. From 1735 to 1740 he held a number of concerts in his Great Room on Dame Street while also writing his treatise on violin playing.

Geminiani and company contributed a great deal to the development of art music in Ireland. Evidence of this is obvious when we consider that Dublin life revolved around the vice-regal court, and the attraction of Handel, Arne, Giordani and Geminiani's exoticism would witness the early closure of the court on days when concerts were given. 8 However their popularity and centrality did not merely come in the form of the performance of their own works. Private amateur practise of music was also an important form of entertainment. This practice would spread through families who would subsequently employ the great Italian masters on a residential basis to educate their children to the highest possible standards. For example Geminiani was employed by Charles Coote in Cootehill. In addition their compositions for chamber musicians were continuously promoted in advertisements.9 The visit of Scarlatti, invited by the Roseingrave family in November 1740, was more significant than Geminiani's visit. From an advertisement in Faulkner's Dublin Journal it is understood that he was

7W.

H. Grattan Flood, ‘Eighteenth Century Italians in Dublin’, in Music & Letters 3/3 (July 1922), 274–8 (274).

8 Ibid.

9 Boydell, A Dublin Musical Calendar, 19.

27

Writings About Music taken ill upon his arrival, and as a result a benefit concert was immediately organized in his favour. This immediate charity for a character with little holding in Ireland was important as it shows the regard to which composers were held in Dublin society. The apotheosis of these foreign masters in terms of their respectability was positive for Dublin’s musical image. From within the aristocracy the origins of music in social history and its subsequent evolution into the symbolic nature of cultural history created an important contribution towards the dislocated status of the composer towards the end of the century. What composer from within the kingdom could possibly eclipse Handel’s eminence when we consider that the fundamentals of the Irish art music were established on the influence of artistic import?10 Despite the diminution of compositional practice as an art form, it is reductive to suggest that cultural decline and musical decline were synonymous. The idea that culture completely vanished is built on falsities. The prospects of Irish art music was therefore situated precariously between the claims of antiquarianism and the vivid influences of the international context.

The role of the international musician and the notion of music as a decoration of elegant living were closely linked. Thomas Sheridan of Smock Alley Theatre considered music to be a powerful ally in his attempt to realise an orderly and well run theatre. That theatres were as much arenas of politics as they were areas as of artistic expression is unsurprisingly accurate, as can be seen from Sheridan’s activity. At the beginning of 1747 the great stumbling block for Smock Alley was the boisterous upper gallery and the barbarity of the crowd who inhibited the upper gallery. Sheridan consistently strove to hire the best band he could find for his performances as he believed the crowd viewed the musical entertainment to date as preliminary, often resulting in the launching of apples or stones towards the band, leading to physical damage of body or instrument of the musician.11 His reining in of the rabble would grant him legitimacy with Dublin Castle and by extension provide Smock Alley Theatre with both political and legal support.

White, The Keeper's Recital, 34–5.

William Weber, ‘Musical Culture and the Capital City’ in Concert Life in Eighteenth-Century Britain, Susan Wollenberg and Simon McVeigh (eds.) (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004), 71–92.

10 11

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Conor Cavanagh Sheridan’s resourcefulness led him to London where he sourced a band larger than the opera house in Covent Garden consisting of ten violins, two double basses, a viola, two oboes, two bassoons, a horn and a trumpet.12 Their first year in contract would oversee an improvement in the musical quality of theatre but would also leave Sheridan heavily in debt. The orchestra known as The Musical Tribe were unsuccessful in their first season, but began to combine work as freelancers with their careers as contracted musicians, which was encouraging from a financial perspective.13 The career of an orchestral musician was hazardous.

Salaries varied greatly from one theatre manager to the next but seemingly the financial benefaction was likely to be worthy of the risk involved. Sheridan would eventually end up contracting twenty two instrumentalists, six singers and a significantly distinguished director in Signor Pasqualli.14 Despite the far from objective attempt of the proud Faulkner’s Journal to critique the orchestra as ‘the best band of performers ever heard in the Kingdom’,15 the very fact that such a large assortment of prominent musicians could be sourced is clearly testimony to the vitality of Dublin’s musical scene. As well as this, it produced a contemporary arts festival of sorts, so in a sense what we get is a multifaceted arts showcase in terms of the combination of song, literature and orchestral interludes and accompaniment in Dublin theatres.

Boydell has carried out some ground-breaking work on the venues of Dublin concerts. He also comments on the significance of the growth of charitable musical organisations, through which approximately eight hospitals were built with profits from concerts. The building of a new Music Hall on Fishamble Street in combination with a hall on Crow Street gave grounds for the expansion of public concertgiving. The hall however grew less in prominence through the 1760s and its purpose would eventually change into that of a public theatre.

It was due to the charitable efforts of Dr Robert Mosse that the Rotunda hospital developed. He had based his plans on Vauxhall

Ibid.

Ibid.

14 Boydell, A Dublin Musical Calendar, 20.

15 Faulkner’s Dublin Journal, 11–13 December, 1748.

12 13

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Writings About Music Gardens in London.16 Mosse’s open air concerts usually consisted of popular light divertimenti, which were fairly popular with the eighteenth-century audience. These movements were usually interspersed with concertos or popular opera arias.17 There seems to have been a genuine effort to make the concert experience as thrilling as possible on the part of Mosse. For example in the autumn of 1749, a performance of Handel's music for the Royal Fireworks took place in the gardens, weeks after their catastrophic premiere in London. Mosse arranged that each of the four performances would be complimented by firework displays in-between acts, adding to the thrill of the concert experience.

Mosse’s success in outdoor concerts can be measured by the mere fact that he was in a financial position to construct The Rotunda Round Room, a hall that would dwarf all other competitors with a capacity of 2000. Under the direction of Mosse and a committee of ‘Gentlemen of approved good taste’ the Rotunda had by 1772 a permanent orchestra of strings, flutes, oboes, horns and timpani with regular concerts given three times a week.18 Boydell elaborates on the success of charity concerts in Dublin, the profits from which were greater than London.

There are two possible reasons for Dublin’s championing of the charity concert. Firstly there were purpose built halls for musical performance meaning that the oratorios could be performed without the righteous indignation of those who vociferously objected to the performance of sacred subjects being presented in a theatre. Secondly Dublin’s society was large enough to gather a significant and worthwhile crowd, while also small enough to ensure the absence of any patron of note was noticeable.19 During the last two decades of the eighteenth century, the concerts in The Rotunda flourished. Usually the season lasted from May to October. The amenities of the Rotunda Gardens were also contributors to the success of the concerts.

Brian Boydell, ‘Venues for Music in 18th Century Dublin’ in Dublin Historical Record 29/1 (1975), 28–40 (32).

17 Ibid., 33.

18 Ibid., 34.

19 Boydell, A Dublin Musical Calendar, 13.

16

30

Conor Cavanagh Brian Boydell has also pointed to the frequent use of the line ‘to be performed for the first time in this kingdom’ in newspaper advertisements promoting concerts. There is a fundamental suggestion that the appeal of an Irish premiere was a key influence for concertgoers. Virtually every season in the Rotunda series had a flashy new soloist and this novelty element may have added to the musical appeal. 20 When we consider that any mention today of an Irish premiere is more likely a deterrent for concert-goers, it is either a romantic suggestion by Boydell or, if accurate, his suggestion implies that there was a genuine passion for music as a higher art form amongst the elite. Either way there was a genuine attraction for motivating the high level of concert attendance, whether related to artistic passions or social status.

The intrinsic link of hospitals and the profits which were raised through concerts by charitable associations is obvious. Between the hospital boards and the musical societies, there was effectively an entirely non-theatrical musical life in Dublin created by the exploits of such organizations.21 The amateur musical element of Dublin’s cultural life enabled the extension of concerts to some of the more prosperous suburbs such as Templeogue Spa, Clontarf and Newtown Castle.

However this vibrancy also sparked much competition which was both beneficial for creating a generally higher quality of performance, and detrimental as there emerged the inevitable clashing of concerts and conflict of interests in terms of competition. One particular example tells of a countertenor Mons de Rheiner who hoped to perform several new English and Italian songs for his own benefit concert. However he had the misfortune of arranging his benefit concert on the same day as an oratorio performance by one Mr. George Frederick Handel, during one of his subscription series concerts.22 Clearly we can see that the musical life of Dublin was thriving as a result of the relative political tranquillity. The religious tests of civic virtue and civil rights were fairly well neutralised in the world of Dublin’s music, but the foreign influence blocked the drawing of any

Ibid.

White, The Keeper's Recital, 29.

22 Boydell, ‘Venues for Music in 18th Century Dublin’, 28.

20 21

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Writings About Music historical cultural references, particularly evident in the lack of nationalism i.e., drawing on folk melodies, in any compositions of Dublin. The polarization of rural and urban interests ensured that musicians in Dublin were forced to follow in the interests of London.

However the clash of traditions was an obstacle as opposed to a virtue.

Dublin was clearly fashionable and vibrant but any other pockets where Anglo-Irish interest was available, music also flourished and this is no coincidence.23 It is therefore likely that music played an eminent role in the social sphere of Dublin’s aristocracy, but it was essentially a social life which was romanticized to the extent that music’s profitability and artistic integrity, despite fulfilling honourable moral duties in the creation of so many hospitals and various other philanthropic endeavours, was ultimately built on a false pretence.

23

Hogan, Anglo-Irish Music, 1780-1830, xiii.

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Laura Eaton

What do studies on the processing of tonal music tell us about the comprehension and enjoyment of atonal music?

Laura Eaton Pinker has referred to music as ‘auditory cheesecake’—pleasurable but biologically useless.1 This view has been refuted, however, and arguments have been made more recently for music as being a complex human adaptation. These include the fact that no culture in recorded history has been without music (indicating universality), that virtually every neurologically normal adult can appreciate and make music (indicating widespread ability), and that music can evoke strong emotions (signifying receptive adaptations).2 Music processing is also distributed throughout the brain, rather than being confined to one area.3 These observations suggest that the study of how music is processed is considerably important. Rather than containing an in-depth discussion of the biological and learned elements of music processing, this essay aims to summarise past research, highlighting the seemingly most crucial aspects of music that enable its comprehension and enjoyment. These findings will be used to make inferences about atonal music, and to compare its suitability for listening to that of tonal music.

Tonality can be summarised as ‘the orientation of melodies and harmonies towards a referential pitch class’.4 It is the basis of the vast majority of Western music produced before the turn of the twentieth century.5 Atonal music was conceptualised at this time as a reaction to Isabelle Peretz and R. J. Zatorre, The Cognitive Neuroscience of Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 3.

2 Ibid., 4.

3 Daniel Levitin, This is Your Brain on Music: Understanding a Human Obsession (London: Atlantic Books, 2006), 9.

4 Kevin Mooney, ‘Tonality’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Stanley Sadie & John Tyrrell (eds.), 2nd edn (London: Macmillan, 2001).

5 Paul Lansky & George Perle, ‘Atonality’, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Stanley Sadie & John Tyrrell (eds.), 2nd edn (London: Macmillan, 2001).

1

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Writings About Music tonal music, as several composers were of the opinion that all possibilities within its realm had been exhausted.6 The primary difference between tonal music and atonal music is based on relationships between pitches; whereas tonal music is based on systematic arrangements of pitches and the hierarchical relationships between them, atonal music does not follow any hierarchy or system of pitch arrangement.7 An eminent theory of how tonal music is processed suggests that comprehension is based on the formation of schemas.8 We supposedly form expectations about the music during listening, which are based on our past exposure to similar music. An emotional response is experienced when music deviates slightly from these expectations, creating conflict and tension before a resolution is heard; this creates pleasurable variety within a familiar and accessible framework.

Krumhansl and Kessler provide evidence for our possession of such a framework.9 Participants were exposed to a progression of chords or a scale to establish a tonal context, and subsequently rated how well isolated tones ‘fit’ within this context. Results produced a stable outline of the pitch hierarchy of tonal music, and suggest that this is represented internally, and is used to judge relationships between different notes when listening to music.

Evidence also supports the idea that we use this internal hierarchy to make predictions when listening to tonal music. Krumhansl et al. (1999) found that both experts and non-experts had relatively welldefined melodic expectations, and were able to make judgements about melodic continuations of Finnish folk hymn tunes. 10 This ability is also consistent to some degree across cultures; both Chinese and American listeners consistently made similar judgements about the continuation Ibid.

Mooney, ‘Tonality’.

8 Leonard Meyer, Music, the Arts, and Ideas: Patterns and Predictions in Twentieth-Century Culture (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1967).

9 Carol L. Krumhansl and Edward J. Kessler, ‘Tracing the dynamic changes in perceived tonal organization in a spatial representation of musical keys’ in Psychological Review, 89/4 (Winter 1982), 334–368.

10 Krumhansl, Jukka Louhivuori, Petri Toivainen, Topi Järvinen and Tuomas Eerola, ‘Melodic expectation in Finnish spiritual folk hymns: Convergence of statistical, behavioral, and computational approaches’ in Music Perception, 17/2 (Summer 1999), 151–195.

6 7

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Laura Eaton of Chinese folk melodies, with musical training again producing no significant differences.11 Neurological studies produce similar evidence for the formation of expectations, where the event-related potential (ERP) approach has shown activity when participants hear deviations in melodies and chord sequences. This method has uncovered some effects of expertise; late positive components (LPCs) were elicited when participants were exposed to incongruities at the ends of phrases, which were greater and had a faster onset for musicians than for nonmusicians, and for more familiar as opposed to unfamiliar phrases. 12 What implications do these findings have for atonal music?

Although accuracy of expectations may be enhanced by expertise, the ability to form expectations and make predictions is reasonably universal, and present across music ability and culture.13 A relatively limited amount of exposure may thus suffice for the comprehension of tonal music. However, the existence of an internal representation of the hierarchy of pitches may explain this ability, and atonal music may present the listeners with difficulties in this area (due to its lack of such a hierarchy).14 Previous research suggests that melodies carry specific aspects that aid comprehensibility of music. In particular, melodic contour—‘the overall pattern of ups and downs created by a sequence of pitch intervals, regardless of precise interval size’—plays an important role.15 Trainor, Desjardins, and Rockel used ERPs to study reactions of musicians and non-musicians to transformations of short melodies. 16 When the final note altered the interval of the original melody, responses were smaller and delayed in non-musicians compared to musicians.

E. G. Schellenberg, ‘Expectancy in melody: Tests of the implication-realization model’ in Cognition, 58/1 (Spring 1996), 75–125.

12 Mireille Besson and Francois Faita, ‘An event-related potential (ERP) study of musical expectancy: Comparison of musicians with nonmusicians’ in Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance, 21/6 (1995), 1278–1296.

13 Ibid.

14 Krumhansl and Kessler, ‘Tracing the dynamic changes in perceived tonal organization in a spatial representation of musical keys’, 334–368.

15 Peretz and Zatorre, The Cognitive Neuroscience of Music, 328.

16 L. J. Trainor, R. N. Desjardins and Conrad Rockel, ‘A comparison of contour and interval processing in musicians and nonmusicians using event-related potentials’ in Australian Journal of Psychology, 51/3 (Autumn 1999), 147–153.

11

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Writings About Music Activity was elicited but did not differ with contour changes. This suggests that judgment of precise interval distance is sensitive to expertise, whereas judgment of the overall shape of a melody is a more basic, innate ability. Trehub, Bull, and Thorpe have shown that sensitivity specifically to melodic contour is already present in eight- to eleven-month-old infants, supporting this idea. 17 Studies have also shown that melodic contour is a crucial factor in the memorability—and hence subsequent recognition—of a melody or succession of tones.18 Atonal music does not make use of blatant melodies, which may be problematic following the apparent importance of melodic contour as observed above. Additionally, many forms of atonal writing (such as serialism) place a certain emphasis on intervallic alterations of note sequences, which don’t preserve contour; this may limit comprehensibility of this music, insofar as those without extensive music training may be impaired at recognising these transformations. 19 The processing of musical consonances and dissonances appear to be distinct, and show some hemispheric specialisation. Perani et al.

(2010) used functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) to measure brain activity in one- to three-day-olds while they heard excerpts of Western tonal piano music and alterations of these excerpts.20 The music consisted of a melody with an accompaniment, and the altered versions either contained occasional changes in the tonal key or remained permanently dissonant (with the melody and accompaniment one semitone out of place). The unaltered music mainly evoked righthemispheric activation in auditory regions, and both types of altered excerpts evoked activity instead in the left inferior frontal cortex and limbic structures. Similar findings have been produced by Patel et al.

