British Journal Of Ethnomusicology

British Journal of Ethnomusicology Volume 9/ii 2000

Editors Martin Clayton Suzel Ana Reily

Reviews Editor Carole Pegg Editorial Board John Baily Stephen Blum David Hughes Richard Middleton Mícheál Ó Súilleabháin Jonathan Stock Janet Topp Fargion Richard Widdess Udo Will

British Forum for Ethnomusicology formerly International Council for Traditional Music UK Chapter

Published by British Forum for Ethnomusicology

The publishers wish to thank the Open University Research Development Funding Sub-Committee for their financial support.

Enquiries regarding announcements and advertising should be addressed to the Editors, Dr Martin Clayton and Dr Suzel Ana Reily (for addresses see inside back cover). Enquiries regarding reviews, and review copies of publications, should be sent to the Reviews Editor: Dr Carole Pegg, BJE Reviews Editor, 59 Mawson Road, Cambridge CB1 2DZ, England.

The British Forum for Ethnomusicology is the UK National Committee of the International Council for Traditional Music.

© British Forum for Ethnomusicology, 2000

ISSN 0968-1221

Cover illustration: photo by Henry Stobart Copy-editing and page layout Jane Wood Design Pamela Higgins Music type-setting Michelle McQuade Dewhirst Printed by Hobbs the Printer Ltd, Totton, Hampshire, SO40 3YS.

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Contents

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ARTICLES

Reading Indian music: the interpretation of seventeenth-century European travel-writing in the (re)construction of Indian music history

Katherine Brown

The situation of music in Iran since the Revolution: the role of official organizations

Ameneh Youssefzadeh 35

The Andean anacrusis? rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs of Northern Potosí, Bolivia

Henry Stobart and Ian Cross

63

No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

David W. Hughes

95

Listening patterns and identity of the Korean diaspora in the former USSR

Hae-Kyung Um

123

Gulbekian (trans.), Komitas: Armenian sacred and folk music and At’ayan, The Armenian neume system of notation

Andy Nercessian

145

Kaufman Shelemay, Let jasmine rain down: song and remembrance among Syrian Jews

Sara Manasseh

148

Bakan, Music of death and new creation: experiences in the world of Balinese gamelan beleganjur

Maria Mendonça

150

Buckley (ed.) Hearing the past: essays in historical ethnomusicology and the archaeology of sound

Henry Stobart

154

Erlmann, Music, modernity, and the global imagination: South Africa and the West

Janet Topp Fargion 158

Tokita, Kiyomoto-bushi: narrative music of the kabuki theatre

Charles Rowe

1

REVIEWS OF BOOKS

160

REVIEWS OF RECORDINGS

Musics of Siberian peoples

Carole Pegg

161

Index of articles by author, volumes 1–9/ii

167

Index of countries as major article themes, volumes 1–9/ii

169

Editorial policy and subscriptions

inside front cover

Notes to contributors

inside back cover

KATHERINE BROWN ____________________________

Reading Indian music: the interpretation of seventeenth-century European travel-writing in the (re)construction of Indian music history __________________________________________________________________________

Reconstructing the history of an art as elusive as Indian classical1 music, improvised and largely unnotated, and complete only in the moment of performance, has proven to be a somewhat problematic undertaking. Recently, however, there has been a growing interest in trying to place Indian music in its historical context as a means of understanding better some of its present manifestations (Wade 1998:lvi). It has increasingly been recognized that European travel literature, with its easy accessibility and its copious documentation of cultural detail, constitutes a valuable source of musical information. However, travel-writing is also a notoriously complex and contradictory genre, generally denying a straightforward reading.2 This has rarely been taken into consideration by musicologists using these sources. When interpreted critically, however, this genre does offer a unique perspective on music, which is able to make a significant contribution to the reconstruction of Indian music history. This paper discusses how the travel literature published during the seventeenth century can be used as a source for the study of music under the Mughal Emperors Jahangir (r. 1605–27), Shah Jahan (r. 1628–58) and Aurangzeb (r. 1658–1707).

1 The use of the term “classical music” here is somewhat problematic. In the body of this article I have tried to restrict my use of the term to references to acknowledged “classical”genres such as dhrupad (i.e., music which conforms to an authoritative body of music theory and is patronized by social elites). In the abstract I am using the term in a looser sense, denoting music representative of centres of political and economic power such as royal courts, which may conform to theoretical norms more or less closely. 2 See Porter 1993, Teltscher 1997, Introduction and Chapter One and Surendranath Sen’s Introduction (Thevenot 1949) for a more in-depth discussion of the challenges involved in interpreting travel literature. BRITISH JOURNAL OF ETHNOMUSICOLOGY VOL. 9/ii 2000

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Introduction: recontextualizing travel literature Seventeenth-century travel literature essentially tells the story of Europe’s increasing encounter with India. Earlier travellers had detailed many important discoveries concerning the nature of human diversity, which forced Europe to reassess its position in the world (Rubiés 1995:38). As a consequence, new worldviews were generated which influenced the way India was perceived and written about in the seventeenth century (40). Thus, the ways in which travellers “read” a music that was strange to them were inevitably affected by contemporary European perspectives, while still claiming to be true. Frank Harrison’s call for musicologists to consider the individual biases of earlier writers when evaluating the reliability of their musical descriptions (1973:2) has largely been heeded by those using travel literature as a source (e.g. Woodfield 1995:267). However, it seems to have been generally assumed that the veracity of each journal can be judged by assessing the level of its apparent conformity with late twentieth-century standards of “objectivity” (Miller and Chonpairot 1994:23). Once an account has thereby been granted authoritative status, it is arguably then treated as a mine of raw scientific data, from which musical “facts” can be extracted without need for further textual or contextual analysis. The main linguistic conventions I have identified as leading to the acceptance of an account as “objective” are a use of positive or non-derogatory language, a non-religious outlook, and a distanced, detailed approach in description.3 On the other hand, it seems to be assumed that bias, or ethnocentricity, is synonymous primarily with the use of negative or patronizing language in musical description (Miller and Chonpairot 1994:7–8, 25). Such a bipolar opposition enables an account to be placed somewhere on a scale from “quasi-fictional” to “photographic” (8), depending largely on whether the observer seems to like the music or not (26–9). This is overly simplistic; as Nettl points out, appreciation is not synonymous with understanding (1983:44).4 Firstly, the tendency to overemphasize individual bias, and to insist on the unique nature of both the musical moment and the attitude of the observer (Harrison 1973:2) obscures the deep, often parasitic relationship between the travel writers, as well as a multitude of common themes running through the travel literature that demonstrate shared European presuppositions about India and music. However, the main problem with this approach is that it is simply not valid to use an interpretative paradigm that is 3 See for example Bor 1988:52–3 and Woodfield 1995:267, 275, 280. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 4 Despite his considerably more dynamic and complex approach (see 1973:2), even Harrison is not immune from regarding neutral, positive or “scientific” language as less biased than supposedly negative description (1971:15–16). He also seems to subscribe to the fallacy that the world of travel-writing divides neatly into Christian and secular halves, and hence that religious conviction is the single most important factor in evaluating whether a traveller has made an “adequate” record of the music described (1973:2). A closer comparison of the travels of Manrique and Navarette, for example, would serve to dispel this myth (see also note 3, paragraph 2).

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

largely reacting against the language of late nineteenth-century social Darwinism to judge the trustworthiness of a seventeenth-century text. If we look for ethnocentricity primarily in the form of “out-moded” concepts of “purity” or “progress”, as Woodfield suggests we ought (1995:267), we may be tempted to assume that some texts do not exhibit bias, simply because we are not looking in the right place. It is imperative therefore, that we challenge our present-day understanding of historical reliability by reading these texts in the light of the contemporary culture and circumstances that produced them. Seventeenth-century travel journals were not isolated from each other, but were published in a specific context with an acknowledged set of aims. Their primary purpose was to entertain the European public with exotic curiosities; indeed, in the seventeenth century, travel journals poured off the printing presses of Europe, second only to theology in popularity (Teltscher 1997:4). A second purpose was to boost the prestige of individuals, nations and trading companies competing in the region. The English East India Company, for example, deliberately published travel accounts as propaganda during this period (Lach and van Kley 1993:302), thereby giving an exaggerated sense of the influence of various European powers in Asia at this time. Significantly, the travel literature also fulfilled the purpose of being a major forum in which the battle between competing European ideologies on a multitude of issues was played out, using the ethnographic evidence of the travellers’ observations as a weapon (Hodgen 1964:338–42). For this reason, the basic assumption of the above model – that it is possible to find an account that is almost entirely uninfluenced by Eurocentric worldviews – needs to be questioned. Even with a detailed, neutral description of a musical instrument, for example, I would argue that a European objective decided its inclusion in the narrative. The European influences on seventeenth-century travel-writing can be described simplistically as a series of dichotomies. The most important of these was that of the medieval worldview of traditional Christianity versus the embryonic worldview of scientific rationalism. Other important oppositions included Protestantism versus Catholicism, Anglicanism versus Puritanism, Royalists versus Cromwell, the Portuguese versus the other European traders, superstition versus rationalism, absolute monarchy versus embryonic democracy, woman as Madonna or whore, and Europe versus the Mughal Empire. This is complicated by the fact that the importance and emphases of these debates changed over the century; for example, by at least the 1670s the European traders in India presented a united front to the Mughal authorities on matters affecting European interests, despite the fact that they were often still at war with each other in Europe (e.g. Carré 1947:149). It is further complicated because a range of viewpoints might be expressed on a single issue, which were not necessarily consistently defended, even by a single author. The individual backgrounds of the travel writers also played a role in increasing this complexity; they came from a great diversity of educational, philosophical, religious and national backgrounds, and had very different experiences in India. For example, many of the journals referred to in this article were translated into English contemporaneously from Italian, Dutch, German,

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French, Portuguese and Spanish. The authors include East India Company servants, noble ambassadors, intellectuals, Catholic missionaries, a self-educated Venetian adventurer, and a French spy. Their positions between the poles of any of these issues cannot necessarily be inferred from a superficial glance at their background or position; for example, some missionaries produced surprisingly perspicacious and sympathetic accounts (Lach and van Kley 1993: xlii). I think one needs firstly to compare the travel literature and determine which issues were current at the time, and then decide on the basis of the writer’s observations, which of those were instrumental in his perception of Indian music. The travellers’ use of language that appears to signify truthfulness or objectivity can also be misleading. Claims to be telling a true story, for example, were commonly held to enhance the entertainment value of a narrative (Davis 1987:112). One of the major conventions used to signify the reliability of a text, especially in the first quarter of the seventeenth century, was the repetition of observations made by earlier travellers. This did not necessarily mean that they had actually seen the same things; Teltscher points out that many published journals drew quite blatantly on the work of previous writers for both the form and content of their narratives (1997:15–16). 5 Moreover, the use of “objective” descriptive language did not signify neutrality; on the contrary, in the latter half of the century it was used to distance the European observer from the Indian observed in order to buttress the concept of European distinctiveness and superiority. Finally, the decontextualization of this paradigm allows a traveller’s interpretations of a musical event to be cited as “fact”, because his journal has been deemed to be reliable. The practice of bestowing authoritative status on those whose language seems “objective” to us can lead to poor or partial understanding of the evidence, and even occasionally false conclusions. 6 Not even the most educated and sympathetic observers were able to avoid the influence of European concepts on the conclusions they drew about Indian music. One major obsession of the travel writers, for example, was the sexuality 5 While this practice decreased as the century progressed, it is still evident in the work of such writers as the self-educated Niccolao Manucci, who copied extensively from the earlier journal of François Bernier, despite the fact that he was himself an eyewitness (Maiello 1984:625–7). 6 Wade, for example, is particularly uncritical when it comes to Niccolao Manucci’s Storia do Mogor. Written from memory several decades after the events it describes (Manucci 1907:lxxii), not only does Manucci’s life story read like a Boys’ Own adventure, but his hatred for Aurangzeb verges on the irrational, and his reliance on “bazaar gossip” is proverbial (Maiello 1984:625). Wade’s reliance on his evidence of Aurangzeb’s opposition to music (apparently on the basis of his lengthy stay in the Mughal Empire, and the agreement of his sentiments with those of one particular anti-Aurangzeb faction of Indo-Persian writers) leads her to make a most basic mistake with the contradictory evidence of another European traveller, Jean-Baptiste Tavernier. He describes the performance in the divan of “sweet and pleasant” music when he was presented to Aurangzeb at Shahjahanabad on 12 September 1665 (1925:xxi). Wade ascribes Tavernier’s description to the reign of Shah Jahan twice (1998:135, 165). As Shah Jahan had been ousted by Aurangzeb seven years previously, her subsequent conclusions (165) must be erroneous.

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

of Indian women, which as Teltscher demonstrates, was heavily influenced by the current European debate on the virtue and vice of women. (1997:37–9).7

Musical stories: a different approach to interpretation This is not to suggest that seventeenth-century travellers’ descriptions of music are historically worthless. I would argue that a musical reality – the “facts” – did once exist beneath the rhetoric of the travel literature. By this I mean that, by and large, the travellers were not just making things up wildly in order to deceive. Descriptions of music and musicians can usually be assumed to reflect actual musical events or social phenomena – a dance performance during a banquet, a parade witnessed in the street, the naubat or the music of the women’s quarters overheard at night. This is particularly so when they are located in the context of a temporal event personally attended or overheard by the observer, and even second-hand descriptions or those presented as normative or essentialist are likely to retain something of the original musical reality. However, it is impossible for us to comprehend this reality fully and exhaustively, not merely because it is multi-faceted and complex, but because we are irrevocably separated from it by time, and twice by culture. As Partha Mitter argues, “the past, however recent, is a form of otherness” (1994:8).8 In her study of pardon tales in sixteenth-century France, Natalie Zemon Davis suggests a possible way in which we can reconstruct and explain at least some aspects of that reflected musical reality. Rather than “[peeling] away the fictive elements in our documents so we [can] get at the real facts”, we should “let the ‘fictional’ aspects of these documents be the centre of analysis” (1987:3). She argues that not only are the shaping elements of true stories of interest in evaluating their truth claims, but that a study of the construction of stories can in fact reveal other, equally important historical truths about the society under consideration (4). If we therefore think of both the travel journal and the musical description embedded in it as true stories with individual morals reflecting contemporary European ideas about India, we may be able to comprehend better some of the functions of music in India through the author’s choice and interpretation of musical events. Because these individual narratives were shaped by the required perspectives of travel literature as a genre, in order to attempt any reconstruction of Indian music history it is necessary to study general trends in 7 This usually manifested itself as a Hindu–Muslim dichotomy As an example, the musical descriptions of Pietro della Valle, highly educated and himself a composer and music theorist (Bor 1988:53) are some of the most informative of the period. However, he was convinced that Hindu women were “modest and honoured”, whereas Muslim women were lewd and licentious (1989:216). This prejudicial distinction seems to have coloured his view of “Mohammedan” female musicians and dancers (1989:206, 224). 8 As an example, contrary to postmodern dogma that there is no such thing as truth, it is a “fact” that you are at the present moment reading this article. However, the meaning, or the quality of remembrance of this “fact” in later years may be contested, obscuring the “fact” itself.

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musical description during the seventeenth century. In this paper, I have chosen to concentrate primarily on what I think are the two most important issues influencing the construction of musical stories in this period: the development of a scientific worldview, and the increasing strength of the European powers in India. These are both reflected to a greater or lesser extent mainly in the choice of material for inclusion in the narrative, and the type of language used. I will first demonstrate how the rising power of the scientific worldview influenced a change in descriptive language over the century. Although the genesis of modern science occurred earlier, it was in the seventeenth century that the decisive battle was played out between a literal Biblical understanding of the world and its origins, and a new approach to these issues based on scepticism, rationalism, and the observation of evidence. The picture is in fact more complicated than this, as almost all subscribers to the new scientific position were also Christians (Munck 1990:290–9). On the other hand, proponents of both sides had already succumbed to the philosophical necessity of arguing on the basis of evidence. This evidence was largely supplied, and often interpreted, by the travel writers.9 I will then show how the rising tension between Europe and India due to increased contact, and the ambivalence this created in the European mind between fascination and fear, was reflected in the choice of musical subject matter. Interestingly, a comparison of European and Mughal sources provides an insight into the way music was used by both cultures to convey specific messages to each other. In the case of military and ceremonial bands, I argue that on the whole their symbolic meaning was mutually understood. However, with respect to women musicians, I contend that the message being conveyed by the Mughals was consciously or unconsciously misinterpreted by the Europeans. It is therefore important to note that while the musical world described by the travellers intersects with the world described in Indian sources, it is not the same.10 Nevertheless, they have an interesting, if partial, story to tell about music in seventeenth-century India, valuable in itself, which must be incorporated into any reconstruction of Indian music history.

Tradition versus reason: the literary use of music as evidence Christopher Farewell (1613) observed at the beginning of the century, that: The Moors … drink wine liberally, and strong waters, yet never drunk but in the night, and then their women, their wives and concubines … 9 See Hodgen 1964 and Rubiés 1995 for comprehensive discussions of this development. xx 10 It is important to note that with one exception, there are no incontrovertible descriptions of the most prestigious genres of Indian classical music in the journals published in the seventeenth century, despite the fact that some of the travellers, Manucci for example, must have been exposed to it at the Mughal court, or at least known about it.

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

sing most melodiously, with such elevated and shrill voices, strained unto the highest, yet sweet and tuneable, rising and falling according to their art and skill, (for every country hath his own, and more or less excelling) … [they] sing aloud to God our strength, make a joyful noise unto the God of Jacob, take a psalm and bring hither the timbrel, the pleasant harp with the psaltery, blow up the trumpet in the new moon, in the time appointed on our solemn feast day … (Farewell 1971:41–2; my spelling)

It would be unwise to interpret this passage, with its flowery rhetoric and Biblical overtones, as an accurate description of performance practice inside the zanana (“women’s quarters”). However, it does tell us something about the original event. In context, although Farewell states that the participants “constantly thus celebrate” the change of lunar month, this particular new moon festival seems to have been no ordinary celebration (41–2). References to a “feast day”, the putting on of costly perfumes at the first sight of the new moon, and joyous acclamations of its appearance – “a reward for our watchfulness or good tidings” (42–3), seem to indicate that this event occurred at the end of Ramazan. Hence women’s music may have played a distinctive part in the family celebration of this important festival. This passage also demonstrates that Farewell appreciated this music, and understood that it required skill. However, these were arguably not the points Farewell wanted to make with this anecdote. His use of Old Testament language to identify this music suggests he thought that European and Indian Muslim culture had a common Biblical origin. One of the main consequences of contact with non-Christian cultures was to enhance European awareness of the huge amount of diversity between human societies (Rubiés 1995:38–9). The Church’s traditional understanding of diversity was based on a literal interpretation of Genesis, an understanding which was challenged during the Renaissance by a growing number of sceptics, who questioned the logic and inerrancy of the Genesis account. Differences and similarities between various cultures were used by proponents of both positions to challenge or defend the traditional view that all societies had originated in Eden, and subsequently degenerated. It was therefore common to compare newly discovered cultures with the Old Testament (Hodgen 1964:230–68). Farewell, a devout Christian, might have been implying that because the Islamic music he heard was similar (in his mind) to the music described by David in the Psalms, this was definitive musical evidence for the literal truth of the Biblical view of human diversity. John Fryer (1672–81), on the other hand, although also a Christian (1909–15:xxxii), was representative of the new scientific community. 11 This extract, written more than seventy years later, comes from a section of his journal which attempted to arrange the various sciences of the Indians, and describe them objectively using straightforward language:

11 John Fryer became a member of the Royal Society in 1697 (first established in 1662). xxx

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In what Perfection Musick stands (as I am no competent Judge) I could never give my Ears the trouble to examine, it seeming loud and barbarous; yet they observe Time and Measure in their Singing and Dancing, and are mightily delighted with their Tumbling and Noise. They as much dislike our shriller Musick, hardly allowing our Wayts12 fit to play to Bears, and our Stringed Instruments strike not their hardto-be-raised Fancies; but our Organs are the Musick of the Spheres with them, charming them to listen as long as they play. (1909–15:103)

Here, Indian music was no longer equated with recognizably European concepts (such as the Psalms of David). Rather, Fryer was able to perceive

Figure 1 The genus of Man divided into two species by Linnaeus, the father of botany, in the System of nature, 1735. Linnaeus’ system of classification builds on the foundation of late seventeenth-century systems, such as Dr Petty’s Scale of creatures (1670s), and the observations of travel writers (Hodgen 1964:422–5).

12 The word “waytes [waits]” in this context most likely refers to the bands of shawms and sackbuts (and possibly other instruments such as viols and recorders) employed by civic corporations such as the East India Companies, mainly for processional/heraldic purposes. It may also refer to the distinctive “signature tunes” played by these bands (Sadie 1980:154–5).

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

Indian music as an abstract object of scientific enquiry, with its own internal logic that he was able to recognize, but not understand. He had therefore progressed from Farewell’s recognition of its uniqueness, to being able to put Indian music on a seemingly equal footing with European music by admitting their mutual incomprehensibility. However, in context this also served to stress Indian inferiority, by emphasizing their absolute otherness to the European observer, who simultaneously claimed omniscience concerning Indian likes and dislikes. Fryer’s journal generally displays utter contempt for the Indian people, despite his appreciation of their scientific achievements. He regarded the Indian merchants of Surat, for example, as “the absolute Map of Sordidness … Lying, Dissembling, Cheating, are their Masterpiece”, and equated them with fleas (1909–15:212). Hodgen argues that some supporters of the scientific worldview, lacking the belief in a common human descent from Adam, were increasingly willing to classify non-Europeans as superior animals rather than humans (1964:408; also Rubiés 1995:37) (see Figure 1 for an early eighteenth century example of this). John Ovington, for example, travelling in India and Africa from 1689, regarded the Hottentots as “the very Reverse of Human Kind, Cousin German to the Helachors [Indian untouchables] … so that if there is any medium between a Rational Animal and a Beaste, the Hotantot lays fairest claim to the Species” (in Hodgen 1964:422). 13 While it was probably coincidental, it is interesting that this attitude became more prevalent at the same time as the travel literature began to reflect a growing fear of a Mughal threat to the increasing power of Europe in India, and a desire to strengthen ties with European interests (see Figure 2 for an example of a classificatory system tailored for an imperialistic mindset). The main way in which the latter was demonstrated, however, was in the travellers’ choice of subject matter.

Figure 2 John Fryer’s classification of the residents of India (1909–15:100). N

13 Classifications of humankind into more than one species were being published, using travellers’ tales as evidence, from at least the 1670s (Hodgen 1964:422).

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Engaging the other: musical power struggles and mutual appreciation In her book Imaging Sound (1998), Bonnie Wade discusses the use by the Mughals of the ceremonial and military band, the naubat ensemble,14 as a symbol of power and status. Her conclusions, which are largely confined to the Mughal context,15 will not be discussed at length here. However, the narrative function of the naubat in the context of the travel literature is an interesting example of communication between rival cultures using musical symbols. Such a highly “visible and audible presence of power” (Wade 1998:4) was unlikely to go unnoticed by European travellers, and in my estimation, nearly all the travellers surveyed here mentioned the naubat ensemble. Many of the early references were confined to description, taking either a neutral or occasionally a positive stance on Mughal ceremonial music (see Figure 3 for an excellent pictorial description of the naubat in procession). However, as the century drew to a close, most references to the naubat ensemble became more antagonistic in tone, and emphasized the symbolic importance of military music in India. By the late seventeenth century, the European colonies in India were well established, and European trade was beginning to have a more significant impact on the Mughal Empire (Richards 1993:198). The first half of the century during the reigns of Jahangir and Shah Jahan saw a mainly encouraging attitude towards European involvement in

Figure 3 The naubat ensemble in Shah Jahan’s entourage, en route to “Darreecabaag” from Burhanpur in 1632. (Mundy 1914–36, vol. ii:195).

14 According to the A’in-i-Akbari, ‘Abul Fazl’s chronicle of Akbar’s reign (1556–1605), the naubat ensemble consisted of 18 pairs of large kettle-drums (kuwarga or damâma), 20 pairs of small kettle-drums (naqqâra), 4 barrel-shaped drums (duhul), 3 pairs of cymbals (sânj), 4 metal trumpets (karnâ), an unspecified number of Persian, European and Indian trumpets (nafir), 2 curved trumpets (sing), and 9 reed instruments (surnâ) (Wade 1995:98). 15 See Wade (1995) and (1998), Chapters One and Six.

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

India (203),16 a trend that continued to an extent under Aurangzeb. However, as European power and autonomy increased, and the Mughal empire began to expand into South India where the majority of the European trading stations were located, a more confrontational attitude towards those who posed a threat to European interests became apparent in the travel journals. For this reason, a metaphorical battle between European military music and the naubat seems to have been fought through the medium of the late journals. Paradoxically, the growth in diplomatic relations and trade in the seventeenth century also produced a certain amount of musical rapprochement between Europe and India. At the end of the century, when fear of the Muslim threat was reflected more strongly in the travel literature than ever before, this musical encounter became somewhat controversial.

Musical rivalry Judging by the frequency with which the Indo-Persian authors mentioned the naubat as a symbol of imperial might and victory in battle, the Mughals were fully aware of the implications of power contained in this particular use of music. Taken with the Emperor wherever he went, the naubat was allocated its own room situated prominently at the entrance to the imperial fortress or camp (Wade 1998:5). In addition, as representatives of the Emperor, regional governors were provided with their own set of instruments as a sign of delegated authority (Bruton 1812:262), which were used in maintaining law and order (Fryer 1909–15:246). The granting of the kettle-drum (naqqâra) represented the particular favour of the Emperor, and was bestowed only by his express command (for example Khafi Khan 1977:57; Nagar 1978:94). In a letter to one of his sons, Aurangzeb demonstrated an almost superstitious belief in the link between the naqqâra and the inheritance of imperial qualities: “Issue an order that the drum of victory will be beaten in your own name. You may remember the words uttered by you in your childhood ‘Babaji, dhun, dhun’” (1972:45). The Mughal general Mirza Nathan, 17 himself a recipient of the imperial kettledrum, described at length a struggle for precedence between himself and Mukarram Khan, the commander-in-chief of the army. While Mukarram Khan was legally entitled to sound drums and trumpets to announce the start of the march, he had not himself been personally favoured by the Emperor. Mirza Nathan therefore demanded that honour. It appears from Nathan’s account that all parties involved in the dispute were aware that this battle was a metaphorical power struggle between the protagonists (1936:224–8). In the first part of the century, the travel writers were certainly impressed by the grandeur and symbolic might of the naubat:

16 Although Shah Jahan expelled the Portuguese from Hughli in 1631, the Dutch, English and French quickly replaced them (Richards 1993:202). 17 Mainly during the reign of Jahangir, but also under Shah Jahan.

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In the night, particularly, when in bed and afar, on my terrace this music sounds in my ears as solemn, grand and melodious. This is not to be altogether wondered at, since it is played by persons instructed from infancy in the rules of melody, and possessing the skill of modulating and turning the harsh sounds of the hautboy18 and cymbal so as to produce a symphony far from disagreeable when heard at a certain distance. (Bernier 1891:260)

As the century progressed, however, in response to the signal they were receiving from the Mughals, the Europeans began to use their own military bands as a symbol of an alternative authority. It would seem that these had an identical function to the naubat, and that the Europeans even adopted Indian instruments: [The Mughal] way of living is truly Noble, having a Retinue which bespeaks their Greatness as they rise in Fortune or the King’s Grace … However, for the English Honour be it spoke, none of them surpass the Grandeur of our East-India Company, who not only command, but oblige their utmost Respect; none of their Servants showing themselves in Publick without a Company answerable to theirs … When the Chief made his Entry at his Return from the Fort, it was very Pompous, all the Merchants of Esteem going to meet him with loud Indian Musick and Led-Horses: Before his Palankeen an Horse of State, and two St George’s Banners, with English Trumpeters. (Fryer 1909–15:87)

That the Europeans were perceived by the Mughals to be a threat is demonstrated by the fact that the Governor of Surat in the 1670s “actually forbad our three agencies to blow trumpets, as was the custom, during their meals, or even in the streets when the chiefs of the Company went into the town” (Carré 1947:149). As the European companies colluded in ignoring this ban,19 I would argue that they now perceived themselves as rivals to the Mughals, not only in cultural supremacy, but also in political stature in India. This is seen further in the difference between the two official embassies to Jahangir and Aurangzeb, by Sir Thomas Roe (1615–19) and Sir William Norris (1699–1702). As Woodfield has demonstrated, music was used by Roe mainly as a diplomatic tool in order to win trading favours (1990:54–7). In contrast, nearly a century later, Norris engaged in a battle with the Mughal hierarchy to 18 In this context, Bernier is referring to the karnâ, a large brass trumpet (1891:260). Hautboy in descriptions of the naubat often refers not to the wooden shawm (shenai or surnâ) as would be expected, but to the karnâ, mainly because of its similar shape to the European hautboy (Brown, 1999:16–17). 19 “Our three nations [English, Dutch and French] resolved not to send him any more presents, nor to visit him, nor show him any courtesy” (Carré 1947:149).

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

be permitted to display and sound English military symbols in his state visit to the Grand Wazir, Asad Khan. In correspondence conducted via the Wazir’s Secretary, Norris stipulated that he must be attended by his own kettle-drums and trumpets. This request was refused. Furious, Norris replied that the Mughals were ignorant of the honour and respect due to him, as he was subject only to the King of England. Asad Khan pointed out that even the Emperor’s sons were not permitted to sound the drums. This matter was never resolved, and Norris left without visiting Asad Khan, instead going directly to the Emperor’s camp (Das 1959:270–4). An astute and culturally sensitive diplomat, it is difficult to believe that Norris was not aware of the potential offence of his stand. There are numerous descriptions of Norris adopting Mughal customs in order to please his host country (136), even celebrating the birthday of King William III in Mughal style (174). Moreover, in an earlier incident Norris showed that he was fully aware that he had been accorded a higher status than the Dutch Chief when he cunningly negotiated permission for his military band to attend him on a visit to Nawab Mahdi Khan (150–1). These battles over musical symbols can be construed as being symptomatic of the growing power of Europe in India and the consequent rise in tension.

Musical rapprochement Musical encounter between Europeans and Indians was not always conflictual, especially in the first half of the century. It must be remembered that the number of Europeans in India was still relatively small throughout the century. However, their numerical strength was arguably outweighed by their influence as a comparatively wealthy and potentially powerful elite. There are numerous appreciative descriptions of musicians and instruments in the context of wedding processions, religious festivals, funerals, temples and especially court entertainments. Skilled courtesans and accompanists in particular appear frequently in the travel literature, suggesting that the Indian elites used them as well as the naubat to impress their guests. Even a traveller as ill-disposed towards the Indians as Abbé Carré (1672–4) was able to appreciate this music: [After supper] a troop of instrument-players then entered, and sat down in a corner of the room, while at the same time came a dozen of courtesans … Their agility and charm, the rhythm of their voices, and their skill in showing their passions by their gestures, were all absolutely perfect. They were really wonderful, and were much applauded by the guests and praised by the Governor [of Hukeri, Bijapur]. (Carré 1947:232)

The European ambassadors often returned the musical compliment of their Muslim hosts. To entertain the Persian Governor of “Schamachie” in 1637, Adam Olearius (1636–8) provided a violinist, a bass viol player, and a singer. The Governor was apparently “so taken therewith, that he importuned the Ambassadors to go & sup with him at the castle, and to bring their Musick

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along with them” (Olearius 1669:157). Further evidence of a musical rapprochement between the Indo-Muslim and European cultures is found in a number of references to European patronage of Indian music, both in India and Persia. On 25 September 1637, the English ambassadors in Esfahan entertained the ambassadors of the Duke of Holstein with Indian instrumentalists and women dancers (Olearius 1669:206). 20 John Albert de Mandelslo (1636–8) was entertained in the same way, again by the English, in Surat in 1638 (1669:22), and implied that it was common in European circles to patronize both English musicians and Indian courtesans simultaneously (47). Perhaps more significantly, Pietro della Valle’s account (1622–4) provides the only incontrovertible evidence of which I am aware that Europeans were also patrons of Indian classical music. In the late 1620s, at the house of Dutch merchants in Surat, Pietro della Valle was entertained by the excellent music of an Indian who sang quite well and played on a certain odd instrument of his, used in India. This pleased me greatly, because it was not strident music like the ordinary playing of the common Indians, but low-voiced and very soft; and the musician was skilful according to the mode of the country, since for many years he had been at the courts of Bijapur, in the service of ‘Adil Shah … [there follows a remarkable description of a bîn, included in Bor’s catalogue (1988)] (della Valle 1989:243–4)

This passage demonstrates that some of the European residents of India, with their wealth and perceived status, were fulfilling a social role in India approaching in importance that of a noted connoisseur of music such as ‘Adil Shah of Bijapur. Furthermore, by mentioning the musician’s skilfulness “according to the mode of the country” and comparing the music of a royal employee with that of the “common Indians”, 21 it indicates that they were clearly capable of discriminating between different genres and statuses of Indian music. This appreciation of foreign music extended further to the patronage of European musicians by the Indian elites (for example Woodfield 1990:48, 56). In Norris’s dealings with Aurangzeb, the English ambassador used as a 20 Della Valle also records being entertained by Indian musicians, specifically women dancers, in Persia (1989:206). It is important to note that out of a population of 500,000 in Esfahan in the 1630s, 12,000 or 2.5% were Indians, according to Olearius (1669:200). This would have been a substantial community, and given that they were mostly traders (della Valle 1989:128), they would certainly have had the means to maintain a number of musicians. Given also that there was still a large and influential Persian community in India, especially in the Deccan, I would suggest that some sort of dynamic musical rapprochement between the Persian and Indian communities continued well into the seventeenth century. It is likely that contact between Persian and Indian musicians was reduced from the 1640s when relations between India and Persia soured (Ahmad 1964:40). 21 This comment about the “strident music” of the “common Indians” refers to an earlier incident: “after nightfall that evening, we heard music at home, provided by some Mohammedan women singers and dancers … their music, being so loud, was distasteful rather than delightful” (della Valle 1989:224).

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

translator “Johannes Pottvleet a ffleminge Musitian to Osman Dara” (Das 1959:211). Moreover, it seems that this extended to the learning of European instruments by Indian musicians. Jahangir, for example, was most impressed with the cornetto playing of Robert Trully, and ordered him to teach one of his own musicians how to play it (Woodfield 1990:52). Furthermore, bands of Indian musicians playing in (what they perceived to be) European style were also established by the 1670s: The Dutch [in Golconda] employ … a fine troop of musicians. These are poor Christians from Kanara, near Goa. They had passed their youth in slavery with some Portuguese nobles, where they had learnt to strum a guitar and sing some airs, almost as melodious as penitential psalms … I had this diversion at all our meals. One tortured a harp, another strummed a guitar, a third scraped on a violin, and two others, having no other instruments but their voices, joined in with the rest in such a way that one could not listen to their harmonies without pity and compassion. There was nothing but repetition of helás, háa, híns, hús, and such like sounds, which lasted about quarter of an hour. After the meal, they came and asked me proudly what I thought of their fine concert, and enquired if we had anything so charming and agreeable in our European countries. ‘No,’ I replied, ‘we certainly have nothing like it, and I can assure you that, if in France we had a troop like yours, we would enjoy it with much more pleasure and amusement than all the tunes we use. But what of it? Every country has its own modes.’ They were so delighted at hearing me speak in this manner that they imagined they were the best musicians in the world.22 (Carré 1947:350–1)

It had been quite common at the height of Portuguese power in the sixteenth century to teach European instruments and styles to Indians under Portuguese rule, and the most straightforward reading of this anecdote would be that the musicians were performing European music. However, Carré’s description of the music strongly suggests that he did not recognize it as European. The distinct possibility of an Indian band performing a hybrid 22 It is a little difficult to determine in context whether these musicians were in fact Indian, as the passage follows on from a description of the Christians in Golconda, who were apparently “mostly Portuguese”. However, Carré seems to have regarded Goa as part of Portugal, and therefore all Goans as Portuguese; hence the musicians “finding nothing to attract them in their own country [i.e. Goa/Europe], they visit the oriental courts [i.e. Golconda/India]” (350). Moreover, he pointed out that the musicians were originally from Kanara, not Goa, and he certainly did not refer to the musicians as being European. On the contrary, he refused to “grant them a favour for one of their own countrymen … the miserable Canarin, who had occasioned such a turmoil by abandoning my baggage” (351). Lach and van Kley argue that Hindus who converted to Christianity through the Portuguese were regarded by other Indians as Parangis – foreigners – and especially as Portuguese (1993:150). I have thus surmised that the musicians were Indian.

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Europeanized music would be a further twist in the tale of musical entanglement between the two cultures. All the evidence of the travel journals thus seems to indicate a widespread musical rapprochement between India and Europe throughout the century. However, there is an alternative explanation for Carré’s inference that this music is not European. It also provides a fascinating demonstration of the reason for choosing a particular musical story, as well as the means of constructing it to make a non-musical point. Even if the music did conform to the norms of contemporary European performance practice, the nationality of the musicians might have disturbed Carré’s sense of the separateness and superiority of Europeans. For this reason, he made it clear to his readers that an unbridgeable distance existed between himself and the indigenous musicians. The inflection of the passage is highly ironic, even sarcastic, suggesting the utter contemptibility of the subjects of the story. This sarcasm is focused on the quality of the music produced by the subjects, a music that is “piteous”, causing the music to become an analogy of supplication. Carré further emphasized the musicians’ role as despicable supplicants and his own as omnipotent benefactor by using music as a rhetorical device to describe their requests to him on behalf of a friend: Never had they played a tune with more vigour than that which they now employed in importuning me to grant their supplications … He himself also took a part in this concert … he cried and wailed in such a way that at last, to get rid of this music, I was obliged to tell him that he could come with us if he liked. (352)

Whether or not the music performed by the “poor Christians from Kanara” was recognizably European in style, the import of Carré’s musical anecdote seems clear. In his eyes, it was unacceptable for Indians to attempt to perform European music. Presumably many Europeans disagreed with this – the Dutch patrons of the musicians, for example. However, Carré’s antagonism towards this music and its performers suggests that musical interaction between Indians and Europeans in the last quarter of the seventeenth century was at the very least controversial. I would further suggest that his jeering indicated a fear of blurring the distinction between the two communities. This tension between curiosity about and enthusiasm for Indian culture, and the need to bolster a sense of identification with European interests, became a more strident theme in the portrayal of Indian women musicians.

Fear and fantasy: Indian women musicians The names of important male musicians such as Khushhal Khan Kalawant found their way into many seventeenth-century Indo-Persian chronicles (Khafi Khan 1977:161). However, written references to female musicians and dancers

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

seem to treat them as little more than metaphors for wealth or celebration. It is perhaps surprising therefore that they should be so prominent, compared with male musicians, in the European travel literature. From the travellers’ observations, it seems that female dancers and musicians performed extensively in public throughout the seventeenth century. In fact, it may be that for Europeans, women performers formed the main point of close encounter with Indian culture. However, we need to be very careful that we do not place too much importance on the role of women musicians in Mughal society on the basis of the frequency of their appearance in the travel literature. Suleri argues that the European “will to cultural description” was in fact an attempt to control the threat of India to European identity (1992:7). This can be seen in the ambivalent portrayal of the woman musician or dancer in travel-writing. On one hand, she was the subject of detailed, often admiring, observation. On the other, the writers were often repelled by her, regarding her almost invariably as a whore from whom they needed aggressively to distance themselves. This extreme reaction to the female Indian musician may partially have been caused by a fear of her symbolic power to subvert the dominant position of the observer and to threaten his identity (Suleri 1992:2–6) – firstly as a woman, and secondly as a symbol of India.

The problem of women’s music Throughout the Renaissance, and particularly in England and France c. 1550–1640, the so-called “Woman Question” debate produced hundreds of publications arguing the relative virtue or vice of women. In this debate, both women and music were usually linked inextricably with the arousal of love, human and divine (Austern 1994:52). Because it was deemed possible for music to have spiritual benefits, the performance of music in woman’s approved sphere – the private domestic setting under the control of her husband – might be considered an acceptable female activity. However, woman’s irrational and sensual nature meant that a woman who performed music in public became enhanced in her sexual power, and was therefore a moral threat to the men who observed her (58). Teltscher argues that the “Woman Question” was a major factor in the construction of European travellers’ conceptions of Indian women’s virtue or vice, their chastity and submission, and their sexual appetite (1997:37). This has obvious implications for the portrayal of Indian women musicians in published travel accounts.

Kanchani, domni, and the intersection of male and female spheres The association between women, music and love was prevalent in Mughal thought as well (Khafi Khan 1977:19). According to al Faruqi, the dual nature of women’s music (domestic versus sensuous) also appears in Muslim tradition. Genres associated with the family, such as wedding music, have traditionally

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been regarded as legitimate; however, any music performed in a sensuous context such as those of “drugs, alcohol, lust or prostitution” has usually been censured (1985:10–12). A link between the music of courtesans, lust, drugs and alcohol was widely drawn in Indo-Persian sources. The Mughal Emperors before Aurangzeb, however, being less strict in their application of Muslim traditions and law, were enthusiastic patrons of courtesans: 23 [Nauruz 1606:] Dancing lulis [lalni] and charmers of India whose caresses would captivate the hearts of angels kept up the excitement of the assemblies. I gave orders that whoever might wish for intoxicating drinks and exhilarating drugs should not be debarred from using them. (Jahangir 1909:48–9)

Nevertheless, it seems that the courtesan remained a controversial figure: [Dara] was very fond of music and dancing, and once fell in love with a public dancing-girl named Ranadel (Ra’na-dil). His love was so violent that when his father [Shah Jahan] refused his consent to a marriage with her, the prince began to pine to death … Seeing this … Shahjahan was obliged to accord permission for the marriage. (Manucci 1907: vol. iii, 222)

There are a number of stories about forbidden love for dancing girls in the IndoPersian chronicles (Wade 1998:84–6) which corroborate the suggestion here that the Mughals perceived it to be scandalous to actually marry a practising courtesan. The dancing girl’s controversial status may have led Aurangzeb to decree that all “dancing-women” must give up music and marry, according to the account of Niccolao Manucci (1653–1708). This story forms part of perhaps the most famous musical anecdote of the seventeenth century. According to Manucci’s version, Aurangzeb, being a sternly devout Muslim, ordered that all music be banned throughout the Empire. In protest, “one thousand” musicians organized a funeral procession for Music. “Report was made to the king, who quite calmly remarked that they should pray for the soul of Music, and see that she was thoroughly well buried” (1907: vol. ii, 8). According to Khafi Khan in the Muntakhab-al-Lubab, the banning of music was decreed in the tenth regnal year, i.e. c. 1668, while others (e.g. Wade 1998:187) suggest the ban occurred some time after this. The usual interpretation – that “the prohibition against music applied to all” for the duration of Aurangzeb’s reign (Wade 1998:187) – is naïve according to Delvoye (1994:117–18). Manucci and Khafi Khan were both 23 I will use the term “courtesan” in this paper to refer to women who provided both musical and sexual entertainment; all other terms, such as “women musicians” I will use inclusively to cover both those who were courtesans and those who were not. The term “prostitute” I would usually construe as referring to women who derive their main income from sexual entertainment – in the minds of the travellers, a woman’s musicianship alone might warrant her such a (pejorative) label.

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

fiercely antagonistic towards Aurangzeb. That some sort of ban occurred seems the most reasonable explanation of the number of times this anecdote is repeated. However, according to Khafi Khan’s own account, the ban was very inefficiently policed, and does not seem to have lasted long (Lari “Azad” 1990:210). Although I do not have space to present a full rebuttal, my contention is that Aurangzeb withdrew only his personal patronage of music for religious reasons (although this would have had important symbolic significance).24 Confusingly, Manucci himself later described in great detail the role of women musicians and dancers in the imperial court after the supposed ban (1907: vol. ii, 336). The most likely explanation of this apparent contradiction is that the women who performed inside Aurangzeb’s harem and outside it were functionally distinct, maintaining the separation of domestic/female and public / male spheres. Despite Wade’s assertion that female dancers customarily “crossed the gender boundaries” (1998:84), there is considerable evidence to suggest that this role was ordinarily confined to a particular caste of female musician, the domni, who was not a sexual entertainer, who entered the public, male sphere from the female sphere and not vice versa, and even then only at specific times of celebration involving both sexes, such as weddings and birth festivities. François Bernier (1656–68) suggested that: Shah Jahan … transgressed the bounds of decency in admitting at those times [birthday weighing] into the seraglio singing and dancing girls called Kenchens … Aurang-Zebe is more serious than his father; he forbids the Kenchens to enter the seraglio; but complying with long established usage, does not object to their coming every Wednesday to the Am-Kas [throne room]. (Bernier 1891:273–4)

The primary profession of kanchani in Lucknow after Aurangzeb’s death, according to Sharar, was prostitution (1989:146). 25 Hasan states unequivocally that in Awadh “the entry of the courtesan was banned in the female quarters”. The domni, on the other hand, were not courtesans until at least the late eighteenth century. Moreover, “whenever there were any joyous celebrations, ceremonies or festivals, the domni was the chief performer inside the female quarters whereas the courtesan was the main entertainer in the male apartments.” (Hasan 1990:74–6) This seems to have been the case even in the 1620s, according to Francisco Pelsaert (1620–7):

24 This is the interpretation offered by the Mughal historian Bakhta’war Khan in the Mir-A’t-i ’Alam (Elliott and Dowson 1877:157–8); it is interesting also that one of Aurangzeb’s own sons, Mohammed ‘Azam Shah, was famous for his musicianship (KBOPL 1977: vol. xiii, no. 690), and that his long-standing Grand Wazir, Asad Khan, was also a noted music-lover (Khan 1911:279). I intend to argue this subject at length in forthcoming work. 25 Courtesans from Delhi and the Panjab. Kanchani are still active in the Panjab as courtesans today (Manuel 1989:48).

