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Studies of concert life in nineteenth-century America have generally been limited to large orchestras and the programs we are familiar with today, but audiences of that era enjoyed far more diverse musical experiences than this focus would suggest. To hear an orchestra, people were more likely to head to a beer garden, restaurant, or summer resort than to a concert hall, and what they heard were not just symphonic works—programs also included opera excerpts and arrangements, instrumental showpieces, comic numbers, and medleys of patriotic tunes. This book brings together musicologists and historians to investigate the many orchestras and programs that developed in nineteenth-century America. In addition to reflecting on the music that orchestras played and the socioeconomic aspects of building and maintaining orchestras, it considers a wide range of topics, including audiences, entrepreneurs, concert arrangements, tours, and musicians' unions. The authors also show that the period saw a massive influx of immigrant performers, the increasing ability of orchestras to travel across the nation, and the rising influence of women as listeners, patrons, and players.

For the Enlightenment mind, from Moses Mendelssohn's focus on the moment of surprise at the heart of the work of art to Herder's imagining of the seismic moment at which language was discovered, it is the flash of recognition that nails the essence of the work, the blink of an eye in which one's world changes. This book unmasks such prismatic moments in iconic music from the Enlightenment, from the “chromatic” moment—the single tone that disturbs the thrust of a diatonic musical discourse—and its deployment in seminal instrumental works by Emanuel Bach, Haydn, and Mozart; on to the poetic moment, taking the odes of Klopstock, in their finely wrought prosody, as a challenge to the problem of strophic song; and finally to the grand stage of opera, to the intense moment of recognition in Gluck's Iphigénie en Tauride and the exquisitely introverted phrase that complicates Cherubino's daring moment of escape in Mozart's Figaro. Finally, the tears of the disconsolate Konstanze in Mozart's Die Entführung aus dem Serail provoke a reflection on the tragic aspect of Mozart's operatic women. Throughout, other players from literature and the arts—Diderot, Goethe, Lessing among them—enrich the landscape of this bold journey through the Enlightenment imagination.

This book weaves three inquiries into an argument about how individuals can preserve and improve civic life in democratic cultures. The term “civic life” refers here to the interaction of citizens rather than to practices of government. The primary inquiry explores what democracy requires of individuals, proceeding through two other inquiries: one into jazz music as a model for democratic interaction, and the other into Kenneth Burke’s rhetorical conception of art as experiential and potentially transformative. Jazz is often described as democratic. Kenneth Burke’s quite American rhetorical and aesthetic theory explains how that is so. For Burke, rhetoric prompts a sense of shared identity, a sense that follows from an experience that is like being taken through a story of a song. Among individuals who are jealous of their freedom, this way of change seems more appropriate, more fitting, than argument. Working with others to address immediate problems they share can align for a time individuals who are otherwise very different. That is what jazz does: it enables people who are different and even in conflict to combine in cooperation toward an end that matters to all of them just now. This is what civic life in democratic cultures demands. The chapters in this book cycle through these inquiries, elaborating and improvising on them on each pass.

When, in the second half of the nineteenth century, Japanese leaders put into motion processes of modernization, Western music was adopted into the curriculum of a new educational system as a technology for producing shared cultural space for all Japanese people. As the infrastructures of modernity developed, a new role of composer apart from performer was created to meet the needs that emerged in education, industry and commerce (Part 1). The absorption of Western music in Japan did indeed create an environment of shared cultural space— shared internally by all Japanese people including those who have continued to cultivate traditional musical practices (albeit marginalized), and also shared internationally as Japanese composers have increasingly benefitted from, participated in, and contributed to global cosmopolitan culture (Part 2). The particular nature of the reception in Japan of European spheres of musical participation— orchestras, small ensembles for chamber and contemporary music, wind bands, and choruses--has afforded composers a variety of opportunities to create repertoire for musicians both professional and amateur (Part 3). Although the role of composer was new, based on primarily ethnographic research this book argues that most Japanese composers have maintained a socially relational role in their society as performer-composers previously did, as they respond with artistic flexibility to expectations of Japanese musical modernity.

