The poet John Dryden, writing near the end of the seventeenth century, criticized Shakespeare for failing to respect the unity of character in his tragedies: 'The last property of manners is, that they be constant, and equall, that is, maintain'd the same through the whole design: thus when Virgil had once given the name of Pious to Aeneas, he was bound to show him such, in all his words and actions through the whole Poem.' According to Dryden, the playwright is bound by the canons of realism – rules that characters as represented in literary works ought to manifest a high degree of psychological and behavioural consistency. Thus for Aeneas to be himself – to have the identity of Aeneas – he should be pious in mind as in deed. For Dryden, this artistic requirement is grounded in a conviction that real human beings are psychologically consistent and, as such, the autonomous source of their meanings. Self-sameness in a person's behaviours flows from an invisible self-identity. This inner identity is the product of a disembodied consciousness that sees the world as the objectified instrument of its own willed designs. The ‘I’ with which an individual represents him- or herself to the world is fully present to itself and thus can be held accountable for its words and deeds.

Throughout the twentieth century critical and popular opinion regarded Shakespeare's tragedies as his highest achievement; there is no sign that their pre-eminence will be modified in the twenty-first. In a largely secular world they have been invested with the status of secular scripture, often treated with reverence as spiritual masterpieces of transcendent literary art rather than as great plays written about four hundred years ago. The texts have sometimes appeared like sacred objects, especially in collected editions. Certainly the discussion of individual plays (sympathetic or hostile) has often been conducted as if the text of each were definitively established, canonically determined, and available for exegesis.

However, such is not the case. The notion of a single authentic text belongsto the tradition of reading plays rather than that of performing them in theplayhouse, where performance admits variation. The texts of Shakespeare’stragedies, as of all of his plays, are unstable. The modern editions that westudy are derived from documents of doubtful origin and imperfect executionabout which there is less external evidence than we desire. Those earlydocuments are constantly re-edited in the light of new knowledge, new theoreticalconcerns, and new hypotheses.

In one sense, Shakespeare wrote tragedies throughout his career. To be sure, among the plays classified as tragedies in the great Folio edition of 1623, only Titus Andronicus (c. 1589-92) and Romeo and Juliet (1594-6) were written before 1599. Yet Shakespeare certainly pursued tragic themes and consequences in his early historical plays. The title page of The First Part of the Contention betwixt the Two Famous Houses of York and Lancaster, published in 1594 as a somewhat shortened version of what was to appear in the 1623 Folio as The Second Part of Henry the Sixth, announces among its subjects 'the death of the good Duke Humphrey', the 'banishment and death of the Duke of Suffolk', and 'the tragical end of the proud Cardinal of Winchester'. The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York, and the Death of Good King Henry the Sixth, published in 1595 as a version of what was to appear in the 1623 Folio as The Third Part of Henry the Sixth, describes itself as a tragedy in that quarto title. So does The Tragedy of Richard III,registered and published in 1597 after having been written in about 1592–4.The Life and Death of King John (written in about 1594–6 and first publishedin the 1623 Folio) and The Tragedy of Richard the Second (registered andpublished in 1597) are similarly characterized as tragedies on their title pages,at least (in the case of King John) by the implications of tragedy in the King’s‘death’.

Speaking to himself – and heard by an offstage audience – Hamlet decides to have the visiting troupe of actors 'play something like the murder of my father': 'the play's the thing', he concludes, 'Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king'. Hamlet imagines theatrical enactment as a persuasive intervention which will provoke his uncle to reveal his guilt. Implicitly, he also affirms that his words – and those of the already 'extant' play in the troupe's repertoire – will tell only part of the story and that the acted and felt play will be the 'real' thing. Real, and also material, for performance not only reimagines 'the play' but invites us to think concretely about how words – and silences – do theatrical work. How do particular actors' bodies, their physical and gestural languages, make meanings; how do theatrical set design, lighting, and costume discipline and enhance those bodies? How do particular spaces and stage images arrest attention, remain etched in memory? Tracing a range of performances of a play such as Antony and Cleopatra – once considered by literary critics to be, like King Lear, unperformable – opens a window on to a flexible, shape-shifting theatrical literacy and legacy, revealing how changes in theatrical spaces and fashions, in critical and cultural histories, have shaped and reshaped both the imaginative and material contours of Cleopatra’s ‘infinite variety’ as well as those of the play.