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[The women] go into the female apartments, where there is music, singing, and dancing, as there is before the men … It is the custom at all weddings and feasts to call in these people for the guests’ entertainment. There are many classes of dancers, among them lolonies, 26 who are descended from courtesans who have come from Persia to India, and sing only in Persian; and a second class, domnis, who sing in Hindustani, and whose songs are considered more beautiful, more amorous, more profound than those of the Persians, while their tunes are superior; they dance, too, to the rhythm of the songs with a kind of swaying of the body which is not lascivious, but rather modest. (Pelsaert 1925:81)

Unless Pelsaert was repeating second-hand information, it would appear that he was an eyewitness to a celebration including domni. This would have been impossible if they were always confined to the zanana. As performers for the harem, however, and particularly as possible residents in Aurangzeb’s zanana (Manucci 1907: vol. ii, 336), it is unlikely that domni in the seventeenth century performed a sexual function.

European perceptions and the confusion of the spheres I would suggest that their public status might explain why Peter Mundy (1628–34) classed the domni as courtesans. Apparently, “Lullenees [lalni], Harcanees [harakni], Kenchanees [kanchani] and Doomenees [domni] (all whores though not in soe publique a manner) beinge of several Castes and use different manner of musicke”, performed “at solemne feastes” in Agra (Mundy 1909–36: vol. ii, 216). The social distinction between different types of female musicians was also denied by the other travel writers. Despite their awareness of several different castes, most of them argued that all women performing music were basically prostitutes. Moreover, in sharp contrast to the role of the woman musician in Indo-Persian accounts, where she often represented liberality, strength and prosperity, some writers, Manucci in particular, had a vested interest in portraying all women musicians as sexually available in order to reinforce the stereotype of the Emperor as a weak and hypocritical Oriental ruler. According to Manucci, Aurangzeb, apparently “good and holy to look at, but in reality an ill-doer and devil” (1907: vol. iii, 253): grew very fond of one of the dancing-women in his harem, and … neglected for some time his prayers and his austerities, filling up his days with music and dances; and going even farther, he enlivened 26 These would appear to be the musicians referred to by Jahangir above, and their name (Persian meaning “public singer”) suggests they performed music primarily in the public (masculine) sphere, and almost certainly provided sexual entertainment as well. It is less likely that they were in fact incumbents of the harem, with Jahangir ignoring the conventions.

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

himself with wine, which he drank at the insistence of the said dancing girl. The dancer died, and Aurangzeb made a vow never to drink wine again nor to listen to music. 27 (1907: vol. iii, 231)

Manucci in fact used his description of the women musicians in the zanana deliberately to make the point that “their only occupation, outside the duties of their office, [is] lewdness” (1907: vol. ii, 336). Many other observations were unreservedly prurient: [In Shahjahanabad there] is a Maumetan College for whores, with four hundred Prostitutes as professors, who carry on the infamous practices enjoined by their obscene Alcoran [Qur’ân!], also performing as singers and dancers for the recreation and enjoyment of that Maumetan barbarity [the Mughal court]. (Manrique 1926–7:161)

This seems explicitly designed not just to denounce the weakness of the Mughal rulers, but in addition to associate Muslim government and law with lasciviousness and decadence. Thus, by the first half of the seventeenth century the figure of the woman musician began to represent the essence of Muslim India in European thought.28

The quintessential other: India as courtesan The Oriental woman in the harem, with all the attendant illicit male fantasies she conjured up, had been stereotypical shorthand for the Orient since the Renaissance (Teltscher 1997:40). According to Said, the language used by Europeans to describe the Orient, trying to control cultures it found difficult to understand, sexualized the Orient by putting it in the subordinate, feminine position, but making it simultaneously seductive, mysterious and promising (1978:222). The Oriental woman thus became a matter of both obsession and identity crisis for the European travel writer. Her presence in the harem, hidden from the European gaze, subverted his traditional means of retaining his dominant position – his right as a man to observe the woman, and as a European to observe the Indian (Teltscher 1997:38). The conundrum of an Indian woman performing music in public made such a figure doubly dangerous. Through her public sexuality and her foreignness, her dual “otherness”, she threatened the traveller both as a man and as a European at the same time. She was thus an 27 This anecdote most probably refers to the courtesan Hira Bai “Zainabadi”, with whom Aurangzeb fell in love when they met in Burhanpur in 1653. It seems she died nine months later (Sarkar 1912:170–1). Manucci’s inclusion of this piece of gossip – to explain Aurangzeb’s supposed antipathy towards music – is clearly misleading, as there is independent evidence of Aurangzeb listening to music long after this event took place (see notes 5 and 20). 28 See also Farrell (1997).

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obvious target for an attempt to contain the Oriental threat by describing her and dismissing her via the medium of travel literature. The female musician was clearly an enticing character for the European traveller. In a number of journals, the frustration caused by the lack of access to the forbidden pleasures of the harem is evident in the language used to refer to the music of other men’s wives: I have been ravished in those silent seasons with the sweet echo, or reflection thereof from a fair distance, and kept waking hours together, listening to them, anticipating (in my desires) the new moons, which they constantly thus celebrate [see p.12 of this article]. (Farewell 1971:41)

The public courtesan, on the other hand, resident “in every Town” (Navarette 1960–2:319), and patronized by Europeans, Indian merchants (Das Jain 1981:12), independent rulers (Carré 1947:232), and lesser servants of the Mughal Empire (Nathan 1936:626), must have provided much more blatant proof of “Maumetan sensuality and wickedness” (Manrique 1926–7:219). The fact that she was fully on display meant that the writers could describe her and “possess” her (Teltscher 1997:38) in obsessive detail. However, many accounts demonstrated a degree of awkwardness about the encounter. In some cases, this appears to have been due to a particular traveller’s professional status: As an agreeable and cheering form of dessert to this feast, twelve dancing girls now came in, whose lascivious and suggestive dress, immodest behaviour and posturing, were suited to Maumetan sensuality and wickedness … [A] pretext served to excuse me from joining those Maumetan feasts where, in some of them one witnesses sights little suited to Christians, and still less to priests. (Manrique 1926–7:219, 222)

Often an apparently admiring description ends dismissively: “Though this entertainment was most sumptuous and conducted with much eclat and magnificence, I have never enjoyed a feast less” (Carré 1947:232). Perhaps many of the travel writers felt the need to stress to their readers their physical and symbolic distance from the women they were describing because “the loss of self in sex [or even the suggestion of sex through music] with a foreigner would become a loss of national identity” (Teltscher 1997:50). Furthermore, more than one writer referred to the presence of “husbands” who played instruments to accompany the dance, thus symbolizing masculine control over this dangerous juxtaposition of women and music (Austern 1994:57). One account, however, suggests a subversion of masculine control in the context of the performance: There were brought six young Women, whereof some had their Husbands with them, who also either Danc’d or Play’d upon Violins … [the women] had above the instep of the foot a string, ty’d with little

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

Bells fastened thereto, whereby they discovered the exactness of their Cadence, and sometimes corrected the Musick itself; as they did also by the Tzarpanes or Castagnettes, which they had in their hands.29 (Olearius 1669:206)

Hence, the performance of music and dance by Indian women before a European audience was both ambiguous and threatening because, although the women were under the observation of men, their performance subverted the norms of masculine control through a combination of feminine control of the musical material, and the open representation of their sexual power. Because the figure of the woman musician to some extent represented India, her performance may have suggested subliminally the possibility of Indian power over Europe, if Europe were to succumb to her exotic charms.

Using musical stories to reconstruct musical history When musical descriptions are viewed in the light of the circumstances of their construction, certain interpretative guidelines can be developed. The first is that we have to be very careful not to read the frequency with which a musical subject was mentioned by European travellers as an indicator of its indigenous importance. The second is that we must be cautious in our treatment of European interpretations of cultural meaning, or even the function of what they saw and heard. Instead, we must use our knowledge of seventeenth-century worldviews and the conventions of story-telling in the travel literature to guide our analysis. It is thereby possible to establish whether and how their perceptions conflict with or complement indigenous sources.30 While this will inevitably expose some of the travellers’ misreadings of musical meaning, fortuitously the travel writers’ obsession with particular musical subjects also provides us with unique details that might assist a partial (re)construction of the musico-cultural complex of seventeenth-century Indian music. I will briefly demonstrate this with regard to female dancers and musicians. In the travel literature there is some indication of the extent to which Persianate culture continued to influence and synthesize with Indian musical genres. Using only pictorial evidence, Wade suggests that “the Turki female dancers constitute a presence which is entirely different from that of the Indian dancers … While the Indian dancers are likely to wear ankle-bells, the Turki dancers almost always use castanets for rhythmic punctuation” (Wade 1998:86–7). Olearius’s description of a dance performance in the 1630s (above) 29 Male instrumentalists accompanying female dancers are a common feature in Mughal miniature paintings (see the “Gallery Section” of Wade 1998). 30 Which, incidentally, need to be subjected to the same interpretative process as the European sources, as the Indo-Persian sources were also inevitably affected by the circumstances of their production. In other words, the Indian sources are just as “biased” as the European sources, but reflecting a different set of worldviews.

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contradicts her conclusion, observing that Indian dancers in Persia used both ankle-bells and castanets at the same time. While this may have been a specific response to the exigencies of having to earn a living in a foreign country, it is conceivable that these musicians would have transported this synthesized form of dance back to India. Another example of the increasing synthesis of Persianate and Indian culture was in the decreasing popularity at Muslim celebrations of the Persian songs of the “Lolonies” described by Pelsaert in the 1620s, and the heightened desirability of the Hindustani songs of the domni. From the European travellers we learn something about the social customs and status of courtesans. A number of journals observed that certain castes, rather than being paid by the local ruler, were obliged to “pay him a yearly tax, which they extract from others who wish to employ them” (Carré 1947:232). Courtesans were clearly important to the local economy on a wider scale. JeanBaptiste Tavernier (1641–67) observed that the Shah of Golconda allowed courtesans to remain in the city at least partially because the popular drink associated with their entertainments, târî, was subject to a large tax from which the Shah derived considerable revenue (1925:128). Certain castes of courtesans, in particular kanchani, also received payment from the Emperor (Aurangzeb) for their performances (Manucci 1907: vol. i, 189), and did not necessarily engage in extra-musical activities (Navarette 1960–2:319). There are a number of invaluable detailed descriptions of women musicians during celebratory events, including instruments, dance movements, costume, and setting. Tavernier, for example, wrote that the courtesans in the service of the Shah of Golconda: have so much suppleness and are so agile that when the King who reigns at present wished to visit Masulipatam, nine of them very cleverly represented the form of an elephant, four making the four feet, four others the body, and one the trunk, and the King, mounted above on a kind of throne, in that way made his entry into the town. (Tavernier 1925:128)

However, the most important piece of musical information taken from a European source of this period lies in Peter Mundy’s sketch and eyewitness account of a “banquett” in Agra in 1632 (see Figure 4).31 The musical ensemble described here – frame drum, a singer clapping the tal, barrel drum,32 and small tal-keeping cymbals – is consistent with the evidence of seventeenth-century Mughal paintings (see Wade 1998:89–90). What is most important to note is Mundy’s reference to the Diapason. My interpretation of this scene is that, apart 31 It is important to note that this sketch may not have been taken from life (Mundy 1909–36: vol. i, 4) 32 This is being played standing up, hanging around the neck of the drummer. It is most likely that the barrel-shaped drum mentioned so frequently in the travel accounts is the pakhâwaj; for example “The Indian Timbrels are two foot long, but broader in the middle than at the extremities, much after the fashion of our Barrels. They hang them around their Necks, and play on them with their fingers” (Olearius 1669:206).

BROWN Reading Indian music: 17th-century European travel-writing and the (re)construction of Indian music

Figure 4 Peter Mundy’s sketch and description of a “Mimmannee”, or banquet, Agra, 1632 (Mundy 1914–36: vol.ii, 217)

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from the Diapason, the musicians and dancers sing in unison. According to the Concise Oxford Dictionary, the secondary definition of diapason is “a fixed standard of musical pitch”. In other words, it is probable that the Diapason is a drone instrument. While Wade extrapolates from Mughal miniatures the widespread use of a pitch referent by the reign of Shah Jahan, she offers no documentary evidence to support her conclusions (1998:195–8). If I have interpreted Mundy correctly, this is one of the earliest known pieces of written evidence for the use of the drone in Indian music. 33

Conclusions In this study of Indian music seen through European eyes in the seventeenth century, I have argued that stories were constructed around Indian music as part of a European attempt to understand their place in the world. Because of this, it is necessary to question the ethnographic assumptions of the travellers in order for our own (re)constructions of Indian music history to relate meaningfully to the musical reality of the period. Attracted by the country he encountered, and afraid of the threat it represented, the traveller chose to describe the naubat and the female musician in his musical stories, both public musical representatives of Mughal wealth and power. Stories about music could be used to assert the cultural and political superiority of Europeans, and the vast distance that lay between them and the Indians. On the other hand, both the Indians and Europeans used music to impress one another, and thus music could be a metaphor for mutual appreciation and the mingling of cultures. Eventually, India would itself become symbolized by music, as the exotic figure of the Oriental dancing girl. Taken as a whole, the travel literature also tells us a great deal about the instruments used in the naubat ensemble and to accompany women musicians, including construction, sound, the context and content of performance, and their reception. They also reveal valuable information about the social status and economic importance of courtesans, and especially the existence, popularity and functions of different castes of female musicians and dancers. It would seem that the patronage of Indian musicians by Europeans and vice versa was widespread, and that Indian musicians at least began to play European instruments, possibly even developing hybrid styles. On the other hand, Indian instruments were adopted into the military bands of the Europeans, which were used in Mughal style. The travel literature also provides documentary evidence of the continuing contact between Indian and Persian musicians, especially in Esfahan. Moreover, it also confirms that music continued to be important in the

33 It may be the earliest known so far from any source, Sanskrit, Persian or European. According to John Greig in his study of Sanskrit and Persian treatises from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, “At no time is a drone mentioned anywhere in theoretical treatises on music, and, in fact, there is no indigenous word to describe the phenomenon” (1987:16–17).

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Mughal sphere right through Aurangzeb’s reign, contrary to popular belief, particularly in the Deccan. This small study of European perspectives on seventeenth-century Indian music, by focussing solely on published travel literature, has done little more than scratch the surface of the available documents. The case of Francisco Pelsaert’s account opens up many new possibilities. Unlike nearly all the other literature surveyed here (see below), his private report did not enter the public domain until after his death, and much of it remained unpublished until the twentieth century. It was therefore not “improved” for public consumption by the author. Although the musical content of his journal is small, it contains a unique and most valuable detailed description of the role of different classes of women musicians at wedding celebrations. It may be that other unpublished documents, perhaps written by European patrons of Indian music with significant experience of its cultural context, still exist in the archives. In combination with much-needed critical studies of the indigenous texts, these would certainly alter significantly the partial, but nevertheless valuable, picture of music in seventeenth-century India presented in this article.

The travellers Unless otherwise stated, the information presented here is taken from editors’ introductions to the travel journals, and the travellers’ own writings. Dates in round brackets indicate the duration of their travels in India; those in square brackets indicate the date of first publication. François Bernier (1656–68) [1670–1] was a French physician, intellectual, and independent traveller, and a disciple of the philosopher Pierre Gassendi. In India he was employed by Dara Shikoh as his private physician, and then by Aurangzeb’s secretary of state for foreign affairs, Danishmand Khan, to instruct him on philosophical and political developments in Europe. Bernier’s journal, almost certainly written up on his return from India, is one of the most important of the entire century, but is of marginal relevance to musicological study. According to Teltscher, many of his observations were designed to influence the internal policies of Louis XIV. She argues that his mistaken ideas about Mughal land policies influenced the theories of oriental despotism propounded by Karl Marx and others. He was also largely responsible for turning Aurangzeb and Dara Shikoh into “villain” and “hero” stereotypes in the European imagination (1997:28–34). William Bruton (1630–7/8) [1638] was a quartermaster with the English East India Company in Bengal. His sole claim to musicological fame was his statement that the Indians “play most delicately out of Tune, Time and Measure” (1812:261)! Abbé Carré (1672–4) [1699], the son of a French nobleman, was sent to India not in his professional capacity as a priest, but as a spy on the new French East India Company. He spoke Latin, Greek, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Arabic, Persian and Urdu fluently, and probably Dutch and English as well. His factual

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observations are regarded as accurate and detailed, but unfortunately he is prone to exaggeration and I think shows little interest in anything that does not affect European interests. It seems that Indians in positions of authority are contemptible and to be disregarded, and those that are not are irritants, jokes, or interesting parts of the scenery when travelling. The journal entries were written up at the earliest months after the events they described, and the whole manuscript may have been written after his return to France. It went through at least two versions (1689 unpublished; 1699), seemingly with the intention of making it more entertaining. Pietro della Valle (1622–4) [1650] was a Roman nobleman and philosopher. He was a highly cultured man, knowledgeable in Italian literature and law, and had a passion for music and letters; according to Bor he was a composer, poet and writer on music (1988:53). The original publication was an unrevised compilation of his private letters, which were not designed to impress a popular audience. However, according to Lach and van Kley, these letters became one of the most popular and influential accounts of the century (1993:380). His text is very informative, and although he is sometimes defensive about religious matters, his descriptions are more often than not detailed, fair and discriminating. He was also admitted to the highest levels of society, including into the presence of the Shah of Persia. (See Gurney 1986 for a discussion of his limitations.) Christopher Farewell (1613) [1633] was briefly a merchant with the English East India Company. It was his stated intention even before setting sail for India to publish an account of his adventures which would support and contribute to the growing canon of travel literature (1971:1–2). John Fryer (1672–81) [1698], a surgeon in the employ of the English East India Company, was a member of the upper middle class. He obtained both an ordinary (1664) and a medical degree (1683) at Cambridge, and became a member of the Royal Society in 1697. Upon his return, after reading several published accounts, he was prompted to improve and publish as a narrative various letters he had sent home from India, in order to bolster the general impression of India given by earlier travellers. A staunch royalist, apart from the Hindus his particular bête noir seems to have been Puritanism, with which he associated Islam. He spoke no Indian languages and never visited the Mughal heartlands; thus any references to events outside his immediate experience must be treated with caution. His scientific observations, however, are considered to be accurate by Lach and van Kley (1993:581). John Albert de Mandelslo (1636–8) [1645] was a page in the ambassadorial party of Frederick, Duke of Holstein to Persia and India, and a fluent Turkish speaker. According to Sen (the editor of Thevenot’s travels), Mandelslo relied on the Empire of the Great Mogul by de Laet – who had never been to India – for his descriptions of things outside his personal experience, without checking facts or acknowledging his source (1949:xxx). Lach and van Kley, on the other hand, argue that Olearius (see below) added substantially to Mandelslo’s account, making it impossible to tell which sections are original, especially in the English translation (1993:522).

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Fray Sebastien Manrique (1629–41/3) [1649] was a Portuguese Jesuit based in India from 1604. An educated man, he understood Latin, Spanish and Urdu at least, and was held in some esteem by the Mughal establishment (he was entrusted by Asaf Khan, Shah Jahan’s father-in-law, with important Mughal business in Sind). Paradoxically, this is a fairly inconsistent account that was written up some time after the events it describes, borrows from other published accounts indiscriminately without acknowledgement, and relies somewhat on hearsay. He was also very antagonistic towards religions other than Catholicism, and towards the Mughal Emperor. Niccolao Manucci (1653–1708) [1699–1709], who died in India in 1717, was a self-educated Venetian adventurer whose life story sounds almost fantastic. He stowed away on a ship bound for India in 1653, aged fourteen, and was taken into service by the English Royalist, Viscount Bellomont. In 1656 Manucci enlisted in Dara Shikoh’s army as an artilleryman, later becoming captain of artillery for Raja Jai Singh of Amber. Somewhere along the way he picked up some medical knowledge and set himself up as a physician in Lahore, c. 1670. In 1678 he returned to the Mughal Court, became physician to Shah Alam’s wife, and returned to the Deccan in her employ, where he fought in Aurangzeb’s army, and went from thence to the European colonies, eventually settling in Madras. He was not, as he seems to have told John Fryer, chief physician to Aurangzeb for forty years (Teltscher 1997:42). His account of the Mughal court, written several decades after the events described and full of unsubstantiated gossip, is well worth reading, but he locates himself firmly at the centre of the Empire, when really he was a very marginal figure in Aurangzeb’s court for only a small proportion of his long stay in India. A reading of his interpretation of musical events requires great care. (See notes 5, 6, and 27; and Maiello 1984.) Peter Mundy (1628–34) [1909–36] was a ship’s captain in the English East India Company. Distantly related to the minor English aristocracy, he was an educated and well-read man, and his journal reveals that he was an amateur musician. Mundy’s journal is perhaps the very best in terms of the wealth of detail in his musical observations, his honesty and transparency, and his desire to be open-minded and fair in his portrayal of Indian culture; the authorial voice is rarely obvious. Nevertheless, although it remained in manuscript form until the twentieth century, he always intended to publish his adventures, and his travels were “written up” for publication in 1650 and 1654 from journal entries, his memories, and other people’s writing. Moreover, this was a conscious contribution to the genre of travel-writing, as he himself made clear in his introduction. The Hakluyt edition includes certain journal entries made after his return to England that demonstrate a willingness to accept totally false rumour as fact (1909–36: vol. v, 97, 107), and Sen points out a number of borrowings and inaccuracies in his account, such as excluding the Deccan from India (in Thevenot 1949:xxix). Domingo Navarette (1670) [1675], a Spanish Dominican, was a university lecturer before becoming a missionary to China. Renowned for his learning, he

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was greatly respected by the Chinese for his understanding of their culture and his humble and humane nature. Although he was dogmatic in his religious beliefs, he was rarely patronizing, and had a great deal of respect for the Indians he met on his brief visit. His travels were written up as part of a longer polemical work in Madrid, based on notes made previously. There is apparently a constant undercurrent of censure towards what Navarette saw as royal anarchy in Spain, which is often unfavourably compared with Asia. Sir William Norris (1699–1702) [1959] was an English aristocrat, a classicist who, as a Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge from 1681, was the envoy between the University and the King. He became MP for Liverpool in 1695 and was sent by King William III as ambassador to Aurangzeb in order to secure more favourable trading conditions for English merchants, a task in which he failed. The 1959 publication is in fact a twentieth-century analysis of William Norris’s letters and journal by Harihara Das, with extensive quotations from the original sources. Norris’s writing is complex; although he is sometimes contemptuous of aspects of Mughal life and policy, he is culturally sensitive and often appreciative of Mughal culture. Adam Olearius (1636–7) [1645] was the librarian and mathematician of Frederick, Duke of Holstein, and was the secretary of the Duke’s embassy to the King of Persia. He never went to India, but his excellent descriptions of Indian musicians in Persia, and the Persian musical context, are important. John Ovington (1689–92/3) [1696] was ordained as a priest in the Church of England after completing his education at Dublin and Cambridge, and took up a casual post as chaplain to the English East India Company. He seems also to have been a proponent of the new natural sciences. Ovington’s travels in India were confined to Bombay and Surat, and his writings on things he had not experienced were heavily criticized by more experienced travellers. His account, which was paid for and approved by the Company, was compiled and published on his return. Francisco Pelsaert (1620–7) [1627?] was a low-grade merchant in the Dutch East India Company who rose to become senior factor in Agra. His journal was compiled as a commercial report towards the end of his stay, possibly going through two versions, and was not intended for a popular audience. However, the cultural information it contains, based on extensive travel and personal contact with Indians, is substantial. Two thirds of the report were published by the uncle of Jean de Thevenot, and extensively quoted by other travellers at the time. Sir Thomas Roe (1615–19) [1625] was a courtier of Elizabeth I, and MP for Tamworth, becoming the ambassador of James I and the English East India Company to Jahangir. As Indian music is almost entirely absent from his narrative, this journal is of only marginal relevance to this article. Jean-Baptiste Tavernier (1640–67) [1676–7] was a Franco-Belgian jewel merchant whose uncle and brother were distinguished cartographers. Although he was widely travelled and spoke many European languages, he is not known to have spoken any Indian languages, and he was not as well educated as some of the other independent travellers such as Bernier, who was at one stage his

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travelling companion and a significant source of Tavernier’s information. He is likely to have taken notes during his travels, but the account was compiled and published on his return to France in two versions, becoming one of the most popular travel journals of its day. From the beginning there has been a considerable amount of controversy over how much of it was actually Tavernier’s work, and how much should be credited to his editor, Samuel Chappuzeau; many statements are incorrect and others confusing. However, according to Lach and van Kley, “modern scholars” have agreed, by comparing it with other contemporary accounts, that it is more original and accurate in point of fact than previously thought (1993:417). Jean de Thevenot (1666) [1664–84] the nephew of a famous geographer, was himself a student of geography and natural science, and an independent traveller who spoke Turkish, Arabic and Persian. He died in 1667 on his way home from travels in Gujarat and the Deccan (he was the first European to describe the caves at Ellora). However, as his previous travels had been published in 1664 to popular acclaim, it can be assumed that he went to India with the intention of publishing his adventures, a task later undertaken by friends. Thevenot’s descriptions of his personal experiences are original and detailed, but elsewhere he occasionally demonstrates credulity, a reliance on hearsay, and a tendency to borrow from Bernier and Tavernier without acknowledgement.

References Primary sources Aurangzeb, Emperor of Hindustan (1972) Ruka’at-i-Alamgiri: Letters of Aurangzeb, trans. J.H. Bilimoria. Delhi: Idarah-i Adabiyat-i Delli. Bernier, François (1891) Travels in the Mughal Empire, AD 1656–1668. Constable’s oriental miscellany of original and selected publications, vol. I. Westminster: Archibald Constable. Bruton, William (1812) “Newes from the East Indies: or a voyage to Bengalla.” In A selection of currios, rare, and early voyages. London: R.C. Evans. Carré, Abbé (1947) The travels of Abbé Carré in India and the Near East, 1672–1674, ed. Sir Charles Fawcett, trans. Lady Fawcett. 3 vols. London: Hakluyt. Das, Harihara (1959) The Norris Embassy to Aurangzeb. Calcutta: K.L. Mukhopadhyay. Das Jain, Banarasi (1981) “Ardhakathanaka.” In M. Lath, trans., Half a tale: a study in the interrelationship between autobiography and history. Jaipur: Rajasthan Prakrit Bharati Sanstham. della Valle, Pietro (1989) The pilgrim: the travels of Pietro della Valle. trans. G. Bull. London: Hutchinson.

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Elliott, Sir H.M., and Dowson, John (1877) The History of India as told by its own historians. Vol. VII. London: Trübner. Farewell, Christopher (1971 [1633]) An East-India colation: London 1633. Amsterdam: Da Capo. Fryer, John (1909–15) A new account of East India and Persia: being nine years travels, 1672–1681, ed. W. Crooke. 3 vols. London: Hakluyt. Jahangir, Emperor of Hindustan (1909) Tuzuk-i Jahângiri, or memoirs of Jahângir, ed. and trans. H. Beveridge. London: Royal Asiatic Society. Khan, Khafi (1977) Aurangzeb in Muntakhab-al-lubab, ed. A.J. Syed, Bombay: Somaiya. Khan, Nawab Samsama-ud-daula Shah Nawez, and Khan, ‘Abdul Haqq (1911) Maasir-ul-Umara, trans. H. Beveridge. Bibliotheca Indica. Calcutta: The Asiatic Society. Mandelslo, John Albert de (1669) The voyages and travells of the ambassadors sent by Frederick Duke of Holstein, to the Great Duke of Muscovy and the King of Persia, and the travels of John Albert de Mandelslo, trans J. Davies. 2nd edn. London. Manrique, Fray Sebastien (1926–7) The travels of Fray Sebastien Manrique, 1629–1643. Vols I and II. Oxford: Hakluyt. Manucci, Niccolao (1907) Storia do mogor; or Mogul India, 1653–1708, 4 vols, trans. W.J. Irvine. Indian Texts series. London: John Murray. Mundy, Peter (1909–36) The travels of Peter Mundy in Europe and Asia, 1608–1667, ed. Sir R.C. Temple. Oxford: Hakluyt. Nagar, Ishwardas (1978) Futuhat-i-Alamgiri, trans. T. Ahmad. Delhi: Idarah-i Adabiyat-i Delli. Nathan, Mirza (1936) Bahâristân-i-Ghaybi, trans. M.I. Borah. Gauhati, Assam: Narayani Handiqui Historical Institute. Navarette, Domingo (1960–2) The travels and controversies of Friar Domingo Navarette, 1618–1686, trans. J.S. Cummins, Cambridge. Olearius, Adam (1669) The voyages and travells of the ambassadors sent by Frederick Duke of Holstein, to the Great Duke of Muscovy and the King of Persia, and the travels of John Albert de Mandelslo, trans. J. Davies. 2nd edn. London. Ovington, J. (1929) A voyage to Surat in the year 1689. Oxford and London: Humphrey Milford. Pelsaert, Francisco (1925) Jahangir’s India: the remonstrantie of Francisco Pelsaert, trans. W.H. Moreland and P. Geyl. Cambridge: Heffer. Roe, Sir Thomas (1926) The embassy of Sir Thomas Roe to India, 1615–1619, ed. W. Foster, London. Tavernier, Jean-Baptiste (1925) Travels in India, ed. W. Crooke, trans. V. Ball. 2nd edn. London: Humphrey Milford. Thevenot, Jean de (1949) Indian travels of Thevenot and Careri, ed. Surendranath Sen. Indian Records Series. New Delhi: National Archives of India.

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Secondary sources Ahmad, Aziz (1964) Studies in Islamic culture in the Indian environment. Oxford: Clarendon. Al Faruqi, Lois Ibsen (1985) “Music, musicians and Muslim law.” Asian Music xvii.1:3–36. Austern, Linda Phyllis (1994) “Music and the English renaissance controversy over women.” In S.C. Cook and J.S. Tsou (eds) Cecilia reclaimed: feminist perspectives on gender and music, pp. 53–65. Illinois: Illinois University Press. Bor, Joep (1988) “The rise of ethnomusicology: sources on Indian music c.1780–c.1890.” Yearbook for Traditional Music xx:51–73. Brown, Katherine (1999) “Reading Indian music: an assessment of seventeenthcentury European travel literature as a source for the study of Indian music under the Mughals.” M.Mus. dissertation, School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. Davis, Natalie Zemon (1987) Fiction in the archives: pardon tales and their tellers in sixteenth-century France. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Delvoye, François “Nalini” (1994) “Indo-Persian literature on art-music: some historical and technical aspects.” In Delvoye (ed.) Confluence of cultures, pp. 93–130. New Delhi: Manohar. Farrell, Gerry (1997) Indian music and the West. Oxford: Clarendon. Greig, John (1987) Târikh-i sangîta: the foundations of North Indian music in the sixteenth century. Ann Arbor: UMI Dissertation Services. Gurney, J.D. (1986) “Pietro della Valle: the limits of perception.” Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies xlix.1:103–16. Hasan, Amir (1990) Vanishing culture of Lucknow. Delhi: B.R. Publishing. Harrison, Frank Llewellyn (1971) Time, place and music: an introduction to ethnomusicology. Amsterdam: Knuf. _____ (1973) Time, place and music: an anthology of ethnomusicological observation c. 1550–1800. Amsterdam: Knuf. Hodgen, Margaret T. (1964) Early anthropology in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Pennsylvania. Khuda Bakhsh Oriental Public Library (1977) Catalogue of the Arabic and Persian manuscripts in the Khuda Bakhsh Oriental Public Library. Patna. Lach, Donald F., and van Kley, Edwin J. (1993) Asia in the making of Europe, vol. iii: a century of advance. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Lari “Azad”, Mohammad Akram (1990) Religion and politics in India during the seventeenth century. New Delhi: Criterion. Maiello, Amadeo (1984) “Mughal justice in Manucci’s Storia do Mogor.” In U. Marazzi (ed.) La conoscenza dell’Asia e dell’Africa in Italia, pp. 623–5. Naples: Istitute Universitario Orientale. Manuel, Peter (1989) Thumri in historical and stylistic perspective. Delhi: Motilal Banarasidass. Miller, Terry E. and Chonpairot, Jarernchai (1994) “A history of Siamese music reconstructed from Western documents, 1505–1932.” Crossroads 8.2:1–192.

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Mitter, Partha (1994) Art and nationalism in colonial India, 1850–1922: occidental orientations. Cambridge. Munck, Thomas (1990) Seventeenth-century Europe: state, conflict and the social order in Europe, 1598–1700. History of Europe Series. Basingstoke: Macmillan. Nettl, Bruno (1983) The study of ethnomusicology: twenty-nine issues and concepts. Illinois: Illinois University Press. Porter, Dennis (1993) “Orientalism and its problems.” In P. Williams and L. Chrisman (eds) Colonial discourse and postcolonial theory, pp. 151–61. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf. Richards, John F. (1993) The Mughal Empire. The New Cambridge History of India. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rubiés, Joan Pau (1995) “Christianity and civilization in sixteenth-century ethnological discourse.” In H. Brugge and J.P. Rubiés (eds). Shifting cultures: interaction and discourse in the expansion of Europe, pp. 35–60. Münster: Lit. Sadie, Stanley, ed. (1980) New Grove dictionary of music and musicians, vol. 20. London: Macmillan. Said, Edward W. (1978) Orientalism. London: Penguin. Sarkar, Jadunath (1912) History of Aurangzib mainly based on Persian sources. Calcutta: M.C. Sarkar. Sharar, Abdul Halim (1989) Lucknow: the last phase of an oriental culture, ed. E.S. Harcourt and F. Hussain. Delhi: Oxford. Suleri, Sara (1992) The Rhetoric of English India. Chicago: Chicago University Press. Teltscher, Kate (1997) India inscribed: European and British writing on India 1600–1800. Delhi: Oxford India Paperbacks. Wade, Bonnie C. (1986) “Music as symbol of power and status: the courts of Mughal India.” In C. Frisbie (ed.) Explorations in ethnomusicology: essays in honour of David P. McAllester, pp. 97–109. Detroit monographs in Ethnomusicology, no. 9. Detroit: Information Co-ordinators. _____ (1998) Imaging sound: an ethnomusicological study of music, art and culture in Mughal India. Chicago, Chicago Studies in Ethnomusicology. Woodfield, Ian (1990) “The keyboard recital in oriental diplomacy, 1520–1620.” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 115.1:33–62. _____ (1995) English musicians in the Age of Exploration. Sociology of music, no.8. Stuyvesant: Pendragon.

Note on the author Katherine Brown trained as a viola player, and recently completed her MMus in Ethnomusicology at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. She is currently undertaking doctoral research on Persian manuscript sources for Indian music during the reign of Aurangzeb, under the supervision of Dr Richard Widdess. Address: 34 York Terrace, Cambridge, CB1 2PR; e-mail: [email protected].

AMENEH YOUSSEFZADEH ______________________

The situation of music in Iran since the Revolution: the role of official organizations __________________________________________________________________________

This article consists of a brief description of the politico-cultural situation of music in Iran, of the different official organizations that govern music, and of the importance attributed to “regional music”. The article also describes the emergence of a new cultural policy following the election of Khâtami, the reformist-minded president of the Islamic Republic, in May 1997. Although this description does not claim to be exhaustive, since the political situation in the country remains both volatile and fluid, it will give the reader a general idea of the place of music in contemporary Iran.1

Introduction From the very beginning of the Islamic Revolution of 1979 up to the present time, music has been the subject of fierce political and religious debate in Iran. Its legal and social status has constantly been changing and continues to do so, and it is still the object of various restrictions and threats because of its alleged powers of seduction and corruption (see below). Twenty years after the establishment of the Islamic Republic, Iran remains the location of struggles between various socio-religious tendencies, even among the highest authorities of the country. These conflicts naturally affect music, and the organizations in charge of representing and supervising it. Thus, even a powerful government organization such as the Vezârat-e farhang va

1 The article is a result of investigations made in Tehran and northern Khorasan from 1987 to 1997, within the framework of my research on the bards (bakhshi) of Iranian Khorasan (Youssefzadeh 1997; see Figure 3). It is also based on conversations with musicians and members of the official organizations concerned with music during field-trips to Tehran in 1999 and 2000. BRITISH JOURNAL OF ETHNOMUSICOLOGY VOL. 9/ii 2000

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ershâd-e eslâmi (Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, henceforth Ershâd) has to negotiate with other political authorities, who sometimes disregard its decisions and authorizations.2 Indeed, opposing agendas affect all aspects of life in the country, music hardly being an exception.

Before the Revolution In Iran, the phenomenon of gharb-zadegi (Westernization) goes back to the early twentieth century, under the Qâjâr dynasty – a period in which relations with the West grew closer. Although Iranian music continued to follow its own path of evolution, Western influences began to appear in it from the late nineteenth century and influenced this evolution until the eve of the 1979 revolution. (Regarding Western influence on Iranian music, see Darvishi 1995; During 1989 and Sepantâ 1990.) There were two prevailing attitudes amongst musicians during this period: one stressed the composition and practice of Western music, hence the creation, in 1302/1923, of the Tehran Conservatory of Music – Madrese-ye `âli-ye musiqi – where Western music was taught by European teachers (Sepantâ 1990:134–6); the other favoured the creation of a new kind of music by introducing Western elements into arrangements of tunes of Persian origin. The latter, for example, was the case with Ali Naqi Vaziri, who set out to modernize Persian music. 3 Westernization gathered pace in the second half of the twentieth century (in the 1970s in particular), under the Pahlavi dynasty which ruled Iran from 1921 until 1979. This phenomenon applied both to the politico-economic and to the cultural domain; for example, more than 90% of the national Radio and Television programmes broadcast music that appealed to the masses, 4 mainly consisting of imitations of Western pop music sung by such Iranian “pop” stars as Ebi, Dariush and Googoosh, superstars of Iranian pop music in the 1970s. (Many such stars now live in exile, as will be seen below.) This may be

2 For example, in 1995 a poetry evening (Shab-e she’r) was organized in Qûchân, a city in north Khorasan, where Kurdish poets and musicians from Khorasan were to appear. The Qûchân Ershâd had supported the event, yet the performance was interrupted by the Friday imâm (imâm-e jom’e – the priest in charge of the Friday prayer), who remarked: “I don’t see such a crowd during the prayer”. 3 Ali Naqi Vaziri (1266/1874 – 1358/1979) established a conservatory to train musicians in Persian music as well as Western music and adapted Western staff notation to Persian music. He wrote countless compositions using Iranian melodies harmonized in a Western style. For further information on Vaziri, see Mir ‘Alinaqi 1998. 4 “Radio and Television” is used in this article as a translation of “Sedâ va simâ-ye jomhuriye eslâmi” (literally, Sound and Image of the Islamic Republic), the Iranian national broadcasting organization.

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considered as one of the many reasons for the violent reaction of the 1979 revolution and its “back to our roots” movement. Ayatollah Khomeini himself had already criticized this Westernization back in 1964 (prior to his exile). He had indeed denounced the Radio and Television programmes as issuing “from a colonized culture” (este’mâri) and producing “a colonized youth” (“Enqelâb-e eslâmi va eshâ’e-ye farhang-e isâr va shahâdat” in the daily newspaper Ettelâ’ât, 3 February 2000/1378). 5 Virulently condemning the influence of “the culture of foreigners” (farhang-e bigânegân) in Iran, he insisted on the need for a “cultural reconstruction” (nowsâzi-ye farhangi), pointing out, for example, that “the road to reform in a country goes through its culture, so one has to start out with a cultural reform.” At the same time, both traditional and regional music aroused fresh interest. Thus the year 1971 marked the creation of the Markaz-e hefz o eshâ’ye musiqi-e sonnati (Centre for the Preservation and Propagation of Traditional Music), which to a great extent relied on Iranian National Television, itself a leading vehicle for the propogation of traditional Iranian music in the 1970s. 6 This same institution followed the initiative of Fozieh Majd, a composer and musicologist, in financing various expeditions throughout the country to make recordings of regional music. This led to the founding, in 1972, of a group entitled Collection and Knowledge of Regional Music (Gerdâvari va shenâkht-e musiqi-e mahali). The group carried out 13 trips into various regions, until the revolution put an end to their activities. More than 500 tapes were thus recorded – all of them of excellent quality. These recordings are at present kept under close watch in the Radio and Television building, and nobody has access to them. Although they are still among the archives, they are inaccessible to researchers and amateurs alike. It should also be added that the music of various regions of Iran continued to be played in numerous festivals, such as those of Shiraz and Tus. Festivals were organized in Shiraz and Tus before the Islamic Revolution by the Ministry of Culture and Arts and the Ministry of Information, with the technical cooperation of the National Television, under the patronage of the Empress of Iran. The Shiraz Festival presented not only invited traditional and regional Iranian musicians, but also great world masters of traditional music (such as the Indian musicians Bismillah Khan and Ali Akbar Khan), as well as Western composers (John Cage, Karlheinz Stockhausen, etc.), and famous European conductors (H. von Karajan, etc.).

5 Although Iran was never actually colonized, Russian and English influences made themselves felt in the nineteenth century, to be replaced in the twentieth century, under the Pahlavis, by a strong American influence. See Avery 1967; Digard, Hourcade and Richard 1996. 6 It still depends on the Radio and Television. After the departure, in 1980, of its director D. Safvat, it went through several hands and is now headed by D. Ganji (a former pupil of Markaz).

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The Revolution From the very outset of the Islamic Revolution, the situation of music went through a radical change. Indeed, the official position of the regime, following Ayatollah Khomeini as its major authority, was unmistakable: … music is like a drug, whoever acquires the habit can no longer devote himself to important activities. It changes people to the point of yielding to vice or to preoccupations pertaining to the world of music alone. We must eliminate music because it means betraying our country and our youth. We must completely eliminate it. (“Radio and Television must strengthen the young”, Keyhân, 1 mordad 1358/1979)

As a result, all concerts, and especially all radio or television broadcasts of foreign and Iranian, classical and popular music were banned. According to an Iranian composer, Roshanravân (1996), “the payment of musicians was illegal in terms of the religious law, shar’ia. The very act of signing a document mentioning the word ‘music’ was considered a sin (mas’iyat)”. Nor did these measures spare the village population, in whose life music had always played an important part. According to my informants in Khorasan, the pâsdârân (revolutionary guards) organized raids to collect and destroy musical instruments. Playing music was forbidden. The bards who had participated in concerts and festivals under the old regime were summoned and cross-examined by the revolutionary authorities. Some of those who had performed at festivals, such as Kâregar, died in obscurity. On the other hand, Hâj-Qorbân Soleymâni (a famous bard from the Quchân region in northern Khorasan) told me: “Since I had stopped playing eighteen years before the Revolution, they left me alone. It was after the change of regime that I took up my instrument again”.7 Nevertheless, despite all the measures designed to combat music, it could not be eliminated from Iranian culture. Besides, even if the state has a grip on the media, there is a great difference in Iran between what is theoretically allowed and what people actually do in private. Moreover, the very intention of abolishing music in public life unexpectedly led to increasing practice of music within the family circle by the younger generation of all social classes. One might deduce that this resurgent interest also stemmed from a continued desire, manifested by the Revolution itself, to rediscover the cultural heritage of Iran, as a reaction to the 7 Personal communication, 1994. The reason he gives for having stopped playing is as follows: “Twenty years ago, I returned from a wedding, and having made a pilgrimage to Mecca, a sheikh [mollâ] told me that my instrument was cursed, that I myself was cursed. So I threw my instrument into a corner and didn’t touch it for ten years. Then two other seyyed assured me that my music was a gift from heaven and that they were convinced that my instrument was to be found in the home of the prophets. They themselves placed my dotâr [lute with a long neck and two strings], which was hanging on the wall, into my hands and ordered me to play.”

