Colonial Counterpoint: Music in Early Modern Manila (Currents in Latin Amer & Iberian Music) 0195378261, 9780195378269

In this groundbreaking study, D. R. M. Irving reconnects the Philippines to current musicological discourse on the early

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Table of contents :
Contents......Page 12
Introduction......Page 16
Part I: Contrapuntal Cultures......Page 32
1. Colonial Capital, Global City......Page 34
2. Musical Transactions and Intercultural Exchange......Page 60
Part II: Enharmonic Engagement......Page 86
3. Mapping Musical Cultures......Page 88
4. The Hispanization of Filipino Music......Page 114
5. Courtship and Syncretism in Colonial Genres......Page 150
Part III: Strict Counterpoint......Page 170
6. Cathedrals, Convents, Churches, and Chapels......Page 172
7. Regulations, Reforms, and Controversies......Page 210
8. Fiesta filipina: Celebrations in Manila......Page 230
Conclusion: Contrapuntal Colonialism......Page 246
Notes......Page 254
Bibliography......Page 352
A......Page 384
B......Page 385
C......Page 387
D......Page 390
F......Page 391
G......Page 392
H......Page 393
I......Page 394
L......Page 395
M......Page 396
N......Page 399
P......Page 400
R......Page 402
S......Page 403
T......Page 406
U......Page 407
W......Page 408
Z......Page 409
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Colonial Counterpoint

Walter Clark, Series Editor Nor-tec Rifa! Electronic Dance Music from Tijuana to the World Alejandro L. Madrid From Serra to Sancho: Music and Pageantry in the California Missions Craig H. Russell Colonial Counterpoint: Music in Early Modern Manila D. R. M. Irving

Colonial Counterpoint Music in Early Modern Manila

D . R . M . IRVING

3 2010

3 Oxford University Press, Inc., publishes works that further Oxford University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education. Oxford New York Auckland Cape Town Dar es Salaam Hong Kong Karachi Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Nairobi New Delhi Shanghai Taipei Toronto With offices in Argentina Austria Brazil Chile Czech Republic France Greece Guatemala Hungary Italy Japan Poland Portugal Singapore South Korea Switzerland Thailand Turkey Ukraine Vietnam

Copyright © 2010 by Oxford University Press, Inc. Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016 www.oup.com Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Irving, D. R. M., 1981– Colonial counterpoint: music in early modern Manila / D. R. M. Irving. p. cm.—(Currents in Latin American and Iberian music) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-19-537826-9 1. Music—Philippines—History and criticism. 2. Music— Philippines—Spanish influences. I. Title. ML345.P528I78 2010 780.9599’16—dc22 2009030288 Publication of this book was supported by the AMS 75 PAYS Publication Endowment Fund of the American Musicological Society.

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

To all my family and friends, far and near

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Acknowledgments

The great music theorist Johann Joseph Fux observed in his famous treatise on counterpoint Gradus ad Parnassum (1725) that novices in any craft are obliged to serve apprenticeships of at least three years. I am most fortunate to have served my own academic apprenticeship with Tess Knighton, doyenne of Spanish Renaissance music studies, who supervised my doctoral research at Cambridge and introduced me to many important areas of scholarship. From the very outset she showed real belief in my work, pointed me toward new and significant fields of inquiry, and gave me an enormous amount of all-round support and encouragement. Another person to whom I am very grateful is the charismatic and inimitable Alain Pacquier—polymath and founder of the philanthropic organization Les Chemins du Baroque. His promotion and patronage of Latin American Baroque music were among the initial prompts that made me look at the Philippines as an important but understudied part of the history of music in the Iberian world. I would also like to thank William John Summers, whose research into music of the colonial Philippines has been an inspiration to me. My very first musicological contact in Manila was Corazon CanaveDioquino at the University of the Philippines Diliman, who kindly responded to my embryonic research questions with patience and encouragement. Also at U.P. Diliman, Patricia Brillantes-Silvestre, Jose Semblante Buenconsejo, Elena Rivera Mirano, Ramón Pangayon Santos, Jonas Baes, Verne dela Peña, and my many friends in the graduate community have provided ideas and inspiration. I am particularly grateful to Jose Buenconsejo for his many helpful suggestions, comments, and his eponymous buen consejo on my research over the years. In November 2003, I was privileged to have two conversations with the great José Montserrat Maceda (1917–2004), one of the leading lights and pioneers

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of ethnomusicology in the Philippines, who offered me some fascinating perspectives on his ideas about Asian musics. At Manila’s University of Santo Tomás María Alexandra Iñigo Chua, JulieAnn Hallazgo, Regalado Trota Jose, Erlí Mendoza, María Eloisa P. de Castro, Cynthia Rivera, Manuel P. Maramba, OSB, Fidel Villarroel, OP, and Ángel Aparicio, OP, welcomed me as a visiting researcher on many occasions, and gave me assistance and guidance in the university’s archives. Melissa Mantaring at the Cultural Center of the Philippines inspired me with her own research, and advised me to look at rare extant printed sources held in the López Memorial Museum. Arsenio Magsino Nicolas and I had some very fruitful conversations about connections between India and Southeast Asia, while Jaime Tiongson shared with me his knowledge of early modern vocabularios of Filipino languages. Nicanor Tiongson discussed with me many of the finer points of the history of theater and religious drama in the Philippines, and invited me to observe the fascinating Holy Week rituals in his hometown of Malolos. Pedro Galende, OSA, curator of the San Agustín Church and Museum in Intramuros, kindly allowed me to access the convent’s Bibliotheca. The staff members at the Archdiocesan Archives of Manila were very helpful in assisting my forays into ecclesiastical records. Luciano P. R. Santiago has been a wonderful correspondent and has informed me about some highly significant documents. Cealwyn Tagle and the late Edgar Montiano of Diego Cera Organbuilders, Inc., together with organist Armando Salarza, introduced me to the famous Bamboo Organ in their hometown of Las Piñas and discussed with me many aspects of organbuilding. To all my friends in the Philippines, maraming salamat po! I would like to thank Tara Alberts, Francis Knights, W. Dean Sutcliffe, and the anonymous readers from Oxford University Press for reading the manuscript at various stages of completion, and for offering constructive and detailed criticism. I am especially grateful to the Master and Fellows of Christ’s College, Cambridge, for providing a wonderful and inspiring scholarly atmosphere in which to live and work; in particular, I am much obliged to Susan Bayly, David Reynolds, and many other senior members of the college, who generously gave a great deal of encouragement and advice as I worked on this project. At the Faculty of Music, University of Cambridge, my colleagues have been very helpful in providing an academic sounding board for ideas, questioning me about the new directions of my research, and providing invaluable information. Elsewhere in Cambridge and the United Kingdom, Thirza Hope, Katherine Butler Brown, Miri Rubin, Mary Laven, Joan-Pau Rubiés, Melissa Calaresu, Janice Stargardt, Geoffrey Baker, Henry Stobart, Richard Widdess, Tala Jarjour, and Peter Leech discussed and contributed new ideas. My cousins Kirsten Gormly and Kristian Downing kindly accommodated me in London when I first began researching at the British Library; Libby and Doug Meikle, Kitty Summers, and their families have all been a great support. Sara Aguilar, Peter Agócs, and David Butterfield kindly helped me with Latin translations; David

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Sedley gave me some very useful pointers on the classical references in my sources. Iain Fenlon and Ian Woodfield examined the dissertation that served as a springboard for the writing of this book, and their comments, ideas, and suggestions along the way have been invaluable. Besides the intellectual inspiration I have received from colleagues and friends in the course of writing this book, I must also acknowledge the mental stimulation that coffee has provided, especially the excellent caffè americano at Clowns Café on King Street. In Spain, Álvaro Torrente, Juan José Carreras, Mercedes Castillo Ferreira, Gonzalo Roldán Herencia, María Gembero Ustárroz, Emilio Ros-Fábregas, Javier Marín López, Cristina Bordas Ibáñez, José María Domínguez Rodríguez, José Antonio Gutiérrez Álvarez, and many other musicological colleagues too numerous to mention have offered their advice and support. I must thank Miguel and Sara Aguilar for their kind hospitality in Collado Mediano, during my research periods in Madrid. In Germany, Reinhard Wendt read early versions of my work and made some excellent suggestions. In France, JeanChristophe Frisch and François Picard provided some new perspectives and approaches in line with their expertise in Chinese music, as well as collaborating in several exciting performances and research projects. In the United States, my dear friend and colleague Joyce Z. Lindorff has always provided inspiration and helpful advice; Jim and Katherine Zartman kindly accommodated me when I was carrying out research in Chicago. Robert Murrell Stevenson wrote me an encouraging letter towards the beginning of my research (an epistle that I still treasure) pointing out the connections between Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz and the Philippines. Needless to say, his countless publications on the musical traditions of Latin America have long been a guiding light for me. I would like to record my gratitude to many organizations and institutions for their financial assistance in bringing this project to fruition. The American Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies provided funds for a short-term fellowship at the Newberry Library, Chicago, where I was able to study rare materials held in the Ayer Collection. The Association for South-East Asian Studies in the United Kingdom awarded me a grant that facilitated essential archival research in Spain. Research funds from Christ’s College, Cambridge, covered expenses incurred in the production of this book. The Faculty of Music, University of Cambridge, has generously assisted me with many research costs over the years. I must also thank the American Musicological Society for its support of this book through a Publication Award for Younger Scholars. Walter Aaron Clark, the series editor of Currents in Latin American and Iberian Music, has given me great encouragement and much sage advice ever since I initially approached him with an idea for a contribution to the series. I would especially like to thank my wonderful editor at Oxford University Press, Suzanne Ryan, as well as Madelyn Sutton, Linda Donnelly, Laura Poole, Katharine Boone, and Norm Hirschy, for all their support as this project has

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taken shape. They have made the whole publishing process very smooth and pleasurable indeed. Finally, thanks must go to my father and my late mother, the rest of my family (nuclear and extended), and to Tom, for their love and patience. I have woven into this book a number of small portions from some of my previous publications; these excerpts appear here in significantly revised and expanded forms, with the permission of the original publishers: “Musical Politics of Empire: The Loa in Eighteenth-Century Manila,” Early Music 32.3 (2004), © Oxford University Press; and “Historical and Literary Vestiges of the Villancico in the Early Modern Philippines,” in Devotional Music in the Iberian World, 1450–1800: The Villancico and Related Genres, edited by Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), © Ashgate. Several citations of archival material have been made courtesy of the Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington, Indiana.

Note on Translations and Orthography All translations from Romance languages into English are my own, except where specifically noted. I have modernized some uses of “v” and “u” in transcriptions from early modern printed sources, in cases where their original form may otherwise obscure meaning.

Contents

Introduction, 1

Part I:

Contrapuntal Cultures

1. Colonial Capital, Global City, 19 2. Musical Transactions and Intercultural Exchange, 45

Part II: Enharmonic Engagement 3. Mapping Musical Cultures, 73 4. The Hispanization of Filipino Music, 99 5. Courtship and Syncretism in Colonial Genres, 135

Part III: Strict Counterpoint 6. Cathedrals, Convents, Churches, and Chapels, 157 7. Regulations, Reforms, and Controversies, 195 8. Fiesta filipina: Celebrations in Manila, 215 Conclusion: Contrapuntal Colonialism, 231 Notes, 239 Bibliography, 337 Index, 369

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Colonial Counterpoint

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© Introduction

Music is opposition. Opposition characterizes all parts of music, from the contrapuntal techniques used in European compositions to antiphonal performance styles found around the world, pitting singer against singer. Musical expression is contingent on binary oppositions: performer and listener, sound and silence, ritual and recreation. Most European music depends on counterpoint (punctus contra punctum), the opposition of note against note. The performance of music, moreover, requires action and reaction at conscious and subconscious levels. In seeking out a collective aesthetic consciousness, musical perception and the interpretation of music history often involve a Hegelian process of affirmation and negation, and ultimately resolution of the two. This is counterpoint. Opposition is often a means to an end, but it remains a universal feature of music, and we see its effects operating at a global level.1 When geographically removed and culturally distinct musical systems come into direct contact with each other, their meetings are framed by the structure of innumerable oppositions relating to style, technique, expression, and aesthetics. From the turn of the sixteenth century to the present day, diverse musics existing independently in different parts of the world have been gradually subsumed into a globally integrated system of sonic expression, and their practitioners have been interconnected through social processes that include trade, diplomacy, and outright conquest. These musics have collectively evolved into the diverse musical world of today, one that is characterized chiefly by plurality and malleability. The story of intercultural encounter through music in the early modern period, during the (necessarily plural) Age of Discoveries, is also a type of counterpoint: it is a narrative that pits consonance against dissonance, interdependence against independence, tolerance against intolerance, and compatibility

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against incompatibility. To explore these binary oppositions and their complex internal relationships is to consider the series of causal links that have brought about the transformation of the world’s musics over the last 500 years. In line with the thinking of Ferdinand de Saussure (1857–1913) and Claude Lévi-Strauss (1908–2009), we can use the idea of opposition to explore the creation of musical meaning within cultural and social contexts of early modern colonialism and globalization.2 Through a subversive reading of historical texts, we can also formulate interpretive methods that deconstruct meaning, thus following Jacques Derrida (1930–2004) in questioning the ideological assumptions and contradictions that are implicit in the early modern documentation of crucial and formative intercultural encounters.3 Our rich knowledge of the world’s musics as they exist now and existed then can doubtless be attributed to the historical processes of intercultural opposition, negotiation, and exchange. But conflict between cultures—brought about largely by colonialism—has had a ruinous impact on the musics of the world, causing many traditions to disappear altogether, especially in territories that were conquered by European nations and incorporated into colonial empires.4 Musical practices played important roles in this conflict, for in the early modern world there was arguably no music that was not constitutive of societies’ ideological values and a signifier of deep cultural symbolism. Every act of musical performance was inextricably intertwined with religious or political cultural systems or imbued with expressions of social or ethnic identities. The musics of many non-European peoples (often inseparable from specific ritual practices) declined or were eradicated amidst the imposition of new cultural systems by European colonial empires, for these musics and their associated practices were frequently considered incompatible with or irreconcilable to the cultural frameworks of the hegemonic societies that supplanted the social structures of indigenous populations.5 Of course, some early modern European empires actively attempted to incorporate subjugated peoples into their own colonial societies. In many colonies, especially the so-called settlement colonies, sustained intercultural encounters between indigenous populations and European settlers often entailed the imposition of Europe’s strict forms and rules on local musics. Through musical display and musical pedagogy, there was a concerted and conceited attempt by dominant ruling groups to effect the integration of subjugated peoples’ musical tastes, involving the subtle transformation or outright manipulation of musical styles and aesthetics, made actively or passively in the hope of achieving some form of social cohesion. Elements of musical encounter and negotiation such as these were entirely symptomatic of colonial societies in early modern Latin America and the Philippines. Throughout the Spanish Empire, a multiplicity of musical styles and genres was practiced simultaneously by different ethnic groups, coexisting in accordance with strict social, religious, and political regulations. The types of interaction

introduction

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between distinct musical parts—which often worked against each other but collectively produced a sonorous whole—can be viewed as various species of counterpoint. In using the term counterpoint, I mean to apply its common musicological definition as a social analogy: that is, counterpoint within a colonial society involves the combination of multiple musical voices according to a strict, uncompromising set of rules wielded by a manipulating power. To early modern Europeans, counterpoint represented a means by which sound and society could be rationalized, and in this sense it became a formidable agent of colonialism. Europeans also deliberately used counterpoint as a self-conscious cultural emblem to emphasize their difference from the non-European Other: one of the principal ways they could maintain a sense of musical “uniqueness” and “superiority” was to point to the apparent absence of counterpoint elsewhere, thereby increasing intercultural difference.6 Essentialist ideas about the exceptionalism of European musical theory and practice have long pervaded historical musicology, and contrapuntal polyphony was considered to be the exclusive preserve of early modern European music, even by the likes of the great sociologist Max Weber (1864–1920), who argued that “no other epoch and culture was familiar with it.”7 Of course, this kind of sweeping statement cannot be upheld today, in light of almost a century of serious ethnomusicological research into non-European musics since Weber wrote; furthermore, it is important to acknowledge that strict and intractable typologies of music cultures are fraught with interpretive peril. Rather than viewing certain European and non-European musical cultures of the distant and more recent past as static entities with impermeable boundaries, then, it is essential to see them as broad, fluid, and often overlapping categories. The porous nature of intercultural frontiers and the resulting plurality of musical styles became chief characteristics of many early modern colonial cultures: alongside the traditional indigenous practices that had to adapt to new social and political circumstances to survive, newly introduced musics were imposed by hegemonic colonial powers, and some were embraced or emulated by local musicians.8 Many indigenous musics were contrapuntalized—that is, certain Western melodic and harmonic structures were absorbed into them— so they could be accepted within colonial frameworks. Yet counterpoint as a form of sonic control did not completely overwhelm what had gone before, for the musics of populous, disempowered factions within such a society (the subaltern), set against the musics of the dominant ruling class or prevailing social institutions (the elite), often failed to recede or become subservient, although their forms may have evolved. The continued existence of these musics was due to indigenous peoples’ recognition of their ability to symbolize and articulate cultural resistance through subversion of artistic forms and genres that were mandated or encouraged by the colonizers. At the same time, the active appropriation of European musical practices by indigenous musicians in parts

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of the Spanish Empire served to resist any potential artistic predominance of colonialists in the newly imposed aesthetic. To extend the contrapuntal metaphor somewhat further, the displacement of time and space that characterizes cultural relationships between parent states and their overseas colonies is similarly, in global terms, a type of imitative counterpoint. The sharing of musical commodities that are produced in one place and then exported—such as compositions, treatises, or innovations in the design of musical instruments—invariably involves some delay between use at their origin and their destination. This period might be a matter of years, months, or weeks. (It is only relatively recently that the global transmission of cultural commodities has attained all appearances of being instantaneous, with almost no noticeable time lapse.) But once musical commodities sound or are used again in their new location, they often echo their origin at a consistent temporal interval. In parent state and colony alike, the old coexisted with the new, even as innovations occurred in both places. The musical ramifications of temporal-spatial displacement, or imitative counterpoint between parent state and colony, were noted and critiqued by many early modern travel writers and colonialists. A third meaning of colonial counterpoint is more literal. Colonies—in their establishment, development, and ultimate enfranchisement as autonomous states—represent an antithesis or “counterpoint” to the parent state. There is a new social order; humble migrants from the parent state can find themselves exalted; indigenous civilizations are often violently overthrown; and some dignitaries from the parent state might even be sent into exile there. Certain power relationships are intensified, and others are diminished; still more are inverted. Assertion of cultural self-identity and oppositional self-definition becomes exaggerated in unfamiliar host environments. Within the parent state, the presence of the colony is both real and imagined through migration, trade, and cultural transmission. The reverse is also true—although it is axiomatic of colonial relationships that subjugated, indigenous residents of a colony will come to know their oppressors more intimately and directly than the civilian residents of a parent state will come to know the cultural identities of a colonial population. Early modern European nations sought to conquer and colonize various parts of the world with the aim of extracting revenue from other lands and establishing an expansive political state. In similar terms, counterpoint can be seen as not just an end unto itself but a means to an end: a technique of combining separate but synchronous parts to achieve a euphonious whole. In the abstract ontology of music theory, the end justifies the means, given that contrapuntal techniques of composition (the means) can produce a work of polyphony (the end). Yet no one, by contrast, would concede that the contrapuntal collision of cultures in the Age of Discoveries (in a word, colonialism) justifies the globalized musical present, in which a small number of powerful

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cultures have predominated at the expense of so many others. We should recognize that both colonialism and counterpoint are representative of hegemony, albeit in different forms. Colonialism in its broadest sense represents an overarching power structure that controls and governs the use of resources, while maintaining a relationship between parent state and colony. Correspondingly, counterpoint represents an overarching power structure that controls and governs the interaction of tones, while referring to the relationship between different musical voices. Counterpoint in the early modern period has been considered as intransigent a practice as colonialism has been judged to be insidious, and its symbolism as a form of totalizing rationality meant that it was related to many other aspects of hegemonic European cultures. For instance, the field of aesthetics—in which music theory (and, by implication, counterpoint) played a significant role—was firmly linked to politics, and in the context of this connection, “usurpation, tyranny, and domination formed one of the most powerful complex of meanings surrounding counterpoint,” as David Yearsley has so aptly observed.9 But whether counterpoint contributed directly to political hegemony, or whether it merely formed part of “the mirror of reality,” as Karl Marx (1818–83) would put it, we can still see that counterpoint is a fitting metaphor for colonialism, as the ideological correspondences between the two concepts are striking. Pervasiveness is perhaps one of the most significant of their shared characteristics: colonialism promotes universal commonality (by which I mean a general standardization of cultural practices, rather than any particularized notions of egalitarianism), whereas counterpoint became such a conventional and central component of compositional techniques in Western art music during a certain part of its history that the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries have become known as the “common practice period.” By expanding our perspective to encompass the globe, we can see that forms of cultural hegemony—whether they are represented by colonialism, counterpoint, or other types of control—inevitably give rise to a great degree of cultural homogeneity, with dire results for musical practice and a considerable decrease in the diversity of musical styles. In the face of cultural losses that have resulted from colonial hegemony, it is arguably the “contrapuntal analysis” of historical sources, as proposed by Edward Said (1935–2003) in his seminal work Culture & Imperialism, that can offer a means by which we can attempt to redress the interpretive balance. Contrapuntal analysis, an approach developed by Said for the reading of canonic texts of Western literature, teases out distinct (and opposing) voices of the elite and the subaltern in colonial societies, revealing submerged voices and exposing the intricacies of interdependence and complementarity in the sounding of a cohesive whole. It has been adopted by literary critics, cultural historians, and even specialists in international relations.10 According to Ben Etherington, Said’s idea of contrapuntalism “is successively an analytical

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device, a strategy of anti-colonial opposition and an idealised ‘post-imperial’ condition of consciousness.”11 Etherington writes from a musicological viewpoint, but other scholars in the humanities who are unfamiliar with concepts of music theory often fail to realize that the art and act of counterpoint assumes a set of stringent rules that are imposed from above by the power that constructs the contrapuntal form—whether the composer of a musical piece or the arbiters of colonial social structure. They see contrapuntalism as representative of the intricate relationships between voices but do not recognize any agency that dictates the norms of multivocal interactions. (In some cases, contrapuntal analysts themselves become the contrapuntists.) We should remember, however, that strict counterpoint from a European perspective presupposes intervention from above, and frequently implies a teleological route for music. The latter notion was reflected in the titles of some early modern instructional manuals for composition. As eighteenth-century theorist Johann Joseph Fux (1660–1741) put it, the study of counterpoint symbolized Gradus ad Parnassum (“Steps to Parnassus”). In the same way, colonial ideology promoted changes in non-European musics, imposing European counterpoint and harmony, to effect their “improvement.” In a nutshell, we could say that counterpoint represents colonialism, whereas contrapuntal analysis represents postcolonialism. Said’s contrapuntal analysis was intended originally for the examination of novels that incorporate a hidden colonial Other, on which the main action of the plot—usually set in the parent state of some colonial empire—is contingent. For instance, English writers Jane Austen (1775–1817) and Charles Dickens (1812–70) used Africa, India, Australia, and other parts of the nineteenth-century sprawl of the British Empire as a means of explaining accumulated wealth, as a convenient place to dispatch gratuitous characters (in chains made of either iron or gold), or as a locus for an imagined happy ending that is implied (but not narrated) with all the opportunism of the colonialist.12 The fates of the “mother country” and its inhabitants were thereby dependent on past events or future “opportunities” in the colonies, and an increasing number of European cultural products—literature, music (especially opera), and the visual arts—began to reflect this state of affairs by deliberately shaping perceptions and stereotypes of the colonized Other. Some form of historical awareness is therefore obligatory if we are to understand fully all the political, ideological, and aesthetic implications of these cultural products—products that we continue to consume today. As Said put it, as we look back at the cultural archive, we begin to reread it not univocally but contrapuntally, with a simultaneous awareness both of the metropolitan history that is narrated and of those other histories against which (and together with which) the dominating discourse acts. . . . In the same way, I believe, we can read and interpret English

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novels, for example, whose engagement (usually suppressed for the most part) with the West Indies or India, say, is shaped and perhaps even determined by the specific history of colonization, resistance, and finally native nationalism.13 Contrapuntalism in literary analysis thus addresses the perspectives of both the elite and the subaltern, using binary oppositions to create a framework within which meaning can be constructed. Of course, fictional literature is one matter, but interpreting the lived past is another. My meaning of contrapuntal analysis relates to the reading of texts produced in the colonies or about the colonies themselves. Regarding the study of the early modern Philippines, many of these texts are ethnographies of local indigenous populations or descriptions of the subaltern’s musical performances that are written by the elite of colonial societies. Others are essentially hagiographic discourses that extol the virtuous lives of missionaries or indigenous converts. The colonial production of writings such as these was connected inextricably to the machinations of political and cultural power structures, as Said pointed out in Orientalism.14 Said took as his point of departure his own, Oriental application of the aphorism of Marx that “they cannot represent themselves; they must be represented,” and, leaning on ideas of discursive power developed by Michel Foucault (1926–84), argued that Europeans’ formal study or representation of the Orient “promoted the difference between the familiar (Europe, the West, ‘us’) and the strange (the Orient, the East, ‘them’).”15 Since the publication of Orientalism just over three decades ago, opponents and critics of Said have called for a more nuanced view of the relationship between East and West.16 But we should still acknowledge that the discursive counterpoint of the colonies played an important role in the creation of European identity and that it provided for Europe the basis for the formation of hegemonic ideologies and for attempted control of the Orient. A complex set of meanings and biases is therefore implicit in every form of document emerging from the colonies. Thus, in treating sources created in Orientalist or other colonial contexts, contrapuntal analysis becomes an indispensable tool for the rediscovery of lost identities that are erased from the record or for the reconstruction of precolonial musical practices that either disappeared or were transformed in the course of colonial history. In recovering data pertaining to the music of the Philippines’ colonial past and subjecting them to historical and musicological interpretation, our uses of Saidian techniques of contrapuntalism involve looking beyond the records of missionaries and colonial authorities, reading between (and beyond) the lines to question indigenous engagement with the production of historic colonial texts, and connecting indigenous social structures and cultural systems to past and present processes of intercultural contact and globalization. From our own modern-day perspective, we thus assume the position of postcolonial “insiders,” as contrapuntal analysts, writing ourselves into a

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narrative that seeks to privilege and recover indigenous voices through subversive and contrapuntal readings of rare archival materials.

Manila and the Beginnings of (Music) Globalization This book does not aim to be just one more monograph on yet another unsung colonial music history of the early modern Iberian world. Instead, it seeks to radically reconceptualize our views of what music meant for multidirectional intercultural exchanges in the age of incipient globalization. It is distinctive because it pinpoints Manila as the missing link in the concatenation of mercantile, political, and intellectual enterprises that characterized the emergence of a global consciousness and global networks in the early modern period. If we are to begin to understand the globalization of musics, we need to examine its history, and return to where it all started in 1571: Manila. Globalization is the buzzword of our millennium, but as a field of academic inquiry, it is still in its infancy. The foremost experts in the area today agree that globalization represents a worldwide process of connectivity, forges links around the globe that facilitate exchanges and communication, and develops interdependencies and increasingly profound senses of familiarity between mutually distant communities.17 Yet there is great disagreement over when the process began. One camp argues that globalization “is as old as humanity itself.”18 Certainly, we have a universal impulse for exploration of our environment, outward migration in search of difference (and understanding), and trade with other members of our species; these actions are inherent in our genetic disposition, and globalizing tendencies are a constant feature of all human societies. Yet at the same time, other scholars see processes taking place within certain delimited sectors of the world as a type of self-contained proto-globalization that foreshadowed the same patterns later established on a worldwide scale. To this end, John M. Hobson claims that “oriental globalization” emerged as a process of reciprocal exchanges of commodities, technologies, and peoples in Eurasia as early as 500 c.e.19 Still another camp contends that if globalization is to be truly global, then it has only existed for as long as networks of transport, communication, and trade have been created to girdle the Earth’s surface— covering every longitudinal point—and sustained through regular contact and exchange “in values sufficient to generate lasting impact.”20 The Pacific Ocean, the planet’s largest body of water, was the last ocean to be bridged by crossings in a consistent rhythm from its eastern to its western extremities, and this connection was forged only in the sixteenth century. Transpacific voyages of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries facilitated all manner of cultural and commercial exchanges, and although the Spaniards, then the English, French, and Dutch (and in at least two instances, the Japanese) acted as mediators in this context, they all remained unwitting actors in what Luke

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Clossey has called “an early-modern globalization, complete with multiple autonomous non-western centres, decentralizing processes, transnational identities, and a power sufficient to encompass a body of water larger than every continent combined.”21 Dennis O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez have proposed 1571 as the birth date of world trade and globalization, reflecting Immanuel Maurice Wallerstein’s assertion that the modern capitalist world system, “the world in which we are now living,” originated in the sixteenth century.22 Although this year is fixed firmly in the minds of most Eurocentric historians as the year in which the Christian victory in the Battle of Lepanto turned the tide of an Ottoman offensive, events on the other side of the world had even greater global significance. This year was the foundation date of Manila as a Spanish colonial capital, a city that was, as Flynn and Giráldez say, “a crucial entrepôt linking substantial, direct, and continuous trade between America and Asia for the first time in history.”23 Manila was the final link in the world’s first circumferential trade network. We might view it as a kind of buckle on a belt whose fastening presaged an unprecedented acceleration in global flows and exchanges of commodities and cultural practices.24 The Spaniards themselves realized that in the Philippines they were positioned on a nexus between hemispheres. Asia was a destination they had long known (in limited fact and considerable fancy) from the tales of Marco Polo (c. 1254–1324) and other adventurers, and to arrive there they had to traverse the entire Western Hemisphere—via the marvelous New World of the Americas. Spaniards were also aware of the crucial nature of this hemispherical link because in Southeast Asia they encountered Muslims, their traditional opposite numbers, whom they immediately named moros. Spaniards and Muslims now began to engage with each other at both the eastern and the western extremities of Eurasia. The Philippines thus essentially became a frontier for Spain’s ongoing religious crusade; but these islands also provided an arena for encounters with alterity and an opportunity for oppositional selfdefinition. Spaniards took their music, along with their religion and their politics, to the Philippine Islands. They encountered other, local musics in Southeast Asia, and they also provided channels for transmission and exchange of multiple musical practices between Asians, Americans, Africans, and Europeans at this point of global convergence. The examination of multilateral cultural encounters through music is one of the most valuable ways we can begin to understand the transnational dialogues and reciprocal exchanges that took place during the early days of globalization. This study takes as its chronological boundaries the beginning of a continuous Spanish colonial presence in the Philippines on the one side (the year 1565), and the cessation of the transpacific galleon trade in 1815 on the other: a quarter-millennium that became a defining epoch in the making of the modern globalized world, especially in the development and consolidation of links between the Americas and Asia. My predominantly synchronic approach

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to this slice of time reveals its seminal importance as a well-defined period of constantly increasing momentum in the transmission and development of many different musics in the Asia-Pacific arena. Part I of this book explores the encounters of mutually alien cultures and shows how they came to interact with one another contrapuntally. It reveals how the arrival of a significant number of European traders and colonialists in Southeast Asia and the foundation of Spanish Manila as capital of the Philippines contributed to the importation and local replication of musical commodities and practices. Being a colony that was antipodal to the Iberian Peninsula, Manila assumed great significance as a frontier territory, especially due to its position at the very doorstep of great Asian civilizations with which Spain sought commerce. In chapter 1, I explore the physical layout and ethnic diversity of the city and identify the principal voices of communities that contributed to its contrapuntal fabric. I go on in chapter 2 to examine the importation of foreign musical commodities and practices to the Philippines and their radial diffusion throughout the surrounding region. I also make a brief foray into the musical ramifications of the British occupation of Manila from 1762 to 1764, as this short-lived episode in the colonial history of the Philippines serves to illustrate how rapidly and deeply foreign influences could become ingrained in the musical practices of the islands, as a result of cultural dissemination through colonial systems of patronage. In the second part of the book, I use the metaphors of the circle of fifths and enharmony to explain how the “tempering” of intercultural perspectives (the development of ethnological methods) facilitated the “modulation” of cultures (transculturation) and eventually resulted in attempts to bridge the “enharmonic” gulf (syncretism). My idea of enharmonic engagement is one that can potentially offer a useful paradigm for the study of early modern intercultural contact, in terms of providing a different way of understanding the dynamics of cultural comparativism and relativism. Just as “enharmonic spelling” in European music theory can call the same note two or three distinct names, rendering the note’s function entirely different according to the context in which it is used or the direction from which it is approached, music—a cultural practice of all members of our species—may be interpreted from different perspectives and assume different functions within different contexts. In the three chapters of part II, I look beyond Manila to examine the mapping of musical cultures throughout the three regions of the Philippines: the northern island of Luzon, the central archipelago of the Visayas, and the southern island of Mindanao. Through the contrapuntal analysis of colonial historiography, we can reconstruct a picture of indigenous music-making from before and after the point of European contact. The aim of chapter 3 is to dispel long-held myths that the missionaries ignored and dismissed indigenous music traditions, and I argue that in fact they made extensive ethnographic surveys of song, instrumental practices, and

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dance. Members of religious orders also made intensive studies of many musicopoetic genres, which they then used as vehicles for the dissemination of religious doctrine. In chapter 4, I trace the subtle process of the hispanization of Filipino music by piecing together documentary evidence from the late sixteenth century to the end of the eighteenth century. This was a gradual transformation that was attendant on the interlinked policies of urbanization and religious conversion. But it was not a clear-cut case of “imposition.” Filipinos themselves adopted and adapted many aspects of European music. There were other features of European culture (such as religious ideologies, texts, and metaphors) that were sometimes fused onto indigenous styles of vocal music, resulting in the emergence of syncretic, colonial genres. These genres form the focus of chapter 5, which explores how the courtship and engagement of Spanish and Filipino cultures brought about the birth of new performative art forms. In this way, the two cultures modulated in different directions around the circle of fifths (tempering their intervals to a lesser or greater degree all the while) toward a point of enharmonic convergence. Thesis and antithesis did indeed result in synthesis. The third and final part of the book analyzes the most hierarchical governance of musical practice in colonial society: strict counterpoint. Here I show how rules and regulations were imposed on the entire gamut of colonial society in an attempt to bring diverse and disparate voices into harmony with each other. I also demonstrate in chapter 6 that a great deal of subversion and inversion of this counterpoint took place, as the vast majority of church musicians in the Philippines were in fact Filipinos who were able to control the soundworld of ecclesiastical institutions. The very visible and audible threats that were posed to Spanish authorities by the subaltern’s wielding of musical power resulted in the formulation of rigid legislation for the whole archipelago, as we see in chapter 7, in an attempt to curb and regulate musical practices within churches and other parts of urban societies in the islands. Finally, chapter 8 shows how various manifestations of loyalty to Church and Crown were orchestrated in the form of seasonal and occasional fiestas that incorporated performances of music, dance, and drama by every segment of the population, while arguing that these events were organized according to an intransigent racial hierarchy that was strictly imposed and rigorously enforced.

