To save content items to your account,
please confirm that you agree to abide by our usage policies.
If this is the first time you use this feature, you will be asked to authorise Cambridge Core to connect with your account.
Find out more about saving content to .
To save content items to your Kindle, first ensure no-reply@cambridge.org
is added to your Approved Personal Document E-mail List under your Personal Document Settings
on the Manage Your Content and Devices page of your Amazon account. Then enter the ‘name’ part
of your Kindle email address below.
Find out more about saving to your Kindle.
Note you can select to save to either the @free.kindle.com or @kindle.com variations.
‘@free.kindle.com’ emails are free but can only be saved to your device when it is connected to wi-fi.
‘@kindle.com’ emails can be delivered even when you are not connected to wi-fi, but note that service fees apply.
I’m sat at my office desk writing this review when I receive a notification on my phone. An alert of this kind would usually be unworthy of comment. Yet, this notification informs me of a recent BBC News article on sperm whale vocalization. Intrigued, I read the story, which explains how a team of Cetacean Translation Initiative (Ceti) researchers, led by PhD student Pratyusha Sharma at MIT, are using AI technology to analyse large bioacoustics datasets of sperm whale clicks. Their analysis shows that the combining of clicks in sperm whale communication appears to parallel the grouping of phonemes to create words in human languages. What the whales’ different rhythmic sequences of clicks — called ‘codas’ — mean, however, is still unknown. Scientists have, so far, only caught a glimpse of the lives of sperm whales, and so it is impossible to know at this stage what information is carried by particular combinations of codas.1
In the early 2000s, a video of Nina Simone's 1960 performance of “Love Me Or Leave Me” on The Ed Sullivan Show resurfaced online. The song's original piano solo, rife with references to the keyboard music of Johann Sebastian Bach, clearly displays Simone's training as a classical pianist. Several inaccurate claims on the solo circulate in scholarship, magazines, and social media—some describe the solo as a fugue; others incorrectly attribute it to Bach himself. This article unpacks the racial and gendered implications of the Ed Sullivan clip's reception. The misreadings of Simone's performance, I argue, are rooted in a possessive investment in whiteness and classical music. By exaggerating Bach's influence on Simone, various media erase her musical agency to advance a romanticized view of classical music as a universal art form. These narratives obscure the way her stylistic heterogeneity emerged as a response to the racial and gendered structures that shaped her performing career. Through an analysis of Simone's four renditions of “Love Me Or Leave Me,” I demonstrate how she strategically inserts textural, melodic, and harmonic allusions to Bachian counterpoint within the structure of the song. Her performances therefore showcase a form of stylistic hybridity in which she draws on her classical piano training to synthesize the conventions of fugue and popular song. By challenging narratives that incorrectly label Simone's solos as quotations or imitations rather than original compositions, I draw attention to the inner workings of her stylistic heterogeneity at the piano.
How do the tools of musical composition shape the cognitive processes of composition in absentia? In exploring the role of these absent tools, can progress be made towards an extended understanding of imagination and memory? This article posits the conceptual framework of ‘Integrated Tool Competency’ as a way of reconciling the powerful insights of externalist accounts of cognition with the fact that so much of the process of musical composition can take place without directly interacting with compositional tools. Effectively, this concept extends the integration of tools into a composer’s cognition beyond the moment of their use, including both unconscious competencies such as audiation and conscious actions such as imagining using a certain tool. This article proposes the concept of Integrated Tool Competency and discusses its potential ramifications for understanding the tools of composition.
Letters can tell us a great deal about a person both between and in the lines, and it would have been invaluable to be able to quote from Moerane's own personal correspondence throughout this book. One must be grateful, however, that in the archives of the few figures to whom he wrote, or who wrote about him, there remain a handful of professional letters. These are reproduced here so that Moerane's ‘voice’ has a presence in this book. Aside from the letters by Huskisson, Hartmann and Kirby to, from or about Moerane, there are three letters in the WEB Du Bois Papers about Moerane, which are quoted from in Chapter 5 but are not included here because none of them is from or to Moerane himself. The letters presented here involve only eight people aside from Moerane: Dean Dixon, Anton Hartman, Friedrich Hartmann, Yvonne Huskisson, Percival Kirby, Mrs RW Levine and Marie Slocombe. They cover only the years 1958 to 1973. There are replies without the letters they reply to, long periods between letters, and one or two very brief exchanges. They are presented here in chronological order with explanatory footnotes, and exactly as found in the archives.