(1998) and Liégeois-Chauvel et al. (1998), which suggest that the right

S. E. Trehub, Dale Bull and L. A. Thorpe, ‘Infants’ perception of melodies: The role of melodic contour’, Child Development, 55/3 (Autumn 1984), 821–830.

18 W. J. Dowling and D. S. Fujitani, ‘Contour, interval, and pitch recognition in memory for melodies’, Journal of the Acoustical Science of America, 49 (1971), 524 –531.

19 Paul Griffiths, ‘Serialism’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Stanley Sadie & John Tyrrell (eds.), 2nd edn (London: Macmillan, 2001).

20 D. Perani, M. C. Saccuman, P. Scifo, D. Spada, G. Andreolli, R. Rovelli, C. Baldoli and S. Koelsch, ‘Functional specializations for music processing in the human newborn brain’ in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America, 107/10 (2010), 4758–4763.

17

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Laura Eaton hemisphere of the adult brain plays a specific role in the perception of melodic contour.21 It has been proposed that the right auditory cortex is specialised for slow, narrow-band stimuli such as tonal patterns, whereas the left auditory regions are more suited to rapidly changing broad-band stimuli such as speech; fMRI evidence supports this idea. 22 Due to the lack of pitch hierarchy in atonal music, groupings of notes often clash and sound dissonant. Brain regions involved in processing may therefore differ to those used for tonal music, and may effect perception and judgement of the music.

Although melodic contour appears to play an important role in the comprehension of music, we are not always dependent on melodies when processing musical properties. Five-month-old infants can recognise transpositions of a sequence of tones—randomly selected so as not to outline a typical melodic pattern—after being habituated to that sequence.23 Levitin has also demonstrated that non-musicians can learn to identify the pitch class of an isolated tone without an external reference.24 Non-musicians were presented with one of two tuning forks (tuned either to C and or to G), and instructed to memorise the pitch through repeated listening for a week. When subsequently tested, participants’ recognition of their pitch was good, regardless of whether they were to sing it back or identify it out of three notes played on a keyboard. The ability to do this for all pitch classes is a rare skill called ‘absolute pitch’, which is found in roughly one in ten thousand people, and is thought to develop during a critical period in childhood.25 The evidence that pitch can be learned as an absolute value after this period suggests that a tonal context is not necessary for recognition of pitches, even for those inexperienced in music, supporting the idea that it may be possible to engage with atonal music despite the lack of tonal context.

A. D. Patel, I. Peretz, M. Tramo and R. Labrecque, ‘Processing prosodic and musical patterns: A neuropsychological investigation’, Brain and Language, 61 (1998), 123–144.

22 Peretz and Zatorre, The Cognitive Neuroscience of Music, 241.

23 H. Chang and S. Trehub, ‘Auditory processing of relational information by young infants’ in Journal of Experimental Child Psychology, 24/2 (Summer 1977): 324–331.

24 Daniel Levitin, ‘Memory for musical attributes’ in Music, Cognition and Computerized Sound: An Introduction to Psychoacoustics, P. R. Cook (ed.), (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1999), 209–227.

25 R. Parncutt and D. Levitin, ‘Absolute pitch’, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Stanley Sadie and John Tyrrell (eds.), 2nd edn (London: Macmillan, 2001).

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Writings About Music Some aspects of music processing appear to happen unconsciously. ERP studies have shown that features of music that violate expectancies—such as pitch deviations in a melody and harmonic deviations in chord sequences—elicit activity without conscious attention.26 This happens even when participants are explicitly instructed to attend a speech stimulus and ignore the music. 27 Perhaps this has the greatest implications for atonal music. In relation to atonal music using serialism, studies have shown that participants are capable of recognising tone sequences in transformation when they have first been familiarised with the sequences and then consciously attempt to identify these transformations. 28 Although there is some evidence for the possibility of implicit knowledge playing a part in distinguishing transformations for musically experienced participants (Dienes and Longuet-Higgins, 2004), this evidence does not imply that music was comprehended, as participants claimed they were unaware of the relationships between sequences and their transformations.29 Therefore, as evidence so far suggests, conscious, effortful attention is required to comprehend relationships in atonal music (unlike the processing of relationships between tones in tonal music).

The evidence reviewed so far presents an intriguing picture of the factors that play a crucial part in the comprehension of tonal music, and suggest many possible difficulties in the processing of atonal music.

With its lack of pitch hierarchy and melody, abundance of dissonances, and demanding of attention, the skills used to process tonal music— whether innate or learned to some degree through past experience— may become redundant when used for atonal music. At this point, implications for the enjoyment of atonal music should be considered.

Blood and Zatorre showed using positron emission tomography (PET) that activity can be observed in areas of the brain linked to emotion, E. Brattico, M. Tervaniemi, R. Näätãnen & I. Peretz, ‘Musical scale properties are automatically processed in the human auditory cortex’ in Brain Research, 1117/1 (Spring 2006), 162–174.

27 C. Maidhof & S. Koelsch, ‘Effects of selective attention on syntax processing in music and language’ in Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience, 23/9 (2011), 2252–2267.

28 W. J. Dowling, ‘Recognition of melodic transformations: Inversion, retrograde, and retrograde inversion’ in Perception & Psychophysics, 12/5 (1971), 417–421.

29 Z. Dienes and C. Longuet-Higgins, ‘Can musical transformations be implicitly learned?’ in Cognitive Science 28 (2004), 531–558.

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Laura Eaton arousal, and reward (such as the vental striatum, amygdala, and orbitofrontal cortex) when participants listened to tonal music chosen for intensely pleasant emotional responses. 30 However, is this also true for atonal music? Can these areas also be elicited by music without a pitch hierarchy? If our comprehension and enjoyment of music is based on schemas as the aforementioned evidence suggests, this may be unlikely.

The above evidence highlights the most salient aspects that appear crucial for the processing of tonal music. Studies on infants in particular suggest that some skills in processing music may be innate.

Music seemingly operates in specific ways to allow for comprehension, unconscious processing, and intense pleasure in its listeners. Although possible difficulties for processing of atonal music have been outlined, research does not propose that comprehension is impossible. It is likely that different processes may be involved than for tonal music, and that experience in this field will enhance processing. Further direct evidence on the processes underlying comprehension of atonal music is necessary to investigate this area fully.

A. J. Blood and R. J. Zatorre, ‘Intensely pleasurable responses to music correlate with activity in brain regions implicated in reward and emotion’ in Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, 98 (2001), 11818–23.

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Writings About Music

On the Reading of Graphic Scores Eoin Howley The concept for the current paper was prompted by a personal reaction to graphic score music. This reaction (after a period of initial bafflement and apprehension) was an appreciation of the significant capacity for freedom of performance and the constant renewal it offers to musicians.

However, I also felt that this freedom presented a danger, as the potentially unlimited possibilities presented by even a single graphic score could very possibly be enough to dissuade non-avant garde musicians. This is especially true as these musicians will primarily have been trained to use what Meyer describes as a high-level patterning (conventional notation) that reduces performance freedom. 1 The initial proponents of this movement would likely not have been concerned about this alienation of conventional-minded musicians, as evidenced

by Cardew’s search for ‘a new type of musician’ that culminated in the scratch orchestra.2 This was a result of the political leanings of these composers. The creative empowerment of performers was viewed as an expression of left-leaning activism and the creation of a ‘radically egalitarian discipline’.3 Following the end of the Cold War, however, the left-wing justification for graphic score music has declined in importance. This leads to the question of whether graphic score music is relevant in contemporary society. In the hope that it can be, this document aims to provide a manual for the interpretation of graphic scores that increases their accessibility while nonetheless retaining the creative freedom that is the movement’s greatest strength.

Leonard B. Meyer, ‘Commentary’ in Music Perception: An Interdisciplinary Journal 13/3 (April 1, 1996): 455–487, 469.

2 Michael Parsons, ‘The Scratch Orchestra and Visual Arts’ in Leonardo Music Journal 11/1 (December 2001): 5–11, 5.

3 Richard Taruskin, Music in the Late Twentieth Century, The Oxford History of Western Music, vol.

5 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 84–85.

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Eoin Howley

Structure This manual will suggest two methods of interpreting graphic scores.

The first of these methods is based on the assumption that the features of a graphic score should have a direct relationship with the aural features of the music produced. This will be described as non-abstract interpretation (in the spirit of accessibility that the movement’s original practitioners would hopefully have approved of). The second method treats the visual features of a score as being unrelated to the aural effects of the resultant music. This will be described as abstract interpretation.

The manual will provide examples of each method with reference to Cardew’s Treatise (page 183). It must be noted that improvisation will not be discussed in this document, as the interpretation by improvisation is qualitatively different than the deliberate interpretation discussed here. It is also the case that many composers of graphic scores stated that they did not wish their scores to be treated simply as improvisatory material.4

How to read: Non-Abstract Interpretations As stated above, non-abstract interpretations of scores requires there to be a similarity or relationship between the visual features of a score and the aural features of the music. A non-musical example of this would be a road sign indicating a curved road ahead. There is a direct relationship between the content of the sign (the curved line) and what the sign signifies (the curve in the road ahead). The case of notation and music is more complicated than this example due to the fact that it requires a cross-sensory relationship, whereas the sign and the road both share visual features. In spite of this, cross-sensory signs occur in conventional notation, for example in the form of a trill sign. The rising-falling line of the sign corresponds directly to the intended rising-falling note pattern.

A significant difference between the trill sign and a non-abstract reading of graphic scores nonetheless exists in that there is already a single, For example see Cornelius Cardew, Treatise Handbook: Including Bun No. 2 & Volo Solo (London: Edition Peters, 1971).

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Writings About Music agreed-upon meaning for non-abstract signs in conventional notation.

As the intention of this manual is to retain the interpretative freedom of graphic score music, the criteria for a method of non-abstract graphic score interpretation is that it establishes cross-sensory relationships between features in a manner that nonetheless offers freedom of interpretation. This manual will derive such a method from the principles of Gestalt psychology.

Gestalt psychology was originally developed by the German psychologists Max Wertheimer, Kurt Koffka, and Wolfgang Köhler in the 1910s.5 It was originally concerned with describing how humans unconsciously perceive organisation of sensations. The Gestalt approach suggests that we organise sensations in a ‘top-down’ manner (which is to say that higher cognitive principles are applied to raw sensory input, which are grouped accordingly, rather than the sensory input itself determining the grouping principles).6 The most significant grouping principles are Pragnanz, similarity, good continuation, and proximity or nearness.7 As demonstrated in the description of these given by Goldstein, they apply equally to the perception of aural and visual stimuli. A further example of how the same Gestalt principle can affect both visual and aural stimuli is presented by Ball in his example of how we perceive visual and melodic lines crossing. 8 This cross-sensory functioning of the Gestalt principles is the basis of their value for a nonabstract reading of graphic scores. Interpretation could be achieved by means of identifying the principles present in the perception of a visual aspect of a score, and constructing an aural equivalent that makes use of the same principles. A further area of interest to Gestalt psychology is

An interesting point given the current discussion is the level of musicality in this group. Both Wertheimer and Köhler played violin and piano, and engaged in chamber music. See Mitchell G. Ash, Gestalt Psychology in German Culture, 1890-1967: Holism and the Quest for Objectivity, Cambridge Studies in the History of Psychology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 103; 113.

6 Ibid., 224.

7 These are described in detail in E. Bruce Goldstein, Sensation and Perception, 2nd ed. (Belmont (Calif.): Wadsworth Publishing, 1984), 170–172.

8 Philip Ball, The Music Instinct: How Music Works and Why We Can’t Do Without It (London: Bodley Head, 2010), 149.

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Eoin Howley how a figure and its background are perceived. 9 Given the importance of melody and accompaniment in the common-practice era of Western music, how they could result from interpretation of a graphic score is an intriguing line of enquiry, and will be discussed below. Finally, and perhaps most significantly, the principles are not prescriptive, due to the fact that they seem to only guide our perceptions rather than determine them.10 This level of indeterminacy would grant interpreters significant creative freedom while maintaining a non-abstract relationship between the visual score and the aural music.

An example of how concepts from Gestalt psychology could be applied to graphic score music will now be explored with reference to page 183 of Cardew’s Treatise. An initial decision could be that ‘figure and ground’ (the prioritisation of some musical features over others) would be determined by proximity to the lifeline, which Dennis argues is one of the most significant features of Treatise due to its almost uninterrupted presence.11 This uninterrupted presence could be interpreted as implying that it is in front of the other features, which is one of the properties listed by Goldstein for figure-ground relationship.12 Prioritisation of principles could equally be determined by relative salience of the features (with the figure being more memorable or ‘thing-like’ than the background). The principle of good continuation could be used by an interpreter to determine that the stave lines obscured by two ovals directly below the lifeline on the far left of the page should be played as five harmonising lines that continue through, but are briefly obscured by, two loud chords. 13 The considerations of how to achieve this affect could help an interpreter determine instrumentation. The principle of similarity could lead an This is primarily a visual concern, as seen in the example given by Goldstein, Sensation and Perception, 173, but for an example of how soloists ensure that their melody is to the fore of the listeners attention against an orchestral background see Ball, The Music Instinct, 143.

10 Goldstein, Sensation and Perception, 175–78. It is for this reason that they are now referred to as principles rather than laws.

11 Brian Dennis, ‘Cardew’s Treatise: Mainly the Visual Aspects’ in Tempo: A Quarterly Review of Modern Music/177 (1991): 10–16, 10.

12 Goldstein, Sensation and Perception, 173.

13 As a demonstration of the freedom offered to the interpreter by this system, these lines need not harmonise. Alternatively there could be only a single obscured line, which could be determined by the notes directed underneath this feature.

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Writings About Music interpreter to conclude that the recurring visual feature of lines emanating from notes to form concentric circles should result in a similar aural feature each time. Alternatively, the principle of proximity could lead to the conclusion that they are distinct. Due to constrains of space, a more detailed demonstration cannot be given, but the above example is a demonstration of the method by which a non-abstract realisation of graphic score music could be formed.

Fig. 1. Cardew, Treatise, p. 183.

How to read: Abstract Interpretations As might be expected, this method of interpretation treats visual features of the graphic score as being unrelated the aural features they signify. Letters are a non-musical example of this. There is no reason to associate ‘A’ with the phoneme we take it to refer to, other than the fact that it is agreed to refer to it. The majority of conventional notation is predicated on this method of interpretation. For instance, there is no obvious reason for a filled, stemmed note to be half the duration of an unfilled, stemmed note. Wolf captures the fundamental principle of this method when he says ‘Only by entering communication with words do

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Eoin Howley we actually endow words with meaning in context.’14 In this method, any feature of a graphic score could be taken as an instruction to perform any act. While this may seem to be of no use in terms of making graphic score music more accessible, it provides the advantage of consistency.

An aural feature associated with a particular visual feature should be replicated each time that visual feature occurs.

A demonstration of how this could be attempted in a systematic manner is found in the work of Wassily Kandinsky. 15 Kandinsky described lines, angle, and shapes as each having temperatures and colours, based on what appear to be abstract decisions. As each shape has angles and lines in it, this creates a hierarchical system with multiple levels of interpretation. In graphic score music, temperature and colour could be replaced by (for example) instrumentation and harmony. The level of freedom the interpreter would have from moment to moment in the work using this method would be self-determined by the rigorousness of the system they devised. This could range from one-toone associations of particular features to a hierarchical structure similar to Kandinsky’s.

Page 183 of Treatise will now be re-examined to demonstrate the abstract method of interpretation. The aforementioned recurring visual theme of lines seeming to form concentric circles could be interpreted to signify a brass fanfare. Aspects of this feature such as proximity of lines to one another or deformity of the resultant circle (which would result in an ovular shape) could be interpreted as referring to dynamics or the speed of the fanfare. In a simple one-to-one system of associations this decision may have no bearing on any others. In a system modelled on Kandinsky’s, however, it could be decided that curved lines necessarily referred to brass, and a spiral structure to a fanfare. In this system, the curved, but open-ended lines directly above the lifeline on the far right would be played by brass instruments, but would not be a fanfare. It is notable that creative freedom is retained in this system as, while the

George Wolf, ‘Writing for the Twenty-First Century’ in Language Sciences 19/1 (1997): 93–100, 98.