The Mosaic of Colonial History: A Note on Sources The indelible influence of 333 years of Spanish rule in the Philippines (1565– 1898) brought about profound and drastic changes to Filipino cultures. However, Spain was not the only colonizer of the Philippines. Just months after the first Philippine Republic was proclaimed in 1898, following a

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revolution fought against Spain, the islands were annexed and colonized by the United States (1898–1941), then occupied by Japan (1942–45) during World War II, thus delaying the proper independence of the Republic of the Philippines until 1946. Many Filipinos wryly sum up their country’s past in an ironic formula that succinctly illustrates widespread perceptions of each of the three imperial powers’ main impact in the popular imagination: “three hundred years in a convent, fifty years in Hollywood, and three years in a concentration camp.”25 It is not surprising, then, to observe that the interpretation of this country’s history has been shaped, molded, and colored to an enormous extent by the cultural, political, and intellectual legacies of colonialism. The old adage that history is written by the victor certainly applies to great swaths of historical writings on the Philippines that are largely Eurocentric, and at first sight it seems difficult to penetrate this thick veil over the past. In 1958, Teodoro A. Agoncillo (1912–85) set forth a nationalistic agenda for Filipino history, stating that it “must be seen through Filipino eyes.” Such a viewpoint seems entirely sound. Yet he went on to assert, more controversially, that “Philippine history, rightly looked upon, began in 1872 when the Cavite Mutiny occurred which, in turn, led to the execution of the Filipino priests Gomes, Burgos, and Zamora which, in turn, led to the development of Filipino nationalism. The so-called Philippine history before 1872 was not Filipino but Spanish, that is to say, the history of Spain in the Philippines.”26 This tenet, promoted and upheld by generations of Filipino historians, has had the adverse effect of disqualifying the pre-1872 Filipino past as a subject for serious historical study. Nationalistic histories of the Philippines have sought largely to erase from the record the colonial legacy of Spain, jumping from an idyllic precolonial state to the late nineteenth-century revolutionary period to the hard-won independent nation of the mid-twentieth century onward. Undoubtedly, some of their motives were to construct a past that was fully commensurate with the strong nationalistic sentiments of the new republic, and above all to counter claims by influential figures in neighboring countries that Filipino culture was not truly “Asian.” But as Benedict Anderson noted in his groundbreaking study Imagined Communities, “Filipino nationalism . . . has been, for a century now, on the trail of an aboriginal Eden.”27 In other words, nationalistic historians in the independent Philippines sought overtly to invert colonial history by writing the colonizers out of their country’s past. This way of proceeding was acknowledged quite frankly and openly: for instance, in the introduction to the seminal and influential book History of the Filipino People, first published in 1960 and since then studied by generations of Filipinos, it was explained that Agoncillo “thought it illogical and irrelevant to discuss lengthily the innumerable events in which the Filipinos had no direct or indirect participation.”28 A major shift in historical thinking in the 1980s and 1990s, however, led to a revival of interest in the earlier colonial period of the country. Glenn

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Anthony May called for a reassessment of nationalistic interpretations of Philippine history, and anthropological perspectives afforded by William Henry Scott (1921–93) proved the value of Spanish documents in constructing an idea of the precolonial past.29 As I show in part II, the ethnographies composed by Spaniards preserve fascinating snapshots of Filipinos’ performance practices, which become invaluable records in cases where these traditions were transformed or entirely lost. They also challenge Agoncillo’s assertion that the only worthy or reliable historiography of the Philippines is that produced by indigenous Filipinos. There were in fact many indigenous writers producing important texts long before 1872. Yet with the lack of balanced source material from both sides, only part of the story can be told. Extant early modern writings by Filipinos tend to be of religious nature or present petitions that conform to the expectations of colonial authorities. As anyone studying colonial music history would agree, however, any forms of early modern historiography that treat music are invaluable to the modern musicologist because they serve to document past musical cultures that have changed drastically. They are both rare and revelatory. Some of the major frustrations encountered in researching music of the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period are the dispersal, fragmentation, and outright loss of sources. In contrast to Latin America, where archival depositories house vast numbers of colonial-period music manuscripts and related documentation, similar records from Manila are relatively few and far between. Part of the problem has been destruction through earthquakes, fire, and humidity, but the main reason for loss is the cataclysmic destruction of Manila during the battle for its liberation from February 3 to March 3, 1945. During these four weeks, indiscriminate bombardment by the Allies and defensive measures taken by Japanese forces collectively resulted in the widespread destruction of the metropolis, at a cost of some 100,000 civilian lives. The scene of a last stand by some of the Japanese Imperial Army was Intramuros, the historic walled city center. With the heaviest Allied artillery reserved for the breaching of its fortifications, this religious and cultural nucleus of the country was reduced to rubble. Only one structure was left intact: the Augustinian church and convent of San Agustín (in which women and children had been interned). The metropolitan cathedral, eight major churches and their convents, and many other historic institutions and residences were totally obliterated. Along with them perished thousands of people. Manila lost its historic nucleus and many records of its past: libraries, archives, and rare cultural treasures. This city is generally recognized to have emerged from the end of World War II as one of the most devastated capitals on the globe.30 Astonishingly, however, a few archives survived more or less unscathed. Even though the church and convent of Santo Domingo burned down after a Japanese air raid in December 1941, the Dominican archives had remained safe in an underground vault, together with the revered image of Our Lady of

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La Naval. They were later sent into safekeeping. A large portion was moved to Ávila, Spain, in recent times, and other sections are now housed in Quezon City. The Dominicans were doubly fortunate in that during the 1920s they had transferred the main campus of their University of Santo Tomás to an outlying suburb, Sampaloc, together with its library and its exceptional rare book collection, which contains thousands of pre-1900 European publications (with items that date back as far as 1492). In Sampaloc the campus was used by the Japanese occupational government as an internment camp for Allied civilians, who were safely liberated in 1945. However, another relocation from Intramuros, just before the final stage of the war, was not so effective: although the Archdiocesan Archives of Manila were saved from total destruction in war by virtue of their transfer out of the walled city to the University of Santo Tomás in Sampaloc before the bombing, an unknown quantity of material was unfortunately lost on that short journey, because the open-sided trucks that carried them had no “walls” themselves.31 The Augustinian complex of San Agustín was the eye of the firestorm that consumed Intramuros, and its archives escaped destruction (although damage and losses inevitably occurred in the aftermath of the battle). The Augustinian order followed the example of the Dominicans, by sending the remainder of their archives to Valladolid, Spain. Yet many of their archival treasures had already been dispersed almost two centuries earlier. The looting of the convent by British forces in 1762 had resulted in hundreds of books, maps, and documents being carried off as war booty, and their diffusion and then preservation in academic libraries around the world. Most of these sources are now held at the British Library, King’s College London, and the Lilly Library in Bloomington, Indiana. Other collections of Filipiniana that were assembled outside of the Philippines in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries include the books and manuscripts acquired by American businessman and philanthropist Edward Everett Ayer (1841–1927) and the famous Tabacalera Collection. The Ayer Collection, which is especially rich in ethnological materials and linguistic studies, is now an important part of the Newberry Library, Chicago. The Tabacalera Collection was largely put together by historian and bibliophile Wenceslao Emilio Retana (1862–1924) and bought by the Compañía General de Tabacos de Filipinas in Barcelona in the first decade of the twentieth century. It consisted of over 4,500 items that were considered of such immense historical value that in 1906 a three-volume annotated catalog was published. In 1913, the Philippine government bought the entire collection for the National Library, and it returned to Manila. The National Library was one of the institutional casualties of World War II’s closing days, but amazingly three quarters of the rare books survived unscathed. A large portion of the Philippine National Archives in Manila (mostly nineteenth-century materials) also weathered the storm of 1945, but there are gaps in the records.

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Spain was of course the administrative nerve center of its colonial empire, and a veritable ocean of archival material remains in its state and religious archives. Scholars studying the cultural history of the Philippines are generally welcomed there with open arms, for while whole armies of established academics and graduate students work on Latin American themes, the Filipino colonial past has remained the preserve of just a small handful of researchers. Interest has increased over the past decades, however, especially with joint projects for archival preservation that have been supported by the governments of both Spain and the Philippines. Seminal archival data concerning music in the early modern Philippines can be found in the holdings of institutions in Madrid, Seville, Barcelona, Ávila, and Valladolid.32 But all these data must be extracted from diverse forms of documentation, such as religious histories, linguistic treatises, financial records, inventories, and accounts of festivities. In reconstructing colonial musical cultures of Manila and the Philippines, I thus embarked on a far-ranging and sometimes frustrating quest. This was needle-in-haystack research, involving sifting through huge quantities of documents in dozens of archives located throughout the Philippines, Spain, Italy, the United Kingdom, and the United States. It also necessitated many visits to Filipino churches and convents. Each period of research revealed several more nuggets of information, from which I began to piece together a fascinating mosaic of cultural history and musical practice. Given the vastness of raw and uncataloged archival materials that still dwell undisturbed in the cavernous vaults of Filipino and Spanish institutions, however, I cannot say that I have left no stone unturned. Whole quarries await future mining by cultural historians and musicologists. Music in the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period is an enormous field of inquiry—and one that has barely been tilled. In the chapters that follow, I hope to demonstrate that this is a fruitful area of academic inquiry and provide a firm foundation on which more scholars can build. Colonial counterpoint, in its multiple meanings and manifestations, provides an apposite analogy for the history of musical cultures in territories that were conquered, possessed, and exploited by early modern European empires. Contrapuntalism likewise offers a metaphor through which we can begin to understand the structure of colonial societies: their multiple voices and intentions interact within a vertical framework according to superimposed rules, but along a linear time scale. At the same time, enharmonic engagement necessarily makes us move away from “white notes” and locate points of convergence between cultures within the colonial milieu. All these factors are critical in our new approach to extra-European music history. Of the many European colonies established throughout the early modern world, none can demonstrate all these aspects of intercultural counterpoint and enharmony better than Manila. Our journey begins there.

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CONTRAPUNTAL CULTURES

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Colonial Capital, Global City

Manila was the world’s first global city. Its foundation as a Spanish colonial capital in 1571 forged the last link in a chain of trade routes that encircled the Earth. For the first time in human history, there emerged a system of transoceanic connections that allowed for the regular transport of people around the world and the sustained exchange of ideas and commodities. Early modern Manila’s interstitial function in opening (and in some ways closing) the Chinese market to the world, together with its role as a cultural, commercial, and geographical nexus between Asia and the Americas—and, by extension, Africa and Europe—endowed it with a global economic and political significance outstripping that of any other city in the region. Due to its provision of a reliable maritime connection between Asia and the Americas, and by virtue of its strategic location close to China, early modern Manila attracted a diverse body of migrants seeking to trade, conquer, and proselytize. A concatenation of mercantile interests, political ambitions, and evangelistic enterprises facilitated and propelled the local exchange of people, ideas, and commodities. Manila was, essentially, a microcosm of the world.1 At the same time as it emerged as an important international entrepôt, however, Manila remained an integral part of the Spanish imperial network. From the perspective of Spain, the Philippine colony was an essential frontier in the expansion of commerce and religion, in a fight for the control of the Pacific Ocean, and in the creation of a seaborne empire that spanned from Iberia to Asia via the Americas. The unified Hispanic hemisphere thus imagined by Spain was represented in a creative engraving from 1761, produced at the Jesuit University of Manila and titled Aspecto symbólico del mundo hispánico, which was made to accompany a map of Spanish possessions and explorations.2 Its production in Manila—at the very outer reaches of the

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empire—symbolizes an inversion of the imperial imagination, with Spain’s most distant colony becoming temporarily fundamental to the promotion of ideas of unity. In the Aspecto symbólico (figure 1.1) we see the allegorical figure of Hispania superimposed on a truncated and upended map of the Western Hemisphere. Her head, inevitably, is Spain, and her flowing mantle integrates the Americas. The folds of her robe are formed by the tracing of seasonal transpacific galleon routes, and her feet are the Philippine Islands. This archipelago is thus incorporated quite literally into Hispania and presented symbolically as Spain’s foothold in Asia. Without the Philippines, the viewer might infer, the empire could not stand. In this allegory, various accoutrements are imbued with symbols of empire and expressions of a belief in geographical and cultural dominance that was cultivated by imperial Spain. Hispania’s crown, with the word “España” emblazoned across the base and the regions of Spain inscribed above, evokes the Spanish conviction that there existed a divine legitimation of her right to rule. Meanwhile, her necklace—whose rude beads could in fact constitute a chaplet or a rosary—bears a compass, and the Equator, resting lightly in her left hand, becomes a staff that is adorned with a Spanish standard. Hispania thus confidently and effortlessly appropriates the Earth’s girdle and claims a self-appointed and papally anointed sovereignty over at least half of the Earth’s surface area. The use of her left hand suggests a secondary, almost casual indifference to her apparent dominion over half the world (although an oppositional reading is of course impossible, given this orientation of the map). Meanwhile, she affirms divine sanction of her imperial ascendancy by using her right hand to brandish a flaming sword of authority, its blade and ribbon embellished with biblical phrases.3 Significantly, this representation excludes the Islamic world, the fringes of which are seen only in the northwest bulge of the African continent, and in some islands of Southeast Asia. It is also worth noting that the Pillars of Hercules have been removed to stand at the bottom of the engraving. In ancient times, they had indicated the edge of the known world, proclaiming that west of the Mediterranean’s mouth non plus ultra—“there is no more beyond”; following the transatlantic voyages of Cristóbal Colón (Christopher Columbus, 1451–1506), of course, this claim had been corrected to plus ultra. But here the pillars are located much further west—at the very extent of papally approved Spanish political influence. Their new position seems to imply and provoke the idea that what lies ultra, beyond the westernmost limits of this map, would one day be under the sovereignty of Spain, subsumed within a mundo hispánico that would ultimately encompass the globe. While chiming with the ideals of imperialism, such an ambition, however, would have contested the geographical limits of two “Lines of Demarcation” that had been established by the treaties of Tordesillas and Zaragoza in 1494 and 1529, respectively (separating Spanish and Portuguese spheres of colonial interests by drawing virtual longitudinal

figure 1.1. Vicente de Memije, Aspecto symbólico del mundo hispánico (Manila: Lorenzo Atlas, 1761). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.118.19).

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borders through the Americas and Asia). It would also have challenged the overseas imperial aspirations of Britain, France, and the Netherlands, not to mention the territorial expansion of Russia. The Aspecto symbólico is certainly an arrogant and arresting image of empire. It consolidates the Spanish vision of an entire Western Hemisphere bonded through a set of common cultural values, religious ideologies, and power structures that were both Hispanic and catholic—“catholic” in both meanings of the word. Still, we should note that this idea of the universal inclusiveness of empire was by no means new. One and a half centuries previously, Antonio de Morga (1559–1636), oidor (judge) of Manila’s real audiencia (royal court) from 1595 to 1603, had already boasted that “hence the scepter and crown of Spain have come to extend their dominion over all that the sun looks upon from its rising unto its setting.”4 When the sun set in Madrid, he implied, the day was still in full swing in Mexico and only beginning in Manila (at least in the European summer). Even at the dawn of the seventeenth century, the empire was thought to be without limits. However, this sort of triumphalism obscured—probably intentionally—the reality of the struggles faced and deprivations endured during the course of events that led to the eventual foundation of Spain’s colony in the Philippines.

Imperial Enterprises and Economic Establishment The voyages of Fernão de Magalhães (Ferdinand Magellan, 1480–1521) and then of Ruy López de Villalobos (1500–1544)—who in 1543 named the islands “Felipinas” in honor of the future Felipe II (1527–98)—forged the first links in a chain of events that led ultimately to the arrival of the conquistador Miguel López de Legazpi (1502–72) in 1565. This last year marked the beginning of the Spanish colonial period in the Philippines. When Legazpi landed at the Visayan island of Cebu, he established a Spanish settlement on the site of what is now Cebu City. This initial base and another on the island of Panay were not sustained without difficulty, however, and in 1570 an expeditionary force led by Martín de Goiti (d. 1574) and Legazpi’s grandson Juan de Salcedo (1549–76)— who has been dubbed “the Hernán Cortés of the Philippines”—set out to reconnoiter the northern island of Luzon. There they encountered Maynilad. Nestled in a large sheltered bay, into which flowed the mighty Pasig River, Maynilad was ruled by Rajah Soliman (d. c. 1575), who was of Bornean origin and who was advised by his uncle and predecessor Rajah Matanda (1480–1572). Nearby was the kingdom of Tondo, whose reigning sovereign was Lakan Dula (1503–89). The Spaniards made diplomatic overtures to the local rulers, but these were short-lived and were quickly followed by skirmishes. The Spaniards withdrew and returned the following year under the command of Legazpi with the main body of their forces from Cebu and numerous native allies. After a

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show of force by the Spaniards and their quelling of resistance led by Soliman, an armistice was agreed on May 18, and Soliman was forced to cede to the invaders a portion of land close to the mouth of the river. The following day— May 19 and the feast of Saint Potentiana—Legazpi took ceremonial possession of this site. The next month, the conquistador founded the Spanish colonial capital of the Philippines here.5 He retained the place’s native name, Maynilad (which is said to mean “there is nilad,” nilad being a type of water lily), in Spanish form as “Manila.” In 1574, the same year in which a coalition of Spanish and indigenous forces fought off the Chinese pirate Limahong on the feast of Saint Andrew, the city was honored by Felipe II with the bestowal of the title Insigne y siempre leal ciudad (“Noble and Ever Loyal City”).6 From all appearances, the Spanish had arrived in the Philippines to stay. With its proximity to the markets of island and mainland Asia, Manila grew quickly into an important commercial entrepôt and thriving international community. The construction of the city according to Spanish precepts of urban planning took place amid the frequent occurrences of earthquakes, fires, and other natural disasters; it required constant rebuilding and adaptation of architectural designs to withstand challenges of the local environment.7 During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, invasion attempts by Chinese and Dutch naval forces threatened the survival of this Spanish outpost, but Manila remained intact, and its fortifications were continually monitored and strengthened. In the following century its citizens experienced the sudden and unexpected British interregnum of 1762–64—the only successful invasion by a foreign power before 1898—as well as expulsions of the Jesuits and the Chinese population. All these events had far-reaching consequences for the colony’s cultural and religious life. Manila was one of a triumvirate of significant European colonial cities in early modern Southeast Asia, alongside Dutch Batavia (now Jakarta) and Malacca (or Melaka, which had been captured by the Portuguese in 1511 but was conquered by Dutch forces in 1641, then ceded to the British in the nineteenth century). Although these cities were prominent in trade, Manila appears to have been noticeably more sophisticated than its rivals in terms of the propagation of European religious practices and European forms of knowledge, at least when one considers the number of institutions founded for both purposes. It became known as a city of churches, a center for European systems of education, and a potent symbol of Spain’s political and militaristic aspirations in Asia. The geographical separation of Manila from other capitals of the Spanish Empire endowed its governor with powers that were similar in stature to those of a viceroy or even a king. While “the sun never set” on the Spanish Empire from Madrid to Mexico to Manila, the transmission of bureaucratic decisions, petitions, and decrees could take up to two years in either direction, often forcing swift decisions to be taken in situ without consulting the Crown. Furthermore, the proximity of highly complex, ancient, and autocratic Asian

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civilizations to the north, west, and south required the constant local development of diplomatic and commercial policies. These civilizations’ apparent accessibility (at least in geographical terms) also presented a great attraction to religious personnel from Europe and the Americas, who considered the Philippine Islands the gateway to fabled territories in which they could attempt to carry out grandiose projects of conversion. The annual galleon trade with Acapulco was the financial and cultural lifeline by which the colony in the Philippines was preserved for Spain. Regular return voyages across the Pacific to Mexico began in 1565, thanks to the navigational skill of Augustinian Andrés de Urdaneta (1498–1568) in finding a suitable and reliable route.8 From 1571 these voyages set out from Manila, and the coupling of the transpacific voyages with the trading connection between Manila and the Chinese mainland forged the final link in the first global trade network. In 1815, radical shifts in political and economic circumstances brought about the end of this shipping line. But by this time, the galleons had linked the Philippines and Mexico politically, culturally, and economically for an entire quarter of a millennium: a sustained period of exchanges across the world’s largest ocean that appears to be without parallel in human history.9 The galleons provided the means by which the Philippines were governed through Mexico, by which people and commodities were transported, and ideologies transmitted. In the minds of the colonialists in Manila, the economic fate of the colony rested almost entirely on the successful passage of these ships. As Gregorio F. Zaide has succinctly observed, “the safe arrival of a galleon in either Manila or Acapulco . . . meant a year of prosperity, a period of economic bonanza. The profits derived by those who took part in the trade ranged from 100% to 300%.”10 Spanish citizens of Manila—including members of religious orders—were allocated space for cargo.11 This cargo consisted mainly of Chinese goods such as silk and brocades, which were brought to Manila annually by approximately twenty junks from south China; other cargo included precious metals, pearls, and perfumes from various parts of Asia.12 In exchange for these luxury items, a shipment of silver was returned from Mexico to the Philippines. It is estimated that between one-quarter and one-third of all silver mined in early modern Latin America was transported across the Pacific to China—a staggering amount, given that Latin American silver production represented 84 percent of the global whole in the seventeenth century.13 It is unsurprising, then, that occasional losses of galleons brought about a severe economic depression in the islands, not to mention the crushing of public morale. Given that the galleons and their indomitable crew of “Manila men” had to survive rough seas as well as the piratical incursions of rival European nations, they placed their faith in providence: their chosen spiritual protectress was Nuestra Señora de Paz y Buen Viaje (Our Lady of Peace and Good Voyage), later known simply as the Virgin of Antipolo. Her image itself traveled on

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several galleon journeys across the Pacific.14 During these voyages, music formed a significant part of life, particularly in the singing of the Salve at dusk on Saturdays, and the singing of a Te Deum, together with thanksgiving prayers and revelry when evidence of land came into sight. On the arrival of the galleons in Manila, the Virgin of Antipolo’s image was often feted with music and processions. In fact, one of the earliest pieces of surviving musical iconography from the Philippines is a bas-relief dated 1662 that illustrates a procession carrying the image of the Virgin of Antipolo from the beach to the cathedral of Manila, accompanied by three shawm players (figure 1.2).15 The image’s final return to the islands in 1748, when it was transported inland to Antipolo and permanently enshrined, occasioned some of the most extravagant festivities recorded in early modern colonial historiography, as we shall see in a later chapter. The first direct maritime link between the Philippines and Spain, via the Cape of Good Hope, was established in 1765 with the voyage of the Buen Consejo from Cádiz to Manila, and commercial activities of the colony were enhanced in the 1780s with the establishment of two groups: the Sociedad Económica de Amigos del País (founded in 1781) and the Real Compañía de Filipinas (founded in 1785).16 These initiatives sustained and nourished Spanish–Philippine relations in the nineteenth century, following the independence of most of Spain’s American colonies and the demise of the transpacific galleon trade.17 Colonial culture in the Philippines, as in Spanish America, was contingent on the maintenance of regular links with the parent state, for the reproduction and diffusion of Spanish customs. It is unsurprising, then, that Manila became a major center of European print culture in East and Southeast Asia, from the time that the first books were printed there in 1593. Until the beginning of the nineteenth century, there were three presses in Manila, belonging respectively to the Dominicans, the Franciscans, and the Jesuits (although on the expulsion of the Society of Jesus from the islands in 1768, the Jesuit press passed to the Royal Seminary).18 More than a thousand titles were published by these presses before 1811, when a new era of printing dawned with the commencement of the first newspaper (Del superior gobierno) and the establishment of new presses in Manila and other parts of the archipelago.19 The number of imprints produced in the capital between 1593 and the early nineteenth century becomes impressive indeed if we compare this output level with that of Mexico City, where thousands of books were published during the colonial period, and staggering when set alongside the situation in Brazil, which although a rich and prosperous Portuguese colony, had no local press until 1808 (and before that time had to import all printed materials).20 Because Manila was an important base for missionaries, the vast majority of the works printed there were inevitably of a religious nature. Texts were published in European and Asian languages alike, with special blocks made for

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figure 1.2. Wooden bas-relief, Los Españoles llevando en procession a la Virgen de Antipolo desde la playa a la catedral de Manila, c. 1662. Reproduced by kind permission of the San Agustín Church and Museum, Intramuros, Manila. Chinese characters and Filipino baybayin (the precolonial script derived from Sanskrit). Their publication was largely in the hands of Chinese and Filipino master printers and involved the contribution of artists who produced beautiful and sophisticated engravings for title pages or for illustrations. But while some publications included song-texts in Filipino languages and Spanish texts of

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theatrical works (with significant musical components), music in European staff notation was not printed in Manila until the middle of the nineteenth century.21 Manila’s walled city center, Intramuros, enclosed convents and churches of six major religious orders, the cathedral, the palaces of the governor and archbishop, schools, hospitals, colleges, and universities. It was truly the “Rome of the East.” Unlike most other trading posts established by Europeans in the Far East, the city entered regional consciousness as a religious capital, and many Christian converts from neighboring countries went into exile there as religious refugees. The musical traditions that were associated with ecclesiastical institutions came to play a significant role in metropolitan life, as we will see in subsequent chapters. Such a preponderance of churches and convents gave the city an air of monumentalism that reflected colonial ambitions of permanence; the religious culture of Europe was literally petrified there.22 The concentration of these institutions in Manila was unsurpassed in the Asian region—its closest (but still distant) rival was Goa—and it has been suggested that by the end of the nineteenth century, Intramuros had more ground space devoted to buildings related to religious purposes (the cathedral, churches, convents, and schools) than perhaps any other city of Christendom.23 Many early modern historians and travel writers commented on the splendor of Manila’s edifices. Jesuit Pedro Murillo Velarde (1696–1753), for example, wrote in the mid-eighteenth century that “the most sumptuous buildings are the churches, convents, and colleges.”24 All these structures can be seen in a detailed topography of the city prepared by Fernando Valdés Tamón and Antonio Fernández de Roxas, engraved in 1717 by Hipolito Ximénez (figure 1.3).25 This gives a three-dimensional view of the edifices of Intramuros and also a glimpse of the surrounding suburbs (arrabales) of Extramuros. It illustrates daily life in the city at the time—we can even see a procession in progress in the plaza mayor—and contains a remarkable level of detail in the depiction of the major structures. This topographic representation shows all the spaces and contexts that could be used for many types of artistic expression: religious edifices, educational establishments, public buildings, private residences, and plazas. Although quite a number of early modern artists depicted the cityscape of Manila, most of them made these illustrations for European publications (especially atlases) without ever having laid eyes on the city. By contrast, some of the most detailed eyewitness representations are those produced by Milanese artist Fernando Brambila (1763–1832), who traveled to the Philippines with the scientific expedition of Alejandro Malaspina (1754–1809) in the 1790s. Grouped with drawings of Latin American cities in a portfolio of vistas drawn during the expedition, Manila was shown from a number of viewpoints (figures 1.4 and 1.5). These vistas show a flourishing metropolis, replete with the spires of religious institutions, commercial vessels, and people from many different sectors of the colony’s society.

figure 1.3. Antonio Fernández de Roxas and Fernando Valdés Tamón, Topographia de la ciudad de Manila (Manila: Hipolito Ximénez, 1717). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.116.40).

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figure 1.4. Fernando Brambila, Vista de Manila y su bahía desde el arrabal (1792). Reproduced by kind permission of the Museo de América, Madrid.

figure 1.5. Fernando Brambila, Manila desde el mar (1792). Museo Naval. Madrid.

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Of course, artists could represent cityscapes by reproducing what they saw, remembered, or imagined, but soundscapes of early modern cities can only be reconstructed through the assembly and interpretation of a wide range of sources. Musics for ritual and entertainment from a variety of cultural backgrounds were punctuated by the sounds of daily life. Some of these sounds—the signaling and ceremonial fanfares of trumpets, fifes, and drums; the shawm bands of the military and other groups; the peals of bells marking regular events or special occasions—were like barlines that regulated the contrapuntal functioning of the city and its society. In many ways they measured the pattern of each day, especially the bells that marked the times for religious devotions. Every person present in the city—resident and visitor alike—had to hear them, whether they listened attentively or not. These sounds, embedded in ritual and ceremony, had great cultural resonance for those members of Manila society who lived according to the precepts of the established Roman Catholic religion and within the laws of Spanish governance. The local inhabitants knew the identities of the most powerful political contrapuntists of colonial society. Even to outsiders, the sonic regulation of the city represented the inflexible rules imposed on a diverse population to bring it into some form of harmonious order.

Manila’s Contrapuntal Society The establishment of Manila as a focal point of global convergence brought many cultures into counterpoint with each other, contributing to the emergence of a contrapuntal society that incorporated multiple diasporas and developed its own unique culture. Of course, many societies in the early modern world displayed aspects of contrapuntalism, but few (if any) matched Manila in terms of their populations’ ethnic diversity. Within this polycultural and multiethnic crucible, Manila’s society was continually stirred by Spanish assertions of imperial dominance, indigenous subversion, and local resistance to colonial rule, together with the individual or collective aims of immigrant merchants. All the while, the city had to uphold an unwavering image of a royal and religious capital of the Spanish Empire. Although attractive and selectively receptive to foreign visitors who brought their own cultures with them, Manila remained a staunch representative of Spanish culture and Roman Catholicism; migrants and travelers to the city were expected to accept the terms of the prevailing power structure. Of the ethnolinguistic groups that resided in and around the city, the three largest were Filipinos, Chinese, and Spaniards. As in colonial Latin America, miscegenation created a complex system of social categories that Spanish authorities attempted to codify.26 These were often termed castas: literally, “castes.” In the 1690s, global traveler Giovanni Francesco Gemelli Careri (1651–1725) visited Manila and noted a host of “ridiculous names” used in the

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city as a means of ethnic identification.27 In the course of the eighteenth century, however, these names were reduced to a smaller number of categories, of which the principal tiers in the hierarchy were español (Spaniard), criollo (Philippine-born Spaniard, some of whom had some non-European ancestry), indio (Filipino), mestizo (Filipino with one Spanish parent), chino or sangley (Chinese), mestizo sangley (Filipino with one Chinese parent), and negro (African, also known as cafre). Although in the colonial period the term “Filipino” was used primarily to refer to Spanish citizens of the Philippines, I use it in reference to the indigenous population of the islands.28 Meanwhile, I will call españoles and criollos “Spaniards,” and will retain the term mestizo (a term that still has currency in the Philippines today) for the Eurasian population, while using the label “Chinese mestizos” to refer to people of Chinese-Filipino heritage. Apart from the groups just mentioned, there were also representatives of multiple national identities who made up a constantly fluctuating population of traders and travelers. In 1662, Franciscan Bartolomé de Letona observed that the variety of nations seen in Manila and its environs is the greatest in the world, for there can be found peoples from all the kingdoms and nations: Spain, France, England, Italy, Flanders, Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Poland, Moscow, from all the East Indies and West Indies, Turks, Greeks, Moors, Persians, Tartars, Chinese, Japanese, Africans, and Asians. And in the four corners of the world there is hardly a kingdom, province or nation from which people do not [come to Manila], as a result of the frequent voyages that are made here from East, West, North, and South.29 Some stayed; most just passed through. All these peoples brought with them their own cultures and languages. Then, as now, Manila’s polyglot society was reflective of the city’s role as a globalized trading entrepôt, and a forum for the intercultural exchange of ideas and commodities. In the mid-eighteenth century, Murillo Velarde likened the city’s babel of languages to Jerusalem on the day of Pentecost. He noted that communities of Filipinos from almost every province of the archipelago were living there, all speaking their own languages; he also provided an even more variegated list of cultural and ethnic diversity than Letona’s already impressive inventory. Murillo Velarde complained that the confessional of Manila was the most difficult in the world, as it was “impossible to confess all these peoples in their own languages”—if they were, indeed, Roman Catholic, for representatives of other religions were also present.30 This Jesuit polymath left a number of detailed descriptions of Manila and the Philippines, as we have already seen, but he was also responsible for producing what is considered the first accurate cartographic representation of the

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archipelago, the Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas of 1734. This chart is bracketed by a set of vignettes depicting life in the urban and rural contexts of the Philippines, as well as small-scale maps and city plans. These were engraved by Filipino artist Nicolás de la Cruz Bagay (c. 1701–70), who on the chart proudly appended the label “Indio Tagalo” to his name. The illustrations of urban life in Manila (figure 1.6) show Filipino, Spanish, mestizo, Chinese, Japanese, African, Indian, and Armenian inhabitants holding certain poses or engaging themselves in various pursuits.31 Musical activity is represented by an African playing the berimbau (musical

figure 1.6. Vignettes from Pedro Murillo Velarde, et al., Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas (Manila: Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay Indio Tagalo, 1734). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.116.37).