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Westernization of the imperial regime. Thus when an old Jewish instrument maker8 was asked about his trade after the revolution, he replied: I have no reason to complain. You know how the Iranians are: the moment they are prohibited from doing something, they immediately want to do it. It’s like alcohol; never has so much vodka been drunk on the sly as there was after it was banned. It’s the same with music. I can hardly keep up with the demand. I’m snowed under with work… (Anquetil 1980)

In 1989, Khomeini appeared to go back on his absolute ban of music by issuing a fatwâ (a religious decree establishing the licit or non-licit character of an act) authorizing the purchase and sale of instruments. In an interview with the daily newspaper Keyhân Journal (19–16–1368/1989), he declared that “there are no objections to the purchase and sale of instruments serving a licit purpose”. Little by little, some concerts were authorized, albeit under certain restrictions: thus there was a ban against sensually arousing rhythms, as well as women’s voices in the presence of a male audience. 9 After the end of the Iran–Iraq war (1980–88) and following the death of Ayatollah Khomeini (1989), a desire for change made itself felt and a wind of liberalism started blowing through the institutions (especially those dealing with international relations and culture), giving rise to overtures towards the outside world. In the wake of the campaign launched in 1992 by Ayatollah Khâmene’i against the “cultural aggression of the West” (tahâjom-e farhangi-e gharb), traditional Iranian music recovered a certain legitimacy. This liberalization even led to the increased production of cassettes and records. However, since this music could not alone meet the demand, the various cultural organizations also looked to the music of various regions of Iran. The situation continues to evolve. Today a great variety of music is available by satellite for those who can afford the necessary equipment (they can thus receive the American MTV channel, MTV-India). During the first years of the revolution, there also existed “pop” music produced by musicians and singers who lived mainly in exile, especially in California, and continue to make a living from their art. These illegally imported cassettes, which could cost their owners considerable fines or even prison terms, have always had a vast audience. For the last few years, however, these very tunes have been openly circulating in the country: the difference is that now local Iranian singers are singing the songs – and in a strange twist, putting the rhythms and melodies

8 In Iran, lute-makers are traditionally of Jewish descent. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 9 As is the case in literature (poetry, novels, etc.) and movies, the suggestion and actual display of what is deemed “erotic” has been heavily forbidden. What goes under the name “eroticism” is quite vague, and essentially concerns any emotional or physical relationship between a man and a woman, outside of married life. Government authorities, even the socalled “reform-minded” ones, have never moved on this issue since it relates to what they view as one of Islam’s fundamental tenets.

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imported from Los Angeles to the words of classical poets such as Hafiz, Saadi and Rumi. This market is flourishing to such an extent that some of its products are being exported. According to Morâdkhâni, the Director of Ershâd, This kind of music nowadays exists in Iran. It caters to the needs of young people, but does not require our financial or economic aid (hemâyat). We have to let it exist, while at the same time preventing it from becoming too repetitive. Some people indeed believe that the repetition of tunes is liable to discourage the young and plunge them into a melancholy mood. That is why we have to watch this production. As for what people do in private, we are not responsible for it; it’s for them to decide what they want to hear. (Personal interview, February 2000)

Such speeches are a great novelty. In terms of the new and more liberal policy of Dr Mohâjerâni, the Minister of Culture, they certainly reflect the preoccupations of the leaders, confronted as they are with a country in which more than 60% of the population are under the age of 20. In a different field – namely the official teaching of Western classical music in the universities – knowledge of traditional Iranian music is no longer required, as it used to be, for the entrance exam in the musical department in Tehran. Since 1999, Western classical music is again included in the syllabus, and forms the subject of a separate exam. The third year of studies today includes courses in Western composition (personal conversation with M. Kiâni, director of musical studies at Tehran University, February 2000).

Official views about music expressed by various authorities of the Islamic republic Although all Muslim countries have a musical tradition which they keep alive, Islam has always approached music with a certain mistrust, suspecting it of being endowed with magic or even diabolic powers liable to drive people to the worst extremes. Music is said to unsettle the soul, to put people into a kind of trance and make them take leave of their senses. It leads them to forget their duties and indulge in the pure sensuality of the physical experience of their bodies. According to Shiloah (1995:34), “this quasi-somnambulistic state is considered to be in contradiction to the exigencies of rational religious precepts”. A hadith (tradition of the Prophet) concerning the Imam Sadeq (the 6th Imam of the Shi’ites) thus says: “Listening to music leads to discord [nefâq], just as water leads to the growth of vegetation” (Ayatollâh Moravveji 1999:74). It is interesting to observe in contemporary Iran to what extent even the most highly placed members of the government are conscious and worried about the powers of music on the human mind. For example, Ayatollâh Khâmene’i, the

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Guide of the Revolution, has declared: “Music has to serve mankind to attain supreme objectives and lead to a pure and humane life. It is an art, a divine creation that has to be used in the interest of humanity. When applying it, we must make sure that we are on the right track” (Ahang 9, 1374/1996. This publication is the official brochure for the Fajr Festival). Khoshru (former Assistant Director of Arts at the Ershâd) states: Music exercises an undeniable influence on people. It can provide the deepest emotions and, as a result, strengthen each person’s moral beliefs. But by its very power, it can also become dangerous and exercise an evil influence by changing its original nature. So among all art forms, music is the one to which most attention must be paid and which has to be most closely watched and controlled. The only kind of music that can lead to transcendence is the one that is based both on science and lofty ideas and on the virtuous feelings of mankind. Ennobling music must be endowed with musical technique and high ideals. It must strive to attain a lofty aim and be the product of a cultural and artistic community scrupulously attached to morality. It must kindle the deepest human emotions and stimulate men to respect and honour their moral principles. In short, it must be connected with the noblest of human cultures. (Khoshru 1996)

To quote Mir Salim (former Minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance): “By way of music, the behaviour of men can be influenced; so it can be said that music may, on the one hand, reinforce moral values, and, on the other hand, lead to their oblivion” (1996). Ayatollah Azari Qomi, another religious leader, says: Dance music is illicit; music accompanying vulgar [mobtazal] and useless [bâtel] poems is illicit; however, music that is not motrebi [urban entertainment music, corresponding with light music] and is not danced to, but accompanies a normal [tabi’i] voice and constructive and edifying poems is not illegal. (“Bahsi feqhi piramun-e musiqi”, Daily Resâlat, 26 May 1370/1991)

As we have seen, the country’s cultural policy has evolved and is now determined “to preserve the heritage and culture of the various regions of Iran”. Therefore, organizers and overseers of cultural events purport to legitimize music by reinforcing its moral and national character. Thus musical festivals, which I shall discuss below, were placed under the following directives: “Development of spiritual culture” (E’telâ-ye farhang-e ma’navi) and “Recognition of national identity” (Shenâsâ’i-e hoviyat-e melli). Others are described by the slogan “Preservation of [these musical cultures] to support and uphold the national culture”.

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In practice, the emphasis thus laid on national identity, a concept closely connected with the preservation of purity as against foreign elements, is tantamount to the demand for an authenticity of musical expression which goes beyond the tradition it claims to respect. To quote Jean During (1994:15–16): “The idea of tradition, or rather of ‘authenticity’, appears to be closely linked with that of national or even ethnic identity, and is thus indissociable from politics”. Hence music, which today is more easily accepted within the Iranian social sphere, nevertheless continues to be closely controlled by governmental authorities, and to be subjected to a very insidious form of censorship. We must not forget that the Iranian nation is above all a multi-ethnic state. Non-Persian ethnic groups form almost half of the country’s population.10 The integration of various regional musics of Iran within festivals and other cultural arenas thus responds to the aim of the central power to reinforce the unity of the Iranian nation as such, while allowing ethnic groups to enjoy a certain official “recognition”.

Official organizations of the Islamic Republic dealing with music Today there are three official organizations dealing with culture, forming a particular field of confrontation between the various politico-religious tendencies in Iran: 1

2

3

The Ershâd, which has often changed its head (Hojjat ol-eslâm Khâtami [present-day president of the Iranian Republic], Hoseyn Lârijâni, Mostafâ Mir-Salim); today Dr Mohâjerâni, a “reformer” close to President Khâtami, is responsible for this ministry. The Islamic Propaganda Organization (Tabliqât-e eslâmi), which is not dependent on any governmental organizations and is placed under the direct aegis of the Guide (rahbar) of the Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Khâmene’i. Radio and Television, which is also controlled by Ayatollah Khâmene’i.

The first two of these organizations have accomplished considerable work in the domain of regional music.

10 Persian-speaking people occupy the centre of the Iranian plateau, while the others generally live on the circumference (see map, Figure 3). Most Iranians speak Iranian languages. This is true of the Kurds, the Baluchis, the Lors and the Caspian populations (Gilaki and Mâzandarani), and of course of the Persians. Nevertheless, Turkic-speaking people (Turkomans, Qashqâ’is and especially Azeris – at least 25% of the population) occupy a very important place in Iranian history, since for many centuries Iran was ruled by sovereigns of Turkic origin. See Digard, Hourcade and Richard 1996:13.

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The Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance The musical direction of the Ershâd was entrusted in 1990 to Morâdkhâni, who still holds this position (as of 2000). His centre is the old Rudaki Hall (Tâlâr Rudaki), which is now renamed Vahdat (Unity Hall). Before the Revolution, this was a concert hall which housed the General Direction of Artistic Activities (Edâre-e koll-e fa’âliathâ-ye honari), including theatre, music and the plastic arts. This new organization has offices in all Iranian cities. During the anti-musical period following the revolution the centre became a Centre for Revolutionary Hymns and Songs (Markaz-e sorud va âhanghâ-ye enqelâbi), a name designed to satisfy the government authorities. In 1999, this name was changed to Centre for Ershâd Music (Markaz-e musiqi ershâd), without any further reference to revolutionary hymns. The new title is symptomatic of the new cultural policy which has been gradually asserting itself for the last few years. Today this centre, according to its director Morâdkhâni (interviews, 1996, 1999) exercises a number of functions with regard to music and musicians. The work of this organization will be discussed below under the following headings: 1 2 3

Protection and support (hemâyat) Guidance and orientation (hedâyat) Supervision and control (nezârat) (a) control of recorded music (b) permits for music teaching (c) organization of musical events (d) other projects

1

Protection and support (hemâyat)

This function consists of providing musicians with an official affiliation in the form of a card allowing them to work in this capacity. In practice, the issuing of this card has been abandoned, and was never really enforced. The protection did not go beyond the official recognition of musicians to include, for example, health insurance or other benefits. However, five of the old masters of music in various regions of Iran have recently received medical coverage, as well as salaries. 11 According to a representative from the Ershâd, this protection will gradually be extended to other musicians.

11 These musicians include the Khorassani bard Hâj Qorban Soleymâni, and also Shir Mohammad Espandâr from Baluchistan, a famous player of the doneli (a double duct flute). This practice actually dates back to the years prior to the revolution. For example, the Centre for the Preservation and Propagation of Traditional Music paid a salary to old musicians of various regions (interviews with the musicians themselves and with F. Majd).

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Guidance and orientation (hedâyat)

The musicians are guided so as to preserve their music and safeguard the authenticity (esâlat) of their culture. According to Morâdkhâni (interviews, 1996, 1999) the function of his department consists of lending greater importance to native music, which is in danger of disappearing. Therefore he wants to “keep a protective (hemâyati) eye on the music of different regions of Iran [musiqi-e navâhi-e mokhtalef-e Iran12] by means of a policy of orientation and encouragement”.

3

Supervision and control (nezârat)

Among the major responsibilities of this organization is the control of all marketable sound productions. Supervision consists of “preserving the authentic [asil] and ancient [qadimi] culture of our country”, according to Morâdkhâni. It is exercised as follows: (a) by controlling recorded music (on cassette or CD) by issuing a permit (mojavez) for its distribution; (b) by issuing other permits for the teaching of music, for organizing concerts, etc. (c) by organizing musical events such as festivals and concerts (d) through other projects (e.g. creating a Museum of Musical Instruments)

(a) Production control The control of sound recordings, especially those on cassette, is one of the main responsibilities of the Supervising Department. All sound media to be marketed or exported have to obtain a permit from the Ershâd. In my own case, for example, I had to apply to this organization for permission to take my field recordings out of the country: a numbered lead seal was affixed to my cassettes, together with a letter I was to present at customs. Musical instruments also have to be visaed in the same way. Marketable cassettes are classified and coded with letters and numbers on their cover, stating: “Authorized number of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance (Shomâre-ye mojavez-e vezârat-e farhang va ershâd-e eslâmi).” All sound productions – cassettes and CDs – have to bear the authorization number, followed by a letter and another number. The letters indicate the musical genres and the number indicates the quality of the production. The letters describing musical genre are as follows: S N A T

sonnati (traditional) navâhi (regional) âmuzeshi (educational); âmuzesh-e setâr, donbak, etc. (taghyir karde – modified)

12 This name was originally used during the last years of the former regime by the Radio and Television.

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jadid (new) mellal (nations); meaning in this case world music (essentially Muslim) kelâsik-e gharb (classical Western music) pop This classifying system is in fact the responsibility of Kiâni.13 He explained that Morâdkhâni had asked him, five years earlier, to describe the types of recordings, the volume of which continued growing (interview, February 2000). The Ershâd wanted “the buyers to know what they were acquiring”. He added that category J (for jadid) was a later addition to the list, and that T (standing for taghyir karde, i.e. modified music) was sometimes understood by certain editors as an an abbreviation of tejârati (commercial). For instance, the recordings of Alizadeh,14 who is considered both as a follower and as an innovator of traditional music, used to be labelled T, but had now acquired the letter J. Numbers 1 to 4 serve to describe the quality (keyfiyat) of the product (recording, presentation, etc.), with 1 ranking highest. Morâdkhâni explained: “It may happen that a master is ranked no. 2: his work is of high quality, but the recording on the whole is poor. We would have preferred not to make such judgements, but they are unfortunately necessary” (interviews, 1996, 1999). This classification is the responsibility of the Council of Evaluation of Music (Shorâ-ye karshenâsi-ye musiqi), dependent on the Ershâd and consisting of professional musicians such as Davud Ganje’i,15 Abdol-Majid Kiâni, Razavi Sarvestâni16 and Roshanravân.17 The members of this council are elected every two years. However, some of them, such as Ganje’i and Kiâni, have been members for five years. They sometimes ask the opinion of other musicians on subjects in which they do not specialize. Such decisions used to be taken during meetings. Currently, however, the cassettes are sent to the musicians, who give their opinion in writing. On this subject, Kiâni told me: J M K P

The situation of music was better in the early 90s. There were not as many modifications [tahrif] in music. There were a lot of good recordings that we graded with the letter N because the authenticity was respected. Today, most of the cassettes we examine only receive a T, because they are arrangements. For instance, you hear a dotâr [two13 A virtuoso of the santur, born in 1320/1941. He is the director of the Music Department of Tehran University and is considered to be a musician of pure tradition. 14 Born in 1330/1951, considered by many as one of the most important figures in contemporary Persian music. 15 A virtuoso of the kamânche, born in 1321/1942. Before the Revolution he taught this instrument at the Markaz-e hefz o eshâ’ye-e musiqi-e sonnati (Centre for the Preservation and Propagation of Traditional Music) of which he is presently the director. 16 A singer of traditional music. 17 A composer who often writes newspaper articles about the situation of music and the debates around it.

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stringed long-necked lute] from Khorasan accompanied by such instruments as the daf [tambourine] [although traditionally, percussion was never used with a solo instrument such as the dotâr]. According to statistics, the total number of permits (mojavez) issued for cassettes in 1367/1988 was 81; by 1376/1997, it had risen to 253. The production of traditional Iranian music was highest between 1988 and 1997.18 Roshanravân (1996) explained that, due to the protection granted to traditional (sonnati) music by the Ershad’s Centre for Issuing Permits for Cassettes, the production and distribution of cassettes recorded in this field has considerably increased, so that even non-specialists have started producing them. There is, in fact, a certain saturation of the market because of the similarity of a lot of these cassettes. The control exercised by this organization does not, however, prevent the existence of a very active and very well organized (black) market in cassettes, among them an abundance of both Iranian and Western pop music. For example, according to a cassette-seller, the interval between the issue of a Michael Jackson song and its arrival in Iran is very short (Adelkhâh 1991:26). There also exists a Council for the authorization of poems (Shorâ-ye mojavez-e she’r). Poems sung at a concert or recorded on cassettes have to be announced and translated into Persian (owing to the diversity of the languages and dialects spoken in Iran). Thus for example the contents of the Kurdish or Turkish poems sung by the Khorasani bards at a concert must be examined beforehand.19 One of the members of this agency gave me the following reason: Poems containing words that might offend social dignity must be avoided. Thus certain folk songs express improper beliefs and superstitions. For instance, we have had a problem with Bakhtiyâri poems.20 One of them goes as follows: ‘If the lover sees his beloved naked on a river bank, it is considered a pious deed [savâb]’. We cannot accept this kind of declaration. This significance attributed to words and their meaning – which find their origin in Islam itself – are often disparaged by the musicians. Thus Alizâdeh explains: “According to the responsible authorities, music is defined as a sum of the sounds produced. But their sensibility is mainly turned to the content of the poems. That kind of sensibility is of a very low level. A government that 18 “Gozareshi az ‘amalkard-e mo’âvenat-e honari-ye Vezârat -e Farhang va Ershâd Eslâmi”, Motâle’ât-e Kârbordi-ye Honar 7, Markaz-e Motâle’ât va Tahqiqât-Honari, Vezârat-e Farhang va Ershâd-e Eslâmi, 1378/1999. 19 The Khorasan bards are of various ethnic groups (Turks, Kurds, Persians and Turkomans) settled north of this region. For more detailed information about the bards of Khorasan, see Blum 1972a and Youssefzadeh 1997. 20 The Bakhtiâri are a semi-nomadic tribe living at Châhâr-mahal and in the Bakhtiâri mountains.

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considers itself rightly and legitimately established ought not to be upset by a few words in a piece of music” (interview in “Adamhâ-ye kuchak dardhâ-ye kuchak dârand”, Iran, 30 November 78/1999). Musicians are often exposed to such hypersensitivity towards words in pieces of music. This control of content explains the fact that in most musical performances and festivals, the poems chosen are usually those having a religious or mystical character (‘erfâni), for, according to the responsible officials, “Some love poems are vulgar and common (mobtazal)”. Among other unacceptable themes are “poems of despair (nâomid konande)”. Epic (hemâsi) poems are, on the other hand, appreciated, and as a result it is possible to hear the bards of Khorasan in frequent musical performances, since epic figures are pre-eminent in their repertoires.

(b) Issue of permits (mojavez) for teaching music; authorization for giving concerts, etc. Music teaching, which consists mostly of instrumental training, nowadays requires the authorization of the Office of State Schools (Edâre-ye âmuzeshgâhâ-ye keshvar), which submits the application to the Ershâd, which will then issue or refuse the permit (mojavez). Today, according to Morâdkhâni, “all kinds of people call themselves masters [ostâd] and start teaching music without a proper knowledge of the tradition” (interview, 1996). It is to be expected, however, that the requirement of a permit implies control of musical courses. My conversations with various professional musicians taught me that, in order to receive an authorization, certain criteria have to be observed (personal conversations with D. Tala’i – master of the târ and setâr – and M. Kiâni, February 2000). The teacher has to have a degree in music; if the candidate does not, he or she has to be examined by a commission (shorâ) of the Ershâd. Candidates who have passed the examination have the right to display a public sign as professor of music and to teach instruments. The exercise of this profession requires that certain standards be kept up: the space must be adequate and measure between 50 and 60 square metres. Before authorization is granted, experts (karshenas) from the Ershâd have to make sure that “Islamic standards” are observed (for example, that female students are taught by a woman). However, the reputation of certain musicians (D. Tala’i, M. Kiâni, D. Ganje’i) suffices to exempt them from this authorization. In fact, according to Kiâni, the authorities are hardly strict on this point and may allow a man to teach an instrument to a female student, especially if no woman can be taken on to teach. As usual, there is a great difference between official declarations and the actual practice. Official courses take place at the Faculty of Arts of Tehran University (Honarkade-ye honarhâ-ye zibâ), the Academy of Music (Honarestân-e ‘Ali-ye Musiqi), the School of Art and Literature (Madrese-ye Honar o Adabiyât), and the Centre for the Preservation and Propagation of Traditional Music (Markaz-e Hefz o Eshâ’e-ye Musiqi-e Sonnati). Outside such schools or official courses

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(some of which already existed under the former regime), the teaching of music is carried out in innumerable undeclared private courses, sometimes attended by dozens of students under one professor. Most of the recognized masters of traditional music (M. Kiâni, D. Talâ’i, H. Alizâdeh, etc.) offer such courses. In their case, however, a twofold aim is pursued. Talâ’i, for example, tries to transmit the practice (amali) of music by teaching the Radif, following an oral method,21 but also a knowledge of music (shenâkht-e musiqi) as far as theory is concerned. The fees are adapted to the students’ financial capacities. The majority of students are between 20 and 25 years old. Kiâni, for example, has students who come from the provinces and continue studying with him for five or six years; after they go home, they occasionally return to see their master. Kiâni has between 40 and 60 students whom he teaches three times a week, in classes consisting of 15 to 20 students. The cultural centres (farhangestân) which were for the most part set up after the Revolution on the initiative of Tehran’s Municipal Council, started organizing unauthorized instrumental classes at the beginning of their activities.22 The most important of these is Farhangsarâ-ye Bahman, situated in southern Tehran (a rather poor quarter of the city, where the old slaughterhouses used to be). Kiâni told me in 1996 that since they were not subject to control, “music was taught by non-specialists; hence this bad music we are hearing today; these tunes suiting current tastes (âhanghâ-ye ruz) and dubbed ‘LosAngelesi’ were played on instruments like electric organs.” (Today, as we have seen, “Iranian pop music” is competing with the genre called “Los-Angelesi” – in other words, music made by Los Angeles-based Iranian pop musicians living in exile.) It appears that the absence of official authorization for the musical activities of such centres led to the sudden ban of all music classes for young people, as announced by Ayatollah Khâmene’i, in 1995. Since this decree applied to all such institutions, including the Conservatory of Music (Honarestân-e musiqi) and the University of Tehran, the situation of music became uncertain for a few months. It was not until the deputy of the Ershâd wrote to the Guide, asking him to grant his organization the power to issue authorizations, that things became normalized again (inteview with Kiâni, 1996). The Ershâd itself has in the meantime taken the initiative, since 1994–5, to organize free music courses in the Vahdat Hall, exclusively devoted to traditional instruments. No concerts may take place without the authorization of this organization, except those having an aspect (janbe) of research (pazhuheshi) or scholarship (‘elmi). As a result, the concerts given at the University are often called pazhuheshi, indicating that there will be an explanation of the music to be played, even if this is only rarely the case, the term mainly serving to obtain a permit. 21 This is the traditional method, although today most musicians often refer to scores. xxxxx 22 I might also mention Eshrâq, Ebn Sinâ, Arasbârân, Khâvarân, Andishe, Shafaq and Farhangsarâ-ye Niyâvarân (the only one situated in northern Tehran, which already existed before the Revolution).

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(c) Musical events Another of the activities of the Ershâd consists of organizing music festivals. Many of these events take place within the framework of ceremonies, whether religious or revolutionary, marking for example the anniversary of the revolution (Dahe-ye fajr), the week of union (Hafte-ye vahdat) on the occasion of the anniversary of the Prophet; 23 and the week of Holy Defence (Hafte-ye defâ’e moqadas) commemorating the beginning of the Iran/Iraq war. These thematic concerts (which acquire, as we have seen, politico-religious titles) play an important role in bestowing on music a kind of legitimacy, for according to Morâdkhâni: “The organization of festivals requires much effort and money. Within a revolutionary and religious framework, the role of music as such is not easily acceptable” (interview with Morâdkhâni, 1996). The Festival of the Week of Union is intended to reinforce the union between Shiites and Sunnites (who do not celebrate the birthday of the Prophet on the same date). Its theme is religious and mystic music. It often takes place in Western Iran, in the Kurdistan region, where mystical music has its roots and where there are many khâneqâhs (Dervish mosques). The music of Khorasan plays an important part in the festival, and bards from the northern part of this region are always invited. The most important of these festivals however, is that of Hymns and Revolutionary Music (Jashnvâre-ye sorud va âhanghaye enqelâbi), inaugurated in 1986. It marks the anniversary of the revolution and is held in February, and lasts for eight to ten days. It takes place both in the capital city and in most of the provinces. An important part of the festival, as we shall see, is devoted to competitions among musicians (in sections such as traditional music, regional music and music for the young). From the outset great importance has been attached to the music of different regions of Iran. In 1987, there were 312 regional musicians to be heard and 164 concerts. In 1989, this event changed its name and became the Fajr (Dawn) Festival of Music. This new designation has also brought about a fresh upsurge of activities. During the first three years of its existence, only 12 groups performed. The titles of the items played point to the revolutionary nature of the festival: Râh-e khun (The Way of Blood), Bahâr-e khun (The Spring of Blood), Basij (Mobilization). In 1989, some songs reflected the death of Ayatollah Khomeini. In 1990, the festival tried to address the new generation: young musicians from different regions took part. In 1991, it extended its sphere of activities beyond the Iranian border and invited other Muslim nations with the aim, according to the organizers, of “restoring the common cultural identity among Muslim countries, so as to oppose and defeat the foreign cultural invasion”.24 The 10th festival, in 1373/1995, included several sections: Muslim nations (Tadjikistan, 23 When, at the age of 40, Mohammad had the revelation of his prophecy. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 24 These slogans reflect the political situation in Iran. They date from the early 1990s. Today the slogan has changed to “Dialogue between civilizations” – see below.

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Figure 1 Ranjbar, a bard from northern Khorasan, performing at the 15th Fajr Festival, Tehran, January/February 2000

Syria, Lebanon, Bosnia); competitions (including 417 musicians) devoted to traditional music (radif-e dastgâh) and maqâm (maqâmi, a new term in Iran for regional music);25 young people (74 of them); another section consisted of 53 groups playing traditional music and 28 groups playing regional music. Finally, the section devoted to revolutionary hymns and Western classical music, played by the Tehran Symphony Orchestra, comprised four programmes. Since 1997, two sections have been added: one devoted to the music (both traditional and regional) of women, sung for and by women. The other section is a competition for compositions (âhangsâzi). The festival programs of 1999 and 2000 reflected the political “overture” of the reforming president Khâtami (the name of the festival held in 1999 was “Fajr International Music Festival” – Jashnvâre-ye beynol-mellali-ye musiqi-ye Fajr). Thus its 15th edition (in February 2000) welcomed countries such as France, Germany and Austria, and also the Jewish community of Iran, who contributed for the first time.26 According to Morâdkhâni, the director of the 25 During (1994:43) says: “In response to the term sonnati, which exclusively belongs to the music of urban art, the professional adherents of regional music increasingly tend to define their art as maqâm (musiqi-e maqâmi)”. This term hence aims at stressing the legitimacy and validity of this form of musical expression. 26 The orchestra consisted of four male and four female musicians, all of them very young (16–20 years old), who played both traditional Jewish melodies and pieces by Brahms (Ahang 1, brochure of the 15th Fajr festival, February 2000).

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Figure 2 A group of Iranian Turkmen musicians from Gonbad at the 15th Fajr Festival, Tehran, January/February 2000

Markaz-e musiqi and organizer of the festival, “the main slogan of these latter festivals was peace [solh] and dialogue [goftegu], following the policy of the President of the Republic” (“Conversation with Morâdkhâni” in Ahang 1, brochure of the 15th Fajr Festival). The brochure of the 14th festival of Fajr (1999) featured a quotation by the Minister of Culture, Dr Mohâjerâni: “Music is the best language for a dialogue between men” (Ahang 4, 14–19 February 1999).27 The competitive section has also acquired a different organization this year. The section for the music of the various regions of Iran (maqâmi) took place in Kermân (see Figure 3 at the end of this article), at a different date from that of the other activities (from 28 November to 3 December 1999), and under a different title: First Festival of Regional Music of Iran (Nakhostine jashnvâre-ye musiqi-ye navâhi-ye Irân). Another section has become the First Festival of Music of the Young, and took place in Tehran for a week in January. The participants (boys and girls) were between 4 and 18 years old. This section is itself divided into three parts: traditional instruments (târ, setâr, santur, ney),

27 The slogan “Gofteguy-e tammadonha” (Dialogue between civilizations) is a central theme of Mr Khâtami’s policy. Since his election as President of the Republic and under his auspices, an organization dependent on his office has been created, called International Centre for Dialogue between Civilizations. An international congress on this theme is to be held in Tehran in 2001.

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regional instruments (târ and kamânche Azari from Tabriz, dotâr from Khorasan and kamanche from Lorestân), and Western instruments (violin, piano, flute and clarinet). The winners subsequently performed at the Fajr festival, at which they received prizes from the Minister of Culture, Dr Mohâjerâni.28 In Tehran, Ershâd’s concerts are performed in the two Vahdat halls and in various cultural centres (farhangestân) belonging to the municipality. The budget for these festivals proceeds from the Hefze mirâs-e farhangi (Organization for the Protection and Conservation of Cultural Heritage) 29 and from the Tehran municipality. As stated earlier, these festivals usually assume the form of competitions. The winners receive prizes, which in 1989 consisted of either a gold coin and a certificate of recognition (lôh-e taqdir); a TV set; a pilgrimage to Mecca (haj), or a camera and a Koran. The value of these prizes has risen since then. For example, in February 2000, it rose to five gold coins, together with a certificate of recognition and an honour diploma. In the beginning participants were simply housed and fed, without any financial compensation – a situation about which musicians have often complained. At times they had to even leave their work and pay someone to replace them in order to participate in these events. Ali Almâjoqi (a shepherd bard from Khorasan) told me he had had to hire someone to take care of his flocks in his absence. Although the musicians now receive a subsidy, it is inadequate to cover their expenses. A specialized jury normally judges each section of the competitions. For example, for traditional (sonnati) music, the jury often consists of Majid Kiâni, Dâvud Genje’i and Nâser Farhangfar. For the music of various regions of Iran, there would be, in addition, specialists such as the late ethnomusicologist Mohammad Taqi Mas’udieh30 or Mohammad Rezâ

28 The award winners for regional music that year were: from northern Khorasan two bards and a group of âsheq (the term in northern Khorasan refers to professional musicians playing in ensembles composed of the sornâ – a type of oboe – and dohol – a barrel drum with two skins – or the qoshme – double clarinet – and dohol; see Blum 1972b); from eastern Khorasan two musicians from Torbat-e-Jam; from Azerbaijan, a group of âsheq (in Azerbaijan and Turkey the term denotes a bard) from Urumieh; and a group of three young musicians from Tabriz. 29 The Mirâs-e farhangi agency itself organized a festival in Tehran in 1996, devoted to the music of various regions of Iran (Khorasan, Kurdistan, Lorestân, etc.). The music of various regions of Iran is, according to this organization, “a rich cultural heritage for the protection and conservation of which we feel responsible”. 30 This well-known figure of Iranian music, a composer and ethnomusicologist, was born in Mashhad in 1306/1927. He obtained a master’s degree as a violonist from the Conservatoire National, Paris, and, under the supervision of Marius Schneider, a doctor’s degree in ethnomusicology from Köln (Cologne), Germany. In 1347/1968, he returned to Iran to teach Iranian music and ethnomusicology at the University of Tehran. He died in Tehran in 1377/1998. He wrote several books, some of which deal with music of various regions of Iran (e.g. Mas’udieh 1980 and 1985). For a detailed bibliography, see Safarzâdeh 1999:153–6.

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Darvishi.31 They are now assisted by expert advisers, chosen from among regional masters such as Hâj-Qorbân Soleymâni and Abdollâh Sarvar Ahmadi (one of the most famous dotâr players of the Torbat-e Jâm region). Thus the jury of the first festival of regional Iranian music (a section of the competition of the 15th Fajr music festival) consisted of Hâj-Qorbân Soleymâni, Razavi Shahrestâni, Dariush Pirniyâkân,32 Hamid Rezâ Ardalân33 and Mohammad Rezâ Darvish, the first secretary of the first festival of Iranian regional music. The following is a list of the criteria (established by the main judges) applied in judging the music of various regions of Iran: 1

2 3 4 5 6

attention paid to the authentic (asil) manner of interpreting the music of each region, as it appears in its form and improvisation, as well as in the way it is played or sung solo; respect for the original manner of each region without the introduction of alien elements which do not stem from that particular region; the use of typical and authentic instruments of the region without resorting to non-native instruments; the use of poems from the oral or written literature belonging to the region, with emphasis on religious or epic themes; respect for the tradition set by the old masters, and abstaining, for example, from playing in an ensemble if this was not regional practice; proper apprenticeship and oral instruction of music with a master.

I cannot confirm that all the points of this list are actually respected in practice (as pointed out several times above, there is a great difference in Iran between what is officially decreed and what is actually done). Thus, in spite of the criteria I have just mentioned, it is not seldom that we hear a dotâr from Torbate Jâm accompanied by the daf, although according to Sarvar Ahmadi, “that is not the way to play the music of Torbat-e Jâm. It is based on solo interpretation. In these current ensembles, some theatrical element has intruded, where the musician has to content himself with playing with others” (conversation quoted in Ahang 8, February 1996). Hâj Qorbân Soleymâni confirms this idea, saying: In the past, ensembles were unknown. Today you see groups of 10 or 15 dotâr players performing together side by side with string instruments like the dotâr, or the daf and the dohol [two-headed drum]. Such percussion instruments do not belong together with string instruments, because they smother the sound of the strings. In the old

31 A musician himself, he has spent several years studying and doing research on the music of various regions of Iran. Today he is considered a specialist on the music of different regions of Iran. 32 A târ player who worked for a number of years with the classical singer Shajariân. 33 Working with Ershâd as “expert of the music of various regions”, although he specializes in dramatic arts rather than in music.

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days, dohol and sorna were used at wedding ceremonies, for dancing or for wrestling (koshti). They were also used to inform the population of an event. They are not indoor instruments. (Interview, 1995)

He was also at odds with some of Ershâd’s injunctions: “They’re [the Ershâd] now telling me that we have no right to play the music of other regions. According to them, a Quchâni must not play the music of Torbat-e Jâm.” This example offers a good illustration of the distance that separates Ershâd’s policies from the traditional practice of bakhshi. The emergence of these ensembles may be explained as the direct result of the nature and origin of these festivals, which initially provided no part for solo instruments – it appears that the solo instrument resembles a woman’s voice, and women are not allowed to sing solo in front of a male audience, but only in a chorus. It seems that things are, however, about to change, and according to Darvishi, the first secretary of the festival, the judges will make sure that the established criteria are respected (personal communication, February 2000). The manifesto of the jury of the first festival devoted to Iranian regional music states: The music of each region of Iran has its own structure and style, which each regional musician must strictly interpret. To do that, he must take account of the aesthetic criteria, the techniques of interpretation and the sound of the instruments, and he must respect the rhythm and the musical intervals, as well as the structures of the instruments, the rules of the concert, the improvisation and the interpretation. (Bayâni-ye he’at-e dâvarân-e nakhostin jashnvêre-ye musiqi-ye navâhi-ye Iran)34

(d) Other projects The Ershâd, in co-operation with a private recording company, Moassesse-ye Mâhur, has issued 19 albums of regional music, each comprising six cassettes published in the course of the year 1997–8. Directed by Musavi (an enthusiastic amateur performer of this type of music), this is the greatest and most productive project in the realm of traditional (sonnati) music, as well as in that of the regional music of Iran.35 The catalogue contains: Music of Khorasan (four albums); Music of the Qashqâ’i; Music of Mazandarân (two albums); Music of Lorestân; Music of the Turkomans; Music of Gilân and Tâlesh; Music 34 I was able to consult this manifesto courtesy of Mr Darvishi in February 2000. xxxxxxxx 35 Mâhur Publication started work in 1987. It presents traditional Iranian music as well as the works of contemporary Iranian composers, players and singers. This company has also published some music from different regions of Iran. Moreover, Mâhur Publication has produced a number of instructional books and cassettes on playing Iranian musical instruments and fundamental theories of Iranian music for learners and enthusiasts.

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of Azerbaidjan (the âsheq); Music of Kurdistan (two albums); Music of southern Alborz; Ritual and religious music of the two slopes of the Albors; Music of Baluchistan; Music of the Bakhtiyâri; Music of Bushehr; Music of the Muslim nations.36 In addition, this ministry plans to create a Museum of Musical Instruments, in co-operation with the Tehran Municipality.37 It will include sound archives, a museum of instruments, and a lecture hall with 100 to 150 seats, and will present exhibitions and workshops for instrument making.

2 The Musical Unit of the Department of Art for Islamic Propaganda (Hoze-ye honari-e tabliqât-e eslâmi) Another active organization in the field of Iranian music is the Musical Unit of the Department of Art for Islamic Propaganda (Hoze-ye honari-e tabliqât-e eslâmi). This organization, as we have seen, depends on no other government administration and comes under the direct leadership of the Guide (Rahbar) of the Revolution, Ayatollah Khâmene’i, who is said to be a lover of traditional (sonnati) music himself. The Hôze (as this organization is called) has been in existence since 1982. But its activities in the field of music did not start until 1991, with the appointment at its head of Jalilpûr, a philosophy graduate interested in preserving, collecting and propagating regional music. This department runs an art school (honarestân) (which also teaches traditional arts such as painting and calligraphy), as well as a dâneshgâh-e âzâd (literally “free university”), in which music is taught.38 “We encourage our students to work and write their theses on regional [navâhi] music”, said Jalilpûr (personal conversations, 1995–7). The department also has offices in most of the provinces – in Mashhad for the Khorasan province, for example, where no musical activity has yet taken place however. This institution has so far organized four festivals in Tehran, all of them devoted to traditional (sonnati) music and music of different regions of Iran. The first one was devoted to wind instruments (ney navâzan). At the second festival, which took place in 1991 and was called Haft owrang (the Great Bear), more than 120 participants were present, chosen from amongst the best musicians of the country. The Ayene-o âvâz (Ceremony and Song) festival of 1994 had 400 musicians from various provinces (ostân) and counties (shahrestân) participating. And lastly, in 1997, it chose epic (hemâsi) music for its theme. According to Jalilpûr, “the festival focused mostly on the veterans 36 All these sets bear the inscription “Local Iranian Music” (musiqi-ye navâhi-ye Irân) followed by the name of the region and the name of the edition “Iranian Music Association” (Anjoman-e musiqi-ye Irân). The set for each region is also accompanied by a booklet. 37 I have this information from Morâdkhâni, 1996. In the year 2000, he informed me that for financial reasons the project had not yet been carried out. 38 This term is deceptive, because fees are very high when compared with those of the universities. Perhaps it is called “free” because the students who enroll there are exempt from the normal university entrance examination and, as it were, “buy” their admission.

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and elder players of epic music: out of 2,000 candidates, 380 were selected for the performance”. All these concerts were recorded and filmed on video.39 Unlike those organized by the Ershâd, these festivals do not celebrate any specific occasion. According to Jalilpûr, “they assume an aspect of research [pazhuheshi] and investigation [tahqiqi]”. This organization has set up a research group in charge of collecting the music of various regions, as well as identifying and selecting those that will be presented at concerts. It includes Darvishi (who organizes the festival), a local guide, a photographer and a sound technician. Their aim consists of “identifying native [bumi] artists whose art has remained genuine and original without being influenced by other types of music”. As I have noticed myself, each trip leads to the building up of archive collections. Following the festivals organized by the Hôze, three sets of audio-cassettes have been published. 1

2

3

Haft owrang. This is a set of four cassettes devoted to regional music (Darvishi 1991). The first contains a live recording of the last concert by Mohammad Hoseyn Yegâneh (a famous bard from northern Khorasan) and his son Mohammad. It marks the last public appearance of the great master. The cassettes also feature music from Bushehr, Lorestân, Torkaman-sahrâ, Kermanshâh and Baluchestân. Musiqi-e shomâl-e Khorâsân (music of northern Khorasan) is a box of three cassettes, recorded on location in Khorasan (Darvishi and Tavahodi 1992) Ayene-o âvâz (Ceremony and Song), a set of 28 cassettes of music from various regions of Iran (Darvishi 1997), recorded during the third festival.

The Haft owrang set has, like most recordings destined for sale, received the authorization (mojavez) of the Ershâd, and the back of each cassette bears an authorization number (shomâre-ye mojavez). It obtained the codification “N/2” (Navâhi = regional; 2 indicates its poor recording quality). For reasons unknown and unascertainable, the second set is not marked with a number. The budget for these festivals stems from several sources. In addition to the Hôze agency itself and the municipality of Tehran, there are contributions from private sources. The director has always complained about the inadequate budget: “We find it difficult to organize a festival each year. The first festival cost 2 million tumân, the second 8 million, and the festival titled ‘Ayne-o âvâz’ cost 20 million. The last one, Hemâsi, rose to an expense of 50 million tumân”, said Jalilpûr.40 This seemingly exorbitant cost is partly explained by the high rate of inflation in Iran: the price of a Mashhad–Tehran flight, for instance, which used to be 2,000 tumân in 1994 has risen to 10,000 tumân at the time of writing. 39 These video-cassettes are kept in the archives of the Hoze. They have unfortunately not been published, nor can they be consulted by researchers. 40 Because of inflation, it is difficult to provide US dollar equivalents for the tumân. For example, before the Revolution one dollar was worth 7 tumân, while at the time of writing it is worth about 800 tumân.

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For its first festival, Hôze paid each musician 10,000 tumâns, along with transport fees and accommodation. Jalilpûr has told me, however, that for the last festival, the musicians received between 20,000 and 30,000 tumâns. This sum is inadequate – as we have seen above in connection with the festivals organized by Ershâd – and the musicians complain of the considerable expense their participation incurs.

3

Radio and Television

Since the revolution, Radio and Television has been in the hands of the “conservatives” and under the direct supervision of the Guide of the Revolution, Ayatollah Khamene’i. Until a few years ago, music was rarely broadcast by these media, and when it was, one would, for example, hear only a short piece of a traditional musical sequence accompanied by the motionless image of a flower or a landscape, as an interlude between two television programmes. The performer, the actual piece broadcast and so on, were never announced. Before the Revolution, the major part of this production was light, “easy listening” music (what was called Iranian “pop” music, an imitation of Western pop). It was banned, as we have seen, along with most other kinds of music in 1979. Some categories of music were spared, however; for example, military march (mârsh) and certain patriotic hymns and songs (sorud), which were abundantly broadcast. Singers specializing in patriotic songs have thus become stars thanks to the Radio and Television. An example is Ahangarân, whose songs constantly extolled the combats of the war between Iran and Iraq and reminded everyone of their duty as a martyr (shahid). His songs introduced each commentary about the war, so he was heard every day, at peak viewing hours, just before the evening news. As for the radio, it featured him “with clockwork regularity” (Adelkhâh 1991:25). Today Radio and Television is the greatest producer and consumer of music in Iran. It uses music heavily in advertising, in signature tunes, and as background music during and between programmes (including sport broadcasts, documentaries and scientific programmes). The kind that is broadcast mainly consists of Western tunes and songs, with the text expurgated. Where traditional music is concerned, many Iranian musicians think poorly of the music broadcast by the Radio and Television. According to Kiâni, it is always modified, revised (tahrif shode), and made to please the crowds (personal conversation, February 2000). Similarly, when regional music is broadcast, the musicians imitate urban music, although it is well known that Radio and Television has important archive recordings of music of the different regions of Iran. On the other hand, there is today a definite increase in “pop” and ‘âme pasand (generally appreciated) music. Iranian Television has six channels, none of which, despite various promises, is oriented toward cultural activities. Even today, when a concert of traditional music is relayed, everything is done to hide the instruments themselves (for instance large vases of flowers are used, or the camera will

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show only the faces of the performers). Other genres such as marches and hymns (sorud) continue to be broadcast on special occasions. As we have seen, access to foreign programmes (mostly Western ones, such as CNN, BBC World and TV5, as well some Arabic channels) is also provided by satellite, for those who have the financial means.41 Radio and Television is also endowed with its own Musical Sound and Image Unit (Vâhed-e musiqi-ye sedâ va simâ-ye jomhuri eslâmi), as well as a council for the evaluation of music, which decides what kind of music is authorized (mojâz) and what kind is not (gheyr-e mojaz).