15 Wassily Kandinsky and Hilla Rebay, Point and Line to Plane (New York: Dover Publications, 1979).

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Writings About Music system restricts choices, the system itself is completely determined by the interpreter.

A Question of Quality The two methods listed above are primarily intended to be an aid to performers in their attempts to realise a graphic score. However, they could equally be read as an aid to composers in their attempts to create graphic scores that are conducive to imaginative performance. Graphic scores admittedly have the unique ability to produce potentially infinite different performances from a single score, thus requiring a lower production rate of scores than conventional Western music. New scores will almost certainly still be required, however, if only to provide a sense of novelty to interpreters. Acknowledging this, this manual will now (presume to) offer composers a method of judging the interpretative potential of their work (assuming that the methods listed above are used by performers). The initial premise of this is that every visual feature will vary in its level of abstract and non-abstract interpretability. For instance, while page 183 of Treatise has potential for non-abstract interpretation, its use of aspects of musical notation as the primary visual feature means that any interpretation will likely require a significant amount of abstract interpretation. Applebaum’s Metaphysics of Notation, conversely, has significant potential for non-abstract interpretation.16 This raises the crucial point, for both performers and composers, that the methods listed above are not mutually exclusive within the same score. Composers, in choosing visual features conducive to one or the other method of interpretation, can thus influence the effectiveness of each method in their scores. This raises the spectre of compositional vs. interpretative control over graphic score music.

Unfortunately, a resolution of this conflict is beyond the scope (and intent) of this manual. It would be contrary to the spirit of this document, however, if it did not advise composers to maximise both interpretative freedom, but also interpretative potential in their scores.

Robert Arnold, There’s (https://vimeo.com/14469188).

16

No

Sound

In

46

My

Head

(Lateral

Films,

2010),

Eoin Howley

Final Thoughts As a movement founded largely on political sentiment, graphic score music was founded on sands that are even more shifting than twentiethcentury musical taste. This is especially true as the particular issue it was dependent on (the conflict between communist/left-wing egalitarian view and a capitalist consumerist one) largely collapsed in the early 1990s. In spite of this, I believe that a movement that maximises the interpretative freedom (or even interpretative duty) of the performer has a place in today’s musical spectrum, if not the political spectrum. Having found that my own reservations about the movement stemmed largely from the seemingly baffling potential inherent in it, I have attempted in the above document to present a manual that will provide like-minded people with systematic methods of approaching graphic score music while retaining the freedom of interpretation that I view as the greatest advantage of the movement. It is crucial to note that the methods are not mutually exclusive, nor do they seek to be prescriptive of other methods that interpreters may discover. Given this, and the freedom inherent in the methods suggested, it may seem that interpretation of graphic score music is as open-ended as ever. If this is the case, I hope that interpreters nonetheless take some confidence from this manual.

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Writings About Music

The Music of Twin Peaks and its Subversion of Television Scoring Convention Aoife Cuthbert In the classical film score, music functions as a narrator of sorts, reflecting what is happening on screen by ‘drawing upon musical associations in the culture to produce quick and predictable responses from the spectator.’1 Television music functions in a similar way, underlining mood, characterisation, or specific situations. There are a number of parameters specific to the televisual medium, however, one of which is often a more limited budget.2 This has led to the use of ‘stock music’, which fits the pace and mood of the scene but due to its generality and versatility in nature, can rarely reflect or add to the show on any deeper level. Another requirement of television music, as discussed by Rick Altman, is its responsibility to cater to ‘household flow’, using familiar themes to convey the emotions of a scene or signal the imminence of a major plot point to viewers that may be in the next room.3 While this style of scoring could easily be criticised for being too superficial or overly explicit, Isabella van Elferen maintains that in programmes within the Gothic genre such as Twin Peaks (ABC, 1990), it operates on another level, creating a recurring musical ghost that ‘haunts’ the home through the TV set.4 However, any inspection of the Twin Peaks score reveals that it completely subverts this idea of using auditory cues to compensate for the television’s domestic environment, with its constantly migrating leitmotivs, experiments in genre and parody, inappropriate mood music, and a blurring of the lines between

Kathryn Kalinak, ‘“Disturbing the Guests with This Racket”: Music and Twin Peaks’ in Full of Secrets: Critical Approaches to Twin Peaks, David Lavery (ed.) (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1995), 82–92 (83).

2 Isabella Van Elferen, Gothic Music: The Sounds of the Uncanny (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2012), 77.

3 Rick Altman, ‘Television/Sound’ in Studies in Entertainment: Critical Approaches to Mass Culture, Tania Modleski (ed.) (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986), 39–54 (42).

4 Elferen, ‘Gothic Music,’ 76.

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Aoife Cuthbert diegesis and non-diegesis. This breaks the trust between the viewer and the soundtrack, failing to fulfil one of its most important functions, and yet serving the complex nature of the series on myriad other levels. This paper intends to discuss academic perspectives on the role of music in Twin Peaks in general, as well as more in-depth readings of scenes in which the score is particularly visible or relevant—with particular attention paid to the first scene in the pilot—in order to analyse the many levels on which the series’ musical scoring functions. This will demonstrate that the music of Twin Peaks is used as an equal partner to visual and narrative storytelling techniques rather than as an afterthought, and that the resulting uniquely multi-faceted and deeply conceptual score of Angelo Badalamenti has been a large factor in the ability of the series to be taken seriously and, as such, to be accepted in academia—a rare achievement for a network television series, a medium whose value is seldom held in the same high regard as that of film.

Ultimately this understanding will enable us to acknowledge the possibility of defying typical function without detracting from the overall product, as well as to appreciate the power of a well-thought-out score to imbue a television series with credibility.

Twin Peaks, David Lynch and Mark Frost’s 1990s cult series is, at first glance, a detective story in which the beloved small-town homecoming queen Laura Palmer has been killed, and FBI Agent Dale Cooper is called in to solve the whodunit. A crucial element of the show is its straddling of multiple genres (notably reflected in the score by its own blend of musical styles including jazz, country, bebop, and swing, ‘sometimes all in one cue’).5 One genre which pervades the series is that of film noir, with its ‘investigative structure of the narrative […]; multiple points of view; frequent unstable characterization [sic.] of the heroine’, and its use of flashbacks or voice-over as plot devices.6 This treatment of the heroine, clearly most often applied to the femme fatale trope, is what interests me most here, particularly as the character of Laura Palmer is unmistakably one long allusion to the character of the same name in Otto

Kalinak, ‘Disturbing the Guests’, 90.

Sue Lafky, ‘Gender, Power, and Culture in the Televisual World of Twin Peaks: A Feminist Critique’ in Journal of Film and Video 51/3 (Fall–Winter 1999–200): 5–19 (6).

5 6

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Writings About Music Preminger’s film noir, Laura (20th Century Fox, 1944). Like Preminger’s Laura, Laura Palmer’s presence (either as a ghost, or purely in the continued power of obsession she holds over the living characters from beyond the grave) is indicated with a theme that crops up again and again.

Laura Palmer’s theme (00:02:41 – 00:09:00) is the first music we hear in the pilot after the theme tune, and comprises three sections which will be categorised as L1, L2, and L3. L1 begins with a sound which at first fits into the music seamlessly, and which we do not realise is part of the characters’ world until Pete Martell, as he walks along, sighs ‘The lonesome foghorn blows…’. This is the first of many instances in which the viewer’s expectations of the diegetic and the non-diegetic are confounded, a topic which will be discussed in greater detail below. The section continues with repetitions of a tension-building theme based on a minor second (Ex. 1) which accompanies Pete as he becomes increasingly curious about the object he can see washed up on the shore, foretelling something horrific in store. Occasional deep bass notes sound whenever a cut is made to a shot which further elucidates what (or who) he has stumbled across: the first shot of the wrapped corpse in the distance and the shot of blonde hair coming out of the plastic. Maritime bells ring throughout, reminiscent of death knells. We hear L1 again when the police arrive and are surveying the scene, and as they decide to ‘roll her over’ we hear L2, which functions as a transitional section between L1 and L3, rising and modulating as if to lead to a much more horrific theme than the one we get.

Fig. 1. Laura’s Theme (L1), b. 1–5 L3 (Ex. 2), a saccharine romantic theme with ‘upward leaps in the melodic pattern, chordal harmony, and the quintessentially romantic arrangement of the nineteenth-century piano concerto,’ begins as the girl’s identity is revealed.7 Kalinak maintains that this is a purposefully 7

Kalinak, ‘Disturbing the Guests’, 88.

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Aoife Cuthbert insensitive tone for the music to take, and that the intention behind it is to separate the viewer from the musical connotations they are accustomed to in order to create an air of unsettlement.8 This is certainly a valid point, and is a technique used often by Badalamenti in the larger series, though my reading of L3 is somewhat different: that the romantic tone is not too far from being tragic, and is in fact all too appropriate in its depiction of the way the other characters romanticise Laura after her death. While it seems that almost everyone in the town of Twin Peaks (particularly the men) had some knowledge of Laura Palmer’s double life, or of her being ‘mixed up’, there seems to be some sort of temporary town-wide amnesia after her death, during which no one can remember anything but the image of her as the darling, charitable homecoming queen—an image which we too, as viewers, are bombarded with in the form of her portrait. This reading is supported by the link between Laura Palmer and the 1944 film, in which the heroine is also romanticised and fetishised after death using the combination of her overly romantic theme and her static portrait. The relationship between this Laura Palmer and Laura, for those in the know (a requirement in many of the obscure allusions in Twin Peaks) is significant in the characterisation of Laura, effectively communicating how her power of obsession lies largely in her being an idealised dead woman, in keeping with the postmodern fascination with ‘unknowability’ and differing perspectives that pervades the show.

Fig. 2 Laura’s theme ‘L3’ Laura is not the only femme fatale in Twin Peaks however. In fact, even more explicitly so is Audrey Horne, who can’t seem to go anywhere without an underscoring of brushed drums. Audrey, and the musical cues that alert us to her status as femme fatale, is one of the ways in which the show deals with both genre and parody. Richardson describes parody as a combination of allusion and critical distance,

8

Ibid., 88.

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Writings About Music which Twin Peaks plays with time and time again in its exploration of its own genre.9 Lynch parodies the soap opera by both making and mocking the genre, structuring the series as a serialised melodrama while also presenting a fictional soap opera within the show entitled Invitation to Love. Cooper parodies film noir with his take on the classic voiceover: his tape recorder, and Audrey does the same in her depiction as a femme fatale. In S01E03 we are privy to a scene in which she sways absentmindedly to the jazzy ‘Audrey’s Dance’ theme which we have already heard associated with her in previous scenes (Ex. 3). This time, however it is interrupted by the arrival of her father who turns off the record player that the viewer was previously unaware of. This is, of course, another example of Badalamenti and Lynch disturbing our expectations of diegesis, neglecting the functional necessities of film music in order to enhance the feeling of instability central to the show’s appeal.

Ex. 3 ‘Audrey’s Dance’ theme b. 1–3 Another musically significant moment for Audrey is during her attempted seduction of Agent Cooper. He comes back to his hotel room to find her in his bed at the end of S01E06, and we hear a stripped back version of the Laura 2 theme as she meekly says ‘please don’t make me leave’, at which point the episode ends. S01E07 picks up where it left off in the narrative, although the musical environment has changed. We hear the show’s theme tune ‘Falling’ as Cooper gently rejects and comforts Audrey. Some of the literature maintains that the use of Laura’s theme in these scenes is meant to imply that Cooper’s real reason for rejecting Audrey is that he is infatuated with the idealised dead Laura.10

John Richardson, ‘Laura and Twin Peaks: Postmodern Parody and the Musical Reconstruction of the Absent Femme Fatale’ in The Cinema of David Lynch: American Dreams, Nightmare Visions, Erica Sheen and Annette Davison (eds.) (London: Wallflower Press, 2004), 77–92.

10 Richardson, ‘Laura and Twin Peaks’, 86.

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Aoife Cuthbert My reading is completely different; I see the use of Laura’s theme (earlier discussed as a large factor in her identity as a femme fatale) as coming from the perspective of Audrey, who is constantly affecting an air of sultriness and mystery but despite her best attempts, as a living girl, cannot achieve the mystique and ‘unknowability’ that Laura has. This, to my mind, is confirmed when she is the one to bring up Laura: Audrey: I can’t tell you all my secrets Cooper: Secrets are dangerous things Audrey Audrey: Do you have any?

Cooper: No Audrey: Laura had a lot of secrets Cooper: Finding those out is my job On some level, Laura is what Audrey aspires to be: the girl at the centre of a mystery to be unravelled by Cooper. This is also supported by the fact that the ‘Audrey’s Dance’ theme is made up of motivic material from Laura’s theme that has simply been reconstituted into a jazz style. This shows the continued importance of that very first musical cue, even in the development of characters other than Laura herself, despite breaking from standard television practice by blurring the lines between leitmotivs that should conventionally aid in comprehension, not cause further ambiguity.

This idea of the female copycat character is another allusion to the film noir genre, clearly referencing Hitchcock’s Vertigo (Paramount Pictures, 1958), and occurs elsewhere and more overtly in the character of Maddie, Laura’s lookalike cousin (also played by Sheryl Lee) who comes to town to comfort her grieving aunt and uncle. 11 During the course of the first season, she is persuaded by Laura’s friend Donna and ex-boyfriend James to dress up as Laura to stun and distract Dr Jacoby (one of Laura’s past love interests) while they try to retrieve a clue concerning Laura’s killer in his office. This use of a copycat emphasises even further the power that Laura exerts after death, particularly when faux-Laura are accompanied with her theme, such as in S01E07 when Julia Straub, ‘Pathetic Copycats: Female Victimhood and Visuality in Melodramatic Films’ in SPELL: Swiss Papers in English Language and Literature 26 (2011): 225–237 (227).

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Writings About Music James, despite being aware of the plan, is momentarily stunned to see ‘Laura’ walk towards him.12 When the music bursts into the L3 theme, my reading is that Lynch and Badalamenti are using score to characterise James, illustrating his goodness and the purity of his feelings for the original Laura. He hears this romantic theme as he temporarily believes her to be alive again, and not just when he thinks about her as the idealised dead girl.

Still on the topic of genre (and the use of scoring to play with or consolidate it) is the view of Twin Peaks as part of the Gothic Horror/Terror genus. This is discussed at length by Isabella van Elferen in her article ‘Haunted by a Melody: Ghosts, Transgression, and Music in Twin Peaks’ as well as her book Gothic Music: The Sounds of the Uncanny, so it does not need to be explored in detail here. However, one cannot have a discussion about Twin Peaks without acknowledging the five ghosts that haunt the town: Laura Palmer herself, of course; BOB, the spirit who possessed human hosts to do evil things (such as murdering Laura); Mike, BOB’s sidekick and also a parasite; the Giant, who Agent Cooper sees in his waking visions, and the Man From Another Place (MFAP) who Cooper meets in his dream that takes place in the Red Room in S01E03.13 One of the functions of the music in Twin Peaks outside the realm of regular television shows is to help get rid of any distinction between the real world and the ghost world in the show.

They are never visually presented as ghosts in the way that we are accustomed to, and neither are they presented as such in audio. With few exceptions, there are no jump cuts to them, and neither are there any musical stingers, other than in BOB’s first appearance.14 None of the other ghosts are scored in a way that would indicate there is anything paranormal afoot. We have already discussed the music of Laura’s ghost, and the others are either just accompanied by ‘long sustained low

Ibid., 228.

Isabella Elferen, ‘Haunted by a Melody: Ghosts, Transgression, and Music in Twin Peaks’, in Popular Ghosts: The Haunted Spaces of Everyday Culture, Maria del Pilar Blanco and Esther Peereen (eds.) (New York: Continuum, 2010), 282–295 (283).

14 Elferen, ‘Haunted by a Melody’, 284.

12 13

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Aoife Cuthbert notes and a vague sense of wind’ in the case of Mike or BOB’s other appearances, or jazz saxophone in the case of MFAP. 15 There is also a suggestion that ghosts can travel or be summoned through diegetic music and sound, or at least through the apparatus used to play it.16 Telephones are associated with the ghost world after Lucy describes the sound on her phone line ‘like long-distance. It has that open air sound, you know, where it sounds like wind blowing…like wind blowing through the trees’—the wind and the trees of Twin Peaks which have already been linked with ghostliness. 17 Another example of these haunted devices is the record player which seems to summon BOB from within Leland Palmer, causing manic behaviour when it plays. We see this first in S01E02 in which he dances around the living room with Laura’s photo, spinning in circles and sobbing loudly, which can be read as him being somewhere between Leland and Bob, between mourning father and possessed murderer.18 This connection is made again in S02E07 in which the record player accompanies his murder of Maddie, during which he dances her half-dead form around the living room, as with Laura’s photo.