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bow with a gourd resonator), and two Filipino children dancing the indigenous comintano to the accompaniment of a guitar or vihuela, which is played by a third child. These remarkable engravings, whose musical representations we examine in more detail in subsequent chapters, are a snapshot of life on street corners (and within one house), but they are only a limited glimpse of the full range of ethnic diversity and musical activity in and around the metropolis. Not all social factions had a lasting or significant impact on the evolution of musical practice in Manila, but let us consider the principal voices in the contrapuntal texture.

Filipinos Unsurprisingly, Filipinos made up the largest single group in Manila’s population. In the mid-eighteenth century, Murillo Velarde wrote that besides Tagalog inhabitants of the metropolis, there were Kapampangans, Bikolanos, Visayans, Ilokanos, and people from the Provinces of Pangasinan and Cagayan. The engravings by Cruz Bagay include depictions of Aeta and Visayans, alongside people described generically as indios, a label that referred generally to indigenous peoples but in this case probably specified members of the local Tagalog community. The Tagalogs and the Visayans were the two largest populations of the numerous ethnolinguistic groups in the Philippines. Throughout the islands, the basic sociopolitical unit was a community of 30 to 100 families called a barangay, a term that stemmed from the Tagalog word for “boat.” The majority of precolonial Filipino societies had a tripartite class structure, one with which early modern Europeans could easily identify and empathize: nobility, their free supporters, and serfs. Each barangay was ruled by a hereditary datu (who came from a noble class that the Tagalogs called maginoo), whereas the timawa and maharlika were born free, and the alipin (oripun in Visayan) were considered serfs or slaves.32 In the Manila region and other parts of the archipelago that were under the administration of the Spanish colonial government, the three-tiered class system was more or less maintained, as were the term and institution of the barangay.33 The datu was recognized as the head of each barangay, and was named cabeza de barangay. He had total control over his community and was responsible for collecting tribute (a form of taxation) and forwarding it to the Spanish authorities.34 One out of a group of cabezas de barangay was given the role of gobernadorcillo, and was directly responsible to the Spanish official alcalde mayor.35 The Spaniards gave the label principalía to the cabezas de barangay and their families, and in circumstances similar to the treatment of Aztec and Inca nobilities in the New World, this indigenous aristocracy was free from having to pay tribute or perform service to the colonial overlords.

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Members of the principalía were entrusted with governing posts in pueblos (Filipino towns) or doctrinas (rural parishes), and the Laws of the Indies mandated that they should be well treated by colonial authorities.36 The Spanish government also bestowed special privileges on certain powerful Filipino families, some of whom eventually adopted coats-of-arms in the European tradition.37 Apart from the addition of new European and immigrant tiers in the overall structure of society in the islands following Spanish conquest, the most significant changes to internal social structures of the Christianized indigenous communities was their urbanization (reducción) or relocation, and the official designation of four to eight cantores within each pueblo to provide music for the church, as we will see in a later chapter. Whereas professional singers and musicians (the categories of which included balladeers and mourners) had worked for payment in the precolonial Philippines, the imposition of the colonial tribute system bestowed a new significance on the role of the musician in Filipino society. As cantores were exempted from tribute, like the cabezas de barangay, they were thus elevated in society and also had a special role of interacting with the European religious ministers assigned to each parish. During the Spanish colonial period, Filipinos were also theoretically free to move between the islands and around the archipelago at will; a law was even set in place to prevent the forcible removal by a Spaniard of any Filipino, against his or her will, from one community to another. If it were at all necessary, the Filipino in question was legally required to be paid appropriately for his or her work, well treated, and not aggravated in any way.38 Some itinerant travelers throughout the archipelago were probably unaware of this legislation, however, and it is likely that Spanish colonialists themselves—far removed from the eyes of their authorities—frequently broke these laws. The early modern Filipinos were, to quote E. Arsenio Manuel, “a singing people.”39 Songs, whether indigenous or hispanized, always accompanied Filipino travelers; this was especially the case in boats that traveled between islands and along rivers, in which the pulling of the oars provided the rhythmic structure for antiphonal forms of vocalization. The long distance of some journeys promoted the practice of singing genealogies and epic tales. Many visitors and migrants to the colonial Philippines noted the great disposition of the Filipinos toward vocal music, especially in terms of Filipino affection for European styles. We see a typical example in the comment of a Spanish official who wrote in 1713 that “the Tagalogs are notably fond [of music], and many of them have voices that are so smooth and sonorous. Of [all] the marvels that there are in the Philippines, one is to hear these musicians, and such well ordered choirs of music.”40 This sort of observation became a common trope in literary representations of the country, as we will see later (the whole of chapter 3 is devoted to the musical practices of Filipinos).

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Chinese There had long been a Chinese presence in the Philippines as a result of migration for the purposes of carrying out trade. But following Manila’s foundation as a Spanish city and its rapid florescence as an important commercial center, Chinese migration increased to an unprecedented level. Around twenty junks would sail annually from Canton (now Guangzhou) and Amoy (now Xiamen) to Manila. Each junk was manned by a crew of up to 100 and was laden with goods. Many Chinese stayed on in Manila to ply their wares or practice their trades. In the Philippines they were called sangleyes, a word that may have been coined from a corruption of the Chinese words xang and li, implying dealing or trade. Their designated area for living, working, and trading was a ghetto called the Parian, situated outside the city walls but within firing range of the cannon. Strict apartheid was imposed: the Laws of the Indies forbade Spanish citizens of Manila from allowing Chinese in their houses.41 The presence of Chinese traders and craftsmen was tolerated by Manila’s government for decades at a time as they provided indispensable services and boosted the economy of the city. In around 1640, Jesuit Diego de Bobadilla (1590–1648) observed that the Chinese practiced “all the arts necessary in a republic.”42 They traded many goods, including silk and porcelain, and engaged in numerous professions, such as carpentry, paper-making, printing, bookbinding, and metalsmithing. They provided important accessories for musicians in Manila, such as strings for bowed and plucked string instruments. Bobadilla noted in his same account that strings of the guitars and harps played by Filipinos were not made of gut but of twisted silk, a material imported by the Chinese. He noted that “they produce a sound as agreeable as that produced by our [type of] strings, even though they are made of quite different material.”43 Silk was not the only alternative to gut: the Chinese also produced metal strings. Another Jesuit wrote later in the seventeenth century that he “saw in Manila a Chinese craftsman draw out about an ounce [28.35 grams] of silver . . . in a long strand the length of nine hundred Spanish ulnæ, or 3,600 palmos [around 720 meters].” But he added that “these wires were so fine that the length of a single span [a single string on an instrument] . . . [could be] broken with great ease.”44 Material goods such as silk and silver—two of the chief commodities exchanged between Asia and the Americas by means of the transpacific galleon trade— were thus transformed to act as an important form of musical interface between Chinese, Filipinos, and Spaniards. In circumstances similar to the population demographic of seventeenthcentury Mexico City, where the African population outnumbered the Spaniards and sometimes threatened the overthrow of colonial rule, the Spaniards viewed the growth of the Chinese population with considerable unease. Numerous laws were set in place to regulate their migration, trade, and religious observances.45 There were attempts to limit the number of Chinese to 6,000 in 1605

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and again in 1705, but in reality the size of the population was considerably higher.46 Four times during the seventeenth century there were uprisings and clashes, resulting in massacres that annihilated the Chinese population: in 1603, an estimated 24,000 were killed by combined Spanish and indigenous forces, and in 1639, some 23,000 were killed.47 Further revolts took place in 1662 and 1686, which were put down violently.48 After these, an uneasy peace reigned. In spite of the risks, however, Chinese immigrants continued to travel to the islands. The economic and material rewards of trade in Manila outweighed the potential, ultimate cost. Eventually, the extreme and abhorrent measures of putting an entire population to the sword gave way to policies of expulsion. The Chinese were officially expelled from the colony by virtue of royal decrees in 1686, 1744, and 1747, but these orders were not put into effect. Another decree of expulsion was issued in 1754, and approximately 2,000 Chinese left in 1755 (with the exception of around 500 who received Christian baptism, and another 1,100 who were studying Christian doctrine); however, this order was revoked in 1758. Following the British interregnum, the Chinese population was accused by the Spanish government of collaboration with the invading forces, and in 1766 those considered guilty were expelled. Yet another revocation of this order was made twelve years later.49 The government reversed its policies as it realized that each expulsion or pogrom against the Chinese population resulted in a major economic recession (a similar fate had befallen the Spanish economy following the expulsion of Jews from the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon in 1492). The presence of the Chinese community was vital to the prosperity and the very survival of the isolated Spanish colony. Just as musical counterpoint requires the interaction of two or more voices, contrapuntal cultures in the colonial milieu were not just interactive but also interdependent. As was usual in the Spanish Empire, religious conversion was seen as a means of mediation between opposing ethnic groups. The responsibility for evangelization among the Chinese was given to the Dominican order. Christian converts among the Chinese were permitted to live in the parishes of Binondo and Santa Cruz and were encouraged to intermarry with the indigenous population.50 However, some religious authorities considered the faith of Chinese converts to be superficial, and Murillo Velarde wrote in the mideighteenth century that “in my time I have seen them return to China and apostatize, even those who appear the most firm in their religion.”51 Similar opinions were expressed by a number of non-Spanish observers, including Frenchman Chrétien Louis Joseph de Guignes (1759–1845), who claimed at the end of the eighteenth century that “when they leave the Philippines they throw their images and chaplets into the sea, and cease to be Christians as soon as they lose sight of Mirabel point.”52 What de Guignes failed realize, however, was that the committal of sacred objects to water—like burning them or swallowing them—was a Chinese way of effecting these objects’ transcendence from the material world.

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The system of religious belief promoted by Murillo Velarde and all other Roman Catholic missionaries required the rejection of all other doctrines, an exclusivity that was at odds with the pluralistic Chinese worldview.53 Yet it is clear that the syncretic forms of Roman Catholicism practiced by many Chinese converts in the Philippines accommodated certain traditional rites and beliefs, such as honoring the ancestors and the implicit worship of Mazu (called Macho in Spanish), a goddess of the sea revered in southern China (especially coastal areas), in their veneration of the Virgin Mary.54 As subsequent chapters will show, there were concerted attempts made by church authorities in the Philippines to curb such religious subversion and their associated musical practices. While the Chinese rites controversy (concerning the Jesuits’ toleration and accommodation of traditional Chinese religious practices within Roman Catholicism) raged on mainland China and in Rome, the Philippines remained a staunch outpost of religious orthodoxy, led by a hieratic class that sought to stamp out any apparent heresy, especially that which was often expressed or symbolized through music. With the continuous waves of immigration from the mainland, many Chinese maintained their own manners and customs in Manila. Unless they married into other ethnic or social groups, they generally did not integrate into wider colonial society, meaning that for the most part they also retained their indigenous musical traditions. This state of affairs meant that European observers in early modern Manila could hear Chinese music without having to travel to China. Of all the Chinese instruments in Manila, some of the loudest and most plentiful were gongs. These were sometimes used as currency by traders; they were also carried in boats and played for ceremonial purposes. When Dominican Domingo Fernández de Navarrete (1618–86) arrived in Manila in 1648, he was greeted by vessels manned by Chinese, Filipinos, and mestizos (probably Chinese mestizos), who entertained him with fireworks, the playing of gongs, and displays of artillery. Many decades later, he recalled that “the Chinese Basons [gongs] made us gaze, for tho they are no bigger than an ordinary Bason, they sound like a great Bell. It is a strange Instrument.”55 (I have quoted an early eighteenth-century translation here, but the original text of the second sentence would be more accurately rendered into modern English as “it is a noteworthy instrument.”) Navarrete’s brief discussion of Chinese music displays a certain level of intercultural curiosity—and even empathy. In the mid-eighteenth century, on the other hand, Murillo Velarde gave a more detailed but disparaging account of Chinese music, writing that “in their festivities, the Chinese use various musical instruments, such as flutes or shawms, and a round bell of bronze, like a pandero [meaning tambourine, or a shallow, circular frame-drum], raised in the middle, and being hit with a stick [it] makes an intolerably disagreeable noise. They use drums, fifes, and rattles, which serve more for unpleasant noise than for harmonious music. They perform the most inexpressive theatrical pieces, which can last an afternoon, or a day, or a

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week. They sing through their noses.”56 Navarrete was much more receptive to Chinese instruments than Murillo Velarde, it seems. But whereas Navarrete was based in Manila for only nine years (after which he went to China), Murillo Velarde was there for over three and half decades; thus, the latter’s attitudes may have been hardened by political and evangelistic frustrations experienced in his longer relations with Manila’s Chinese population. European traders and other travelers passing through Manila made comments about Chinese music that were often disdainful. Nevertheless, they evidently found this music to be fairly prominent, arresting, and curious, as it stood out in Manila as an exotic form of alterity against the backdrop of hispanized musical traditions. For instance, North American trader Nathaniel Bowditch (1773–1838) recounted in his journal in 1796 that “taking a walk [in Manila] on Sunday we passed by the house of a China man who had that day been married & was making merry with his friends. . . . Their music was vocal & Instrumental. Two men playing on a speces [sic] of Violin another on a flute & a fourth with an Instrument making a sound like two pewter plates struck together accompanying it with his voice which was so little harmonious that if I had met him in the street I should have thought he had been crying. But I dare say they thought it excellent.”57 On the other hand, he noted laconically that the music of the Filipinos in Manila was “the same as the Spanish.”58 Throughout the Spanish colonial period, Chinese society in the Philippines retained strong elements of cultural difference. This potent and symbolic difference contributed to a considerable degree of dissonance between the European, Filipino, and Chinese factions of Manila’s society.

Spaniards It has been claimed that during the entire Spanish colonial period in the Philippines, the average number of Spaniards and Spanish mestizos who were resident in the islands never represented more than 1 percent of the islands’ total population.59 The size of the Spanish population itself is difficult to estimate because it fluctuated constantly. Most Spaniards were based in the capital, where in the seventeenth century their numbers did not exceed 2,800; in 1722 they numbered around 4,000.60 Yet in spite of their minority status, the Spaniards remained the richest and most politically influential inhabitants of early modern Manila. In the Spanish social hierarchy, the governor of the islands (also known as “governor general” or “captain general”) was the most important figure. As María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo notes, there then followed the oidores (judges) of the real audiencia, who, with other legal representatives and the lecturers and professors of the universities and colleges, made up an intellectual group in Manila’s society. Officials of the real hacienda (royal treasury)—contador, factor, and tesorero —together with military authorities in Manila and the nearby port of Cavite, also formed part of “high society.”61 The

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families of the great landowners, or encomenderos, whose holdings were established by gifts of land (encomiendas) from the monarch to the sixteenthcentury conquistadores and their descendants, constituted an elite. Each encomendero had the obligation to uphold the law, protect and succor his people (several communities), and above all, give all possible assistance to their learning of the Christian faith.62 By the mid-eighteenth century, however, the institution of the encomienda in the islands was in decline.63 Beyond Manila and other small settlements of Spaniards including Cebu City, Nueva Cáceres (now Naga City), and Vigan, the Spanish population throughout the islands was represented only by encomenderos and religious personnel. Spaniards were officially forbidden by the Laws of the Indies to live in any Filipino town, unless they were involved in evangelization. If Spaniards had to pass through Filipino towns on their travels, they were not allowed to stay longer than a day; merchants, on the other hand, were allowed to stay up to three days.64 Thus, the Spaniards who came to know the archipelago and its peoples most intimately were the religious personnel. Members of this group were highly influential in all parts of colonial society, through their interactions with numerous ethnic groups and social classes: they included the archbishop, bishops, dean, canons, and dignitaries of the cathedral; the diocesan clergy; and members of six religious orders. These orders were the Augustinians (who arrived in the islands with Legazpi in 1565), the Franciscans (who arrived in 1577), the Jesuits (1581), the Dominicans (1587), the Augustinian Recollects (1606), and the Order of San Juan de Dios (1641). There was also a commissar of the Holy Inquisition, a Dominican who was responsible to the tribunal in Mexico.65 Those Spaniards whose professions lay outside the religious realm, and whose families remained largely endogamous, cultivated lifestyles that embodied what Antonio García-Abásolo has called a “private environment.”66 Some were wealthy patrons of the arts—a few achieved a degree of success as authors and poets—and provided a strong financial basis on which artistic endeavor could rest and function, particularly in civic and religious fiestas. But information on the domestic musical life of Spaniards in early modern Manila is relatively sparse; most details about their tastes come from descriptions of public festivities. Still, there are accounts of private musical soirées and dances and balls in various institutions.67 In the second half of the eighteenth century, many French travelers commented on musical performances in the Philippines.68 Their remarks were generally disparaging; this is not surprising, seeing as how French writers of this period often looked down on cultural practices in Spain itself. Their level of condescension predictably became amplified in a colonial setting. Frenchman Guillaume Joseph Hyacinthe JeanBaptiste Le Gentil de la Galaisière (1725–92), who was in Manila from 1766 to 1768 while on his royally ordained but unsuccessful voyage to the South Seas to observe the transit of Venus across the Sun, went so far as to assert that the

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higher echelons of Spanish society had “no taste for any art” and that as far as music-making went, the Spaniards simply left the Filipinos to their own devices.69 This laissez-faire attitude resulted in the proliferation of indigenous and mestizo musicians in the realms of secular and sacred musical practice. But as we shall see in a later chapter, there was nothing laissez-faire about the direct interference by some Spanish missionary musicians with the musical practices of the Filipinos.

Other Diasporas As the Spanish conquest and colonization of the Philippines were enacted by way of Mexico, it was inevitable that there should be a significant number of migrants from Latin America to the islands. Representatives from an entire cross-section of Mexican society—Spanish criollos, indigenous Mexicans, mestizos, and Africans—migrated west across the Pacific. They included the government officials from the highest to the lowest ranks, members of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, missionaries from various religious orders, traders and merchants, opportunists and adventurers, and even convicts sent to swell the small population of colonialists.70 In this way, the music, drama, literature, and visual arts of Mexico were introduced to the Philippine Islands. People from neighboring Asian territories also moved to the Philippines, even though it was under Spanish colonial rule. Some ethnic groups were treated better than others. Japanese immigrants to early modern Manila, for instance, were not viewed by Spaniards as conquered indios, nor were they treated with the same contempt or fear as the Chinese merchant classes. Rather, they were considered “the Spaniards of Asia” and representatives of a complex literate civilization with a social structure with which Europeans could identify, particularly in the sixteenth century. Because the majority of Japanese immigrants to Manila were Christians who chose to go into exile in the Philippines or Macau for religious reasons, they were greeted by religious and secular Spanish authorities as “heroes of the faith.” Many sources note the collaboration of Japanese musicians—skilled in their own traditions and in European art forms—in Manila’s festivities during the period of regular contact with Japan, as we will see in a later chapter. After Japan closed its doors definitively to the outside world in 1639, the exodus of Christian exiles trickled to a halt. To a certain extent, musical expression in the Philippines remained linked to Japan, even after the effective closure of Japan to the world. Members of the community often performed traditional Japanese dances and music in festivities and spectacles, and a number of Japanese musicians trained in European music served in churches and convents of the city. By the late seventeenth century, however, the cultural distinctiveness of the Japanese community in Dilao, Manila, was gradually lost through assimilation with the surrounding Filipino population.71 Besides

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Japanese Christians, some Siamese and Vietnamese converts to Roman Catholicism also migrated to Manila. The importance of the presence of Africans in early modern East and Southeast Asia is only beginning to be recognized by historians.72 During the sixteenth century, the number of Africans traveling to East and Southeast Asia via India increased exponentially because of trading voyages on which they served as slaves or indentured sailors. These voyages included those of the English and Dutch East India Companies, and especially those of the Portuguese, whose trade network incorporated Goa, Malacca, Macau, and Nagasaki. Connections between these centers and Manila meant that many Africans disembarked in the Philippines, either for a short sojourn or for the rest of their lives. Some Africans who had been taken to Latin America as slaves or born in the Americas to African parents were also sent across the Pacific Ocean to the Philippines, with the usual landing at Guam en route. Thus Africans arrived in Southeast Asia from the East and the West, as did Europeans, but in remarkably different circumstances. With the Africans came their characteristic styles of music and dance, providing an exotic spectacle for certain Asian peoples who had not previously experienced these particular modes of performance. In 1593, a group of Africans accompanying a Portuguese delegation to Japanese taikō (regent) Toyotomi Hideyoshi (1536–98) performed a lively dance accompanied by fife and drum, becoming so engrossed that they did not notice the order to stop.73 The tune played by the fife may have been European, but it is likely that the rhythm of the drum and the dance itself were distinctively African. The presence of African culture and music in early modern Japan was relatively limited, but was more pronounced in parts of Southeast Asia and the Pacific. We know, for instance, that some African instruments and dances were introduced via the transpacific galleon trade to Guam and the Philippines, where they entered local practices (to varying degrees), as we shall see in the next chapter. Some Africans in early modern Asia were practitioners of European music. One of the first instrumental groups in the churches of Manila was an ensemble of African slaves who could play recorders and shawms; these musicians had been “donated” to the Jesuit church in 1596 by a Portuguese captain. They took on roles as musical pedagogues, teaching vocal music to Tagalog parishioners. But African musicians in Manila were later subject to discrimination in terms of their employment in ecclesiastical establishments: when a school for tiples (“trebles” or choirboys) was founded at Manila Cathedral in the mid-eighteenth century, African and part-African boys were excluded. It appears that however far and wide Europeans traveled in the early modern world, and however much alterity they experienced, they almost always took some racial and cultural prejudices with them, although certain feelings took time to develop and harden. Many of these attitudes eventually became institutionalized in colonial societies,

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through the creation of regulations that were as strict as the rules for counterpoint.

Conclusion Contrapuntal cultures in Manila interacted in ways similar to the movements of tectonic plates that produce earthquakes. While symbolic of the cataclysmic implications of cultural hegemony engendered by European colonialism, earthquakes can also evoke the character of cultural diffusion in the propagation of waves from an epicenter. As such, we could say that Manila was effectively an epicenter from which waves of hispanized cultural influence were propagated throughout the Philippine archipelago and neighboring Asian territories, with numerous aftershocks. In line with this metaphor, it seems appropriate that Old Manila, a city founded on seismic fault lines, was the birthplace of an aesthetic that in the twentieth century came to be called “earthquake baroque.”74 This name is predicated largely on the monumental style of architecture that arose in the Philippines throughout the Spanish colonial period. Earthquake baroque style was steeped in Spanish, Moorish, and Roman traditions of design, but was subtly fused with stylistic elements of indigenous art, as well as influences imported from China and Mexico.75 It represents a syncretic form of artistic expression that is uniquely Filipino. But as much as earthquake baroque relates to architecture, it can be applied in equal terms to other visual and sonic elements of the transplantation and transformation of Hispanic culture in Southeast Asia. Forms of musical performance that seemed strangely beautiful and bizarre to early modern writers began to be cultivated in the tropics, while syncretic artistic genres were spawned from the colonial condition. For these processes to take place, however, diverse cultures had to come into contact with each other. The counterpoint of Spanish and Moorish cultures in the Iberian Peninsula and northern Africa was echoed and replicated in Southeast Asia. Many other voices entered the contrapuntal fabric, for the foundation of Manila as a colonial capital brought together representatives of cultures from all around the world. Global networks, whether cultural or economic, always require nodes between which links can be forged and sustained. These nodes become points of convergence that attract people, bringing commodities and ideas from all directions. Yet at the same time they act as points of radial diffusion, from which agents of globalization seek new points of anchorage—just like a spider throwing strands of silk into the wind in the hope of it making contact with a solid object. The first “world wide web” of trade and cultural exchange, as it gradually took shape in the early modern period, relied on entrepôts such as Manila for the expansion and intensification of international commerce. In terms of the general backdrop of global music history, these cities come into sharp focus as

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loci for the speedy and intense exchange of musical traits and practices from many different cultures. In this chapter, we have seen that Manila attracted migrants from all over the world and juxtaposed diverse cultural identities in a complex social mosaic. Representatives from Asia, Africa, the Americas, and Europe all converged at this port city, as a result of voyages from every direction. Manila acted as the most important link between China and Mexico in the formation of early modern global trade, and as such it became a significant conduit for the transmission of people, ideas, and commodities. The transpacific galleons traveling between the Philippines and Mexico were a regular and sustained channel of communication and transportation; moreover, they symbolized political and cultural connections across the Earth’s largest ocean. The stage was set for multidirectional encounters, transactions, and exchanges.

2

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Musical Transactions and Intercultural Exchange

One of the defining characteristics of counterpoint is simultaneity. Without the simultaneous sounding of voices, there can be no contrapuntal opposition to make a polyphonic whole. If we view all human musics of the past half-millennium as contributing to a type of global polyphony (or cacophony, for that matter), we can see that the worldwide diffusion of musical commodities was a vital element in the simultaneous cultivation of certain shared musical repertories or performance traditions. Likewise, we realize that the meeting of mutually alien cultures often determined the identities of the opposing voices that would engage in the most sustained and complex contrapuntal dialogue. Many of these voices were entangled in intricate relationships of cultural interdependence and behaved in response to the pressures, needs, and expectations of their environment. Examining this sort of colonial counterpoint, then, allows us to form an understanding of the functioning or inner workings of musical encounters between different and usually conflicting cultures in the early modern world. Musical transactions and intercultural exchanges were arguably the most important part of contrapuntal interplay within the colonial milieu. Commodities such as musical instruments were not just accessories to a transplanted European culture; they were also artifacts that could be observed or handled by members of other cultures. They provided the means for the (re)production of sound and were themselves models to be reproduced in the colonies. Along with instruments, colonialists imported sheet music and theoretical treatises (in print and manuscript form). All types of musical commodities brought to the Philippines fell into three main categories: objects for personal use, objects for institutional use, and objects for trade. Of course, these categories were broad and had fluid and porous boundaries. There was a great deal of overlap between them.

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Musical commodities were transported around the world as inanimate articles, and they were of course dependent on the human agency of theoretical understanding and practical skills. For this reason, musicians or instrument builders often traveled on the galleons with their specialized belongings. Even when traders without any musical training assumed responsibility for the transmission of musical commodities, they did so with the aim of serving professional and amateur musicians in the colonies. The transoceanic channels of commodity transmission were thus geared favorably toward the needs of musicians and the creation of colonial musical practices. By their very existence, they also provided a catalyst for exchanges and transactions with other cultures. Manila, as a satellite European city and a far-flung outpost of the Spanish Empire, was the conduit through which European, American, and African cultural influences arrived in many parts of East and Southeast Asia. For the cultures of the Philippines and neighboring lands, the musical repercussions of 1571 were arguably as pervasive and radically influential as those of 1492 had been in the Americas.1 The sudden arrival of European music in the early modern Philippines (and certain neighboring regions) established a colonial music culture, triggered intercultural dialogue between opposing musical systems, and initiated a period of accelerating musical change and development, as this chapter shows.

European Musical Commodities as Cultural Currency The earliest known record of a large collection of musical works reaching the Philippines is the inventory of plainchant and polyphony in the personal library of Domingo de Salazar (1512–94), the first bishop of Manila, who arrived in 1581. This document lists sixteen books of music whose titles are unspecified but whose contents are hinted at by the description that four were “choirbooks” and twelve were “books of chant intonations and processionals.” Bishop Salazar also brought with him pipe organs and a set of recorders and shawms.2 Several decades later, the dulcian (bajón), “a very important instrument for church music,” was introduced to the islands by the Jesuit Luis Serrano (d. 1603), who “played it in the choir, and taught the Filipinos how to make it and play it.”3 These instruments, and many others, provided the basis for all those that were eventually used by European and indigenous ministriles (church instrumentalists) in the Philippines. While scores of commodities came directly from Europe, networks between the religious communities of widely dispersed territories within the overseas Spanish Empire also facilitated the transmission of sheet music and instruments. Extra-European nodes had strong links between them. In 1615, Pedro Solier (c. 1578–1620), who was then bishop of Puerto Rico and had previously been a missionary in the Philippines, sent gifts to the recently founded

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Augustinian convent in Manila. These included ornaments of brocade for use in worship (“para el servicio del culto dibino”) and a box of choirbooks (“libros de canto”), all of which had been purchased at his own cost.4 Similar channels of correspondence allowed for the transmission of musical materials between autonomous Asian countries and the Spanish colony of the Philippines. For instance, Franciscan missionary Juan de Santa Marta (1578–1618), who arrived in Manila in 1606 and then worked in Japan from 1607 until his execution there in 1618, composed a misa en solfa during his three-year imprisonment in Miako (now Kyoto) and sent it to his brethren in Manila shortly before his martyrdom.5 Musical salutations between religious personnel in missions outside Europe constituted important forms of contact. Because European music was a familiar element of worship that sparked an immediate connection between Roman Catholic missionaries working far from their native countries, it accrued considerable value in its material form (manuscript or printed sheet music, often produced at great expense) as a representation of the sumptuous arts of Catholic Europe, which could be imitated or replicated from afar. The importation of European books to Manila reflects certain characteristics of the same trade in Latin America, not only in terms of their subject matter but also in terms of the extent to which censorship was applied. Given that the added distance of a transpacific voyage compounded the expense and effort of the exercise, the presence of these books as far afield as Southeast Asia was highly significant in the early modern period. The works on music theory that were taken to the Philippines demonstrate the breadth of intellectual endeavor in the musical culture of the colony—or at least the bibliographical or practical demands of the colonialists—and it is worth examining them here. An early example comes from the inventory of a private library of an unnamed Spanish official, who shipped his books from Acapulco to Manila in 1583: this collection included an Arte de canto llano by an unnamed theorist.6 Meanwhile, a diverse collection of early modern music treatises is still held in Manila’s University of Santo Tomás (founded by the Dominicans in 1611), although it is difficult to determine the exact dates of their arrival. Among them can be found the first book of the Declaración de instrumentos (Osuna, 1549) by Juan Bermudo (c. 1510–59), El melopeo y maestro (Naples, 1613) by Pietro Cerone (1566–1625), a damaged copy of the first volume of Musurgia universalis (Rome, 1650) by Athanasius Kircher (1601–80), and a reprint of Élémens de musique théorique et pratique suivant les principes de M. Rameau (Paris, 1779) by Jean le Rond d’Alembert (1717–83). A Franciscan historian writing in Manila during the 1730s also made reference in a marginal note to “Plutarch. lib. de Musica,” implying that an edition of the work was present in the city.7 This work was a standard classical text for music scholarship in the early modern period. (But while De musica was attributed to Plutarch [c. 46–120 c.e.], it was almost certainly not written by him.)