Italy in the early seventeenth century witnessed a revolution in the composition of instrumental music. Large, varied, and strikingly experimental in nature, this new repertoire constituted arguably the first significant body of independent, idiomatic instrumental music in the western tradition. In an age most widely known for its innovations in vocal music, Galileo Galilei explained that, in fact, it was instrumental music that was most effective as a means to “awaken the secret affetti of our soul.” In their new approach to instruments, musical composers were not alone. Instruments of all kinds stood at the center of changes in systems of knowledge in the early modern era. The telescope, the clock, the barometer, the pen—these were the tools of the natural philosopher, the collector, the patron, the early modern thinker. Scholars in the history of science have shown that in this period, the very notion of an instrument changed dramatically. No longer merely used to re-make an object, or to repeat a process already known, instruments were now increasingly seen as tools for open-ended inquiry that would lead to new knowledge. Although the instrumental music of this period has long been recognized as foundational to the Western tradition, the impulses that gave rise to it have never been adequately understood. This interdisciplinary study argues that the new instrumental music grew out of the early modern fascination with instruments of all kinds—scientific and artisanal tools that served as mediators between individuals and the world around them.

Deep Refrains: Music, Philosophy, and the Ineffable draws together the writings of Arthur Schopenhauer, Friedrich Nietzsche, Ernst Bloch, Theodor Adorno, Vladimir Jankélévitch, Gilles Deleuze, and Félix Guattari in order to revisit the age-old question of music’s ineffability from a modern perspective. For these nineteenth- and twentieth-century European philosophers, music’s ineffability is a complex phenomenon that engenders an intellectually productive sense of perplexity. Through careful examination of their historical contexts and philosophical orientations, close attention to their use of language, and new interpretations of musical compositions that proved influential for their work, Deep Refrains forges the first panoptic view of their writings on music. Gallope concludes that music’s ineffability is neither a conservative phenomenon nor a pious call to silence. Instead, these philosophers ask us to think through the ways in which music’s stunning force might address, in an ethical fashion, intricate philosophical questions specific to the modern world.

This book is an account of how opera comes to the stage, filled with the author's personal experiences of triumphant—and even failed—performances, and suffused with his passion for music. Writing as a fan, a musician, and a scholar, the author brings to life the problems, and occasionally the scandals, that attend the production of some of our favorite operas. The book begins by tracing the social history of nineteenth-century Italian theaters in order to explain the nature of the musical scores from which performers have long worked. It then illuminates the often hidden but crucial negotiations between opera scholars, opera conductors, and performers: What does it mean to talk about performing from a critical edition? How does one determine what music to perform when multiple versions of an opera exist? What are the implications of omitting passages from an opera in a performance? In addition to vexing questions such as these, the author also tackles issues of ornamentation and transposition in vocal style, the matters of translation and adaptation, and even aspects of stage direction and set design. Throughout this work, the text enlivens a personal history with reports personal own experiences with major opera companies at venues ranging from the Metropolitan and Santa Fe operas to the Rossini Opera Festival at Pesaro.

Every night, somewhere in the world, three or four musicians will climb on stage together. Whether the gig is at a jazz club, a bar, or a bar mitzvah, the performance never begins with a note, but with a question. The trumpet player might turn to the bassist and ask, “Do you ‘Body and Soul?’”—and from there the subtle craft of playing the jazz repertoire is tested in front of a live audience. This book presents the view from the bandstand, revealing the array of skills necessary for working musicians to do their jobs. While learning songs from sheet music or by ear helps, the jobbing musician's lexicon is dauntingly massive: hundreds of thousands of tunes, from jazz classics and pop standards, to more exotic fare. Since it is impossible for anyone to memorize all of these songs, the book shows that musicians collectively negotiate and improvise their way to a successful performance. Players must explore each other's areas of expertise, develop an ability to fake their way through unfamiliar territory, and respond to the unpredictable demands of their audience. The book dishes out stories and insights drawn from the authors' own experiences and observations, as well as interviews with a range of musicians. The authors' detailed portrait of the musician at work holds lessons for anyone who has to think on the spot or under a spotlight.