Letter 1: Friedrich Hartmann (University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg) to Percival Kirby (4, Constitution Street, West Hill, Grahamstown), 11 March 1958
CONFIDENTIAL
Dear Percival,
Thank you very much for your letter of the 4th March. Regarding Moerane, I can give you the following information: He has taken the first three years of the B.Mus. course at the University of South Africa, studying by himself without tuition. He completed also the fourth year subjects, again studying by himself, except the subject composition. This latter he could not manage without guidance because, among others, also a full orchestral score had to be submitted by him according to the regulations. Dr. Kerr informed me at that time that Moerane had asked various university music departments in the country to help him in this respect but, again according to Dr. Kerr, such assistance was not given to him. Dr. Kerr asked me whether I would be prepared to help Moerane. On the strength of Dr. Kerr's report and recommendation I undertook to do so.
Despite the density of scholarly engagement with Mozart’s operas, Donna Elvira’s aria ‘Mi tradì quell’alma ingrata’, composed for the 1788 Viennese production of Don Giovanni, has received little sustained, critical attention. Yet this oversight is unjustified, particularly considering the aria’s many stylistic elements that expand beyond the musical language of the original Prague Don Giovanni, and which therefore show Mozart not only deepening Elvira’s characterization but probing new compositional horizons. This article undertakes a thorough, analytic examination of ‘Mi tradì’, focusing especially on its evocation of Elvira’s subjectivity and self-consciousness, and paying particular attention to formal rhetoric and topical reference, both of which, by suggesting affinities with genres such as variation and the free fantasia, move the aria significantly beyond the expressive world often associated with Mozart’s vocal writing. The article closes with brief speculations on the relationship between ‘Mi tradì’ and the composer’s career aspirations in the late 1780s.
Moerane was born into a family of teachers who ‘irradiated’ education throughout southern Africa ‘and beyond’:
In South Africa the most outstanding schools are Lovedale, Healdtown, St Matthews, St Peters-Rosenttenville, St Johns [Umtata], Kroonstad High, Tiisetang [Bethlehem], Adams College, Ohlange Institute, Inanda Seminary, Tseki High, Bonamelo College of Education, Phiritona, Lora, Peka High, Basutoland High, and at all these at some point a Moerane has taught.
The enormous pride expressed here is fully justified. Yet teachers at these few elite schools for African scholars worked against all odds. Moerane spent most of his teaching life in the Cape Colony working in the environment of mission education during the poverty-gripped colonial late-1920s and throughout the 1930s; then in a climate of increasing state repression in black schools during the 1940s and 1950s, as apartheid took control of every aspect of life. Even in his final years in Lesotho, he operated in a country rife with political interference and economic impoverishment. Not only that, but by the time he was fully educated and musically trained, and had produced an orchestral work that belongs firmly within the orchestral culture of the Western metropolis, Moerane was obliged to teach only in rural schools, which were largely without resources, and without a formal music curriculum. This while negotiating a national educational ideology that separated schooling from urban life and dictated that students aspire to be little more than agricultural or industrial labourers. That he not only survived these odds, but did such a huge amount of good as a teacher is clear from the evidence presented in this book. But first we must ask: how did the odds become so stacked against such an achievement?
In the landmark 1984 publication, Apartheid and Education: The Education of Black South Africans, one author after another documents policies that had remained unchanged for a hundred years prior to that, and were, in the 1980s, still excluding the black majority from any aspirations.
Michael Mosoeu Moerane is one of South Africa's foremost mid-twentieth century composers, and was the first black South African to get a BMus degree. His extraordinary legacy has been overlooked because so little of it is known; and because the times in which he lived did not allow a black composer to gain any prominence.