Conclusion The status of music in Iran is still the object of controversy and its role is still ambiguous, partly because the political and economic situation itself is constantly evolving. The degree to which music will be accepted will depend on whether those who hold the reins of power in the country happen to be “reformers” or “conservatives”. For instance, an institution such as the Radio and Television, though making massive use of music, only rarely broadcasts concerts; and when it does, it will not show the instruments, since their public display still poses problems. It should be noted that every point I have tried to establish here deserves an article of its own. For example, the attitudes and practices of the Iranian Radio and Television would justify publication of a far greater depth. A more detailed enquiry into the phenomenon of “pop” music is also called for. It would equally be interesting to analyze the debate which is beginning to come to the fore within the ranks of the traditional musicians themselves: worried about the upsurge of “popular” music, they fear that, having survived the rigours of the Islamic Revolution, they might now be doomed to marginalization. However, certain encouraging signs must not be forgotten. In late 1999, for example, a House of Iranian Music was established in Tehran, which aims at playing the role of a syndicate for musicians. It is the first time that a musical organization of this type (senfi = guild) has been founded in Iran. Its statutes state: “This is a professional foundation, independent from the state, non-profitmaking, and composed of the country’s professional musicians. It is established for a non-specified period, within the framework of the laws and decrees in force in the Republic, under the supervision of the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Propaganda.”42 Several points of the mission this guild has adopted are similar to the present attributes of the Ershâd, such as the protection of the musicians. It will be interesting to see how it will go about assuming its tasks. Currently we can only be pleased about the fresh interest and respect shown for regional music. However, we may also have reason to worry about the swing of the pendulum by which the tradition upheld by the bards is set up by 41 The cost is about 300,000 tumâns. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 42 This charter was communicated to me by Darvishi, February 2000.

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official cultural authorities as an intangible and insuperable dogma. Even if the initial wish to defend the true value of the practice they represent is praiseworthy, the extreme and extremist applications may reduce the musicians’ freedom as interpreters. Of the long tradition of which these musicians are the carriers, there would then remain merely a dead museum piece, sterilized by the dangerous obsession with “purity” and authenticity. Figure 3

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References Adelkhâh, F. (1991) “Michael Jackson ne peut absolument rien faire – Les pratiques musicales en République Islamique d’Iran.” Cahiers d’études sur la Méditerranée orientale et le monde turco-iranien, 11. Anquetil, P. (1980) “Iran. Silence! On islamise.” Le monde de la musique, 24, June. Avery, P. (1967) Modern Iran. London: Ernest Benn Limited. Ayatollâh Moravveji (1999) Musiqi va ghanâ dar âineh’ye fegh. Lectures on Shi’a jurisprudence by Ayatollâh Moravejji. Tehran: Pazhuheshgah-e farhang va honar-e eslâmi. Blum, R.S. (1972a) “Musics in contact: the cultivations of oral repertoires in Meshhed, Iran.” Unpublished PhD thesis, University of Illinois. _____ (1972b) “The concept of the ‘Âsheq in Northern Khorasan.” Asian Music 4.1:27–47. Darvishi, M.R. (1991) Haft owrang: bakhsh-e musiqi-ye navâhi-e mokhtalef e Iran [The Great Bear: musical samples from various parts of Iran]. Tehran: Hoze-ye honari-e tabliqât-e eslâmi. _____ (1995) Negâh be gharb dar ta’sir-e musiqi-ye gharb bar musiqi-ye Irân [Westward Look, a discussion on the impact of Western music on Iranian music]. Tehran: Mahoor. _____ (1997) Ayene-o âvâz. [Ceremony and song]. A set of 28 cassettes. Tehran: Hôze-ye honari-e tabliqât-e eslâmi. Darvishi, M.R. and Tavahodi, K. (1992) Musiqi-ye shomâl-e Khorâsân [Music of northern Khorasan]. Set of 3 cassettes. Tehran: Hôze-ye honari-e tabliqât-e eslâmi. Digard, J.P., Hourcade, B. and Richard, Y. (1996) L’Iran au XXe Siècle. Paris: Fayard. During, J. (1989) “Les musiques d’Iran et du Moyen Orient face à l’acculturation.” In Y. Richard (ed.) Entre l’Iran et l’Occident. Paris: Maison des sciences de l’homme. _____ (1994) Quelque chose se passe: le sens de la tradition dans l’Orient musical. Lagrasse: Verdier. Khoshru, M. (1996) “Musiqi, ehsâsât-e ensâni va ‘eteqâdât-e akhlâqi” [Music, human feelings and moral beliefs]. Ahang 7. Mas’udieh, M.T. (1980) Musiqi-e Torbat-e Jâm [The music of Torbat-e Jâm]. Tehran: Sorush. _____ (1985) Musiqi-e Baluchestân [The music of Baluchestan]. Tehran: Sorush. Mir ‘Alinaqi, S.‘A. (1998) Musiqi nâme-ye Vaziri. Majmu’e âsâr-e qalami va goftâri-ye ostâd ‘Ali naqi Vaziri [Ali Naqi Vaziri’s lectures and writings about music], ed. Seyyed ‘Alirezâ Mir ‘Alinaqi. Tehran: Enteshârât-e Mo’in. Mir Salim (1996) “Az tariq-e musiqi mitavân bar raftâr-e ensânhâ ta’sir gozâsht” [Human behaviour can be influenced by music]. Ahang 1. Roshanravân, K. (1996) “Ghorbat: barresi-e vaz’iat-e fe’li-e musiqi dar Irân”

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[Exile: a study of the present state of music in Iran]. Tehran: Salâm (daily paper) 1429, 1375. Safarzâdeh, F. (1999) “Dar vatan-khish, qarib” [A stranger in one’s own country]. Faslnâme-ye musiqi-ye Mâhu. 5, autumn 1378:153–6. Sepantâ, S. (1990) Cheshmandâz-e musiqi-ye Irân [A survey of music in Iran]. Tehran: Mash’al. Shiloah, A. (1995) Music in the world of Islam, a socio-cultural study. England: Scolar Press. Youssefzadeh, A. (1997) “Les bardes-bakhshi du Khorassan iranien.” Unpublished PhD thesis, Université de Nanterre, Paris X.

Note on the author Ameneh Youssefzadeh is a member of the French CNRS (Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique) research team “Monde Iranien”, and a member of SFE (French Society of Ethnomusicology). Her book on bards of Khorasan is to be published soon by Peeters diff. (Travaux et Mémoires de l’Institut d’études Iraniennes). Address: 9, rue de Monttessuy, Paris 75007, France; e-mail: [email protected].

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The Andean anacrusis? rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs of Northern Potosí, Bolivia __________________________________________________________________________

Simiyki kuyuchun Chakiyki tusuchun (“Let your mouth move Let your feet dance”) This paper is the result of a collaboration between an ethnomusicologist (Henry Stobart) and music psychologist (Ian Cross). It examines the interaction of a variety of processes underlying the rhythmic structure and perception of a song genre of the Bolivian Andes: these include linguistic prosody, movement patterns, perceptual constraints and the dynamics of the culture’s musical aesthetics. The “Easter songs” which form the focus of this study, present particular problems of rhythmic perception for outsiders to the culture (such as the authors), who often tend to misperceive these songs as anacrustic. This phenomenon is addressed through an exploration of the unequal proportions and accent placement in the charango accompaniment, and an analysis of stress patterns of Quechua (and Aymara), the languages in which these songs are sung. It is shown that the first syllable of a phrase is treated as a functional “downbeat” and, despite outsiders’ perceptions, the anacrusis appears to be absent from the Quechua and Aymara musical genres of the region. The paper questions whether these findings might be relevant to other musical genres of the Andes, and considers the problems of perception in the transcription and analysis of Andean music.

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Recordings on the Worldwide Web This paper is accompanied by a series of recorded examples available on the Worldwide Web [http://www.mus.cam.ac.uk/~cross/BJE/] I Cholita Chapareñita II Sakista Jilatay III Viacha Puntapi (a) charango (b) voices and charango IV Suwamay Sakista V Composed recorder melody, with tapping of Bolivian subject

Introduction The issue of rhythm perception is mentioned in the first major study of Andean music, La Musique des Incas et ses survivances (“The music of the Incas and their survivors”), published by Raoul and Marguerite d’Harcourt in 1925. Their chapter devoted to rhythm begins by recounting the pride of the inhabitants of Arequipa at the inability of a famous Spanish pianist to reproduce the rhythmic particularities of Peruvian music. According to the d’Harcourts: This demonstrates how these particularities differ from those which characterise Spanish songs and those of Europe in general. The illiterate Indians and cholos of the country, most of whom sing, dance and play the flute, carry these rhythms in the blood and their instincts, more securely than the musical culture of the pianist, permitting them to reproduce them with precision.1 (1925:155)

The d’Harcourts go on to explain that by mingling with the people of the country and observing the rapid movements of their feet on the ground – beating the “rhythmic accents” (temps rhythmiques) rather than the “measure” (mésure) – they were able to overcome their initial disorientation and discover the “secret” of the rhythm. A “secret” which unfortunately they fail to divulge! Such ambitious claims, especially alongside their contentious thesis of prehispanic pentatony, has sometimes rendered this pioneering study of Andean 1 It is interesting to note the parallels between the d’Harcourts’ attribution of rhythmic skill to their “illiterate Indians” and Myers’ (1905) claim in respect of the “Sarawak Malays” that their music had “rhythmical characteristics … [such as] … change and opposition in rhythm … carried [to such lengths] … that their aesthetic effect may neither be appreciated nor reproducible by more advanced peoples”. It seems quite feasible that both views are coloured by the notion, prevalent in much late nineteenth-century anthropological thinking, that “primitive” peoples could be capable of finer grades of “sensory” distinction than could “more advanced” (on the whole, Western) peoples, and that this reflected fundamental racial differences, a notion that can be traced to the prolific Darwinian popularizer Herbert Spencer (see Shore, 1996, Chapter 1).

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music all but “unreadable”,2 but it is difficult not to be impressed by the d’Harcourts’ immense engagement with Andean music and culture, and by their considerable efforts to make sense of what they encountered.3 Subsequent scholars of Andean music have been surprisingly silent about issues of rhythm perception, even in discussions of the process of musical transcription. In his study of the relationship between musical thought and notation, entitled Fraseologia – La Música Popular Argentina (1941), Carlos Vega also reveals his awareness of the “imperfections” of music notation (1941:523). However, he dedicates little space to practical issues of perception and the majority of his musical examples are drawn from European repertoires. Problems of transcription are intriguingly and dubiously attributed to the “mentality” of the performer, rather than the perceptions or lack of adequate contextual knowledge of the transcriber. For example, Vega distinguishes between two types of musical “mentality” among singers of “popular” (or today’s notion of “folk”) music; singers of concepts (conceptos) and the much rarer singers of pictures or images (diseños). For the singers of concepts “the song is a skeleton which may be externalised changing its details”, making the transcriber’s task a “nightmare”. In the case of singers of pictures, who are “much esteemed by collectors”, the song takes a “precise form of pitches and fixed values”, which may be repeated with great precision (Vega 1941:484–5). Aretz and Ramón (1976) follow the methodologies of Vega, but do not mention issues of perception in the creation of their comparative transcriptions. (However, most of the songs included in this collection are in Spanish and hence are only marginally relevant to this paper).4 In the preface to his selection of 53 transcriptions of music from various regions of Peru, Rodolfo Holzmann rightly emphasizes the “personal interpretation” involved in the transcription process. However, his later and seemingly contradictory claim for the validity of his transcriptions, due to being based on the “objectivity of the recorded tape” (1966:9–10), seems highly anachronistic today. A decade later, in her assessment of the problems facing ethnomusicologists, Maria Ester Grebe was to observe the “difficulty of producing valid musical transcriptions which objectively describe the sonic phenomenon”, thus also betraying a focus on abstract sound, rather than musical process (1976:19). 5 As a number of authors, working in other parts of the world, have noted (Blacking 1976, Kubik 1979, Baily 1985), it is a mistake 2 See Strathern 1987 for discussions of how shifting attitudes render certain key texts “unreadable”. Such texts may however become “readable” once more at a later date: Strathern cites the example of Frazer’s “The Golden Bough”. 3 Despite presenting their notations as “absolutely exact” (thereby compensating for the “regretful” lack phonographic documentation), the d’Harcourts revealingly add the proviso that “certain rhythms were particularly difficult to grasp in notation” (1925:202). 4 For more general issues concerning perception and interpretation in transcription see Ethnomusicology 8 (1964), Nettl 1983:65–81, and Ellingson 1992:110–52. 5 However, in her study of the panpipe music of the Aymara speakers of Tarapacá of Chile, Grebe is very revealing about musical process and ethnography, but adopts a structuralist rather than cognitive approach to rhythmic relations (1980:419–23).

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to analyse rhythm, or other aspects of musical performance, simply in terms of abstract, acoustic cues or “raw sound”. The sounds created in musical performance are dependent on the interaction of a variety of processes of production and cognition that are both abstract and corporeal. The experience of rhythmic patterning reflects this interaction of motoric, prosodic, acoustical and conceptual processes (see Handel 1989 Chapter 11), but the forms in which these processes manifest themselves and the ways that they come into being and interact are likely to differ not only according to culture but also genre and performance context. Thus, for example, whilst Western classical rhythmic patterns are largely structured according to a hierarchical, metrical framework, much African music tends to be based on “pulse”, which, unlike metre, does not carry with it an implicit organizational framework (Arom 1991). Human movement patterns are also a highly important aspect of musical performance, and, as Gerhard Kubik notes for African music, sometimes “the auditory complexes may even be an, albeit important, by-product of the motional process” (1979:227).6 Although few scholars of Andean music have focused on rhythm perception, several theories have been developed concerning the rhythmic “feet” employed in songs of the region. For example, Carlos Vega has suggested that “the Incas only knew and employed binary feet” (1941:496), whereas the colonial music of the region employed ternary feet (Aretz and Ramón 1976:13).7 From more localized and practical perspectives, several writers have identified a number general rhythmic characteristics of certain genres of Andean music. These include: •

polyrhythmic relationships typically of duplets against triplets, for example between melody and percussion (d’Harcourt 1925:156, d’Harcourt 1959:74, Holzmann 1966:18).

•

linear interplay between duplets and triplets, which according to Ellen Leichtman “adds bounce to much Andean music” (1987:161). Leichtman also distinguishes between “Indian rhythm” and “mestizo huayño rhythm” (1987:170): Indian rhythm:

Mestizo huayño rhythm:

6 Although it should be noted that the identification of music with movement can itself be conceived of as the product of a specifically situated point of view. As Waterman puts it those arguments concerning a critical importance for movement in African music tend to “flow from the same intellectual wellspring, a German psychological tradition linking the Berlin School and Boasian cultural anthropology” (1991:175). 7 This is contrasted with an association of the colonial music of the East coast of the continent with binary feet (Aretz and Ramón 1976:13).

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

Leichtman also notes that what she finds “interesting about the mestizo huayño is that there is no Western metre that can be used which is able to distinguish between triplet and duplet subpulses within each measure. This means that there must always be the addition of triplet (or duplet) markings over each group of notes in addition to the metre”. She suggests that the mestizo huayño is thus “a blending of Indian and European rhythmic understanding” (1987:170) •

typical rhythmic gestures, for example: (Turino 1998:216) Dale Olsen has contrasted the articulation of Andean rhythms with those of African music, suggesting that the rhythmic articulation in Andean music may be derived from the breath attack required in panpipe performance (1980:410).8 African:

Andean:

•

rhythmic diminution, where imitative motifs become progressively shorter through the course of a phrase, resulting in an additive aspect to rhythmic organization (Holzmann 1986:241).9

We shall return to consider some of these observations later in the paper, but at this stage we simply wish to stress that most theories and scholarly discussions about rhythm in the Andes, as in many other parts of the world, are shaped by notational conventions and the process of musical transcription.

8 The articulation he describes, if attack is construed in terms of relative energy, appears to differ from our findings for the Quechua songs discussed in this paper. 9 Holzmann also identifies a form of “natural heterophony” resulting from two instruments being played together with “complete rhythmic independence”. He relates this to a lack of preoccupation with metrical organization and rhythmic coordination (1986:349). However, it is difficult not draw the simple conclusion that the recording used for his transcription (on instruments which in many parts of the Southern Andes would never be played together in consort) captured two independent performances. Indeed it is common practice for socially distinct groups of musicians to perform side by side during feasts, thereby asserting their contrasted musical identities and creating a sense of cacophony and musical saturation. This stresses the inadequacy of basing musical analysis merely upon the “sounds”.

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The trials of transcription Besides its potential value for musical analysis, transcription is also a practical way of documenting and referencing certain types of field recordings.10 It was during the transcription of numerous tapes of peasant music recorded in northern Potosí, Bolivia – principally for referencing purposes – that the question of rhythmic perception emerged as a problematic issue.11 On several occasions when returning to the transcription of a song in the indigenous languages Quechua or Aymara, after a break, a highly disorientating sense that the transcription had been made in entirely the wrong metre was experienced,

Figures 1a and 1b Part of song “Cholita Chapareñita” – sung and played on the guitarilla by Alesandro Mamani (Quichi Vilki, province Charka, northern Potosí), recorded in Sacaca 4 February 1987 (Tape 21a:26)

10 Ethnomusicologists have traditionally distinguished between “descriptive” and “prescriptive” transcriptions, where (in the simplest terms) the former are intended for analysis purposes, and the latter to realize or reproduce the music (Seeger 1958). However, in many ways this distinction is unsatisfactory (Nettl 1983:68–70). For example, the theoretically “prescriptive” transcriptions of the music discussed in this paper, which were initially intended for referencing purposes, became the focus of analysis. 11 These particular recordings were made by Henry Stobart during a year of fieldwork (1986–7). Ideas in this paper are informed by a further six subsequent fieldwork visits to Bolivia, principally based in northern Potosí.

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making it necessary to abandon the previous version and start all over again.12 Similarly, it was only years later – by listening very carefully for the dance steps – that we realized that many songs which had sounded and been transcribed as strongly anacrustic, actually began on the beat (Recording I, Figures 1a and 1b). In order to appreciate the problems in perception addressed in this paper, the reader is strongly advised to read this essay in combination with listening to the sound examples that may be accessed via the Worldwide Web. Text on recording Sawsillurunchu kasqani? Kumuykuspa waqanaypaq Am I a weeping willow to weep with my head bowed down? Chaypaq kani Margaritay, asikuspa qhawanaypaq For this I am Margarita to watch laughing The immediate aural impression of “Cholita Chapareñita” for most readers of this paper is likely to be of an initial anacrusis followed by an on-beat accent by the guitarilla and voice (1a). 13 However, it is clear from the footfalls, audible at the end of the recording, that the voice begins on the beat and that most of the notes of the melody and strums of the guitarilla occur off the beat (1b). This raises the question: have other transcribers of Quechua songs from this part of Bolivia suffered similar rhythmic misperceptions or confusions? And, are similar kinds of problems of rhythmic perception (by outsiders) more widely relevant to Quechua or Aymara songs from other parts of the Andes? One of the few sets of published transcriptions to include songs from northern Potosí is Max Peter Baumann’s “Sixty-six Quechua songs from Bolivia” (“Sojta chunka qheshwa takis bolivia llajtamanta”, 1983). In the explanatory notes of this attractive and, in many ways, exemplary volume, Baumann does not mention any problems of rhythmic perception encountered in the transcription process. However, judging from our experience of a large number of songs collected in the region, it seems likely that the metric organization of at least five of these transcriptions would be at variance with the pulse perceived (and expressed as footfalls) by the performers themselves. For example, the transcription of “Lari wayñu 2” (Baumann 1983:6), which has also been published in Europe with the recording (Baumann 1982:19, 35 and track C8), presents the rhythm of the voice as: 14

12 As one of the authors is fluent in Quechua, we will focus on this language rather than Aymara. However, some of the songs we shall consider incorporate both Quechua and Aymara words. Also, the stress rules, which will be discussed later, apply for both Quechua and Aymara. 13 We would be pleased to receive feedback from readers concerning their perceptions of these recordings. 14 According to the documentation this transcription was made by Bözene Muszlalska, rather than Baumann himself.

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No footfalls are audible in the recording to confirm the pulse perceived by the performers, but footfalls in other recordings of this genre (which is found in several parts of the northern Potosí region) make it evident that the first syllable should coincide with a footfall:

Easter songs The genre which, more than any other, alerted us to the problems of rhythmic perception in the music of northern Potosí, was a form of courtship song accompanied by the charango which is often locally known as pascuas or “Easter” (referred to hereafter as “Easter songs”). This seasonal genre, in which young women’s voices are accompanied by a young man strumming a metalstring (mandolin-like) charango, was commonly performed informally in bars or in the streets during feasts in such towns as Chayanta, Sacaca, Toracari and San Pedro de Buenavista during the late 1980s.15 Easter songs were performed by Quechua or Aymara-speaking campesinos (“peasants”) from the surrounding countryside, rather than the cholo (or mestizo) populations of these rural towns.

Figure 2 Dancing to Easter songs through the streets of Toracari (Charka province, northern Potosí) October 1986. Dance steps are often the only clue for outsiders to the participants’ perceptions of the pulse.

15 For descriptions of Andean dance-song genres accompanied by the charango see Martinez 1992:30–31 (although the Easter music to which she refers is quite different from that discussed in this paper), Solomon 1994:59–68 (for the case of ayllu Chayantaqa, including an example of the genre discussed in this paper), and, for the case of Southern Peru, Turino 1983.

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

Figures 3a and 3b Takiririllasun wiritay – from “Sakista Jilatay” (excerpt from Recording II; see Figure 7 for full transcription)

Figure 3c Sakista jilatay – with timings and ratios

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Our analysis will suggest that, alongside our own problems as outsiders in perceiving the rhythmic structure of these songs, Easter songs appear to highlight rhythmic ambiguity as an important aspect of tension creation and aesthetics for the performers themselves. To our ears, the acoustic accents in recordings of many Easter songs often suggest a compound anacrustic 6/8 rhythm. Similarly, the European subjects to whom examples of these recordings were played have tended to perceive and tap the metre as 6/8 (Figure 3a). However, the footfalls of the dancers imply an on-beat 2/4 rhythm (Figure 3b). As the reader will note, the relative durations of these two likely ways of transcribing these alternate perceptions of the rhythm do not match up. When the rhythmic values of individual notes were measured in milliseconds16 it was discovered that relationships between the durations of individual notes were often asymmetrical and variable, but that the pulse and durations of rhythmic groups (e.g. of two or three notes) were highly regular. The notation of Figure 3c comes closer to the true durational values (the use of a time signature and bar lines is to aid analysis and should not be taken as implying metrical strong and weak beats). 17 An iambic (short–long) relationship between paired shorter value notes, both in the strummed charango accompaniment and voices, was found in many examples of this style.18 In the case of bars 1 and 3 (Figure 3c) this is in close approximation to the ratio 3:5, although in other songs this variable ratio was nearer 2:3, and occasionally nearly equal. However, European listeners tended to hear this pattern as the ratio 1:2 (quaver–crotchet), leading them to perceive the second note of the pair as a marker of pulse. Thus, small differences in durational values were “misperceived” by the European listeners who assimilated them into metrically conformant categories or “conventional” proportions (see Clarke 1985), these “categorical perceptions” (see Harnad, 1987) occurring without any conscious effort (or indeed awareness) on the part of the listeners.

16 Using SoundEdit and Alchemy software on Apple Macintosh. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 17 The durational values of these measurements are, for practical reasons, only approximate. Defining the start of a rhythmic event using computer-generated imaging of the sound envelope is often somewhat subjective and arbitrary, especially in the case of the human voice. For example, the onset of phonemes initiated by stops may be measured quite precisely whereas those initiated by sibilants and nasals are more gradual and difficult to define. 18 Ellen Leichtman has transcribed charango rhythms from Sacaca, northern Potosí (probably for Easter songs) with the consistent rhythm e qe q (1986:153), which comes quite close to the 3:5 ratios of our measurements.

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Tunaririllasun hiyaway wiritay tunaririllasun Let’s make merry hiyaway wiritay let’s make merry19 Puntapi, puntapi Viacha puntapi; Q’illu rosas t’ika On the peak, on Viacha [mountain peak]; Yellow rose flower 20 Figures 4a and 4b “Viacha Puntapi” (see Recordings IIIa and IIIb). Charango player: Alonzo Vilka; singers from Cairuma community province, Alonzo de Ibanez, northern Potosí, recorded in Sacaca 19 April 1987 (Easter Day) (Tape 29b:1-79)

19 The verb stem tuna- implies dancing, singing, drinking and other ingredients which enliven a ceremonial occasion. The words hiyaway wirita appear in numerous dry season song texts. Wirita is derived from the Spanish vida (life), but to date performers have been unable to supply an explanation of the meaning of hiyaway. 20 The word rosas implies both the colour rose (pink) and the flower itself.

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The charango upstroke Another example of this tendency for European listeners to “misperceive” the rhythm of Easter songs is found in “Viacha Puntapi” (Recordings IIIa and b, Figures 4a and b). The powerful strummed accent of the charango on the upstroke (second event) of the regular paired down–up strums (in a variable iambic rhythmic ratio approximating 2:3) is likely to be heard by many listeners as the pulse, thus leading to an anacrustic interpretation of the sounds (Figure 4a). Two short sound examples of this song are presented; the first (Recording IIIa) features the charango with the voices heard in the background and the second (Recording IIIb) highlights the voices. Towards the end of the first of these recordings (IIIa) the dancers’ footfalls may be heard very clearly, marking the regular pulse of the song (as shown in Figure 4b). In a number of recordings of Easter songs the downstroke of the charango accompaniment, which coincides with the pulse (and performers’ footfalls) was almost inaudible. Thus, the only part of the player’s motion realized in sound was the upstroke. This may result from the fact that many players dampen (or even entirely stop) the strings on the downstroke, but allow them to ring out on the upstroke. Similarly, as Figure 6 demonstrates, the charango upstroke in Viacha Puntapi is sounded with much greater intensity than the downstroke, thereby heightening rhythmic tension and leading to a tendency to perceive the upstroke as the pulse. Figure 6 also highlights the iambic (approximate 2:3 ratio) nature of the charango motor programme which in turn supports the rhythmic inequality of the voices.

Figure 5 A charango player holding his instrument at an exceptionally steep angle (Bustillo province, northern Potosí) April 1989. In rural music it is more common to see charangos held almost parallel to the ground and quite low against the player’s body.

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Figure 6

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The combined duration of the downstroke and upstroke of the charango (which is also the pulse and inter-footfall interval) is generally in the region of 500ms. This approximates Fraisse’s “spontaneous tempo” (1956), which Clarke relates to the “intrinsic pendular movements of the body” (1999:488). Pöppel and Wittmann (1999:842) suggest that at, or above, this time period of 500ms, fine temporal control of repeated actions is possible as it allows for “the collection of somatosensory information”, so that the performer is able to use muscular feedback to time each subsequent event accurately. However, durations of each individual downstroke or upstroke of the charango in Easter songs are between 150 and 280ms. According to Pöppel and Wittmann periodic motor actions with durations of around 200ms are at, or beyond, the limit of such control and must rely on “course pre-attentive control” (1999:842). This means that Easter song rhythms appear poised between control and autonomy, with the larger combined downstroke/upstroke movement susceptible to fine temporal control while the components of that movement are freer to vary, within the constraint of the first event of the pair being shorter – and less intense – than the second.

Listening exercises The first Easter song excerpts (Figure 3a, b and c) were taken from “Sakista Jilatay”, the vocal part of which is transcribed in full in Figure 7. Readers may achieve a crustic or “on-beat” perception of this song (Recording II) fairly easily by tapping along with the charango introduction and maintaining this rhythm through the rest of the song. At the ends of phrases the reader may well find himself or herself slipping into an anacrustic (6/8) hearing of the song (Figure 3a), a phenomenon which we shall consider later. Also, like the authors, the reader may well find it difficult to consciously switch between an on-beat (crustic) and an anacrustic perception of the rhythm. In our transcriptions we have avoided using complex note values to represent precise durations (besides sometimes showing an approximate 2:3 ratio as a group of 5). Such complex notation would be both difficult to read and probably fail to convey the flexibility of the iambic rhythmic relations. To give a sense of this variability, in Figure 7 we have included the durations of individual notes and groups measured in milliseconds. A fair degree of variation in individual durations may be seen through the course of the piece, but there is considerable consistency on repeats suggesting that this rhythmic inequality may have an expressive function. Such potential expressivity operates within remarkably consistent values at the level of three-bar isorhythmic phrases (2643–2750ms), one-bar trisyllabic units (855–927ms), and individual “long” events, shown as crotchets (426–484ms) – even when “syncopated”. The value of these “long” events (which is the same as the pulse and inter-footfall durations) also closely approximates the sum of the “short” and “medium” events, which appear to be negatively correlated (the longer the first, the shorter the second). Thus, the variable and potentially expressive iambic nature of

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

Takiririllasun wiritay tunaririllasun wiritay siwatillas t’ika Let’s sing wiritay / let’s make merry wiritay / barley flowers Sakista, sakista jilatay jinacha sakista kullakay siwulla wirta mayu Tell me, tell me brother / Just like that, tell me sister / Onion garden river. Figure 7 Transcription of “Sakista Jilatay”, showing durations of individual notes and groups in milliseconds (the values in bar 9 refer to the charango accompaniment) (Recording II)

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individual “short” and “medium” durations in Easter songs operates within a highly regular broader rhythmic structure and phrase structure.21 It is also evident from Figure 7 that the first event in each ternary group (or bar) is always the shortest, whether followed by a note of “medium” or “long” duration. The first “short” event coincides with the pulse (marked by footfalls) and the downstroke of the charango, whereas the second event coincides with the high intensity charango upstroke. Similarly, when the second event is “medium” in duration, the third (“long”) event coincides with the second charango downstroke, but when the second event is “long” in duration the third (“medium”) event coincides with the second charango upstroke. It is only at the ends of phrases that this isorhythmic pattern is temporarily distorted, as we shall discuss later. Figure 8 shows the co-ordination between the charango motor programme and the first and second syllables of the voices in each trisyllabic unit. The synchronization of the first syllable and pulse (footfalls) with charango downstroke perform a “referential” function within the broader rhythmic structure, whilst the co-ordination of the variably timed second syllable with higher intensity charango upstroke appears more “expressive” in nature. Complex rhythmic relations in previous studies of Andean music, such as those discussed by Leichtman above (1987:161, 170), have been explained in terms of the juxtaposition of triplet and duplet subpulses – an approach undoubtedly derived from Western European notational conventions. However, it seems likely that real time measurements might reveal rather different types of asymmetrical rhythmic relationships and interactions, perhaps comparable with those of Easter songs. The measurements in Figure 7 highlighted the close interaction between the iambic rhythm of the charango and that of the voices. But in certain Easter songs, such as “Suwamay sakistathis,” iambic effect is much less pronounced

Figure 8 Referential/expressive function of charango and vocal rhythm

21 See Gabrielsson 1999 for comparable studies of expressive timing in the performance of Western tonal music.

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

Takiririllasun hiyaway tunaririllasun Let’s sing hiyaway let’s have a good time Sakista, sakista suwamay sakista Tell me, tell me “I’ll steal you away” Sasay engañesta cholita q’illu rosas t’ika Saying, girl, you cheat me, yellow rose flowers. Figure 9 Transcription of “Suwamay sakista” (Recording IV) (a) Typical offbeat perception of rhythm by Western Europeans (b) On-beat perception of rhythm based on performers’ footfalls

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Figure 10 “Suwamay sakista” (excerpt), showing interaction between the charango strumming and the vocal melody syllabic stress of the voices.

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

and the paired notes of the charango accompaniment are of almost equal duration (Recording IV, Figure 9a and b). Western European listeners have tended to perceive “Suwamay sakista” as anacrustic or offbeat,22 like the other Easter songs discussed, but the relative equality of paired events, especially in the charango accompaniment, leads to a 1:1 or 2/4 perception of the rhythm (Figure 9a) rather than the 2:1 (6/8) categorization found in, forexample, “Viacha Puntapi” (Figure 4a, Recording III). Once again, in the charango accompaniment of the song “Suwamay sakista” a higher intensity second event (upstroke) and relatively weaker first event (downstroke) is maintained. This is shown in Figure 10, alongside a simultaneous stress on the second event in the vocal melody, marked by capitalised syllables. These various aspects of performance practice push towards an offbeat (anacrustic) perception of the rhythm – where the final three notes of the vocal melody in each section are likely to be misinterpreted as coinciding with the pulse, rather than as “offbeats”.

Production or perception? The strong tendency for Western European listeners to hear Easter songs as anacrustic led us to wonder whether Bolivian peasant musicians presented with these recordings, outside the performance context, would also perceive them as anacrustic. Was such anacrustic interpretation of the rhythm a by-product of the production process and likely to be shared by listeners from different cultural backgrounds? Or alternatively, were the Western Europeans and Bolivians in question perceiving these rhythms in different ways? To investigate these questions we carried out some informal explorations of how listening strategies might relate to the experience of rhythmic patterning. These involved playing a tape that included a number of Bolivian recordings, a synthesized melody (imitating an Easter song but with equal stress on every duration), and several European melodies that were either anacrustic or nonanacrustic, to Bolivian and Western European participants. Each subject was asked to clap (or tap) along with the music as though they were dancing to it and the result was recorded on a second tape recorder. Although the informal nature of the tests limits the extent to which the results may be generalized, a number of standard types of response appears evident. For the Easter song recordings of Northern Potosí, without exception the Bolivian subjects, who all spoke Quechua or Aymara as their mother tongue, clapped in time with the performers’ footfalls, even though many of them were unfamiliar with this genre. Furthermore, for the examples of anacrustic European melodies, the Bolivian subjects tended to treat the anacrusis or “upbeat” as synchronic with the pulse, thus functionally as a “downbeat”. 22 This perception of the rhythm should perhaps be described as “offbeat” rather than strictly anacrustic as we have transcribed it with three notes (rather than just one) before the barline. .

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STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

This tendency for the Bolivians to include the first note of a melody as a clapped or “pulse” note was especially evident in an unaccompanied recorder melody that was composed and played especially for the experiment. The melody was composed so that it might be performed to emphasize either an on-beat, duple (2/4) or anacrustic, compound (6/8) interpretation. It was recorded twice, the two versions separated by another piece. The first version was performed so as to favour an anacrustic, compound (6/8) metre (see Figure 11a) whilst the second was played so as to favour an on-beat, duple (2/4) interpretation (see Figure 11b). 23 For both versions, the tapping of the Bolivian subjects implied an onbeat/duple (2/4) or on-beat/ternary (3/8) perception of the rhythm (Recording V). In contrast, the responses of many of the Western Europeans implied that they perceived both melodies as anacrustic and compound (6/8) (see Figures 11a, b and c opposite).24 These initial results remain at present inconclusive. However, it would seem that Western European subjects have a tendency to perceive the second and longer duration of short–long rhythmic events as determinants of metrical stress (see Lee, 1991) whereas Bolivians appear to ascribe that stress to the first and shorter duration.25 Bolivian subjects (short–long) first-note stress

Western European subjects (short–long) second-note stress

The fact that this shorter duration is the first sound that is heard is also significant. For the Bolivian subjects this first sound within a phrase appears to initiate and mark the pulse of the piece. 26 Thus, for them, the hierarchy of rhythmic events would appear to be organized according to the order in which these rhythmic events are heard rather than on the basis of their durational relationship to one another. It appears that for the Bolivian subjects the first note of a melody tends to be perceived as hierarchically dominant (as a marker of pulse) in respect of the second, even when the first pair of notes is in the relation short–long, an interpretation that would run counter to rules that have been adduced as being universally applicable to all musics (Metrical Preference Rule 23 This metrical distinction was made using Western performance conventions. For the anacrustic (6/8) interpretation this involved a short, light anacrustic quaver, leading to a lengthened crotchet, and for the on-beat (2/4) interpretation a stressed first quaver followed by an unstressed and shortened crotchet. 24 John Blacking (1995 [1967]:164) has noted a similar tendency among the Venda to treat short-long durations as iambic (as in Figures 11b and c) rather than as anacrustic (as in Figure 11a). However, the context and performance strategies he describes to explain this phenomenon appear rather different from the Bolivian case discussed here. 25 Significantly, many Quechua songs feature iambic (short-long) rhythmic relations. For example, the majority of the Carnival songs from Ayacucho, Peru, transcribed in Vásquez and Vergara 1988 follow the pattern: e qe q. 26 This is also the case for the many Bolivian melodies which begin with the rhythmic durations long–short.

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5a, Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983:348). It also accords with David Hughes’ suggestion (1991:330) that metre, as construed within Western music-theoretic tradition, may not have the universal applicability that is generally assumed for it.

Cognitive perspectives The contrasted perceptions of the rhythmic structure of Easter songs by Bolivian and Western European subjects suggested the possibility of differing cognitive processes at work. We hypothesized a number of cognitive explanations to account for the iambic (short–long) pairs of durations present in many Easter songs, such as the possibility that Bolivian musicians were perceiving rhythmic structure in some figural way, independent of regular time hierarchies (see Hargreaves, 1996:160), or that they were employing different rhythmic categories from Western listeners. This led us to design an experiment which aimed to compare how small time differences in durational proportions were perceived by subjects from rural Bolivia and Europe. However, there were several methodological flaws in this experiment, which seemed to demonstrate (although inconclusively) no significant differences between the patterns of judgements of the European and Bolivian listeners (except a greater tendency for Europeans to be able to distinguish between regular equal patterns and irregular patterns). Neither the figural nor the categorical hypotheses appeared helpful here, but the iambic nature of the pairs of durations did suggest the possibility that the rhythmic structure of Easter songs might be constrained or shaped by the phenomenon of “time-shrinking”. This process, first proposed by Nakajima et al. (1991), suggests that when two short time intervals are experienced consecutively and comparatively, the second must be significantly longer than the first for both of them to be experienced as equal in duration. It has been suggested that time-shrinking, which occurs most strongly when durations of less than 200–300 milliseconds are involved, “probably reflects a universal perceptual mechanism operating at a level before linguistic idiosyncrasies determine listening behaviour” (1991:18). The durations in Easter songs lie close to the upper threshold (c. 200ms) of those employed in the experiments demonstrating time shrinking. Nakajima et al. suggest that below this threshold time shrinking is more-or-less unavoidable in perception, becoming less so as the threshold is approached, which might help explain the rhythmic ambiguity encountered by many listeners to Easter songs – especially those aiming to make symbolic and consistent judgements about the durational relations between paired notes, such as an ethnomusicologist attempting to transcribe this music. But, whilst time shrinking may help us to understand how paired iambic durations might be employed to produce a subjective equality of duration in Easter song performance, it does not explain the differences in rhythmic perceptions encountered between Bolivian and European listeners. One area which does,

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

however, offer a possible explanation for this complex situation, is the prosodic structure of the Quechua (or Aymara) language of these songs.

Language The stress rules of the languages Quechua and Aymara, in which these songs are sung, work in a rather different way from most European languages. 27 The primary stress in Quechua (on which we shall now focus) appears on the penultimate syllable of a word, and the secondary stress comes on the first syllable (Cerrón-Palomino 1987). As a suffix-based language, this means that the position of the primary stress in Quechua is highly variable. For example: Ta-ki-ku-ni I sing

Ta-ki-ri-ku-sha-ni I’m singing

Ta-ki-ri-ku-sha-lla-ni28 I’m just singing

It is significant that the secondary stress always occurs on the first syllable of a word, and as such is the only “fixed” stress feature. Thus, in terms of stress, the initial sound or syllable of a word is usually privileged as a referential feature in respect of, for example, the second syllable. This may help to explain why the Bolivian subjects tended to perceive the first note they heard as marking the pulse. However, an exception to this pattern for Quechua stress would appear to occur in the case of words with three syllables where the primary stress comes on the second syllable, thus favouring it over and above the first syllable. Might we then expect mother tongue Quechua speakers to treat songs that started with such words as anacrustic? Trisyllabic stress:

Wi-ri-ta [“Life”: Spanish loan word]

Bruce Mannheim (1986) has noted that such tri-syllabic words, where the primary and secondary stress are placed consecutively, are rare in Quechua and form an exceptional category. These exceptional tri-syllabic words are also found in adolescents’ riddle games in Peru, and have been interpreted as a means of achieving verbal competence (Isbell and Roncalla 1977). Significantly, this exceptional class of tri-syllabic words is particularly common in Easter songs and even appears to form the rhythmic basis of this genre, where three-syllable words (or six-syllable words treated as two tri-syllabic words) are incorporated into isorhythmic figures. Ta-ki-ri Sa-ki-sta,

-

ri-lla- sun

wi-ri-tay

sa-ki- -sta

ji-la-tay

27 Both Quechua and Aymara are widely spoken in the areas where these songs are sung and many of the performers from our recorded examples spoke both these languages (and sometimes Spanish). 28 Primary stress in bold, secondary stress underlined. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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The exceptions to this essentially trisyllabic rule and structure come only at the ends of phrases when words of even syllable number (e.g. two or four) are introduced. This has the effect of skewing the isorhythmic pattern set up by the repeated tri-syllabic combinations of words. From the authors’ perceptions, the skewing of the tri-syllabic isorhythmic figures by the introduction of words with even syllable number also seems to have the effect of emphasizing an anacrustic (6/8) interpretation. It seems likely that Bolivian performers of these songs might also experience some form of rhythmic tension at these points, perhaps adding to the aesthetic pleasure of the song. Despite the prosodic tri-syllabic rhythmic configurations of Easter songs, which Western listeners usually seemed to perceive as anacrustic, the Bolivian performers and subjects all treated the first syllable as a “downbeat” or dance step. It would seem that Quechua stress rules, which might imply an anacrustic interpretation in the trisyllabic case, are not followed in this genre. Alternatively, it may be necessary to reconsider these stress rules and question Bruce Mannheim’s classification of the first syllable in tri-syllabic Quechua words as “extra-metrical” (1986:58). Perhaps, for the poetry of Easter songs at least, it may be appropriate to identify two distinct forms and functions of Quechua stress: (a) “primary” stress, marked by intensity, pitch or duration (as commonly used in English), which signals the termination of a word;29 and (b) “secondary” stress, which may be perceived in other ways and serve a qualitatively different function.30 The perception of “secondary” stress in Quechua might be compared to modern Welsh, in which intensity and pitch give no indication of stress. Indeed, the regular stress that occurs on the penultimate syllable is often wrongly perceived by English people to occur on the final syllable, due to the increased duration of the post-stress consonant (Williams 1983). It seems possible that the “secondary” stress at the start of a Quechua word may act as some kind of perceptual anchor, as the onset of a delimited stream of sonic linguistic information, which is marked in song by a dance step.31 In the case of the trisyllabic words of Easter songs, where exceptionally “secondary” and “primary” stress occur adjacently, this unusual juxtaposition would seem to heighten rhythmic interest for the performers.

The Andean anacrusis? As we have argued, Easter songs are an exceptional genre in a number of respects, and have required us to focus on rhythmic structure and perception in 29 Where a Quechua word consists of a variable length cluster of suffixes added to a stem. 30 This also suggests that the classification “primary” or “secondary” is somewhat arbitrary – reflecting the Western history of linguistics and its categories rather the reality of how stress might actually function in Quechua. 31 This is in part prepared for by the “primary stress” which marks the end of a preceding word.

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

Figure 12 Young charango players about to accompany Easter songs. The charango is closely associated with courtship. (Sacaca, Alonso de Ibañez province, northern Potosí, Easter 1997)

considerable detail. The typically iambic and higher intensity charango upstroke and second syllable, alongside elements of play in language stress patterns, are clearly of great aesthetic importance for the performers, adding to rhythmic “tension” and interest. But even if outsiders, such as the authors, often find themselves hearing this music anacrustically, an anacrustic interpretation of these songs was notably absent from Bolivian mother tongue Quechua (or Aymara) speakers. This raises the question of whether the absence of the anacrusis, or rather the tendency to treat the first syllable of a phrase as a functional “downbeat”, is more widely generalized among the songs of mother tongue Quechua (and Aymara) speakers. A thorough survey of music from across the Andean region would be necessary to reach any firm conclusions on this question. Although such a survey is beyond the scope of this paper, it is worth noting that none of the several hundreds of Quechua or Aymara songs (and instrumental pieces) from the peasant communities of northern Potosí that we have recorded and analysed were found (after overcoming our initial misperceptions) to be anacrustic. 32 The implications of Quechua stress on the construction of melodies (and thus perception) has also been discussed by Vásquez and Vergara who note that “the rhythm of Carnival melodies [from Ayacucho, Peru] responds to the

32 A few instrumental pieces from Yura, to the south of Potosí, were however undoubtedly anacrustic. These may have been based on Spanish rather than Quechua songs. 33 Incidentally, none of the Carnival melodies transcribed by Vásquez and Vergara include an anacrusis and many begin with iambic (short–long) rhythmic pairs.

