Introduction

The nineteenth century saw a greater transformation in musical life than any period before or – setting aside recording and marketing – since. It links the still easily recognisable patterns of early twentieth-century public music-making with a now totally vanished world of privileged and predominantly localised activity: a world that could never have conceived of the breadth of musical activity to come, symbolised in the emergence of the public concert as the new focus of quality music-making, usurping the traditional role of court and church. This change came about through major shifts in social structure subsequent upon the economic changes wrought by industrialisation and commerce, and the political reform towards greater independence in many spheres – and associated in the arts with the Romantic movement. But though it is impossible to prioritise the influence of artistic creativity and that of the society of which it is a part in effecting change, it is the circumstances of musical life that are the more tangible in considering musical performance.

The century is naturally divided by the revolutionary events of 1848, anticipating the increasing economic expansion and stability after 1870 – an age of hitherto unknown levels of investment and economic growth and consequently of personal wealth and municipal expansion. It did not, however, announce the equality of opportunity for the common man of which social reformers had dreamt: that would have to wait for the development of a grass-roots socialist movement with political muscle taking real effect only after 1900. Rather, the ascendant political liberalism was embodied in the wider consolidation of a new affluent and aspirant middle class that increasingly took over the responsibility for cultural life from the nobility. The achievements of this class and the growing importance to them of music and the musical profession underpin the world of musical performance in the nineteenth century.

In the United States of America today, as in many other places, there is a tendency to locate racism primarily in the mind: one is racist only if one thinks racist thoughts. This means that because speech is thought to be the only clear proof of what someone is thinking, one can only be called a racist if one says something explicitly racist. The result is that the fight against racism has been largely reduced to the policing of racist language by the media. Meanwhile, less and less attention is given to addressing the question of whether the continuing massive differences in education, health, wealth, as well as educational and other opportunities – not just in the United States, but above all globally – are a perpetuation of past racisms in the present, a perpetuation which would call into question our commitment to the eradication of racism. We hear much less than we once did about institutional, structural, or systemic racism. For example, segregation in the schools, which was once unambiguously racist when sustained by laws, is tolerated when the segregation becomes merely de facto. Because the culture of the United States is dominated by individualism and legalism, the effects of past racisms that survive intact within the system are rendered virtually invisible because nobody is willing to own them or take responsibility for them: the problem is said to be non-imputable. This same culture appears to be spreading, so this is far from being a localized problem.

Nineteenth-century legacies

For the purpose of considering musical performance, at least, it is now useful to conceive of the ‘long’ twentieth century, since the cultural, technological and economic forces that shaped performance in that century have their roots in practices that arose in the latter part of the nineteenth century. This is particularly true of the impact of sound-recording technology, which so profoundly changed the nature of performance in nearly all genres and contexts throughout the twentieth century. Undoubtedly, for present purposes, Edison's invention of the phonograph in 1877 marks the beginning of the long twentieth century. It is still perhaps a little too early, and we are at this point too close to it, to be sure where it might be seen to end, although some speculation is offered below.

The impact of recording technology is thus a recurring theme in this chapter, but there are other overarching trends also worthy of note. Closely intertwined with the development of the new technology was the rise of those culture industries that sought to exploit it. Sound recording allowed musical performances to be commodified, and thus packaged, distributed and sold around the world in large quantities. Record companies soon realised there were substantial profits to be made if the right market could be found for the right artist. Successful sales ensured that both the companies themselves and a small number of high-profile performers became increasingly wealthy as the century progressed. But many performers benefited financially to some degree from the income generated by sales of recordings, particularly those in the West, where the larger and more successful record companies were usually based.

Throughout history the ability to perform has been transmitted in different ways that naturally reflect music's position within particular societies. Yet while the underlying educational issues have remained remarkably constant, as is illustrated throughout this book, musical training within each part of the world continues to inspire a wide variety of educational practice in a range of contexts. A comparison of the UK, America and Russia amply demonstrates the point, while the developing love affair between China and Western music bears witness to an ever-changing global landscape. Performance training occurs at various levels; witness the continuing popularity of the independent examination boards across the world, which cater to a vast amateur market while also identifying potential in the very young. In addition, as has recently been observed, musicians have a continuing didactic influence on others outside a conventional teaching environment. Contemporary examples might include competition adjudicators, orchestral players, studio engineers, writers of programme notes, critics or composers. One relatively recent phenomenon that forms part of the training of most young professionals is the music competition, ranging from local amateur events, including children, chamber groups and choirs to international, highly pressured events. The value of competitions is hotly debated, with some deploring the attempt to judge objectively between practitioners of an art that is, at least in some aspects, subjective. As one correspondent in 1885 put it, ‘it is degrading to any art to turn it into a means for commercial advancement’. A further issue is that instrumental competitions tend to encourage conservatism in repertoire choice. Educationally, their value is suspect; arguably the main use of such events is to give exposure to the competitors to further their professional chances.