The idea of sound apparatus connecting us to real and ghostly worlds is also brought up in the Red Room dream, in which all dialogue spoken by MFAP and Laura Palmer was spoken and acted backwards by the actors, and then played forwards. 19 While there is no recording device strictly visible in the scene, the obvious manipulation of the sound implies it. The dream also contains a musical sequence that is central to our understanding of the way in which our expectations of diegesis in music are flouted in this series. In it, the MFAP gets up and begins dancing and snapping his fingers to the imagined jazz. When Cooper wakes up, after having had the killer whispered to him by Laura, he immediately calls the police department. The jazz starts up again and he snaps his fingers to it almost in triumph, as the music succeeds in

Ibid., 284.

Ibid., 284.

17 Ibid., 290.

18 Ibid., 284.

19 Ibid., 289.

15 16

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Writings About Music taking over diegetic and non-diegetic spaces, which Elferen describes as ‘trans-diegetic.’20 There are countless other musical strategies employed by Lynch and Badalamenti over the course of Twin Peaks to destabilise television scoring conventions and create unsettling air in the town. For one, despite my analysis of the leitmotivs for Laura and Audrey, it is important to note that as the series goes on, these themes are played over increasingly diverse situations, eventually subverting any associations we had with them, and rendering them useless in terms of signalling events to listeners-in on the show, in order to enhance the sense of ambiguity and distress intended by its creators, and further darken the undercurrents of the small-town, superficially idyllic, often 1950s-esque setting, in keeping with Lynch’s post-modern approach. These strategies undermine the foundations of the television scoring conventions laid out by Altman, and yet they allow Twin Peaks to operate on an extra level of expressiveness, lending the entire series a complexity that cries out to be analysed, leading to the wealth of literature that exists on the series, as well as its continued cult status.

Isabella van Elferen, ‘Dream Timbre: Notes on Lynchian Sound Design’, in Music, Sound, and Filmmakers: Sonic Style in Cinema, James Wierzbicki (ed.) (New York: Routledge, 2012), 175–188 (184).

20

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Intertextual References in Michael Nyman’s Score for The Draughtsman’s Contract Lara Gallagher Introduction Michael Nyman, born 23 March 1944, is a minimalist composer who is renowned for his collaborations with film director, Peter Greenaway. He believes that music is the ‘centre’ of a film’s cinematic imagery and that it draws a viewer closer to the film through the atmosphere it portrays.

Music encourages a direct encounter between a film’s sound, structure and expression. Nyman’s use of intertextual references mean that his own musical lexicon was founded on the notion of developing preexisting music compositions. He uses his minimalistic technique to layer original melodies with pre-existing melodies over quaver riffs to create atmosphere within all of his works. Nyman uses Henry Purcell’s melodies as grounds for all the musical pieces in The Draughtsman’s Contract whilst overlaying them with original melodic ideas.

For more than fifteen years, Greenaway and Nyman have worked together on films. Nyman adopted techniques he learnt from collaborating with Greenaway to help him form his unique style of composing. Nyman’s intuitive and unique sense of musicality and atmosphere largely influenced Greenaway to cut and rewrite scenes of his films to go with Nyman’s music. The music within the film is the most important part of creating the atmosphere. Nyman’s music leaves us with strong visual images and is used to enliven scenes presented to us by Greenaway. Author Sion describes Greenaway’s films as having a ‘parallel musical universe’.1 The atmosphere within the music that Nyman provides is so powerful that it almost creates a sense of movement that deepens the visual message of the films. Critical to the work of Nyman and Greenaway’s films is the relationship between

1

Pwyll Ap Siôn, The Music of Michael Nyman: Texts, Contexts and Intertexts (Bangor: Ashgate, 2007).

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Writings About Music sound and image. With its highly evocative nature, the music of Nyman has an extremely forceful presence in the film’s background forming the key element in the multi-narrative work. The film is choreographed solely to fit the music as the music acts as the main form of communication within the film. Nyman believes that the music of the film should never be an ‘adjunct’ to the film action and thus the music in the film works independently to create atmosphere in the film. 2

Intertextual References Musical references in Nyman’s work are either ‘hidden or overt, implicit or explicit, premeditated or unintended’ according to Sion in The Music of Michael Nyman.3 Sion sets about mapping intertextuality in Nyman’s work and further divides intertextual references to abstract and referential. The author notes that whilst these elements often cohabit Nyman’s work, that he has introduced subtle adaptations and enrichments to the original version that he adapts to the application in each film scene. These enrichments were facilitated by Nyman’s application of the minimalist approach. Critics of Nyman have argued that he has simply plagiarized the work of others. However, it is argued that his reworking of the original musical compositions has added energy and creativity that lends itself to the visual form of film.

The Draughtsman’s Contract is an example of a ‘multi-piece’ intertext. This means that a number of pre-existing compositions were used by Nyman to create a single work. In this case, Nyman’s single work was primarily based on ground basses derived from Henry Purcell. For example in Figure 1a, the first 3 bars of Henry Purcell’s ‘Here the deities approve’, the bass line is presented to us on the left hand of the harpsichord. Nyman uses this exact bass line in his composition ‘The Garden is becoming a Robe room’ except it is played on the cello and the double bass at a slower tempo.

2 3

Ibid.

Ibid., 68.

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Figure 1a. Purcell, ‘Here the deities approve’, bars 1–3.

Figure 1b. Nyman, ‘The Garden is becoming a Robe Room’, bars 1–4

Analysis of The Draughtsman’s Contract It was a commonly held belief that Nyman always wrote the music for a film before the film itself had been written. For The Draughtsman’s Contract Nyman was given guidelines on how to begin composing the soundtrack. The film was to be in a Baroque parody period-drama style.

Borrowing heavily from Purcell, Nyman creates a score set against a period setting that is embellished using elaborate costume design. The setting is enhanced by pastoral backgrounds in the English countryside, representing the work of Baroque era artists Turner and Constable. The challenge for Nyman in composing the score was to capture the films central dichotomy created by Greenaway that combines a courtly atmosphere with a sense of mystery and intrigue.

The initial idea was to create a ground bass for two of the twelve drawings that Neville, the draughtsman undertook. Greenaway decided that this wasn’t possible so the soundtrack was split into seven pieces, all primarily based on the works of Henry Purcell. Nyman’s development of the ground bass ‘reflects the progress of musical form in general’ in so far as it adapts existing ideas into new variations.4

4

Ibid., 95.

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Writings About Music TITLE 1. ‘The Queen of the Night’

PURCELL REFERENCE ‘So when the glitt’ring Queen of the Night’ from The Yorkshire Feast Song 2. ‘The Disposition of the Linen’ ‘She Loves and She Confesses too’ (secular song, Z.413) 3. ‘A Watery Death’ ‘Chaconne’ from Suite No.2 in G minor 4. ‘The Garden is Becoming a ‘Here the deities approve’ from Robe room’ Welcome to all the pleasures’ (Ode) E minor ground in Henry Playford’s collection, Musick’s hand maid (second part) 5. ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to King Arthur, Act III scene 2, Shepherds’ Prelude [as Cupid descends] 6. ‘An Eye for Optical Theory’ Ground in C Minor (D221) attributed to William Croft 7. ‘Bravura in the Face of Grief’ ‘The Plaint’ from The Fairy Queen, Act V Figure 2. Evidence of intertextual work in Nyman’s works.5 Purcell is the fundamental influence for all the pieces in the film, with the exception of ‘An Eye for an Optical Theory’. ‘An Eye for an Optical Theory’ is based on a composition provided by William Croft, one of Purcell’s less renowned contemporaries. Nyman avoided using Purcell’s well known compositions as part of his soundtrack as his aim was not to copy Purcell but merely to give, as stated in the sleeve-notes of the soundtrack album, a ‘memory of Purcell [but] not specific memories’.6 Nyman’s intention is to use intertextual references from

Ibid., 96.

Michael Nyman, Experimental music: Cage and beyond, 2nd edn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999).

5 6

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Lara Gallagher Purcell reminiscent (but not similar) of Purcell’s seventeenth century Baroque style.

Nyman’s success lies in the enrichment of Purcell’s work, created by subtle amendments that ultimately create the memorable Baroque atmosphere of the film. For example, Nyman changed the form of a piece of Purcell’s ‘She Loves and She Confesses too’ into a waltz which postdates Purcell by nearly 150 years, to create a flowing, breezy effect.

Nyman’s ability to create numerous melodic ideas out of basic bass lines and harmonic sequences enhances the Baroque style in this piece.

Author Maarten Beirens, in an article discussing Nyman’s use of quotation, highlights the presence in Nyman’s work of “strong harmonic formulae that is derived from pre-existing music” and he draws attention to The Draughtsman’s Contract as an excellent example of the intertwining of two composers that, he points out, are in reality divided by 300 years of musical history.7 Nyman succeeds in creating a score that is on the one hand ‘Purcell’ and on the other ‘Nyman’.8

Minimalism Nyman’s use of pre-existing material was combined with his use of minimalist style to maximize effect in the film. Nyman employed minimalist practices including extended repetition and addition of basic melodic layers. The effect is that Nyman succeeds in reinterpreting more traditional traits associated with Baroque music and making them more relevant to the present day. In the article ‘Understanding Minimalist Film Music, the case of Man on Wire” the author explores how Nyman managed in reinterpreting the music to create a new and more expressive tone: His highly repetitive, rhythmically driven and systems-based minimalism was tempered by a more playful and expressive tone, which set his style apart from that of American minimalists. 9 Maarten Beirens, ‘Quotation as a Structural Element in Music by Michael Nyman’, in Tempo 61/3 (October 2007), 25–38 (26).

8 Nyman, Experimental music.

9 Ap Siôn, ‘Understanding Minimalist Film Music: The Case of Man on Wire’, in Soundtrack, 5/1 (June: 2011), 51–66.

7

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Writings About Music Sion argues that it is the variation added by Nyman in his use of intertextual references that creates a playful tone. However, it must be stated that the variation in some of the pieces is not as evident. For example, the melodic line in ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’ has an almost identical melodic line to that of Purcell.

Other American minimalist composers such as Philip Glass and Rafael Anton Irisarri based their music on the silence of the natural world, slowing down the rate of change and using ‘repetitive structures’.

Using minimalism by recording an open window or the sea, these composers create a simple almost monotonous piece. Nyman livens up the traditional tone with a flowery, expressive atmosphere created by layering simple, melodic and rhythmic ideas.

Johnson in his article ‘Minimalism, Aesthetic, Style or Technique?’ describes minimalism as an activity where ‘listening to the music is downgraded and very slight changes in rhythm, texture or harmony become the main events in a piece’.10 This definition is an accurate and insightful reflection of Nyman’s style. He uses simplicity as a medium that he gradually alters to attune the audience to the subtleties within each piece of music, capturing the imagination of the audience.

The score requires only sixteen orchestral instruments. Here Nyman diverges from Purcell who uses a number of different instruments throughout his work. Nyman’s minimalist technique led him to use the sounds of sixteen different instruments to provide a chamber-music quality to the score. This quality has the effect of creating an atmosphere of claustrophobia. This added element of claustrophobia has an engrossing effect on the audience and makes it easier for Nyman to bring the audience with him when he decides to change atmosphere or mood throughout the film. It is the simple harmonies and slow harmonic rhythm of minimalism that has the power to create atmosphere in the form of a release of ‘expressive emotional potential’.11

Timothy Johnson, ‘Minimalism: Aesthetic, Style or Technique?’, The Musical Quarterly 78/4 (Winter 1994), 742–773.

11 Ibid.

10

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Lara Gallagher Nyman used his minimalistic approach also to adapt his compositions to a number of different visual contexts. The minimalist techniques of developing musical layers meant that he could adapt sections of his music to correlate with the chosen atmosphere and imagery for a section of a film to compliment the editing process.

He succeeds in achieving a unity and co-existence between image and sound where they worked together seamlessly. Nyman has stated that he worked ‘independently of the film’s immediate content by creating sound structures which precisely (paralleled […] but did not reproduce) the visual structures’.12 The relationship between sound and image is crucial to the art of Nyman/Greenaway. Nyman’s belief that the music should not exist in the background behind the action of a film, led him to create a score that delivered its own power and atmosphere, independent of the film.

Orchestration Nyman’s instruction for the film was that the music had to be appropriate for a Baroque parody period-drama style. He decided that in order to maximize the Baroque parody style, he must perfect the instrumentation, one of the main contributors in creating that style. The orchestration, used in the soundtrack, plays one of the most important roles in creating a Baroque atmosphere in the film.

Nyman acknowledged that in order to create a gripping atmosphere that a 1982 audience could relate to, the music had to appeal to the modern music audience. Arguably, there is a perceived difference in the Greenaway and Nyman style, pre and post The Draughtsman’s Contract, as they struggled to meet the needs of the modern audience. In an interview with Nyman, he acknowledged this departure in style saying that Peter Greenaway ‘had to play by the rules of what he would call “dominant cinema”—that is, no matter how individual you are, there are certain rules that you have to abide by if you want your films

12

Ap Siôn, The Music of Michael Nyman.

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Writings About Music to be shown in mainstream cinemas’. Interestingly, Nyman said that this applied less to the music and more to the cinematography.

Nyman, whilst struggling with the commercialized audience, combined jazz with Baroque styles to achieve the desired atmosphere of the Greenaway scenes. He reinterpreted more traditional patterns and using subtle refinements transformed the score to make it more relevant.

Nyman overlaid his own created melodies over the pre-existing Purcell melodies. This overlaying technique is a common denominator for both Baroque developmental variations and jazz music as both styles use basic ground basses that are then developed through the layering of other melodies. These other melodies provided by Nyman in The Draughtsman’s Contract were played using a variety of instruments which all played unique roles in creating atmosphere within the film.

The use of the clarinet and bass clarinet in the film is perhaps the most striking orchestral innovation for a Baroque period drama. The modernity of the clarinet combined with its power and resonance as a woodwind instrument adds fresh and expressive tones to the Baroque period-drama that further enhances the atmosphere. Nyman chose to regularly use the clarinet to complement the jazz style present within the film. This represents a marked deviation from the work of Purcell.

Nyman’s use of the layering technique represents the growth of each drawing that the character Neville (the draughtsman) undertakes, throughout the film’s time span. The use of a clarinet and horn that repeatedly layer melodies on top of a constantly changing bass line played by the tuba eventually gives rise to a new vibrant melodic line in the strings. Nyman uses this technique to enhance the artistic process of the creative drawing and in so doing adds perspective and life to the architectural proportions of the house façade created. The music serves to enliven the scene and echo the beauty of aesthetic creation.

This is a technique used by Purcell in many of his works for example in his song ‘The Plaint’ in his Opera ‘The Fairy Queen’ Act V. The layering of melodic strands played on a violin on top of the descending ostinato played on the harpsichord eventually introduces a melodic line interpreted by a soprano voice.

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Figure 3. Purcell, ‘The Plaint’, excerpt.

The practice of using two main melodic instruments (or in Purcell’s case, a voice and an instrument) on top of a bass line reinforces the Baroque atmosphere and the homophonic texture is emphasized.

Early Baroque music such as Purcell’s music usually contains a definite bass line underlying a main melodic idea often being played by the violin.

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Writings About Music All of Nyman’s compositions in the film are based on this idea of having a definite bass line underlying a constantly transforming melodic line. Nyman invariably uses clarinets, bass clarinets and horns to float atop the brooding bass chords played by the rest of the band. This gives us a sense of the collaboration between jazz and Baroque as the clarinet is playing the main melodic treble line. These subtle refinements to the original versions of Purcell’s work allow Nyman to adapt the music to the application in each film scene to create the desirable atmosphere. As shown in figure 4, the clarinet is used as the main melodic instrument in ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’ on top of the bass clarinet to further enhance the jazz atmosphere within the film. The piece ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’ is the piece played as Neville (the draughtsman) draws his first drawing, thus it is the first piece the audience hears. Immediately attaching a jazz quality to this piece sets the tone for the rest of the film. The use of the clarinet over brooding base chords not only creates a jazz atmosphere but also sets a mood of energy and exuberance that accurately reflects the artist’s creative endeavours.