In West Java, Indonesia, all it takes is a woman's voice and a drum beat to make a man get up and dance. Every day, men there—be they students, pedicab drivers, civil servants, or businessmen—breach ordinary standards of decorum and succumb to the rhythm at village ceremonies, weddings, political rallies, and nightclubs. The music the men dance to varies from traditional gong ensembles to the contemporary pop known as dangdut, but they consistently dance with great enthusiasm. This book draws on decades of ethnographic research to explore the reasons behind this phenomenon, arguing that Sundanese men use dance to explore and enact contradictions in their gender identities. Framing the three crucial elements of Sundanese dance—the female entertainer, the drumming, and men's sense of freedom—as a triangle, the book connects them to a range of other theoretical perspectives, drawing on thinkers from Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Lév–Strauss, and Freud to Euclid. By granting men permission to literally perform their masculinity, the book ultimately concludes, dance provides a crucial space for both reinforcing and resisting orthodox gender ideologies.

This book's author's imagination was captured the very first time that, as a girl visiting the Himalayas, she heard Kangra women join their voices together in song. Returning as an anthropologist, she became fascinated by how they spoke of singing as a form of enrichment, bringing feelings of accomplishment, companionship, happiness, and even good health—all benefits of the “everyday creativity” are explored in this book. Part ethnography, part musical discovery, part poetry, part memoir, and part unforgettable portraits of creative individuals, this work brings this remote region in North India alive in sight and sound while celebrating the incredible powers of music in our lives. The text portrays Kangra songs about difficulties on the lives of goddesses and female saints as a path to well-being. Like the intricate geometries of mandalu patterns drawn in courtyards or the subtle balance of flavors in a meal, well-crafted songs offer a variety of deeply meaningful benefits: as a way of making something of value, as a means of establishing a community of shared pleasure and skill, as a path through hardships and limitations, and as an arena of renewed possibility.

Later life is a fraught topic in our commercialized, anti-aging, death-denying culture. Where does creativity fit in? The canonical composers whose stories are told here—Giuseppe Verdi (1813–1901), Richard Strauss (1864–1949), Olivier Messiaen (1908–1992), and Benjamin Britten (1913–1976)—offer radically individual responses to that question. In their late years, each of these national icons wrote an opera around which coalesced for them major issues about their creativity and aging. While these and other late works helped them explore creatively their own aging and mortality, the composers nonetheless had to face a variety of challenges that came with their own aging—ranging from health issues to the critical expectations that accompany success. They also had to deal with the social, political and aesthetic changes of their times, including World Wars and the rise of musical modernism. By investigating their own attitudes to their aging and their creativity, their late compositions, and the critical reception of them, this book tells the stories of their different but creative ways of dealing with those changes, Each composer began his career in an individual manner; each also ended it in a unique way. It is the complexity of the interrelationship of aging and creativity in all its individuality that this book investigates.

The popularity of the motion picture soundtrack O Brother, Where Art Thou? brought an extraordinary amount of attention to bluegrass, but it also drew its share of criticism from some aficionados who felt the album's inclusion of more modern tracks misrepresented the genre. This soundtrack, these purists argued, wasn't bluegrass, but “roots music,” a new and, indeed, more overarching category concocted by journalists and marketers. Why is it that popular music genres like these and others are so passionately contested? And how is it that these genres emerge, coalesce, change, and die out? This book provides new understanding as to why we debate music categories, and why those terms are unstable and always shifting. To tackle the full complexity of genres in popular music, the author embarks on a wide-ranging collection of case studies. Here he examines not only the different reactions to O Brother, but also the impact of rock and roll's explosion in the 1950s and 1960s on country music and jazz, and how the jazz and indie music scenes in Chicago have intermingled to expand the borders of their respective genres. Throughout, the author finds that genres are an integral part of musical culture—fundamental both to musical practice and experience, and to the social organization of musical life.