To what extent does existentialism constitute itself as a literary rather than a primarily philosophical phenomenon? Or, to put a slightly different but related question: what form does existentialism take when it is viewed as literature rather than as philosophy? Such questions arise as a fairly direct consequence of the fact that a number of key existentialist works (or works that have generally been regarded as such) have indeed been works of literature – Jean-Paul Sartre's Nausea (La Nausée, 1938) and Albert Camus's The Outsider (L'Étranger, 1939) being two excellent examples – while some of the key figures within or close to the existentialist tradition have been literary rather than philosophical – arguably this is true of Camus, and certainly of Beckett. Rather than simply provide an exploration of existentialism in literature, or a survey of those literary works that figure within existentialism, this essay will also examine the idea of existentialism as literature, sketching a picture of existentialism as it emerges in literary rather than solely philosophical terms.

Although it is sometimes argued that existentialism stands in a special relationship to literature – that it is an especially “literary” mode of philosophizing – David E. Cooper argues that over-reliance on existentialist fiction has actually been a source of misconceptions about existentialism. Refusing to include Camus among the existentialists, or to allow that he might be a philosopher, Cooper claims that “existentialism … is not a mood or a vocabulary, but a relatively systematic philosophy.”

The seventeenth century was an age of transitions. Besides developments in the construction of musical instruments and new sacred and secular compositional genres, there was a transformation of musical notation and its metrical organisation, and a new consciousness of music both as a rhetorical/poetical discipline and as an important subject within the new scientific disciplines. There was also an increasing awareness of distinct national styles, drawn into sharp focus by the documented travels between countries by important composer-performers, and a transformation of social attitudes towards music.

Performance in the seventeenth century took place in three areas, broadly defined as church, court and ‘chamber’. At the beginning of the century, instrumental idioms were hardly distinct. The question of whether keyboard pieces by J. P. Sweelinck (1562–1621) were intended for performance on organ or harpsichord was relatively unimportant. Madrigals were ‘apt for viols and voices’, Johann Woltz's keyboard anthology (1617) contained pieces that were originally issued in part-books for ensembles, and as late as 1660 the Fugues et caprices … pour l'orgue by François Roberday (1624–95) were printed in open score so that parts could easily be extracted for viols. By the end of the century, though, instrumental idioms had become far more distinct. The largest repertoires belonged to those instruments capable of polyphonic music, keyboards and the lute family, but there were astonishing developments in ensemble music. This was partly due to the development of instruments as well as to the changing genres.

This chapter explores the issues laid out in Chapter 8 by inspecting a well-studied piece, Guillaume de Machaut's ballade 34, ‘Quant Theseus / Ne quier veoir’. The circumstances surrounding the creation of this ballade illustrate its remoteness from the bulk of music-making of the mid-fourteenth century. Still, something can and will be said about the performance of Machaut's ballade, inasmuch as it contrasts with the majority of music performed in the Middle Ages. It seems apposite to start outside ballade 34 by looking at the countless pieces of menial music performed around the time and near the place Machaut put together his learned musical composition. As outlined in Chapter 8, we begin with music made at work, from humble work songs to official ceremonial pieces, and then move to music whose primary purpose is to edify, from liturgical chants to songs performed at banquets. The point of my selecting this well-known ballade is to show how a piece such as this misrepresents the average medieval music performance. By holding Machaut's famous ballade under the light of the revised view of music history proposed in Chapter 8, we begin to see it as a paradox, an extraordinary written work far removed from the mainstream performance world of the mid-fourteenth century.