In most of the pieces written by Nyman for the film a harpsichord is used to play the steady basso continuo style bass line and enhance the Baroque style within the film. For example in ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left To Shepherds’, the harpsichord repeatedly plays collections of 8 solitary octaves descending behind the prominent melodic line played on two clarinets providing the piece with a prevailing homophonic texture.

Figure 4. Nyman, ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’, Clarinet and bass line.

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Figure 5. Nyman, ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’, Harpsichord.

The melody is layered repeatedly producing so much effect from minimal resources. The same melody is repeatedly played in this piece only on violins, horns and a bassoon but Nyman has the ability to produce extremely different qualities from each instrument using a continually varying rhythm, a changing volume and instrumental tone colour. One of the primary mediums in which Nyman provides and determines the mood of the language provided by his music is through instrumental tone colour. The most prominent example of this is vibrato.

The score requires each instrument to use it dramatically when a change of atmosphere occurs. By linking a certain instrument to a certain era or particular genre of music for example the clarinet to modern age jazz, Nyman provides the audience with a genre that they can relate to which immediately envelops them in the atmosphere of the scene. When Nyman uses violins, the music is geared more towards the Baroque era to represent a more distant relationship between the audience and the content of the scene.

A feature commonly used by Nyman to enhance the Baroque/jazz style is the invitation the musicians receive to play melodies with freedom. In ‘The Disposition of the Linen’, an ostinato played on the harpsichord descending in semitones sets the atmosphere with a basso continuo style interplay between the overt melody played on violins and the contradictory descending bass line on the harpsichord. Players are invited to play each two-bar melody a number of times to create the build-up and layering of many melodic lines played on instruments from all sections of the orchestra. For example, the cello and bass guitar articulate a syncopated, staccato rhythm to emphasize further the swaying feeling of the waltz. The piece’s sparse and somewhat jazz-like textures take the audience by surprise in this 67

Writings About Music section. The layering of the two-bar melodic phrase results in the formation of a basic jazz waltz. The rhythm of the waltz is sustained on the harpsichord as the layering of multiple melodic strands increases in volume to facilitate the build-up of a joyous atmosphere signifying the 4th drawing that Neville, The Draughtsman undertakes.

Figure 6. Basic Jazz waltz rhythm.

The audience is aroused allowing Nyman to create a full and joyous atmosphere. This is Nyman’s only waltz in The Draughtsman's Contract so the unusual bouncing, flowery, dance rhythm also helps to provide the flamboyant, joyous atmosphere. The piece is played whilst the third drawing is created by the draughtsman in a small, colourful garden in springtime. Nyman effortlessly maintains an atmosphere of serenity and joy in this scene before mutating into a more measured single line melody played on the viola. Nyman uses only one note to gradually thin the viola texture to slowly bring down the dynamic of the piece and depress the atmosphere. Even with a slight change in the orchestration and the instrumental tone colour and dynamic, Nyman has the ability to transform the intertextual references to reflect a change in the atmosphere. The music gradually becomes more full bodied and energized, reflecting the change in dramatic action.

Rhythm Rhythm is key to creating atmosphere in Nyman’s musical compositions and using rhythm his relationship with Purcell is at its most obvious.

Having borrowed the original ground basses from Purcell’s work, Nyman later deviates from Purcell’s compositions by changing the rhythm and the timbre of the pieces to suit the desired atmosphere of the scene. For example in ‘The Disposition of Linen’, the fusion of rock and Baroque is shown through a subtly shifting ostinato which Nyman creates by changing Purcell’s original work to be played over strong and weak beats. This swaying type waltz is reinforced by the piano whilst 68

Lara Gallagher the bass guitar and cello articulate a staccato rhythm in the background.

Nyman uses four-bar melodic phrases taken from Purcell’s vocal lines to enhance the richness found in the Baroque era.

Another example of where Nyman changes the rhythm of existing works to fit the atmosphere of the film or scene is in ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’. This entire work is constructed from the first 8 bars of King Arthur’s Prelude to Act III, scene 2. Nyman composed this piece with 4 sections, each section gradually building up and including more counter melodies accenting different beats each time to enhance the generic doo-wop qualities present in this piece. In the first section of ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’, the melody is played against a steady quaver beat whilst the strings accent beats 1 and 4. Within the second section, the melody continues to be played over a steady quaver beat whilst the strings change to accent all four crochet beats. A flute is also added in section two which accents the first beat in each bar and adds a unique rhythmic motif which enters on the offbeat.

The third section reverts to the first but a new countermelody is added on the horns which accents beats 1, 2 and 4 to enhance the doo-wop/jazz atmosphere in the film. The final section is a combination of the second and third section providing the most complete texture, again accenting beats one and four enhancing the jazz atmosphere in the film.

Sir George Martin refers to film music as being able to ‘enhance and mirror the action in the film, with rhythmic movement and melodic intervals used in an instant to create a feeling of something ominous approaching’.13 In this instant Nyman’s build-up of melodies and rhythmic changes in ‘Chasing Sheep is Best Left to Shepherds’ as the drawing develops to completion. The courtly atmosphere of the music becomes synonymous with the grand execution of the drawing.

Conclusion The music presented to us in The Draughtsman’s Contract is one of Michael Nyman’s most strategically composed and ingeniously

‘Martin, George’ Allmusic, (http://www.allmusic.com/artist/george-martin-mn0000649950, accessed 22 December 2016).

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Writings About Music organized soundtracks. The musical language, which he creates by merging his minimalistic style with intertextual references, creates an expressive, original and modern tone for the listener. The atmosphere which he builds over the course of the film provides the listeners with a unique and memorable experience. Nyman succeeds in composing such that both sound and image coexist within the film whilst reworking the original musical compositions to bring out energy and creativity that lend themselves to the visual form of film. Many critics have focused on Nyman’s reliance on the use of quotation in his work. However a detailed examination of the score of The Draughtsman’s Contract gives an understanding of how Nyman’s adaptations of historical quotation and borrowed melodies contribute in a manner that recreates the score for the audience and sparks their imagination. Beirens argues that in fact it does not matter how much Nyman borrowed to create effect and that ultimately his choice of quotation and intertextual references has significance ‘far beyond the compositional and technical level’.14 Using minimalist techniques, orchestral innovation and repetitive rhythmic patterns, Nyman deconstructs the original work and recreates a modern score that resounds with a dramatic atmosphere echoed in the action of the film.

14

Beirens, ‘Quotation as a Structural Element in Music by Michael Nyman’.

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Shauna Caffrey

The Female Voice and Image in Heavy Metal Shauna Caffrey Revered as muses, sexual objects, and the subject of fantasies, but scorned as performers, the role of women in Heavy Metal has long been a controversial one, and one that is largely dictated by patriarchal systems of control. As Robert Walser states in Running with the Devil, Heavy metal is, as much as anything else, an arena of gender, where spectacular gladiators compete to register and affect ideas of masculinity, sexuality and gender relations, 1 and in this arena, the female performer is often at a disadvantage.

As a genre populated by male performers and audiences, the female voice has largely gone unheard, and when women are spoken of, it is done so with contempt for their otherness. This essay examines the role of the female performer and voice, drawing on the theories of John Shepherd and numerous others, to illustrate the disparities in power between the masculine and feminine. The use of the female voice to subvert patriarchal power structures will be discussed, as will the negative portrayals of female subjects in heavy metal media. In the words of John Shepherd ‘to study the situation of women is, in other words, to challenge the political dominance of men’,2 and this essay seeks to examine the challenges placed and faced by women in the gender-biased arena of Heavy Metal.

In ‘Music and Male Hegemony’, John Shepherd theorizes that popular music is defined by two distinct vocal timbres: the ‘hard, rasping timbres’ of the male voice, and the ‘softer, warmer’ timbre of the female.3 This theory is of particular interest with regard to the vocal

Robert Walser, Running with the Devil: Power, Gender and Madness in Heavy Metal Music (Hanover: Wesleyan University Press, 1993), 111.

2 John Shepherd, ‘Music and Male Hegemony’ in Music as Social Text, John Shepherd (ed.), (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991), 152–173 (153).

3 Ibid., 168, 167.

1

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Writings About Music techniques utilized in Heavy Metal music, particularly those employed by female performers. As with many other popular music genres, Heavy Metal is ‘continually and compulsively bound up with the interrogation of gender’.4 In the pages that follow, Shepherd’s theories regarding gender and voice—among others—will be examined within the tradition of Heavy Metal, and with particular regard to the presence of the female voice, and role of female performers in Heavy Metal.

Before the role of the women in metal can be discussed, the role and implications of gender as a whole must be examined within the culture of Heavy Metal. Regarded as a predominantly masculine genre—much like rock—Heavy Metal is largely the product of—and aimed toward—the male population.

Circulating in the contexts of Western capitalist and patriarchal societies, for much of its history metal has been appreciated and supported primarily by a teenage male audience.5 The largely homosocial nature of Heavy Metal culture is akin to that of Rock, and has led to a preoccupation with ‘masculine’ themes.

This not only allows male fans to ‘experience confirmation and alteration of their gendered identities through their involvement with it’,6 but has also functioned to alienate the female voice, both in the role of audience member and performer.

It has since come to be truism that rock is deliberately produced as ‘masculine’—‘in terms of band membership, and production, lyrical content, and political agenda’—especially in ‘hard’ rock genre such as heavy metal, punk rock and their various substyles and offshoots, such as grunge.7 Although John Shepherd reported of his female subjects in 1985 and 1986 that ‘they all hated Heavy Metal with a vengeance’, 8 the Jason Lee Oakes, ‘“I’m a Man”: Masculinities in Popular Music’ in The Ashgate Research Companion to Popular Musicology, Derek B. Scott (ed.), (Surrey: Ashgate Publishing Limited, 2009), 221–239 (221).

5 Walser, Running with the Devil, 109.

6 Ibid., 109.

7 Oakes, ‘“I’m a Man”: Masculinities in Popular Music’, 225.

8 John Shepherd with Jennifer Giles-Davis, ‘Music, Text and Subjectivity’ in Music as Social Text, John Shepherd (ed.) (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1991), 174–185 (178).

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Shauna Caffrey growing involvement of women in a synonymously ‘male’ genre in recent years has led to a divergence from traditional—and occasionally chauvinist—ideals of the ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ in performance and subject matter.

Shepherd’s discussion of popular music in ‘Music and Male Hegemony’ juxtaposes two images of the female performer: that of the nurturing ‘natural’ feminine, and the hyper-sexualized female object.

These are differentiated largely by their vocal approach, but also by their accompanying image and presentation, and by their relationship with the ‘masculine’. Relegated to the ‘traditional’ feminine role, soft female timbres are usually acceptable to male-dominated culture, because they variously represent what is left behind when the male first moves into the world.9 Conversely, the ‘woman-as-sex-object’ adopts a vocal style more reminiscent of that employed by the front-men of ‘cock-rock’ bands, developing ‘a ‘masculine’ assertiveness and independence to survive while, at the same time, remaining ‘women’.’10 Although myriad vocal styles exist within Heavy Metal and its subgenera, in this discourse we will focus on two particular styles employed by female performers: the classical—or classically informed—‘operatic’ style, and the ‘extreme’ vocal style, employing ‘growling’ extended vocal techniques. While the comparison of these styles bears some similarity to those examined by Shepherd, the following paragraphs argue that these distinct vocal styles function to subvert patriarchal control over the female voice and image, rather than reinforce it, as in the case of Shepherd’s study.

Let us first consider the ‘operatic’ vocal style utilized by performers such as Tarja Turunen (formally of Nightwish) and Liv Kristine (formally of Theatre of Tragedy). Classically informed, and—in the case of Turunen—highly operatic, this style of vocalisation is utilised primarily by female metal performers, sometimes in tandem with ‘growled’ vocals (a combination given the moniker ‘Beauty and the

9

Shepherd, ‘Music and Male Hegemony’, 170.

Ibid., 170.

10

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Writings About Music Beast’). While, in this combination, it may seem to embody the feminine, it does not fall within Shepherd’s categorization of the ‘natural’ woman, the precision of the classical delivery emphasizing instead a ‘standardised purity’ and ‘neutral’ timbre that allows it to contain gendered elements, but not to be gendered in and of itself.11 The point is that the timbres of ‘classical’ music, although containing both male and female elements of the timbre-gender equation, do not speak to the full personal and social constructiveness that would result from unfettered male-female relationships.12 The second vocal style to be discussed is the ‘extreme’ style.

Making use of ‘growling’ vocal techniques, an emphasis is placed upon the distortion of vocal sound, setting it at odds with the clarity of tone sought after in the classical or ‘operatic’ style. Heavily used in Death and Black Metal, the guttural sounds produced are largely related to the aggressive ‘masculine’ images associated with these subgenera.

However, this technique is employed to the same effect by a number of prominent female performers, among them Karyn Crisis (formerly of Crisis and Ephel Duath) and Angela Gossow (formerly of Arch Enemy).

The long-standing image of female performer as vocalist, rather than female performer as instrumentalist, is one that frequently comes into question when examining the role of women in popular music.

Shepherd’s studies conclude that women and girls ‘are attracted to the voice, which is intrinsic to their bodies’, and endure a ‘structured exclusion’ from technology, and are therefore deterred from the use of instruments.13 In Frock Rock, Mavis Bayton suggests that The singer’s only instrument is her body. This both confirms and reinforces the long-standing association of women with the body and nature which runs through our culture and contrasts with the image of men as controllers of nature via technology.14

Ibid., 164, 169.

Ibid., 169.

13 Shepherd, ‘Music, Text and Subjectivity’, 179.

14 Mavis Bayton, Frock Rock: Women Performing Popular Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 13.

11 12

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Shauna Caffrey Both studies imply, at least in part, an innate or ‘intrinsic’ ability where the female voice is concerned. When considering the use of the ‘extreme’ vocal style in Heavy Metal—particularly by female performers—questions of the innateness or natural qualities of the voice must be brought into question. While it is true that the vocal performer’s instrument is, in fact, themselves, in the use of the unnatural—the distorted—register produced in ‘growling’ vocals, the female performer divorces herself from the concept of the innate ‘natural’ feminine voice— in much the same way that the contrived polish of the operatic voice could be considered ‘androgynous’—15 to ‘make [her] own musical versions of the oppositional rebellious hard edges that male rock can embody’.16 By utilizing the ‘masculine’ growling timbre, the female performer challenges the preconceptions of the inherent feminine voice, and overcomes ‘biologically reductionist assumptions’.17 Similarly, Bayton puts forward that, in the case of female popular music performers, singing is seen as ‘a kind of direct female emotional expression, rather than a set of refined skills’. 18 However, the emphasis placed within Heavy Metal on virtuosity, and the extensive use of extended techniques in both of these vocal styles sets the work of female performers on par with that produced by their male counterparts, establishing—in theory—a sense of balance between the genders.

In Shepherd’s study, he condemns the ‘vocal hardness’ and ‘stridency’ of the woman-as-sex-object or ‘woman moving towards a male location’ to failure, for their adopted masculine timbre and assertiveness derives from the ‘splintered notions of sexuality that also give rise to the rasping timbres of ‘cock-rock’, further pushing them into a system of patriarchal injustice.19 Oakes, referring to this process as the creation of ‘female masculinities’, acknowledges the delicate balance between reinforcement and subversion that those seeking to adopt ‘masculine’ qualities must face.

Shepherd, ‘Music and Male Hegemony’, 169.

Angela McRobbie with Simon Frith, ‘Rock and Sexuality’ in Feminism and Youth Culture, 2nd edn (London: Macmillan, 2000), 137–158 (143).

17 Bayton, Frock Rock, 13.

18Ibid., 13.

19 Shepherd, ‘Music and Male Hegemony’, 171.

15 16

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Writings About Music In popular music, researchers have examined numerous female masculinities in practice, often perched between reinforcing and subverting familiar gendered subject positions. 20 The implication in both theories—that to adopt a position of power, one must do so by ‘masculine’ means—reflects largely upon the male-dominated nature of musical subcultures. If, in the case of Heavy Metal music, power is reflected by the production of ‘masculine’ sound, an examination must be made into the implications of such sound being utilized and produced by women. The appropriation by female performers of ‘masculine’ timbres in their use of extended techniques such as ‘growling’ proves them to be just as capable of producing aggressive and powerful sounds as their male counterparts, thus undermining the conviction that power rests solely with the male gender. Similarly, the classical timbres utilized by performers which ‘render fertility unimportant, transparent and androgynous’ cannot be classified along with gendered timbres, and cannot, therefore, be rendered inferior to the ‘masculine’.21 As addressed in earlier paragraphs, notions of body and image continually permeate the discussion of women in popular music, with Heavy Metal being no exception. While the preceding discussion outlines the strong—and growing—position held by female performers in the vocal ‘arena of gender’ that is Heavy Metal, the portrayal of women within the wider of context of Heavy Metal culture must also be taken into account.22 The frequent subject matter of songs involves the woman occupying a position ‘at a nexus of pleasure and dread’ in the minds of many male lyricists and performers. 23 Having established that the ‘arena’ of metal is a patriarchal one, the appearance of the woman in Heavy Metal music—as subject matter—is largely the product of men.