Since jazz emerged from its geographical origins it has travelled back and forth across the disputed terrain between high and low culture, variously located as folk, popular, art music and permutations. Its shifting position makes it a particularly instructive vehicle through which to study the matrix of cultural politics, the balances of power that determine which cultural forms carry authority. The migrations of jazz within musical politics and aesthetics depend upon negotiations between text (the particular jazz performance) and context (the physical and cultural space within which it is situated). The Eurocentric arbitration of musical value by the end of the nineteenth century was predicated on the stability of the musical text and of its relationship with context. Jazz appeared to demolish this model. As aurally based improvisation, in performance the ‘text’ evaded fixity, and the sites and conditions of performance blurred the distinction between art and social practice, music and noise. Even preserved on a sound recording, its formal components were scarcely intelligible in established musical terms such as background–foreground, melody–harmony and structural coherence. Jazz was a site of unruliness.

Jazz categorisations

The rapid international diaspora of jazz (see Chapter 2) meant that it could not be ignored; jazz was arguably the most pervasively influential development in twentieth-century music. Apart from the particular musical forms and practices in which it has been seminal, it was the most widespread musical vehicle of the progressive thrust into the experience of modernity in the early twentieth century, in such matters as gender, mass mediations and technological innovation.

An eminent Shakespearean scholar famously remarked that there is no such thing as Shakespearean Tragedy: there are only Shakespearean tragedies. Attempts (he added) to find a formula which fits every one of Shakespeare's tragedies and distinguishes them collectively from those of other dramatists invariably meet with little success. Yet when challenging one such attempt he noted its failure to observe what he termed 'an essential part of the [Shakespearean] tragic pattern'; which would seem to imply that these plays do have some shared characteristics peculiar to them.

Nevertheless, objections to comprehensive definitions of ‘Shakespearean Tragedy’ are well founded. Such definitions tend to ignore the uniqueness of each play and the way it has been structured and styled to fit the particular source-narrative. More generally, they can obscure the fact that what distinguishes Shakespeare’s tragedies from everyone else’s and prompts us to consider them together are not so much common denominators but rather the power of Shakespeare’s language, his insight into character, and his dramaturgical inventiveness.

‘Free Jazz’ refers to a historical movement that, despite earlier precedents, first significantly flowered in the late 1950s in the US. Its central focus was a liberation from musical conventions – but from a jazz player's perspective, since no liberation is ever complete. Initially known simply as the New Thing, it became Free Jazz after borrowing the title of a seminal 1960 album by saxophonist/composer Ornette Coleman. It subsequently has had international repercussions that seem set to continue well into the twenty-first century.

Its impact and relations to other developments remain controversial, and a variety of accounts of it are possible: as a culmination of the drive for individual creativity, a radicalisation of the scope of musical materials of jazz, a collection of statements by salient individuals and groups, or as a movement shaped by extramusical forces of political, cultural, racial and spiritual liberation – to mention only the most obvious. Here these are all taken as valid viewpoints, in need of reconciliation.

The seminal role of creative improvisation

The nucleus of all jazz is creative improvisational expression (Louis Armstrong's ‘the sound of surprise’), a process that brings into the music the joy of discovery, the magic of communication, and the uniqueness of both the moment and the individual. Yet it also introduces several profound tensions which early on planted the seeds for the ultimate blossoming of free jazz.

While it remains a fascination that one of the first recordings of African-American music was made in Sweden in 1899 – ‘Cake Walk’ (a version of ‘At A Georgia Camp Meeting’ by Kerry Mills), by the Kronoberg Society Regimental Band conducted by Erik Högberg – the first jazz recording is usually cited as ‘Darktown Strutters Ball’ by the Original Dixieland Jazz Band from January 1917. Prior to that we can only guess what the music might have sounded like as a deliquescent folk music in the rural southern states of America. But we do know that early jazz drew together several strands of vernacular music, including Negro spirituals, work and folk songs, ragtime, minstrel music, brass-band music and blues, that were freely mixed with elements from hymns, popular songs and popular classics of the day.

From the start, jazz was a pluralistic music. One of its great early practitioners, Jelly Roll Morton, argued that the music should always include a ‘Spanish tinge’ while the unambiguous habañera section in St Louis Blues, published by W. C. Handy in 1914, is revealing of jazz's practice of appropriation; an important, if often neglected, feature of a music that already comprised a diversity of elements drawn from a variety of sources both from within and without the African-American diaspora.