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Another important early modern treatise, El porqué de la música (Alcalá de Henares, 1672; second edition, 1699) by Andrés Lorente (1624–1703), is listed in a mid-eighteenth-century library inventory of the Augustinian convent in Intramuros.8 The inventory does not specify which edition of the work was imported, but we can presume that it arrived in the Philippines within a few decades of its publication, certainly before the mid-eighteenth century. The music treatises known to have been in Manila cover a wide range of dates and reflect local familiarity with regular developments in European music theory. It is noteworthy that the majority of them propound the principles of contrapuntal composition, which was a central part of colonial music pedagogy. Although most of these treatises were housed in institutions that catered for the education of the elite, especially the Dominican Universidad de Santo Tomás and the Jesuit Colegio de Manila, the musical knowledge and skills found within these tomes spread throughout many parts of society with the appointment of religious personnel to various churches and missions. Knowledge was propagated through missionary music education. Ultimately, the influence of these treatises would have resonated in the activities of indigenous maestros de capilla and their ensembles. To use a concept of Pierre Bourdieu (1930–2002), these treatises represented cultural capital in its “objectified state, in the form of cultural goods.” As they also conferred skills and knowledge of European music, they increased indigenous musicians’ status (in the eyes of the colonial authorities) and—by extension—both their social capital (in terms of their networks of connections with patrons of their art) and their symbolic capital (the prestige bestowed on them for their skills).9 It is likely that each treatise was imported to the colonies while it held currency within the prevailing trends of music theory and practice in the Old World, rather than as an antiquarian work within a larger bibliophilic collection. A letter written in 1654 by Juan Montiel (1630–55), a twenty-four-year-old Jesuit from Naples, reveals the relatively rapid transportation of major theoretical works in early modern world as part of the global missionary endeavor: in this case, the Musurgia universalis by Athanasius Kircher. Montiel’s epistle was addressed to none other than Kircher himself, in Rome, and it is worth quoting at length, because it illustrates some of the challenges and privations involved in the dissemination of European books to the East Indies. I am so obliged to Your Reverence not only for the great kindness with which Your Reverence treated me in Rome, but also for the instruction that Your Reverence gives me all day in these remote parts of the world by means of his books—which are no less esteemed here than [they are] in Europe—that it would be [a sign of ] great ingratitude not to write to Your Reverence. May you know, then, how most fortunate and most brief was our voyage from Rome to the Philippines. But six leagues from Cavite, a port two leagues

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away from Manila, the Lord (the ways of whom are inscrutable) allowed for the rise of a contrary wind that they call “Noroeste,” or “Vendrial,” which, breaking out with great fury on 30 May, the night before the feast of the Most Sacred Trinity, [broke] the ropes, causing the ship to lose all of its anchors, so that it was necessary to go to a sandy beach nearby where the people, the King’s silver, and other precious things were saved. Here in Manila I am studying the fourth year of theology, and I see for myself the many marvels that Your Reverence recounts in his books. I have been the first to bring one of these, that is, the Musurgia, to the [East] Indies, and I do not doubt that it will be of great usefulness to the Fathers of the missions, where music is taught publicly.10 Given this description of the ship’s harrowing landing, it seems remarkable that any books arrived dry and in one piece. Montiel goes on to add that the rector of Silan (now Silang, Province of Cavite)—a German Jesuit named Ignatio Monti—“wants to read it, and I will send it to him shortly.”11 We do not know whether Montiel carried out his intention to send the treatise out of the city; if he did, then the copy that is now held at the University of Santo Tomás may not be the same one that was imported in 1654. (It has no marks of ownership that associate it with any Jesuit book collection, although it does bear a Dominican library stamp that probably dates from the late nineteenth or early twentieth centuries.) In any case, Montiel did not tarry long in Manila after his landing. Shortly after writing this letter, he was sent as an ambassador on an ill-fated mission to the Islamic court of Simuay.12 We revisit his tragic story later. The arrival of the Musurgia universalis in the Philippines just four years after its publication in Rome is illuminating; it demonstrates the ready reception of the local intellectual community to current works on music theory and suggests that other compendia of the times taken to the islands were greeted with similar interest. Of all the theoretical works on music published during the early modern period, Kircher’s Musurgia enjoyed a worldwide distribution that was practically unprecedented; the breadth of its diffusion was due to the global network of the Jesuit enterprise.13 In the Philippine missions, where music was “taught publicly,” the Musurgia—containing information on music theory, history, ethnography, organology, and practice—would have been considered a vital tool. As well as detailing European traditions, it provided the means by which the reader could attempt to approach, understand, and even make use of non-European musics in the context of evangelization. Kircher’s treatise was evidently studied in great detail in Manila. A seventeenth-century manuscript volume titled “Observationes diversarum artium,” partly or completely compiled in this city by an anonymous Jesuit, includes writings on geometry, astronomy, and other diverse subjects, as well as a

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116-page section treating music, titled “Musicalia speculativa, practicalia, et instrumentorum.”14 Within this section, 114 pages provide a succinct digest of the Musurgia universalis. The text of the “Musicalia” is interpolated with pithy observations of local musical practices in the Philippines, and its production shows that erudition in the academic discipline of music was cultivated at the highest level in late seventeenth-century Manila. The author makes occasional references to the work of theorist Marin Mersenne (1588–1648), and reproduces a diagram of a trump or jaw harp (figure 2.1) resembling one found in Mersenne’s Harmonie universelle (Paris, 1636–37) and Harmonicorum libri (Paris, 1648), which suggests that one or both of these treatises may have been available for study in Manila. It is very likely that this entire volume of “Observationes,” assembled in the final third of the seventeenth century, was used for the purposes of academic instruction at the Jesuit Colegio de Manila. Along with Montiel, certain other individuals (particularly missionaries) were responsible for spearheading the dissemination of musical commodities: one was a Franciscan named Francisco Péris de la Concepción (d. 1701). Born in Pego, Valencia, he traveled to the Philippines via Mexico, arriving in Manila in 1671, and the following year he transferred to the missions in China, taking the Chinese name Pien-Siang-Kung. He founded three churches in Canton and was a prolific theological writer in Spanish and Chinese. After twelve years

figure 2.1. Depiction of a jaw harp. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” 591. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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of residence in China, he moved to Macau in 1684, then in 1689 returned to Manila, where he died on November 8, 1701.15 Soon after, his biographer wrote that “from [his time in] Mexico he searched out maestros and requested from them papers [that is, copies], not only for singing, but also the art and rules for the composition of many hymns and Psalms in musical meter.”16 Péris de la Concepción probably took these papers with him to the Philippines and China, providing a theoretical foundation for the use of music in his work there. They would have been copies of music treatises and compositions that were commonly available in Mexico. He also composed a book of motets, which is probably lost: “Libro de música en fólio para el canto de Motetes á cuatro voces en el Via-Crucis de los Terceros de Manila.”17 Many other types of European musical repertory were undoubtedly diffused throughout Southeast Asia by means of oral transmission. Works from one quite obvious category of early modern migrant communities, the songs of sailors, were rarely mentioned or recorded in early modern documents; but we can deduce from anecdotal evidence and accounts of daily life that a great deal of devotional religious music was commonly retained by memory and that famous spiritual verses were sung to popular tunes. For instance, when Jesuit Raymundo Prat (1557–1605) lay on his deathbed in February 1605, some singers from the Jesuit College came to him asking if he would like to hear some music and what he would have them sing. Prat requested some verses that started “Véante mis ojos, dulce Jesus bueno; véante mis ojos; muerame yo luego,” which a treble sang to him in a steady voice.18 This text is the beginning of a poem that is often attributed to Saint Teresa of Ávila (1515–82)19 and which is still set to music and performed today in parts of Spain as a popular devotional song. It is one of the few named examples of popular religious songs that we know from early modern Manila. Books of plainchant and polyphony that had been printed in Europe were also available from booksellers who set up shop in Manila, because these businesses intended to profit from musical exchanges in the religious and domestic markets. An inventory of the wares sold by merchant Pedro de Zúñiga (d. 1608) included the following titles in 1607: “pasionarios de canto llano,” “un juego de motetes de guerrero,” and “un juego de motetes de madrigal.”20 The volume of motets by “guerrero” most likely refers to works by celebrated composer Francisco Guerrero (1528–99), rather than his less famous elder brother, Pedro Guerrero (b. ca. 1520). It could be one of three collections published in Venice: Motetta (1570), Mottecta, liber secundus (1589), or Motecta (1597).21 However, the descriptions of the other musical sources in the will defy identification. The term “madrigal” was certainly used for certain genres in Spain, predominantly by Catalonian composers, but “motetes de madrigal” could allude to works written by a composer whose nickname was “madrigal.”22 Equally, it could refer loosely to a volume of sacred music in vernacular language(s). Meanwhile, “pasionarios de canto llano” is a fairly ambiguous descriptor, and a large

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number of such works available at the time could fit the bill. All these books had been sent to Zúñiga in Manila by a friar named Albarránez in Mexico. However, the business appears not to have thrived, and Zúñiga lamented in his last testament that he more often loaned books to local religious communities than sold them to paying customers. Still more were destroyed in a fire. Thus, he bequeathed the remaining volumes back to Albarránez.23 Although the market for music books in Manila at this time was relatively restricted—given that the primary consumers would have been members of religious congregations, with strictly controlled funds—printed music books continued to make their way to Manila. Eighteenth-century publications that are known to have been imported include a Pasionario en que se contienen las quatro pasiones de los quatro santos evangelistas (Madrid, 1788), containing printed music in mensural notation. Three copies of this work survive today in the Convento de San Agustín.24 But apart from the treatises discussed earlier, no seventeenth-century examples of European printed music survive, and no other listings in inventories have yet been found (the earliest example is a cathedral inventory from 1761, discussed in chapter 6). However, we can see evidence of this type in neighboring Iberian colonies, which may help construct an idea of the type of repertory that was known in Manila. For instance, the titles listed in an early seventeenth-century catalog of a library in Macau, which may have been consulted by European missionaries destined for mainland China and Japan, include a significant number of publications containing music, such as the Directorium chori ad usum Sacrosanctæ Basilic[a]e Vaticanæ (Rome, 1582) by Giovanni Domenico Guidetti (1531–92), books of Mass and Magnificat settings by Portuguese composer Duarte Lobo (1565– 1646), and many other choirbooks and liturgical books besides.25 Given that religious commodities were regularly shipped between Macau and Manila— the facistol (music-lectern) of the Convento de San Agustín in Intramuros, for example, was reputedly carved in Macau in the early eighteenth century—it follows that musical repertory was also probably shared between the two cities.26 Importation and local production of music combined to meet the musical needs of the colony. A description of festivities held in Manila in 1712 refers to “the most famous tunes” having come from Spain, and an account of serenata performances in Antipolo in 1748 mentions that “Spanish and foreign compositions” were sung, both “old and modern; in which the best of the art was demonstrated in arias, recitatives, fugues, graves, and all other variety of genres.”27 Theatrical works by Spanish Golden Age poets such as Lope de Vega Carpio (1562–1635), Pedro Calderón de la Barca (1600–81), and Agustín Moreto (1618–89), as well as by the “Phoenix of Mexico,” Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651–95), arrived from both Spain and Latin America. They were performed in Manila during the first half of the eighteenth century (and perhaps earlier).28 Some plays are indicated by name, and we know that they included

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considerable musical involvement at various stages throughout the drama. This music was either imported or newly composed in Manila. Locally composed music included Mass and Psalm settings, arias, and villancicos, almost all traces of which have unfortunately disappeared. These were most likely produced in manuscript form and were often written for specific festivities, whether seasonal (according to the feasts of the church year) or occasional (as in the celebration of royal births, deaths, and marriages; or military victories, beatifications, and canonizations). Complex polychoral compositions were regularly commissioned and performed by the combined ensembles of multiple institutions. For instance, the chronicler of celebrations held in 1676 at the Convento de Santo Domingo in honor of the beatification of Pius V, Diego de Bebaña, and Margarita de Castello reported that “at the appropriate time for Vespers, all of our religious [the Dominicans] . . . together with all the capillas de música of Manila invited [for this occasion], accompanied by five choirs of a fine variety of instruments, sang new works, Psalm settings and chanzonetas, breaking forth the renown of the celebration, and contributing to the elevation [of the newly beatified].”29 The scores of these “new works” may have been retained (and possibly recycled for later performances), but those with newly composed texts that were written especially for the occasion probably fell into disuse. Although the texts were kept for posterity in printed accounts of the festivities, the music itself was always in manuscript form and was often not preserved.30 The only possible example of a printed work devoted entirely to music was a treatise on plainchant, composed in the Bikol language, by Franciscan José de la Virgen (d. 1767), which was purportedly produced by one of Manila’s presses in 1727.31 But this publication does not appear to survive in Manila, or in the Bikol region. On the other hand, many manuscript cantorales still exist in the capital and throughout the archipelago. The largest corpus from the early modern period is housed in the Biblioteca of the Convento de San Agustín. Again, some were produced locally (by hand), and others were imported. Although music in European staff notation was printed in Japan as early as 1605 (in the Manuale ad sacramenta produced by the Jesuit press at Nagasaki) and there are examples of European staff notation in a Chinese theoretical treatise of 1723, these were isolated instances.32 Music printing did not begin in Manila until the mid-nineteenth century, but when it did, it soon blossomed into a thriving industry. Manila served as the logical starting point for most Spanish missionaries (as well as some Italians and Portuguese) wishing to venture into mainland China or other neighboring Asian territories, and musical commodities often went with them. The Lazarist missionary and musician Teodorico Pedrini (1671–1746), who was a member of the Arcadian Academy and possibly a student of Arcangelo Corelli (1653–1713), stopped in Manila from 1708 to 1710 during an epic nine-year voyage from Rome to Beijing.33 Once he finally

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reached the Chinese capital, in early 1711, Pedrini wrote a letter on March 4 reporting on his first audience with the Kangxi emperor. This epistle, sent to Rome, reveals that he brought to Beijing works newly composed by himself, and “in his first month [there] he composed three [more] sets of ten trio sonatas to present to the emperor.”34 As Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff have shown in their pioneering research, Pedrini’s sole extant collection of works, “Sonate a violino solo col basso del Nepridi: Opera Terza. Parte Prima,” which contains twelve violin sonatas fashioned after those in Opus 5 of Corelli, still survives in Beijing and is believed to have been composed (or at least recopied) there.35 So far none of his earlier works have been found. We could speculate that some of the repertory he took with him to Beijing was composed in Manila, although no evidence survives to substantiate such a claim. Pedrini is also the obvious candidate to have imported the works of Corelli to China and the Philippines. However, the same letter includes a petition to the Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide (Sacred Congregation for the Propagation of the Faith) “to send, as essential pieces of equipment, ‘le opere di Arcangelo Corelli di buona stampa con alcune di Bononcino’” (the works of Arcangelo Corelli, well printed [or engraved], with some of Bononcino), which suggests that these scores were not already in China at the time of his arrival and that he did not take them with him.36 Nevertheless, evidence from elsewhere in the Spanish Empire and from other European colonies in Asia lends weight to the possibility that Corelli’s music reached the Philippines at some point in the eighteenth century.37 Musical instruments, especially keyboard instruments, were considered vital tools for religious missions in Asia. Keyboard instruments (clavichords, harpsichords, spinets, and organs) began to circulate around East and Southeast Asia in the late sixteenth century, being transported there via both eastern and western channels of transmission.38 With the diffusion of keyboards throughout the Americas and parts of Africa in the sixteenth century, this European musical technology began to be used worldwide. We have seen that organs arrived in Manila with Bishop Salazar in the 1580s. Meanwhile, some more surprising evidence seems to suggest the presence of clavichords in the city not long after: in a Tagalog vocabulario of 1613, one of the translations for the Spanish term cuerda (string) is listed as the Tagalog word cauar (now kawad), which is described as “copper [strings] for clavichords or zithers.”39 This reference to the clavichord (monacordio) by Franciscan Pedro de San Buena Ventura (d. 1627) appears to be the earliest written allusion to any stringed keyboard instrument in the Philippines. Although it does not provide concrete evidence that clavichords proliferated in early seventeenth-century Manila, it implies that the local Spanish population was nevertheless aware of—and familiar with—the requisite technology for the construction of this instrument, and, furthermore, that local string-making practices were exploited for the construction or maintenance of these European instruments. Inclusion of these specialized musical

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terms in a Filipino language compendium could even imply the indigenous use of these instruments at this relatively early date. The local teaching of organ building began as early as 1606, with the work of Juan de Santa Marta who, as mentioned, traveled to Japan not long after his arrival in the Philippines.40 Exactly what types of organs he built in the Philippines and Japan remains an intriguing question. There remains no physical evidence of organs dating from the early seventeenth century in the Philippines. Nevertheless, the construction of organs with bamboo pipes in Japan had been noted as early as 1596 by a Portuguese captain, Ruis Mendes, who had heard of them and “wanted to see them with his eyes, and touch them with his hands.” When he saw these organs in Nagasaki, touched (or played) them, and heard their sound, this Doubting Thomas was filled with admiration.41 Organs such as these were probably portative, and similar instruments with bamboo pipes may also have been produced in the Philippines at this time. They perhaps provided a precedent for the work of Recollect missionary Diego Cera de la Virgen del Carmen (1762–1832) in the early nineteenth century: his famous bamboo organ at Las Piñas, built between 1816 and 1824, which contains 747 speaking bamboo pipes.42 The building of organs seems to have been propelled or encouraged by the Franciscans; a document written in 1703 by Franciscan missionary Juan de Jesús states that “it is not very easy to make organs, [but] a Filipino from Camarines named Alonso made the organ of our Monasterio de Santa Clara, and another which our brother fray Lucas Eskuan took to China. There is another Filipino who is in [here the manuscript has a blank space] who also makes organs, and in Nagcarlan this year of 1703 another Filipino restored the organ to an almost new condition, and the same year another Filipino did likewise to the organ in Lilio.”43 This document provides the earliest archival evidence of a named Filipino organ builder, and it is highly significant, for it indicates that this craftsman was constructing organs for both the domestic and export markets; the three unnamed Filipinos who were mentioned by Jesús were also engaged in organ manufacture and restoration. Around fifty years later, a document concerning the rebuilding of Manila Cathedral noted that the organ was being constructed by an unidentified “expert master” of organ building who was, at the time, apparently “the only one in the islands.”44 We do not know whether this builder was Filipino or Spanish. (It is unlikely to be the same Alonso of Camarines, who would have been either extremely elderly or deceased by that time.) If there were only one organ builder in the whole of the archipelago in the mid-eighteenth century, then the arrival of Cera in 1792 may have revived a skill that was waning in the region. Pipe organs appear to have been popular in other Southeast Asian countries, as a number of early modern documents attest. For instance, in 1771 French historian François Henri Turpin (1709–99) claimed that “the organ is the favorite instrument [in Siam], because it is the one that makes the most

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noise, and in order to have the pleasure of hearing it, they [the Siamese] come with willingness to the church of the Christians. Many have learnt the art of playing it, just through having heard it regularly.”45 Although Turpin wrote in Paris, compiling his Histoire civile et naturelle du royaume de Siam from letters sent to him by missionaries in the field, it is likely that this rather routine observation had some foundation to it. As a mechanical instrument, and a loud one, the organ attracted audiences in many parts of the world. Still, for lack of relevant documentation it remains unknown whether these organs in Siam were built locally or imported from Europe. As we can see, the early modern Philippines were certainly a significant center of production for European musical instruments. It is possible that Pedrini himself obtained instruments such as a violin or keyboard and associated accessories (strings, for example) in the Philippines, given that his arduous odyssey across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and across land over ten years may have wrought havoc on the state of his possessions. Although we know little about luthieries in the early modern Philippines, we do know that colonial instrument-building undoubtedly reached its zenith in the final decade of the eighteenth century. Once Diego Cera arrived in Manila, on June 5, 1792, he established a workshop in which pipe organs and other keyboard instruments were constructed. Given the well-documented propensity of Filipinos to make European instruments, there can be little doubt that Cera employed local indigenous craftsmen. The first “Forte-Piano” built there was regarded by Governor Rafael María de Aguilar y Ponce de León (d. 1806) as having no equal in Spain or England and being so beautiful that it would be a worthy gift to the Spanish queen. José de Santa Orosia (1736–1807), the provincial of the Recollect order in the Philippines, confirmed this decision on October 29, 1793, dedicating the instrument to María Luisa de Parma (1751–1819; also known as María Luisa de Borbón), wife and queen consort of Carlos IV (1748–1819).46 Santa Orosia’s letter accompanying its delivery refers to the instrument having “newly invented registers,”47 but no more specific details are offered, and the letter of dedication addressed directly to the queen has not yet emerged. Although María Luisa acknowledged receipt of the fortepiano, sending back to Cera costly gifts for his parish, no other reactions seem to be recorded in Spain, and the instrument itself has not yet been located.48 Still, Cera’s fame rests on his skills as an organ builder. Following his only recorded making of a “Forte-Piano,” he went on to construct and rebuild many organs throughout the Philippines; a few of his masterpieces and others bearing evidence of his influence survive today in the Manila region and in the Visayas.49 A significant cultural ramification of the transpacific galleon trade was very likely the migration of craftsmen from Mexico to the Philippines, including makers of musical instruments. The production of new musical instruments was so abundant in Mexico during the sixteenth century that from 1585 orders were issued that any person wishing to trade as an instrument maker had to

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pass a strict examination testing the ability to construct particular instruments.50 The overflow of Mexican luthiers or their products doubtless spread across the Pacific to the Philippines, and was probably responsible for the arrival in the islands of many types of stringed instruments, such as the harp and the bandurria. The author of the “Musicalia” claims that he saw a man named Sebastian Bicos playing the bandurrilla (bandurria) in Manila on August 1, 1663, and even provided a diagram of the instrument (figure 2.2).51 The bandurria, popular throughout Spain and Latin America, stands between the guitar and cittern in terms of its design and practice.52 As early as 1555, Bermudo mentioned that it had circulated between Spain and the New World and that organological developments in the Americas (for example, the addition of extra strings) had had an impact on the design of European instruments.53 The bandurria most likely reached the Philippines via Latin America, and its importation was doubtless an influential factor in the development of the rondalla, an ensemble of plucked string instruments that remains popular in the Philippines to this day.

figure 2.2. Depiction of a bandurrilla. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” 596. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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The sixteenth-century arrival of European plucked and bowed string instruments to the Philippines—from across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans, by way of the Americas—represents the beginning of the globalization of Eurasian chordophones. As I explain in the introduction, I consider the origins of globalization to be coterminous with the regular and sustained use of routes covering every longitudinal point of the Earth. The globalization of a particular technology or a commodity can be dated back to its consistent diffusion around the world through these channels of transmission. Thus the Philippines represent an early modern point of global convergence for string instruments from Asia, Europe, and also Africa. Plucked string instruments have ancient origins in different parts of Eurasia. Evidence for the use of the lyre and harp can be dated back to 3000 b.c.e. in the Middle East, and this technology was carried both East and West.54 The technique of bowing arose in Central Asia shortly before the tenth century c.e. (which is the approximate date of the earliest known iconographic evidence, a mural from south Tajikistan).55 String instruments proliferated throughout Eurasia and reached Southeast Asia via India and China. The earliest iconographic representation of a harp in Southeast Asia, in Burma, dates from the mid-seventh century c.e., and lutes appear in bas-reliefs on the ninth-century walls of Borobudur in Indonesia.56 Bows probably arrived in the region at some point in the following centuries. Yet in the Americas, by contrast, no string instruments of any type appear to have been known or played before the advent of transatlantic connections at the end of the fifteenth century, even though indigenous inhabitants used the bow in archery.57 The subsequent introduction of European and African string instruments to the Americas, then these objects’ transportation westward over the Pacific to the Philippines—where a long-established string instrument culture was flourishing in the precolonial epoch—meant that the westernmost and easternmost extents of EurasianAfrican chordophonic influence and practice met in Southeast Asia. The transpacific link between Mexico and the Philippines was not, of course, a nonstop route, and we should consider the use and delivery of musical commodities on the way. During the long voyage from Acapulco to Manila, the galleons usually stopped at the Mariana Islands (but not on the return journey, as they followed a more northern route). This was not the only connection between the two archipelagoes: a ship to link them directly was constructed in the eighteenth century. Exchanges between the Philippines and its island neighbors to the east (not only the Marianas but also the Micronesian archipelago known as the Caroline Islands) were highly important for the Philippine colony, especially from the perspective of missionaries. Satellite mission stations in these islands were maintained by Jesuits of the Philippine Province, who transported musical commodities from both Acapulco and Manila. The Jesuit mission on the Marianas’ largest island, Guam, was established in 1668 by Diego Luis de Sanvítores (1627–72), following approval of the project by Spain’s queen regent,

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María Ana (Mariana) de Austria (1634–96), who donated funds for the project. Her name had graced the islands of the small archipelago (“Islas Marianas”) from the time she issued the relevant cédula (decree) in 1665, replacing the derogatory name that had been given by Magellan in 1521: “Islands of Thieves.”58 Along with a band of Spaniards, Jesuit Sanvítores took with him a number of indigenous Filipinos, including two interpreters (who had previously lived in the Marianas for around twenty years), craftsmen and soldiers, and three musicians.59 The musicians have the unusual distinction of having their names left on the record: Juan de Santiago (cantor), Felipe Tocsan (cantor), and Andrés de la Cruz (niño tiple). These Filipino practitioners of European music played a significant role in perpetuating the process of transculturation throughout the Philippines and adjacent territories. To the Chamorro people of the Marianas, they would have appeared closer in appearance and customs than Spaniards or Mexicans, and as fellow subaltern voices in the contrapuntal fabric of empire, they were more likely to have been accepted into the local community than Spaniards would have been. Along with their musical duties these cantores were also expected to take on the role of sacristans. The list of requirements for the mission, dictated by Sanvítores in 1668, included the following musical instruments: rattles, a drum, recorders, gayta (a type of bagpipe) “or any other instrument [that is] easy to play,” horn, trumpet or shawms, harp, guitar, and (spare) strings.60 It is likely that the Filipino cantores were familiar with the playing techniques for each of these instruments, given that by this stage the European instrumentorium had been present in the Philippines for around a century. In 1671, Sanvítores wrote to Mexico ordering “harps, guitars, lyres, cornet[t]s and all those other instruments which belong to the musical art, together with some music books. Also an organ and organist so that these boys may acquire all these skills.”61 We do not know whether these commodities in fact arrived, but in any case it was a common practice for missionaries to send petitions requesting far more than they ever hoped or expected to receive. Sanvítores died a martyr’s death the following year, cutting short his mission. Nevertheless, the Jesuit missionary endeavor continued there—although it was challenged by numerous setbacks—and among the items sent from Mexico to the Marianas in 1677 were three shawms and one sackbut.62 Almost a century later, an inventory made on the expulsion of the Jesuits from the Marianas in 1768 lists ten violins (at least seven “with their bows”), recorders, three harps, a violoncello, a small dulcian, two cornetts, and “a shelf with sheet music.”63 European music was such a central part of evangelistic and colonizing endeavors in these islands that it continued to be a significant element of cultural life there from the late eighteenth century onward. Some non-European musical practices also appear to have made their way to Guam, including the making and playing of an instrument that in Chamorro is called belembao tuyan. This is a musical bow with a gourd resonator that is held

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against the belly while the bowstring is tightened and tapped with a stick. It bears remarkable resemblance to the iconic gourd bow or berimbau of Angola, whose arrival in Latin America was most likely due to the cultural memories of Africans who had been enslaved and shipped across the Atlantic.64 The berimbau proliferated in Brazil, where it became one of the principal instruments used in capoeira (a game-dance genre somewhat like a choreographed martial art). This instrument is sometimes called berimbau de barriga (“belly berimbau”) by Brazilians, and given that “tuyan” is the Chamorro word for “stomach,” belembao tuyan must be the Chamorro equivalent of berimbau de barriga. It is clear that the gourd bow was one of the musical repercussions of forced African migration to the New World. If we follow the trajectory of Spanish trade routes further to the west, we can surmise that at some stage it must have been introduced to Guam in the same way, since Africans were taken on the transpacific galleon voyages.65 Galleons that stopped at Guam still had Manila as their final destination, of course, so it is unsurprising to find evidence suggesting that African musicians played the gourd bow in the Philippine capital—although this instrument could also have arrived there from the other direction, via the Indian Ocean. A performance on berimbau in Manila is represented in an engraving from 1734 (figure 2.3). The player of the bow seems to be accompanying three other African men playing cañas (“game of sticks”), before a small audience of a Canarin (a native of Goa, India) and a Lascar (the term applied to sailors from India or the Persian Gulf who were employed on European ships). An account of festivities in mid-eighteenth-century Manila also provides a description of performances on the “vulgar birimbao.”66 However, since the term “birimbao” could also refer to a jaw harp—the “Musicalia” points out that this was applied in this way by the Portuguese in the East Indies—the identity of the instrument implied by this source remains unclear.67 Along with musical commodities that were transported to, from, and around the Philippine archipelago, musicians themselves were occasionally “commodified,” traveling across the Pacific or to surrounding islands and mainland Asian territories to offer their services. Missionary personnel stationed in satellite missions would regularly write to request aid or material support from the mother-houses of religious orders in Manila, and such requests often pertained to music. For example, Péris de la Concepción wrote to his brethren in Manila on March 4, 1678, to describe his duties in the house of a local prince in Canton, China. He was obliged to regulate clocks; play the organ, harpsichord, harp, and vihuela; and preach in the local dialect. The last task alone was enough for one man to be fully occupied, he complained. He requested that for his relaxation and solace the Franciscans in Manila should send him a young Filipino child of high birth (probably male) who could play the harp. If the child did not adjust to the country, he could be returned to the Philippines on the next ship, “with the blessing of the Lord.”68 Whether this child was in fact sent to China we do not know.

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figure 2.3. Africans (cafres), playing berimbau (musical bow) and cañas (game of sticks). Depicted in a vignette in Pedro Murillo Velarde, et al., Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas (Manila: Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay Indio Tagalo, 1734). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.116.37).

Other individual musicians sailed from Asia to Mexico on the annual galleon, which was known colloquially in Mexico as la nao de China, because it carried Chinese wares. Musicians described as chinos—because they came from the same place as the galleon—are sometimes mentioned in Mexican documents: for example, Nicolás de Rojas, a master harpist resident in Mexico City, Francisco Sánchez, an established organist in Puebla, and Fulgencio (“el chino de Manila”), part of an itinerant performing ensemble.69 The designation of chino in Mexican sources does not necessarily imply that these musicians were Chinese, but simply indicates their Asian origin.70 Occasionally, groups of Asian musicians—often children or youths— traveled great distances under the patronage of Europeans. These trips could end in triumph or tragedy. An example of the former outcome is the case of four Japanese boys, reputed to be highly skilled in European music, who journeyed throughout Portugal, Spain, and Italy as part of a combined JesuitJapanese embassy in 1584–86.71 A case of the latter is illustrated by the curious but fascinating story of the patronage given to a choir of Filipino tiples in the late seventeenth century by the exiled Spanish nobleman don Fernando Valenzuela, Marqués de San Bartolomé de los Pinales y de Villasierra (1636– 92). Valenzuela, the regent of Spain from the death of Felipe IV (1605–65) until the fourteenth birthday of Carlos II (1661–1700), had been banished to this farthest flung corner of empire as a result of the machinations of Juan José de Austria (1629–79). He arrived on March 29, 1679, at the port of Cavite, which was in many respects a miniature model of Intramuros, enclosing churches of the Dominicans, Recollects, Jesuits, and Franciscans. Little is

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known about Valenzuela’s life in exile, apart from minor biographical details reporting that he composed poetry and comedias there and played the guitar.72 In one of Cavite’s churches, Valenzuela took consolation in the musical skills of the “tiplecillos” (little trebles), and when a ship arrived in 1689 to transport him back to Spain, he decided to take the boys with him. This act of munificence was, according to Luciano P. R. Santiago, intended to be undertaken “for further education and training” of these youths.73 But en route, in Mexico, Valenzuela met with an untimely and accidental death, and the trebles probably entered into the care of religious orders.74 The surviving text of Valenzuela’s will makes no mention of them, unless they are the “esclavos” to whom he refers, requesting that they be freed.75 While it is more likely that this clause refers to African slaves, it is possible that the trebles acted as personal servants to the exiled grandee as well as providing him with musical solace.