As in the theories discussed by Bayton and Shepherd, wherein the abilities of female performers were rendered down to the product of

Oakes, ‘“I’m a Man”: Masculinities in Popular Music’, 235.

Shepherd, ‘Music and Male Hegemony’, 169.

22 Walser, Running with the Devil, 111.

23 Ibid., 118.

20 21

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Shauna Caffrey bodies, rather than individuals, in the lyrical world of Heavy Metal, the woman is often depicted in solely sexual terms.

Women, in their eyes, are either sexually aggressive and therefore doomed and unhappy, or else sexually repressed and therefore in need of male servicing.24 In this—as in the division between the ‘natural’ and objectified woman of Shepherd’s studies—womankind is largely reduced to delusory stereotypes.

One example of the ‘doomed’ sexually liberated woman occurs in Brooklyn based Doom Metal band Type O Negative’s ‘Christian Woman’, from the 1993 album Bloody Kisses.25 While the song, which focuses on the subject of female Onanism, can be seen as sardonic commentary on the Christian Church’s endorsements of chastity and purity, it nonetheless features images of retribution for the female subject’s desires: ‘For her lust she’ll burn in hell, her soul done medium well.’ While the narrative structure of the song—in addition to the humorous wording—is suggestive of comedic intent, it is largely the act of female masturbation that is lampooned, trivializing not only the female subject, but also her actions and desires.

Danzig’s 1988 single ‘Mother’ shows an equal—if more disturbing for lack of satire—disregard for the female subject, contrasting this with images of male power.26 The narrator rhetorically addresses the figures ‘Mother’ and ‘Father’, issuing a challenge to parental control that is rife with sexually aggressive allusions. The addresses to the ‘Father’ figure begin with a confrontation of his authority: ‘Gonna take your daughter out tonight, Gonna show her my world’. The female subject in question (‘daughter’) is never addressed directly, and is thus rendered a commodity, discussed solely in terms of patriarchal figures. Although the narrator challenges the patriarchal control of the father, the exchange speaks more of substitution than liberation, with emphasis placed on the shift between possessive McRobbie, ‘Rock and Sexuality’, 141.

Type O Negative, Bloody Kisses, compact disc, Roadrunner Records, RR 9100-2, 1993.

26 Danzig, Mother, compact disc, Def American Recordings, PRO-CD-2364, 1988.

24 25

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Writings About Music pronouns your and my. Here, the male roles are established as those in control, and as the song progresses, the confrontational stance of the narrator morphs into one of masculine solidarity—‘Do you wanna bang heads with me? Do you wanna feel everything?’—a stark contrast to the persistent aggression which greets ‘Mother’. The song openly taunts the overprotective stereotype—‘Can you keep them in the dark for life? Can you hide them from the waiting world’—who, unlike ‘Father’ is incapable of establishing control. The maternal figure is, therefore, a vulnerable one, a concept which is highlighted in the refrain: ‘And if you wanna find hell with me, I can show you what it’s like, ‘Til you’re bleeding.’ The predatory nature of the lyric, and the emphasis that it places on the powerlessness of the female subject, once again relegates the female to a position of inferiority.

These images—in tandem with the ideals of male supremacy highlighted in the discussion of voice—speak of a sexist ideology within the culture of Heavy Metal. Segregated as a result of sexual difference, the female ‘other’ is simultaneously something that is desired and feared, as Oakes addresses below, with regard to rock music.

In rock and other masculinist popular music cultures, women are both desired as the sexual Other, and reviled as the Other who threatens the homosocial sphere of the musician and the ‘serious’ music fan (with notable exceptions, of course).27 The question of the ‘threat’ posed by the female presence is particularly pertinent to the investigation of the female voice in Heavy Metal, and to the negative portrayal of women by male lyricists and performers. While the sexual ‘otherness’ of the female form is frequently the object of desire, it is also treated with an almost Odyssean fear of the woman-as-Siren, who will inevitably destroy the fortress of masculine solidarity with her sexual wiles.

The latent fear of the empowered woman—sexually or otherwise—in patriarchal popular music is largely responsible for the control systems placed on the female voice in ‘Music and Male

27

Oakes, ‘“I’m a Man”: Masculinities in Popular Music’, 225.

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Shauna Caffrey Hegemony’, wherein the female performer can only gain power through the adoption of male characteristics. The subversion of these systems by female vocalists can also come about by addressing the power of sexual difference, as will be discussed with regard to the song ‘I Wanna Fuck You to Death’ by California based Heavy Metal band Huntress. 28 The song, co-written by the band’s vocalist, Jill Janus, and Lemmy Kilmister of Motorhead, is—as evinced by the title—largely concerned with the sexual power of the female performer, the title becoming a repeated refrain within the song. Walser states that ‘the greater the seductiveness of the female image, the greater its threat to masculine control’, and the espousal of female sexuality in ‘I Wanna Fuck You to Death’ presents— conversely to the images of women in the works discussed above—both Janus and her ‘Huntress’ persona as women in complete control; of their desires, their bodies, their audience, and their sexual partners. 29 I’ve got a thirst, been waiting some time, While I’ll never be yours, you’ll always be mine.30 The image of the sexually autonomous female establishes an opposition to the vulnerable maternal subject of ‘Mother’, and to the gender stereotypes of ‘natural’ woman and ‘woman-as-sex-object’.31 The ‘Huntress’ who addresses us is in no way an object, for in her frank acceptance of her sexuality, her ownership of herself is asserted.

Although the ‘Huntress’, with her threat of fatal sexual action ever present in the refrain ‘I wanna fuck you to death’, can be seen as a sirenic figure, ‘I Wanna Fuck You to Death’ also addresses the duality of sexual relations—‘I am the huntress, but also the prey’—and the balance of power within them. Unlike the works previously discussed, here we see the female as powerful, but equal.

To conclude, it is clear that a disparity between genders persists in Heavy Metal culture. However, the growing involvement of women as performers, and the addition of their voice—in the literal and Huntress, Starbound Beast, compact disc, Napalm Records, NPR 494, 2013.

Walser, Running with the Devil, 116.

30 Lemmy Kilmister and Jill Janus, ‘I Wanna Fuck You to Death’, lyrics.

31 Shepherd, ‘Music and Male Hegemony’, 170.

28 29

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Writings About Music authorial sense—has led to a significant move towards the closure of the hierarchical gap between genders. Their input has, and will continue to, dissolve the various stigma attached to notions of femininity through the presence of powerful female figures, and realistic representations of womankind.

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Adam Behan

Dennis and Eccles’ Rinaldo and Armida: A Musico-Dramatic Analysis Adam Behan The tragedy of Rinaldo and Armida, a semi-opera by John Dennis, with music by John Eccles, forms one adaptation in a long list of dramatic interpretations of Torquato Tasso’s La Gerusalemme liberate. The recent publication of a well-received version of the score, edited by Steven Plank, has provided opportunities for further studies of this work. 1 The music composed for this semi-opera is, as Dennis himself claims in The Musical Entertainments in the Tragedy of Rinaldo and Armida, inextricably linked to the tragedy of Rinaldo and Armida. Also in the preface to this work, Dennis argues that the musical entertainments illustrate ‘many passions’ that relate to the drama.2 This essay will seek to investigate Dennis’s claims for musical and dramatic integration with reference to the passions that Eccles evokes in each musical entertainment, specifically in relation to the tonal areas that Eccles uses to depict different passions. Ultimately, this essay will culminate in an analysis of the tonal areas that Eccles explores throughout the semi-opera, and aim to draw conclusions based on the relationship of these tonal areas to the overall drama. Dennis’s reference to ‘even the music between the acts’ has been dealt with by a number of musicologists as an area of interest.3 Sadly, the fact that we have not inherited this music along with the musical entertainments which form part of each act significantly restricts any work that can be done on this subject. Consequently, this essay will Michael Lee, ‘English opera reformed’, Early Music 41/4 (November 2013): 679–681.

John Dennis, The Musical Entertainments in the Tragedy of Rinaldo and Armida (London, 1699), (http://eebo.chadwyck.com.elib.tcd.ie/search/full_rec?SOURCE=pgimages.cfg&ACTION=ByI D&ID=62369155&FILE=&SEARCHSCREEN=param%28SEARCHSCREEN%29&VID=187868&P AGENO=3&ZOOM=FIT&VIEWPORT=&SEARCHCONFIG=param%28SEARCHCONFIG%29& DISPLAY=param%28DISPLAY%29&HIGHLIGHT_KEYWORD=undefined, accessed 16/01/16), 1–15.

3 Roger Savage, ‘“Even the Music between the Acts…”—John Dennis, Johann Adolph Scheibe and the Rethinking of Incidental Music, 1698/1738’, in Essays in Commemoration of Don McKensie, John Thomson (ed.) (Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2002) 141–159.

1 2

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Writings About Music deal primarily with the music we have inherited in the form of the five musical entertainments and the stand-alone song ‘Ah wretched Queen’.

Contextually, the music in Rinaldo and Armida is framed both by John Dennis’s views on music and drama, and by the wider theatrical background that existed in London in the late seventeenth century. As a literary figure, John Dennis is remembered for his critical writings on the subjects of opera and drama as well as his actual creative contributions to these genres.4 He is also known for having particularly strong opinions regarding the use of music in drama, having launched in 1706 a scathing attack on the ‘Italian manner’ of composing operas which were entirely musical.5 His publication of The Musical Entertainments in the Tragedy of Rinaldo and Armida in 1699 is therefore unsurprising. As noted, the wider theatrical background is also important. Rinaldo and Armida was performed at the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre in 1698. The company at Lincoln’s Inn Fields was a breakaway troupe that had split from the United Company, stationed at Drury Lane, during the 1690s.

This establishment of two companies unsurprisingly caused theatrical competition to flare.6 This contentious, commercial environment is reflected in a number of contemporary sources.7 Reception of Rinaldo and Armida seems to have varied somewhat, which further points to this culture of competition: one commentator notes that he has seen it ‘3 or 4 times already’, and that the ‘Musick is so fine, and the play pleases (him) so well’.8 Alexander Pope’s An Essay on Criticism, however, appears to mock the music of the work, specifically by quoting lines from the song

John Morillo, ‘John Dennis: Enthusiastic Passions, Cultural Memory, and Literary Theory’, Eighteenth-century Studies 34/1 (2000): 21–41.

5 Edward Niles Hooker (ed.), The Critical Works of John Dennis, Vol. 1 1692–1711 (Baltimore: The John Hopkins Press, 1939), 382–393.

6 Kathryn Lowerre, ‘Dramatick Opera and Theatrical Reform: Dennis’s Rinaldo and Armida and Motteux’s The Island Princess’, Theatre Notebook 59/1 (2005), 23–40.

7 Staring B. Wells (ed.), A Comparison Between the Two Stages: A Late Restoration Book of the Theatre, Princeton Studies of English, vol. 26 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1942), 21–23.

8 John Oldmixon, Reflections on the stage, and Mr. Collyer’s Defence of the short view in four dialogues (1699), (http://eebo.chadwyck.com.elib.tcd.ie/search/full_rec?SOURCE=pgimages.cfg&ACTION=ByI D&ID=13156334&FILE=&SEARCHSCREEN=param%28SEARCHSCREEN%29&VID=98177&PA GENO=58&ZOOM=FIT&VIEWPORT=&SEARCHCONFIG=param%28SEARCHCONFIG%29& DISPLAY=param%28DISPLAY%29&HIGHLIGHT_KEYWORD=undefined, accessed 17/01/16), 100–101.

4

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Adam Behan ‘The Jolly Breeze’.9 This competitive atmosphere informs our understanding of Dennis’s comments in relation to Rinaldo and Armida: the search for success led Dennis to think of new approaches to theatre, such as the integration of music and drama as he describes it.

In the genre of the semi-opera, we deal with alternating passages of spoken dialogue and sung text with musical accompaniment. Steven Plank has put forward that, in a rational theatrical context such as Restoration England, the presence of music required justification. 10 As magical scenes were peopled by those of the irrational, supernatural world, they might rationally proceed in music. Thus, the characters in semi-operas were divided between those who sang and those who spoke, making the integration of music and drama particularly difficult; Rinaldo and Armida is no exception. However, before any music is even analysed, this interrelationship can be seen in Dennis’s frequent directions for music during spoken passages, often directly preceding or following a musical entertainment. It is ‘Fame’s trumpet’, an idea associated with Rinaldo’s desire for glory in battle, which breaks Armida’s spell at the end of the third musical entertainment. 11 The end of Act II then makes use of Fame’s trumpet as well as voices singing. 12 The end of Act III incorporates the ‘serpent and basses playing softly under the stage’, along with an alarm.13 This interspersing of musical gestures within the text itself is symptomatic of the interrelationship between music and drama that we shall examine within the musical entertainments themselves.

The rising of Armida’s palace provides the crucial backdrop to the opening musical entertainment. The opening symphony in B flat major is triumphant and implies a confidence and assurance in Armida’s position that we will not see again in the semi-opera. Furthermore, it characterises Armida’s situation as Urania, Ubaldo and Carlo see it: she is the enchantress to be defeated, and the threat she poses at this stage is Alexander Pope, An Essay on Criticism (1709), Part II, lines 350–353.

Steven Plank, ‘“And Now About the Cauldron Sing”: Music and the Supernatural on the Restoration Stage’, Early Music 18/3 (Autumn 1990): 393–407 (395).

11 John Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, Steven Plank (ed.), A-R Editions, Inc. (Wisconsin: Middleton, 2011), 36.

12 Ibid., 37, lines 414–419 and 439–442.

13 Ibid., 61, lines 327–332.

9

10

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Writings About Music very real. The entrance of the first spirit, at the upbeat to bar 26, serves the same purpose: ‘show those above, show those that hell can too create.’14 This cues the subsequent overture in G minor at bar 48.

Whereas the B flat major symphony served to display the strength of Armida’s position, the move to the relative minor emphasises the sinister nature of her enchanted kingdom, characterised by two tritone leaps in the first violin in the opening phrase of this overture, at bars 49– 52.15 The second section of this overture, beginning at bar 63, contains a number of harmonic passages which in themselves reflect the rising of Armida’s palace. The sequences through bars 68–71 are a case in point.16

Fig. 1. Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, Act I, Musical Entertainment No. 1, 68– 71.

The block chords at 83–87, accompanied by the rising sequences in the continuo, perhaps depict this even more clearly.

Fig. 2. Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, Act 1, Musical Entertainment No. 1, 83–87.

Ibid., 9, bb. 40–45.

Ibid., 10, bb. 49–52.

16 Ibid. bb. 68–71 14 15

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Adam Behan This tonal area of B flat major/G minor can be seen to characterise Armida’s position at its strongest in the semi-opera; it is an association we will revisit later in the work. This first musical entertainment is also crucial in being the only display of magic undertaken on behalf of Armida that is not interrupted or foiled. Contrary to later entertainments, it instils worry in the trio of Ubaldo, Urania and Carlo: ‘But why, O sacred minister of heaven, Just at this juncture does this fabric rise?’17 The second musical entertainment sees spirits take the shapes of ‘shepherds and shepherdesses’ and ‘nymphs’ who ‘unknown to Armida attempt to seduce the Christians who came to free Rinaldo’.18 The key of G minor is retained from the previous entertainment, linking the nature of the shepherds to the sinister proclamation of ‘what hell can create’, and to Armida’s power. The words of the shepherds consistently emphasise the joys of their existence through the negative rather than the positive: ‘Here we feel no want nor care, And no inclemency of air, And lovers never here despair’.19 This is a subtle difference that has been picked up on by Kathryn Lowerre.20 The sudden change to G major at bar 134 is a significant modulation.21 It represents a shift in the rhetoric of the spirits as they attempt to seduce the three soldiers, moving away from the intimidating toward the embracing. This shift, however, appears soon to be a bridge too far for the spirits in their seductive endeavours. Bar 145 sees a sudden applied dominant onto D minor, a tonal area which is all but modulated to from 145 to 148; the only redeeming factor is the reintroduction of an F sharp in the alto and second violin lines, bringing us to an unsteady D major cadence. 22

Ibid., 12, lines 118–119.