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rhythm of the Quechua words, and because of this when the melody is presented with Spanish, sometimes, it seems to contradict the accentuation of this language” (1988:196 our translation).33 This linguistic basis for difference in the rhythmic structure of Andean songs seems to be significant. For example, an anacrustic rhythmic structure is common in predominantly Spanish language genres, such as the Peruvian Yaravís and Marineras transcribed by Rodolfo Holzmann (1966:25, 29, 70 etc.). In the few examples from this collection where Quechua songs have been transcribed as anacrustic, it seems likely that Holzmann has been subject to rhythmic misperceptions similar to those that we encountered (1966: 40, 62, 67). Whilst language seems to be of considerable significance for understanding the rhythmic structure in Andean music, it is important not to present Spanish and Quechua/Aymara musics as neatly isolated spheres of musical activity. The juxtaposition of Spanish and Quechua (or Aymara) stress patterns in the Andes needs to be understood in the historical context of these languages’ close proximity, interactions and mutual borrowings since the sixteenth century, as well as widespread bilingualism. Indeed, like many other essentially Quechua (or Aymara) genres, Easter songs incorporate a number of Spanish loan words, such as wirita, from the Spanish vida (“life”). Also, Quechua (or Aymara) words have often been set to melodies derived from Spanish prosody, and vice versa. For example, Carlos Vega has observed how singers unconsciously apply their own “rhythmic system” to renditions of a “foreign song” (canción extraña) – thereby creating a hybrid (1941:495–6) and Ellen Leichtman has described the mestizo huayño in terms of “a blending of Indian and European rhythmic understanding” (1987:170) This leads us to wonder how often Spanish melodies have been reinterpreted by mother tongue Quechua or Aymara speakers without anacruses (as we discovered in their tapping to anacrustic European melodies), or how often speakers of European languages have added anacruses to Quechua or Aymara melodies. For example, one of the authors played and sang the song “Cholita Chapareñita” as anacrustic (Figure 1a) for several years before becoming aware of the placing of the footfalls on the original recording (Figure 1b). It seems likely that similar forms of rhythmic misperception, or reinterpretation, may underscore the development of many Andean musical genres through the course of the region’s complex history of mestisaje (cultural mixing) and Westernization.

Conclusions We have seen how the interplay between features of language (in the form of rules of prosody), motoric patterns and other aspects of performance acts to shape Easter songs, enabling the charango players and singers to sustain the “unevenness” of rhythmic relations. These act together in opposition to the referential function implied by the fixed – perhaps even default – status of the initial syllable stress to create and sustain tension, affording a dynamic

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

rhythmic structure to the performance, keeping it “on the edge”. It can be hypothesized that the fixed status of the stress on the initial syllable leads to the initial event in a temporal pattern coming to act as a “perceptual anchor”, a determinant of the temporal structure in respect of which other elements will be perceived. It may not be too far-fetched to conceive of this “orienting” function for Bolivian musicians of initial events in respect of later events in perception as being similar (in function, if not in form) to the orienting function exercised by, e.g., the tonic in respect of other scale notes within Western tonal music. Hence patterns of tension and resolution might be articulated in this Bolivian music in terms of match or mismatch of temporal structure with the accent structure expected on the basis of prosodic rules together with other elements, such as motor patterns, in performance. It is interesting to consider Easter song performance in terms of what appears to be the most highly developed theory of temporal musical cognition, Jones’s theory of dynamical attention (Jones 1976, Jones and Yee, 1993). According to this theory, the function of rhythmic and metric frameworks in the experience of patterns unfolding in time is to reduce the amount of cognitive effort involved in interpreting such patterns by enabling listeners to align their expectations with predictably spaced reference points marked by the occurrence of beats. However, the mechanics of this theory, in which relative duration constitutes an important cue in the abstraction of a regular periodic framework of beats, would appear to require considerable reformulation in order to account for Easter song performance. Moreover, the prosodic and motoric factors central to the articulation of the experience of time in Easter songs scarcely figure in either Jones’s theory or, indeed, in most theories of the cognition of time in music (although see Pressing et al. 1996, and the accounts of Todd and Parncutt’s theories in Clarke, 1999). Overall, a conclusion that may be drawn from this study is that while certain capacities and propensities can be shown to be operational in the cognitions of Western and non-Western subjects and might thus be deemed to be “cognitive universals”, the ways in which the operation of these cognitive universals might be actualized in the performances of different cultures can be highly divergent. Although inevitably conforming to general timing constraints on human perceptual systems and on periodic motor behaviours, the ways in which rhythm and metre are structured in a culture’s music appear, from this study, to be highly culture-specific. Whereas rhythmic complexity in much Western music can be accounted for in terms of the expectancies generated by the periodic and hierarchical nature of “conventional” Western phrase-structure (albeit that these have historic origins in dance), the capacity to produce complex and ambiguous rhythms appears in this instance to derive from a complex interaction between linguistic prosody, movement patterns, perceptual constants and the dynamics of a culture’s musical aesthetics. It may be that an account of the experience or cognition of music within the peasant culture of Northern Potosí either should not or cannot be expressed in terms of what might be thought of as the sorts of “natural kinds” that have been applied to account for the cognition of music within a Western cultural context.

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These natural kinds constitute things like pitches and durations, which, according to Lerdahl and Jackendoff, constitute the musical surface, a level of description that (in Jackendoff’s 1987 account) mediates between auditory input and conceptual representations of musical structure in cognition. The idea of a musical surface that is comprised of pitches and durations as constituting the substrate for natural kinds in music cognition may simply reflect specificities of much Western musical usage and may accurately reflect elements in and of Western musical cognition. But the close ties between language, movement and rhythmic structure evident in Easter songs would suggest that an appropriate mechanism for mediating between sensory (not just auditory) input and conceptual structure can be described only by taking into account all these contributory and interacting factors. This view is similar to that of Kofi Agawu, who has characterized Ewe conceptions of rhythm as “not a single unified or coherent field, but rather one that is widely and asymmetrically distributed, permanently entangled, if you like, with other dimensions” (1995:388). Similarly, Agawu’s aim to “develop a view of African rhythm in which its mechanical aspects are shown to reside in broader patterns of temporal signification (movement, language and gesture)” (1995:395), has many resonances with our own approach for the case of the Andes. However, for us, the focus is less on the “broader patterns” but rather on the factors that motivate them, locating these in the domain of embodied and encultured cognition. Easter songs comprise just one of the countless and extraordinarily varied genres of rural musics of the Andes. Their performance and specific type of rhythmic interplay are appropriate to a specific time of year and limited to a small geographical area. However, we may have an important lesson to learn from the rhythmic structuring of these songs in our approaches to Andean music in general as well as in our understanding of the relation between music and cognition. It is significant that while many English songs – indeed, poetic metres, such as iambic or anapaestic – are anacrustic, very few (if any) songs in the Andean languages Quechua or Aymara can truly be classified as such. Those which have been transcribed or claimed as anacrustic, necessarily by (ethno)musicologists schooled in the European classical tradition, might tell us more about the perceptions of the researcher than about the Andean music or musicians in question.

STOBART & CROSS The Andean anacrusis? Rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs, Potosí, Bolivia

References Agawu, Kofi (1995) “The invention of ‘African rhythm’.” Journal of the American Musicological Society, 48.3:380–95. Aretz, Isabel and Luis Felipe Ramón y Rivera (1976) “Areas musicales de tradición oral en América latina.” Revista Musical Chilena, year 30, AprilSeptember 134:9–55. Arom, Simha (1991) African polyphony and polyrhythm. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Baily, John (1985) “Music structure and human movement.” In P. Howell, I. Cross and R. West (eds) Musical structure and cognition. London: Academic Press. Baumann, Max Peter (1982) “Musik im Andenhochland” (2 records with commentary in German and English). Berlin: Museum Collection Berlin MC14. _____ (1983) Sojta chunka qheshwa takis bolivia llajtamanta/sesenta canciones del quechua boliviano. Cochabamba: Centro Pedagógico y Cultural de Portales. Blacking, John (1976) How musical is man? London: Faber. _____ (1995 [1967]) Venda children’s songs: a study in ethnomusicological analysis. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Cerrón-Palomino, Rudolfo (1987) Linguistica Quechua. Cusco: Centro de estudios rurales andinos “Bartolomé de las Casas,” Biblioteca de la tradición oral andina 8. Clarke Eric (1985) Structure and expression in rhythmic performance. In P. Howell, I. Cross and R. West (eds) Musical structure and cognition. London: Academic Press. _____ (1999) “Rhythm and the experience of time.” In D. Deutsch (ed.) The psychology of music, 2nd edn, pp. 473–500. London: Academic Press. Ellingson, Ter (1992) “Transcription.” In H. Myers (ed.) Ethnomusicology: an introduction. London: Macmillan. Fraisse, P. (1956) Les structures rhythmiques. Louvain: Publications Universitaires de Louvain. Gabrielsson, A. (1999) “The performance of music.” In D. Deutsch (ed.) The psychology of music, 2nd edn. London: Academic Press pp. 501–602 Grebe (Vicuña), Maria Ester (1976) “Objeto, métodos y técnicas de investigacíon en ethnomusicología: algunos problemas básicos.” Revista Musical Chilena 30.133:5–27. Grebe Vicuña, Maria Ester E. (1980) “Generative models, symbolic structures, and acculturation in the panpipe music of the Aymara of Tarapacá, Chile”. Unpublished PhD thesis, Department of Social Anthropology, Queen’s University Belfast. Handel, S. (1989) Listening. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. d’Harcourt, Raoul and Marguerite (1925) La Musique des Incas et ses survivances. Paris, Librairie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner. Hargreaves, D. (1996) The development of artistic and musical competence. In

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I. Deliège and J. Sloboda (eds) Musical beginnings. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harnad, S. (ed.) (1987) Categorical perception: the groundwork of cognition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Holzmann, Rodolfo (1966) Panorama de la música tradicional del Perú: 53 piezas transcritas de grabaciones tomadas directemente en el lugar, con su letra y glosas. Ministerio de Educacion: Escuela Nacional de Música y Danzas Folklóricas, Lima, Casa Mozart. _____ (1986) Q’ero, pueblo y música. Lima (Peru): Patronato Popular y Porvenir/Pro Música Clásica. Hughes, David (1991) “Grammars in non-Western musics: a selective survey.” In P. Howell, R. West and I. Cross (eds) Representing musical structure. London: Academic Press. Isbell, Billie Jean and Roncalla Fernandez, F.A. (1977) “The ontogenesis of metaphor: riddle games among Quechua speakers seen as cognitive discovery procedures.” Journal of Latin American Lore 3.1:19–49. Jackendoff, R. (1987) Consciousness and the computational mind. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Jones, M.R. (1976) “Time, our lost dimension: towards a new theory of perception, attention and memory.” Psychological Review 83:323–55. Jones, M.R and Yee, W. (1993) “Attending to auditory events: the role of temporal organization.” In S. McAdams and E. Bigand (eds) Thinking in sound. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kubik, Gerhard (1979) “Pattern perception and recognition in African music”. In J. Blacking and J. Keali’inohomoku (eds) The Performing Arts. The Hague: Mouton. Lee, C. (1991) “The perception of metrical structure: experimental evidence and a model.” In P. Howell, R. West and I. Cross (eds) Representing musical structure, pp.59–127. London: Academic Press. Leichtman, Ellen (1987) The Bolivian huayño: a study in musical understanding, Unpublished PhD thesis, Department of Music, Brown University. Lerdahl, F. and Jackendoff, R. (1983) A generative theory of tonal music. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Mannheim, Bruce (1986) “Popular song and popular grammar, poetry and metalanguage.” Word 37:12. Martinez, Rosalia (1992) Bolivia: calendar music in the central valleys. Liner notes to accompany compact disc: Le Chant du Monde LDX 274 938. Myers, Charles S. (1905) “A study of rhythm in primitive music.” British Journal of Psychology 1.397. Nakajima, Y., ten Hoopen, G. and van der Wilk, R. (1991) “A new illusion of time perception.” Music perception 8.4:431–48. Nettl, Bruno (1983) The study of ethnomusicology: twenty-nine issues and concepts. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press.

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Olsen, Dale (1980) “Folk music of South America – a musical mosaic.” In E May (ed.) Musics of many cultures. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press. Pöppel, E. and Wittman, M. (1999) “Time in the mind.” In MIT Encyclopedia of Cognitive Science, pp.841–3. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Pressing, J., Summers, J. and Magill, J. (1996) “Cognitive multiplicity in polyrhythmic pattern performance.” Journal of experimental psychology – human perception and performance 22.5:1127–48. Seeger, Charles (1958) “Prescriptive and descriptive music writing”. Musical Quarterly 44, 184–95. Shore, Brad (1996) Culture in mind: cognition, culture, and the problem of

meaning. Oxford: Oxford University Press

Solomon, Thomas (1994) “Creando etnicidad por medio de la música en el norte de Potosí.” Anales de la Reunión Anual de Etnografía (1993): Museo Nacional de Etnografía y Folklore, La Paz, Bolivia: MUSEF II.47–76. Strathern, Marilyn (1987) “Out of context: the persuasive fictions of anthropology” Current anthropology, 28.3, June: 251–81. Turino, Thomas (1983) “The charango and the sirena: music, magic and the power of love.” Latin American music review 4, Spring/Summer:81–119. _____ (1998) “Quechua and Aymara.” In D. Olsen and D. Sheehy (eds) Garland encyclopedia of world music: South America, Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean, 205–24. New York and London: Garland. Vásquez Rodriguez, C. and Vergara Figueroa, A. (1988) ¡Chayraq! Carnaval Ayacuchano. Lima, CEDAP (Centro de Desarollo Agropecuario) & TAREA (Asociacíon de publicaciones educativas). Vega, Carlos (1941) Música Popular Argentina – canciones y danzas criollos: fraseologia. Buenos Aires: Instituto de literatura Argentina/Universidad de Buenos Aires. Waterman, Christopher A. (1991) “Uneven development of African ethnomusicology.” In B. Nettl and P.V. Bohlman (eds) Comparative musicology and anthropology of music. London: University of Chicago Press. Williams, Briony (1983) Stress in modern Welsh. PhD thesis, Cambridge University.

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Note on the authors Henry Stobart is lecturer in Ethnomusicology at the Music Department of the Royal Holloway, University of London. Since 1986 he has made regular fieldwork trips to Bolivia and has written many articles on a variety of aspects of rural Andean music. He co-edited the book Sound (Cambridge University Press 2000) and is currently completing a musical ethnography of an Andean community for publication with Ashgate. As a performer, he is member of the Early/World Music ensemble Sirinu, with whom he has toured and recorded widely. Address: Music Department, Royal Holloway, University of London, Egham, Surrey TW20 0EX; e-mail: [email protected]. Ian Cross is a University Lecturer in Music and Fellow of Wolfson College, Cambridge. He is responsible for teaching all aspects of science and music in the Faculty of Music at Cambridge (where he leads the Science and Music Group), and is presently involved in research into the cognitive and evolutionary psychology of music. He has published many articles and chapters as well as two books, Musical structure and cognition (Academic Press, 1985) and Representing musical structure (Academic Press, 1991), both co-edited with P. Howell and R. West. Address: Faculty of Music, University of Cambridge, West Road, Cambridge CB3 9DP; e-mail: [email protected]; Web: http://www.mus.cam.ac.uk/~cross/.

DAVID W. HUGHES______________________________

No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems __________________________________________________________________________

Oral mnemonic systems for transmitting or representing melodies are examined in several diverse music cultures, to demonstrate that certain acoustic–phonetic features of vowels and consonants lead to similar systems of mnemonics existing independently in widely separated cultures. The primary relevant features are Intrinsic Pitch, Intrinsic Intensity and Intrinsic Duration; it is argued that largely subliminal yet universal awareness of these features leads to their use in structuring mnemonic systems. The article also reports on an attempt to begin testing the universal accessibility of the relevant perceptions.

1 Introduction In the New Grove dictionary of music (Sadie, 1980), solmization is defined as the “use of syllables in association with pitches as a mnemonic device for indicating melodic intervals.” The paragraph goes on to claim: “Such syllables are, musically speaking, arbitrary in their selection…” (in Sadie 1980:458; unsigned). The present article demonstrates that many systems of syllables for transmitting melodic intervals are far from being “musically speaking, arbitrary”: on the contrary, in such cases the particular choice of vowels to represent melodic flow is acoustically well motivated, highly regular and shows consistency across numerous music cultures. In addition, there are syllabic systems that transmit information other than or in addition to intervals, such as duration, loudness, resonance, timbre, attack and decay; most of these similarly use vowels and consonants in non-arbitrary ways. Since the latter are not, strictly speaking, solmization systems, a broader term is needed to embrace all systems where there is a close and highly regular connection between sonic aspects of the mnemonic syllables and of the corresponding musical phenomena. I propose the admittedly awkward term acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems. This reflects the fact that certain phonetic features of the syllables – BRITISH JOURNAL OF ETHNOMUSICOLOGY VOL. 9/ii 2000

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both vowels and consonants – are in an iconic relation to the musical sounds they represent; that is, they mimic or resemble them closely acoustically, as onomatopoeic words imitate sounds. But the connection between an onomatopoeic word and its referent is often far from obvious to someone who does not already know, whereas the principles behind acoustic-iconic systems (though not their precise application) are universally accessible to human experience. Thus we shall see that musicians from Japan and Uganda might well be expected to find each others’ mnemonic systems mutually intelligible. The term “nonsense syllables” is often used to describe such mnemonics. This article, however, endeavours to show that, although lexically meaningless, such syllables make eminent sense once their logic is understood. Such systems depend for their effectiveness upon their orality: to fully experience the impact of the syllables, one must sing or recite them, preferably aloud but at least in one’s head. Such systems have often come to be written down as well, as we shall see, but even in these cases their oral use is likely to continue in parallel. The basic logic underlying acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems allows them to function successfully and with impressive consistency even though the users are generally unaware of the full details of this logic. Consciousness is not necessary for these systems to function, because they are based on perceptions that are universally available, even if subliminally. It is a major aim of this article to demonstrate that these perceptions do exist, and then to explain why. This discussion may have some practical relevance. In Japan, for example, there is some resistance among younger students to the use of such mnemonics. As I believe in their utility, I would like to have the evidence to convince such learners that the traditional method is still useful.1

2 Oral mnemonics in Japanese music Let me describe my first few lessons on the n
1 I have dealt with aspects of these matters in two previous articles. Hughes 1989 introduced the basic features of what I then called “vowel-pitch solfège”, while Hughes 1991 traced the phenomenon through five centuries in Korea. Some of their main points are summarized briefly here, without full details and sources. This article both presents new data and interpretations and reports on an attempt to test the universal accessibility of the relevant perceptions. (Two misprints in Hughes 1991: the formula in footnote 5 needs a slash mark after 100 and should read 100/(2n)%; the “n” in footnote 9 should be “ni”.)

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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

Figure 1 Noh flute solmization for “Ch3 no mai” repeated section. Pitches are notional: both pitches and intervals can vary each time they are sung.

session singing the syllables in Figure 1. This is the melody of the four-line repeated flute motif central to the “Ch3 no mai” dance. The flute was not used.2 At our next lesson, once he was satisfied that I had memorized these lines, he handed me a folded Japanese fan and had me imitate his finger movements on a similar fan while I sang the mnemonics. The fan was held more or less as the flute would be, but not against the mouth. Finally in the third lesson he allowed me to pick up my flute. We then practised as we had with the fan, singing the mnemonics over and over yet again, only this time with me fingering on the flute. It was not until the fourth week, however, that I was at last allowed to actually blow into the flute. At no time during these four weeks did my teacher ever pick up his own flute. Playing the flute for that first time, “thinking” the mnemonics as I did so, the melody seemed to come out naturally (although not with the subtle ornamental detail of a mature version). The fingers knew where to go, and the syllables continued to course through my mind. The pitches and intervals were doubtless different, since we had never sung at any specific pitch, and as I already knew, there was no standard pitch or tuning pattern for Noh flutes anyhow, as they never need to accompany another melodic instrument or singer. 2 In this article, vowels in square brackets indicate a loose usage of the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA), sufficient to our needs but with some typographical substitutions for a non-specialist readership. The symbols [i I e a à ¿ o u] are to be pronounced approximately as in American English “beat, bit, bait/bet, bah, but, bought, boat, boot” respectively, though never as diphthongs; [¹] is as in “book” but with the tongue somewhat farther forward and less lip-rounding; [ü] is like [i] but with lips rounded; [y] represents its normal English value as in “yet”, and [ng] is as in “sing”.

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But I felt a very close identity between what we had sung and what I was now playing. Eventually I learned the entire “Ch3 no mai” by the same method. No written notation was offered by my teacher at any time. Mnemonics of this type in Japan are most commonly called sh
3 The nature of acoustic-iconic systems Both the consonants and the vowels of sh
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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

indicates a relatively smooth onset rather than an abrupt tongued attack. (An [h] begins many breath phrases whose first note falls on a downbeat, and is similarly non-abrupt.) The following [hy-] does not interrupt the air flow, and nor does the flautist do so, but the two-element sound reflects the fact that there is usually a grace-note ornamentation at this point linking the first two main notes. The ensuing [r] between identical vowels, which is pronounced as what acousticians call a “flap”, indeed marks a simple finger-flap to articulate the beat, with no breath pulse. The sh
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4 Vowels, mnemonics and relative pitch The remainder of this article will focus on the role of vowels and on homologies between their acoustic features and those of the musical phenomena they represent. In general, the use of consonants in mnemonics strikes me as being fairly straightforward and common-sense. With vowels, the factors determining their use seem less immediately apparent to most people, although after explanation many people suddenly do find them relatively intuitive or obvious. Vowels are often used in accordance with any of three characteristics: what phoneticians call their Intrinsic Pitch, Intrinsic Duration and Intrinsic Intensity. Let us look first at Intrinsic Pitch, which is by far the most powerful and interesting of these three. In a sonogram, each (normal, voiced) vowel appears as a fundamental (the pitch at which the vocal cords vibrate) plus various relatively dense regions of overtones reflecting that vowel’s characteristic resonance pattern (just as for a musical instrument). These latter regions are called formants, and they are crucial to “forming” the vowel’s acoustic profile. To simplify the situation for our purposes, we can consider the vocal tract, from larynx to lips, as consisting of two primary resonating chambers: one between the larynx and the point of narrowest constriction between the tongue and the roof of the mouth; the other between this point of maximum constriction and the lips. Figure 2 shows the approximate shape of the vocal tract for the vowel [i]. The deeper chamber, marked “F1 [first formant] area”, can be called the throat cavity, and the other (F2 = second formant) the mouth cavity. Although in normal speech the tension on the vocal cords determines the vowel’s most clearly heard pitch, its fundamental, these two cavities also resonate in response to certain harmonics of the vocal cords, producing pitches which are at least subliminally perceived – necessarily so, or else the vowel would lose its identity. The pitch of the fundamental can vary freely, but the sizes of the mouth (F2) and throat (F1) cavities, and hence their vibrational

Figure 2 Shape of vocal tract for vowel [i], showing the F2 and F1 resonating chambers (a = lips; b = palate; c = tongue; d = to the larynx; e = point of maximum constriction)

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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

frequencies, remain fairly constant for a particular vowel. The resonant frequency is, of course, in inverse proportion to cavity size, and due to the structure of the vocal tract, F1 will always be lower than F2. Figure 3 shows typical F1 and F2 values for five standard vowels in three languages.

Spanish Japanese Korean

F2 F1 F2 F1 F2

i 2300 275 2200 250 2031

e a 1900 1300 450 725 1900 950 450 600 1834 1292 (Å = 1155, í = 999)

o 900 450 750 450 840

u 800 275 900 300 920

Figure 3 Frequencies in Hz of first formant (F1) and second formant (F2) of Spanish, Japanese and Korean vowels (from Delattre 1965:49, Han 1963:56 and Onishi 1981:672). Spanish and Japanese figures = average male voice; Korean figures = one male speaker. Absolute pitch will vary, but relative pitch patterns persist.

Of course, the vowels are not quite the same in each language, but you will notice a similarity in ordering. In any language, a vowel close to [i] will have an F2 value higher than a vowel close to [e], and both will be considerably higher than for [a], and so on. For F1 a different pattern obtains. The reasons for these patterns, though too complex to explain here, make good physiological sense. The values shown in Figure 3 will also vary somewhat with the individual speaker, and under influence of neighbouring sounds, and of course with the specific dialect. For example, Japanese [u], which in the standard language is pronounced with minimal lip-rounding, has an F2 value closer to 750Hz when more rounded, as often in sh
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+0 -28 =1 +4 -0 =17 +31 -1 =0 +8 -9 =8

+1 -34 =0 +0 -13 =1 +0 -0 =4 +5 -6 =0

+0 -23 =1 +4 -17 =1 +11 -8 =0 +2 -4 =2

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Figure 4 Vowel pitch succession in Noh flute solmization

This table shows, for example, that when a syllable containing [i] was followed by one with [o], the melody at that point descended in 34 of 35 cases in our sample. It can be seen from Figure 4 that [i] represents the highest position in this hierarchy: in pairs involving [i] and another vowel, the former’s corresponding pitch is higher in 160 of 167 cases (96%). (Let us ignore the repeated pitches for now.) The vowel [a] ranks second: it is lower than [i] in 58 of 62 cases, and higher than [o] in 44 of 45 pairs (the exception falling across a phrase boundary). The vowels [o] and [u] are not clearly ranked in relation to each other: they seem to share the bottom rung. Notice that the sequence [a u] represents a falling interval in 17 of 22 cases, whereas the reverse sequence [u a] is equally often rising or falling. Intrinsic Intensity or Duration may be the reason in the latter case; these will be discussed shortly. Overall, then, we can say that the four vowels of this system are ranked in pitch from high to low as follows: [i], then [a], then [o/u] together, with some exceptions. Is this an arbitrary ordering? Could we switch, say, [i] and [a] throughout Noh flute sh
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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

Intrinsic Pitch (F2) 1 Noh flute 2 hichiriki (gagaku oboe) 3 ry3teki (gagaku flute) 4 p’iri (Korean oboe) 5 chík (early Korean flute) 6 Kim Kisu’s notation system for Korean ornamentation 7 berimbau (Brazilian musical bow; Hélène Rammant personal communication, December 1999) 8 Sundanese gamelans’ comparative overall pitch levels 9 Scots bagpipes canntaireachd oral notation (fixed pitches) 10 Lesotho drums (Joe Legwabe personal communication 5/92) 11 Thai drums 12 Middle East drums 13 Manding drums (discography D5)

ieaou i a o/u (see above) i e a o u (unpubl.) i a o u (1989:6) i e a 3 o u; or: i e a/3/o u (1991:313) i a/o í /u (1991:313ff.) i e a/3 o í (1991:315ff.)

i o (as in [din don]) i e a o u (1989:11) i e a o à (1989:11) i a/u (as in [digidagididum]); also: e o i a o (as in [ting t’am / cha cho]) e u (as in [dum tek]) i a u (as in [ba di nin kun])

Figure 5 F2-based relative-pitch syllabic systems. Vowels listed from high to low; see Hughes 1989, 1991, pages shown, for details and original sources. Korean Å = [¹], í = near [¿].

perception of Intrinsic Pitch in section 8 below. In any case, it will be convenient and not too misleading to call these “F2 systems”. The systems shown are varied in their functions. The F2 principle can be found operating to represent: relative pitch of successive melody notes (examples 1–7 in Figure 5); relative pitch of the tuning systems of entire gamelans (example 8); fixed scale degrees (example 9); relative pitch of different drumstrokes (examples 10–13); and yet other possibilities not discussed here. Note that the majority of F2 systems indicate relative pitch relations, not absolute pitch. For example, in Noh flute solmization (Figure 1), the vowel [i] can occur in conjunction with several different absolute pitches, and so can the other three vowels. There is no one-to-one association of a vowel and a pitch (unlike, say, the names of Western pitches). Unlike the Noh flute, the two melodic winds of gagaku are tuned to specific pitches and operate within a fixed-pitch system, and yet here too there is no regular connection. Figure 6 shows how often each vowel is associated with each pitch in a varied sample of gagaku pieces. 5 5 I used the piece “Etenraku” in three different modes, to ensure that modal differences would not go unremarked, and “Ringa”, a piece of a somewhat different character and origin.

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ry3teki 5i 2i 18i, 5a 10i, 23a 19i, 7a, 10o, 3u 6i, 15a, 17o, 11u 35a, 9u 4i, 4a, 29o, 2u 6o, 8u 32o 13o, 4u 2i, 1o 1i, 4u 1u

Figure 6 Relation between vowels and absolute pitches for hichiriki and ry3teki. Hichiriki sounds one octave higher than shown; ry3teki sounds two octaves higher.

It can be seen that in ry3teki mnemonics, which follow the order [i a o u] 98% of the time, the vowel [i] is linked to nine different pitches over a range of nearly two octaves; in the hichiriki with its narrower range, it is linked with six of the nine possible pitches. The other vowels are also promiscuous, if less so. This sort of variation is characteristic of what I have called “vowel-pitch solfège systems” but perhaps could have better named “relative-pitch F2 systems”. It relates directly to the fact that the users of such systems are almost never consciously aware of the acoustic logic behind them, as is discussed later.

5 An example from Uganda My previous publications have documented and analysed relative-pitch F2 systems in detail only for Korea and Japan. Of course, there is at least a chance that the systems of these two neighbour countries are historically connected and that their similarities result not from the operation of similar principles but from borrowing or genetic relations. This cannot be true, however, of the following example from Uganda. When Peter Cooke played the recording for me, I sensed immediately that the royal harpist Temusewo Mukasa was using such a system. Detailed analysis of this example indeed reveals precisely the same characteristics as the East Asian cases. All vocables here consist of a consonant plus a vowel; although there is, as usual, a patterning to the consonant occurrences, 6 only the vowels relate to pitch in this case. My rough phonetic transcriptions are detailed enough to reveal that differences in F2 values play the major role here. 6 A repeated pitch is sung with [r] 23 times, [t] 24 times; a pitch change uses [r] only 9 times but [t] (or rarely [d]) 216 times.

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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

The recording opens with 12 repetitions of a harp theme of 8 bars of 3/32 metre, accompanied by the harpist’s solmization. Each bar (with a few exceptions) consists of three syllables, each of roughly equal duration (notated here as 1/32 notes), sung on the same pitch as the harp part (as far as could be discerned). There is some variation in the sung syllables across the 12 cycles. Figure 7 shows two cycles only.

r

Figure 7 Ugandan harp vocables from “Okwagala Omulungi Kwesengereza” (recording D2, track 1), 2nd and 5th cycles only; performed by Temusewo Mukasa, royal harpist of Uganda, recorded 1950 or 1952

Note first of all that, exactly as in Figure 6 for Japan, there is no regular correlation between particular vowels and pitches. Figure 8 shows that each of the five pitches in this example co-occurs with from three to five different vowels. Likewise, seven of the eight vowels occur with more than one pitch; [u] occurs with all five pitches. vowel i pitch g 39 e 66 d 9 c A

ü 2 1

I

¹

2 6

2 12 2

Ã

2 3

¿

2

o

u

5 7 9

2 24 23 38 15

Figure 8 Pitch–vowel correlation in “Okwagala Omulungi Kwesengereza” solmization (for all 12 cycles)

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It follows, then, that vowel succession does not indicate interval size, unlike the syllables of tonic sol-fa: movement between [i] and [u], for example, can represent several different intervals. Instead, as in the East Asian examples, we are dealing with the relative pitch of successive notes. Figure 9 shows the direction of melodic movement between the vowels of this example. (Here I have written the vowels in the descending order of their F2 frequencies as I perceive them through whispering or tapping the cheek; this is explained below. Repeated vowels and pitches are disregarded.) 2nd vowel i 1st vowel i ü I +1 ¹ +2 Ã +3 ¿ +1 o +3 u +41/-1

ü

I

¹

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¿

o

u

-3

-3

-3

-1

-1

-40 -3 -1 -5

-1

-1 -2

+1 +5 +3

+6

-5

Figure 9 Vowel pitch succession in “Okwagala Omulungi Kwesengereza” solmization (for all 12 cycles)

As in the East Asian examples, the correlation of vowel and pitch succession is impressive. Of 136 successive vowel-pitch pairs, 125 (92%) follow the expected F2 order. And 10 of the 11 exceptions involve the sequences [o u] and [u o]; if we were to switch the order of these two vowels in the system, then over 99% of pairs would follow the expected order. 7 Consider next that the performer clearly did not memorize this melody in a fixed form and with a fixed sequence of vowels to represent it. An inventory of all the one-bar motifs occurring in the 12 cycles finds 10 recurring motifs: 4 that each occur 12 times (namely, in the same bar of each cycle), and 6 others that occur respectively 11, 8, 7, 6, 5 and 4 times. What is interesting is that only one of these 10 motifs uses the same three vowels in all occurrences. Figure 10 shows the vowel patterns and number of occurrences for each motif.

7 A hypothesis for why [o] and [u] are out of F2 order: seeing that [o] is restricted to the lower pitches – played on thicker strings and thus sounding somewhat louder to my ears – Intrinsic Intensity may be a more important factor than F2 order (see below).

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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

gee: i i i (10 times), i ¹ ¹ (1), i I I (1) ege: u i i (9), u i u (3) edd: i i i (4), u u u (2), u o o (2), i I I (2), ü u u (1), i ¹ ¹ (1) eAA: i u u (6), u o o (3), i o o (1), i à à (1), i ¿ ¿ (1) cdc: u ¹ u (6), u u u (3), u ¹ o (1), u ¹ u (1), à ¹ à (1) gcc: i u u (6), ü u u (2) ced: u i u (7) dge: ¹ i i (2), I i i (1), i i i (1), u i i (1), u u i (1) Age: u i i (3), o i i (1), à i i (1) -ed: - i u (3), - u u (1) Figure 10 Vowel variation for melodic motifs in “Okwagala Omulungi Kwesengereza” solmization

What this demonstrates is that Temusewo Mukasa is using a relative-pitch F2 system as an active, creative system. Even without knowing the ethnographic details, it is clear that he was not taught this system in the way that one learns sargam or tonic sol-fa, nor could he have learned the melody and its solmization as a fixed unit. Rather, the melody he sings can vary somewhat (e.g. dge and Age as alternatives), and a single motif can be represented by several different sequences of vowels. In this respect, Mukasa’s system differs from those for most Japanese genres, where a melody is learned in a fixed form and sung to a specific sequence of syllables; in Japan, variation occurs between schools rather than within a single piece. And yet the principles behind this Ugandan example are identical to those found in Japan, Korea and elsewhere. And the performer manages to follow the vowel order shown despite singing at 330 syllables per minute! In such systems, deviation from precise F2 order occurs most commonly when the F2 values of two vowels are quite close. But exceptions also occur due to competition from two other features of vowel acoustics.

6 Intrinsic Duration and Intrinsic Intensity In several such systems in Japan and in Korea (where they are called yukpo or kuÅm), and also elsewhere, this highly regular relation between vowels and melodic direction based on Intrinsic Pitch (IP) is often disrupted due to the competing vowel acoustics of Intrinsic Duration (ID) and Intrinsic Intensity (II). Phoneticians have found that in the vast majority of languages the vowels closest to [i] and [u], those spoken with the mouth relatively closed, will take less time to articulate and will also register a lower volume on a vU meter than will more open vowels; by contrast, the “longest” and “loudest” vowel is [a], followed by [o] and [e]. 8 This is why [i] and [u] are often favoured for short 8 Details in Ladefoged 1982, Lehiste 1970 and other standard studies in acoustic phonetics.

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notes or those in weak metric positions in oral mnemonic systems, while [a] tends toward the opposite. Thus the Ugandan harpist above, who must sing more than 300 syllables of solmization per minute, relies overwhelmingly on a simple two-way pitch distinction between [i] and [u] (79% of all syllables), since these are the quickest vowels to pronounce, the ones with the lowest Intrinsic Duration; conversely, [a] is avoided totally because there is insufficient time to move the tongue and jaw so far at this tempo. Still, considerations of ID do not lead in this case to violations of IP. They do so, however, in many other systems. In mnemonics for the Korean oboe p’iri (reported in Hughes 1991: Figures 2, 3), a pitch associated with the vowel [i] is, as expected, higher than its neighbours in 96% of 178 cases. The seven exceptions are all on grace notes, where extreme brevity favours, indeed requires, a vowel of low ID despite the demands of IP. 9 Meanwhile, in Japanese shamisen mnemonics [a] is used to represent double-stops regardless of pitch: [shan, chan]. This is a matter of Intrinsic Intensity overriding IP: the much greater loudness of plucking two strings rather than one – a technique used sparingly and thus strikingly – calls for a vowel of significantly higher II. There is also a tendency in both Korean mnemonics and those of Japanese court music to prefer the more intense vowels [a, o] for strong modal degrees; however, this never seems to override the requirements of Intrinsic Pitch (see next section).

7 Conscious or unconscious? Many acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems are highly regular, adhering to the pattern of Intrinsic Pitch well over 90% of the time, with the bulk of exceptions often explained by reference to Intrinsic Duration or Intensity. Among the most consistent are the various systems of Japan and Korea, but a glimpse at Uganda suggests that the same principles can operate anywhere. And yet the Japanese and Korean systems seem to have developed and continued to operate successfully without conscious awareness on the part of the musicians of the principles underlying them. Given the diversity of detail in such systems within and between these two countries, it seems unlikely that some single personage, fully cognizant of the details of vowel acoustics, consciously devised a single system, originally 100% consistent, that then diversified over the centuries even as later musicians forgot the original principles. Already by 1470 in Korea, the Annals of King Sejo state: “As for musical notation, formerly there was only yukpo [one name for written notation derived from acoustic-iconic mnemonics] … Its complexities are difficult to comprehend” (translation revised from Lee 1981:31). That seems like a gentle way of admitting that nobody could explain how the system worked; yet it worked then and it works now to make Koreans into competent musicians. 9 Some of the Korean tendencies were noted by Kaufmann (1967), but he did not explore the matter systematically or in detail and also made numerous errors in romanization.

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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

Indeed, the Japanese and Korean systems seem not to have merited much conscious thought until the twentieth century, when scholars in both countries, possibly due to their encounters with Western music and its vastly different approach, began to focus on their countries’ unique systems. In Japan, this led first to the record set D4 (see Discography, below), which in the 1970s surveyed, described but notably did not attempt to explain the mnemonics for a wide range of instruments, and then to several papers in Tokumaru and Yamaguti 1986 which began to reveal at least the patterning if not quite the explanation. Musicians, meanwhile, carried on unaffected. In Korea, a different response occurred. (See Hughes 1991: section 7 for details of the following discussion.) As scholars and musicians began to pay conscious analytical attention to mnemonics (kuÅm, yukpo), they apparently came to see their traditional systems as inferior by comparison with the more rigorous rules of Western solfège. Chang Sahun (1984:137) reported that the variability of traditional kuÅm was eliminated “after 1930 at the National Classical Music Institute [a new Western-style conservatoire for traditional music] and similar institutions”, which attempted a rationalization for teaching purposes by standardizing the correspondence between particular syllables (N.B. not vowels)10 and scale degrees. The syllables were selected from among the many used in traditional mnemonics. If we ignore the consonants, the oneto-one correlations adopted at that time equated the pentatonic scale Eb, F, Ab, Bb, c with the vowels [a, u, í, o, Å]. In another publication Chang equated the upper octave eb with [i] instead, and other scholars and musicians have also given slightly different matchings, yet agreement with the conservatoire model is generally close. (These schemata seem intended primarily for p’iri and the haegÅm fiddle.) The problem is, these new theoretical models do not accord with practice. Korean scholars have written down on occasion the mnemonics associated with particular extant pieces of p’iri music (in the manner of figures 1 and 7 above). Using two such pieces as data (see Hughes 1991:318), we find that indeed there is a tendency for one specific vowel to be associated with each of the five scale degrees. Taking the best matches, however, the vowels are [a, Å, i, o, e]: only two of these five agree with the conservatoire model! Moreover, they only match their favourite scale degrees 76% of the time (206/271), which is far less than the near-perfect 97% correlation between vowel timbre and successive relative melodic pitch for the same passages. It is clear that the new, conscious, explicit system linking vowels with absolute pitches has not yet overcome the subliminal application of the principles of relative-pitch mnemonics. A further survey of several sources for oboe, zither and flute since the sixteenth century reveals the same pattern, despite quite different details in each case (Hughes 1991:319ff.). Still, there does seem to be a tendency in Korea for the vowels [a] and [o] to be associated with strong modal degrees. Something similar was noted by 10 The tendency to think in terms of syllables rather than vowels (seen also in Japan) derives perhaps from two factors: the syllabic nature of the writing systems and the influence of Western sol-fa.

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Garfias for Japanese t
11 They included Imafuji Masatar< (nagauta shamisen), Isso Yukimasa and Matsuda Hiroyuki (Noh flute), Takahashi Y3jir< (folk shamisen), and Ueno Mitsumasa and Wakayama Taneo (flutes of matsuribayashi and sato-kagura). All had had some experience of sh
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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

But even given that there is a logical physical explanation for the elements of acoustic-iconic systems, how could the latter have developed so systematically, and continued to work so well, with minimal consciousness?

8 “Natural” perception of Intrinsic Pitch I suggest that there are a number of ways in which humans internalize a link between vowel colour and relative pitch, outside of formal musical contexts, which could then provide a non-cognized model for such mnemonic systems. The second formant pitch is the most readily available. By far the easiest way to access it is whispering. This eliminates the fundamental – the vocal cords are left slack and do not vibrate – so that what one hears is basically the resonant frequency of the oral cavity, F2. We also hear F2 when we whistle. The American “wolf whistle” could be represented by the vowel sequence [ui uiiu]; it is impossible to whistle [u] at a higher pitch than [i]. These are common perceptions; some strange people will also have accessed F2 by striking the cheeks, teeth or lips while altering the shape of the articulatory channel. Nor is it only the vocal tract that lets us associate vowel timbre and pitch: any resonating chamber could do this. For example, Isaac Newton noted that filling a flagon with “beere or water” produced vowel colours in an order which we now recognize as that of their ascending F2 values (Elliott 1954:12). I myself had often found this phenomenon useful when filling a bottle in the dark (don’t ask), but only upon reading Newton’s description did I understand why. Could it be that I simply knew that the bottle was full when a certain high pitch had been reached? No, because I do not have perfect pitch. I believe that it was the arrival of the vowel [i] that subliminally signalled me to turn off the tap. Through such associations, normal people – without benefit of a vowelaware singing teacher or a cognized theory – come to link vowels and relative pitch. Here are several examples where ordinary people accurately employ F2 pitch ordering: • A musically untrained Japanese friend sang a four-note fragment of a radio theme tune (relative pitches: a e f e) with her own spontaneous syllables: kin kon kan kon. Thus the descending order is [i a o]. • English speakers represent the high-low pitches of an old-style chime doorbell as dingdong; in Japan, ambulances are said to repeat the sound piip<; instructions on Japan’s NiceCall international phone card tell users to listen for the sound pimpom (shown in romanization) before proceeding to the next step. In each of these cases, the vowel sequence [i o] represents a descent of around a fourth or fifth. • In Chengdu, China, a street sweets vendor is called the “ding ding dang” peddler, reflecting the two-pitch rhythm he beats with his candy-cutting chisel and hammer (Zevik and Zou 1998:88). Pitches are not musically precise, but [i a] does represent a descent. Another interesting phenomenon is the association of F2 vowel pitch with relative height in the spatial (specifically, somatic) rather than sonic dimension.

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Many people feel that different vowels resonate in different parts of the body. A highly systematized case is Kundalini yoga, where the bodily energy centres called cakras are linked with specific vowels: in one school at least, [i e a o u] equate respectively with head, throat, chest, stomach and lower abdomen. The exact same pattern was demonstrated by the dhrupad singer Fariduddin Dagar around 1982 (Gert-Matthias Wegner, personal communication). Given the common metaphoric link, surely in a majority of music cultures, between spatial height and musical pitch height (frequency), one can posit that even an unconscious perception of these bodily resonances could lead to an association between vowels and relative musical pitch. Not having heard an acoustic explanation for this somatic pattern, my tentative introspective hypothesis is that as the point of articulation of the vowels (the point where the tongue is nearest the roof of the mouth) proceeds backward in the mouth, towards the descent into the throat, so too is the mouth cavity extended back and down, and so we might well perceive this as a lowering of the resonant region. In any case, this perception of bodily resonance is mutually reinforcing with the F2 sequence perception derived from whispering and so forth.

9 Intrinsic Intensity and Duration in informal contexts I am not aware of any simple way similar to whispering, filling flagons etc., by which people could internalize an association between vowels and their Intrinsic Intensity and Duration. Apparently we are subliminally aware of these features even though our brains manage to hide the fact from us in daily life. That is, even though we do not notice that the vowel [a] assails our ears more loudly than [i], our brain records this fact even as it makes allowances for it. In any case, both musicians and civilians often draw on Intrinsic Intensity or Duration rather than Intrinsic Pitch to convey musical information informally. This often happens when someone is asking, “You know that tune that goes …?” Here are just a few of many examples collected over the years. In each case, vowel choice distinguishes strong and/or long from weak and/or short notes. (The three examples from London newspapers use vernacular rather than phoneticians’ spelling.) The melodies are shown in Figure 11. (a) “Lara’s Theme” from Doctor Zhivago: [ta ra ri ra] (unknown student, March 1996). (b) “Tara’s Theme” from Gone With the Wind: “lah-da dee-dah” (Evening Standard, 2 August 1996). Here “ee” represents [i]. As in “Lara’s Theme”, the shortest note is the only one represented by [i]. (c) Arthur Wood’s “Barwick Green”, theme tune for BBC Radio’s “The Archers”: “dum di dum di dum di dum, dum di dum di da da”, or “tum ti tum ti tum ti tum, tum ti tum ti tum tum” (Independent, 1 November 1994; “dum di” presumably rhymes with “dumb Dee”). (d) A bass guitar riff from Fleetwood Mac’s “The Chain”: “dang, der der dang, der der der der dang, dong” (Sunday Independent, 2 March 1997). Here F2 affects only the choice of the final “dong” to reflect a significant pitch drop

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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

Figure 11

from the preceding “dang”. (e) Finally, a well-known joke from the United States: “Where does the Lone Ranger take his garbage? To the dump, to the dump, to the dump dump dump.” (Familiarity with the William Tell Overture is essential here.)