Manila as a Catalyst for Intercultural Exchanges of Music As we have seen, the presence of regular channels for travel and communication as a result of trade and religious enterprise in Manila enabled contact between disparate cultures and the opportunity for exchange. Religious, commercial, and diplomatic outreach from the Spanish Philippines to neighboring countries regularly involved the performance of music. Unlike the relatively passive transportative act of remaining in one place and simply sending or receiving musical commodities, this form of musical dissemination required the musicians themselves to travel and perform in unfamiliar environments and often to engage in intercultural dialogue or pedagogic instruction. Musical dissemination of any form relies not solely on the transmission of commodities such as instruments and notated music but also on the teaching of theory and practice. The diffusion of European musical practices in territories beyond the realms of the conquered and Christianized Philippine Islands was a result of the steady influence of European culture through global networks using Manila as an important base for trade, diplomacy, and proselytization. One of the main fora for intercultural contact through the medium of music was the sending and receiving of embassies, for which diplomatic ceremonials from many cultural traditions mandated the use of music to solemnize the occasion or provide entertainment for distinguished guests. In the mid-eighteenth century, Murillo Velarde claimed that “the government of the Philippines is one of the best tools which the King can use in [all] the Indies, due to the great extension of his mandate, for the authority which it holds and for the interests which are perceived there. It is possible to send embassies to many kings who surround us, to make peace, confederations, and alliances; declare wars, receive embassies, and [to carry out] many similar deeds.”76 This was a fair assessment of the situation, for embassies were sent regularly from Manila to Asian rulers

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in Siam, Cambodia, Tonkin, China, Japan, Borneo, and Sulu; to coastal cities of the Indian subcontinent, such as Mangalore; and to European settlements in Macau, Canton, Madras, and Batavia. The rulers of these territories sometimes responded in kind. Such embassies provided opportunities for European observation of Asian musical practices and vice versa. Detailed descriptions of the musical entertainments given by envoys and hosts are included in accounts of embassies sent from the Philippines to Siam and India during the eighteenth century. A manuscript report of an embassy sent from the Philippines to Siam in 1718 indicates that professional musicians were aboard the Spanish ship; when they arrived in Siam, they provided music for dances and festivities to greet representatives of the Siamese king. A performance was then given by a Siamese musical troupe from the royal palace for the entertainment of the Spanish delegation.77 In 1776, a Spanish trading embassy that had been sent from Manila to Mangalore hosted in their local house a performance of “dances in the style of the country,” which was given in honor of an emissary of Hyder Ali (c. 1722–82), ruler of Mysore. This event was later depicted by the official artist Miguel Antonio Gómez, who also had the opportunity to see temples on the Malabar Coast. He later produced artworks portraying local instruments and musical practices in religious ceremonies. The commercial and diplomatic networks that were subsequently forged throughout the region thus positioned Spanish Manila as a leading protagonist in the interaction between different powers, while intercultural communication in these contexts was facilitated by music and ceremony. The interest fostered by Spanish observers in the musical and religious customs of surrounding cultures appears to have been reciprocated by their Asian neighbors. In 1645, the stranding of a ship that was traveling from Macau to Manila on the coasts of Cochinchina (part of present-day Vietnam) resulted in the Spanish passengers seeking refuge at the palace of the local king for four months. Among them were merchants, soldiers, and a group of Poor Clares en route to their sisters in the Monastery of Santa Clara in Manila.78 Jesuit Alexandre de Rhodes (1591–1660) related that the nuns continued the practice of singing the Divine Office in their lodgings, and by doing so excited the curiosity of their hosts. The sisters were summoned before the throne, where the queen (whom Rhodes asserted was a devotee of idols) “asked them what was their law, and what sorts of prayers they sang. These good Religious explained truthfully what they were, but the woman who served as an interpreter did not translate their response faithfully.”79 In spite of the linguistic barrier encountered here, music appears to have provided a significant basis for intercultural exchange through the degree of familiarity with vocal religious practices held between women from mutually alien traditions and cultures, even though the positions of these women in their respective religious and social hierarchies doubtless differed greatly. While these women came from markedly different backgrounds, they were representatives of two “great courts” in Asia and

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appeared to empathize with one other through the discussion of devotional practices and religious observances. Other great courts in the region, particularly those of Islamic dynasties in the south of the Philippine archipelago, were not exempt from diplomatic overtures or threats of conquest emanating from Manila. Not much is known about the use of music in these practices, although the Jesuit representatives sent from Manila to the south of the Philippines during the seventeenth century were probably chosen by their superiors due to their skills in mathematics or astronomy—disciplines that were closely linked to music in the academic quadrivium—with which they might impress the Muslim elite. Juan Montiel, for example, was selected for and dispatched on an embassy to the court of Sultan Dipatuan Kudarat (c. 1581–1671) in Simuay, Mindanao, with the express aim of awing locals with his knowledge of these arts.80 Unfortunately for this young Neapolitan, however, he was assassinated alongside a fellow Jesuit just two days after his arrival at the court, where he had, in any case, been received with coldness.81 The Muslim inhabitants of the sultanate of Sulu, known collectively as the Tausug people, had resisted most cultural and religious overtures made by the Spanish, but in the mid-eighteenth century, relatively favorable relations were forged, and treaties were negotiated.82 Feelings of mutual goodwill were further enhanced in around 1748 by the gift of “a precious violin” from the Spanish authorities to the sister of Sultan ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ I (r. 1735–48 and 1764–74), which apparently caused the sultan (who was known to Spaniards as Mahamad Alimuddin) to show “great joy.” An anonymous Jesuit elaborated in a letter at the time that “the government was well informed of the pronounced taste of the princess for musical instruments, and of her love for Spaniards.”83 The violin, wherever it came from, was certainly an appropriate gift. It seems to have been recognized by Spanish political strategists in Manila that violins had become a point of convergence between local and European musical cultures in this particular part of Southeast Asia. Thus, the presentation of a violin as a diplomatic token of friendship was a relatively reliable act of diplomatic largesse that could be expected to have a favorable outcome. The Muslim inhabitants of Sulu and adjacent islands were already familiar with this instrument; the Portuguese have been credited with its introduction to the Malay Archipelago in early modern times.84 With its name transliterated as biyula, the violin was adopted permanently into Tausug musical culture (and it remains popular in Sulu today). Whenever gift exchanges took place across intercultural boundaries in the early modern world, success arose from situations where the tastes of the recipient had been taken into account, and especially when the recipient’s predilections were in sympathy with those of the giver. The presentation of any gift is, of course, bound up with the expectation of reciprocity and exchange.85 The Spaniards probably hoped that the sultan would repay their generosity—not only by improving the bilateral understanding that had been established by a

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treaty of 1737 but ultimately by showing interest in their own religion. Of all the sultans of Sulu, ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ I was probably the most receptive to interfaith discussions, and his interest in forging stronger relations with Manila eventually resulted in his (short-lived) conversion to Christianity, as we see in a later chapter.86 Alongside theory and instruments themselves, European musical practices also permeated the courts of the Islamic regions within and adjacent to the Philippine archipelago. British captain Thomas Forrest (c. 1729–1802) visited Sulu during a voyage for the East India Company between 1774 and 1776. He was received by the “Rajah Moodo” (raja muda, an elected heir to the sultan), who later reigned as Sultan ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ II (r. 1763–64 and 1778–91; d. 1791).87 Forrest subsequently gave an account of the musical interactions that occurred during the course of trade negotiations: As he [the raja muda] is a performer on the violin, I presented him with two violins, and a german [sic] flute: he had a Bisayan, one of his guards, who played tolerably by ear on the violin. I wrote down some minuets, and Rajah Moodo submitted to be taught a little by book. Having got a slight idea of it, he applied no more; but had recourse, as before, to the ear. They wondered at my writing down, and afterwards playing with my flute, some tunes they had played on their musical gongs, called Kalintang [kulintang].88 The notation of local music and its immediate reproduction was a common ruse of European musicians in Asia to attract interest; the most famous (and widely reported) performance of this “party trick” was carried out in 1679 by Jesuit Tomás Pereira (1645–1708) before the Kangxi emperor of China (1654– 1722; r. from 1662).89 Any European who was familiar with popular published accounts of China would have known this story, and it seems possible that Forrest, who was obviously musically literate, was aware of the incident at the Chinese court and was deliberately trying to emulate it almost a century later. The familiarity of “Rajah Moodo” with European instruments as a result of contact with Iberian cultural practices enabled Europeans from other nations (such as Forrest) to engage in intercultural dialogue within the region using music as a basis. Sometimes European practices were diffused by non-Europeans: the guard who played the violin may have been captured from the Visayas during one of the periodic slave-raiding missions that set out from Sulu.90 As Forrest observed, “the Bisayan slaves play often on the violin, and the Sooloos are fond of European music. I have seen the Sultan Israel, who was educated at Manila, and his niece Potely Diamelen, dance a tolerable minuet.”91 From this observation, among others, we can see that the emulation of European musical practices formed a distinctive part of court culture in late eighteenth-century Sulu and the southern Philippines, and Christian and non-Christian Filipinos alike were themselves responsible for the dissemination of these practices in

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areas that lay beyond the political or religious control of Spanish Manila. Britons also played a mediating role in this context, as we shall see next, not just as visitors (like Forrest) but as occupying military forces.

Musical Consequences of the British Interregnum (1762–64) Ever since Manila’s early florescence as a wealthy trading port, numerous foreign powers had threatened to invade the city. Among them figured the maritime forces of the Chinese, the Dutch, and the Japanese, as noted in the previous chapter. However, the only successful invasion was made by British forces. During the Seven Years’ War (which lasted from 1756 to 1763 in Europe and longer in North America and parts of India), Great Britain, Prussia, and Hanover allied themselves against France, Austria, Russia, Sweden, and Saxony; Spain and Portugal joined the conflict at a later stage. When Carlos III (1716–88) entered into the so-called Family Compact with Louis XV (1710–74) on August 15, 1761, Spain committed itself to war on the side of France. The following year, a British force set out from Madras, India, to attack Manila, whose government was unaware of Spain’s involvement in the war.92 As an anomalous episode in the colonial history of the Philippines, the British occupation of 1762–64 was short-lived, but it was nevertheless a blow to the pride of imperial Spain. On September 24, 1762, the British fleet arrived in Manila Bay, the forces consisting of around 1,738 men.93 The rolls show that there were thirty-seven drummers listed among the British troops, and twelve tom-tom players and six trumpeters among the Sepoys.94 Other musical instruments and diversions were very likely brought from India by the taskforce. After the bombardment of Manila by the British forces, during which a breach was made in the southwest corner of the fortifications, the city was stormed on October 6, 1762. At the time of the attack, Manila was ruled by Archbishop Manuel Antonio Rojo del Río y Vieyra (1708–64), the acting governor, who agreed to surrender to the British on certain terms. Among these were the maintenance of the Roman Catholic religion and the continuing liberty of the ecclesiastical government.95 Allied Spanish and indigenous resistance in other parts of the Philippines prevented the rest of the archipelago from being conquered. But with the capital city under the control of an invading power, several Filipino revolts against Spain sprang up around the islands, the most famous of which were led by Diego Silang y Andaya (1730–63) in Ilocos and by Juan de la Cruz Palaris (1733–65) in Pangasinan.96 Once the Treaty of Paris was declared on February 10, 1763, and put into effect on March 31, 1764, Manila was returned to Spanish control, but not without some degree of sociocultural transformation and a certain loss of regard by the local population for the supposed invincibility of imperial Spain.

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Although it could easily be assumed that the occupation was purely functional and occasioned little altruistic cultural interaction that had a lasting impact, a number of sources dating from shortly after the war reveal that English musical practices were introduced to Manila during the occupation and were, moreover, among the legacies that endured in the aftermath. The type of music introduced reflected the tastes of eighteenth-century AngloIndian society in Calcutta and Madras, where there were regular concerts and soirées that featured standard European instrumental and vocal repertory.97 It is likely that the higher ranking Englishmen brought their cultural enthusiasms with them to Manila and that the servicemen themselves engaged in various forms of musical diversions, such as singing popular catches. Although there is little evidence concerning cultural life during the occupation itself, a general pattern of musical activity can be extrapolated from a variety of documents. For example, an anonymous “Diario de la invasión Ynglesa en las Yslas Filipinas” includes a description of English festivities for Christmas Eve, 1762, held in the capilla real (royal chapel) of Manila. The diarist recorded: “Today the English celebrated Christmas Eve with pavilions, salvoes, music, gatherings and communion sub utraque [with both bread and wine] in the Chapel Royal, which from now on will serve the English nation.”98 The music was probably both vocal and instrumental. Apart from the British appropriation of the capilla real, Spanish religious ritual—in other chapels, churches, and convents that were not commandeered or ransacked—continued largely unimpeded. But musical instruments, artworks, and treasures were certainly looted from the city’s religious institutions. The Augustinians were expelled from their premises in Intramuros on November 3, 1762, and 100 men proceeded to sack the complex over fourteen days, with many of the spoils being put up for sale at public auctions.99 When the convent was returned to the religious order on December 31, 1763, two realejos were among the items listed as missing.100 Whereas these small regal organs may have been carried away intact as war booty, it is more likely that they were purloined by curio hunters or melted down for bullets (even though they would not have yielded a great amount of metal). Other looted items also included books, charts, maps, and documents from the convent library, many of which were acquired by Alexander Dalrymple (1737–1808), hydrographer to the Royal Navy, who became a prominent figure in subsequent British explorations of the Pacific.101 In the aftermath of the occupation, Frenchman Le Gentil de la Galaisière noted that English “country dances” were being performed in Manila: “The English have left in Manila a lot of contredanses which are quite bizarre; but these are so very pleasing that the musicians make them serve for church; after the Collect, one is sure to see the Office finished by an English contredanse in all the churches, with which the spectators are treated and dismissed.”102 Given that the English country dance had been adopted and adapted into French musical practice in the late seventeenth century as the highly popular contre-

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danse genre (a dance type that this Frenchman would no doubt have known), it is probable that Le Gentil de la Galaisière heard distinctively English examples that were being cultivated in the 1760s, such as the hornpipe. And although the introduction of the contredanse genre to Manila is described here as a consequence of the British invasion, it is important to note that earlier documentary evidence demonstrates that the genre was already being performed in the city several decades before the occupation.103 Of course, because this and other dance forms appear to have flourished after 1764, it is possible that their use was both encouraged and reinforced by the occupying power. It thus seems likely that a select repertory of English country dances was introduced by musicians among the occupying forces, and that the performance of these works eventually gave rise to their specific ecclesiastical function of following the Collect and ending Mass. Such a practice was clearly institutionalized “in all the churches” to the extent that it was considered by Le Gentil de la Galaisière to be common. During the nineteenth century, too, travel writers continued to note a distinct taste for contredanses in Manila.104 English music was not confined to Manila; it spread throughout the archipelago in the second half of the eighteenth century. Perhaps the most significant cultural ramification to emerge from the British occupation was the introduction of the music of George Frideric Handel (1685–1759) to the Philippines—or, if it was previously known in the islands, its increased popularity there. We know this from a curious passing reference that was penned by an English clergyman at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In a letter of 1812, the Reverend Dr. Robert Boucher Nickolls praised the work of Handel and Charles Jennens (1700–73) in propagating Christian knowledge, adding as an aside: Perhaps that Sacred Musick [of oratorios] may have contributed more than any modern Sermons to spread diffusely the knowledge of the finest and most interesting parts of Scripture, to which many besides the Great World might otherwise have paid little or no attention! We know not how widely the effects of one good action may extend. In some recent Voyage, I have read that Handel’s Oratorios were favourite musick at the Philippine Islands; where I suppose the words of Scripture would not, among the bigoted Spaniards, have been otherwise known.105 This kind of document, if taken at face value, might startle historical musicologists today—Handel’s oratorios as “favourite musick” in the early modern Philippines! Yet based on all the known evidence, it seems unlikely that any full-length oratorio by Handel would have been performed in Roman Catholic Manila, unless English servicemen sang or played excerpts from popular works during the brief period of occupation. Still, Nickolls certainly makes reference to having read “some recent voyage,” and given that many surprising but reliable accounts of European repertory being performed in far-flung places can be

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found within early modern travel accounts, we are bound to lend him some credence. It appears, however, that the good reverend overestimated his favorite oratorios’ powers of global diffusion. A search through published travelogs from the years before 1812 reveals that Nickolls’s most likely source is not so “recent” as he claimed but is probably an account by navigator John Meares (c. 1756–1809) of his voyage from China to the northwest coast of America, which was first published in 1790. Meares relates how he and his crew landed at the port of Zamboanga, Mindanao, in February 1788, where they were greeted by a musical reception: We were . . . surprized at hearing a very tolerable band of music, which was composed of natives of the country.—It consisted of four violins, two bassoons, with several flutes and mandolins. This unexpected orchestra were [sic] acquainted with some of the select pieces of Handel; they knew many of our English country dances, and several of our popular and favourite tunes; but in performing the Fandango, they had attained a degree of excellence that the nicest ears of Spain would have heard with pleasure.106 Although we do not know the identity of these “select pieces of Handel,” they seem a far cry from Nickolls’s mention of oratorios. Still, the original eyewitness (and earwitness) Meares was certainly impressed, but he could not resist adding the rather patronizing comment that “the Malayans possess, in common with other savage nations, a sensibility to the charms of music, and are even capable of attaining no inconsiderable degree of perfection in that delightful science.”107 Later, the Englishmen were invited to a ball at the house of the local Spanish governor, which was also attended by the young men and women of the island, whom they noted to be dressed after “the fashions of Manilla [sic].” Here the fandango and English country dances were performed.108 Although located far from Manila, Zamboanga was clearly at the receiving end of cultural trends that had arrived at the islands’ capital. Most of the authorities in outlying provinces— whether civil or religious—had been presented with their commissions in Manila and evidently took the current fashions with them to their posts. What Meares and his crew saw in Zamboanga was a literal counterpoint to music of metropolitan London or Madrid. In the antipodean context of the Philippines, musical practice was turned on its head as “Malayans” (that is, Filipinos) performed Spanish and English dances, and as they formed an “unexpected orchestra” at one of the most far-flung corners of the Spanish Empire. From this evidence we can begin to discern certain processes and patterns that were in play. For European musical practices to arrive there, their transmission had to be played out through a sequence of distancings, in a type of imitative counterpoint: Europe to the Americas, the Americas to Manila, Manila to Zamboanga. (Of course, the transmission of Handel’s music and English contredanses probably took place in the opposite direction—from

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London to Calcutta, Calcutta to Madras, and Madras to Manila—as a result of the British occupation of Manila.) The British occupation, a disruption to the Spanish colonial project, might even represent a type of cadential pause in the chronological dimension of our contrapuntal metaphor. Even so, it remains clear that all forms of counterpoint—whether literal, metaphorical, or musical—played their part in the creation of colonial musical practice.

Conclusion In the first part of this book, we have seen how Manila provided a crucial point of contact for representatives of European and Asian nations to trade and interact. Early modern Manila was remarkably different from any other capital of the Spanish Empire by virtue of its geographical distance, its almost complete reliance on maritime commerce, and its proximity to Oriental civilizations. As a European settlement at the frontier of Asia, it acted as a crucible for intercultural exchanges. The city was a node in a complex series of networks forged by European and Asian maritime powers, facilitating global commerce and the provision of Manila’s inhabitants with access to products and arts from all parts of the world. The peoples of Manila and the Philippines were quick to respond to trends and fashions that were introduced from other parts of Asia, the Americas, and Europe. In particular, the ready reception by Filipinos for European musical practices was a feature noted regularly by numerous early modern travelers. But so that newly introduced musics could permeate traditional cultures, Europeans had to identify preexisting frameworks that were suitable for adoption and adaptation of alien musical structures, and onto which new practices could be grafted. Agents of the Spanish colonial mission enterprise were quick to recognize this necessity. In the process of determining the best methods of converting the indigenous population, they made detailed observations of the Filipinos’ pre-Christian condition—and, not least, their musical practices. As we go on in the next chapters to consider other aspects of colonial musical culture in greater depth, we explore the bases on which musical practice in the Philippine Islands stood and the discourses of its early modern documentation by colonial ethnographers; we then move on to the historiography of musical transculturation and the subtle but pervasive processes of cultural, religious, and musical syncretism.

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ENHARMONIC ENGAGEMENT

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Mapping Musical Cultures

At the dawn of the sixteenth century, European composers began to venture from the familiar to the unfamiliar. Starting from well-established tonal centers, they moved in one direction or another around the circle of fifths and eventually entered enharmonic realms, where pitches did not match their names, nor names their pitches. This phenomenon in the development of European compositional practices is clearly reflective of the Renaissance “character of exploration,” as Dorothy Keyser has shown, and the secular motet Quid non ebrietas by Adrian Willaert (c. 1490–1562) is “the earliest known example of [a] complete circumnavigation of the circle of fifths.”1 Coincidentally, the date of this work’s composition (c. 1518–21; probably 1519) corresponds chronologically to Magellan’s voyage of 1519–21, which in similar ways involved a modulation from the familiar to the unfamiliar, at least as far as geography and culture were concerned.2 As Magellan traveled farther away from his home base, his environment became decreasingly familiar, not only in terms of knowledge, but also in terms of his familial relationship—cultural and genetic alike—to the peoples he encountered. Over succeeding centuries, other Europeans had to engage enharmonically with other peoples as they traveled to antipodal territories. During long periods of regular and sustained contact between Europeans and non-Europeans in colonial milieux, different communities gradually tempered their cultural systems to incorporate an understanding the Other and locate a point of enharmonic interchange. To varying extents, their cultures modulated. This central part of the book explores how attempts to wield colonial authority (or contest it) were possible only through a reciprocal process of cross-cultural familiarization. In formulating contrapuntal principles for the regulation of music in colonial society, Spaniards and Filipinos faced each

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other in a type of enharmonic engagement, using their own hermeneutical frameworks in an effort to interpret and comprehend each other’s way of life and their own terminology to describe it. This confrontation was a direct form of intercultural comparativism, but in some cases it eventually accommodated a certain degree of relativism. Within this enharmonic structure, negotiations of ideology and power also gave rise to the subtle processes of transculturation, leading ultimately to the synthesis of syncretic genres. Several of these art forms provided an impetus for the subversion of colonial domination: in the revolutionary movements of the late nineteenth century, they were harnessed for the enactment of mass movement and the (re)assertion of indigenous identities.3 In this chapter, I seek to critique the ways in which Spaniards and other European observers wrote about Filipino music—how they mapped musical cultures onto interpretive structures that were created through enharmonic engagement. By examining missionaries’ comparisons of indigenous musical cultures with those of European and Middle Eastern classical antiquity, I show how Europeans connected the Philippines to their existing visions of the known world, how they determined Filipinos’ cultural and spiritual suitability for religious conversion, and how they developed strategies for the use of music in proselytization. Dwelling on the vocal and verbal aspects of the mapping of musical cultures, we explore the significant roles played by singing, reading, writing, and poeticism in the ethnographic construction of the Filipino people by early modern European writers. With these considered alongside the detailed organological observations of indigenous Filipino instruments and the descriptions of dances that have emerged from colonial historiography, it will become apparent how early modern European observers, especially missionaries, were by no means blind or deaf to the indigenous traditions with which they were surrounded, even if they wrote disparagingly or disapprovingly of them. In fact, they looked and listened carefully, describing Filipino musical practices with the greatest precision that was possible for the time. But all the while, they wittingly or unwittingly contributed to the demise of many.

Interpreting the Musical Past Just as early modern Europeans used cartography as a means of visually representing conquered territory, their ethnographic “mapping” of indigenous cultures through textual description and graphic depiction embodied a deeper level of asserting social, political, and cultural dominance over a subjugated population. Ethnological observations of non-European peoples in the Spanish Empire formed a significant part of a concerted attempt to incorporate autochthonous societies into a constellation of “republics” that orbited peninsular Spain in the imperial imagination.

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To describe was to conquer. This was one of the underlying consequences of early modern ethnographic activity, as European observers gathered detailed information on the ways of life of the non-European peoples whose destinies became inextricably intertwined with those of the ruling colonial power. Ethnology within early modern European empires was in many ways a form of cultural espionage in that it enabled colonial authorities to determine the most appropriate means of wielding control by knowing their subjects. Yet it also served a more subtle purpose, one that sought to locate points of intercultural similarities and differences. By attempting to gain a better understanding of indigenous cultures, Spaniards aimed to promote a form of harmonious intercultural coexistence—but one that was completely on their own terms. These terms included the conversion of all the king’s “vassals” to his own Roman Catholic religion. The colonial practice of ethnology, as much as it reflects the altruistic image of being the construction of knowledge for the sake of knowledge, was a powerful tool in the hands of ecclesiastical and secular authorities. Colonial discourse and its representation of the subaltern constituted a form of control that was over and above what was already set firmly in place. In the early modern Philippines, observations on indigenous cultures were included in a diverse range of texts. Aside from full-blown ethnographies devoted to a complete and comprehensive survey of a particular people’s way of life, writings such as letters, reports by missionaries or Spanish officials, historical chronicles, and travelogues include discussions of the customs, languages, physical appearance, religious beliefs, governmental systems, dances, pastimes, and music of the Filipinos.4 By far the most detailed amount of raw ethnographic data can be found in the lexicons of indigenous languages called vocabularios, which were compiled with the assistance of ladinos (indigenous bilingual intermediaries). Although the primary purposes of these types of texts differed significantly, I call all their authors “ethnographers,” because they all contributed—in various capacities—to the assembly of an ethnographic mosaic from which a vivid image of indigenous musical cultures begins to emerge. Among the behavioral traits treated by ethnographers, it is unsurprising that music and dance attracted a considerable amount of attention, given that they were some of the most popular pastimes of the Filipino people. Certain types of music and dance, as the Spaniards saw them, were an inseparable part of religious ritual. As such, they had to be forcibly modulated so as to fit into the system tempered by the tenets of the introduced religion. The first European observers were interested to find that even though literacy was widespread among the local population, the systems of governance and civil order were always upheld by song. But much of what Filipinos sang was improvised poetry, so the study of indigenous poetics by missionaries became a complex field, especially when poetry genres began to evolve into colonial, hybrid incarnations.

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Dancing also provided a visual display at a level that was virtually unparalleled by European colonial society. Musical instruments usually accompanied singing and dancing, but were often played independently as well. These artifacts provided sources of admiration and intrigue for the technically minded Spanish observer. The aspects of indigenous cultures that were described in great detail were often those that missionaries wanted to censure or modify. The ethnographic methodology of the Spaniards was predominantly comparative, for Spaniards sought to codify differences so as to minimize them, thus hispanifying the Filipinos. In the case of some missionaries who had lived long enough with their flock to develop a degree of empathy with indigenous cultural practices, however, a surprising amount of relativism shines through. Still, early modern ethnographies composed by missionaries are, on the whole, usually redolent of evangelistic intent. Non-Christian religious beliefs and cultural practices of Filipinos were carefully studied and documented (certain religious orders did this more assiduously than others) so that those that were irrevocably incompatible with Christianity could be abrogated and then substituted with Christian equivalents. Others that were considered less objectionable were simply layered with a Christian veneer. The codification of musical information within ethnographic texts thus served a practical purpose within colonial and evangelistic contexts: it enabled indigenous traditions to be harnessed by missionaries in the field and exploited for the introduction of new ideologies. It also contributed to the search for what Filipino Jesuit historian Horacio de la Costa (1916–77) has called “the logical point of insertion by which Christianity could permeate the culture.”5 In the Philippines, all major religious congregations were heavily engaged in exploiting music (both European and indigenous) in proselytization and conversion, and the Jesuits and the Franciscans were arguably the most meticulous in documenting such practices. A survey of ethnographic sources can inform us of some of the rich variety of indigenous and hispanized Filipino musical traditions during the early modern period. But only some, for although colonial sources are wide ranging, they are not exhaustive. The Filipino communities that were subjected to the most direct and sustained contact with ecclesiastical or secular ethnographers are logically represented with the greatest frequency and detail, and the transition of their musics from precontact to hispanized conditions is documented in stages. The earliest intercultural observations provide the most illuminating picture of their precontact state. We should recognize, however, that a culture described at the point of contact was already in a state of flux, by virtue of the participant (or nonparticipant) observer’s very presence. Most of the time, the recording of ethnographic data in the Philippines was concomitant with the fundamental changes to traditional indigenous cultural systems that were wrought by missionaries and colonialists. Nevertheless, the historical value of all these writings, made at the point

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of contact between Spaniards and Filipinos and continued throughout the subsequent period of cultural evolution, cannot be overemphasized. Colonial historiography has often been ignored by ethnomusicologists studying the indigenous and precolonial musical traditions of the Philippines.6 From early modern archival sources we begin to glimpse a multifarious display of Filipino musical culture as it existed before European incursions into the region. Of course, these texts must be read through an interpretive lens that can compensate for the myopic range and astigmatic focus of colonial authors’ vision. They must be read contrapuntally.

Analogues of Antiquity One of the prevailing trends of European ethnographers throughout the early modern world was to use European and Middle Eastern classical antiquity as a point of reference for intercultural comparison. Jesuit writers, in particular, made it their lives’ work to prove the similarity of indigenous American peoples to those of antiquity, not only to affirm a sense of common humanity— and thus “humanize” the natives in the face of brutality exerted by colonial rulers who denied intercultural parity—but also to verify theories on the postdiluvian spread of humankind. One such writer was French Jesuit Joseph François Lafitau (1681–1746), who attempted to compare the customs of the indigenous population in North America with those of European “primitive times.”7 His publication included a detailed plate of ancient musical instruments, as had been proposed and illustrated by Kircher, compared with those that were used in early modern North America.8 Cultural attributes that appeared to relate to European ideas of antiquity presented the most familiar form of difference to Spanish observers. Early modern Europeans’ awareness of the Classical world and the accumulation of ancient artifacts from all territories touching the Mediterranean rendered possible the comparative campaign to recognize the common humanity of peoples who were not part of the pre-Renaissance European worldview. The Spaniards considered their civilization and empire to be derived from Roman antecedents and believed themselves to be the heirs of Rome in upholding the Roman Catholic religion, as well as being defenders of “civilization” battling against “barbarity.” As Joan-Pau Rubiés has pointed out, Spanish ethnographers saw indigenous peoples in the Americas and the Philippines as analogous to ancient peoples in pagan Europe (especially on the Iberian Peninsula) before they were “civilized” by the Roman Empire and then converted to Roman Catholicism. The cultural transformation that had been effected by the presence of the Romans in ancient Hispania furnished a precedent that some early modern Spanish ethnographers eagerly exploited as justification for the conquest and conversion of indigenous peoples in territories conquered by Spain.9 Just as the

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Roman Empire had transformed Spain, so did early modern Spanish colonialists aim to repeat this act and thus attempt to transform Filipino civilization. Anthony Pagden asserts that what Jesuit writers like Lafitau created was “a comparative ethnology, an ethnology which argued that cultural difference could be explained neither as the consequence of differing psychological dispositions, nor as the merely contingent arrangements of different social groups, but as the indication of the positions which the various human societies had reached on an historical time-scale.”10 Music was a readily audible (and visible) marker of indigenous peoples’ position on this continuum from barbarity to civilization, but it was also an anomalous trait, in the sense that the music of the ancients was generally extolled by many early modern European theorists as having reached a particular level of perfection that had somehow been lost in the Dark Ages. Comparisons between ancient music and contemporary nonEuropean music were founded on suppositions of and yearnings for an imagined state of musical perfection. In the mid-eighteenth century, Murillo Velarde claimed that the Filipino flute called bangsi looked as if it came from an ancient tomb, and “accordingly [sounded] sad”; he also compared the dances of the Visayans, Sambals, and Boholanos to those of the ancient Greeks and Trojans.11 Gemelli Careri (who was not a Jesuit, although he had studied at a Jesuit university) saw connections with antiquity in the cockfights organized by Visayans; he asserted that these contests had been a favored pastime of some Roman emperors.12 Many comparisons were made in respect of vocal genres. Jesuit Francisco Colín (1592–1660) considered singing verses in “ancient dramas” by “all these Gentile nations” of Asia (not just the Philippines) to be derived from the Hebrews.13 Likewise, Augustinian Gaspar de San Agustín (1650–1724) likened the Tagalog musicopoetic genre dalit to the epic dithyrambs of the ancient Greeks and Romans.14 Another Augustinian, Joaquín Martínez de Zúñiga (1760–1818), writing at the beginning of the nineteenth century, was familiar with the works of Lafitau and, having noted Lafitau’s comparisons of Inca poetry with classical Greek poetry, suggested that Filipino poetic traditions could also be considered to rate alongside those of European antiquity.15 All such references to European and Middle Eastern antiquity essentially endowed the precolonial civilization of the Philippines with a set of cultural markers that provided a framework within which Spanish missionaries could effect the Filipinos’ conversion. But as the recent archeomusicological research of Arsenio Magsino Nicolas has shown, Filipino musical connections with “antiquity” diverged fundamentally from the assumptions of early modern Spanish ethnographers. Although Spaniards often compared Filipinos with the Chinese—because nearby China was the largest and most powerful civilization in the region—many other musical elements came to the Philippines through the Malay Archipelago (especially from what is now Indonesia) and from as far away as the Indian

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subcontinent. In fact, multiple words for musical instruments in a number of Filipino languages derive from just three important Sanskrit terms: kacchapı̄ vı̄ṇ ā (kacchapı̄ means “tortoise” and vı̄ṇ ā means “lute”; kacchapı̄ alone usually implies a tortoise-shaped lute), which in the Philippines became kutyapi and other cognate terms; vaṃ śa (“flute”; the word also means “bamboo”), which became bangsi in the Philippines; and kamsa (Sanskrit for “bell metal”), which was modified into gangsa and similar terms throughout the archipelago to refer to metallophones.16 These connections with old Indic civilizations were beyond the scope or purview of early modern Spanish ethnographers, who preferred the benchmark of the European or Middle Eastern classical antiquity. Although some European scholars in other parts of Asia, such as Sir William Jones (“Orientalist Jones,” 1746–94) in India, began to study great works from ancient Sanskrit literature on their own terms, rendering them as much homage as texts in classical Greek or Latin,17 a similar endeavor was not possible in the Philippines. This was because ancient epics were preserved through oral tradition rather than in writing, a circumstance that thus precluded literary studies of written texts by early modern philologists. Nevertheless, some missionary ethnographers, including Jesuit Francisco Ignacio Alzina (1610–74), recorded descriptions of these narratives and made summaries of their plots. In this way some ethnographers began to engage more intimately with linguistic subtleties of their intended converts’ mother tongues and poetic constructions, attempting to determine the most appropriate way to effect intercultural courtship and potential union.