Ibid., 13.

19 Ibid., 15–16, bb. 38–43.

20 Kathryn Lowerre, Music and Musicians on the London Stage, 1695–1705 (Ashgate: Aldershot, 2009), 96–119.

21 Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, 20.

22 Ibid., 21, bb. 145–149.

17 18

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Fig. 3. Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, Act 1, Musical Entertainment No. 2, 145–148.

This sudden applied dominant at 145 is then echoed again at 155, this time onto A minor.23 Eccles thus completely destabilises the spirits’ attempts to seduce the soldiers within the music, foreshadowing the interruption to come after the nymph song ‘All Around’. 24 When this interruption does come, it is made stronger by how it obviously cuts short the musical entertainment, which would be expected to conclude with a symphony or chorus; instead, Urania successfully breaks their spells before they can finish their work.25 The third musical entertainment is the first of two to involve Armida’s use of magic on Rinaldo. It is characterised predominantly by the passion of fear: Armida, afraid of losing Rinaldo, summons spirits in the form of Rinaldo’s parents, Sophia and Bertoldo, to terrify him into choosing Armida over glory. The opening symphony exposits the new key of E minor; this change in tonality is indicative of the change in mood from passion to one of fear. Sophia and Bertoldo alternate in pleading with their son, a process which Eccles reflects in the music through the E minor/G major duality. Bertoldo’s opening passage in E minor warns against Rinaldo’s ‘wretched fate’, cadencing then on G Ibid., 22, b. 155.

Ibid., 25.

25 Lowerre, Music and Musicians, 96–119.

23 24

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Adam Behan major at bar 35.26 At this point, Sophia takes over. The calm rising arpeggiated figure in G major which signals her entrance is soon disturbed by the prospect of Rinaldo rejecting Armida, represented by a tonal shift back to E minor at the cadence at bar 62. Bertoldo then resumes in G major, recalling the arpeggiated figure of Sophia; E minor is then reaffirmed again at bar 104 at the climax of the section, reached by the rising chromatic bassline at bars 98–104.27 This fluctuation between E minor and G major forms an integral part of Armida’s techniques of persuasion: by constantly rupturing the safety of G major with intrusions in E minor, Armida attempts to strike fear into Rinaldo should he choose glory over her. The exchange of lines between Sophia and Bertoldo throughout this scene is effectively a ‘good-cop, bad-cop’ routine. The climax reached at bar 104 necessitates a change of some sort. The change of key signature provides this.

Following on from the E minor/G major duality, the switch to C major at 117–120 represents a new space of happiness connected with Armida: ‘But love Armida with a constant flame’.28 The onslaught of the spirits, proclaimed by Bertoldo, should be the final act in re-establishing Rinaldo’s love for Armida. Yet all of their efforts fail with the sounding of Fame’s trumpet, which causes the spirits to vanish. 29 Armida’s failure to move Rinaldo with fear causes the focus of the fourth musical entertainment to turn to love. Summoning spirits in the form of Venus and Cupid, she hopes to reconfirm Rinaldo’s love for her. The opening symphony begins in D minor, again reflecting the change in passion. Venus summons Cupid, with harmonic elements hinting at the chaconne to come in bars 26–30 and 48–49.30 The following fugal passage is sung by a chorus, after which the arrival of Cupid is signalled by a second symphony in D minor at bar 88, which recalls the thematic idea from 26 and 48.

The shift to G minor at bar 171 is important. Up to this point, the focus has been on the harm done to Armida: at bar 28, Venus urged Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, 31, b. 35.

Ibid., 32, bb. 98–104.

28 Ibid., 33, bb. 117–120.

29 Ibid., 36.

30 Ibid., 40–41, bb. 26–30 and 48–49.

26 27

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Writings About Music Cupid to ‘come to the relief of thy mother’s piercing grief’.31 On his arrival, Cupid declares ‘thus flying through the balmy air, to my great parent I repair’.32 Here the move to G minor recalibrates Cupid’s focus to the figure of Rinaldo: ‘But let us cease our soaring strains, Love conquers most when he complains’.33 Cupid’s solo passage is succeeded by a chaconne in G minor at bar 196.34 Yet the greater significance of G minor lies in its connection to the opening musical entertainment of the work, where it represented the stature and abstract power of Armida the enchantress, before the audience became familiar with her as a woman. 35 Furthermore, where before we associated G minor with the rising of the enchanted palace, the fundamental musical feature of this chaconne is the descending minor tetrachord.

Fig. 4. Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, Act III, Musical Entertainment No. 4, 196–199.

This chaconne, and the short chorus that it leads into, conclude the fourth musical entertainment. The key of G minor does not appear again following Act III. Eccles has made a clear association between the Ibid., 41, b. 28.

Ibid., 46, bb. 100–104.

33 Ibid., 51, bb. 171–174.

34 Ibid., 51, b. 196.

35 Of particular importance here are lines 216–221 of Act II. 31 32

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Adam Behan sentiment of the opening musical entertainment and the fourth through the common tonal area of G minor; however, his use of contrasting figures can be interpreted as representing different stages of Armida’s character as she has developed. Though we do not yet know it, the sense of impending doom and failure indicated by the descending minor tetrachord foreshadow what will be Armida’s failed second attempt at seducing Rinaldo, this time foiled by Carlo waving his magic wand.36 It is an aspect of Armida’s development as a character treated solely through the music that Eccles composed.

The fifth musical entertainment is conjured up by Phenissa and Nisroe, two of Armida’s minions. Throughout the semi-opera to this point, there have been hints in particular to Phenissa’s self-interest.37 Fearing for her own fate, she hopes to turn Armida’s love of Rinaldo into hatred.38 On Phenissa’s command, Nisroe summons up spirits to ‘revenge the injury that Rinaldo is thought by them to have done to Armida’.39 It is thus with the passion of anger that this entertainment is charged. Opening in F major, the first trembles of the earthquake begin with the quivering figures in the first violin.40 The first explicit mentioning of the oncoming earthquake is at bars 49–51, a moment Eccles treats with a brief move into C minor.41 As the furthest flat-wise modulation hitherto explored in the work, it introduces a particularly dark sonority. Following further exchanges between chorus and spirit, the full force of the natural disasters that have been summoned are cued at bar 210.42 Here, the earthquake reaches full force with the performance directions over ‘shake’. Treating the word ‘dire’ with a diminished seventh over F sharp at bar 212 is an unmistakable depiction of Phenissa’s anger; the manner in which the chord is presented (on the downbeat of the bar, sustained for two crotchet beats, and sung by the full chorus with each note doubled in the string section and continuo) is a uniquely terrifying moment in this piece. At no other point up to here Ibid., 59, lines 120–140.

Ibid., 26, lines 53–59.

38 Ibid., 61, lines 302–308.

39 Ibid., 62.

40 Ibid., 62 bb. 1–6.

41 Ibid., 68, bb. 49–51.

42 Ibid., 83, b. 210.

36 37

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Writings About Music is a diminished seventh employed with this kind of force. Its resolution at bar 214 plunges us firmly into the key of C minor.

The importance of music in inciting the passion of anger in this entertainment is expressed no more clearly than in the words of the spirit in the subsequent C minor section: ‘And give us that music by which you redouble the horrors of hell and unspeakable trouble’. 43 The approach to ‘horrors’ is twice treated with a leap of a tritone in the solo line, leading into a diminished seventh chord on both occasions. The ‘music’ the spirit is calling upon is prompted at the cue ‘Play all’ at the upbeat to bar 225.

Fig. 5. Eccles, Rinaldo and Armida, Act IV, Musical Entertainment No. 5, 226–229.

Bars 225–230, driven by the rising chromatic line in the continuo, are the dramatic highpoint of this musical entertainment, indicating the culmination of the work of the spirits to revenge Armida. Bars 210–230, despite being only a small segment of this entertainment, form its centrepiece. On three occasions the tension is built up: firstly with the diminished seventh at bar 212; secondly, the diminished sevenths further enhanced with tritone leaps at bars 222 and 223; and thirdly, with the rising chromatic bassline between bars 225–230. It is thus C minor which we associate most closely with the passion of anger that this musical entertainment embodies. The resumption of this key in the single song of Act V, ‘Ah wretched Queen’, is unsurprising, given Phenissa is again behind the magic being conjured, though the passion here has moved to grief. Here, the spirit Phenissa attempts to convince 43

Ibid., 84, bb. 219–224.

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Adam Behan Armida that Rinaldo has deserted her, taking Phenissa’s self-interest to a new extreme whereby she actively goes against her mistress for her own good, though she too fails in her deception attempt. 44 Acts I–IV of Rinaldo and Armida all contain musical entertainments which serve to convey the variety of passions that John Dennis discusses in his preface. As we have seen, Eccles’s setting of music enhances these passions on a local level. What also emerges is Eccles’s organisation of these entertainments, not only into a pattern of tonal areas and relationships that bring these passions to life, but also in such a way as to reflect the demise of Armida.

Armida’s Rise and Fall Act

I

II/III

III

Musical Entertainment

No. 1 / No. 2

No. 3/No. 4

Tonal Area

Gm/B flat

Em/G and Dm

No. 4 (bb. 171– 304) Gm

Passion

Confidence

Key Feature

Rising figures

Act Musical Entertainment Tonal Area Passion Key Feature

Fear/Love Armida’s deception attempts

Descending tetrachord

Armida’s Loss of Control IV V No. 5 ‘Ah wretched Queen’

F Cm Anger Chromaticism; Phenissa/Nistroe conjure magic Table 1. A depiction of Armida’s development work’s tonal structure.

Cm Grief Phenissa’s deception attempt and its reflection in the

Ibid., 96. It is interesting to note that all attempts to deceive with magic in this opera ultimately fail.

44

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Writings About Music B flat major/G minor characterises the start and finish of the overall arc of Armida’s development between Acts I and III, whereby we move from the display of confidence and strength embodied in the rising palace, to the impending doom of the descending tetrachord of the G minor chaconne. During this timeline, the gradual disintegration of Armida’s position is portrayed through her failed attempts to deceive Rinaldo in the tonal areas of E minor/G major in the second musical entertainment, signifying the passion of fear, and D minor in the third, signifying love. The move to C minor in the fifth musical entertainment, the furthest flatwise key explored in the work, embodies the final passion of anger; furthermore, the broaching of Armida’s B flat major/G minor to this new extremity is indicative of her loss of control. The fifth entertainment involves spirits conjured not by her, but by Nisroe under Phenissa’s command; ‘Ah wretched Queen’ in Act V is sung by a spirit conjured by Phenissa to deceive Armida. The broad tonal framework of the work, therefore, follows the development of the plot itself: the B flat major/G minor arc of Armida, punctuated by her attempts at persuading Rinaldo in E minor/G major and D minor, followed by her loss of control as signified by the move to C minor.

It was established before undertaking this analysis that music in semi-operas in Restoration England was associated exclusively with the supernatural, though main characters like Armida, irrespective of mythical status, still do not sing. What Eccles achieves in his musical entertainments is thus even more impressive: without ever directly involving Armida, he depicts a musical portrait of her development throughout the drama, which is in turn consolidated by the spoken drama itself. In his introduction to the recently available edition of Rinaldo and Armida, Steven Plank not only notes that ‘the dramatic integration of the music’ was ‘foremost in Dennis’s mind’ in conceiving this semi-opera, but that it was ‘in striking contrast to some contemporary operas where the play and the music seem divorced from one another’.45 While it lay beyond the scope of this essay to deal with

45

Ibid., xvi.

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Adam Behan the latter issue of comparing Rinaldo and Armida to other semi-operas, we have seen that Dennis and Eccles united music and drama on a number of levels; through the obvious integration of musical gestures (such as Fame’s trumpet and the serpent and bassoons) into sections of spoken dialogue; through each individual musical entertainment as it conveys a specific passion relating to the drama; and, most subtly of all, through the network of tonal patterns that Eccles employed to characterise the rise and fall of Armida, and her gradual loss of control to Phenissa. Hopefully, the recent edition of Rinaldo and Armida will lead to modern performances and recordings of this work, which will undoubtedly contribute to further studies in the dramatic and musical integration therein.

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An Historical Overview of Cyclic Form Andrew Burrows This paper will discuss the historical background to cyclic form as it was practised in the latter part of the nineteenth century, particularly by César Franck, the composer whose name is most closely associated with the technique. Potential antecedents to the technique will be discussed, as well as features and examples of the technique.

Before embarking on a study of cyclic form, however, the term itself must be examined. It has been described as ‘one of the most senseless technical terms in the rich history of musicological nonsense’, and the question of ‘why the quotation of an earlier theme or two should make a structure “cyclic” is beyond reasonable comprehension’. 1 It is perhaps even more incomprehensible that a theme that is used in several movements should be described as a “cyclic theme”, since it is the theme’s use, rather than the theme itself, which is cyclic. Moreover, as Benedict Taylor points out, “cyclic form” is ‘often neither cyclic nor a form’.2 Similarly, Charles Rosen points out that the introduction of earlier material into later movements is not a form, but the disturbance of form.3 The term “cyclic form” has no intrinsic relationship to the phenomenon that it describes.

The lack of connection between the meaning of the words “cyclic form” or “cyclic theme” and the concept they try to convey is perhaps at the root of the wide range of musical structures that are referred to as cyclic. Swindells takes a narrow definition of the term cyclic form, differentiating it from the use of an idée fixe.4 Cyclic form, according to her, applies to works whose finale contains material from 1 Hans Keller, ‘The Classical Romantics: Schumann and Mendelssohn’ in Of German Music: A Symposium, Hans-Hubert Schönzeler (ed.) (London: Oswald Wolff, 1976), 219–45.

2 Benedict Taylor, Mendelssohn, Time and Memory: The Romantic Conception of Cyclic Form (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 9.

3 Charles Rosen, The Romantic Generation (London: Harper Collins, 1996), 88.

4 An idée fixe is comparable to what I will later term as a “motto theme”. The term idée fixe has more programmatic connotations than the term motto theme does, due to its use by Berlioz in the description of his Symphonie fantastique.

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Andrew Burrows the earlier movements, not works whose movements all contain some common element.5 Her reasons for limiting the definition to this is not altogether clear: surely the repeated return to a fixed theme is as close, if not closer, to the meaning of the word cyclic as the return of numerous earlier themes in a finale. This second case could perhaps be better termed as spiral form, since the themes that were presented in separation get drawn closer together. Her limited definition also excludes many works that are commonly thought of as cyclic.

Rosen has two different definitions of what he calls cyclical form: ‘a set of apparently independent pieces that must be understood and performed as a whole’ and ‘a large work in which an earlier movement reappears as part of a later one’.6 These definitions seem a little unsatisfying. He does not specify what it means for a set of pieces to appear independent and require a complete presentation. The fact that this is a distinct requirement from that of the other sort of cyclical form—that a work’s movements share material—suggests that one could argue that most Classical sonatas and symphonies fall into this definition of cyclical form: the different movements of, say, a Haydn or Mozart symphony appear independent (in that they are closed unto themselves, both tonally and thematically), and yet are always presented as a complete set. Moreover the second definition suggests that an entire movement must be interpolated into a later one, rather than simply sharing material.

Carl Dahlhaus and Hugh MacDonald present similar definitions for cyclic form: for Dahlhaus, it is ‘the plan of linking the movements of a symphony or a sonata by means of recurrent themes, thereby turning a group into a “cycle”;7 for MacDonald, music is in cyclic form when ‘a later movement reintroduces thematic material of an

5 Rachel Mary Swindells, ‘Tonality, Functionality and Beethovenian Form in the Late Instrumental Works of César Franck’ (Ph.D. diss., University of Ontago, Dunedin, New Zealand) (https://ourarchive.otago.ac.nz/bitstream/handle/10523/2365/SwindellsRachelM2012PhD.pdf ?sequence=4, 29 February 2016), 22.

6 Rosen, The Romantic Generation, 88.

7 Carl Dahlhaus, Nineteenth-Century Music, J. Bradford Robinson (trans.) (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 274.