10 Intrinsicality in non-solmization musical contexts Another common way people might become aware of intrinsic vowel pitch without specific explanation is through musical activity where vowels are generated but are apparently not a conscious part of the process of musical production or transmission. Examples are playing a jew’s harp or musical bow, or singing biphonically: all require shaping the mouth to bring certain overtones into prominence. Shaping the mouth for this purpose inevitably produces a vowel timbre. But the vowels themselves are not the focus.13 Indeed, the vowels required to produce a particular melody on, say, a musical bow will differ depending on the pitch of the fundamental as determined by the tautness of the bowstring. In such cases the vowel colour is only an accidental byproduct of the process of generating the required overtone. If a bow or jew’s harp melody were to be sung with mnemonics, the vowels would not necessarily match those needed actually to produce the melody on the instrument. The performer adjusts his mouth shape according to the feedback from listening to the pitch produced, not to the vowel colour. The resultant vowel timbres may not even correspond to vowels of the performer’s native language (see Hughes 1989:9-10, 14). 13 I do not know whether traditional teachers of such styles ever refer to the correlation of vowels and pitch.

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By contrast to F2, the first-formant frequency (F1) assumes acoustic prominence much more rarely, which is surely one reason that there seem to be no vowel-pitch mnemonic systems based on F1. The easiest way to hear it is by tapping the throat, but Ladefoged (1982:174-5) noted that speaking in a lowpitched, gravelly, “creaky” voice (so-called laryngeal phonation) will produce a relatively audible first formant in addition to the fundamental. One musical application of F1 is in the Tuvan overtone singing genre called kargyraa (of which a good example may be found on recording D1; see Discography), where, as Aksenov tells us (1967:296), high tongue position yields low overtones while low tongue position produces the higher tones. We are clearly hearing F1, not F2 as in most other overtone singing types. Three other musical phenomena reflect vowel acoustics, though in a less formalized way than the Japanese and Korean systems. In lilting or “diddling” – the singing of Irish or Scottish dance melodies to non-lexical syllables – Intrinsic Intensity and Duration play an important role. In a phrase in a 6/8 jig such as “dih-dl-ly i-dle deet’n daht’n dee-dle di-dle dum”, the relatively strong backbeat tends to be represented by syllables with “heavier” vowels, such as “ah”, “um” or “i” (here pronounced [ay]), whereas the weaker or shorter notes tend to use the sounds [I] or [i]. My impression is that Intrinsic Pitch plays little or no role in lilting.14 In “scat singing” in jazz, Ian Bent has noted, vowels and consonants work in partly “onomatopoeic” ways; for example, “doo is used for a stressed and sustained note, bee for a short unstressed note and bop for a [stressed] staccato note” (1980:339). Aside from its use as performance, he further observes, scatting can be used “as a verbal communication of the rhythmic pattern and is thus half way to being a notation of a rudimentary and imprecise kind” (ibid.). I would add that syllables are sometimes chosen to reflect pitch as well, following F2. Thus a singer executing a rapid portamento swoop up and then down again will more likely choose “dwee-oop” /u-i-u/ or something similar rather than “dyoo-eep”. This superficially resembles vowel use in whistling; in the latter, however, one has no control over the correlation of vowel and pitch, whereas in scat singing it is a free choice (the fundamental being set by the vocal cords rather than the resonating cavities), and yet F2 still tends to win out. Both of these resemble our Ugandan example in being less systematized than the Japanese and Korean mnemonics; but the Ugandan example follows Intrinsic Pitch while virtually ignoring the other two parameters, whereas these two do the reverse. Finally, consider also yodelling, which tends weakly to follow F2, although there are many exceptions. An easily available example where F2 dominates is the “yodelling exercise” from Gabon on the CD accompanying Stock 1996.15

14 Madden 1989, not yet seen, is reported to be a good introduction to this topic. XXXXXX 15 The pseudo-yodel in “The Lonely Goatherd” from The Sound of Music (“lay-dee yodel lay-dee yodel lay-hee-hoo”), although it bears little resemblance to yodelling as actually practised in the Alps, is nonetheless a good example in its own right.

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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

Yodelling generally does not involve imitation of instrumental melodic contours, so far as I know: these lexically empty syllables are not a device to help internalize a melody. Perhaps the relevant factor here is the same “singability” scorned by Chinese composer Tang Xianzu and touted by voice teachers in the West today.

11 Testing “naturalness” Concluding my 1991 article, I suggested that we could test musicians’ living performative knowledge – their generally unconscious yet functional usage – of such systems by asking them to provide solmization for a melody that previously had none, such as a well-known melody from a different genre. Recently, I instead took a somewhat different approach. The aim was to explore whether not only musicians but other people might instinctively recognize certain vowel sequences as more or less appropriate for particular melodies depending on the matching of the vowels’ Intrinsic Pitch, Duration and Intensity with the same features in the melody. To this end, I concocted an experiment in which people were asked to choose which of two or three vowel sequences better matched a particular melody. Intending first to conduct this experiment in Japan and England, I chose three melodies, two of Western origin and one Japanese, that were potentially familiar to most people in both cultures: “Mary Had a Little Lamb”, “Auld Lang Syne” (“Hotaru no Hikari” in Japanese) and – with some coaching for non-Japanese – “Sakura Sakura” (“Cherry Blossoms”). The English-language version of this test is reproduced in the Appendix. Since the experiment focused primarily on pitch, for each melody I created one vowel sequence that corresponded 100% to the F2 theory (choices 1b, 2a, 3c), and another that opposed it 100% (1a, 2c, 3b). The “naturalness” hypothesis expected that the former would be perceived as far more suitable by most people. In Choice 2b, all metrically strong/long notes were marked with [a] and weak/short ones with [i] or [u], without regard to pitch; this example should have found favour with those more sensitive to Intrinsic Duration or Intensity. Finally, Choice 3a was a vowel sequence not correlating with any of the intrinsic parameters; I expected this to be firmly rejected. Testing was then conducted on several types of subject: Japanese with significant experience of F2-based sh
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(a) all respondents: 1a: 41 (39%) 2a: 91 (60%) 3a: 5 (6%) 1b: 63 (61%) 2b: 30 (20%) 3b: 20 (25%) 2c: 30 (20%) 3c: 55 (69%) (b) Japanese with experience of F2-based sh<
predicted, and for tune 1 a sizeable minority preferred the “anti-F2” example. Detailed analysis of respondents’ comments and backgrounds turned out to be necessary. In this short paper I can only hint at the factors that came to light. First, those subjects who are known to have had significant exposure to traditional Japanese sh
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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

no nu no na …]), thus hardly singable. (Indeed, these three vowels are much closer in F2 values than the opening three of 1a; see Hughes 1991:325, 311, 313 concerning the problems this poses for F2 systems.) This discussion, alas, shows the inadvisability of choosing texted melodies, or perhaps any programmatic melodies, for such an experiment: the role of F2 in representing pitch may conflict with emotive or other aspects of vowel colour. It seems that the lyrics had even more impact on those lacking formal musical training of any significance, but with only seven such respondents such a claim is premature. Another problem needs mentioning. In Japanese and in English I tried various ways to explain to subjects what the criterion should be for choosing an answer. Obviously I could hardly ask, “Which of these sets of syllables most closely reflects the pitch of the melody through vowel colour?” or some such. In preliminary testing I tried such phrases as “closest to the melody”, “most natural”, “easiest to sing”, “easiest to remember”, “most suited” and “matching most closely”. One Japanese found 2a “closest to the melody” (as I had hoped) but 2b “easiest to remember” (for obvious reasons). Notice finally that for all types of respondent, for tune 2 the F2 example (2a) was by far favoured over the Intrinsic Intensity example (2b), which in turn beat out the anti-F2 example (2c). This corresponds with the general nature of mnemonic systems for melodic instruments (as opposed to rhythmic ones). Taking all this into account, on balance I would claim that the results indicate that most people sense a correlation between F2 values and relative musical pitch, and that this is heightened by formal musical experience and even more so by previous exposure to F2 solmization systems. Further testing on musically “naïve” subjects, using purely instrumental melodies, is needed. It is worth noting that several Japanese students of shamisen actually claimed to find their teacher’s use of sh
12 Summing up The strengths and weaknesses of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems have been noted at various points above (e.g. the beginning of section 3). In most cases they add a useful redundancy to the oral learning process: one sings the correct melody, rhythmic pattern etc., but memorization and recall are made easier by associating the sequence with specific syllables which are acoustically iconic to the desired sonic output. (Again, this is why singing merely “la la la” is less effective.) Indeed, there are certain cases where this redundancy is crucial, namely when the melody sung while learning deviates from the performed one. In such

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cases, it may be only the vowel sequence that indicates the correct pitch sequence. Thus the ry3teki flute player of gagaku may sing the two notes of the sh
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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

The other pseudo-exception is the kind of tablature exemplified by notations for the winds and plucked lute of gagaku: whatever the original logic behind the choice of symbols to represent particular fingerings, it is surely not an acoustic one. Singing the names of the fingering positions would seem potentially useful, and yet this is never done for the flute and oboe: an advantage is clearly perceived in singing acoustic-iconic mnemonics instead. That is precisely why the notations for these instruments – and of similar instruments in traditional Korea – needed to add a separate column to reflect IP, II and ID. There are of course other instrumental mnemonic systems where only the fingering names are sung or written, including Japan’s shakuhachi flute. Singing these will indeed help you recall the fingerings, if not directly the melodic contour. As a final example of the utility of acoustic-iconic mnemonics, consider how villagers in Iwate, northern Japan, learn the “Devil Sword Dance” (oni kenbai). While dancing, the student simultaneously sings [den suko den den …] – the combined mnemonics for stick-drum and cymbals – to the tune of the flute melody, thus learning the dance and three instruments all at once. There is much to learn via, and about, oral mnemonics.

Acknowledgements This article is a revision and extension of a paper “Common elements in East Asian oral mnemonic systems”, presented at the 35th ICTM World Conference, Hiroshima, August 1999. Research and conference attendance in Japan was made possible by a grant from the Japan Foundation Endowment Committee. I am grateful to all those in Japan and England who took part in my testing and shared their opinions during August–November 1999; particular thanks to Imafuji Masatar<, Isso Yukimasa, Matsuda Hiroyuki, Oshio Satomi, Shiba Sukeyasu, Takahashi Y3jir<, Ueno Mitsumasa, Wakayama Taneo, Rick Emmert and Linda Fujie. Interpretations of data and of others’ comments are my own responsibility.

References Aksenov, A.N. (1967) “Die Stile des tuvinischen zweistimmigen Sologesanges”. In E. Stockmann et al. (eds) Sowjetische Volkslied- und Volksmusikforschung, 293-307. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag. Bent, Ian (1980) “Notation”. In S. Sadie (ed.) New Grove dictionary of music and musicians, 1st edn. London: Macmillan. Berger, Donald (1965) “The nohkan: its construction and music”. Ethnomusicology 9.3:221-39. Birch, Cyril (1998) “Tang Xianzu: scholar, official, poet”. In programme booklet for The Peony Pavilion, The Barbican, London, September 1998. Chang Sahun (1984) Kugak taesajín [Encyclopedia of Korean music]. Seoul: Segwang Åmak Ch’ulp’ansa.

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Delattre, Pierre (1965) Comparing the phonetic features of English, French, German and Spanish: an interim report. London: George G. Harrap. Ejima Ihei, ed. (1936) Isso-ry3 sh
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No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems

Discography D1: Pesni i instrumentalnye melodii tuvy [Songs and instrumental melodies of the Tuvins] (LP, Melodiya D 030773, n.d.) D2: Royal court music from Uganda (CD, Sharp Wood Productions SWP008/HT02, Utrecht, 1998) (www.swp-records.com) D3: N
Appendix: Solmization test, English version, September 1999 [Author’s note: Japanese version used the consonant [r] rather than [n] throughout, for complex reasons. Vowels are pronounced as in Japanese or Spanish; for English-speaking audiences I demonstrated with a fully liprounded [u], but for Japanese subjects I tended to unround somewhat, as in the standard language but not in many dialects.] 1 Which of the following two examples seems to you to match most closely (or be most suited to) the melody of “Mary Had a Little Lamb”? Please circle either (a) or (b). (a) | na ne ni ne | na na na - | ne ne ne - | na nu nu - | | na ne ni ne | na na na - | ne ne na ne | ni (b) | na no nu no | na na na - | no no no - | na ni ni - | | na no nu no | na na na - | no no na no | nu 2 Which of the following three examples seems to you to match most closely (or be most suited to) the melody of “Auld Lang Syne”? Please mark the closest with a circled number 1, and the second closest with a circled number 2. (a) nu | na • na na ni | ne • no ne ni | na • na ne ni | ni - - ni | | ne • na na no | ne • na ne ni | na • no no nu | na (b) nu | na • ni na ni | na • ni na ni | na • ni na ni | na - - ni | | na • ni na ni | na • ni na ni | na • ni na ni | na (c) no | ni • ni ni no | ne • ni ne no | ni • ni ne no | nu - - nu | | no • na na ne | no • ne no nu | no • ne ne ni | ne

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3 Which of the following three examples seems to you to match most closely (or be most suited to) the melody of “Sakura Sakura (Cherry Blossoms)”? Please mark the closest with a circled number 1, and the second closest with a circled number 2. (a) | ne no ni - | ne no ni - | ne no na ni | ne noni na - | ni no na ni | no nani no … (b) | na na no - | na na no - | na no nu no | na nona ne - | ne ni ne na | ne neni ni … (c) | na na ne - | na na ne - | na ne ni ne | na nena no - | na no na ne | na nano nu … 4 Which non-Western musical instruments have you studied (performance lessons)? 5 Did you learn any of these with the aid of oral mnemonic syllables (such as bols for tabla)? If so, which ones? Thank you for your help!

Note on the author David Hughes is Senior Lecturer in Ethnomusicology at the School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London. His other research interests include Japanese folk song, Central Javanese gamelan, musical grammars, and music of Okinawa. Address: Department of Music, SOAS, University of London, Thornhaugh Street, London WC1H 0XG, England; e-mail: [email protected].

HAE-KYUNG UM________________________________

Listening patterns and identity of the Korean diaspora in the former USSR1 __________________________________________________________________________

This article examines the relationships between listening patterns and the construction of identities amongst the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union. This examination uses both quantitative and qualitative methods in an attempt to analyse the ways in which musics are consumed by these communities, and to understand better how a variety of self, social and ethnic identities are constructed and contested through music consumption.

Introduction Although diaspora is not a uniquely modern or postmodern condition, the number of diasporas and minorities appears to have increased dramatically since the breakup of the former Soviet Union and the subsequent realignment of power relations in both international and inter-ethnic politics. For example, in some states Russians have become diasporas themselves 2 and some former minorities

1 This is an extended version of a paper presented at the annual conference of the British Forum for Ethnomusicology at King Alfred’s College, Winchester, in 1996. My research on the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union was funded from 1993 to 1996 by the Leverhulme Trust and the Economic and Social Research Council in the United Kingdom. From 1998 to 2000 the continuation of this work has been supported by a fellowship from the International Institute for Asian Studies in the Netherlands. 2 According to the 1989 Soviet Census, the Russian population in the Soviet Union reached over 145 millions making them the largest nationality (50.78%) in this superstate (total population 285,600,000). At the time of the collapse of the USSR, more than 25 million Russians found themselves outside Russian territory, facing an uncertain future in the independent post-Soviet states. In addition to their new citizenship status, their previous position as the dominant “Big Brother” also changed to that of a Russian minority and a diaspora in the new states. See Shlapentokh et al. 1994, Aasland 1996 and Tishkov 1997 for the changing political roles and social positions of Russians in various former Soviet republics. BRITISH JOURNAL OF ETHNOMUSICOLOGY VOL. 9/ii 2000

pp.123–4 4

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have now become ruling majorities. 3 Studies of transnational communities and ethnic minorities, as Barkan and Shelton (1998:3) noted, have also become important topics of investigation and discourse across all disciplines of academia. Within the past decade, discussions of diaspora and transnational culture, motivated in part by technological advance, have become central to the intellectual investigation of postmodernist culture. Innumerable groups are increasingly categorised as minority cultures, part of an all-encompassing network of diasporas. Initiated in the needs of the displaced and culminating in changed opportunities, diasporic existence in its all inclusive terms has become culturally and politically affirmed around the globe, albeit as a solution to an impossible situation. (Barkan and Shelton 1998:3)

The concept of the term “diaspora” has undergone considerable transformations especially in the last decade of the twentieth century. For example, Tölölyan suggests that “the term diaspora that once described Jewish, Greek, and Armenian dispersion now shares meanings with a larger semantic domain that includes words like immigrant, expatriate, refugee, guest-worker, exile community, overseas community, ethnic community” (Tölölyan 1991:4–5). He also adds that the term diaspora which was “once saturated with the meanings of exile, loss, dislocation, powerlessness and plain pain became a useful and even desirable way to describe a range of dispersions” (Tölölyan 1996:9). For Clifford, the term diaspora is “a signifier, not simply of transnationality and movement, but of political struggles to define the local, as distinctive community, in historical contexts of displacement” and can be perceived as “a loosely coherent, adaptive constellation of responses to dwelling-in-displacement” (Clifford 1997:287). If aesthetic tradition, used symbolically, is considered to be the basis of self and social identity, as De Vos (1995:22) suggests, and if music and music bearers are examples of “travelling cultures” of diasporas (Clifford 1992:108), then music certainly plays a critical role in both the construction and articulation of the personal, social and ethnic identity of these peoples (Stokes 3 For example, in Kazakhstan, the titular nationality (Kazakh) was a minority population. According to the 1989 Soviet Census, Kazakhs constituted 39.7% of the total population while Russians and Ukrainians constituted 42% (Olcott 1993:313). At the time of independence in 1991 Kazakhs at 41.1% were still outnumbered by Russians and Ukrainians at 42.6%. However, Kazakhs, both in gross numbers and percentage, steadily increased and in 1993 they reached 43.1%, making them the largest group (Akhmetov 1998:82). This increase of the Kazakh population can be attributed to the changing patterns of migration in Kazakhstan since the early 1990s, namely, the departure of other nationalities such as Russians, Ukrainians, Jews and Germans on the one hand and the repatriation of Kazakhs from other former Soviet republics on the other (1998:186–8). For the changing patterns of ethnic stratification and politics in the independent Kazakhstan see Khazanov (1995:156–74) and Olcott (1993, 1995).

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1994, Sugarman 1997). The interface between music and the construction of identity may occur in all sites, media and agents that are engaged in both the production and consumption of music. In this sense, music consumption is also a social performance and “practice” (Bourdieu 1977, de Certeau 1984) in which individual users (audiences or listeners in the case of music) choose, appropriate and reappropriate the properties and meanings of music. The term “listening” in this paper is used in the same sense that Barthes (1991:245) and van Zanten (1997:44) use it when they refer to listening as a “psychological” and “conscious” act respectively. 4 In this paper I will explore the various issues associated with music listening as social performance and “practice” amongst the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union.5 This will be done by first providing a brief history of the events that led to the establishment of this diaspora. Secondly I will describe how political and social changes in the former Soviet Union shape the musics of Soviet Koreans and the contexts in which these musics are consumed. Then I will describe and analyse the various listening habits and preferences of these peoples illustrated with both quantitative and ethnographic data collected from the Korean communities in Russia, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan between 1993 and 1995. Finally I will discuss how the analysis of these listening patterns and how they are to be understood in terms of the construction of their self, social and ethnic identity.

Korean migration to the former USSR The 1989 Soviet census6 recorded a population of 438,650 Koreans in the former USSR making them the 28th largest ethnic group amongst 127 officially recognized “nationalities’. The three largest Soviet Korean communities are in the Republic of Uzbekistan (population 183,140), the Russian Federation (107,051) and the Republic of Kazakhstan (103,315). Of the Koreans in Russia, about 40% (approximately 40,000) are concentrated on the island of Sakhalin making them the most cohesive Korean community in the contemporary Commonwealth of Independent States. (For a review of these demographic 4 A number of studies have been made on a variety of ways in which musics are heard or listened to by different individuals and in various cultural and social contexts (Shimeda 1986, Baumann 1992, 1993, 1997, Chernoff, 1997, Chopyak 1997, During 1997, Elsner 1997, Howard 1997, van Zanten 1997). For audience analysis, see McQuail (1997) and Abercrombie and Longhurst (1998). 5 A number of studies have been made on the issues of music and identity amongst the Asian diasporas, for example, Chinese in the USA (Riddle 1983; Zheng 1990, 1994), South Asians in the UK (Baily 1995, Gopinath 1995), Japanese in Brazil (Hosokawa 1999) to name a few. For the studies of music in diaspora Slobin (1994) also offers a general framework that includes “the activity of the superculture,” “the idea of a subculture,” “the networks of interculture,” “the flexibility of music-cultural definition,” “activists” and “oppositionality.” It is interesting to note that in many ways these six principles are comparable to the author’s theoretical model associated with the processes of music-making in a diaspora (Um 1996). 6 The result of the 1999 census was not available when this paper was written.

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issues see Yi and Chôn 1993). Russian involvement with Korea began in 1860 when the Treaty of Peking was signed and China gave up its Far Eastern maritime region around Vladivostok to Russia, making Korea a close neighbour of Russia itself. According to some Russian sources Koreans had already settled in the Russian maritime region by 1863 (Kho 1987:16). However, it was the poor harvest of 1869 which drove many peasants from the northern part of Korea into the Russian Far East. The number of migrants rapidly increased at the turn of the twentieth century, with the signing of the second Korean-Japanese Treaty in 19057 and Japanese annexation of Korea in 1910 after which the Russian Far East, in addition to the USA and China, became one of three bases for the Korean nationalist movement opposed to Japanese colonialism.8 By the late 1920s the Korean population in the region was estimated to be 250,000 (Kho 1987:18). During this period a Korean quarter called Sinhanch’on (New Korean Town) was formed on a mountainside in the eastern part of Vladivostok. The October Revolution of 1917 brought many changes to the life of Korean migrants in the Russian Far East. Most importantly the new policies of integration and sovietization of Koreans in the region were initiated and this led to Korean migrants becoming involved in the revolutionary movement. In 1937 nearly all of these Koreans were transported to Soviet Central Asia by Stalin under a resettlement scheme which included many other ethnic groups such as Volga Germans, Crimean Tatars and Chechens (Hosking 1992:254–5). Since the forced migration to Soviet Central Asia, Almaty (located in what is now the Republic of Kazakhstan) has become the most important centre for Korean culture in the region, with a Korean theatre, radio station and newspaper. 9 After Russia lost the southern part of the island of Sakhalin to the Japanese at the end of the war of 1905, Japan began to move Koreans to the island to provide a cheap labour force to operate the mines and railways. However, when the Japanese withdrew at the end of the Second World War, 40,000 Koreans were left behind in the reclaimed territory of the Soviet Union, which now included the entire island. In an effort to integrate sympathetically this new population into Soviet society the process of sovietization for these Korean migrants living in Sakhalin included opportunities to be educated in their native language, a privilege which had been denied under Japanese rule. Unfortunately, these Korean schools were forced to close in the mid 1960s 7 This treaty removed any rights of diplomacy from Korea. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 8 These nationalist activities were undertaken by both Korean political refugees from the peninsula and Soviet Korean migrants in the Russian Far East in association with nationalist organizations such as the Korean Nationalist Society (Taehain Kungminhoe) and the Society for Encouragement of Industry (Kwônôphoe) (Kim 1989, Yun and Pak 1994). 9 During the Soviet period the capital of the Republic of Kazakhstan was called Alma-Ata. Then in 1991, it was changed to Almaty, which is closer to the Kazakh pronunciation. However, the capital was subsequently moved from Almaty in the south-east to Astana in the north-west in 1995–6.

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when the Soviet authorities reversed this policy in an effort to accelerate the process of sovietization of the Sakhalin Koreans. During the Stalinist period voluntary internal migration of Soviet Koreans was permitted only within the region of Soviet Central Asia. However, after the island of Sakhalin became a Soviet territory at the end of the Second World War, several hundred Central Asian Koreans were sent to Sakhalin as teachers and civil servants. The Soviet authorities did this to facilitate the education and administration of the Korean population on the island who had no knowledge of the Russian language and Soviet system. When the official 1937 restrictions on the movement of Koreans and establishment of residence was lifted shortly after Stalin’s death in 1953 several thousand Central Asian Koreans moved back to the Russian Far East, which they considered “home”. Since the 1960s a number of the Sakhalin Koreans have also moved in the opposite direction, to the Russian mainland and Soviet Central Asia, in an effort to gain access to higher education and improve their job prospects (Um 1996).

Political and social influences on the musics of the Korean diaspora in the former USSR As with all aspects of their lives, the listening patterns of Soviet Koreans have been under the influence of the wider social and political changes in the former USSR. For example, the beginning of the sovietization of Korean migrant culture since 1917 is marked by the songs of the October Revolution, sung in Russian and Korean,10 and new Soviet Korean songs 11 with socialist themes. 12 These songs have become a part of Soviet Korean culture and they are now regarded as a part of their “tradition” although few young Soviet Koreans would choose to listen to them. After the forced migration and resettlement in Soviet Central Asia in 1937, the folk and popular songs of local ethnic groups, such as the Kazakhs and Uzbeks, also became a part of the Soviet Korean song repertoire through the process of adaptation to local regional cultures. In Korean weddings in Soviet Central Asia, for example, both Russian and Korean popular music are played in Kazakhstan, while Uzbek popular music is also included in Uzbekistan. For 10 For example, according to Han Ch’ôl-chu (b. 1921) and Yang Lora (b. 1923), “The Song of Lenin” and “The Song of the Tractor” were widely sung amongst Soviet Koreans in the Russian Far East (fieldwork 1994). 11 The most well-known new Soviet Korean song is “Let’s Vigorously Sow Fields with Seeds” (Ssirûl Hwalhwal Ppuryôra), which was written and composed in 1931 by Soviet Korean artist Yôn Sông-yong (born in 1909 in Vladivostok and died in 1998 in Almaty). This song describes the joyful rural life of a socialist state and employs a Korean folksong style with a pentatonic scale. For other works by Yôn Sông-yong see Um (1996). 12 Since 1917 a variety of revolutionary and socialist music “for the people by the people” was composed and arranged to create forms of proletarian popular culture in the former Soviet Union. See Stites (1992) for changes in official policies and popular culture in Russia and the former Soviet Union since 1900.

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instance, I attended a Korean wedding in Tashkent, Uzbekistan in 1994. At the reception, the Uzbek Korean ensemble Ch’ôngch’un (The Youth) performed a variety of music including Russian, Uzbek, Korean and Western popular music for the ethnically mixed guests. It was notable that the type of music played often shaped the way the people at the wedding reception interacted with each other. For example, when Uzbek pop songs of Yulduz Usmanova and the pop group Yalla were played, some guests started showering the newly-weds with a handful of bank notes as is the custom in modern Uzbek weddings. When the music changed to Russian pop songs, a few guests started shouting “Gorka, Gorka (Bitter, Bitter)!”, soon joined by everyone at the party, to encourage the bride and groom to kiss as is the custom in contemporary Russian wedding receptions (fieldwork 1994).13 Since Gorbachev’s programme of political and economic reform in 1985 and the disintegration of the Soviet Union in 1990, all types of music have been made available throughout the former Soviet Union. Contemporary Soviet Koreans now listen not only to Russian, Western and Korean pop music but also to Christian hymns and gospel songs which have been introduced by South Korean and Korean American14 missionaries. The listening patterns of Soviet Koreans are also influenced by cultural contact and exchange from both North and South Korea via the media of audio and video tapes, printed music and concerts and music workshops organized by the parent country as a part of a cultural policy for their overseas population. Until the late 1980s North Korea had a strong influence on the culture of all Soviet Korean communities, but since the 1990s the influences from South Korea have become predominant. North Korean revolutionary and contemporary folk songs have given way to South Korean popular music that is available through the new technologies of karaoke in audio and video format, CDs and video tapes of South Korean television programmes.

Listening patterns of the Korean diaspora in the former USSR Methodology The description and analysis of the listening patterns of the Soviet Korean diaspora are drawn from both my quantitative and qualitative data collected in various Korean communities in Russia, Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan between 1993 and 1995.15 This research began in 1992 when a draft questionnaire was developed and pre-tested in Seoul, South Korea.16 The questionnaire was then 13 For Yulduz Usmanova, who is best known outside Uzbekistan as the Uzbek pop queen, see Levin (1996:80–84). 14 i.e. (ethnic) Korean missionaries from the USA. 15 For data collection methods see Frankfort-Nachmias and Nachmias (1996:203–333).

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revised to collect information on the Soviet Koreans’ experience and attitudes towards what they determined to be “Korean” and “local” culture. During the summer of 1993, the draft questionnaire, in Russian and Korean, was tested in Almaty in the Republic of Kazakhstan and revised yet again using a portable computer and printer. This revised questionnaire was then used to collect the data presented in this paper in Ush-tobe and Almaty in the Republic of Kazakhstan, Moscow and Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk in the Russian Federation and Tashkent in the Republic of Uzbekistan. All the data were coded, entered into a Microsoft Excel spreadsheet and analysed using cross-tabulations and correlations to explore the relationships that exist between the demographic profile of the migrants and their associated musical and cultural values and practice.17 The questionnaire included sections on language, literature, dress, food, music and dance as well as demographic variables relating to age, gender, education, occupation and history of migration. The question designed specifically to explore issues relevant to listening patterns and music preferences was as follows: From the following list, please select three types of music you listen to most in order of frequency. 1st_________ 2nd_________ 3rd_________ 1 Korean traditional music 2 Korean old popular music 3 Korean modern popular music 4 Western popular music 5 Western classical music 6 Russian popular music 7 Russian traditional music 8 Traditional music of other ethnic groups in USSR 9 Other (Please specify)__________ It should be noted that in this questionnaire the definition of each type of music was open to the respondent’s own interpretation. The aim of the survey was not to define various types or genres of different musics in the former Soviet Union but to give the respondents every opportunity to indicate their musical preferences as they perceived them.18 Although the question can be used to 16 On the issue of the perceptions of traditional Korean music and Western music in South Korea see Howard 1997. 17 The total number of questionnaires completed and entered into the database was 450. Care was taken to ensure an even distribution in terms of geographical region, age, gender and education. All those interviewed had Korean ancestry. 18 The criteria used were made after extensive interviews with Soviet Koreans from different backgrounds and several tests in the field. The question attempts to avoid the researcher’s bias as much as possible, and also to include all of the various types of music available to different Soviet Korean communities.

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generate many different correlations and variables it was coded specifically to distinguish preferences for “Korean” (K) and “Other” (O) musics as well as each of the “Types of Music” as in Figure 1. Education was coded on a scale from 0 to 6 as indicated in Figure 2.19 Gender was coded simply as M(ale) or F(emale), age was grouped into blocks of ten years, migration generation ranged from first to fourth and place of residence was either Sakhalin, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan or Moscow. K = Korean music O = Other music KT = Korean traditional music KOP = Korean old popular music KMP = Korean modern popular music WP = Western popular music WC = Western classical music RP = Russian popular music RT = Russian traditional music OET = Other ethnic traditional music Figure 1 Types of music

0 = No education 1 = Korean traditional education only 2 = Primary school 3 = Secondary school 4 = College 5 = University 6 = Graduate school Figure 2 Levels of education

From this coding of variables it is now possible to examine the first listening preference of the Korean migrants – first simply in terms of “Korean” vs. “Other”, and then according to a more differentiated list of “Types of music”. We can see below how these preferences are correlated to age, education, gender, migration generation and place of residence.

19 Some Korean migrants who had not received a school education had studied classical Chinese readings in the pre-modern and pre-Soviet education systems. The distinction between “college” and “university” was made because the former is associated with technically oriented trainings whereas the latter is associated with a higher level of academic studies as defined in the education system of the former Soviet Union.

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Listening patterns and identity of the Korean diaspora in the former USSR

Age group and musical preference As illustrated in Figure 3 below, the younger Soviet Koreans prefer to listen to “Other” types of music whereas the older age groups prefer “Korean” music.

Figure 3 Age group and preference for “Korean” or “Other” music

These relationships between musical preference and age group can be further divided according the musical genres as illustrated in Figure 4.

Figure 4 Age group and preference for type of music

Soviet Koreans in their 10s (48% of the age group 10 to 19) and 20s (44%) have a strong preference for Western popular music while those who are in their 30s (40%) and 40s (27%) most strongly favour Russian popular music. Korean modern pop music is the second most popular genre for Soviet Koreans in their 10s (17%) and 20s (16%). Notably these age groups had an opportunity to study the Korean language in university or visit Korea on an exchange programme. Through this exposure to contemporary Korean culture they seem to have acquired a preference for Korean modern pop just as young South Koreans do in their home country. Soviet Koreans in their 40s appear to have a wide range of musical tastes, from Russian popular (27%) to Western popular (15%) to Korean traditional (15%) to Western classical (13%) and Korean modern popular (13%). It is from the 50s age group and older that preferences switch to Korean music, especially to what they consider to be traditional Korean music. These correlations between listening habits and age groups were also illustrated by the ways in which Soviet Koreans perceive the various musical preferences of different age groups. For example, a Soviet Korean woman in

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Almaty suggested to me that she could fill out the questionnaire on behalf of her teenage son. When I asked her how she could possibly answer all the questions, especially his musical preferences, for him, she relied, “Of course, I know what he likes. At home I can hear that he listens to Michael Jackson all the time. But I much prefer our own singers like Song Georgy from here and Mun Kongja from Sakhalin who can sing much better.”20 The activity of music listening amongst Soviet Koreans was sometimes extended to social practice through networking and the exchange of musical resources within the age group. For example, when the daughter of my host family in Almaty found out that her friend had brought back some of the latest South Korean pop music on tapes and CDs from Seoul, she immediately contacted other friends and organized a gathering to listen to these new albums together. She told me that it is their own social event, implying that I was not invited. When a close friend of my host family came to borrow some Korean folksong cassette tapes for her mother’s birthday party she brought her own video tapes of South Korean TV shows as a token of exchange. 21

Education and musical preference As illustrated below, less educated Soviet Koreans choose “Korean” music. It is from the secondary school education level and higher (columns 3–6) that preferences switch to “Other” music (see Figure 5).

Figure 5 Education and preference for “Korean” or “Other” music (0 = No education; 1 = Korean traditional education; 2 = Primary school; 3 = Secondary school; 4 = College; 5 = University; 6 = Graduate school)

20 Interview with Yi Yevdokia (b. 1941), Almaty, Kazakhstan, in 1993xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 21 Fieldwork in Almaty, Kazakhstan, in 1993 and 1994. 22 In Ush-tobe, Kazakhstan, I met other nationalities such as Russians and Kazakhs who had acquired the Korean language from their Korean-speaking neighbours.

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Again the relationships between musical preference and education levels can be further divided according the music types as illustrated in Figure 6.

Figure 6 Education and preference for type of music (0 = No education; 1 = Korean traditional education; 2 = Primary school; 3 = Secondary school; 4 = College; 5 = University; 6 = Graduate school)

Soviet Koreans with no education or with primary school education only have a strong preference for Korean traditional and Korean old popular music. Notably 100% of Soviet Koreans who considered themselves to be traditionally educated choose Korean traditional music as their favourite type of music with none of them selecting the other types of music. On the other hand, more educated Soviet Koreans (above the secondary school level) choose Russian popular music (15% to 28%) and Western popular music (18% to 50%) over traditional Korean music (9% to 25%). We might interpret this as a result of integration into the culture of the host country through education. The education levels of Soviet Koreans are often related to the urban/rural dichotomy of the social environment they live in. Soviet Koreans with less education tend to live in rural areas, such as Ush-tobe in Kazakhstan and Politotzel in Uzbekistan. Their social life also tends to be organized within the village or collective farm where many of the residents are Korean speaking.22

Gender and musical preference The relationship between gender and listening patterns is relatively weak as illustrated in Figures 7 and 8. Gender seems to have little or no significant influence on musical preference.

22 In Ush-tobe, I met other nationalities such as Russioans and Kazakhs who had acquired the Korean language from their Korean-speaking neighbours.

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Figure 7 Gender and preference for “Korean” or “Other” music

Figure 8 Gender and preference for type of music

Migration generation and musical preference As illustrated in Figure 9, the first-generation Soviet Korean migrants have a strong preference for “Korean” music. Their musical preference shifts to “Other” types of music from the third generation and onwards.

Figure 9 Migration generation and preference for “Korean” or “Other” music

The relationships between musical preference and migration generation can be divided according the music types as illustrated in Figure 10.

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Figure 10 Migration generation and preference for type of music

The first generation Soviet Koreans have a strong preference for Korean traditional music (79%) while the second generation Soviet Koreans have a relatively wide range of musical preferences from Korean traditional (32%) to Korean modern popular (28%) to Russian popular music (18%). The third generation chooses Russian popular (29%) and Western popular music (21%) as their favourite music types. The fourth generation Soviet Koreans have a strong preference for Western popular music (63%) over all other types of music. Clearly migration generation is one of the strongest correlations with matters of musical preferences. In Soviet Korean homes it is common to find separate audio and video collections for individual family members with different listening habits. Typically, grandparents would listen to Korean folksongs on cassette tapes or tune in to the local Korean-language cable radio programmes; parents would listen to “easy listening” Russian popular music on FM radio or occasionally watch South Korean TV programmes on video tapes while their children prefer to watch MTV or listen to the latest Russian and Western pop songs on their Walkman or CD player.

Place of residence and musical preference The relationships between the listening patterns and place of residence are illustrated in Figures 11 and 12.

Figure 11 Place of residence and preference for “Korean” or “Other” music

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Amongst the four Soviet Korean communities, Sakhalin Koreans showed the strongest preference for “Korean” music (61%). This is followed by Kazakh Koreans (52%) and Uzbek Koreans (41%) while Korean migrants in Moscow prefer “Other” music (87%) to “Korean” music (13%). These relationships between the listening patterns and place of residence are influenced by a number of factors. For example, the Sakhalin Korean community, with a relatively short migration history, still has a large number of the first-generation migrants who moved to the island in the 1930s and 1940s. Additionally, the second generation Sakhalin Koreans also had an opportunity to receive a Korean language education from 1945 to the mid 1960s. The Sakhalin Korean community also has a Korean language newspaper and radio and TV stations that broadcast Korean programmes. On the other hand, the Moscow Korean community comprises Korean migrants from various regions of the former USSR. The total number of the Soviet Korean population in the city also fluctuates a great deal because many of them frequently travel to and from the other former Soviet republics. Korean cultural organizations and activities in cosmopolitan Moscow are also limited when compared to other Soviet Korean communities. The relationships that exist between the listening patterns and Soviet Korean communities in Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan are more complex. As illustrated in Figure 9 above, a relatively higher percentage of Kazakh Koreans (52%) choose “Korean” music over “Other” music (48%) when compared to Uzbek Koreans (42% for “Korean” music and 58% for “Other” music). However, as illustrated in Figure 12, Uzbek Koreans choose Korean traditional music (22%) as their favourite type of music, followed by Russian popular and Western popular music (both at 21%). On the other hand, Kazakh Koreans prefer Western popular music (25%), followed by Korean modern popular music (23 %).

Figure 12 Place of residence and preference for type of music

It should be noted that in Central Asia, Koreans in Uzbekistan pride themselves as being more Korean than those in Kazakhstan because they believe they have retained more of the Korean culture, primarily the language. On the other hand, Koreans in Kazakhstan consider themselves more sophisticated and modern, i.e. European (Um 1996). This self-identification of these two migrant

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communities is reflected in their preference for type of music as illustrated in Figure 12. For example, Uzbek Koreans have a stronger preference for Korean traditional music (22%) compared to Kazakh Koreans (14%) while Kazakh Koreans have a stronger preference for Western popular music (25%) compared to Uzbek Koreans (21%). However, as illustrated in Figure 11, Uzbek Koreans’ overall musical preference for “Korean” or “Other” music does not appear to reflect their selfidentification of Korean ethnicity. This dissociation between the practice of music listening and self-identification can be attributed to several factors. First, although the largest Korean community exists in Uzbekistan, the centre of Korean migrant culture in the former Soviet Union is located in Kazakhstan, with its Korean theatre, newspaper, radio and TV station. Consequently many Korean-speaking artists, actors, writers and journalists from Uzbekistan and Sakhalin have moved to Kazakhstan because there are more opportunities for jobs and activities related to Korean culture. Additionally and importantly, Kazakh Koreans have more cultural contacts with South Korea and the outside world because the Kazakh government23 has adopted relatively flexible policies with regard to immigration and foreign investment in comparison with the more authoritarian and nationalist Uzbek government.24

Conclusion Political and social influences from the wider society of the former USSR and Korea have shaped both the content of music and the contexts in which music is consumed by the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union. The practice of music consumption among this diaspora varies depending on the age, immigration generation and education of individuals and the regional context of the different migrant communities. For example, the older generations appreciate Korean traditional music and Korean old popular music. Younger and more educated Soviet Koreans in all regions tend to have a preference for modern popular songs of various origins including those from the West, Russia and South Korea. It should be noted that the ways in which Soviet Koreans perceive different types of music are both personal and social constructions. The definition of Korean traditional music varies depending on the place of origin, age, migration generation and community. For example, Central Asian Koreans who were born in the Russian Far East would consider folksongs from northern regions of the Korean peninsular to be Korean traditional music while the first generation Sakhalin Koreans from the southern regions of the Korean peninsular would

23 See Olcott 1993, 1995 and Svanberg 1996 for the processes of nation-building and political leadership in Kazakhstan. 24 See Gleason 1993, Carlisle 1995 and Akiner 1996 for the processes of nation-building and political leadership in Uzbekistan.

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regard folk songs from their place of origin as Korean traditional music. On the other hand, older Soviet Koreans in all regions would consider the Korean songs created in the Russian Far East and Central Asia to be “Soviet Korean music”.25 For younger generations, these Soviet Korean songs are “traditional” because of their association with the past. If music plays a critical role in both the construction and articulation of personal, social and ethnic identity, how does music contribute to this process? Musical symbols and emblems can be effective in rallying entire populations, as national anthems and revolutionary songs often do. However, it is clear from the evidence of the Korean migrant communities studied here that the same musical symbols and emblems can have different meanings depending on the listeners’ age, education, generation of migration and geographical location. De Vos (1995:24) suggests that ethnic identity consists of the “subjective, symbolic or emblematic use of any aspect of culture, or a perceived separate origin and continuity in order to differentiate themselves from other groups”. He also considers that ethnic identity is past-oriented whereas social identity such as citizenship, occupation and ideological affiliation is present- or futureoriented (1995:27). Ethnic identity in the former Soviet Union and post-Soviet republics is not simply a “subjective feeling of belonging” (De Vos 1995). It can also be a set of political and social criteria which is officially defined by a government as a “nationality” to be indicated on the passport under the category of “citizenship”. 26 The loyalty of ethnic Koreans toward the Soviet Union was questioned by the Soviet government, although Koreans in the Russian Far East had voluntarily joined the Bolsheviks during the October Revolution,27 and consequently they were transferred to Central Asia as traitors to the Soviet Union by Stalin in 1937. Their honour was not restored until 1991 by the new Russian Federation. At the same time, ethnic identity for the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union also faces the challenge of geo-political changes in their home country. They now have to reassess their past in relation to a Korea their forebears left a century ago, and construct their present and future identity in relation to the two home counties of South Korea and North Korea. For the

25 Representative of the new types of Soviet Korean music are the “longing for home songs” (manghyangga), which are to be found in all Korean communities in the former Soviet Union. These songs have different musical styles depending on their region. The Central Asian Korean songs employ the melodies of a hybrid of Christian hymns and Japanese marching songs (ch’angga), which were popular in Korea and the Russian Far East at the turn of the twentieth century. On the other hand, the Sakhalin Korean versions are in the style of Japanese and Korean popular songs of the 1930s and 1940s. Older Soviet Koreans in Central Asia and Sakhalin usually consider these Soviet Korean songs to belong to the broad category of “Korean old popular music” used in this survey. 26 See Bremmer (1993), Smith (1996) and Wilson (1996). 27 Koreans fought against Russian and Japanese imperialism, feeling that Bolshevik socialist ideology could provide them with a better status and quality of life in the Russian Far East (Kim 1989).