In this work, which represents over a decade of detective work, trawling through archives and tracking down family members and former students, I attempt to recreate, from oral sources and fragments of archival material, a fitting portrait of one of our most compelling cultural figures. In narrating Moerane's musical life, we cover the political and social history of southern Africa during some of its most turbulent decades, presided over by the ideologies of imperialism and grand apartheid. In so doing, new light is shed on Moerane's contribution to this region's music history, and on our understanding of that history within a global context.
This introduction begins with a brief overview of Moerane's life in order to establish a few facts, with pointers to later chapters where fuller explanations are given. A survey of previous writing on Moerane follows – a ‘literature review’ – that reveals ways in which his life in twentieth-century colonial and apartheid South Africa and colonial and postcolonial Lesotho has been represented. In today's climate of redress for previously neglected composers, one does not always learn how marginalisation or erasure of a composer's life and music happens or how ‘race’ impinges on this.
Moerane's early life
Michael Mosoeu Moerane was born on 20 September 1904, the second son of Eleazar Jakane Moerane and his wife, Sofia Majara. His birthplace was Mangoloaneng, a village in the Mount Fletcher district of the Eastern Cape located in the larger region of what was then the British Cape Colony, a region known as East Griqualand or Transkei (see the map at the beginning of this book).
Mangoloaneng was established as a ‘French mission outstation’, where Moerane's father, Eleazar, who was descended from a long line of Basotho chiefs, acted both as an emissary for the Basotho royal family and an evangelist for the Paris Evangelical Missionary Society. Eleazar Jakane and his family established a homestead that grew into one of great self-sufficiency.
Sergei Rachmaninoff is widely regarded as one of the great pianists of the twentieth century. In a research project that has stretched over two decades, I have compiled data on Rachmaninoff’s performance career, comprising research in archives as well as published sources in Russian and English languages. The resulting Rachmaninoff Performance Diary has been publicly available online since 2011. A missing link in the data has been the complete programmatic details of over 1,080 solo recitals. In 2006, I discovered research that was apparently unrecognized in its completeness in an archive of the Library of Congress, undertaken and donated by Rachmaninoff’s sister-in-law, Dr Sophia Satina. In this article, I examine the details of the 1924/25 season, which was a critical time for Rachmaninoff: after the collapse of his personal fortune caused by the Russian Revolution, he at last had achieved sufficient success and financial security from his hectic touring to allow him to return to composition the following year, his ‘sabbatical’ break of 1926. From the data, a clearer picture emerges of how Rachmaninoff varied his repertoire in his many concert appearances and recording sessions, showing how frequency of performance and, in instances, apparent self-assessment of his own music, were key factors.
A recurrent trope in the reception of Joseph Joachim's performances is the notion that that he magically transformed himself into the composer of the work. In particular, his performances of violin concertos frequently evoked this perception, as documented by Andreas Moser, Otto Gumbrecht, Hans von Bülow, and Johannes Brahms. Building on work by Katharina Uhde and Karen Leistra-Jones, this article will propose that Joachim's cadenzas played a central role in fostering the perceived slippage between the composer and performer. Joachim composed – and performed – cadenzas for many of the concertos in his core repertoire, including works by Giuseppe Tartini, W. A. Mozart, Giovanni Battista Viotti, Ludwig van Beethoven, and Brahms. I will argue that Joachim's cadenzas enact a compositional approach to the thematic material. The depth of this engagement is profound, encompassing not only the soloistic passages but also the ritornello sections as material for developmental reworking and modulatory processes. In fact, he often explores harmonic avenues that are only hinted at in the ‘parent’ concerto, highlighting and fulfilling moments of unrealized potential. Joachim's cadenzas thus create the impression that the composer of the concerto is revising and expanding his own work. I propose that he inhabits the genre of the cadenza as a site of compositional and performative virtuosity, fusing the two personas at a time when they were becoming increasingly polarized in European musical culture.