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Writings About Music earlier movement’.8 The only distinction is that Dahlhaus’s definition seems to suggest that a theme must be re-presented in full, rather than MacDonald’s acceptance of thematic material, which could include motivic or possibly even harmonic material, so long as it is recognisable between movements.9 Both of these definitions rest on the assumption that cyclic material must appear in multiple movements. Vincent d’Indy, a pupil of César Franck’s, seems to hold a different view: in his analysis of Franck’s Piano Quintet, he describes the theme of the introduction to the first movement as being cyclic, given that it is modified to become the principal theme of the movement when the sonata form proper begins.10 He applies the qualifier ‘cyclic’ to themes that are present in movements or sections that reappear and are modified, though still recognisable.11 In the case of the theme from the opening of the Quintet, the important feature that makes it cyclic is the fact that it appears in two different forms and fulfils two different functions within the movement. It is interesting to note that, as well as allowing re-presentations of material in the same movement to be described as cyclic (though he does warn against calling the repetition of themes demanded by certain forms, such as sonata or rondo forms, cyclic), he embraces the concept of modifying the theme far more strongly than the other authors do. 12 His observations acknowledge the importance of modifying the theme when it recurs.

Taylor has written more extensively than others on the issue of the term cyclic form. For him, there are three types of structure that are commonly referred to as cyclic: ‘a work where part of one movement is recalled in another […], a work where separate movements are based on similar thematic material, often accompanied by the merging of

8 Hugh MacDonald, ‘Cyclic Form’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Sadie Stanley and John Tyrrell (eds.), 2nd edn, vol. 6 (London: MacMillan, 2001), 797–8 (797).

9 Both of these definitions also assume that the work in question is a multi-movement one. I will discuss the relationship between cyclic forms and single-movement works later on.

10 Vincent d’Indy, Cours de Composition Musicale, vol. 2 part 2, Auguste Sérieyx (compiled) (Paris: Durand S. A., 1909), 200–203.

11 Vincent d’Indy, Cours de Composition Musicale, vol. 3, Auguste Sérieyx (compiled) (Paris: Durand S. A., 1909), 375.

12 Ibid., 378–9.

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Andrew Burrows individual movements […], [and] a collection of miniatures, which make sense only when considered as a whole’.13 He goes on to distinguish between what can be termed “cyclic”, which includes works whose movements share material that is the same or similar, and a cycle, which are works that fall into his third definition, such as the song cycle or mass setting.14 His focus is on music that is cyclic, rather than a cycle, and he gives a taxonomy of structures that fall into that category and examples of each.15 A final point he makes is the distinction (while acknowledging that the dividing line can be blurred) between transformative cyclicism, where there is ‘close thematic affinity between movements’, and recalling cyclicism, where there is ‘explicit recall of music’ from one movement in another.16 One further type of cyclicism could be added to Taylor’s list: generative cyclicism. This is when a single motivic idea generates and/or permeates much of the thematic material of a work. Examples of this include Franck’s Violin Sonata, many of whose themes are based on the first three notes of the violin in the first movement, and his Symphony, whose opening motif can be found in many of the themes that come later in the work.

The issue of thematic transformation is a crucial one in cyclic works. The composer must strike the balance between keeping a theme recognisable while changing it enough to avoid monotony.17 This is in addition to the requirement that a theme may have to be altered in terms of tonality, modality, metre, or harmony, in order to fit into the new context. While some earlier composers such as Schubert and Berlioz used this technique in various ways, it was Liszt who developed its use, along the same lines as the contemporary development by Wagner of the leitmotif.18 The difference between these two composers and their use 13 Taylor, Mendelssohn, Time and Memory, 6.

14 Ibid., 7.

15 Ibid., 11–16.

16 Ibid., 11.

17 Dahlhaus, Nineteenth-Century Music, 274.

18 Gerald Abraham, ‘The Symphonic Poem and Kindred Forms’ in Romanticism (1830–1890), Gerald Abraham (ed.), The New Oxford History of Music, vol. 9 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 489–533 (497).

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Writings About Music of similar techniques is that Wagner was writing opera, while Liszt was writing instrumental music. In spite of this, thematic transformation is often given programmatic connotations. According to MacDonald, in Liszt’s Sonata in B minor, a ‘diabolic figure in the bass near the beginning becomes a theme of infinite sweetness and longing’.19 Taruskin finds in Dvořák’s use of cyclic form a ‘tinge of secret “programmaticism”’ and ‘latent “poetic content”’. 20 Berlioz’s use of the idée fixe in his Symphonie fantastique was explicitly programmatic. This programmatic element relies on the fact that, when a theme is transformed and re-used in multiple movements, it ‘gains a life and independence of its own’.21 This means that it can function in the same way a character does in a series of books—something that d’Indy views as being comparable.22 Many of Franck’s works embody a programmatic “darkness-to-light” progression, which is emphasised by the modification of the themes from earlier movements. For example, the Symphony moves from D minor to D major, and the main motif, having first been presented in D minor (and including a leap of a diminished fourth) gets presented in D major towards the end of the finale (with its diminished fourth becoming a perfect fourth). Similarly, the main theme of the slow second movement gets transformed by being played loudly and triumphantly on brass instruments.

The above discussion has laid out some of the characteristics of cyclic form. We will now examine this from an historical viewpoint, considering some of the antecedents to its use by Franck. The use of similar material in different movements of a work dates back ‘almost as long as Western art music’.23 David Fallows has commented on the monothematic nature of masses from the fifteenth and sixteenth

19 Hugh MacDonald, ‘Transformation, Thematic’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Sadie Stanley and John Tyrrell (eds.), 2nd edn, vol. 25 (London: MacMillan, 2001), 694– 5 (695).

20 Richard Taruskin, The Nineteenth Century, The Oxford History of Western Music, vol. 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 754–5.

21 MacDonald, ‘Cyclic Form’, 694.

22 D’Indy, Cours de Composition Musicale, vol. 2 part 1, 376.

23 Taylor, Mendelssohn, Time and Memory, 16.

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Andrew Burrows centuries, describing this as an ‘extremely odd phenomenon’.24 There are examples in the seventeenth century of dance pairs utilising thematic transformation, making them cyclic.25 The technique declines in the Baroque and Classical eras, though there is a small number of examples in the works of C. P. E. Bach, Mozart, and Haydn.26 Beethoven used it in a number of his later works, which influenced many of his successors, an issue we will return to later.

The re-emergence of cyclic form during the Romantic period raises the question of why it should return at this point, and particularly in France, where it reaches its ‘most extensive application’. 27 The music of Franck used this technique extensively, and his pupils ‘made something of a religion out of this procedure’. 28 This extreme devotion to the procedure can be seen in the writings of d’Indy, including one memorable passage where he compares the cyclic sonata with a cathedral, in unusually heady language.29 For d’Indy, cyclic procedure allowed composers to ‘fight victoriously against the disintegration of the sonata’.30 If we do take this viewpoint on board, it may explain Rey M. Longyear’s observation that: An observer of the musical scene in 1860 would have been forced to conclude that sonatas, symphonies, and string quartets would soon be as extinct as canzonas or trio sonatas, yet during the next four decades absolute music won a new lease on life.31 While, as discussed above, cyclicism has links to programmaticism (these links will be further discussed below), it is 24 David Fallows, ‘The Last Agnus Dei: or: The Cyclic Mass, 1450–1600 as forme fixe’ in Polyphone Messen im 15. und 16. Jahrhundert: Funktion, Kontext, Symbol, Andrea Ammendola, Daniel Glowotz, and Jūrgen Heidrich (eds.) (Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2011), 53–63 (58).

25 MacDonald, ‘Transformation, Thematic’, 694.

26 Taylor, Mendelssohn, Time and Memory, 17.

27 Wallace Berry, Form in Music: An Examination of Traditional Techniques in Musical Structure and their Application in Historical and Contemporary Styles (New York: Prentice-Hall Inc., 1966), 171.

28 Ralph P. Locke, ‘The French Symphony: David, Gounod, and Bizet to Saint-Saëns, Franck, and their Followers’ in The Nineteenth-Century Symphony, D. Kern Holomon (ed.) (New York: Schirmer Books, 1997), 163–94 (175).

29 D’Indy, Cours de Composition Musicale, vol. 2 part 1, 377–8.

30 Ibid., 388.

31 Rey M. Longyear, Nineteenth-Century Romanticism in Music, 3rd edn (New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1988), 182.

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Writings About Music possible to view it as a contributing factor in the saving of absolute music.

One of the advantages of cyclicism is that it provides a significant degree of unity to large scale works. Albert Einstein claims that Liszt and Berlioz, among others, recognised that the freedom that they now had when composing, in terms of thematic material, instrumentation, structural form, harmonic language, and tonal structures, was too great, and they sought to obviate that through thematic unity, in the same way that Wagner sought to unify his musicdramas through the permeating use of the leitmotif.32 Keller claims that Beethoven’s structural innovations left subsequent composers ‘threatened by a flood of disunity’, forcing them to resort to thematic integration in order to maintain unity.33 Perhaps it is no coincidence that the time in music history when cyclicism was at its least prominent is the same as when functional tonality was at its strongest. The organising power of tonality should not be underestimated, and so, the weakening of its power in the nineteenth century forced composers to turn to other means to guarantee unity.

Another factor in the emergence of cyclic form is the influence of Beethoven on later composers. This fact is well acknowledged; Dahlhaus has commented on the way in which composers of the late nineteenth century were influenced directly by Beethoven, rather than indirectly via more recent composers who themselves were influenced

by Beethoven,34 while Pascall notes that Beethoven continued to influence composers for many years after his death in choice of genres and instrumental forms, as well as in an emphasis on originality.35 D’Indy strives to form a strong link between Beethoven and Franck, for example, in an attempt to legitimise and promote his teacher’s work. He describes Franck as the ‘genial French continuer of the immortal German symphonist’ and points out that there were only fifteen years between

32 Alfred Einstein, Music in the Romantic Era (London: J. M. Dent and Sons Ltd., 1947), 70.

33 Keller, ‘The Classical Romantics’, 185.

34 Dahlhaus, Nineteenth Century Music, 152–3.

35 Robert Pascall, ‘Major Instrumental Forms’ in Romanticism (1830–1890), Gerald Abraham (ed.), The New Oxford History of Music, vol. 9 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1990), 534–658 (534).

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Andrew Burrows Beethoven’s last cyclic work and Franck’s first.36 He neglects to point out, however, that it was nearly forty years before he made another ‘significant further contribution’ to cyclicism.37 He also fails to mention the fact that Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony is ‘one of the best and most subtle examples of cyclic form among nineteenth-century instrumental composers’—suggesting that Mendelssohn is a far more direct inheritor and/or progenitor of Beethovenian cyclic form than Franck is.38 This desire to be perceived as continuing on Beethoven’s work, as well as trying to deal with his compositional innovations, was a central concern of Romantic composers’ work. Beethoven’s innovations in the world of cyclicism—most famously in the Ninth Symphony, but also in his late string quartets—were a natural point of departure for composers who followed.

Another contributing factor in the rise of cyclicism in this period was the increased influence of the past on composers. This is partially reflected in—and perhaps caused by—a rise in interest in early music in this period, which is particularly interesting as it was seen as a way of ‘moulding music’s future’.39 Katherine Ellis has studied many of the themes that were discussed in La Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris in this period, and devotes an entire chapter to early music. In another book, she details the extensive publication of scores of early music. 40 This renewed interest in the past is also reflected in the research into medieval manuscripts, including musical ones, which went on during the middle part of the nineteenth century.41 Longyear also discusses the rise of what he terms Neoclassical music. This was influenced by composers looking back to the past—not

36 D’Indy, Cours de Composition Musicale, vol. 2 part 1, 391.

37 Benedict Taylor, The Melody of Time: Music and Temporality in the Romantic Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2016), 216.

38 Rey M. Longyear, ‘Cyclic Form and Tonal Relationships in Mendelssohn’s “Scottish” Symphony’ in Mendelssohn, Benedict Taylor (ed.) (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing Limited., 2015), 137–48 (137).

39 Katherine Ellis, Music Criticism in Nineteenth-Century France: La Revue et Gazette musiale de Paris, 1834–80 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 59.

40 Katherine Ellis, Interpreting the Musical Past: Early Music in Nineteenth-Century France (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 45–50.

41 Jane Alden, Songs, Scribes, and Society: The History and Reception of the Loire Valley Chansonniers (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 18–20.

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Writings About Music just ‘that period that was bounded by Pergolesi and Haydn [but] the entire remembered period of music history, at least back to the sixteenth century’.42 This marked a return to emphasis in the formal construction of music, both in terms of Classical forms and earlier Baroque ones. 43 Pascall echoes this observation, saying that there was an ‘increased awareness […] of the present value of past achievements’, and that the emergence of the suite (which often has thematic recall) had been influenced by a revival of Baroque suites. 44 Thus we see that, during this period there was a greater interest in music from the past and in the role of form in music, and since (as discussed above) earlier music sometimes used cyclic techniques, the greater awareness of this music may have contributed to the rise in these techniques. This can be coupled with some observations of Taylor’s: Romanticism was a reaction against the ‘insatiable linearity’ of the Enlightenment, a return to a faith in previous times, and that ‘cyclic works intrinsically demonstrate the presence of the past in the present’.45 Therefore, the rising interest in old music had a twin effect on the development of cyclic form: composers could learn from their predecessors in writing works that re-used the same theme, while the interest in the past and the appreciation of the cyclicity of history was reflected in the returning material from earlier movements.

Until now, we have seen some strong antecedents to cyclicism as it appeared during the nineteenth century. One other potential factor in its rise is the symphonic poem, which came into prominence in the middle of the nineteenth century. As we have seen above, cyclicism is often ascribed programmatic connotations, which is one potential link.

Many composers, including Franck, who composed cyclic works also composed symphonic poems. Another link is the use of transformed versions of themes in different parts of the work—a technique that is, as discussed above, important in both genres. A third link is the fact that symphonic poems were single-movement works, while it could be

42 Longyear, Nineteenth-Century Romanticism in Music, 183.

43 Ibid., 184, 187.

44 Pascall, ‘Major Instrumental Forms’, 534–5, 560–62.

45 Taylor, Mendelssohn, Time and Memory, 22, 26.

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Andrew Burrows argued that the reuse of themes blurs the boundaries between movements, making the separate movements subservient to the greater whole, as opposed to being stand-alone works. In Franck’s works, there are examples of how the boundaries between movements are blurred— in the Symphony, for example, he famously combined the slow movement and scherzo into a single movements, while in the Piano Quintet, it could be argued that in some ways, the movements function—at least in tonal terms—as a connected entity. The use of common themes between movements that are like this could be seen as a way of reflecting the fact that the work is more unified than simply being a series of distinct movements—bringing it closer to the singlemovement form of the symphonic poem. We can also see this interest in blurring the distinction between single-movement and multi-movement works in works that are in what Steven Vande Morteele calls twodimensional sonata form—works that can be viewed as being in sonata form but also exhibit the different characteristics of sonata movements.46 For this to work, the final “movement” of a work like this (i.e., the part of the work that corresponds to the finale section) must contain thematic material from the first “movement”, since it must simultaneously function as the recapitulation of the single-movement sonata form. Thus the blurring of the line between single-movement and multi-movement works is an important feature of works like these.

As set out above, the symphonic poem is a possible precursor to cyclic works, since it provided a model for the large-scale singlemovement works. Moreover, it was the primary Romantic instrumental form during the period 1850–70, and this period, it has been claimed that there was no work of ‘distinction’ in the field of absolute music, until the Second Age of the Symphony, with composers like Franck, Brahms, and Bruckner restoring the genre.47 It could be argued that cyclic works function as a synthesis of some of the procedures symphonic poems, given the similarities between cyclic works and symphonic poems

46 Steven Vande Moortele, Two-Dimensional Sonata Form: Form and Cycle Single-Movement Instrumental Works by Liszt, Strauss, Schoenberg, and Zemlinsky (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009).

47 Dahlhaus, Nineteenth-Century Music, 265.

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Writings About Music outlined above, and the reviving of interest in earlier works, including the symphonies of the Classical and early Romantic periods.

The above discussion has explored the definition of cyclicism and the historical background to its rise in the latter part of the nineteenth century. It has been suggested that it has basis the programmatic music of the time, particularly the symphonic poem, as well as being connected with the music of the past, including Beethoven.

Understanding the historical backdrop to the rise of cyclicism at this time will give us a greater understanding of the compositions that use this technique.

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