Exploring Peru’s lively music industry and the studio producers, radio DJs, and program directors that drive it, this book is an account of the deliberate development of artistic taste. Focusing on popular huayno music and the ways it has been promoted to Peru’s emerging middle class, the author tells a complex story of identity making and the marketing forces entangled with it, providing insights into the dynamics among art, class, and ethnicity that reach far beyond the Andes. He focuses on the music of Ayacucho, Peru, examining how media workers and intellectuals there transformed the city’s huayno music into the country’s most popular style. By marketing contemporary huayno against its traditional counterpart, these agents, the author argues, have paradoxically reinforced ethnic hierarchies at the same time that they have challenged them. Navigating between a burgeoning Andean bourgeoisie and a music industry eager to sell them symbols of newfound sophistication, the book is an account of the real people behind cultural change.

This book is about the changing audiovisual culture of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century, and its significance for the emergence of musical romanticism. The period from Haydn’s early career to Beethoven’s maturity – roughly 1760 to 1810 – witnessed the cultural diffusion of visual technologies such as magnifying instruments, peepshows, shadow-plays and magic lanterns. From their initial homes in fairgrounds, laboratories and popular scientific literature, these devices moved into domestic spaces, public spectacles and the basic vocabulary of a wide range of discourses, including the language used to discuss music. This book trace the processes of dissemination and reception by which these devices facilitated changes in musical perception. Through relations that include analogy, substitution and accompaniment, the conjunctions of visual technologies and music helped cultivate new modes of listening. They also promoted notions of extending the senses and mastering invisible forces as alternative frameworks to mimesis and expression for making sense of music. By showing that musical romanticism embedded aspects of audiovisual culture, this book addresses one of the grand narratives of music history: that by aligning music purely with the ear and purging its material dimensions, romanticism spurred the development of a culture of serious music. Instead, this book shows how pivotal texts of musical romanticism evidence the entwinements of sight and sound, looking and listening, from which music gained status as the most metaphysical and otherworldly of the arts.

The Sacred Harp choral singing tradition originated in the American South in the mid-nineteenth century, spread widely across the country, and continues to thrive today. Sacred Harp is not performed but participated in, ideally in large gatherings where, as the a cappella singers face each other around a hollow square, the massed voices take on a moving and almost physical power. This book portrays several Sacred Harp groups and looks at how they manage to maintain a sense of community despite their members' often profound differences. The author's research took her to Alabama and Georgia, to Chicago and Minneapolis, and to Hollywood for a Sacred Harp performance at the Academy Awards, a potent symbol of the conflicting forces at play in the twenty-first-century incarnation of this old genre. She finds that in order for Sacred Harp singers to maintain the bond forged by their love of music, they must grapple with a host of difficult issues, including how to maintain the authenticity of their tradition and how to carefully negotiate the tensions created by their disparate cultural, religious, and political beliefs.

This book examines kwaito, a form of electronic music that emerged alongside the democratization of South Africa in the mid-1990s and came to represent the voice of the black youth in the post-apartheid period. It investigates the often contradictory relationship between political processes and musical processes during the first twenty years of South African democracy (1994-2014)—a period that began with a euphoric and hopeful moment but that quickly led to disenchantment and even despair. Contemporary South Africa is marked by high rates of unemployment, extreme inequality, and endemic crime. Politicians and cultural critics have called kwaito immature, apolitical, and disconnected from social issues, and have complained that it has failed to provide any meaningful contribution to a society that desperately needs direction. Its practitioners and listeners have been accused of irresponsibility in the face of major social ills and of ignoring the actual social conditions in which South Africans—and black South Africans in particular—live. I argue, however, that these criticisms harbor problematic assumptions about the political function of music. Based on extensive ethnographic evidence, I show that if kwaito musicians and listeners ignore actual social conditions they do this intentionally in order to forge another body and another way of hearing. I argue, in other words, that kwaito is less a form of escapism or illusion that hides reality than an aesthetic practice of multiplying sensory reality and thus generating new possibilities. This book is dedicated to kwaito’s aesthetics of freedom, to kwaito’s promise.