Once the Dixieland revival found an audience in the 1940s, the monolithic façade of swing began to splinter into the interest groups that have populated the subsequent history of jazz: bop, cool, third stream, free jazz, fusion, neo-traditionalist. Jazz as music is inseparable from the African-American experience, and Duke Ellington rightly insisted that ‘the Negro is the creative voice of America, is creative America’ (Tucker 1993, 147). The question of the jazz audience, on the other hand, encompasses amore indeterminate populace. One could approach the topic of audience by offering a demographic profile of various constituencies of fans, but this would lend tacit assent to consumerism as validating criterion. There was an audience for jazz before there were consumers, in part because ‘the Jazz Age was born … almost before there was jazz’ (Schiff 1997, 87). ‘Jazz’ was initially so mercurial a term that it was applied to music intermittently: the audience responded to a social spectrum in which music was only a part. None the less, historians have gravitated to the narrative magnetism of giants shaping the music to their personal visions, and 1923 is often cited as an inaugural moment because it marks the first recordings of Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton, Sidney Bechet and Bessie Smith. Gunther Schuller even refers to a ‘pre-1923 era’ (1968, 71). But if we de-prioritise recordings, a significant fact appears: jazz had already had a worldwide impact before 1923.

Shakespeare's tragedies are usually remembered for the central characters for whom they are named. However, the fact that all of their heroes are what in the period were termed 'princes', occupying the power centres of their realms, means that these narratives of usurpation and death are also anatomies of political crises. In setting out contexts for his tales of woe or wonder Shakespeare reveals himself to have been as curious about the make-up of courts and kingdoms as he was about the psychology of individuals. The sufferings of great men and women in Shakespearean tragedy derive from conflicts, the analysis of which inevitably entails a consideration of 'the properties of government' – its characteristics and its proprieties. In 1589, at about the time Shakespeare was beginning to write, George Puttenham observed that ‘poets . . . were the first lawmakers to the people, and the first politicians, devising all expedient means for th’establishment of commonwealth’. Although in his tragedies Shakespeare may concentrate far more on rulers than on the ruled, ‘commonwealth’ interests are inevitably invoked by the fact that any act on the part of a king is de facto what, in Hamlet, Claudius terms ‘sovereign process’ (4.3.65).

Currently one of the least fashionable ways of looking at jazz is from the perspective of ‘classical’ music – a label still used in record shops, and still understood instinctively by almost everybody, in spite of its avoidance by commentators who have yet to find an acceptable substitute. (Of the alternative terms, ‘art music’ is just as politically incorrect as ‘classical’, while ‘concert music’ can be applied to almost everything; in America, classical music is deemed to be ‘European’ in a simplistic antithesis to African-American traditions.) The once common notion that jazz might be thought of as ‘America's classical music’ has long been discredited. Yet no amount of quibbling about labels will make the parallels between the classical and jazz worlds go away; and those who insist on the uniqueness of jazz and its incompatability with essential characteristics of classical music cut themselves off from the richness of allusion and crossover at the heart of all the best western music of the twentieth century. It was perhaps because of this limited outlook that Duke Ellington, on his own admission, stopped using the word ‘jazz’ in 1943 (ibid., 452).

There are many tantalising tales of early jazz and its origins that conjure up both romantic and tragic images of an evolving musical tradition. These tales become a bit hazy as they are passed down, and the truth often obscured. Because jazz has frequently been accorded great reverence by its loyal fans, the tales of its heroes and their exploits have grown in great proportion, often leading to misunderstandings. It is only recently through accurate and patient research that we have come to some less colourful but more informative conclusions about the origins of this music. Likewise, viewing a faded old photograph may cause us to wax nostalgic about the persons staring at us across a century or more. If we could find a pristine negative of the photo and could make a new print of it, we would have a truer representation of that moment in time. There would be greater detail and clarity. However, with the sharper, truer image, we would miss some of that faded quality from which mystique and legend emerge.

One of the great legends of the pre-history of jazz was an African-American cornettist from New Orleans named Buddy Bolden (1877–1931). To many he is considered to be the first of all jazz musicians. Stories of his powerful cornet are among the earliest and most prominent in jazz. Legend tells us that Bolden played loud and low down, drank heavily, ran with fast women. His music was exciting and intoxicating.