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Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union, both their social identity and ethnic identity are past-, present- and future-oriented. These complexities in the social and ethnic identity of Soviet Koreans are also reflected in the ways in which different musics are perceived by this diaspora. Barthes considers that hearing is essentially linked to evaluation of the spatio-temporal situation. According to him, based on hearing, listening is the very sense of space and of time (Barthes 1991:247). In this way, Korean traditional music is linked to the real or “imagined” homeland and past which, in turn, is associated with Korean ethnic identity. However, as different individuals and migrant communities have their own definition of Korean traditional music, their semantic associations of the homeland and past with ethnic identity may be different. According to Frith (1996:109), music creates and constructs an experience. It is also a “key to identity because it offers a sense of both self and others, of the subjective in the collective” (1996:110). In this sense, for the Korean diaspora, the practice of listening to a variety of modern popular music is a way of constructing and redefining their self, social and ethnic identity. For example, Korean modern popular music may be associated with an imagined homeland and past because of its assumed linguistic and cultural connection. At the same time, this music also represents the “otherness” of contemporary South Korea, which exists in the present as a foreign country. 28 Another example is Russian rock music of the late Victor Tzoi,29 which has a significant importance to many Soviet Koreans, including older generations who rarely listen to this type of music. For the Korean diaspora, Victor Tzoi and his music represent both “self” and “others”. They consider that Tzoi’s half-Korean and half-Ukrainian ethnic background and his songs, which predominantly relate to alienation and marginalization, reflect their diasporic existence.30 With regard to self-identity Giddens (1991:5) suggests that: In the post-traditional order of modernity, and against the backdrop of new forms of mediated experience, self-identity becomes a reflexively

28 In fact, many Soviet Koreans, especially elderly Soviet Koreans who speak an older northern dialect, find it difficult to understand the lyrics of modern South Korean popular songs in the contemporary standard South Korean language. For example, when the author was speaking Korean with a Kazakh Korean historian, who studied the Korean language in Seoul, his mother, who was born in the Russian Far East, said to us, “What are you two talking about? It sounds nice, but I cannot understand a word of it” (fieldwork 1994). 29 See Ramet et al. 1994 and Cushman 1995 for more details about Victor Tzoi in the Soviet rock scene. 30 For example, a young Kazakh Korean in Almaty, Nam Tatyana (b. 1971), said to me: “I feel that Victor Tzoi and his music belong to us. Soviet Koreans, are ‘in between’ just like Victor Tzoi himself. We are not ‘completely’ Korean because we were not born there and did not know much about Korea until a few years ago. But we are always seen as being Korean here, by Russians, Kazakhs, Uzbeks and others. Because we are displaced we are also ‘power-less’ like what Victor Tzoi’s songs are all about” (fieldwork 1993).

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organized endeavour. The reflexive project of the self, which consists in the sustaining of coherent, yet continuously revised, biographical narratives, takes place in the context of multiple choice as filtered through abstract systems. But I would like to suggest that this reflexive project is not just limited to self-identity. For the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union their social and ethnic identity also involves what Giddens terms “a reflexively organized endeavour”. They continuously construct and redefine their personal, social and ethnic identity and diasporic existence in space and time – between the host country and the real or imagined “homeland” and between the past, present and future. In summary, this examination of self, social and ethnic identity amongst the Korean diaspora of the former Soviet Union informs us that they are individual, social and political constructions, which are associated with all of the “past, present and future” (De Vos 1995) of this diaspora. They are also continuously revised through “a reflexively organized endeavour” (Giddens 1991), which, in turn, is shaped by social and political influences from the host country, home country and the outside world. For this people, music-listening is a way of creating and constructing not only an “experience” (Frith 1996) but also a multitude of personal and social experiences – both a sense of belonging and a sense of alienation in different “time and space” (Barthes 1991). The practice of music-listening for this Korean diaspora, as a social performance and as a way of defining their personal and social life in the changing world, both reflects and shapes the multiple identities of this people. It is not a simple process that can be easily described or defined by one social or semiotic theory, but requires a multitude of analytical perspectives for its better understanding.

References Aasland, Aadne (1996) “Russians outside Russia: the new Russian diaspora.” In G. Smith (ed.) The nationalities question in the post-Soviet states, 477–97. London: Longman. Abercrombie, Nicholas and Brian Longhurst (1998) Audiences: a sociological theory of performance and imagination. London: Sage Publications. Akhmetov, A.K., ed. (1998) History of Kazakhstan. Almaty: Gylym. Akiner, Shirin (1996) “Uzbekistan and the Uzbeks.” In G. Smith (ed.) The nationalities question in the post-Soviet states, 334–47. London: Longman. Baily, John (1995) “The role of music in three British Muslim communities.” Diaspora 4.1:77–88. Barkan, Elazar and Shelton, Marie-Denise (1998) “Introduction.” In E. Barkan and M.-D. Shelton (eds) Borders, exiles, diasporas, pp. 1–11. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Barthes, Roland (1991) The responsibility of forms: critical essays on music,

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art, and representation, trans. R. Howard. Berkeley: University of California Press. Baumann, Max Peter (1992) “The ear as organ of cognition: prolegomenon to the anthropology of listening.” In P.M. Baumann, A. Simon and U. Wegner (eds) European studies in ethnomusicology: historical developments and recent trends, pp. 123–41. Wilhelmshaven: Florian Noetzel Verlag. ________ (1993) “Listening as an emic/etic process in the context of observation and inquiry.” The world of music 35.1:34–62. ________ (1997) “Preface: hearing and listening in cultural context.” The world of music 39.2:3–8. Bourdieu, Pierre (1977) Outline of a theory of practice, trans. R. Nice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bremmer, Ian (1993) “Reassessing Soviet nationalities theory.” In I. Bremmer and R. Taras (eds) Nations and politics in the Soviet successor states, pp. 3–28. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Carlisle, Donald S. (1995) “Islam Karimov and Uzbekistan: back to the future?” In T.J. Colton and R.C. Tucker (eds) Patterns in post-Soviet leadership, pp. 191–216. Boulder: Westview Press. Chernoff, John (1997) “‘Hearing’ in West African idioms.” The world of music 39.2:19–26. Chopyak, James D. (1997) “Hearing and seeing in the electronic age: preliminary comparisons between Malaysia and California.” The world of music 39.2:27–40. Clifford, James (1992) “Travelling cultures.” In L. Grossberg, C. Nelson and P. Treichler (eds) Cultural studies, pp. 96–112. New York: Routledge. ________ (1997) “Diaspora.” In M. Guibernau and J. Rex (eds) The ethnicity reader: nationalism, multiculturalism and migration, 283–90. Cambridge: Polity Press. Cushman, Thomas (1995) Notes from underground: rock music counterculture in Russia. Albany, State University of New York Press. De Certeau, Michel (1988) The practice of everyday life, trans. Steven Rendall. Berkeley: University of California Press. De Vos, George (1995) “Concepts of ethnic identity.” In L. Romanucci-Ross and G. De Vos (eds) Ethnic identity: creation, conflict, and accommodation, pp. 15–47. Walnut Creek: AltaMira Press. During, Jean (1997) “Hearing and understanding in the Islamic gnosis.” The world of music 39.2:127–38. Elsner, Jorgen (1997) “Listening to Arabic music.” The world of music 39.2:111–26. Frankfort-Nachmias, Chava and David Nachmias (1996) Research methods in the social sciences. London: Arnold. Frith, Simon (1996) “Music and identity.” In S. Hall and P. du Gay (eds) Questions of cultural identity, pp. 108–27. London: Sage Publications. Giddens, Anthony (1991) Modernity and self-identity: self and society in the Late Modern Age. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

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Gleason, Gregory (1993) “Uzbekistan: from statehood to nationhood.” In I. Bremmer and R. Taras (eds) Nations and politics in the Soviet Successor States, pp. 331–60. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gopinath, Gayatri (1995) “Bombay, UK, Yuba City: Bhangra music and the engendering of diaspora.” Diaspora 4.3:303–22. Hosking, Geoffrey (1992) A history of the Soviet Union. London: Fontana Press. Hosokawa, Shuhei (1999) “Nationalizing Cho-Cho-San: the signification of ‘Butterfly Singers’ in a Japanese–Brazilian Community.” Japanese Studies 19.3:253–68. Howard, Keith (1997) “Different spheres: perceptions of traditional music and Western music in Korea.” The world of music 39.2:61–8. Khazanov, Anatoly M. (1995) After the USSR: ethnicity, nationalism, and politics in the Commonwealth of Independent States. Madison: The University of Wisconsin Press. Kho, Songmoo (1987) Koreans in Soviet Central Asia. Helsinki: The Finnish Oriental Society. Kim, Song-hwa (1989) Soryôn Hanjoksa (A history of the Soviet Koreans), trans. and annotated by T’ae-su Chông. Seoul: Taehan Kyogwasô. Levin, Theodore (1996) The hundred thousand fools of God: musical travels in Central Asia (and Queens, New York). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. McQuail, Denis (1997) Audience analysis. Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Olcott, Martha Brill (1993) “Kazakhstan: a republic of minorities.” In I. Bremmer and R. Taras (eds) Nations and politics in the Soviet successor states, pp. 313–330. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. _______ (1995) “Nursultan Nazarbaev and the balancing act of state building in Kazakhstan.” In T.J. Colton and R.C. Tucker (eds) Patterns in post-Soviet leadership, pp. 169–90. Boulder: Westview Press. Ramet, Sabrina Petra et al. (1994) “The Soviet rock scene.” In S.P. Ramet (ed.) Rocking the state: rock music and politics in Eastern Europe and Russia, pp. 181–218. Boulder: Westview Press. Riddle, Ronald (1983) Flying dragons, flowing streams: music in the life of San Francisco’s Chinese. Connecticut: Greenwood Press. Shimeda, Takashi (1986) “Patterned listening as a basis of the music tradition of the Penan, Sarawak, Malaysia.” In Tokumaru Yosihiko and Yamaguti Osamu (eds) The oral and the literate in music, pp. 180–92. Tokyo: Academia Music. Shlapentokh, Vladimir et al. (eds) (1994) The new Russian diaspora: Russian minorities in the former Soviet republics. Armonk: M.E. Sharpe. Slobin, Mark (1994) “Music in diaspora: the view from Euro-America.” Diaspora 3.3:243–52. Smith, Graham (1996) “The Soviet state and nationalities policy.” In G. Smith (ed.) The nationalities question in the post-Soviet states, pp. 2–22. London: Longman.

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Stites, Richard (1992) Russian popular culture: entertainment and society since 1900. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stokes, Martin (ed.) (1994) Ethnicity, identity and music: the musical construction of place. Oxford: Berg Publishers. Sugarman, Jane (1997) Engendering song: singing, subjectivity at Prespa Albanian Weddings. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Svanberg, Ingvar (1996) “Kazakhstan and the Kazakhs.” In G. Smith (ed.) The nationalities question in the post-Soviet states, pp. 318–33. London: Longman. Tishkov, Valery (1997) Ethnicity, nationalism and conflict in and after the Soviet Union: the mind aflame. London: Sage. Tölöyan, Khachig (1991) “The nation state and its others: in lieu of a preface.” Diaspora 1.1:3–7. _______ (1996) “Rethinking diaspora(s): stateless power in the transnational moment.” Diaspora 5.1:3–36. Um, Hae-kyung (1996) “The Korean diaspora in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan: social change, identity and music-making.” In K. Schulze, M. Stokes and C. Campbell (eds) Nationalism, minorities and diasporas: identities and rights in the Middle East, pp. 217–32. London: Tauris. Van Zanten, Wim (1997) “Inner and outer voices: listening and hearing in WestJava.” The world of music 39.2:41–50. Wilson, Andrew (1996) “The post-Soviet states and the nationalities question.” In G. Smith (ed.) The nationalities question in the post-Soviet states, pp. 23–44. London: Longman. Yi, Kwang-gyu and Kyông-su Chôn (1993) Chaeso Hanin: llyuhak chôk Chôpkûn (The Soviet Koreans: an anthropological approach). Seoul: Chimmundang. Yun, Pyông-sôk and Min-yông Pak (1994) “Rôsia Hanin Sahoeûi Hyôngs Ônggwa Minjok Undong (Formation of the Korean community in Russia and Independent Movement).” In the Society of Veterans of Korean Independent Movement (ed.) Rôsia Chiyogûi Hanin Sahoewa Minjok Undongsa (The Korean Communities in Russia and a History of Nationalist Movement), pp. 7–159. Seoul: Kyomunsa. Zheng, Su (1990) “Music and migration: Chinese American traditional music in New York City.” The world of music 32.3:48–67. _______ (1994) “Music making in cultural displacement: the ChineseAmerican Odyssey.” Diaspora 3.3:273–88.

Note on the author Hae-kyung Um received her PhD at The Queen’s University of Belfast, UK where her research focused on the traditional Korean musical drama, p’ansori. Um completed a three-year project (1993–6) in Russia, Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan in which she studied the relationship between music-making and identity amongst the Korean diaspora in these post-Soviet states. Her research

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was funded by the Leverhulme Trust and the Economic and Social Research Council, UK. She is presently a research fellow of the PAATI (Performing Arts in Asia: Tradition and Innovation) programme at the International Institute for Asian Studies in Leiden, the Netherlands. Her current research focuses on the performing arts of Korea and of the Korean diaspora in the former Soviet Union and China. Address: International Institute for Asian Studies, Nonnensteeg 1–3, 2311 VJ Leiden, The Netherlands; tel: +31–71–527–4126; Fax: +31–71– 527–4162; e-mail: [email protected].

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Reviews

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Books Komitas: Armenian sacred and folk music. Trans. E. Gulbekian. Introduction by V.N. Nersessian. Richmond (UK): Curzon Caucasus World, 1998. 192pp., works, musical exx., index, glossary of musical terms, bibliography. ISBN 0-7007-0637-2 (cloth) ROBERT AT’AYAN, The Armenian neume

system of notation. Trans. and introduction by V.N. Nersessian. Richmond (UK): Curzon Press, 1999. 287pp., 13 plates, musical exx., appendices, notes, index, bibliography. ISBN 0-7007-0636-4 (cloth £40) Komitas has long been regarded in Armenia as the founding father of an “Armenian national music”, and is still viewed as the most important musicologist to have worked on Armenian music. Although he was also a composer and musician, his contribution to musical life is remembered primarily through the collection and transcription of folk songs which he carried out at the turn of the century, at a time when interest in “folk culture” was growing, but when systematic collection and study of folk music had not yet begun in Armenia. At’ayan, on the other hand, has not acquired “national status”, but has, nonetheless, done a lot of work on a number of periods in Armenian music history, and is well known in musicological circles in that country. This review considers recent published collections of both these authors’ work. Komitas: Armenian sacred and folk music comprises a selection from the writings of Sogomon Soghomonian (who

called himself Komitas, after a seventhcentury hymn-writer), dating from the 1890s and 1900s. Komitas was born in 1869 and was sent to a seminary in Echmiadzin (now in Armenia) to study liturgical singing. Some years after graduating, he went to Berlin to study composition, and on his return to what was then still the Ottoman Empire, began collecting and transcribing folk songs. The 1915 Armenian massacres affected his mental health, and he suffered a nervous breakdown. Sadly, much of his work had been destroyed, or at least lost, in the massacres. The present volume includes eight essays that are taken from the Collected works of Komitas published (in Armenian) in Yerevan in 1941. Two are reproduced in the original German and one in the original French (translated by Arshak Tchobanian), and the remaining articles are in English. Four of the essays discuss Armenian folk music, and five are about Armenian church music. Perhaps the most important essay for the English-speaking reader interested in early ethnomusicological thought, is the article-length essay entitled “The Plough song of Lori in the style of the village of Vardablour”. In this work, musical analyses are intertwined with descriptions of the physical settings and activities in which the music is embedded. Given the period in which At’ayan was writing, this intense interest in the social and extra-musical activities that “furnish the conditions of musical production” is unusual. Transcriptions and arrangements by the author are included throughout the book. All kinds of songs that are meant to demonstrate the supposed “uniqueness” of the Armenian national style are present. These construct an image of both

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the nature of the music and the ideological attitude of the ethnomusicologist who finds a balance between “retaining the original” and “harmonizing to enrich the sounds and spirit” of what he might call “his people.” Ideology can at times become obtrusive as, for instance, when the author claims that “the folk songs of a given nation are so characteristic that it is not possible to confuse them with those of foreign or related nations” (159) and then goes on to demonstrate how a collection of songs “correspond in structure and harmony with the spirit and style of Armenian folk songs”. Such attempts are not always convincing, and although well written, demand of the reader a certain (if only minimal) acquaintance with Armenian music. Sometimes the, at times, deeply technical (or as Komitas sometimes calls it, “scientific”) nature of his musical analyses threatens to become tiresome. Komitas’s total commitment to Armenian music is remarkable and his knowledge of it unmatched. Yet, his academic work is only one of the many ways Komitas attempted to reconcile his musical interests with his ideological position. The concerts of Armenian music given in Paris and elsewhere in Europe reveal the dedication, evident in this book, to both his interest in the nation and his interests in music. The author’s realm of influence in musicology, arrangement and composition is unsurpassed within Armenia, as is attested by the included bibliography of works about Komitas. If Komitas’s work is of greatest interest to enthusiasts of the history of ethnomusicology, At’ayan’s book, The Armenian neume system of notation, is of particular interest to those interested in historical ethnomusicology. Written in the 1950s (but translated into English for the first time here), it demonstrates the author’s remarkable ability in handling

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equally competently elements of linguistics, musicology and historical research as he works his way through a large number of sources. The study is an attempt to trace the origins and evolution of the khaz system of notation that reached its peak of development in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The system is separated into two subsystems: musical and prosodic. After examining the origin and development of both individually, and their interrelations, the author critically reviews the major studies of the subject, by both Armenian and European scholars. The final chapter gives an account of tenth–twelfth century khazes and the principal features of the system. The author attempts to use Armenian folk music (from a century ago to the present day) as a vital tool in our understanding of the music of almost a millennium ago. Attacking previous theories on the origins of the Armenian khaz system because of their common assumption that “the Armenian khaz system is not original but borrowed from other traditions” (43), he then attempts to prove the system’s originality. At’ayan gives interesting examples of the problems of earlier scholarship, for instance, Fleischer’s conclusion that Armenian khaz signs are influenced by Indian and Greek accent signs. Fleischer bases his assumption on the resemblances in the notational shapes, contending that “the Armenian sign of erkar is evidence that the Armenian notation system constitutes a middle link between the Indian accentuation and Greek prosody system [because] the Indian equivalent of the erkar is a vertical line” (45). At’ayan points out that such similarities could easily be discovered in any two texts. Yet his criticism of the “superficiality” inherent in Fleischer’s similarities prompts a rather larger question for the book. Can

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we go much further than Fleischer into what At’ayan calls the “essences” of these notations? To indicate how much the European scholars before him had erred, At’ayan cites their unfamiliarity with the Armenian musical tradition: The majority of scholars have ascribed khazes with unprovable definitions and concluded the question as being exhausted without even making attempts to verify their conclusions by transcribing any melody. Those who did transcribe the odd melody (Schroeder, Peterman) were never aware that the melodies they selected were never in their essence (modal intonation) close to Armenian musical tradition. (43) In an age with a heightened awareness of the significance of invented traditions, such faith in what is loosely called “Armenian musical tradition” cannot be accepted so readily. Comparisons are unhesitatingly implied (and considered legitimate) between music of the eighth to twelfth centuries and an Armenian musical tradition that we know only from the late nineteenth century. Written when Armenia was under Soviet control, At’ayan’s concerns with folk music and with an “Armenian” music are deeply rooted in politically-imposed ideology. The equation of “Armenian musical tradition” with the Armenian folk tradition forms the basis of the author’s theoretical perspective and refutation of earlier scholarship. In attempting to trace the origins of the khaz system, he claims that “the link that exists between the modal basis of Armenian folk and sacred music is evidence that the church made extensive use of folk music” (76), yet there is, of course, no evidence that the modal system of folk music a millennium or so ago was the same that it is today, or

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even a century ago. One could as easily argue that church music had influenced the subsequent development of folk music. Elsewhere he claims that khazes were “affiliated with the monodic national style of music” (104) yet is also unable to give evidence of the existence of a “national” style a thousand years ago. The insistence on a distinctive “Armenian musical tradition” that may have evolved independently of external influences over a thousand years becomes even more problematical given that Armenia has been under Arab, Mongolian, Russian, Persian and Ottoman rule since the days of the origins of khaz notation. At’ayan’s argument for a cultural tradition that has survived intact throughout centuries of foreign rule and that lies at the root of the Armenian nation and national identity is speculative and a good example of how an imagined history of the nation relates to the prevailing ideology. However, his use of material from the Institute of Ancient Manuscripts in Yerevan, is meticulous and careful. A lucid and penetrating analysis of many previously unexplored manuscripts makes this book, despite its faults, a must for anyone interested in the music of this period, whether or not some idea of the actual sound of this Armenian system is attainable. Though the translation is not always smooth, and there are a number of typing errors, it is a very readable text even to those without a direct interest in the areas covered. The two books are in many ways paradigmatic of the ways in which national attitudes or ideologies, if you prefer, have imposed themselves on the way music is perceived and in due time “transformed” in Armenia. If the study of ideological factors influencing ethnomusicological scholarship (as opposed to the object of this scholarship) is still in its infancy, these two books are

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a welcome addition to our understanding of why and how the field shapes itself the way it does. ANDY NERCESSIAN

Faculty of Music, University of Cambridge

KAY KAUFMAN SHELEMAY, Let jasmine

rain down: song and remembrance among Syrian Jews. Chicago and London: University of Chicago, 1998. xvii + 291 pp., photographs, figures, table, musical exx., song texts, index, glossary, references, CD. ISBN 0-226-75211-9 (cloth £41); 0-226-75212-7 (pb., £17.50). In this study of pizmonim (paraliturgical hymns; s. pizmon) in the Syrian Jewish diaspora of New York, Israel and Mexico City, Kay Kaufman Shelemay focuses on the evocation of “several domains of memory” (7) through song performance. The introduction cites studies of musical traditions that embody music and remembrance and observes that, unlike recent studies in the humanistic disciplines, “the musical construction of remembrance” (6) has remained in the background in most ethnomusicological literature. Shelemay makes effective use of verbatim reports from interviews, noting that the transcription and analysis of interviews highlighted memory as an ever-present theme. Acknowledging the work of Soja (1995) and Foucault (1986), she views “each pizmon … as a heterotopology, a site for various constructions of present and past …” (10). Shelemay describes Syrian Jewish religious song as “a hybrid, emerging from the bifurcated historical experience of this Judeo-Arab community” (11): the song texts, in Hebrew, are Jewish, while the melodies derive from Arab song. She notes that pizmon performance is often preceded by an improvisatory petihah

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(vocal “overture”) to establish the mood and key, just as a composition in Arab music may be preceded by a taqsîm or layâli (instrumental or vocal improvisation, respectively) (12–13). Similarly, the book is structured according to this aesthetic principle, each of the six chapters being preceded by a “Prelude” which introduces the reader to a specific pizmon related to the issues addressed in the following chapter. Each Prelude discusses the circumstances of composition and performance of the particular pizmon, and presents a music transcription with word underlay in transliteration, the original song text in Hebrew and an English translation; the performance of each pizmon, by (male) members of the Syrian Jewish community in New York, is presented on the CD that accompanies the book. Shelemay’s presentation results in an attractive formula; the sharp focus on a single song and its performance brings the material to life, introduces the reader/listener to a core repertory and provides a practical introduction to theoretical issues. Two poems by Ronny Someck (1989:18, 19) to the divas of Arabic song – Fairuz and Umm Kulthûm – act as prologue and epilogue, the main title of the book emerging in the first poem. Each chapter focuses on a different domain of memory. Chapter 1, “Song and remembrance” considers music transmission and confirms tradition and history as community values in the “multi-functional” performance of pizmonim. While pizmon composition, performance and transmission appear to be almost exclusively male-oriented, Shelemay underlines the vital female role taken in domestic events. In Chapter 2, “Music and migration in a transnational community”, Shelemay addresses Syrian history from the late nineteenth century, discussing the strong sense of community

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among Syrian Jews, particularly in the New World. The “multiplex identity” (74) of this Judeo-Arab community (Sephardic–Levantine–Arabic) prompts Shelemay, following Clifford (1994), to present a “decentered view of a modern diaspora” (68). Chapter 3 provides diachronic evidence of the strong identification of Syrian Jews with Arab music, confirming the centrality of the maqâm system in worship and discussing a number of fundamental and familiar issues regarding the latter, such as referring to vocal recitation of the Qur’ân as “reading” (rather than “singing”). (In Jewish practice, chanting from the Bible is also described as “reading”.) In Chapter 4, “Lived musical genres”, Shelemay discusses social and musical attributes of the pizmon, stressing the importance of defining a genre by its context and describing pizmonim as “compound aural memories … connecting moments in the present to broader themes and historical memory” (171). Chapter 5, “Individual creativity, collective memory”, reviews the role of the individual in commissioning, composing and performing pizmonim and notes the importance of improvisation in performance. The sixth and final chapter summarizes the role of the pizmon as an agent for individual and collective memory and explores broader implications regarding processes of memory. Shelemay points to a “close and symbiotic relationship” (214) between “popular” and “traditional” musics and notes that the pizmonim are “particularly powerful venues” in arousing an “affect of nostalgia” (215; Feder, 1981). Shelemay views the pizmon as a source for social history: “an anthology of the Syrian Jewish sound world since at least the late nineteenth century” (220), enabling “an individual in the present to re-sing, re-hear, and re-experience the past” (223).

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This book with its accompanying CD is a valuable contribution to ethnomusicological literature, both in its theoretical framework addressing the subject of memory, and as a specific study of an aspect of religious music in the Syrian Jewish community. It secures a place for Syrian Jewish music traditions on the “Jewish music” map, and helps to redress the east-west imbalance in this corpus. It also creates resonances with other areas of research. For instance, the collaboration of Iraqi and Syrian experts in New York outlined in Chapter 1 forms an interesting parallel to contemporary practice in Israel, where Iraqi instrumentalists and hazzanim (cantors) are featured in communal and professional performances of Syrian baqqashoth (Habusha, 1989). Nostalgia (Chapter 6) was seen to be a strong factor for the maintenance of religious and secular musical traditions in my own research with Iraqi-Israelis (Manasseh 1999:194–6) and, by extension, the sustenance of music tradition is of therapeutic value to transnational communities (Baily, 1999). Within the main subject of enquiry – that of song and the evocation of compound memories – the book addresses issues such as diaspora, identity and gender, and the theory and practice of Arab music, particularly as experienced in the performance of the Syrian Jewish pizmon. While pizmonim are performed by all Jewish communities, who share a number of song texts, the Syrian practice of memorializing numerous individuals for specific events within pizmonim is of special interest, as is the convention of borrowing melodies of Egyptian “classic” song – today, the latter custom is increasingly practised by other Eastern Jewish communities in Israel (for instance, some Iraqi communities), perhaps influenced by the Syrian example. In today’s political climate, with

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efforts for peace between Israel and her Arab neighbours, this book expresses the shared heritage of all those from Arab lands, regardless of religion: the strong identification by the Syrian Jewish community with the “classical” Egyptian repertoire of such artists as the singers Umm Kulthûm and Asmahân, and the composer-performer ´Abd al-Wahhâb, echoes the esteem in which these artists continue to be held in the transnational Arab world – my own work among Iraqi Jews in Israel confirms their continued, strong attachment to this “golden age” of Egyptian music. My only criticism of the book is that the great attention to detail is marred by some inconsistencies in the transliteration of the Hebrew song texts. The main weakness occurs regarding the letter ‘ayin, clearly pronounced by the singers: in the text it is sometimes indicated correctly, as in “ra‘yonai” (18, ex.1, bar 3), but omitted in numerous words in the same example (18–20); other letters are very occasionally inconsistent – “h” and “s” shown as “kh” and “z”, respectively (19, bars 41 and 45); there are also instances of incorrect vowel transliteration (“rov” and “yassed” shown as “rav” and “yossed”, bars 40, 59–60, respectively), although these may be typographical errors. The pizmon transliterations would benefit from correction. Furthermore, as a general background, a brief historical review of Jewish religious song – the piyyut and associated genres, such as baqqashoth (“supplications”), pizmonim and zemiroth – would have been helpful. This perceptive and attractively presented book, together with the energetic performances on CD, is greatly welcomed, and invites a wide audience. References Baily, John (1999) “Music and refugee lives: Afghans in eastern Iran and

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California.” Forced migration review 6 (December):10–13 (“Music of Iraqi Jews in Israel”, p.13). Clifford, James (1994) “Diasporas.” Cultural anthropology 9:302–38. Feder, Stuart (1981) “The nostalgia of Charles Ives: an essay in affects and music.” Journal of psychoanalysis 10:302–32. Foucault, Michel (1986) “Of other spaces,” translated by Jay Miskowlec. Diacritics 16:22–7. Habusha, Moshe (musical director) (1989) Mizmor shir leyom hashabat – bakashot songs of Shabat (“Sing a song for the Sabbath day – baqqashoth songs of the Sabbath”). Jerusalem: Yeshivat HaHayim VeHashalom. (Set of 18 cassettes, with accompanying booklet of song texts.) Manasseh, Sara (1999) Women in music performance: the Iraqi Jewish experience in Israel. PhD thesis, London University. Soja, Edward W. (1995) “Heterotopologies: a remembrance of other spaces in the citadel-LA.” In S. Watson and K. Gibson (eds) Postmodern cities and spaces, pp. 13–34. Oxford: Blackwell. Someck, Ronny (1989) Panther. Tel Aviv: Zmora Bitan [in Hebrew]. SARA MANASSEH

Kingston University [email protected]

MICHAEL B. BAKAN, Music of death and

new creation: experiences in the world of Balinese gamelan beleganjur. The University of Chicago Press, 1999. xxiii + 384pp., 17 halftones, 8 tables, notes, index, glossary,

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bibliography, discography. CD. ISBN 0-226-03487-9 (cloth £42); ISBN 0-226-03488-7 (pb. £21). The subject of this book (which builds on Bakan’s doctoral dissertation) is the Balinese gamelan beleganjur, the powerful processional ensemble comprising a range of hand-held gongs, cymbals and drums. Originally with martial and ritual functions, gamelan beleganjur has undergone a rejuvenation through the recent institution of beleganjur competitions. These have not only nurtured interest in the ensemble and its traditional repertory, but have also spawned a new musical style, kreasi beleganjur, which in keeping with the newer competitive context is more overtly formalized and virtuosic. The book is divided into four sections that correspond to the four movements of the opening demonstration section (demonstrasi) of a piece for a beleganjur contest: awit-awit, kawitan, pengawak, pengecet. As with the drum prelude that begins the demonstrasi, Bakan’s awit-awit attempts to juxtapose various fragments in an impressionistic way; the kawitan (the central section of the demonstration) is the musical ethnography; the pengawak, the slower more lyrical movement, here comprises the problematization of the preceding musical ethnography, and the pengecet, the “movement of freedom and release” (19) is Bakan’s reflexive section, a frank discussion of his own experience of learning beleganjur drumming, and more broadly speaking, a discussion of the value of reflexive writing in ethnomusicology. The introduction is somewhat diffuse, combining a number of different angles on the material. In particular, the relevance of this opening reflexive section to the rest of the book is unclear; the circumstances described do not seem to surface elsewhere in the writing. The remainder of the introduction describes

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the ensemble and its context, followed by a discussion of conceptions of ethnomusicology and ways of writing ethnography (his view of the radical position of his ethnography seems a little overstated). The section “Discovering Beleganjur” is perhaps the most successful, and sets up the ethnography that follows. “Part Two: Kawitan” begins with the chapter “The Gamelan Beleganjur in traditional Balinese musical life”, which discusses the history and format of the ensemble and its relationship to other Balinese ensembles. Bakan points out that, because of the power and influence of the competitive beleganjur format (1986 onwards), most of the information on traditional practice is based on the observations of his teachers rather than his own experience, as traditional beleganjur has largely been displaced by the competition version. The central section of the chapter is a detailed discussion of the musical processes involved in the genre as this relates to the function of each of the main instruments in the ensemble. This discussion is clear and well-illustrated by both written musical examples (some in modified staff notation, others in table format) and recorded ones (the tracks on the CD tie in well with the text). The final part of the chapter discusses the various contexts and functions of the ensemble in traditional Hindu-Balinese life. These centre on the five categories of ritual offerings, the panca yadna (beleganjur’s primary ritual role is to accompany yadna processions). Of particular interest is his evocation and explanation of the role of beleganjur in ngaben (cremation) and memukur (purification of the soul) ceremonies. It brought to mind vividly the presence of beleganjur at the first Balinese cremation ceremony I attended; his description is thoroughly readable and accompanied by some excellent recorded examples.

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The chapter titled “Lomba Beleganjur” is a fascinating account of the rise and development of the beleganjur competition, which has achieved such “widespread popularity and official endorsement” that beleganjur has become a site for the interplay of multiple ideologies and agendas, “a symbol of mediation among traditional Balinese cultural values, modern Indonesian political ideals, and the realities of contemporary Balinese Indonesian life” (85). Bakan connects the contemporary competition to inter-court gamelan competitions in pre-colonial Bali, but his focus here is the way in which “the products and performances displayed and comparatively assessed in lombas reference the specific localized cultural worlds of their origin, while symbolically transforming those worlds into something more globally ‘Indonesian’” (87). The following chapter is a detailed breakdown of the musical specifics of kreasi beleganjur (the style created by the competition format), again illustrated by numerous written and recorded examples. In contrast to this dense technical discussion, the following chapter focuses on I Ketut Sukarata and I Ketut Gedé Asnawa, two major participants in the beleganjur world and Bakan’s two main teachers. Bakan presents biographies of the two, discusses their contrasting positions in the beleganjur world and their musical styles. “Part Three: Pengawak” begins with a careful investigation of the “high stakes of competition”, pointing out not only the complex feelings that competition engenders, but more broadly how Western anthropology has constructed the Balinese as more interested in process than product, and how “the modern lomba, with its formalized evaluation criteria and quantified grading scheme, may bear the indelible marks of Western

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influence, but the goal-directed competitive fervor exhibited by participants in modern Balinese music is ‘indigenous’” (213). Through his observations of competitions, the author explores the strategies participants use to negotiate the local, regional and national levels of interaction and the complicated politics this often involves. Gender is the topic of the following chapter, which introduces the subject of women’s beleganjur groups, the ways in which they are perceived and presented by both participants in the beleganjur world, and more broadly, the governmental agencies behind their promotion. Bakan’s conclusion is that women’s beleganjur is more radical and subversive than other genres that have seen female participation in recent years, because beleganjur is seen as a “male form of expression and a formal expression of maleness” (275). This is a fascinating topic, with several “voices” presented, but the chapter nonetheless suffers from being based predominantly on the perspectives of older male musicians. The opinions of only a few women players are cited. In addition, composer and drummer Suandita seems to be the only younger male voice, and as his perceptions of female beleganjur groups seem by contrast to be more open, it is interesting to speculate whether the arguments presented against women’s groups (by the majority male musicians) are in part indicative of the generation interviewed, and whether the arena for women will open up in the next few years (or indeed has already opened up, as the research for this book was conducted up to 1995). The final part of Bakan’s book I found particularly interesting. Here he addresses what he terms the “intercultural musical encounter” between himself and his teacher Sukarata. Bakan relates the teaching–learning method that he and

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Sukarata devised in the course of their interaction and the way it compared with traditional Balinese musical pedagogy (maguru panggul, literally, “teaching with the mallet”). Bravely, he charts the development of his lessons, including his failures with his successes: “In our efforts to understand each other and make music together, we improvised, compromised, and often struggled through conflicting personal agendas and frustrating misconceptions, musical and otherwise” (292). Even more bravely, perhaps, he exposes his own ways of learning, identifies their inherent Western-ness, and describes his own motivations for adopting them. It is a sensitive account of the development of a working relationship between teacher and foreign student/researcher that raises many questions. As he points out, this type of encounter is usually pushed to the fringes of musical ethnography, and his argument here focuses on its centrality to any such work. He questions whether an outsider “can understand a music ‘from within’ at all” (294), following on from Brinner (1995), Berliner (1994) and Rice (1997). Drawing on Blacking (1992), Bauman (1978) and Bruner (1986), he rather controversially suggests that “…‘understanding’ need not occur within a context of shared conception of meaning in performative action. As long as multiple participants in a performance all believe themselves and each other to be functioning effectively, and as long as they are collectively meeting the objectives demanded of the performance, those participants are all operating, on some level at least, from a position of ‘understanding’, even if such understanding lacks language-like criteria of mutual intelligibility” (297). Citing Blacking’s 1977 notion of “tuning in to an alien musical expression” (316), the final chapter demonstrates this type of musical understanding, in an account of the

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recording session that he and his teacher, Sukarata, had agreed would mark the end of his initial research project. Some may object to the way in which the author inevitably becomes the centre of the discussion here, or the extent of some of his claims (which sometimes exceed the amount of evidence available). However, the focus on the ethnomusicologist’s role as musician (rather than researcher) in the construction of ethnography was refreshing and thought-provoking rather than conclusive. One additional small point: as Suharto was officially toppled by the time this book went to press, it would have been useful to recognize this in the text (which refers to the regime as if it were still in operation). This aside, the book is an informative, multi-perspective account of a previously unmapped Balinese genre, well illustrated with audio examples. The final chapters, dealing with reflexivity, fieldwork and the notion of musical understanding, should provoke some interesting discussion. References Bauman, Zygmunt (1978) Hermeneutics and social science. Columbia: Columbia University Press. Berliner, Paul (1994) Thinking in jazz: the infinite art of improvisation. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Blacking, John [1977] (1990) “Some problems of theory and method in the study of musical change.” In K. Kaufman Shelemay (ed.) Garland readings in ethnomusicology: musical processes, resources and technologies, 6, pp. 259–84. New York and London: Garland Publishing. ______ (1992) “The biology of musicmaking.” In H. Myers (ed.) Ethnomusicology: an introduction, pp.

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301–14. New York: W.W. Norton & Co. Brinner, Benjamin (1995) Knowing music, making music. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bruner, Edward (1986) “Experience and its expressions.” In V. Turner and E. Bruner (eds) The anthropology of experience, pp. 3–10. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Rice, Timothy (1997) “Toward a mediation of field methods and field experience in ethnomusicology.” In Greg Barz and Timothy Cooley (eds) Shadows in the field: new perspectives for fieldwork in ethnomusicology. New York: Oxford University Press. MARIA MENDONÇA

St David’s Hall, Cardiff [email protected]

ANN BUCKLEY (ed.) Hearing the past:

essays in historical ethnomusicology and the archaeology of sound. E.R.A.U.L. 86 (Études et Recherches Archéologiques de l’Université de Liège) 1988. 251pp, illustrations, plates, musical transcriptions. Dépôt légal: D/1998/0480/25 “The people that come together at conferences to discuss early music cultures are a pretty motley group,” observes Kenneth DeWoskin in his chapter about interpreting early Chinese instruments from this volume. This is reminiscent of meetings of ethnomusicologists, where the participants tend to hail from a variety of different backgrounds and disciplines and to approach their areas of study with varying degrees of adventurousness – some scarcely peeking outside their immediate areas of studies and others using their material as launch pads to ponder broader or even universal

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questions. As with many volumes of collected essays that result from conferences, there is little sense of coherence in the approaches of the contributors to Hearing the past. However, there is much food for thought for ethnomusicologists, not least in terms of helping us reflect on the status and objectives of our discipline, and sometimes to feel fortunate that we can hear, see and interact with living musicians – even then still struggling to understand what on earth is going on! Issues of status and objectives of the discipline are initially brought out in a short paper entitled “What is wrong with music archaeology?” by Cajsa Lund, who identifies the low value ascribed to the work of music archaeologists by mainstream Scandinavian archaeology. She concludes that a “broader social perspective” should be applied to the study of sound tools (though sadly without giving any practical examples herself). The focus of some branches of music archaeology often seems to concern questions of whether or not an archaeological find is a potential sound tool, and thereby whether it may be appropriated to specifically musical concerns, from which other archaeologists – as non-specialists – are tacitly excluded. A somewhat analogous relationship has sometimes emerged between ethnomusicologists and anthropologists, where specialization in “music” has led to a sense of exclusiveness with the consequence that ethnomusicological insights have frequently failed to feed into broader anthropological discourse. It is no coincidence that some of the most respected figures in ethnomusicology refuse to be dubbed with the title “ethnomusicologist”, asserting instead that they are anthropologists. Similarly a number of the other contributors to this volume present music as a privileged

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source of knowledge about past cultures. Rather than taking the view that the archeological study of musical instruments is a dry and dusty side-show that is largely irrelevant to the main business of archaeology, Kenneth DeWoskin asserts that musical objects and representations recovered from early Chinese graves “have voices which tell about themselves in ways that other ritual objects cannot”. For DeWoskin, music is the realm of human behaviour in which significance is most fully encoded in structural relationships, handily linking the conceptual and empirical. Through it, the purely abstract can be rendered concrete (visibly and audibly), as for example in the number of strings or pipes of instruments. While one has to be careful not to over interpret such aspects, as is evident from working with living musicians, this sort of approach is interesting and gives music the initiative, rather than assigning it a marginal role. (I strongly recommend Joseph Needham’s fascinating chapter on Sound, in his study of Ancient Chinese Physics, 1962:126–228, as background to DeWoskin’s essay.) DeWoskin bases his argument on the analysis of paired Jiahu flutes and the tuning systems and inscriptions of an extraordinary hoard of 65 bronze bells and 32 stone lithophones from the Marquis Yi of Zeng’s tomb, located close to Wuhan in China, dated (from a bell inscription) to around 300 BCE . He interprets the different languages used for the inscriptions on these bells and the varied forms of tuning nomenclatures as a means by which the Marquis manipulated his affiliations with competing genealogical and political groups. This is fascinating material, although not always easy to follow for the non-specialist, partly due to the failure of the figures to materialize, despite tantalizing references to them in the text.