Language and Literacy Attempts to empathize with the linguistic structures of non-European peoples represented one of the primary impulses on the part of many European scholars to locate points of similarity and cultural convergence for enharmonic engagement. For instance, Jesuit Pedro Chirino (1558–1635) marveled at the phonetic similarity between the Tagalog word “aba” and the Latin word “ave,” whose shared meaning of a salutary greeting made their sonic semblance all the more remarkable.18 His discussion of this and other intercultural consonances seems to strike a chord with contemporaneous diffusionist theories of humanity’s common origins, such as those put forward by Jesuit José de Acosta (1539– 1600).19 Similarly, Kircher in Rome made the assertion (albeit erroneous) that Chinese ideographs were derived from Egyptian hieroglyphs.20 As Pagden has noted, “sixteenth- and seventeenth-century observers . . . lived in a world which believed firmly in the universality of most social norms and in a high degree of cultural unity between the various races of man.”21 These sorts of observations of homologous cultural traits—linguistic signs and symbols among them—

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emphasized commonalities between Spanish and Filipino cultures and provided a structural protocol for intercultural exchange. European colonialists had navigated the Earth’s full circle and had come to the points of enharmonic transition. However, manifestations of intercultural similarities were sometimes interpreted as the inevitability and inexorability of the colonial project. Intercultural studies of languages and writing systems had their darker side: the manipulation and control of indigenous languages and their rhetorical devices for the advancement of the European imperial project. In 1492, a cataclysmic year in Spanish history that saw the completion of the reconquista as well as Columbus’s first transatlantic voyage, celebrated linguist Antonio de Nebrija (1441–1522) observed that “language has always been the perfect instrument of empire.”22 Linguistic communication and interpretation were fundamental to the politics and procedures of the conquistadores and especially to the missionaries and government officials who followed in their wake. In the Philippines, it was mandated at a relatively early stage in the colonial period that missionaries should learn local languages, rather than initiating the much larger task of imposing the teaching of Castilian on hundreds of thousands of Filipinos (although this policy came later, being decreed several times toward the end of the eighteenth century and during the nineteenth). Missionaries destined for the field spent years studying the languages of their intended flocks—while en route to the Philippines, resident in the convents and colleges of Manila, and living among Filipino communities. They were aided by two important tools: grammars (usually titled arte de la lengua de . . . ) and vocabularios. The presses of religious orders in Manila published numerous vocabularios of five major Filipino languages (some including regional variants): Tagalog, Ilokano, Kapampangan, Visayan, and Bikol. Many others were produced and circulated in manuscript form, especially those of minor dialects. Some popular vocabularios were continually republished throughout the colonial period. Each new edition was first subject to revision and updating, thus reflecting contemporary linguistic trends. Others were compiled afresh. From the late sixteenth century onward, the function of these vocabularios was to serve as a tool for members of religious orders working in the mission field. The role of vocabularios as guides for propelling Spanish understanding of the Filipinos in both linguistic and cultural terms is doubly significant in the sense that these works are also effectively autoethnographies of the indigenous population. According to the prefaces of many vocabulario publications, two to twelve ladinos were commonly consulted on the pronunciation and meaning of every word included in the dictionary. One of the most authoritative linguistic compendia of the eighteenth century, the Vocabulario de la lengua tagala of 1754, compiled by Jesuits Juan de Noceda (1681–1747) and Pedro de Sanlúcar (b. 1707), relied on data collated in the previous century but involved detailed

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revisions. Sanlúcar, who was apparently a Spanish-Tagalog mestizo, organized the work into its final format. By virtue of his mestizo heritage (by which I mean that he probably spoke Tagalog as a mother tongue), together with his education and religious profession that rendered him culturally acceptable to European authorities, Sanlúcar was regarded as a reliable source for translating Tagalog into Spanish in the mid-eighteenth century. He even went so far as to claim that he spent “thirty years verifying word by word” with twelve native speakers, and that if fewer than twelve speakers agreed on the “pronunciation, accent, and meaning” then he would not enter the word.23 Similar assertions were made by authors of other vocabularios, and if they were reporting the truth, this level of fastidiousness would accord the lexicons’ contents a significant level of reliability. For this reason, musical terms from early modern vocabularios are valuable snapshots of intercultural and linguistic homologies, offering a framework within which we can begin to understand the processes of transculturation. Definitions in the vocabularios are much more than straightforward linguistic equivalents; they often provide important contextual information concerning cultural function and relevance of the term.24 Within each definition, indigenous terms are often demonstrated in examples of short phrases in both Castilian and the indigenous language, many being imperative commands related to religious ritual and ecclesiastical organization. But what musical data can be found? As we see in the course of this chapter, a large number of terms referring to song genres, information concerning the construction and usage of European and indigenous instruments, musical transculturation, and the negotiation of Spanish-indigenous musical boundaries in the context of the ecclesiastical performance space are located in the definitions. Latin Americanists have already shown how profitable these types of lexicons can be in reconstructing instrumental, song, and dance traditions.25 In the Philippines, they are just as fruitful: the vocabulario of Noceda and Sanlúcar, for instance, even includes the texts of poems by Tagalog poets as examples of particular poetic genres.26 The vocabularios were not produced solely for Spaniards; it is likely they were also acquired and used by some Filipinos, especially those who wanted to engage linguistically with the colonialists. The written word was nothing new for the Philippines, as these islands had a thriving living tradition of phonetic literacy at the point of contact.27 The Filipinos used a Sanskrit-derived syllabary that is most commonly called baybayin (another name is alibata); similar forms were used in Sumatra, Java, and Sulawesi.28 In spite of long debate over the origin and number of characters, as well as the direction in which they were written, it has been well established that the baybayin syllabaries consisted of three vowels and fourteen consonants. The shape and usage of the characters by different ethnolinguistic groups throughout the islands was remarkably consistent.29 A small mark (curlit) above the consonantal characters signified

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that the vowel following the consonant was “e” or “i,” and a mark below signified “o” or “u.” As errors of translation and transliteration had caused numerous setbacks to the Roman Catholic cause in Japan, the publishers of religious tracts in baybayin had to make a significant change to the orthography to ensure accurate transcription of theological terms and concepts. Final consonants of a syllable were not notated in baybayin, meaning that readers had to guess, so an extra curlit notated as a cross (crucecita) below the character was introduced to the script, signifying a final consonant without a vowel sound (analogous to the virama in Sanskrit). This new sign was first used in 1621 by Augustinian Francisco López (d. 1631) in an Ilokano translation of the Doctrina christiana by Jesuit cardinal Saint Roberto Bellarmino (1542–1621).30 Yet coupled with the introduction and speedy dissemination of Roman script in the islands, this modification eventually contributed to the later decline of the syllabary. The negative reaction of early seventeenth-century Filipino scribes to the crucecita was discussed by Augustinian Pedro Andrés de Castro (1740–1801) in his treatise Ortografía tagala (1776): they said it would “destroy the syntax, prosody, and spelling of the Tagalog language,” so they would only use it for the transliteration of Spanish words.31 Castro identified the Castilian words that needed to be transcribed with all consonants with the aid of the crucecita, so that there could be no misunderstanding of their significance. They were all of a religious nature, such as Dios, Santissima Trinidad, Jesús, María, sacramento, confesión, comunión, misa, gracia, Santa Cruz, sacerdote, and others besides. He qualified that any lack of exact notation of these crucial terms would mean that no license for the publication of any book would be forthcoming from a bishop.32 According to Vicente Rafael, the practice of leaving them untranslated was undertaken “to maintain the ‘purity’ of the concepts that these words conveyed.”33 The intensive studies of baybayin by members of religious orders, and the subsequent use of the script in a number of early printed books in the Philippines (particularly books of Christian doctrine), demonstrate the extent to which the Spanish missionaries sought to understand indigenous cultures of the Philippines and approach them on their own terms. Some seventeenthcentury vocabularios printed the baybayin equivalents for Roman characters at the heading of each new letter entry, taking pains to explain how certain Roman letters (such as “b” and “v”) were considered interchangeable in Castilian. Such information, unnecessary for the European writer and reader, adds weight to the suggestion that the publications were intentionally marketed toward the Filipino elite. The high degree of literacy in the Philippines at the time of Spanish contact provided a solid base on which the missionaries could build a foundation for evangelization that relied on teachings from sacred Scriptures and the widespread dissemination of printed texts throughout an increasingly bibliophilic community. Within several decades, Filipinos were apparently “not content”

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with just the indigenous-language books printed by the religious orders; Chirino claimed that almost every man and woman had manuscript books written in baybayin by their own hands, containing “sacred histories, lives of saints, prayers, and sacred poems composed by them.” He added that he had examined these books in 1609 (for their doctrinal accuracy) and that this phenomenon was practically unknown in a population that had been so recently Christianized.34 The flourishing of indigenous-language publications coincided with the introduction of the printing press to the islands and the extended promotion of native literacy by missionaries as part of their religious teachings. In line with traditional indigenous precepts of singing genealogical lore and religious tropes, music must have played a significant role as a mnemonic device for Christian indoctrination.35 One of the earliest catechism texts used was the version of the Doctrina christiana approved by the Synod of Manila, which in 1593 became the first book printed in the Philippines. This small volume contained the Lord’s Prayer, the Ave Maria (Hail Mary), the Creed, the Salve Regina (Hail Holy Queen), the fourteen articles of faith, the ten commandments of God, the five commandments of the Church, the seven sacraments, the seven spiritual and seven corporal acts of mercy, the act of contrition, and a catechism proper consisting of thirty-three questions and answers.36 With the text printed in Castilian and Tagalog (the latter in both Roman script and baybayin), this book was distributed among “Spanish priests and a limited number of Tagalog auxiliaries.”37 The parallel nature of literary cognition within Spanish and Filipino cultures arguably promoted a speedier process of transculturation and, by extension, the cross-fertilization of musicopoetic practices that relied heavily on skills of literacy. Chirino claimed in 1604 that baybayin was not used for the preservation of literature, religion, or government, but for the more pragmatic reasons of correspondence. Apparently it was not even used for the notation of poetry or song-texts (which in precolonial times were the one and the same). Given the strength of the oral tradition in the archipelago, there was little need to record song-texts or melodies in the precolonial era. However, there is at least one description of song-texts being recorded in this script. Writing in 1750–51, Jesuit Juan José Delgado (1697–1755) noted the use of baybayin by the Visayans to “note down their things so as not to forget them, and their verses to sing.”38 This presence of song-text notation in the Visayas suggests that it was a practice that may have proliferated elsewhere in the Philippine archipelago (in spite of the lack of early modern ethnographic evidence).39 With the proliferation of printed works throughout the early modern Philippines, and the increasing availability of mass-produced texts in Tagalog and other Filipino languages, baybayin was eventually superseded by Roman script. Two Franciscans, writing in the 1740s, noted that this was a gradual process, and there were still a few Filipinos within Christianized territories who

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could write in baybayin, but their numbers were decreasing.40 According to Bienvenido Lumbera, the ability of Filipinos to read and write Roman characters had become a status symbol by the mid-eighteenth century, “for the European manner of writing put within a person’s reach knowledge (whatever was made available by the colonial administrators and the clergy) that the majority of the populace could not have.”41 Thus the Filipino script began to disappear for reasons of pragmatism. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century travel writers collected rare examples of contemporary baybayin, mainly as a curiosity, and a number of baybayin documents were deposited in religious archives. In the first years of the twentieth century, a surgeon from the U.S. Army who was based on the island of Mindoro collected contemporary pieces of bamboo on which baybayin characters were used by the Mangyan people to transcribe song-texts.42 Remarkably, the Mangyan of Mindoro (who comprise two distinct communities: the Hanunóo and the Buhid) still use their traditional script to notate song-texts today and represent one of two ethnic groups in the Philippines who have continued to make use of traditional writing systems (the other group is the Tagbanwa of Palawan, whose members do so to a lesser extent).43 These peoples were sufficiently isolated from the mainstream population of the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period for their cultural practices to be preserved. Thus, whatever contradictions there may be in historical observations of the function and retention of baybayin among literate Filipino communities, it does seem that the script was sometimes used as a mnemonic aid for the oral transmission of song-texts, as Delgado mentioned (and as is shown by customs on the island of Mindoro today). The introduction of new texts and Christian subject matter following the beginning of the mission enterprise was possibly responsible for the recording of verses, because the new ideologies diverged from the themes of traditional songs in precolonial culture. Given the lack of historical source materials, however, it is difficult to test this hypothesis. It seems that one of the principal reasons Spaniards learned Filipino languages and their modes of writing was to communicate with the Filipinos and implement policies of the colonial government. Of course, it followed that a considerable number of Filipinos learned Castilian to gain some level of control in this intercultural relationship. Ladinos held a significant position in the social hierarchy as intermediaries between the colonial overlords and the indigenous population. It is logical, then, to assume that ethnological observation was a reciprocal practice; Spaniards may have produced ethnographies that described Filipinos through text and image, but we can see clearly that Filipinos observed and analyzed the Spaniards in great detail and came to know them intimately through imitation and absorption of Spanish traits (in other words, hispanization or transculturation, as we shall see in the next chapter). Not least in this process of observation was the Filipino acquisition of linguistic skills,

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and the ladinos were at the center of this enterprise. So were the mestizos, but their Filipino compatriots generally identified them as kastila, or Spaniards. In 1610, ladino poet and printer Tomás Pinpin (b. between 1580 and 1585) published in Roman characters a treatise titled Librong pagaaralan nang manga Tagalog nang uicang Castila (Book with which Tagalogs can learn Castilian). Marketed toward the Tagalog elite, the Librong asserted that the study of the Castilian language would contribute to the acquisition of the “inside” or “source” of all things Spanish; the knowledge of “this other trait which is their language” would thus complement external Spanish attributes such as dress, behavior, and arms, which had already been adopted by some Tagalogs. In his book, Pinpin frequently introduces Castilian vocabulary and grammatical concepts through a bilingual auit (song), the text being written alternately in Castilian and Tagalog so as to reinforce the equivalent terms in each language.44 Poetry and song were a significant means by which civilization was ordered and structured in the precolonial Philippines; some of the earliest Jesuit ethnographers in the islands noted that these genres served as vehicles for the preservation of indigenous customs and rites, as we shall see shortly. Under Spanish rule, these interrelated artforms became a dominant factor in transmitting new ideologies. Yet they also acted as a mechanism for the maintenance of indigenous society’s cohesion and cultural identity.

Filipino Poetics The art of poetry was seen by the early Spanish grammatists and lexicographers as an intrinsic and complex part of Filipino song traditions. Early modern ethnographers in the Philippines asserted unanimously that all poetry was sung.45 Several treatises on the grammar of Filipino languages contain information about the poetic traditions of various ethnolinguistic groups; other observations on poetry also exist as single studies or as part of ethnographies. The art of Tagalog poetry is treated by Gaspar de San Agustín in his Compendio de la arte de la lengua tagala (1703), briefly considered in Tagalysmo elucidado, y reducido (en lo posible) a la Latinidad de Nebrija (1742) by Franciscan Melchor Oyanguren de Santa Ynés (1688–1747), and explored in great depth by Augustinian Francisco Bencuchillo (1710–76) in the manuscript treatise he devoted wholly to Tagalog poetry, “Arte poético tagalo” (1759). Martínez de Zúñiga also gave descriptions of Tagalog poetry and eyewitness accounts of performances in an account of his voyages around the country in 1800.46 Although the origins and development of Tagalog poetry have been studied at length by Lumbera, who has considered the surviving treatises in great detail, sources relating to the traditions of other ethnolinguistic groups have been largely ignored. We should thus acknowledge that there remains a considerable number of early modern Spanish treatises on poetry in Filipino languages

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other than Tagalog, such as Ilokano and Visayan. For instance, a guide to Ilokano poetry was given in the early 1790s by Augustinian Andrés Carro (c. 1733–1806) in his augmented edition of López’s Arte de la lengua yloca, the original publication of which dates from 1627.47 Moreover, the entire fourth book of the Arte de la lengua bisaya hiliguayna de la isla de Panay, composed by Alonso de Méntrida (1559–1637) in the early seventeenth century, is devoted to the art of Visayan poetry. Another extensive treatment of the Visayan poetic tradition is found in the work of the Jesuit Alzina, as discussed shortly.48 Descriptions of poetry in other languages are more elusive. Augustinian missionary Álvaro de Benavente (d. 1709) briefly treated Kapampangan poetry in his grammar of the language dated c. 1699, claiming that he could identify two distinct genres.49 But just a few decades later, his fellow Augustinian Diego Bergaño (1690–1747) dismissed the local poetic tradition out of hand, considering Kapampangan verses to be prose rather than true assonance or consonance (rhyme).50 Instead of a treatment of Kapampangan poetry, he gave an overview of the art of translation into this language. Later in the eighteenth century, another Augustinian, Sebastián Moreno (d. 1778), left a manuscript treatise (now lost) titled “Artificio de hacer versos en la misma lengua” (“Artifice for composing verses in the same language”), suggesting that Augustinians simply ignored local poetic structures and attempted to impose their own idea or “artifice” of versification on the Kapampangan language.51 It is noteworthy that most Spanish theorists and practitioners of indigenous poetry were Augustinians (with the exception of Franciscan Oyanguren and Jesuit Alzina). The Augustinians’ endeavors in this area might reflect a desire to uphold or test the principles of rhythm and meter expounded by Saint Augustine of Hippo (354–430) in his De musica. Apart from the treatises I have already mentioned, which are representative of several major Filipino languages, it is likely that more were produced by religious authors working with other ethnolinguistic groups of the Philippines. They probably circulated in manuscript form, or were incorporated into grammatical artes. One major language for which evidence of poetry treatises has yet to emerge, however, is Bikol, which is spoken in southeast Luzon (an area that was mostly under the jurisdiction of the Franciscans). On the basis of the poetic patterns that operated elsewhere in the archipelago, though, it is very probable that treatises on Bikol poetry existed in manuscript or printed form. All these sources attest to the prominence and persistence of indigenous poetic traditions during the first two and a half centuries of Spanish rule. Yet it is important to consider whether the treatises on poetic traditions were works of anthropological observation or an idealized view constructed by Spaniards of what indigenous poetry should be and how it should fit into a superimposed colonial structure. Gaspar de San Agustín, a widely respected poet in Latin and Castilian, had apparently mastered the Tagalog language, but he sought to

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equate the rules of Tagalog poetry with those of Spanish versification. According to Lumbera, this missionary’s understanding of the conventions for Tagalog rhyming is oversimplified, but it should be noted his rules were intended to serve as a guide for Spanish-speaking scholars to understand and use poetic genres in missionary endeavors—and possibly as an ethnographic document— rather than as an explicit attempt to instruct native poets in a new “missionary style” of poetry according to some formalized method.52 Over half of the poetic examples provided by San Agustín were in fact composed or translated by Spanish missionaries. Tagalog poets took a fairly dim view of Spanish attempts to emulate indigenous styles, and Gaspar de San Agustín warned his missionary readers of the futility of forcing the Tagalog language to submit to the rules of Spanish versification. He referred to the example of Dominican Francisco Blancas de San José (1560–1614), who had shown sonnets, rhymes, décimas (ten-line poems), and songs “in our style with forced consonance” to Tagalog master poets. They were not impressed, replying, “magaling, datapoua hindi tola” (“excellent, but not poetry”) and “could not be persuaded otherwise.”53 The title of the “Artificio” composed by Moreno (apparently lost) suggests that it also attempted to enforce Spanish rules for versification on the Kapampangan language, which, according to Bergaño, had no tradition of what he considered “poetry.” Although some poetic traditions were viewed disparagingly, others were considered so sophisticated that they could not be easily—if ever—understood by Europeans. In the Visayas, Alzina claimed that five years after attaining competence in the local tongue he still could not comprehend the texts of poetic genres because of their profound metaphorical content and complex vocabulary.54 The frustration of impenetrability made him pursue the study of poetic traditions with great vigor, resulting in his identification of seven distinct genres within Visayan poetry: ambahan, bical, balac (accompanied by the plucked instruments coriapi [kutyapi] or corlong [kodlong]), sidai, haya, anogon (or canogon), and auit. He described the nobility of each form and their traditional function in indigenous culture, noting that all of these genres were sung. Oyanguren de Santa Ynés gave a similarly long list of genres of Tagalog poetry—the auit, diona, oyayi, talingdao, dalit, and soliranin—and claimed that the syllabic make-up of lines (from five to fourteen syllables) depended explicitly on the song or tone to which the verses were performed, thereby prioritizing (traditional) melody over text.55 The composition of treatises on indigenous poetry by missionaries in the Philippines appears to have taken place at a level that may have been unique in the Spanish Empire. Although pre-Columbian poetry in the Americas was observed (and sometimes transcribed) by the conquistadores and the first waves of missionaries, the privileged position that Amerindian genres had enjoyed prior to contact was usurped by European traditions relatively swiftly.56 It could be argued that in the Philippines, by contrast, the indigenous poetic art

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endured for longer, and in a more intact form, even though it was also subject to a process of assimilation and synthesis within the colonial context.57 However, colonial ethnographers in the Philippines recorded musicopoetic practices at the same time as carrying out religious proselytization and introducing European literary and musical forms. These colonial activities gradually contributed to the demise of many indigenous genres through the processes of hispanization, but they simultaneously set in place a process of intercultural courtship, engagement, and union that ultimately resulted in the birth of new styles of musicopoetic expression, as we shall see in chapter 5.

Singing, Playing, and Dancing Chirino’s Relacion de las Islas Filipinas of 1604 is a concise account of the work of Jesuits sent on the earliest missions to the Philippines. This work, the earliest publication by a Jesuit of the Philippine Province, was an important piece of propaganda for the Society of Jesus; its production in Rome served to inform the highest authorities of the Roman Catholic Church about the missionary advances being made in the region. Chirino described the languages, customs, and beliefs of the indigenous inhabitants, while also detailing the work of Jesuits and the local responses to evangelization. Music is a significant cultural feature that emerges from these discussions. In writing about the state of Filipino society before their conversion, for instance, Chirino noted that all their government and religion is founded on tradition, and on practices introduced by the very devil, who spoke to them through their idols and their priests. And they preserve these in songs, which they know by memory, and have learned since their childhood, having heard them sung while they sail, while they work, while they rejoice and feast, and even moreso when they mourn the dead. In these barbarous songs they recount the fabulous genealogies and vain deeds of their gods.58 Narrative vocal practices, ingrained within Filipino society, were thus identified as a crucial foundation on which law and order functioned, by which religion was observed, and by which rituals were enacted. Colonialists’ understanding of Filipino music—especially singing—became fundamental to their attempts to control and manipulate indigenous society. Indigenous music had to be codified and categorized, and Jesuits were at the forefront of this endeavor. In a short passage on “Musicas, y bayles” in his Labor evangelica, for instance, Colín described responsorial vocal music, in which one or two people sang and the rest of the gathered Filipinos answered, asserting that most of these songs were legends and fables “in the style of most nations.”59 He thereby established the existence of verse-refrain compositional

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structures that were later described by other Jesuits as being analogous to Spanish genres such as the villancico and provided a seemingly egalitarian evaluation of sung narratives that positioned Filipinos and their vocal music on a par with those of the rest of the known world. Meanwhile, in a history of the southern islands of Mindanao, Jolo, and neighboring regions, Jesuit Francisco Combés (1620–65) described “dances to the sound of their bells and tabors . . . stepping to the sound of bells and Moorish dulcaynas [sic].”60 To Combés and many others, Muslims in these islands thus assumed a familiar guise as Moors from northern Africa. The Jesuits had administrative control over large parts of the Visayas, and they focused most of their evangelistic energies there; before their expulsion from the Philippines in 1768, they administered almost 100 parishes with more than 200,000 parishioners—more than a fifth of the Christianized population.61 The primacy of the Visayas in the Philippine Province is reflected in the title Alzina gave to his monumental ethnographic history in 1668: “Historia de las islas e indios de Bisayas, parte mayor i mas principal de las islas Filipinas” (“History of the Visayan Islands and their people, [the Visayas being] the largest and most important part of the Philippine Islands”). In this work, Alzina’s treatment of Visayan liberal arts, religion, and technology pointed to a sophisticated level of society, one that in his eyes only lacked recognizable political structures.62 Of particular relevance to musical ethnography are the third and fourth chapters of book 3 in part I, which are devoted respectively to “the various and particular poetic styles that they cultivate” and “their music and their musical instruments,” whereas the ninth chapter of book 4 treats “their feasts, parties, dances, and other entertainments of the ancient [precolonial] people, and of the youths and children.”63 Part II (which survives incomplete) concerns the ecclesiastical history of the Visayas and the work of missionaries: some of it treats methods and results of evangelization, as well as providing invaluable information on the celebration of feasts in the missions, where music played a major role. Music was particularly important for the occasions of Christmas, Holy Week and Easter, Ascension, Pentecost, and Corpus Christi, not to mention all the feasts that Filipinos were obliged to observe (according to decrees issued from Manila), including those for the Virgin Mary and principal saints. Alzina was positioned at a crucial moment in the construction of colonial historiography, having arrived in the islands after colonial and missionary authority had been entrenched to a degree that allowed for intense intercultural transactions of music and religion. His integration into Visayan society from his arrival in the region in 1643 until his death in 1674, coupled with his considerable linguistic capabilities, enabled him to make remarkably objective observations on the most profound points of Visayan musicopoetic traditions. Alzina prefaced his discussion of song styles and musical instruments by

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claiming that “these Visayans had neither a science nor scientific principles for music such as we use and the most advanced nations of the world have been using.”64 He also maintained that the performance of ancient songs had improved somewhat because the Visayans had grown accustomed to European music, the idea of consonance, and musical modes.65 This sort of comment typifies the paternalistic attitude of missionaries and colonialists who assumed that once indigenous peoples became aware of European tonal structures, they would inevitably adapt their own musical styles and aesthetics to accommodate those that had been introduced. But this transculturative process may in fact have represented a sort of defense mechanism deployed by indigenous peoples under colonial rule. Alzina was also interested in documenting the affective power of indigenous instrumental music. Following the observations made by earlier Jesuits on performance traditions of the kutyapi, an instrument that was played only by men, he described how the listener’s passions could be excited to such a degree that women were accused of listening to this instrument for sensual pleasure and arousal. The Visayan women also had their own instrument, the kodlong, and the rhetorical performance techniques of both instruments allowed men and women to “speak” to one another “with much more feeling or sensuality than by word of mouth,” causing Alzina to lament the possible offenses committed against God in this fashion.66 To him, some Filipino musical instruments appeared to be both powerful and devious. They transcended the linguistic comprehension of European missionaries, allowing indigenous musicians to encode and represent their passions—passions that if voiced might have been more easily censored or curtailed. Alzina nevertheless admired the craftmanship and skill involved in the construction of indigenous instruments: his organological descriptions rank among the most detailed in early modern colonial ethnography, as discussed shortly. He was sensitive in his descriptions of the Visayans, standing out among early modern colonial ethnographers by making illustrations of several dances and recording the plots of epic tales. In 1890, the national hero of the Philippines, José Rizal (1861–96), anticipated the cry of today’s ethnohistorians by writing that “it is to be lamented that these songs have not been conserved, as much of the past of the Filipinos could have been known from these, and perhaps the history of many adjacent islands.”67 But the lengthy prose summaries of epic songs given by Alzina in his “Historia” provide at least some idea of their content. Another observer who admired music and dance in the Visayas in the seventeenth century was Italian world traveler Gemelli Careri. He found Visayan poetic compositions to be “gracious and eloquent” and described the movements of Visayan dances that depicted warlike themes (although he did not specify their names). These dances were performed with such grace and style, he added, that Spaniards sought them out for inclusion in their festivities. Less

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convincingly, however, he drew comparisons between Filipino and Chinese traditions of music and dance, justifying this connection by citing the Visayan performance of antiphonal singing “to the sound of a metal drum” (by which he most likely means a gong).68 To his eyes, vocal and instrumental elements appeared to be Chinese.

Indigenous Instruments Musical instruments, tools of sonic expression common to all human cultures, almost always attracted the attention of early modern travelers and often acted as a fascinating subject for intercultural comparison. In many cases, they established homologies between different musical systems and provided a basis for what I have called enharmonic engagement. Colonial historiography is a rich resource for European observations on musical instruments of the Filipinos. Throughout the early modern period, missionaries regularly recorded organological details, such as the local names of instruments, the means by which sound was produced on them, and the materials and methods used for their construction. The resulting texts include comments on instruments’ functions in Filipino society and offer descriptions of performance techniques and assessments of sound quality. All such data were collected as part of the comprehensive ethnographic surveys undertaken by missionaries. Information on instruments can be found relayed in the narratives of manuscript and published histories and more often incorporated as lexical definitions in the compilation of vocabularios. All these sources are indispensable for the understanding of precolonial traditions in many parts of the Philippines and determining how and when they began to change. While Filipino and European instruments coexisted for long periods in Christianized areas of the archipelago, indigenous instruments eventually fell out of use in many communities, in favor of European importations, as we see in the next chapter. In many cases, all we have left is a written name and description. Similar instruments may continue to be used today by musicians from other ethnolinguistic groups of the islands, but their names, physical properties, and functions may differ drastically. For this reason, a number of scholars have sought to reconstruct the lost or forgotten instruments of the precolonial past. They have done so through examination of (few) archaeological remains, early colonial literary sources describing such instruments, and observation of the instruments in use among communities today who did not bear the full brunt of colonialism’s impact. One of the first major and detailed organological studies of indigenous Philippine instruments was by Norberto Romuáldez (1875–1941), who in 1931 gave a lecture titled “Filipino Musical Instruments and Airs of Long Ago”; the most recent and most comprehensive study is Gongs and Bamboo by the late José Maceda.69

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Whenever historians or musicologists write about organological aspects of Filipino music, the lute called kutyapi—an iconic indigenous instrument—is usually among the first subjects discussed.70 Agoncillo and Alfonso note that it was originally found “almost throughout the country—from the north to the south,” and that it was later adopted by the Tagalogs as a “symbol of poetry.”71 As we have seen, the word “kutyapi” stems directly from the Sanskrit term kacchapī, which means lute. The kutyapi is often called a “boat lute,” and other instruments of this type with remarkably similar names are found throughout Southeast Asia, such as the kecapi in Indonesia and the jakhē in Thailand.72 Today, most of the kutyapi’s practitioners and makers are found in Mindanao. This lute was mentioned on numerous occasions by early modern European observers. As early as 1543, Bernardo de la Torre (d. 1545?), who was part of the Villalobos expedition, noted its use at a dance he saw in Samar, and his testimony appears to be the first known European documentation of the instrument.73 Many Jesuits wrote about the kutyapi, but Chirino gave one of the first detailed descriptions of it, providing source material that was subsequently reused by numerous writers for comments on the instrument’s rhetorical capacities (including Alzina, as we have seen). He observed that “although their viguela, which they call kutyapi, is not very complex, nor the music very profound, it is still agreeable, and very much so to them. They play it with such liveliness and skill that the four copper strings speak. It is considered a verifiable fact there that by only playing the strings, with the mouth shut, whatever they want to say can be understood by all who desire it. This is something that is not known of any other nation.”74 Modern-day criticism may easily deflate the claim that the use of this instrument as a communicative device in the Philippines was unique in the early modern world. But this observation still highlights the propensity of missionary writers in the early modern Philippines (as elsewhere) to use inflated rhetoric in describing “their” potential converts, so as to justify the effort and resources expended in propelling the evangelistic enterprise. Another account of the kutyapi, written a few decades later and attributed to Bobadilla, again goes on to praise its rhetorical qualities, “unique to those of this nation,” but points out that although its use was once widespread, only a few Filipinos played it at the time of writing. The author describes the instrument as being “quite similar to a vielle, and . . . mounted with four copper strings.”75 Although the comparison of the plucked kutyapi to the bowed chordophone vielle seems unlikely, we should remember that this text exists only in a seventeenth-century French translation, and it is possible that vielle is simply a corrupted translation of the Spanish term vihuela. Colín, continuing the work of Chirino almost half a century later in his Labor evangelica, repeats the latter’s description of the kutyapi almost word for word but qualifies that the strings number “two or more” rather than four.76 Alzina in the Visayas affirms that “these strings number no more than two (there is rarely a musician who knows

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how to play on three) and are made of fine copper, or silver (which is usually more sonorous).”77 Given his more detailed treatment of the instrument—at least in the Visayan context—Alzina’s observation is likely to be the most reliable. Murillo Velarde described this instrument in the mid-eighteenth century, by which time its practice had begun to wane, at least among the communities he observed around Manila. According to him, the kutyapi had “two or three strings of copper, which they used to play with a quill.”78 In the early modern vocabularios, it was not just the constructional techniques that were documented; the natural resources that provided materials for the instruments were also detailed. The vocabularios offer valuable insights into precolonial practices that gradually receded as European instrument-making began to predominate. Verbs deriving from the nouns of indigenous wind instruments sometimes imply the acts of both making and playing them, and many definitions represent the desire of the Spanish ethnographers to equate indigenous instruments with those from their own European tradition, adding details about construction that were locally specific. For instance, the Kapampangan jaw harp, called culaing, is defined as a trompa de París with the qualification that “here it is made of bamboo,” rather than of metal as in Europe.79 The 1613 vocabulario of San Buena Ventura describes the making of a Tagalog flute called tambuli in remarkable detail: “with a certain workmanship they take a piece of bamboo without nodes and split it at a point, placing there a palm leaf or a piece of the same bamboo; they blow it and it sounds like a dolzaina.”80 But it is possible that this term was confused with another instrument, since the tamboli (now tambuli) was noted in the early eighteenth century to be a trumpet made from the horn of a carabao (a type of local water buffalo), which was used for signaling purposes.81 Franciscan Domingo de los Santos (d. 1695) writes of the Tagalog flute boloboryong that they “make [it] from bamboo” and “play [it] in their houses.”82 In Visayan vocabularies published in 1637 and 1711, two types of native flute are listed: lantoy (or tolali) and tingab (now tanggab). The first, lantoy, is identified as being played with the nostrils; the 1637 vocabulario by Alonso de Méntrida mentions that the Visayans used this word to refer to the Castilian recorder.83 The term is further qualified in the 1711 publication of a vocabulario compiled by Matheo Sánchez (d. 1618), which mentions that this flute is used only for sad or funereal occasions, and that “for its similarity the word is extended to name our flute.”84 The tingab, on the other hand, is played with the mouth.85 Regarding chordophones, there is a remarkable level of detail in providing Spanish translations for specialized indigenous musical terms, to the extent of describing words for frets (Castilian: trastes) and bows (Castilian: arquillos). Sánchez’s definition for the Visayan cutiapi (kutyapi, translated into Castilian as guitarra) lists words for strings (dulus), tuning pegs (biricbiric), and three terms for frets or “that [which is] like a fret” (pidia, bidia, and ipitan).86 In the same source, the corlong (kodlong) is identified as “a musical instrument,

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intended for women, made from some pieces of good and tough bamboo.”87 Méntrida’s Visayan vocabulario, on the other hand, states that the corlong is a “bamboo vigolón which is played like a harp.”88 This work also gives the noun for “guitar fret” (bidia)—this presumably being also a fret for an indigenous instrument—as well as verbs for fretting the guitar (nagabidia) and for fingering with the left hand (namidia); the last term is defined as “bringing the fingers on the frets.”89 The same noun for “fret” (spelt bidyà) was included in the Bikol vocabulario of Franciscan Marcos de Lisboa (d. 1628), where it was defined as “the points where they put fingers on the codyapes, like frets on the vihuela, which among them [the Filipinos] are some little pieces of wax.”90 Through the identification of material used for the making of frets, we see further evidence attesting to the extraordinarily high level of detail that can be found in musical definitions from the vocabularios. The parallel function of European vihuela frets and indigenous wax frets for the kutyapi also provides a significant example of a point of convergence that facilitated the processes of transculturation. Definitions in the vocabularios occasionally seem to distinguish between different qualities of strings for different plucked or bowed instruments.91 In this respect, San Buena Ventura’s vocabulario gives two definitions in Tagalog for cuerda: the word cauar (kawad) is described as “copper [strings] for clavichords or zithers,” whereas the word dilis refers to strings for guitar, harp, or codyapi (kutyapi).92 On the other hand, the Visayan term dulus is translated by Méntrida not only as string for the zither, guitar, and harp but also as a string for the crossbow.93 With this diversity of terms and definitions, confusion reigns, but the heterogeneity of musical practices and observations becomes clear. The integration of a number of traditions of string-playing, whether plucked or bowed, appears to have resulted in a multiplicity of practices in the islands, with specific implications for string-making. The Spanish index of a 1794 Ilokano vocabulario identifies the terms cuerda de clavicordio (harpsichord string) and cuerda de instrumento (instrument string) as the noun barot, which is also translated in the main body of the text as a verb meaning “to pull something from silver, gold, or copper” (in other words, to extrude).94 This approximation is indicative of the tendency to apply functional words to a newly introduced cultural artifact, although it is likely that the last word would have been used to apply to the wire strings of the kutyapi. Confusion of terms notwithstanding, it can generally be assumed that it was only the strings of Filipino kutyapi and European zithers and keyboard instruments that were made of metal; strings for harps and guitars were usually made of silk. Aside from the data found in the vocabularios, the organological observations made by Alzina in the seventeenth century are invaluable sources for mainstream precolonial instrumental practice in the Visayas. Alzina gives a meticulous description of the construction methods of instruments in the Visayas such as the plucked chordophones coriapi (kutyapi) and corlong (kod-