Any listener knows the power of music to define a place, but few can describe the how or why of this phenomenon. This book showcases how American jazz defined a culture particularly preoccupied with place. By analyzing both the performances and cultural context of leading jazz figures, including the many famous venues where they played, the author bridges two dominant scholarly approaches to the genre, offering a framework for musical analysis that examines how the geographical realities of daily life can be transformed into musical sound. Focusing on white bandleader Jan Garber, black bandleader Duke Ellington, white saxophonist Charlie Barnet, and black guitarist Charlie Christian, as well as traveling from Catalina Island to Manhattan to Oklahoma, the book depicts not only a geography of race but how this geography was disrupted, how these musicians crossed physical and racial boundaries—from black to white, South to North, and rural to urban—and how they found expression for these movements in the insistent music they were creating.

Patrimony--the idea of a collective, inalienable inheritance--is a powerful way for nation-states to externalize notions of continuity, discreteness, and vigilance against loss. But in the process of being externalized through a patrimonial object, such notions become entangled with the object's particular qualities and conditions of existence. This book asks what happens when that patrimonial object is a musical practice--in this case, an urban North African vocal and instrumental tradition known as Andalusi music. For many North Africans, Andalusi music is an emblem of local, national, and transnational authenticity that transcends the European colonial intrusion, a high-prestige, Arabic-language repertoire said to originate in "the lost paradise" of al-Andalus, medieval Islamic Spain. For more than a century, its devotees have rallied a range of technologies and institutions to attempt to save Andalusi music from the threat of disappearance. But these revivalist efforts come back to a common question: how to fashion a national, public, resilient musical patrimony out of a practice that is understood to be embodied in highly localized, genealogically embedded, and sometimes secretive individual authorities? Rooted in ethnographic and archival research that focuses on the Andalusi musical tradition of Algiers, Tlemcen, and their Algerian and Moroccan borderlands since the end of the nineteenth century, The Lost Paradise is a meditation on temporality, value, labor, personhood, and the relationship of the living to the dead.

Message to Our Folks is the first book about the Art Ensemble of Chicago, one of the most influential groups in jazz and experimental music. Unlike many texts in jazz studies and improvisation studies, Message to Our Folks combines musical analysis with historical inquiry. The book offers a detailed history of the Art Ensemble, from its 1966 founding on Chicago’s South Side to its final performances in the 2010s. But the book’s greatest contribution to music theory (and a range of other disciplines) may be its analyses of the Art Ensemble’s performances. Message to Our Folks proposes a new theory of group improvisation that explains how the Art Ensemble members are able to improvise together in many different styles while drawing on an extensive repertoire of notated compositions. The book also examines the intermedia dimensions of the Art Ensemble’s performances, which integrate music with poetry, theater, costumes, and movement. Additionally, Message to Our Folks investigates the connections between the group’s performances and its distinctive model of social relations—practices of cooperation and personal autonomy that the group members adapted from the Association for the Advancement of Creative Musicians (AACM), the Chicago collective from which the Art Ensemble emerged.

This book explores the performances of Miles Davis’s “Lost” Quintet, 1968-1970, to illuminate the unfolding of Davis’s musical thinking during a period of personal transition. A careful listening reveals music that privileged an uneasy dynamic tension between, on one hand, sonic and structural openness, surprise, and experimentation and, on the other hand, the rhythmic groove. Viewing Davis’s band in this manner allows new webs of musical interconnection to emerge—not only continuity with Davis’s subsequent funk inflected bands—but also a musical world pioneered most significantly by Ornette Coleman. Davis’s musical peers come to include highly exploratory bands including Circle (co-founded by two members of the “Lost” Quintet) and the Revolutionary Ensemble. This book provides a consideration of the aesthetics and performance practices of all three bands and others in which Circle saxophonist Anthony Braxton played, in search of points of musical resonance. This work concludes by acknowledging a profound distance that lay between Miles Davis and these peers within the musical economy. Elements include access to financial resources, recording contracts, bookings, and the ability to reach an interested public. This work in its fullness thus encompasses yet moves beyond musical aesthetics to explore a fascinating period of discovery and new possibilities emerging within American musical history.