THREE QUESTIONS

Heidegger's “Letter on Humanism” was written in November 1946, first as a response to a letter by the French philosopher Jean Beaufret, who ever since late 1940 had worked tirelessly to introduce the French to Heidegger's thought. Already in the fall of 1945 Beaufret had Jean-Michel Palmier deliver to Heidegger a series of four articles he had written, “À propos de l'existentialisme,” accompanied by a letter. Heidegger appreciated the understanding of Being and Time they demonstrated. On September 12, 1946, Beaufret met Heidegger for the first time in his hut in Todtnauberg. Later, in November, he sent Heidegger another letter, asking him to clarify the relationship of his thought to Sartre's existentialism. In it he posed these questions: (1) “How can we restore meaning to the word ‘humanism’”? (GA9, p. 315/219); (2) How does ontology relate to ethics? (GA9, pp. 352–53/254–55); (3) “How can we preserve the element of adventure that all research contains without simply turning philosophy into an adventuress?” (GA9, p. 362/263). Heidegger's reply, dated November 23, was later reworked and published in 1947, together with “Plato's Doctrine of Truth,” significantly not in Germany, but in Switzerland, as part of a series edited by a former disciple, Ernesto Grassi. The shadow of his association with National Socialism lay heavy over Heidegger. This long, but quickly written essay is his first publication after the end of the Second World War.

THE SINGLE INDIVIDUAL

Kierkegaard once wrote that any historical importance attached to his writings would derive from his “category of the single individual.” Many will acknowledge the cultural debt to Kierkegaard in just those terms. Yet his category is a special one, and those apprised of its features may prefer to talk of Kierkegaard's example rather than his legacy. Others may even regret that Kierkegaard's category might seem to mark the road back toward Augustinian theology rather than onward, say, to Karl Barth and Paul Tillich. But the spaces among whose coordinates Kierkegaard's cultural position can be plotted are diverse. So much so that any account that draws on just one of them runs the risk not only of overhasty dismissal but of failure to penetrate the rich existential core of Kierkegaard's thinking, not least in its religious respect.

In claiming the category as “his,” Kierkegaard meant it was his own discovery. More than that, he had discovered it in a way other than that in which a zoologist might discover a new species, that is, by collecting and comparing evidence. Nor was it in the way that a mathematician or a philosopher might find a place for a new category in a deductive system. Kierkegaard's discovery was “his” in the special sense that it was the fruit of his own personal experience.

I will examine the history of musical performance by, in political terms, seeing how a cultural community is shaped by differing groups and forces. Performing involves interaction among people involved in organising, paying, listening and interpreting. Their relationships may vary at any time from close collaboration to intense conflict. Different kinds of communities interact in this political process, variously the performing institution, a court or a city, and the state or a region of states. Negotiation must go on among participants, according to organisational rules, musical practices and financial constraints. Tradition and change compete with each other under pressure from social movements and individual opportunism. While these factors are usually just taken for granted, crises often make them articulated in print.

An efficient way to enquire into these social and political processes is to examine dualities which have recurred in Western musical life since the late Middle Ages. Involving collaboration and conflict to varying extents, the dualities within performing relationships can help us go beyond the banal phrase ‘Music and Society’ by identifying the dynamics aspects of musical culture. The first section of this chapter briefly examines musical dualities under three headings – Location, Production and Taste. The second section discusses how the dualities generally played out during four periods of music history since around 1450. Scholars typically agree that a public musical world emerged by around 1450 in Western and Central Europe, and we can see lines of continuity from that time to the present. It is indeed enlightening to see how the origins of modern practices can reach back so far.

PSYCHIATRY AND EXISTENTIAL PHENOMENOLOGY

The aim of this chapter is to show how the insights of existential phenomenologists can help us to understand changes in the structure of experience that occur in psychiatric illness. We employ the term “existential phenomenology” to refer to a broad philosophical approach shared by various philosophers, including Jean-Paul Sartre, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, and Martin Heidegger. It is more specific than “existentialism,” as one could be an existentialist without being a phenomenologist. It is also more specific than “phenomenology” and is often contrasted with the “transcendental phenomenology” of Edmund Husserl. However, it would be misleading to suggest that only existential, as opposed to transcendental, phenomenology makes a contribution here. Husserl's later phenomenology has also informed the interpretation of psychiatric illness and is often appealed to alongside largely complementary insights drawn from the works of Heidegger and others. For current purposes though, we will be focusing upon philosophers such as Heidegger, Merleau-Ponty, and especially Sartre, who are generally recognized as “existential” philosophers.