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long), bamboo noseflutes, and the jaw harp subing, noting similarities between European and Filipino instrument production but highlighting differences in performative traditions. He makes a number of pejorative remarks in comparing European and Philippine instruments. For example, he claims that the coriapi is not as resonant as the European zither for the following reasons: “the strings are played with a plectrum like [the strings on] our zithers, and the sounds produced on them are comparable, although those of the coriapi are less sonorous because there are fewer of them and the body of the instrument does not have measurements proportionate to the sounds.”95 Here we see an emerging pattern of essentialism in Alzina’s comparative assessments: he implies that European music is more sonorous and more harmonious, but he does allow (elsewhere) that Filipino instruments have greater capacities for rhetorical expression. He goes on to liken the women’s instrument corlong to “the little guitars of cane which the boys in Spain usually make.”96 Alzina gives a detailed description of how ten or twelve pieces of cane are tied together and strings are pulled from the middle of the grain of each. Once small bridges are positioned, the instrument can be played against the breast like a guitar, the women accompanying themselves in the same fashion as the men do on the coriapi.97 The Visayan noseflute, made of a type of bamboo called bacacai, has a hole in the “knot” (the node of the bamboo) for producing sound and three or four more for placing the fingers. Alzina notes that these flutes do not have a duct for producing sound (as on a European recorder), but even though they are “not as loud and sonorous as [our flutes], they are as sweet, and more delicate than ours.”98 The bamboo subing, or jaw harp, of the Visayas has “as robust a sound and [is] as lively as those made of iron.” At the time of Alzina’s writing, the iron jaw harps of Europe had been introduced to the Visayas and were used by local musicians, but the traditional bamboo form was more common. Although it involved a complex method of construction, Alzina noted that “great use is made of it by all in general; men and women, young and old, have this instrument, and all of them know how to make it, for once it is seen it is very easy.”99 The importance of natural resources for the making of instruments was recognized by several early modern writers. Surveyors of plants in the Philippines throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries noted the propensity of certain trees to produce good wood for the construction of chordophones. Alzina, for instance, stated that hard woods were sought out for the construction of the coriapi’s body.100 In the mid-eighteenth century, Delgado identified two trees with wood suitable for the fabrication of musical instruments. His 1751 survey of the islands includes dozens of chapters concerning the properties of many types of plants, for medicinal, constructional, and other uses. Although one of the most important functions of the plants he documents is their use in treating ill-health, Delgado does not neglect to mention

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the curative effects of music. He writes of the Visayan tree alagut-ut (Cordia subcordata) that although it has no medicinal value, “it has the virtue of sweetening the ears, and to make hearts joyful through the music of instruments made from it.”101 (This wood is still used today in parts of the Visayas for the construction of guitars.) In the case of a plant that does not produce any edible fruit, but nevertheless provides wood that can be used to make instruments, he talks of music as “food for the ears.”102 The comments of Alzina and Delgado point to the existence of a thriving industry of luthiery, which exploited local woods for the construction of both indigenous and European instruments. Naturally hollow plants, such as bamboo, produced many types of indigenous aerophones as well as other instruments, such as European pipe organs. Bobadilla noted around 1640 that the strings of the guitars and harps played by the Filipinos “are made of twisted silk, and produce a sound as agreeable as that produced by our [type of] strings, even though they are made of quite different material.”103 By “our strings,” he presumably meant those made of gut. It is not surprising that a territory so close to China should make use of one of the most highly prized and abundant natural resources from that empire. Raw silk was imported directly from China; attempts to initiate a silk industry in the Philippines were unsuccessful. However, silk was also known to be used as a material for making strings in early modern Europe: Mersenne and other theorists made mention of this alternative to gut or metal.104 European musicians traveling to hot climates occasionally appear to have chosen to make use of silk strings on their instruments, rather than gut.105 A possible reason for this decision is the differing level of hygroscopicity (the propensity of a material to absorb moisture) in silk and gut, a contributing factor to the longevity and functionability of a string. Yet it seems that not all European musicians in the East approved of the different material or sound. They may have tried strings made of silk—thus capitalizing on a local and plentiful natural resource, rather than engaging in the complicated occupation of making gut strings—but without success or appreciation. It is probable that gut strings made in Europe or the Americas circulated among the practitioners of European music in early modern Asia, or that guts of animals slaughtered for meat—such as carabao—would have been used for string-making by Europeans resident in the Philippines, although documentary evidence of this practice has yet to emerge. We know, however, that carabao hides were used in the production of choirbooks.106 For this reason, it seems almost inevitable that other parts of the animal, if not immediately used in local cuisine, would have also contributed to the enterprise of establishing ecclesiastical music in the islands. (In the Tagalog region, their horns were converted into musical instruments called tambuli, as already noted.) In terms of materials for strings, the choice of silk for use by Asian musicians on European guitars and harps in Asia presents a curious paradox: indigenous musicians of the Philippines who had originally used metal strings on their

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traditional instruments began to play instruments introduced by Europeans who used a mainland Asian resource made available by increased trade with China.

Conclusion Critical analysis of themes and data that emerge from firsthand colonial ethnological and organological sources shows that Spaniards in the early modern Philippines were fascinated by the peoples who surrounded them. At the same time as colonialists familiarized themselves with the country and its inhabitants, however, they sought to control and change the Filipinos. Indigenous musical practices evolved rapidly during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and many sonic structures and ritual performances were lost. No cultural system that is subjected to the stresses of European colonial incursions can remain static or continue along the trajectory of its own development unimpeded by outside influences. It will immediately enter a period of flux, and the imbalances that are inherent in many intercultural encounters will inevitably result in the predominance of one set of cultural practices at the expense of another. Even so, we can come to a better understanding of precolonial Filipino cultures by examining colonial historiography that preserves descriptions of songs, dances, and instrumental practices. It is clear that these texts open a valuable window onto the precolonial state of Filipino music—if only a fleeting glance—although due care and caution must be taken in interpreting data gleaned from colonial sources. In this chapter, we have seen how the counterpoint of cultures at the final nexus of the first global trade network brought about a type of enharmonic engagement between musicians from remarkably different cultures. By surveying each other’s speech, songs, dance, and instrumental practices according to ingrained aesthetic tastes and sensibilities, Spaniards and Filipinos eventually came to a relatively apprehensive understanding of each other. Of course, it was only tolerable as long as the power relationships were upheld through the structures (and strictures) of colonial counterpoint—social and musical alike. Still, this engagement was intense enough for musicians and observers from both sides of the cultural divide to attempt to develop an intimate knowledge and understanding of each other’s practices and enter into a type of colonial courtship. As we will see in the following two chapters, enharmonic engagement contributed to the hispanization of Filipino music and the development of unique, hybrid genres as a creation of colonial practice.

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The Hispanization of Filipino Music

Visitors to the Philippines today are often struck by the heterogeneity of musical traditions cultivated by the islands’ inhabitants. Ranging from traditional indigenous practices to Western art music to the latest styles in popular music from around the world, musics in the Philippines are characterized, shaped, and colored by constant mediation between tradition and modernity, not to mention continuous encounters with external artistic influences and the incorporation of foreign elements into local practices. In an archipelago lying at the crossroads of many contrasting civilizations, it is hardly surprising that a panoply of different musical styles should have been introduced. Some musical influences, more than others, have found fertile ground in which to take root. Within a contrapuntal society, however, the overarching organization of cultural hierarchies and internal interplay of power relationships will often dictate or endorse whichever new element might be incorporated into musical practices. These practices then effectively perpetuate and uphold the prevailing social norms. As we have seen in the previous chapters, the incorporation of the Philippines into a mundo hispánico was contingent on the compliance of indigenous peoples with the imposition of the intertwined Spanish structures of religion and politics. Music, as an integral part of performing religious identity through ceremony, manifested devotion to the church, and therefore—in the eyes of Spaniards—loyalty to the Crown. Similarly, the adoption of Spanish musical traits confirmed to Spain the purported legitimacy of their “civilizing” mission and the sincerity of the indigenous peoples’ religious commitment. What Spaniards failed to realize, however, was that the adoption and adaptation of music eventually provided an officially sanctioned avenue for contesting colonial authority.

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From the late sixteenth to the early nineteenth century, Spaniards and Filipinos gradually tempered their cultural systems to incorporate an understanding of the other and locate a point of enharmonic interchange: their cultures modulated. One of the most significant elements of this cultural modulation was the hispanization of Filipino music. “Hispanization” is a term I have borrowed from historian John Leddy Phelan (1924–76), who in 1967 published his seminal study on the cultural ramifications of Spain’s colonization of the Philippines. His concept of hispanization is one that refers largely to the socioeconomic dimensions of cultural change in the Spanish colonial period. Yet Phelan also correctly pointed out that although political and religious hispanization involved outright imposition, it was an “indirect hispanization”—due to the relatively small number of Spaniards in the islands—as opposed to a case of “direct hispanization” in Mexico. It owed as much to the active appropriation or “Philippinization” of Spanish and SpanishAmerican cultural elements by the indigenous population as to the coercive policies of conversion and urbanization set in place by colonial authorities. Hispanization is essentially synonymous with the complex process of transculturation, a phenomenon of cultural transition that often takes place in the context of frontiers or “contact zones.”1 This implies the merging of cultures over time, incorporating resolutions of their differences. But compromises and concessions were often made, of course, and mostly on the side of the indigenous population. Transculturation in colonial societies of the Spanish Empire involved movement along a continuum between distance from and proximity to the cultural values of the colonial overlords. The indigenous elite often sought to minimize difference by emulating cultural traits of the Spaniards, and these principales with hispanized mannerisms were then imitated in turn by their own communities. We saw in the previous chapter how meticulously Spanish ethnographers documented indigenous practices in the Philippines during the first two centuries of encounter (and beyond). Music and dance traditions of the Filipinos who were in regular contact with Europeans (especially those living in Christianized communities) continued to change as they coexisted with newly introduced art forms. Some traditions were replaced altogether as importations were adopted and subsequently filled their niches. Others were gradually forgotten. Still more began to metamorphize and take on the character of Spanish practices. This hispanization of Filipino music is a standard trope of Filipino music historiography: Corazon Canave-Dioquino has observed that “during the period of Spanish colonization, a transformation of the people’s musical thinking occurred, and a hybrid form of musical expression, heavily tinged with a Hispanic taste, sprouted and took root.” In similar terms, José Montserrat Maceda (1917–2004) has described the transformation of “the musical thinking of a people into a Latin expression.”2 Transculturation did not necessarily imply the complete transformation of an indigenous musician into a European musician, of course. There were

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numerous dimensions to this process, all of which involved subtle changes to existing and introduced traditions. The convergences between multiple musical cultures in the colonial context resulted in transculturative processes that include musical transplantation, appropriation, adaptation, and cross-fertilization. These aspects of musical change can be seen in the singing of indigenous texts to European melodies and, conversely, the singing of European or Christian texts to indigenous melodies; the use of European instruments in indigenous contexts and vice versa; and the use of local materials in the construction of European instruments. As the phenomenon of transculturation was linked inextricably to the colonial processes of urbanizing and converting the indigenous population, we can trace its development through a diverse range of literary sources relating to these endeavors. The historical study of cultural transition in the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period has always been challenged by the limitation of documentary sources and physical evidence. Music is an abstract art, existing fleetingly on a temporal plane, and if it is not recorded through the notation of pitch and rhythm (and other elements), the historian can rely only on contemporaneous evidence, such as artifacts or written descriptions. Early modern missionaries were happy to oblige in the case of the latter, and their texts have provided historians of Filipino music with seminal data. In 1973, Maceda noted that “historical records about how the change [in Filipino music] came about are few, but they all tell how the first Western music was introduced through the medium of the church.”3 In the decades since this observation, many more archival sources have been identified, but these remain resolutely textual, in the form of ethnographic texts or descriptions of performances. There exists no major corpus of notated musical works produced with consistent regularity to provide evidence of any sustained shift in musical aesthetics—at least, not until the second half of the nineteenth century. Thus, in tracing the process of transculturation, we rely principally on documentation produced by religious writers, although their perspective was, of course, simultaneously shaped and clouded by their mission. We must, then, consider other sources that document transcultural flows of ideas and concepts on a more balanced and objective level—texts that shape language as well as being shaped by language—such as the vocabularios of indigenous languages and the observations of non-Spanish travel writers. We must translate the idea of transculturation.

Translating Transculturation Communication is a vital element in the cross-cultural transfer of any musical concepts. The intrinsic connections between language and music also mean that texts produced at any given time will reflect many aspects of prevailing aesthetic sensibilities and artistic currencies. This is true of lengthy descriptions

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and observations written by missionaries and travel writers, but small phrases and individual words themselves often serve to illuminate the state of music at a particular time. The vocabularios of Filipino languages are remarkably revelatory sources in tracing transculturation in the early modern Philippines. They provide historical vignettes and capsules of ethnographic data that are key indicators of when and how certain Spanish instruments, musical terminology, and theoretical concepts were introduced to the islands. They show the retention or disuse of certain musical terms and reveal how a musical-aesthetic shift was taking place at different times and in different regions. It is important to remember that they are not, however, diachronic guides or incontrovertible records of a clear and fluid process. Rather, they present indications of musicallinguistic intersections and cultural circumstances at given geographical and chronological points, enabling the tracing of a transculturative trajectory (with some conjecture). The lexicographers responsible for producing these sources sometimes simply transliterated Castilian terms according to the conventions of indigenous phoneticization. For example, the Castilian word castañetas (now castañuelas) is given as castanitas in several Tagalog vocabularios. Very often, clarification relating to the transmission of Spanish instruments into indigenous usage is also provided; in the case of the castanitas, Pedro de San Buena Ventura stated in 1613 that “these were neither had nor used in their dances, and they have [now] caught on.”4 Ninety years later, Domingo de los Santos clarified that the Tagalogs “used these after they saw them used by the Spanish.”5 Andrés Carro showed in the late eighteenth century that the Castilian term harpa was adopted into Ilokano as a loanword and qualified further that it was a “musical instrument of King David, very popular amongst the Ilokanos ever since they saw it played by a Spanish soldier with the conquistadores.”6 From anecdotal evidence such as this we can speculate that the introduction of the instrument to the Ilocos region dates back to the early 1570s. In 1572, Juan de Salcedo, grandson of Legazpi, was ordered to leave Manila and explore northern Luzon, where he oversaw the invasion of the Ilocos and Cagayan regions. Two years later he founded the city of Vigan in Ilocos Sur, with a colonizing expedition of seventy to eighty soldiers. Salcedo himself had been born in Mexico, and it stands to reason that many of his soldiers, together with a diatonic Hispanic harp, may have come from there as well. Whatever the origins of this instrument, its practice certainly took root in northern Luzon, particularly in the Cagayan Valley.7 As suggested by the vocabulario, its adoption might stem simply from local interest engendered by a soldier from Salcedo’s task force playing his harp for relaxation or solace, by the side of a river or around a campfire during a rest period in the 1570s. If requested or urged by inquisitive onlookers to name his instrument—which involved the plucking of strings like a kutyapi but looked and sounded entirely different—this soldier may have just replied: “harpa.”

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By contrast, when an instrument of the precolonial instrumentorium appeared to bear physical similarity to a foreign incursion, the name of the indigenous instrument was often retained to refer to the European counterpart. In this sense, the newly introduced instrument occupied the same musical niche as an indigenous Filipino instrument of a comparable type. For instance, the generic term for flute in Tagalog, bangsi, appears to have already been used to refer to the playing of European recorders (flautas) to accompany polyphonic singing in church by 1613, when San Buena Ventura qualified the act of playing recorders (nagbabangsi, “they are playing bangsi”) as a form of ecclesiastical service (“de Iglesia”). In his vocabulario of 1703, Santos provided a question in Tagalog that is presumably for the use of missionaries: “Ylan ang bangsi sa Simbahan? Quantas flautas ay en la Iglesia?” (“How many recorders are there in the church?”).8 The instruments mentioned here, presumably ecclesiastical possessions, are more likely to have been European recorders than indigenous flutes. As we saw in the previous chapter, Méntrida recorded as early as 1637 that the Visayan terms lantoy and tolali, names for Filipino aerophones, were being applied to the European recorder.9 According to Jesuit Sánchez, the physical resemblances between the Visayan noseflute lantuy (or lantoy) and the European recorder had led to the indigenous name being applied to its counterpart.10 Thus, even if techniques of playing instruments were quite different, terminological consistence and the reinforcement of certain conceptual similarities between the indigenous and European instrumentorium promoted increased familiarity with foreign musical technology. In some instances, European words related to music theory or practice were translated into indigenous languages, provided that lexicographers noted homologous indigenous words that implied similar concepts. For example, in his Kapampangan vocabulario of 1732, Diego Bergaño translated the Castilian verb solfear (to solmizate) and the composite term compas solfa (meter/rhythm [and] solfa/pitch) as galai.11 Although he confusingly seems to have combined meter and pitch in the second translation, he offered a more detailed explanation of galai in the corresponding part of the vocabulario: “Note, or rhythm of the voice, being ut to sol.”12 In the eighteenth century, missionary linguists identified a term for “harmony” or “consonance” in a variety of languages: sabot in Bikol, saliu (now saliw) in Tagalog, and ulat or angay in Visayan.13 But one of the earliest Castilian translations of the Tagalog word saliw, given by San Buena Ventura, was acompas [sic], which was defined as “to play with any other instrument.”14 Certain terms were also applied to specific technical aspects of performance. The 1726 Tagalog vocabulario by Augustinian Tomás Ortiz (1668–1742) defines the verb tipa as “pressing, or touching with the extremities, or tips of the fingers,” relating this word specifically to the keys of the organ, as well as to the strings of the guitar and the holes of the dulcian, shawm, and fife.15 Such a definition implies the term’s use in musical pedagogy among Tagalog speakers at the time.

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Then, as now, it is likely that musical instruction took place in whichever language was the most familiar to teacher and student. Musical pedagogy is, of course, essentially an act of translation and interpretation, whether visual, verbal, or sonic. Certain concepts might be better expressed or elucidated using terms borrowed from other languages, but learning ultimately resides in cognitive processes arising from mutual comprehensibility.16 The act of musical pedagogy—a common impulse of Roman Catholic missionaries throughout the early modern world—immediately contracts distances between cultures and negates differences that can otherwise appear irreconcilable. It often relies on the teaching of children, whose minds are fertile fields for the sowing of information from many different cultural traditions. Most important, it relies on the proximity of representatives from these different cultures, thrown together in a crucible where they can act and react to each other. Metropoles the world over are thus potent sites for intercultural encounters, and transculturation.

Metropolitan Transculturation In Manila and its environs, cultures lived in counterpoint to one another. As we saw earlier, the imposing walls of Intramuros and stone buildings within the city symbolized the Spaniards’ belief in the permanence and immutability of their imperial enterprise. These walls also defined the rigid policies of ethnic and social segregation that had been set in place both by colonial authority and by popular perception. Cities and towns in the Spanish Empire were established according to strict regulations: the royal instructions of 1573. These instructions were mainly concerned with location of the settlement and the physical layout of streets and buildings, but—significantly—they extended to music, mandating that if missionaries “wished to inspire greater admiration and attention amongst the infidels, and if it were convenient to do so, they could use music performed by singers and instrumentalists (playing low and high wind instruments) in order to encourage them to join in and to use them.”17 Shaping the culture of the inhabitants seemed as important to Felipe II and his advisors as molding the physical structure of urban space. Such approaches of musical coercion were adopted in Manila in the final decades of the sixteenth century, as we know from an account written by Antonio de Morga, which details the work of missionaries in imparting European music and drama to indigenous communities around the city. While in their doctrinas [missions] the religious undertake to teach matters of religion to the natives, they also work to train them in matters of their policía [a concept of rational civil society and governance]. They run schools in which boys learn how to read and write in Spanish, teaching them how to serve in church, how to

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sing plainchant and polyphony, and the ministriles [instrumentalists] how to play [wind instruments]. [They also teach them] to dance, sing, and play harps, guitars, and other instruments, in which there is already great skill, especially around Manila, where there are very good capillas of indigenous singers and ministriles, who are skillful and have good voices. There are many dancers and musicians who, using many instruments, solemnize and adorn the feasts of the Most Holy Sacrament, and many others throughout the year. They perform autos and comedias in Spanish, and in their language, with great grace. All this is owed to the care and interest of the religious, who tirelessly dedicate themselves to the natives’ improvement.18 Evidently, the imposition of Spanish Catholicism involved not just teaching religious doctrine but also introducing accompanying cultural traits. In respect for this endeavor, Morga gave an undeniably glowing account of the missionaries’ activities. He had to do so, of course, to receive the approbation of religious authorities in Mexico before the publication of his work there in 1609. But although Morga’s book was produced for public consumption and was necessarily affirmative, his private correspondence displays another, darker side of the story. In a letter to Felipe II, dated June 8, 1598, Morga complained of abuses committed by the religious. He mentioned their extravagance in enjoying frequent feasts and dances and exposed their exploitation and ill-treatment of the indigenous peoples. The religious exacted an expensive levy on the indigenous converts to pay for their entertainments, he averred; missionaries also taught indigenous servants and their companions to play the guitar and other instruments, making them perform “indecent and profane sones,” which set a bad example “with little benefit to anyone.”19 An official of the Spanish government may have seen it this way, of course, for in his eyes, time spent in recreation and entertainment detracted from more pressing activities, such as the establishment of a strong economy and a political structure that was ordered according to European precepts. But it is more likely than not that religious engagement with the indigenous population through the medium of entertainment—singing, dancing, playing instruments, and performing dramatic works—did more to foster favorable relations between the two parties than the outright imposition of religious doctrine. Less advantageous, however, was the exacting of heavy levies for the benefit of the religious communities—a practice that often raised the ire of Filipinos and eventually resulted in rebellion against the religious orders in the revolutionary era of the late nineteenth century. Morga’s reference to the Filipino performance of dramatic works in Spanish and in translation is an observation that is repeated frequently in early modern sources. A century later, Franciscan historian Juan Francisco de San Antonio

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(1682–1744) noted that the Filipinos “are great lovers of verses and performances. [They are] very good translators, and with great skill translate a Spanish comedia into verses in their own language. And thus, although all men and women are [already] fond of reading, when they read something in verse-form, they are tireless in reading, and go about performing it, while they read it.”20 These performances seem to have been given in any place so desired: Le Gentil de la Galaisière claimed that one frequently saw Filipinos “perform, by reading, as if they were on stage.”21 Works in many types of literary and dramatic genres were translated directly or paraphrased from Spanish into Filipino languages; Martínez de Zúñiga claimed in 1800 that “before the arrival of the Spaniards, all the poetry of the Filipinos was lyrical. . . . Since the arrival of the Spaniards, they have had comedias, entremeses, tragedies, poems, and all genres of compositions, translated from the Spanish language.”22 This type of paraphrased translation contributed to the development of a verse form that came to be known as “dramatic poetry” or a “metrical romance.” Performances of these works were often embedded in larger presentations involving music and dance. One prolific writer of dramatic poetry and metrical romances was Tagalog poet José de la Cruz (1746–1829), popularly known as “Huseng Sisiw” (José the Chick).23 The endurance of foreign artistic influences relied on Filipino reception and predilection as much as it depended on a steady stream of importations. Sometimes there was a relatively small window through which the transmission of musical commodities and practices could take place, but each episode nevertheless made a significant contribution to the process of transculturation. For instance, the bajón (dulcian) was one of the most important instruments for church music in the early modern Hispanic world, playing a key role in accompanying both plainchant and polyphony. As we saw in a previous chapter, its introduction to the Philippines is attributed to a Jesuit from Granada named Luis Serrano, who played this instrument in church and taught the Filipinos how to make and play it. We should also note that two months after Serrano’s burial in 1603, a Sienese Jesuit named Christoval Certelio (Cristóforo Certelli, 1577–1606) arrived in Manila and undertook the same endeavor, but for only three years until his own death.24 In that short time, the act of transmission had taken place, and musical practices had been disseminated among members of the indigenous population. But since references to the bajón do not proliferate in documentary sources thereafter, the extent of its use remains unknown. In 1630, Augustinian Juan de Medina (d. 1635) echoed Morga by noting that there were many good singers among indigenous converts and choirs in Manila that “could shine in Spain.”25 Peninsular taste and expectations remained the standards by which hispanized musicians in Latin America and the Philippines were judged by European observers during the early modern period, in a type of comparative assessment that is entirely characteristic of colonial relationships. In many ways, such comparisons promoted sentiments of egalitarianism between ethnic groups, at least in terms of aesthetic tastes and musical skills. To these

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observers, hispanized Filipinos minimized cultural difference from Spaniards by adopting their music and seeking to emulate their performance styles. Franciscan historian Francisco de Santa Inés (1650–1713) implied in 1676 that Filipino skill in European music was as advantageous for the church as for the cultural enfranchisement of the indigenous population, writing: Already all Filipinos dance, play instruments and sing in our manner, and use all the instruments of the Spaniards, and sing in such a way that we do not have any advantage over them. They are the musicians in all the churches of these islands, in the cathedral of Manila just as in the rest of the churches and convents that are within and far away from the city. There is hardly a town that does not have its own musical ensemble with a sufficient number of voices, trebles, and many instruments, and it is a common sentiment of those who have seen one or the other that there is music here that can compete with that of some of the cathedrals in Spain.26 As Geoffrey Baker has pointed out, the highest praise that could be lavished by colonial observers on indigenous musicians in the Spanish Empire was that their skills were commensurate with the standards of Spain; at the same time, this type of compliment, easily given, justified the colonial enterprise to Spanish readers.27 Nevertheless, the apparent numerical sufficiency of indigenous musicians in the eyes of European observers meant that all churches were well served by musicians. These musicians were liminal entities whose actions were shaped and molded by the competitive nature of a colonial relationship. Musical hispanization not only minimized distance from the colonial overlords; it also enhanced musicians’ status within indigenous communities, where they occupied an elite stratum. Social aspirations were not the only motivation that inspired Filipinos to hispanize their musical tastes and practices. Religious fervor was also a key element in hispanization and the interface for the cross-cultural transmission of performative artforms. Fernández Navarrete recognized the multidimensional nature of the process of transculturation or hispanization, writing in the late seventeenth century: “I us’d to say, that the fervour of the antient People of Castile was gone over to the Indian [that is, Filipino] Men and Women at Manila. The Indians celebrate Festival days very well, there are few among them but dance very well; and so in Processions they use Dancing, and play well on the Harp and Guitar.”28 Musical transculturation was inseparable from religious conversion and social transformation in the context of colonial rule. It is unsurprising that the harp and guitar were among the most favored instruments of the Filipinos, because their skills in playing precolonial plucked chordophones such as the kutyapi could be transferred to the European equivalents. This cannot be the only reason for their widespread use, however. If we make a comparison with Latin America, we can see that the harp and guitar were also

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prevalent among the hispanized Amerindian populations, even though no stringed instruments are known to have been used there before the arrival of European colonialists. We can assume, then, that the indigenous penchant for harp and guitar in both Latin America and the Philippines most likely stemmed from their constant use by Spanish colonialists, their large-scale production, and their rhythmic impetus in performance that made them suitable for accompanying dances (both the harp and guitar) and ecclesiastical vocal music (officially, just the harp). In the mid-eighteenth century, the harp was identified by Murillo Velarde as the most popular instrument of the Filipinos in Manila and its environs. Bowed instruments were commonplace as well; some decades later, Le Gentil de la Galaisière claimed that almost all of the Tagalogs in Manila “have a violin on which they continually occupy themselves in playing.”29 Apart from active transmission of instrumental practices, passive aural absorption may also account for many levels in the process of hispanization. The late seventeenth-century theoretical text “Musicalia speculativa, practicalia, et instrumentorum” contains what may be the earliest known example of European staff notation of music sung by Filipino musicians (figure 4.1), headed “Quædam Musica.” It appears to have a reciting tone; it could even be the skeletal notation of a tone used in the pasyon (a genre discussed in the next chapter). The Latin inscription calls it “a certain music, which is often adapted by the Tagalog women of the Philippines to their native songs [in] their dialect.”30 This melodic fragment’s strong resemblance to European plainchant could suggest that it was heard by Tagalog women in close proximity to Spanish ecclesiastical institutions, and then was adopted and adapted into indigenous practices. Unfortunately, we have no idea of what texts may have been sung to this melody. We do know, however, that Filipino women were noted to be experts in the extemporary paraphrasis in verse form of missionaries’ sermons or the Christian doctrine, which they would sing to traditional melodies.31 They might also have sung them to melodies influenced by European modes.

figure 4.1. Notation of indigenous Filipino song. Loose leaf in “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” between 498–99. © Biblioteca Nacional de España.

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European melodies were also adopted verbatim for use in Filipino songs. There is one example of a European melody underlaid with an indigenous text that has survived intact from the early modern period. Dating from the second half of the seventeenth century, it is included in a manuscript collection of prayers and songs from the Dominican santuario of San Juan del Monte, in Extramuros de Manila. Of the eighteen works included, one has a Tagalog text, which consists of seventeen four-line coplas and a refrain (figure 4.2).32 Whereas the melody of the Letra en tagalo is idiomatically European and the text Christian, the use of a text in this language demonstrates that Tagalog speakers had embraced and incorporated European tonal structures into their musical sensibilities.

figure 4.2. Letra en tagalo, from “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” f. 23r. Reproduced by kind permission of the Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila.