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Many other chapters in this volume are excellently illustrated, however, making this an attractive and valuable book for its iconographic impact alone. The visual aspect is particularly evident in Reis Flora’s chapter, which considers music culture contact between the Sumer and Indus regions. I’m afraid I found the text excessively descriptive and dry, although such a style is probably welcome to hard-core archaeoorganologists and those used to wading through archaeological reports. However, the illustrations and their evidence for the extraordinary antiquity of, for example, harps and long-necked lutes in the Persian Gulf and Indus regions (some dating back almost five millennia) are fascinating. The final three chapters of the book, in a section entitled “Representations and Reflections”, are dedicated to Ancient Greek and Roman material. The first two essays are richly illustrated. Jane Snyder focuses on representations of women musicians in Attic vase-painting, and argues that Greek literary sources give the false impression that women’s musicmaking was confined to essentially two models: (a) the activities of a few noted aristocratic individuals, such as the famous poet-musician Sappho of Lesbos, who composed wedding and love songs, and (b) performances of low status professionals, who played the harp or aulos at men’s drinking parties. From an analysis of vase-painting she suggests that upper-class women principally played for their own pleasure and the pleasure of other women in the household, who lived in separate quarters from those of the men. Music appears to have served as an important medium for the transmission of female ideas and culture in Athenian society, where women were severely restricted from participation in public life – a situation reminiscent of that described by Veronica

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Doubleday for modern Afghanistan (1999:116–7). Jon Solomon’s chapter is also dedicated to music and dance representations from Greek pottery, in this case focusing specifically on the geometric style. From an art history perspective, I found his discussion of the development of design conventions, such as representations of the horse, fascinating. However, as a means of reaching a better understanding of musical performance practices in preclassical Greece, the interpretation of these vase paintings is fraught with problems (as Solomon is evidently well aware himself). He points out that while “individualized” images of the positions and postures of musicians and dancers may come close to portraying actual musical practices, those that are highly decorative or regularized are unlikely to be a reliable source of information about performance practice. But we are also reminded that there may have been occasions (as there are today) when a chorus group adopted regularized and decorative postures that could have been represented on pottery. While I concur with many of Solomon’s points, I do not feel that this sort of iconographic material (especially if truly geometric) can be seriously fed into debates about whether or not ancient Greek music was played in ensembles or solo, or whether polyphony or “harmony” was used. This is a theme that he briefly touches upon at the close of his essay. Was this a case of clutching at straws? Being desperate to say something about actual music performance practices even though the material is not conducive to such interpretations? I am certainly sympathetic to his dilemma. In a chapter that brings together ancient Greek and Roman ideas about music, Daniel Delattre confines himself to literary sources – specifically a

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papyrus on which are written what survives of Philodemus of Gardara’s Commentaries on music. The chapter includes a useful overview of earlier Greek writers’ views on the ethical qualities of music, which is essential background to his later discussion of Philodemus’s text. Philodemus was an Epicurian, and Delattre argues that his book should be read as a “coherent and critical examination” of a work written a century earlier by the Stoic, Diogenes of Babylon. Following Stoic aesthetic doctrine and the line of earlier writers on the ethical powers of music (such as Damon and Plato), Diogenes reasoned that music was indispensable for the upbringing of children, seeing it as the gateway to all virtues, which effected morality and reasoning. (According to this view, certain melodies were conducive to vice just as others were to virtue.) In his Commentaries, Philodemus refutes the moral effects of music and excessive intellectualism of Diogenes’ approach, focusing instead on the pleasurable sensations and affections that music produces. Philodemus wrote his text in Italy where, despite ample interest in performance – as evidenced by the musical exploits of, for example, Nero – the Romans evidently ascribed less importance to music theory than did the Greek tradition. Delattre suggests that Philodemus’s commentary was a skilful attempt to reconcile Epicurian doctrine with the Roman reality of the time, while attacking a Stoic opponent, and promoting a more cultivated status for Epicurians. This rich and engaging chapter has many resonances with continuing debates about the power of music and its role in music education. Without considerable specialist knowledge of the Javanese gamelan or gong ensembles of Borneo, I find it difficult to evaluate Inge Skog’s wideranging chapter on this theme. Basing his

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reasoning on a range of historical, anthropological, linguistic and musicological approaches, he argues that gong ensembles are a much later phenomenon than many earlier scholars have suggested. The view that the first gamelan ensemble was created in Java some 2000 years ago is consigned to myth and interpreted as a means of legitimating more recent institutions. While individual gongs have probably been in use for more than a 1000 years, Skog maintains that ensembles with suspended gongs probably developed no earlier than the fifteenth century. He also relates the dissemination of these instruments and playing traditions, especially during the sixteenth century, to European interests and the spice trade. The argument is compelling and chimes resonantly (gamelan-like!) with much recent work on invented traditions, suggesting a shallower and more colonized cultural history for gamelan performance practices. However, a few suspicions concerning methodology and historiography were aroused for me by Skog’s use of the anthropological present in certain places, when referring to practices referenced to the 1970s, as well as to unattributed comments such as “which symbolizes a soul within the body” (81). We are left to wonder: for whom, when, why and where…? Specialists will undoubtedly have their own strong feelings about this chapter. Much food for thought is provided by Catherine Homer-Lechner’s challenging and wide-ranging study enigmatically entitled “False. Authentic. False authenticity. Contributions and failures of experimental archaeology as applied to musical instruments”. This essay ranges from an overview of the beginnings of the early music movement in France to a multiplicity of issues concerning experiments in the reconstruction and performance of early or ancient musical

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instruments. I found myself squirming at Homer-Lechner’s apparent assumption that it is “the search for authenticity” (30) – as some sort of utopian desire to relive the past – which motivates performers of early music. However, this essay is full of lively questions and it is a piece that I will undoubtedly continue to return to and refer to students. It highlights the shifting subjectivities in our relationships with past musical cultures and accordingly the place of historical context of current performance practices. In general I very much enjoyed reading this volume, though from time to time I felt relieved to be working in ethnomusicology rather than music archaeology, where the possibility of “hearing the past”, or even its vaguest semblance, sometimes seems excessively remote. This attractive book covers a wide range of materials and cultures and should certainly be included in the library of any self-respecting department of ethnomusicology, music or archaeology. References Doubleday, Veronica (1999) “The frame drum in the middle east: women, musical instruments and power.” Ethnomusicology 43:1. Needham, Joseph (1962) Science and civilisation in China, vol. 4, Part 1, Physics and Physical Technology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Orders: 1500 BEF + p.&p. to: Emmanuel Delye, Université de Liège – Archéologie Préhistorique, Place du XX Août, 7, bât. A1, B-4000 Liège, Belgium; e-mail: [email protected]. Credit card payments acceptable. HENRY STOBART

Royal Holloway, University of London [email protected]

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ERLMANN, VEIT, Music, modernity, and

the global imagination: South Africa and the West. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999. 312pp., notes, index. ISBN 0-19-512367-0 (£50). Erlmann’s work on South Africa has taken a logical course. African stars: studies in Black South African performance (1991) was a broad overview of many performance genres in South Africa; Nightsong: performance, power and practice in South Africa (1996) examined one genre, isicathamiya, in detail, while referencing the role of the West in terms of performance practice theory. Music, modernity, and the global imagination: South Africa and the West completes the “trilogy” by providing insight into the relationship between Africa and the West, not only by describing actual events, but also by exploring the social contexts in which the events occurred. The book examines how music genres emerged by asking what are or were the social conditions that facilitate(d) the emergence, formulation, change and perpetration of such genres. Thus Music, modernity, and the global imagination is not a book about “world music” (6). Rather, it is a history of political ideas articulated within a musical context. Erlmann describes two episodes in the history of Black South African music: tours made by the African Choir and the Zulu Choir between 1890–4 to the UK and USA; and the emergence of Paul Simon’s Grammy Award-winning album Graceland in 1986. He invokes a wide range of “texts” including the music, press releases, travel accounts, and a host of “players [including] African National Congress co-founder Saul Msane, Queen Victoria, African-American musician and impresario Orpheus McAdoo, Xhosa Christian prophet Ntsikana, W.E.B. du Bois, Michael Jackson, and Spike Lee”

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(front flap) as well as the group Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Analysing history through such texts, Erlmann describes an “imagined totality – a totality united not so much by things such as international trade, multilateral agreements, or the institutions of modern society as by a regime of signs and texts” (4). The signs and texts allow us to explore the ways in which people see and express the world, and the ways in which they see themselves within it. This “ethnography of the global imagination” (4) thus explores the processes involved in the creation of personal and cultural identities. Rather than the narrative presenting a continuous stream of events from one point in time to another – as is usual in the presentation of history – here a period of 100 years separates the two episodes described. These are moments in history and political thought – late nineteenth century colonialism and late twentieth century postcolonialism – that Erlmann sees as “orders [that] are at heart societies of the spectacle” (5). In the late 1900s new technologies for representing the world with narrative came into being. The panorama (the earliest form of mass media, followed some time later by film) facilitated the portrayal of images without interruption; it created a “total space … that enabled the viewer to become … someone who enters an image rather than someone who contemplates it from outside” (5–6). Erlmann views the (colonial) panorama as a “protocyberspace” (5–6), cyberspace being a sphere we now take as real. It is within this total space that Erlmann examines the tours of the South African choirs, and the Graceland album and subsequent Ladysmith Black Mambazo collaborations. The book is divided into two parts. Part I, “Heartless swindle”: the African Choir and the Zulu Choir in England and America, consists of seven chapters examining songs, texts and narratives

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making up the “drama” (165) that determined the destinies of those directly involved in the tours of the African Choir (1890–4) and the Zulu Choir (1892–3) to the UK and USA. But arguably as important, we learn how the events also helped to define more wide-scale perceptions that shaped political developments over the following century. Many of the choir members became active politically on their return to South Africa. To their services they brought their perceptions of the potentials of the West where, for a time before the institutionalization of apartheid in 1948, they “were able to put into practice at least some of the visions of justice and enlightened leadership which their tours had enacted” (166). The “heartless swindle” encapsulates the fact that the tours were financial disasters which left the artists in debt and abandoned by the white managers, as well, perhaps, as the fact that it was to be almost another hundred years before the “visions of justice and enlightened leadership” would result in the envisaged liberation. Part II, “Days of miracle and wonder”: Graceland and the continuities of the postcolonial world, examines not so much the events surrounding publication of the album in 1986 as the aesthetics, practices and genres upon which the work draws (see, for instance, “world beat”, Chapter 10, and isicathamiya, Chapter 11). Positioning the isicathamiya group, Ladysmith Black Mambazo, and its leader, Bhekizizwe Joseph Shabalala, at the centre of the analysis, the section goes on to explore, in Chapter 13, biographical texts presented in a documentary (Journey of dreams, directed by David Lister, 1988), in the biography The life and works of Bhekizizwe Shabalala and the Ladysmith Black Mambazo (Thembela and Radebe, 1993) and in Shabalala’s works recorded on over 30 albums. In the final chapters, Erlmann looks at

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“racial ambiguities” (172) emergent in both black and white cover versions of the famous isicathamiya tune “Mbube” (Chapter 14), and the inclusion of Ladysmith in Michael Jackson’s video Moonwalker (Chapter 15). These chapters very clearly demonstrate the ways in which South African music and performers have been incorporated into the mainstream of popular music. In a sense, they provide case-studies for the examination of the globalization process. In taking on the subject of globalization, Erlmann has accepted an ambitious task. The concept in many senses has come to resemble “world music”, that is, it is freely used but also freely interpreted, to the extent that its use may have become meaningless. We all know we live in a “rampant global age” (3) but the precise characteristics of this age remain elusive. Erlmann’s work achieves an analysis and as such is important for anyone who is interested in furthering their understanding of the world they live in. References Erlmann, Veit (1991) African stars: studies in Black South African performance. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. ____. (1996) Nightsong: performance, power and practice in South Africa. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Thembela, Alex J. and Radebe, Edmund P.M. (1993) The life and works of Bhekizizwe Shabalala and the Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Pietermaritzburg: Out of Reach Publishers. JANET TOPP FARGION

International Music Collection British Library National Sound Archive [email protected]

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ALISON MCQUEEN TOKITA , Kiyomoto-

bushi: narrative music of the kabuki theatre. Studien zur traditionellen Musik Japans 8. Kassel, Basel and London: Bärenreiter, 1999. 400pp., illustrations, musical exx., indexes, transcriptions, bibliography, discography. ISBN 3-7618-1469-0. This is the eighth book to appear in the series “Studien zur traditionellen Musik Japans”, which has so far yielded volumes in German on such subjects as Buddhist ritual singing and the music of the shakuhachi, koto and satsuma-biwa. Kiyomoto-bushi: narrative music of the kabuki theatre is the first in the series to be written in English. It is also the first book-length treatment of this genre to be published outside Japan, and is a welcome, indeed long-awaited successor to such works as Malm’s 1963 book on nagauta and Gerstle, Inobe and Malm’s 1990 book on gidayû. Tokita’s extensive knowledge of kiyomoto, gained through many years of practice as well as study of the literature in Japanese, makes her well qualified to write on the subject. In this book she has provided the English reader with a thorough treatment of one of the more neglected genres of music associated with the kabuki theatre. The first two chapters give ample historical background on the wider narrative tradition and on kabuki dance; the third chapter deals with the instrument that accompanies kiyomoto, the shamisen. The next four chapters analyze the kiyomoto repertoire as a whole on the level of the piece, the section, the phrase and the sub-style. A further chapter examines the treatment of quotations from other genres. The final chapter offers detailed analyses of three pieces, one each from the narrative-dramatic, lyric-dance and ceremonial categories. Transcriptions of these pieces are

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provided at the end of the book. This book addresses a question which may well have perplexed theatre-goers and others who are familiar with the various genres of shamisen music used in kabuki: why kiyomoto (and related genres which developed in Edo) are classed as jôruri (narrative singing) while they seem closer to the “lyrical” nagauta than to the more obviously narrative gidayû which developed in Osaka. In fact it is Tokita’s concern to identify those elements which place kiyomoto within the narrative tradition. Taking as her starting-point Ong’s concept of “residual orality” (Ong 1982), she seeks these out in the formulaic material used in kiyomoto composition, remembering to relate these to formulaic elements in the texts and also to the structure of kabuki dance. Just identifying and classifying such melodic patterns or formulae is not nearly as easy a task as one might imagine in Japanese music, and kiyomoto, with its many named and unnamed patterns and their variants, would seem to be no exception. Through her analysis on different levels, Tokita convincingly establishes the position of kiyomoto within the tradition of Japanese narrative, and in so doing leaves the reader with an enhanced awareness of the richness of this music. The subject of mode and scale might have been given fuller treatment in the introductory part of the book (mode is dealt with only briefly, in the section on shamisen tunings); readers who need to familiarize themselves with the Koizumi tetrachord theory followed in the analyses should refer to the same author’s Ethnomusicology article (1996). A key to the conventions used in the transcriptions would also not have gone amiss. Ideally, the reader would be provided with sound recordings; unfortunately the items listed in the discography are not easily accessible, although perhaps it is worth mentioning here that the 30-LP anthology

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Kiyomoto Shizudayû zenshû: kiyomoto gojûban has recently been reissued as a 20-CD set by Japanese Victor (VZCG8085-8104). This is such an important book that it seems a pity to have to point out the many typographical errors that more careful proof-reading might have prevented: words are misspelled, figures wrongly numbered, and for some reason the first page of Appendix IX (the list of Japanese terms), which should list terms beginning with the letters A to C, has come out as a duplication of the page with terms beginning with N and O. Rather more serious, perhaps, is the absence from the bibliography of some of the works cited in the text. Nevertheless, this is an extremely valuable book that should be read by anyone interested in Japanese music. It is to be hoped that it will stimulate similar treatments of so-far neglected genres such as tokiwazu and shinnai, and indeed further studies of nagauta and gidayû. References Gerstle, Andrew C., Kiyoshi Inobe and William P. Malm (1990) Theater as music: the bunraku play “Mt. Imo and Mt. Se: an exemplary tale of womanly virtue”. Ann Arbor, MI: Center for Japanese Studies, The University of Michigan. Malm, William P. (1963) Nagauta: the heart of kabuki music. Tokyo: Tuttle. Ong, Walter J. (1982) Orality and literacy: the technologizing of the word. London: Methuen. Tokita, Alison McQueen (1996) “Mode and scale, modulation and tuning in Japanese shamisen music: the case of kiyomoto narrative.” Ethnomusicology 40.1:1–33. CHARLES ROWE

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Recordings Musics of Siberian peoples This review evaluates two recent collections of recorded music of indigenous Siberian groups: a five CD set from the independent French company Buda Records and a single CD from the state-funded French company Inédit (Peer, 1999). All of the peoples represented on these CDs suffered under the Soviet system from attacks on their traditional musics and beliefs, together with enforced regrouping, settlement and economic changes. Now they all find themselves part of the Russian Federation, trying in dire economic circumstances to recreate and re-establish their own traditions. Sibérie 1–5. Buda Records: Musique du Monde. Recordings, photographs and texts by Henri Lecomte. Each of these five CDs offers extraordinary aural experiences. According to the accompanying booklets, the groups represented all traditionally practised shamanism, although in some cases the designation may be open to question. Sibérie 1. Nganasan: chants chamaniques et narratifs de l’arctique sibérien. MCM 92564-2, rec. 1992. Nganasans, who live in the Tai’myr peninsula, are the most northerly people in Siberia and number about 1300 (1989 census). They form two groups: the Avam in the north-west of the peninsular and the Vadeyev in the north-east. With the collapse of Soviet control, a few families returned to the more traditional life of hunting wild reindeer, geese and partridges, and fishing. Others still live (with a number of other ethnic groups) in one of the three Soviet-created villages: Ust’-Avam, Voloèanka and Novaïa, where most of these recordings were made. The contents comprise a mixture

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of narrative and “shamanic” songs, the themes of which are innately sad: songs of farewell or possible farewells, the search for lost family members, enduring an arranged loveless marriage. There is a serious suicide problem among young Nganasans, as among many Siberian peoples, and their songs are deeply troubled: Korore Khententeeviè Kokore, a former wild reindeer hunter, impressively and expressively growls extracts from traditional narratives; the dressmaker Valentina Bintalaevna Kosterkina’s more melodic narratives express traditional struggles between men and women as well as between male shamans; and former hunter and fisherman Numore Bojanteviè’s long decorated monotone is part of “The Orphan”, a tragic tale of young orphan girls. There is an intriguing change from lyrical to hoarse vocal timbre by seamstress Nina Demnimeevna Lorvinova when she moves from “song” to “shamanic song”; and a Bear cult shamanic session (kamlanye) reconstructed by the brother and nephew of the “last real” Nganasan shaman (d. 1989) provides a rare opportunity to appreciate the complex of sounds created by vocals and drum patterns accompanied by rattling metal attatchments (bells, pendants, animal figures etc.) to the shaman’s costume and inside of the drum. Sibérie 2. Sakha. Yakoutie: épopées et improvisations. MCM 92565-2, rec. 1992. The Sakha (Yakhut) population numbers 382,000 (1989 census); they are one of the largest indigenous Siberian groups. According to the notes, the vocal music of these sedentary breeders falls into two styles: dieretii used for both traditional songs (of which the main genre is tojuk) and epics (olonkho); and degeren, used for the shamanic session (kamlanje) as well as to accompany the

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circle dance osvokhai and other rituals. Yet the notes are confusing since khlysakh, the head voice that uses glottal stops and guttural sounds and is explained as being typical of dieretii, is also used to perform a lament in the degeren style (track 17). A wide range of vocal sounds is deployed, including gravelly textures during epic performance, rapid-fire delivery during “hurried speech” (èabyrgakh), and throbbing glottal stops during long laments. Impressive also are the guttural sounds and harmonics used by Ivan Egoroviè Alexeev during improvisations on the khomus (jew’s harp); and demonstrations of different playing styles on the indigenous kyrympa fiddle. Some basic details about this fiddle would have been appreciated, for instance that it has four horsehair strings and is made from a single piece of wood (Voyage en URSS; Vertkov, Blagodatov and Yazovitskaya 1975). Sibérie 3. Kolyma: chants de nature et d’animaux. Èukè, Even, Jukaghir. MCM, rec. 1992. The Kolyma region (from the name of the river that flows through it) lies north of Yakutia. Most of these recordings were made north of the Arctic Circle, an area inhabited for many centuries by the Èukès (Chukchis), Evens and Jukaghirs. All of these peoples perform “throatsinging” (Chukchi piè eynen; Jukaghir tumun khontol; and the basis of the Even seedie dances), a vocal “panting style”, which may be incorporated into drumdances or sung autonomously, performed also by the Siberian Evenks and Koryaks. Similar to that used during throat-games by the Inuit of Canada (katajjaq) and the Kraft Ainu of Hokkaido island, northern Japan (rekutkar), it is not to be confused with Tuvan or Mongolian overtonesinging, also sometimes called “throatsinging”. (“Throat-singing” is used in this review to refer only to the technique

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used in Arctic and Siberian musics.) Listen to the remarkable sounds produced by Slava Egoroviè Kemlil of the Èukès, whose improvisations include animal and bird imitations and throat-singing accompanied by the single-headed frame drum jarakh (tracks 11,12), to Anna Dimitrievna Neostroeva of the Even (track 26), and to Ekaterina Ivanova Tymkil of the Jukhagir (track 39). Also typical of these Siberian peoples are “personal songs”, often but not always executed during drum-dances. Èukès, for instance, offer unaccompanied personal songs to their grandchildren or parents (tracks 1–15). Even and Jukaghir songs, many of which are performed using more lyrical vocal textures, celebrate their horses and reindeer, the sea and their homeland. There are several moving examples of the personal songs from Even women, whose love of the homeland shines through despite their extremely hard lives. (For more details about different types and social contexts of throat-singing and personal songs, see Bours 1991; Nattiez, 1999). Sibérie 4. Korjak. Kamtchatka: tambours de danse de l’extrême-orient sibérien (Kamtchatka: dance drums from the Siberian Far East). Korjak. MCM 92598-2, rec. 1994. The Koryak (Korjak) live in the north of the Kamtchatka peninsula and fall into two groups: those who speak Èavèuven, who traditionally breed nomadic reindeer, and those who speak Nimlane, live along the sea coast and hunt sea mammals. Their exact number is debated, possibly in the region of 7500–7900 (1970 figures). As with other Siberian peoples, these groups suffered persecution and violence as traditional villages were closed, people were regrouped and resettled (sometimes several times) and shamans and traditional leaders purged. Many fled to the tundra. Traditional villages are now in

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the process of being re-established and musical ensembles have been formed with the aim of reviving Koryak culture. Examples on this CD range from stylized expressions of traditional music and dances (e.g. the Mengo ensemble) to those that remain much closer to the traditional forms and transmission processes (e.g. the Lauten or Numun ensembles). There are impressive examples of throat-singing (tracks 11–13) and “personal songs” (tracks 18–20). Many of the songs are linked to dances, often imitating animals, sea mammals, geese, seagulls or ravens. The single-headed frame drum, jajar or zjazjaj, with its metallic percussive devices, features throughout and, together with the wide variety of vocal sounds, often produces an electrifying atmosphere. Listen, for instance, to Ev’zin singing of her recently deceased husband (track 29) and the calls, whistles and other vocal sounds of Ejgili singing about the tundra and her children working there (track 30). Sibérie 5. Chants chamaniques et quotidiens du Bassin de l’Amour (Shamanic and daily songs from the Amur basin). MCM 92671-2, rec. 1996. The Amur Basin is traditionally inhabited by peoples belonging to the Tungus-Manchu linguistic group and this CD represents four of those: the Nanaj (12000, 1989 census), Oroè (900), Udìgì (1469) and Ulè (3200). The Nanaj, once called “fish-skin” Tatars, live by fishing and retained shamanism throughout the communist period. There are two Nanaj vocal genres: jajaori, an improvised, recitative chant, and the dzariory, a melodic chant based on repetition. The former is described as “traditional” since it is used to address the spirits, the latter is used when contemporary folk groups imitate shamanic rituals. The sweet vocal tones of the young female singers, who improvise a cappella or accompanied by

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a light drum stroke (tracks 1–5) contrast greatly with those used by older singer, Marija Vasil’evna Bel’dy (tracks 10-11), and the two older female shamans, one of whom impressively sings of her former strength and current weakness (track 7), and the other who divines using a range of vocal sounds during a shamanic session (tracks 8, 9). The Oroè, who live in the region bordering the gulf of Tatar (which separates the continent from Sakhalin Island), are represented by three lyrical a cappella songs sung by women. The Udìgì, from a small village, Gujasugi, in the midst of a tiger-inhabited forest, are hunters and fishermen who traditionally engage in Bear and Tiger cults. They are also notable for their birchbark bunjuku or kuinkui horns, played by inhalation, which are used to produce a complex heterophony of sounds when played in ensemble (Udìgì, tracks 18, 23), Their one-string julanku fiddle, with birch-bark sound-box, cedar neck and salmon-skin sounding-board, has a rough and edgy tone (track 21), as does the one-string sirpakta fiddle of the Ulè (track 30). The Ulè also have traditions related to the cults of the Bear and Tiger. Two Ulè women, Tiké and Eïki, perform shamanic songs accompanied by the untu drum (tracks 27, 28). Eïki, whose performance is particularly powerful, uses a vocal tremolo that evokes for me the hororuse falsetto voice of the Aïnu of Sakhalin. By contrast, the song performed by apparently the only remaining male Ulè shaman, Mikhail Semenoviè Duvan, is sung with a lyrical vocal tone (track 31). Unlike the Buda collection, which devotes 14 tracks to the Nanai, here they are represented by a single track “song of a Tungus-Nanay shaman”. It is unclear whether the singer, Maria Salkazanova, is also the shaman whose song she is singing, referred to as “an old woman” in

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the notes. Nevertheless, it is a convincing performance in which she accompanies herself with the un-shruh frame drum and percussive sounds of her shamanic rattle belt. Interesting illustrations are given of the shaman’s drum, rattle belt (comprising thick strips of metal attached to a band and worn around the waist). Other instruments played in this collection are the metal jew’s harp (Nanaj, Udìgì) and the ja or buzz-disk aerophone (Udìgì, 24). Musiques de la toundra et de la taiga. URSS: Bouriates, Yacoutes, Toungouses, Nenets et Nganasan. Inédit, Maison des Cultures du Monde. This Inédit CD features five of the same Siberian groups whose music appears on the Buda collection – Yakut, Nganasan, and three Tungus groups from the Amur Basin: the Üdegeï (Udegì), Oultch (Ulè) and Nanai (Nanaj). As a bonus, however, it also includes the music of the Nenets, who live along the Russian coast of the Arctic Ocean in adjacent European and Asian parts of the taiga and tundra. It is a mystery why two tracks from the Buryats are included, since they are Mongols, who see themselves as neither of the tundra or taiga but rather of the steppes or mountain. As this CD was recorded in studio conditions in Paris, the performances are smoother, more arranged and cleaner than those in the Buda collection. The notes give basic musical and contextual details. Some of the most astonishing sounds are those of Yakut khomus (jew’s harp) playing (track 1): 16 minutes 27 seconds of spellbinding textures by solo performers, a duo and a quintet. Although the jew’s harp playing of the Tuvans has become well known on the world music scene, this remarkable track takes some beating. The tayuk singing style of the Yakuts also features here. The notes tell us that the tayuk singer uses kolerach

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(presumably the same as the word transcribed as khlysakh on Sibérie 2) here described as the “rapid passage of the chest to falsetto accompanied by glottal jerking” and that tayuk may be sung in popular degaran mode or in djebo solemn mode. Five Nganasan propitiatory kamlaniye incantations are performed: an invocation of the sun and sky; an invocation of thunder; the (pivotal) healing song; an invocation of the wind; and a call to the spirits during the Bear dance. In contrast to those on the Buda collection, these are performed by two women, Yevdokia Porbina and Nina Loguinova, who exchange interleaving musical motifs. Two tracks (8, 10) feature Udìgì birchbark-horn playing, neither of which summon up the tension of Sibérie 5, track 23, where horns appear to play simultaneously in different keys accompanied by the whirring ja buzzdisk. Perhaps not surprisingly, the only remaining Oulch shaman, Duvan, also puts in an appearance (track 7). The recitation of the genealogical poetry of his clan, during which he accompanies himself with the um-tu-hu (frame drum) and yanpah (rattle belt), is faster, more intense and dramatic, and uses a different melody from his performance on Sibérie 5. Although a photograph shows Duvan in concert accompanied by a jew’s harp player, the jew’s harp does not feature on this track. In the group song that follows (track 8), an operatic-sounding female voice predominates; and the sounds of the Isir-pak-taki (single-string fiddle) produced by Ivan Rossough-Bou on the final Oultch track (track 9) are much smoother than those heard on Sibérie 5 of traditional players in their home environments. It’s a real treat to hear the unaccompanied singing of Yelizaveta Ardieva of the Nenets. Not only does her introverted singing gently draw in the

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listener (tracks 14–16) but it also illustrates the extraordinary Nenet technique of “expanding melodies”. Not referred to in the accompanying notes, this comprises a gradual widening of the interval size of melodic intonations that may eventually exceed an octave (see Abromovich-Gomon, 1999). These two sets of recordings complement each other in that they enable us to compare sounds recorded in different fields: the home environments from which the music has sprung (Buda) and recording studios in the West (Inédit). The kaleidoscopic sounds produced during shamanic ritual performances (reminiscent in some respects of the mbira music used to communicate with spirits among the Shona of Zimbabwe, as described in Berliner 1978); the lyrical “secular” sounds introduced by the Russians; and the sounds produced by newly-formed ensembles attempting to recreate their traditional cultures or to fuse traditional with “modern” sounds. They provide an introduction to small groups who have endured hardship under the Soviet regime, and who continue to do so, giving them a well-deserved higher profile on the world music map. Not only do they provide a leaping off point for debates on the relationships between sound-ideals and contexts as outlined above, but also on music and colonialism (the effects of Soviet cultural policies on indigenous peoples) and ethnomusicology and ethics (are there any ways in which the people who benefit from these recordings can help these peoples?). As an introduction to the musics of different peoples, projects undertaken by recording companies should, however, be recognized for what they are. They cannot be expected to give the same insights that would be gained from extended periods of fieldwork in an area.

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Caution must be exercised when faced with accompanying booklets in which concepts are often broadly applied without any hint of the debates that rage within the specialized literature (for more detailed ethnographic information on “shamanism” among the Nenets, Nganasans, Yugagirs, Koryaks, Chukchis and Yakuts, see Diószegi, Vilmos and Mihály Hoppál, 1978, and Kim and Hoppál, 1995; and on different types of “shamanism” see Pegg, 2001, Thomas and Humphrey, 1994). Translations may be inaccurate (here we have translations first into French from indigenous languages and then into English) and confusion may arise, for instance, that surrounding the different vocal styles used by the Yakuts (Sibérie 2). That being said, these introductions to Siberian musics are both tantalizingly rich. References Abramovich-Gomon (1999) The Nenet’s song: a microcosm of a vanishing culture. Studies in Ethnomusicology, Aldershot: Ashgate. Berliner, Paul F. (1978) The soul of mbira: music and traditions of the Shona people of Zimbabwe. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Bours, Etienne (1991) Musiques des peoples de l’arctique: analyse discographique. Une publication de la Médiathèque de la Communauté française de Belgique, asbl. Diószegi and Hoppál, eds (1978) Shamanism in Siberia. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó. Kim, Tae-Gon and Hoppál, Mihály (1995) Shamanism in Performing Arts. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó. Nattiez, Jean-Jacques (1999) “Inuit throat-games and Siberian throat singing”, Ethnomusicology 43.3:399–418.

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Peer, René van (1999) “Taking the world for a son in Europe: an insider’s look at the World Music recording business,” Ethnomusicology 43.2:374–87 Pegg, Carole (2001) Mongolian music, dance and oral narrative: performing diverse identities. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Thomas, Nicholas and Humphrey, Caroline (1994) Shamanism, history and the State. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Vertkov, K.G. Blagodatov, and Yazovitskaya, E. ([1963] 1975) “Musical instruments of the peoples inhabiting the USSR.” Atlas muzikal’nikh instrumentov naradov SSSR (Atlas of the musical instruments of the peoples of the USSR). Four floppy disks and English summary. Moscow: State Publishers Music. Voyages en URSS. Anthologies de la musique instrumentale et vocal des peoples de l’URSS 10: Sibérie: extreme orient, extreme nord, Le Chant du Monde LDX 74010. CAROLE PEGG

University of Cambridge [email protected]

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Index of articles by author, volumes 1–9 (1992–2000) Baily, John, “The Naghma-ye kashâl of Afghanistan”, 6:117 Ballantine, Christopher, “Joseph Shabalala: chronicles of an African composer”, 5:1–38 Bithell, Caroline, “Polyphonic voices: national identity, World Music and the recording of traditional music in Corsica”, 5:39–66 Brown, Katherine, “Reading Indian music: the interpretation of seventeenth-century European travelwriting in the (re)construction of Indian music history, 9/ii:1–34 Buisman, Frans, “Melodic relationships in pibroch”, 4:17–39 (erratum, 5:187) Cannon, Roderick D., “What can we learn about piobaireachd?”, 4:1–15 Clayton, Martin, “Two gat forms for the sit1r: a case study in the rhythmic analysis of North Indian music”, 2:75–98 Clayton, Martin, “Ethnographic wax cylinders at the British Library National Sound Archive: a brief history and description of the collection”, 5:67–92 Dawe, Kevin, “The engendered lyra: music, poetry and manhood in Crete”, 5:93–112 Dawe, Kevin, “Bandleaders in Crete: musicians and entrepreneurs in a Greek island economy”, 7:29–50 Durán, Lucy, “Birds of Wasulu: freedom of expression and expressions of freedom in the popular music of southern Mali”, 4:101–34 Eydmann, Stuart, “The concertina as an emblem of the folk music revival in the British Isles”, 4:41–9 Farrell, Gerry, “The early days of the gramophone industry in India: historical, social and musical perspectives”, 2:31–53 Gourlay, Kenneth A., “Blanks on the cognitive map: unpredictable aspects

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of musical performance”, 2:1–30 Gray, Catherine, “The Ugandan lyre endongo and its music”, 2:117–42 Gray, Catherine, “Compositional techniques in Roman Catholic church music in Uganda”, 4:135–55 Gray, Nick, “ ‘Sulendra’: an example of petegak in the Balinese gendér wayang repertory”, 1:1–16 Hesselink, Nathan, “Kouta and karaoke in modern Japan: a blurring of the distinction between Umgangsmusik and Darbietungsmusik”, 3:49–61 Ho, Edward, “Aesthetic considerations in understanding Chinese literati musical behaviour”, 6:35 Hosokawa, Shuhei, “Singing contests in the ethnic enclosure of the post-war Japanese-Brazilian community”, 9/i:95–118 Hughes, David W., “Thai music in Java, Javanese music in Thailand: two case studies”, 1:17–30 Hughes, David W., “No nonsense: the logic and power of acoustic-iconic mnemonic systems”, 9/ii:95–122 Jones, Stephen, “Chinese ritual music under Mao and Deng”, 8:27–66 Kertész Wilkinson, Irén, “Genuine and adopted songs in the Vlach Gypsy repertoire: a controversy reexamined”, 1:111–36 Lanier, S.C., “ ‘It is new-strung and shan’t be heard’: nationalism and memory in the Irish harp tradition”, 8:1–26 Lau, Frederick, “Forever Red: the invention of solo dizi music in post1949 China”, 5:113–31 Lewisohn, Leonard, “The sacred music of Islam: Sam1‘ in the Persian Sufi tradition”, 6:1 Li, Lisha, “Mystical numbers and Manchu traditional music: a consideration of the relationship between shamanic thought and musical ideas”, 2:99–115 Lucas, Maria Elizabeth, “Gaucho musical regionalism”, 9/i:41–60

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McCann, May, “Music and politics in Ireland: the specificity of the folk revival in Belfast”, 4:51–75 Mackinlay, Elizabeth “Music for dreaming: Aboriginal lullabies in the Yanyuwa community at Borroloola, Northern Territory”, 8:97–111 Menezes Bastos, Rafael José de, “The origin of ‘samba’ as the invention of Brazil (why do songs have music?)”, 8:67–96 Neto, Luiz Costa Lima, “The experimental music of Hermeto Paschoal e Grupo (1981–93): a musical system in the making”, 9/i:119–42 Nooshin, Laudan, “The song of the nightingale: processes of improvisation in dastgah Seg1h (Iranian classical music)”, 7:75–122 Pegg, Carole, “Mongolian conceptualisations of overtone singing (xöömii)”, 1:31 Pegg, Carole, “Ritual, religion and magic in West Mongolian (Oirad) heroic epic performance”, 4:77–99 Pennanen, Risto Pekka, “The development of chordal harmony in Greek rebetika and laika music, 1930s to 1960s”, 6:65 Plemmenos, John G., “The active listener: Greek attitudes towards music listening in the Age of Enlightenment”, 6:51 Ramnarine, Tina Karina, “ ‘Indian’ music in the diaspora: case studies of ‘chutney’ in Trinidad and in London”, 5:133–53 Ramnarine, Tina Karina, “‘Brotherhood of the boat’: musical dialogues in a Caribbean context”, 7:7–28 Reily, Suzel Ana, “Musical performance at a Brazilian festival”, 3:1–34 Reily, Suzel Ana, “The ethnographic enterprise: Venda girls’ initiation schools revisited”, 7:51–74 Reily, Suzel Ana, “Introduction”, 9/i:1–10 Stobart, Henry , “Flourishing horns and enchanted tubers: music and potatoes in highland Bolivia”, 3:35–48

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Stobart, Henry and Cross, Ian, “The Andean anacrusis? rhythmic structure and perception in Easter songs of Northern Potosí, Bolivia”, 9/ii:63–93 Stock, Jonathan, “Contemporary recital solos for the Chinese two-stringed fiddle erhu”, 1:55–88 Stokes, Martin H., “The media and reform: the saz and elektrosaz in urban Turkish folk music”, 1:89–102 Swanwick, Keith, “Music education and ethnomusicology”, 1:137–44 Tian, Qing and Tan Hwee San, “Recent trends in Buddhist music research in China”, 3:63–72 Tingey, Carol, “Auspicious women, auspicious songs: ma ngalin i and their music at the court of Kathmandu”, 2:55–74 Tingey, Carol, “Musical instrument or ritual object? The status of the kettledrum in the temples of central Nepal”, 1:103–9 Travassos, Elizabeth, “Ethics in the sung duels of north-eastern Brazil: collective memory and contemporary practice”, 9/i:61–94 Ulhôa, Martha Tupinambá de, “Música romântica in Montes Claros: intergender relations in Brazilian popular song”, 9/i:11–40 Um, Hae-kyung, “Listening patterns and identity of the Korean diaspora in the former USSR”, 9/ii:123–44 Widdess, Richard, “Festivals of dhrupad in northern India: new contexts for an ancient art”, 3:89–109 Wiggins, Trevor, “Techniques of variation and concepts of musical understanding in Northern Ghana”, 7:123–48 Woodfield, Ian, “Collecting Indian songs in 18th-century Lucknow: problems of transcription”, 3:73–88 Youssefzadeh, Ameneh “The situation of music in Iran since the Revolution: the role of official organizations”. 9/ii:35–61

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Index of countries as major article themes, volumes 1–9/ii (1992 – 2000) Afghanistan: 6: 117 (Baily) Australia: 8: 97 (Mackinlay) Bali: 1: 1 (Gray) Bolivia: 3: 35 (Stobart), 9/ii:63 (Stobart & Cross) Brazil: 3: 1 (Reily), 8: 67 (Bastos), Special issue 9/i: 1 (Reily), 11 (Ulhôa), 41 (Lucas), 61 (Travassos) 95 (Hosokawa), 119 (Neto) British Isles: 4: 41 (Eydmann), 5: 133 (Ramnarine) China: 1: 55 (Stock), 3: 63 (Tian), 5: 113 (Lau), 6: 35 (Ho), 8: 27 (Jones) Corsica: 5: 39 (Bithell) Crete: 5: 93 (Dawe), 7:29 (Dawe) France: see Corsica Ghana: 7: 123 (Wiggins) Greece: 6: 51 (Plemmenos), 6: 65 (Pennanen); see also Crete Hungary: 1: 111 (Kertész-Wilkinson) India: 2: 31 (Farrell), 2: 75 (Clayton), 3: 73 (Woodfield), 3: 89 (Widdess), 5: 133 (Ramnarine), 9/ii:1 (Brown) Indonesia: see Bali, Java Iran: 6: 1 (Lewisohn) 7: 75 (Nooshin) 9/ii: 35 (Youssefzadeh) Ireland: 4: 51 (McCann), 8: 1 (Lanier) Japan: 3: 49 (Hesselink), 9/ii:95 (Hughes) Java: 1: 17 (Hughes) Mali: 4: 101 (Durán) Mongolia: 1: 31 (Pegg), 4: 77 (Pegg) Nepal: 1: 103 (Tingey), 2: 55 (Tingey) Scotland: 4: 1 (Cannon), 4: 17 (Buisman) South Africa: 5: 1 (Ballantine), 7: 51 (Reily) Thailand: 1: 17 (Hughes) Trinidad: 5: 133 (Ramnarine), 7: 7 (Ramnarine) Turkey: 1: 89 (Stokes) Uganda: 2: 1 (Gourlay), 2: 117 (Gray), 4: 135 (Gray) United Kingdom: 1: 137 (Swanwick), 4: 51 (McCann), 5: 67 (Clayton); see also British Isles, Scotland USSR: 9/ii:123 (Um)

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Notes to contributors Submissions should be sent to the Editors: Dr Martin Clayton, Faculty of Arts, Open University, Milton Keynes MK7 6AA, England; e-mail: [email protected]; Dr Suzel Ana Reily, School of Anthropological Studies, The Queen’s University of Belfast, Belfast BT7 1NN, Northern Ireland; e-mail: [email protected]. Order of preference for submission format is: 1. a Macintosh disk with the article in Microsoft Word or ASCII (plain text) format plus one hard copy; 2. a PC disk with the article in Word for Windows 2 or ASCII (plain text) format plus one hard copy; 3. two hard copies. Hard copies must be typed or printed on one side only on A4 paper with ample margins, with all materials double-spaced. Tables, maps, photographs, music examples and other illustrative materials should be presented on separate sheets. Authors must eventually supply “cameraready” copy to professional standard of all illustrative materials; the editors will advise on the preparation of such materials if necessary. Authors must also supply a list of words requiring diacritical accents. A full-page figure may not normally exceed 118 x 196mm. A list of captions must be provided on separate sheets. Authors must obtain approval, before submission, for reproduction of any material not their own. All manuscripts must be accompanied by an abstract of 50 to 80 words and a short note on the contributor (including contact address), both to be included in the Journal. Authors of articles will receive one copy of the Journal and ten offprints free of charge; authors of reviews will receive a single offprint. Purchase of further offprints may be possible on request. Notes on style It would be helpful if contributors were to bear in mind the following points: 1. Quotations: Use double quotation marks, but single within quotations. 2. Figures: All figures, tables, charts and musical examples should be referred to as “Figures”, numbered successively and referred to in the text. 3. Spelling and terminology: UK spelling and usage will be employed. 4. Paragraphs: Do not indent or leave blank lines between paragraphs. Use one space only following punctuation. 5. Initial capital letters: Use as seldom as possible in bibliographies, mostly as initial letters in proper nouns and in journal titles. In the text, use upper case in referring to “Figure 3”, and lower case for “section 1.2”, “verse 2” etc. 6. Numerals: Use minimum numbers for pages and dates, e.g. 25–8, 136–42, but 12–16; 1980–1, 1914–18. Use numerals for percentages, measurement and for ages, e.g. 25%, 12km, 5m, 10 years old. For other numbers in text, write out in full between one and ten; thereafter use numerals. 7. Italics: Use mainly for book titles and foreign words and phrases. Do not italicize et al., e.g., c., i.e., ibid., and similar short elements. 8. Footnotes: should be minimised by including materials within main text whenever possible. 9. References: should be cited within the text, listing the author’s last name, date of publication and page number, e.g. (Blacking 1973:52); where an author’s name has just been cited in the text, references need be made only to date and page, e.g. (1973:52). Two works of identical date by one author should be distinguished as, e.g., 1987a and 1987b. Avoid the expressions op.cit. and loc.cit.. Full references should be given on a separate sheet alphabetically by author and chronologically for each author, using the style shown below, giving authors’ full names, publishers’ names for books, and page numbers for articles and book chapters. Blacking, John and Keali’inohomoku, Joann W., eds (1979) The performing arts: music and dance. The Hague: Mouton. Jairazbhoy, Nazir (1977) “The ‘objective’ and subjective view in music transcription.” Ethnomusicology 21.2:263–73. Keali’inohomoku, Joann W. (1979) “Culture change: functional and dysfunctional expressions of dance, a form of affective culture.” In J. Blacking and J.W. Keali’inohomoku (eds) The performing arts: music and dance, pp. 47–64. The Hague: Mouton .

Editorial policy The British Journal of Ethnomusicology is a refereed journal published annually by the British Forum for Ethnomusicology (BFE). Membership of BFE is open to all without restriction. Likewise, the Journal welcomes all scholarly contributions, regardless of the author’s country of origin or residence. Information for contributors will be found on the inside back cover. For details of past issues and other current information, see our World Wide Web home page: http://www.shef.ac.uk/uni/academic/I-M/mus/staff/js/bje.html. Membership subscriptions are by calendar year. Members will receive two issues of the Journal and two issues of the BFE Newsletter each year. Members may also receive special mailings relating to the Annual Conference and the Annual One-Day Conference, and new members will be sent a copy of the BFE Constitution. The Newsletter carries news of events and institutions, reports on conferences, information on members’ interests and activities, and shorter or less formal scholarly communications than those found in the Journal. To receive mailings on schedule, members must be paid up by the beginning of the calendar year. Subscription rates for 2000 are as follows: Individual (UK): Individual (overseas): Institutional: Unwaged (UK resident only):

£19 per annum £23 (extra £6 for airmail postage, optional) £40 (extra £6 for airmail postage, optional) £12 (extra £6 for airmail postage, optional)

Overseas subscriptions: payment must be in UK pounds, in one of the following forms: (1) Cheque drawn on a UK bank (2) Eurocheque (3) American Express Sterling Money Order. We regret that other forms of payment cannot currently be accepted. All payments should be made payable to “BFE”, and should be sent to BFE (Subscriptions), Faculty of Arts, Open University, Milton Keynes, MK7 6AA, England. Those wishing to pay by Standing Order (UK banks only) may obtain forms from this address. Back numbers of the Journal are available at the following prices: £15 for individual purchasers; £25 for institutions, plus postage: approximately: UK £1.00; overseas surface £2.00; airmail £4.50. Payment for back numbers may be made by Visa, Mastercard or American Express. Order from: Rosemary Dooley, Crag House, Witherslack, Grangeover-Sands, Cumbria, LA11 6RW, England; tel: +44 (0)15395 52286 fax: +44 (0)15395 52013; e-mail: [email protected]; URL: http://www.rdooley.demon.co.uk. For back numbers of the BFE/ICTM (UK) Newsletter enquire to BFE, c/o Department of Music, SOAS, Thornhaugh St, London WC1H 0XG, England. tel: +44 (0)171 637 6182 (e-mail [email protected] ). Reviews correspondence should be sent to Dr Carole Pegg, BJE Reviews Editor, 59 Mawson Road, Cambridge CB1 2DZ, England. All other correspondence concerning the Journal should be sent to the Editors, Dr Martin Clayton and Dr Suzel Ana Reily (for addresses see inside back cover).