Existential phenomenology encompasses a range of interrelated themes. A central concern of the current chapter, one that features in the work of Heidegger, Sartre and others, is the manner in which we find ourselves situated in a world that matters to us in a range of ways, a world where things show up to us as valuable, functional, interesting, enticing, threatening, and so on. Inextricable from this is an emphasis upon how experience is structured by a sense of our possibilities.

Introduction

Do not force the high notes. Sing sweetly, elegantly, and with fluidity – neither harshly nor nasally. Be rhythmically flexible where appropriate. Tune chords from the lowest voice upwards. Avoid singing wrong notes, respect natural word stress, and make the text clearly audible. Ensure that the members of an ensemble can see each other, and encourage them to follow the hand gestures of their musical director.

The interpretation of medieval Latin treatises is fraught with difficulty, but above is a distillation of some of the clearer instructions contained within surviving sources relating to the vocal performance of the music of the European Middle Ages. The term ‘Middle’ Ages is a loaded one: in popular parlance it can imply a low ebb in European civilisation between the sophistication of Classical Antiquity and the enlightenment of the modern era. Indeed the first two-thirds of the Middle Ages used to be labelled the Dark Ages – nowadays more positively designated Late Antiquity. It was only with the emergence of the Gothic style and the creation of universities that Europe was deemed (in nineteenth-century terms) to have rehoisted itself out of the cultural primeval soup: ‘in the time when the wisdom of the ancient times was dead and had passed away, and our own days of light had not yet come, there lay a great black gulf in human history, a gulf of ignorance, of superstition, of cruelty, and of wickedness’. Yet these erstwhile Dark Ages witnessed – alongside many other great achievements – the composition and codification of a great body of monophonic sacred music (plainchant) and the cultivation of the earliest polyphony (organum).

One of the central themes in existential philosophy is the problem of meaning, a problem that follows upon the modern scientific objectification of nature. Modern science gave priority to mathematics in a mechanical model of motion and causality; accordingly, values and purposes were no longer seen to be intrinsic to nature (as they had been in ancient and medieval thought). If values and purposes were not “objective” and were nevertheless still to find a place in philosophy, they could only be thought in terms of the human “subject.” Yet such a divide created a kind of chasm between the meaningfulness of life and life's natural environment, a chasm that has endured in philosophy ever since. Because human beings exist in nature – which lacks intrinsic meaning – what possible status can be given to meaning-claims about values and purposes? One of the marks of existential philosophy – at least in representative thinkers such as Kierkegaard and Sartre – has been to reverse the priority of scientific, rational objectivity and give precedence to human subjectivity in questions of meaning. In other words, Kierkegaard and Sartre accept the idea of objective being and rational “essences” (as universals that define existing particulars), but they refuse to privilege such notions when it comes to meaning formation, since these notions foster either a nihilistic denial of meaning or an attempt (as in Kant and Hegel) to reconfigure meaning in purely rational terms.

The background to literary publishing

What is the trade?

The world of contemporary literary publishing is astonishingly diverse, complex and entering a period of substantial, indeed pivotal, change. Before we look at some of the key features of this evolving industry, it might be useful to set out some terms of reference. Literary publishing is not a monolithic, clearly identifiable strand of the publishing world; it is fragmented, with widely varying economies of scale and trajectory, both in business terms and in terms of the wider culture industry. One way we could assess this landscape is through the prism of trade publishing – that is publishing which sells through distributors to wholesalers and retailers and on to consumers through bricks-and-mortar shops and, increasingly, through online retailers and supermarkets. Another may be direct sales, bypassing shops and much of the supply chain to deal directly with consumers, with readers. Another may be the powerful effects of the World Wide Web and where, when and how we now read in a networked society that transgresses national boundaries.

The book trade has traditionally united several discrete industries: printing, publishing, logistics and bookselling. However, as we'll examine in this chapter, the entire nature of the book trade is under considerable pressure and those traditional relationships are in flux. Logistics may look odd in that list above and yet this component of the trade, in many respects, has come to influence and drive all other players in the field.

This is not an essay for readers, but rather a lesson for writers. I want to speak to the artist first and the reader second by having us write a short short story as an exercise in examining the way writing can lead the discovery process. Our model is not going to be: knowing the story first and then writing it, but rather: writing to find the story. Along the way, we will write four additional brief practice exercises which illuminate various elements of a story. I know this is a brisk introduction, but we can talk later. Let's get started.

Get into the room alone and open a blank page.

Do it now.

Rather than studying the big book of swimming, we will swim.

Here is the exercise: The Flat Tyre.