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Beyond Manila Transculturation in the provinces was markedly different from its equivalent in the metropolis. Imported cultural practices breached the boundaries of Manila to reach the provinces and outlying islands in accordance with the movement of colonialists, traders, soldiers, and—most significantly—religious personnel. In the diffusion of these practices, some reinterpretation and transformation took place along the way through the twin processes of transmission and transculturation. Beyond Manila, the process of religious conversion played a major role in the hispanization of Filipino music. Outside the main Spanish settlements in the islands, there were few Spaniards apart from missionaries and encomenderos. In fact, Spaniards not directly involved with evangelistic enterprises were expressly forbidden by the Laws of the Indies from visiting indigenous communities, although some may have honored this law more in the breach than in the observance. Music was a powerful tool for the propagation of the Christian faith; its sound was a means of attracting local people to hear the messages of missionaries. In the case of instrumental music, the means of sound production constituted a point of technological interest and organological comparison. Vocal music also offered an ideal vehicle for the dissemination of religious doctrine and moralistic ideologies. Chirino, who described the singing of the doctrine by the indigenous population throughout the islands in all parts of daily life, emphasized the extent to which music (in its newly Christianized form)—especially singing—permeated traditional customs in the Jesuit missions throughout the archipelago.33 Once a mission had been established in the provinces, its boundaries were defined by sonic limits, for the surrounding population was coerced or “reduced” to live within an urbanized space (a reducción) “within the sound of the bells” (bajo las campanas). Thus music had the power to seduce and reduce. Beyond these main mission settlements were the visitas, small chapels in outlying areas, to which parish priests would make regular visits to administer the sacraments. In remote communities, these brief but regular encounters at the visitas were probably the only times when the priest would sing or teach music, as opposed to the missions, where there was more sustained contact. Following the building of each mission, one or two priests would live in a convento next to the church and operate or supervise a school (usually with the assistance of local auxiliaries) in which religious, literary, and cultural instruction would take place. Missionaries’ tactics of religious conversion traditionally revolved around children; by raising a generation of “new Christians” and reinforcing religiosity in subsequent generations, they attempted to ensure in perpetuity the integration of Christianity within traditional Filipino culture. Essentially, there was a threefold process of adoption: the missionary adopted

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or accommodated enough indigenous culture (language, dress, and daily customs) to allow his acceptance or toleration by a community. Then the celibate Father effectively “adopted” the children, who lived in close proximity to him, and began teaching them the catechism and rudiments of reading, writing, arithmetic, and music. In turn, the children adopted what they learned into their own forms of artistic expression and eventually passed on hispanized cultural practices to their own offspring. Lest we imagine that this was a benign process managed by the munificent missionary-musician, however, we should remember that violence played a part in pedagogic methods, not only in the Philippines but also in Latin America—an early seventeenth-century drawing from Peru depicts a maestro de coro applying the whip liberally34—and in Spain itself (not to mention many other European nations and their colonies). A degree of violence was employed not only to teach music but, as we shall see, also to stop music- and merry-making. It seems that hispanized music sometimes became too much of a diversion among some Filipino communities. Unsurprisingly, some sources state explicity that indigenous musicians became the most proficient in European music if they were in close contact or living with Europeans. A letter by Jesuit Gil Viboult in 1721 recounts that “the most distinguished play well on the Harp, the Violin, and other musical instruments, principally if they have lived in the house of the missionaries, and dedicate their talents to the celebration of the Divine Service with honor and taste.”35 This was no groundbreaking news in the areas where Jesuit missions had long been established. But such an observation was made even in remote areas into which the religious had only recently penetrated: another document from around the same time, concerning an Augustinian mission to the Isinay in northern Luzon, attests to the receptivity of the indigenous population to religious indoctrination. It cites the ingenio (inherent understanding) of the people in fostering and propelling musical transculturation, giving an example of one servant to a missionary who, in less than four years, was able to read, write, and play harp, guitar, and violin.36 If missionaries themselves were conversant with musical theory and adept at instrumental practice, it is hardly surprising that they attempted to pass on their skills to their servants. In a sense, this cultivation of European music in missionaries’ residences was a means to re-create a familiar environment and effectively diminish the distance of their geographical displacement. (We saw in an earlier chapter how a lonely Franciscan in China requested his brethren in Manila to send him a young Filipino servant of noble birth who could play on the harp for his “consolation.”) Those musicians who received training in the residences of missionaries were responsible in turn for the dissemination of their skills in European practice among their compatriots. Indigenous musicians living in a seminary, convent, or any residence of European religious personnel essentially occupied a liminal space. Their liminality meant that they were betwixt and between

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European and indigenous society, humbly obeying one to teach the other and then performing music to serve both.37 The division between indigenous musicians being servants of the missionaries (offering private entertainment) and acting as officially sanctioned servants of the Church appears to have been a fine one, but in all likelihood there was considerable fluidity between these roles. As discussed in later chapters, the approval of the priest or missionary was probably vital in the nomination of indigenous musicians to fill the four to eight tribute-free appointments that were allowed in each parish. There were many parallels between the Spanish colonizations of Mexico and the Philippines, especially in terms of the evangelistic endeavors undertaken by missionaries. In Mexico, religious orders had faced some major challenges in teaching non-Europeans to sing European music from the dawn of their mission, which began soon after the capitulation of the Aztec Empire in 1521. The experiences of missionaries in postconquest Mexico undoubtedly informed the approach of their coreligionists in the Philippines half a century later. The Franciscans, in particular, prioritized the use of music in their methods of evangelization. They established schools in which music was taught alongside European forms of literacy and numeracy, and they built workshops for the construction of musical instruments. Music became a didactic tool for religious instruction. In the teaching of the Christian doctrine, texts were often sung to local or memorable melodies, so music even became a vehicle for exegesis. Toribio de Benavente Motolinía (d. 1568) described in his Historia de los indios (written 1536–41) how one of the first Franciscans in Mexico (probably Juan Caro), an old friar who spoke only Castilian, attempted to teach part-singing to Náhuatl-speaking Aztec boys. Talking to these boys in Castilian, the friar was ridiculed by his coreligionists as his audience stood dumbfounded, appearing to make no headway with his unintelligible language. But as Motolinía recounted, “it was marvelous that, although at first they did not understand a thing and the old man had no interpreter, in a short time they understood him and learned to sing so that there are many of them so skilful that they direct choirs.”38 Given that Motolinía obviously used this anecdote to boast hyperbolically of the mission’s success, there is sure to be an element of exaggeration here. Yet his claim that musical pedagogy was possible without a common spoken language (if we are to rely on the accuracy of his account) clearly indicates that it functioned through demonstration, observation, and imitation. Franciscan missionaries to Mexico soon became proficient in Náhuatl, and were important disseminators of European music in the early days of encounter with the New World. Most musicologists and historians consider the first great pedagogue of European music in Mexico to have been Flemish Franciscan Pedro de Gante (c. 1480–1572). Within a few years of his arrival in the New World, he learned to speak Náhuatl fluently and established schools in which the sons of noble families were gathered together and taught reading, writing,

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and music. He wrote songs in Náhuatl and “went native” to a considerable degree.39 Loved by his flock, Gante was enormously influential in the propagation of European arts and culture in Mexico. His schools and pedagogic methods became models for Franciscan missions in the Americas and across the Pacific, and the hallowed reputation of Gante as teacher and preacher became the standard to which the abilities of other missionaries were compared. In 1577, the Franciscan order established a province in the Philippines. Franciscans were assigned to many Tagalog parishes and also administered the majority of parishes in the Camarines region. Musical instruction was an essential part of the Franciscans’ evangelistic strategy in all their missions. Once a mission had been founded, the friars would sequester all youths between the ages of eight and twenty, making them live together in a seminary next to the church, where they were taught “to read and to write, to pray, to sing plainchant and polyphony, and to play shawms, recorders, and bowed string instruments [violones].”40 At the dawn of the seventeenth century, Franciscan chronicler Marcelo de Ribadeneira commented that it is rare to find a place, however small, that does not have an ensemble of musicians and shawms, so that at Vespers and the principal Mass of feast days, God may be praised and served. The singers are many, and sing all the day, from the morning to the evening, in the seminary, this being arranged in such a way that every day, at least, they sing in church in the morning, at least for the Prime of Our Lady, play recorders at Mass, and in the afternoon sing Vespers of Our Lady, and at nightfall the Salve.41 Franciscan missions in the Philippines followed much the same pattern as those in Mexico. Although the Philippine Islands were generally considered a less glamorous subsidiary of the Mexican theater of evangelization, several of the Franciscans sent to the archipelago had quite distinguished and aristocratic family backgrounds. Some martyred missionaries were even canonized, but the emphasis of hagiographies on miraculous works and other holy acts can obscure the story of their involvement in music, so it is worth considering them afresh. It is a little known fact of Filipino music history that a saint of popular devotion, San Pedro Bautista Blázquez y Blázquez Villacastin (1542–97), was also one of the first and most important Franciscan teachers of European music in the Tagalog region. He was born in Spain to a noble family that counted among its forebears the medieval Castilian monarch Alfonso X, “el Sabio” (1221–84). Bautista had studied music in Ávila and had undertaken courses in philosophy and theology at the University of Salamanca, before working in Spain and Mexico then traveling to the Philippines. On Bautista’s arrival in Manila in 1583, the first task assigned to him was the teaching of European

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music to Tagalog communities in Extramuros. From 1586 he was custodian and superior prelate of the Franciscans in the Philippines; he established churches at Quiapo, Cagsaña (now Pagsanjan), Lumbang, and Los Baños.42 Although Bautista is credited with the establishment of an influential center of music instruction in Lumbang, the florescence of this school really took place in the early seventeenth century, as we shall see. However, Bautista left the Philippines before this happened. In the final decade of the sixteenth century, diplomatic relations between Japan and the Spanish government of the Philippines were in a delicate position, and in 1593 Bautista was chosen by Governor Gómez Pérez Dasmariñas y Ribadeneira (d. 1593) to lead an embassy to Toyotomi Hideyoshi. He impressed the Japanese regent and was allowed to stay in Japan, where he founded churches in Miako (Kyoto) and Nagasaki and where he may have contributed to the practice of European music. But on February 5, 1597, he became one of the twenty-six Nagasaki Martyrs, a group of Franciscans, laypersons, and Japanese converts who were executed as a warning to European nations who harbored colonial ambitions vis-à-vis Japan.43 Another Franciscan to go from the Philippines to Japan was Juan de Santa Marta, who had arrived in Manila in 1606. According to chroniclers of his order, he immediately went to Lumbang and began to teach plainchant, polyphony, and instrumental music, as well as the construction of organs, lutes, and shawms. Three boys from every parish administered by the Franciscans were purportedly sent to study at Lumbang.44 The idea was that they should return to their hometowns and diffuse their knowledge, although we have no documentary evidence testifying to whether this ambitious aim was achieved or to what extent.45 The following year, Santa Marta traveled to Japan. His time at Lumbang was thus curtailed, and nineteenth-century biographer Gómez Platero could not believe that any level of perfection in music could have been attained at that school during the course of just one year or that any more than just a few disciples could have learned the complex art of organ building.46 But in Japan, Santa Marta evidently continued to be an industrious disseminator of European music: he was noted for his construction of organs and other instruments, and “on the eve of his happy martyrdom” he composed a polyphonic mass setting that was apparently sent back to Manila, but which is now lost.47 A number of other Franciscans traveled to neighboring territories after arriving in Manila, but several went back to the Philippines. For example, Gerónimo de Aguilar (d. 1591), who had first arrived in 1582, spent several years in China, Macau, and Siam before returning to Manila in 1586.48 He was subsequently assigned to the Province of Camarines, where he established schools and taught plainchant and polyphony. Franciscan chronicler Juan Francisco de San Antonio credited Aguilar with “the first introduction of music to the natives of this country, in accordance with the royal instructions of 1573,” although he noted that Aguilar’s contemporary Pedro Bautista was also a strong

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contender for this distinction.49 Still, if there was indeed a Pedro de Gante of the Philippines, this label could certainly go to Gerónimo de Aguilar. In the seventeenth century, biographers described how he encouraged the custom of singing the Lesser Hours of Our Lady, and sang motets and villancicos in praise of holy mysteries.50 He was also known to have composed Lamentation settings, probably polyphonic, which were of enduring popularity and were still known to be performed as late as the 1740s. San Antonio observed in that decade how these works, notated “on parchment of little curiosity but of very patent age,” were “learned by the boys, [passed on] from fathers to sons, with such perfection that they could be appreciated by any cathedral in Europe.”51 European music had evidently penetrated traditional Filipino cultural patterns of hereditary preservation and transmission. There is perhaps no better representation of a colonial counterpoint to Europe’s own musical culture at the time than the antipodal production of polyphonic liturgical music for Roman Catholic rites for Holy Week and its absorption into the performance practices of Filipino converts for generations to come.

The Power of Music Juan Francisco de San Antonio used the biography of Aguilar to wax lyrical about the power of music, eulogizing Aguilar’s skill in wielding music as a threefold weapon of pacification, urbanization, and evangelization: This servant of God knew that well-ordered music—[for which] he was liberally blessed with [talent] from above—was, with its sweet melody, a delightful preparation for the preaching of our holy faith. As the Christian faith and its doctrine were totally unknown among these infidels of the Philippines, he placed music as a fundamental part of Christianity in his new plantation, by which the hearing of the infidel was mellowed with sonorous voices, and the soul made joyful with sweet music. The Filipinos were disposed to hear the word of God with enthusiasm, and at the same time remained instructed in music, to give always the proper graces, and praises to the Majesty [of God], for the benefit of their conversion. This holy aim [was] achieved with such happiness, that the Filipinos who converted to our holy faith were innumerable, their proud brutality appeased with the sweet arms of instrumental and vocal music. Thus triumphed Timotheus [of Thebes] over Alexander [the Great] with great facility; when he [Alexander] was most angry, like a furious lion, he was made as meek as a lamb, just with singing.52 San Antonio went on to claim that music could act as a seductive mode of psychological control, and an effective means of bringing about social and

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cultural change in terms of “reducing” Filipinos to live in urbanized communities. [Music] was a singular gift of God, which penetrated the genio [character, or creative disposition] of these Filipinos, and provided an advantageous tool for their urbanization [reducción]. As can be seen, their inclination for music is so remarkable that it is already necessary to use violence in order to stop them [from making music] and get them to work, so that they can eat. These barbarous people were so attracted by the melody of music that they afterwards received the sacred doctrines with love, and our servant of God administered [the sacraments] with spiritual joy.53 This chronicler added elsewhere that within the same generation of converts, the art of music could be converted from an act of venerating “demonic cults” (as he called them) to the adoration and solemnization of “the true Divinity.”54 His testimony demonstrates a view of the inherent power of music—in spite of its “tenderness”—to bring the people away from “demonic cults” to the Christian church. Although many Franciscan missions had been established for centuries at the time of his writing, this last comment probably refers to more recent Franciscan penetration into virgin mission fields (in the early eighteenth century). Music’s power to pacify, suppress violence, and soothe the soul was a popular trope in early modern European literature, and one that pervaded the writings of Roman Catholic missionaries stationed throughout the world. Quite apart from the story of Timotheus of Thebes calming Alexander the Great, classical models that were used around the early modern world in the context of intercultural contact include the examples of Plato charming animals and the biblical story of David placating Saul with his harp playing. Of course, early modern missionaries were educated according to a curriculum steeped in classical philosophy and the history of the ancient civilizations of Greece and Rome. Thousands of relevant texts were also available for consultation in the libraries of Manila. Correspondingly, classical antiquity was a common point of comparative reference for missionaries working in non-European territories, as we saw in the previous chapter, and the missions were their testing grounds. Writing of Visayan parishioners in a Jesuit mission at the dawn of the seventeenth century, Chirino observed that music “moved them (as the glorious Doctor Saint Augustine said it would), and everyone experienced this.”55 The Visayan missions thus proved and substantiated a late fourth-century proposition made by Saint Augustine of Hippo in his Confessions: namely, that music had the propensity and the power to move listeners, and even to “ensnare” them.56 In the Jesuit missions, music both attracted and adorned while serving as a means of enhancing spiritual devotion and facilitating the learning of religious doctrine. Performances mediated between Spanish and indigenous cultures, which had their own ways of expressing and experiencing music. The

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musical juxtaposition of these cultures-in-counterpoint simultaneously emphasized difference and proposed a form of convivencia sweetened by performative exchanges. This way of thinking about the power of music became entrenched by certain writers in Europe who were influenced by philosophical thought in the latter half of the eighteenth century; they engaged with the “Neoplatonist tradition that emphasized music’s utilitarian character,” as Vanessa Agnew has argued, producing what she has termed “Orphic discourse.”57 In the Philippines, too, connections between the evangelistic roles of music and the Orpheus myth were not lost on Spanish commentators. In the mid-eighteenth century, an anonymous writer describing the festivities held in Manila to celebrate the coronation of Fernando VI (1713–59) made a special note of indigenous peoples’ aptitude in playing European musical instruments, commenting that “it seems that the natives of these islands were born in the time of Orpheus, for it can be observed that they have a natural inclination for music.”58 Despite the flattery involved in evoking a vision of a mythical world resounding with music from the fields and the riverbanks, however, the Filipinos were not considered to be Orpheus; in the eyes of this particular eighteenth-century chronicler, they were simply bystanders inspired by the legendary figure’s art. The Orphic role itself was seen to be reserved for European musicians who were able to exploit the agency of music in the literal captivation of listeners and the subsequent imparting of religious doctrine and Hispanic cultural traits. One such musician was Augustinian missionary Lorenzo Castelló (1686– 1743), who was dubbed the “Orfeo agustiniano” by his contemporaries.59 He owed this epithet not simply to his skill in musical composition and his strong and attractive voice but to his ability to use music as a means of conquering “proud” indigenous communities beyond Manila. Castelló had an impressive musical pedigree: originally from Valencia, he had been cantor and organist at the convent of San Felipe el Real in Madrid.60 Following his arrival in Manila in 1718, he served in the Augustinian coro of Manila, and according to Castro, “taught music to more a thousand Tagalog and Ilokano Filipinos with perfection, because he had an especial grace and disposition [gracia y genio] to endure the bad nature [mal natural] of these barbarians.”61 Later he was posted to the Visayas “to teach music to the sacristans of our [Augustinian] churches, and to administer the sacraments to those proud nations that lack priests”; after ten years he returned to Manila, where he revised and expanded the choirbooks of the Augustinian convent.62 Although this “Orpheus” evidently charmed and swayed all through his musical performance, the hyperbolic discourse found here (as in almost all religious biographies) tends to distort the true extent and influence of his pedagogic powers. Certainly, he had a broad geographical reach in his performance and teaching. But we should remember that while one critical aspect of transculturation is its perpetuation, emulation and constant reproduction require the collaboration of other parties.

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Indigenous Teachers Over the course of the entire Spanish colonial period, approximately 8,800 missionaries (Augustinians, Dominicans, Franciscans, Jesuits, and Recollects) worked among a total of 6 million Filipinos.63 Each Filipino community had its instrumentalists and choirs practicing hispanized music, and this phenomenon is most often put down to the teaching of the missionaries. Enrique Cantel Cainglet has noted that “as purveyors of Spanish music culture, the religious were unexcelled. Deployed strategically in key points around the country, they succeeded in penetrating the most isolated areas where, often, they were the only persons of authority representing the Spanish government. More bad than good has been written about them, but as far as perseverance in music teaching was concerned, they were unassailable.”64 It seems unlikely, however, that teaching European music to so many Filipinos can be attributed solely to this relatively small number of missionaries. Missionaries were busy men: they had a full schedule baptizing, teaching catechism, celebrating the Eucharist, officiating at weddings and funerals, performing the last rites, and hearing confessions. Of course, a select number of missionaries, such as those individuals mentioned by name herein, specialized in teaching vocal and instrumental music, instrument making, and the art of composition. Their indigenous disciples in turn probably went out to teach these imported skills to their compatriots, as was suggested by the story of the Franciscan mission school at Lumbang. Just as some historians fail to acknowledge the participation of indigenous allies in the conquest of Mexico by Hernán Cortés (1485–1547), so do musicologists often overlook the collaborative nature of transculturation. Many indigenous musicians took it upon themselves to pass on their skills in the newly introduced art forms of European music to subsequent generations of their communities. In this way they incorporated European music into their hereditary preservation and dissemination of knowledge. Before the arrival of the Spaniards, there had long been a strong tradition of intergenerational transmission of musical skills, and learning through observation was an intrinsic part of Filipino culture. Given how successfully European music was incorporated into this hereditary structure of musical pedagogy, early modern Spanish observers considered natural aptitude for music to be an attribute of the Filipino population as a whole. In 1703, Franciscan Juan de Jesús attested to Filipinos’ proficiency in European music, highlighting their innate musicality. He claimed that “without teachers the Filipinos are decent enough musicians,” adding furthermore that “they make musical instruments, and play them with skill.” In this assessment he mentioned the performance of complex polychoral works, a feat that was universally considered a hallmark of great practical skill and theoretical understanding in the metropoles, let alone the provinces.

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Describing how he attended celebrations for the feast of Corpus Christi in the town of Pila, Laguna, in 1686, Jesús noted that “five choirs sang Vespers without tripping up.”65 Couched in a document that otherwise attacks and criticizes Filipino culture—the author even exclaims at the outset that “every day I understand these Filipinos less!”66—this praise is indicative of how crucial music was in bringing Spanish and Filipino cultures into an empathetic understanding of each other. Commentators in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries implied that once Filipinos had adopted European music, they would perpetuate its practice, unhindered by Spanish interference. Le Gentil de la Galaisière made some disparaging observations of parochial musicians in Manila, telling his European readership that he had “no doubt at all that these Filipinos would perform good music very well if they were led and directed by capable Europeans; but the Spaniards in Manila, who have no taste for any art, leave the Filipinos to their own devices.”67 Musical skills continued to be passed on from one generation to the next. From the mid-nineteenth century onward, conservatory-style training was certainly available in Manila, at institutions such as the cathedral’s Colegio de Niños Tiples,68 and at Dominican establishments, but apart from these music schools for boy trebles, run by religious, there was no “conservatory” in the strict sense, based on European models and open to all for professional training. Rather, Filipino communities propelled their own musical culture without the need for such an institution—through church schools, musical societies, and commercial organizations. It may have been this musical self-sufficiency that led José Rizal to remark wryly in 1890 that “owing, perhaps, to this great musical disposition [of the Filipinos], [the government] does not establish a conservatory of music, considering it useless and superfluous.”69 At this time, Rizal had been traveling throughout Europe, where in Paris, Brussels, Madrid, and London he had no doubt seen major music conservatories in operation. These institutions set the benchmark for European standards in musical performance and produced “professional” musicians. (Of course, as the standards of these conservatories were created in metropolitan contexts, many musicians would not have lived up to them in provincial or rural parts of Europe itself.) Yet Rizal provided an opinion that represented a valuable colonial counterpoint: why should the capital of the Philippines, “Pearl of the Orient,” the most important “European” city in Southeast Asia, the pride of imperial Spain in the last gasp of empire, not have its own conservatory on a par with institutions in Paris, Brussels, Madrid, and London? As one of the chief aims of an empire is the large-scale standardization of many aspects of life—such as education, trade, and (approved) artistic culture—Rizal implied that the colonial government of the Philippines had failed as far as the institutionalization of (secular) music was concerned.

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In the eighteenth-century Philippines, European observers continually affirmed the prevalence and quality of vocal and instrumental music in every town within Christianized territories, far beyond the confines of ecclesiastical institutions in Manila. The proliferation of musicians versed in European music throughout the provinces—where few Spaniards other than religious personnel ventured or settled—is evidence of a type of musical transculturation that relied as much on indigenous collaboration as it did on European imposition. Obviously, communities that had been converted and urbanized for longer periods were those that were more conversant with European music and more fluent in its performance. Murillo Velarde, who was reliably informed about music, reported on the disposition of voice types and the types of instruments played, referring also to local modes of learning through observation.70 He summarized his impressions in his Geographia historica of 1752: They have notable skill in music: there is no town, however small, which does not have a very decent musical ensemble of instruments and voices to officiate in the church, and all musicians know solfa. There are excellent voices of altos, tenors, and basses, and especially of trebles. It is rare that a Filipino close to Manila does not know harp, and there are many harpists, excellent violinists, oboists, and players of various types of flute. The Filipinos have great facility in learning what they see, and it is said that the Filipinos have understanding in their eyes, and that when they so much as see something, they imitate it.71 This is a succinct but complex description of some of the principal results of musical transculturation in the Philippines, and it is worth unraveling some of the details. First, the “comprehensive sight” of Filipinos—described here as “understanding in their eyes”—was the main interpretive tool that facilitated the indigenous adoption of European cultural traits, and the hispanization of Filipino music. It is interesting to note that Murillo Velarde emphasized the visual aspect of observation at the expense of the aural. There were many physical differences between Filipino and European musical instruments and the respective techniques required to play them. Thus, the Filipino construction and playing of European instruments relied on visual examination and critical assessment of these artifacts. Second, and perhaps more important, Murillo Velarde perceived that the mimetic character of precolonial music had enabled indigenous communities—over almost two centuries of exposure to European music—to assume and appropriate knowledge of theory and practice through observation and imitation. Rather than indigenous art imitating nature, however, as it had in the days before the Spanish conquest, it now came to mirror the cultural traits of the colonialists and missionaries. He implied that it was, in a sense, rote transmission. The sincerity of early modern indigenous musicians—in their

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reproduction of imposed aesthetic forms—is difficult to assess from the vantage point of the twenty-first century, except in cases where parody or caricature were obviously intended. Yet if we place this question of sincerity in the wider context of the Spanish Empire, we can see that transculturation by indigenous populations was a purposeful means of coming to terms with cultural bigotry, subverting cultural and social hierarchies by minimizing difference. Third, Murillo Velarde’s reference to “various types of flute” probably implied the presence of both indigenous and European flutes in indigenous communities, although it could equally indicate the coexistence of endblown and transverse instruments (the European recorder and traverso). His remark about the indigenous aptitude for harp also throws light on a phenomenon that may have arisen through the common elements that had existed in Asian and European plucked string techniques prior to conquest. However, his geographical indication of the Manila area and its environs suggests that this practice may have been heavily influenced by the harp playing of European and Latin American immigrants, a population that was concentrated within and around the metropolis. Fourth, this Jesuit’s allusion to Filipino expertise in European music theory was made by means of the comment that “all musicians know solfa.” Interestingly, Murillo Velarde had already asserted in a publication made just three years earlier that Filipino knowledge of solfa was a phenomenon that had no equivalent in all of Christendom.72 The ambitiousness of both these claims could, of course, be tempered somewhat by way of comparison with Christianized communities in Latin America, where a high level of proficiency in European musical theory and practice was common. It remains unclear, however, exactly what Murillo Velarde meant by solfa—that is, whether this term implied general literacy in music theory or, quite specifically, the practice of solmization. In sum, it is clear that Jesuits like Murillo Velarde wrote about many aspects of music transculturation to highlight the entry of European practices into indigenous cultural patterns. Yet this is only one side of the story, for the Society of Jesus also promoted a broader policy of tolerating and “accommodating” certain elements of indigenous music within the musical cultures they established or promoted in the communities under their administration. This is a part of their evangelistic work that we now consider in more depth.

Jesuit Accommodation of Music and Musicians Among missionary groups, the Society of Jesus stands out for its policies of accommodation: that is, the toleration and adaptation of some indigenous customs and beliefs (only those that were not fundamentally contrary to Christian teaching) and their incorporation into a new culture of conversion. Jesuits adopted this approach in the Philippines as much as they did else-

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where in Asia, Africa, and the Americas. In the Visayas, especially, Jesuits adapted to the local way of life. They had to do so, for environmental and cultural circumstances required it. As the Visayan parishes were scattered between a large number of islands, a great amount of time was spent in traveling between them by boat. One priest might be responsible for many parish churches and visitas on different islands, so the Jesuits relied on local assistance for transport. Whenever members of the Society of Jesus based in the Visayas traveled back to Manila, they procured the latest musical works and acquired musical instruments. They also persuaded or pressed musicians—probably Filipinos or mestizos—from the city’s churches to migrate to the Visayas where they could assist with performing and teaching music. In this way, Spanish and hispanized musical practices were introduced to the Visayas by Spaniards and Filipinos from Manila. But these practices did not replace local traditions altogether; rather, certain aspects of performance and theory were incorporated into Visayan modes of musical expression—which to the Spaniards’ minds constituted an “improvement.” We have seen how the Jesuit Alzina claimed in the second half of the seventeenth century that the performance of ancient Visayan songs had “improved” somewhat, because the Visayans had grown accustomed to European music, consonance, and musical modes.73 He and other Jesuits probably related this phenomenon to a teleological idea of music transculturation, akin to their views of religious conversion. Musical improvement could be observed and tested as evidence of the missionaries’ cultural impact on indigenous cultures, more so than internalized spiritual change could be measured. However, Alzina thought that Visayans were embracing European music more readily than they were embracing the Gospel, as we shall see. The most effective and appropriate means of using music as an evangelistic tool in the Visayas were being determined and established as early as the last decade of the sixteenth century.74 One Jesuit mission in the Visayas that was known to be an important musical center was Carigara, located on the north coast of the island of Leyte. The mission had been established in 1595 and the practice of music grew under the incumbency of Francisco de Encinas (1572–1633). Encinas brought recorders and shawms to the parish, and encouraged the singing of European plainchant and polyphony, as well as Hispanic tonadas and villancicos in the local language, and songs with Christianized texts sung according to precolonial practices (“su canto antiguo”). He composed texts of numerous verses in traditional Visayan meter, and these were sung at church and at home by indigenous converts. The success of the Carigara mission was cited by a number of Jesuit chroniclers from the beginning of the seventeenth century onward as a shining example of what Jesuit methods of evangelization could achieve.75 The incipient Jesuit policies of accommodation ensured the incorporation of Visayan song into church music alongside music introduced from Europe.

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The juxtaposition of European and indigenous musical styles in Christian worship at Carigara was detailed by Chirino in the following way: Even though this church was no more than five years old, it was already served and attended as if it were in Europe, because the capilla de música officiated grandly, especially in feasts, not only celebrating the Divine Office in polyphony, but also accompanying it with hymns and motets in the Visayan language, some in polyphony, and others in the style of the land. Both types [of music] were a great attraction to the people, and moved them to devotion, and made them learn our sacred mysteries—put into their meter and music— with feeling and pleasure.76 In Carigara, Filipino and European styles coexisted and flirted with each other’s form and structure in a type of intercultural courtship. But the great irony of all the Jesuit propaganda surrounding music at this mission station was that the principal promoter of this endeavor, Encinas, was himself musically illiterate. His contemporary Chirino stated explicitly in a major account of the missions that Encinas “did not know music,” but that in spite of this deficiency he managed to form an excellent musical ensemble (“excelente capilla”) by employing a music teacher and—more intriguingly—by using a simple but quite ingenious method to obtain copies of sheet music. Encinas would place translucent paper on sources of plainchant and polyphony (probably in Manila), and trace these scores note for note, letter for letter. Having done this, he would then transport his carbon copies to Carigara in a folder, like so much treasure.77 Encinas evidently recognized that music played such a vital role in his mission that he was prepared to expend much time and effort in procuring notated sources of European repertory. But this conscious choice of deliberately copying out scores also demonstrates that he apparently valued music from his own heritage over and above the indigenous, as he could have easily made do with the singing of Christianized texts in local style. (If he had made use of local oral traditions of music, there would have been no need for notated sources, apart from “official” texts, newly composed by the missionaries, to be sung by the neophytes.) In truth, Encinas undoubtedly owed the success of his musical ensemble to the training provided by his unnamed maestro, who taught reading and singing to the children (or perhaps just the boys, seeing that the word niños can imply either “boys” or “children”), producing appreciable results with astonishing speed.78 Another—or the same—maestro at the mission of Dulac (now Dulag) on the east coast of Leyte taught children to read, sing, and play recorders, with the result that “the Divine Office [was celebrated] with greater solemnity.”79 Costa claims that the maestro of Carigara was a Filipino.80 It seems that indigenous musicians from Manila, who had been exposed to European music for more than two decades by the time the Jesuits’ Visayan missions were

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formally established, played a key role in the dissemination and cultivation of European music throughout the region in the seventeenth century. They were recruited by missionaries in Manila and transported to the southern islands, along with the many other material requirements for the establishment of the Jesuit missions. One Spaniard who made a great impact on Visayan musical life in this respect was Juan de Ballesteros (1577–1646). Having originally arrived in the Philippines as a soldier, he later followed the example of Saint Ignatius by converting to a spiritual path. He then offered his services to the Society of Jesus and at some stage was sent to assist the Visayan missions, where he became a jack-of-all-trades, and apparently a master of many.81 He “went native,” adopting local dress and learning the local language, teaching schoolboys the songs and dances of his hometown in Spain (Badajoz). Frequently serving as a pilot for voyages between the Visayan islands and Manila, he took the opportunity of his visits to the capital to procure musical commodities for transmission back to the missions and musicians to accompany them. According to Jesuit chronicler Diego de Oña, who in 1706 compiled a history based on Annual Letters from the Jesuits in the Philippine Province (covering the years 1618–65), Ballesteros “searched out many music scores, and when he heard good [music] in the churches [of Manila] he procured it to take to our new parts [missions]. He did not content himself just with this. He asked permission for some skillful singers to accompany him in order to instruct the new Christians, and the more [singers] he took, the happier they [the converts] were.”82 Murillo Velarde repeated this vignette half a century later, glossing that Ballesteros “covered whatever paper he could with good music, and good villancicos,” and that besides press-ganging singers from Manila, he filled the churches of the Visayas with “many fine instruments,” using the “bait” of music to increase the attractiveness of worship and the numbers of attendees at services.83 Of course, necrologies of the Society of Jesus and other religious congregations tend to embellish biographical information as they are reformed and revised from one generation to the next. But we should note that the adroitness of Ballesteros in acquiring sheet music, a commodity on which the performance of complex polyphonic compositions was contingent, was evidently worthy of comment in the first instance and then perpetuation and elaboration by subsequent religious biographers. In this way it reinforced Jesuit processes of image-making, particularly in regard to their use of music as an evangelistic tool. However we read these writings, it is clear that music which moved or excited Ballesteros in the religious institutions of Manila made him think that its replication in the provinces would contribute to the growth of the Church there. Although the level of his musical literacy remains unknown, he was known to have served as a schoolmaster, and among his many occupations “there was not anything that he did not do.”84 Perhaps music manuscripts were

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simply donated to him when he asked about them; perhaps he bought them outright or commissioned copies; perhaps he even made use of Encinas’s technique of tracing scores onto translucent paper. Regardless of how he procured commodities, Ballesteros’s recruitment of singers in Manila was critical to the success of music in the missions. Many renowned choirs of the capital were made up of indigenous singers in the early seventeenth century, and it seems likely that these singers (rather than their European counterparts) would have been willing to accompany him back to the Visayas for the express purpose of singing in church. But their willingness (or lack thereof ) to cooperate is passed over in silence by Jesuit chroniclers, and this significant absence in colonial historiography leads us to speculate how (or whether) coercion took place. What were these musicians promised in return for their service? To put it bluntly, what was in it for them? A number of perquisites were presented to potentially itinerant church musicians in Manila. First, they were offered increased individual mobility through the missionary enterprise’s channels of transportation. Second, the prospect of elevated social status through collaboration with the relatively small but powerful group of missionaries in the provinces afforded them the possibility of a new rank within indigenous society. Third, the opportunity for migration with a reliable offer of employment gave them the option of evading any colonial abuses in the metropolis and heading for a new life in the provinces. As we saw in an earlier chapter, the Laws of the Indies mandated that no Filipinos could be moved from one part of the archipelago to another against their will, and if they were, that they had to be adequately compensated. It can be presumed that religious organizations were fairly careful to observe such laws to preserve the favor of royal patronage and forms of support from the colonial government. The Filipino musicians who traveled from Manila to the Visayas were probably Tagalogs who would have spoken no Visayan (at least not initially). Although the languages are closely related, it would have taken them a certain period to develop familiarity with the local tongue—a reality of interregional migration in the Philippines that remains a fact of life today. Of course, the main dichotomy in the Christianized population of the early modern Philippines was between Tagalogs and Visayans, but the location of the colonial capital in the Tagalog region meant that Tagalogs were in closest contact with the greatest number of Spaniards. Centralized in the seat of colonial power, Tagalogs were in an authoritative position to assert their own hispanized culture over other ethnolinguistic groups of the islands. The cultural hegemony of Manila over the rest of the archipelago—which can still be seen today—was already dawning in the early seventeenth century. Manila became a point of radial diffusion of hispanized Tagalog culture throughout the Philippines. The presence in the Visayas of hispanized converts from a neighboring region—Filipino converts who had the appearance of being heavily involved in

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upholding ecclesiastical enterprise while at the same time enjoying the status symbols and social advantages associated with their position—must have presented an added incentive for conversion to the inhabitants of the new mission territory. Moreover, the Jesuits probably presumed that the long-standing familiarity between Visayan and Tagalog populations meant that Visayans would be more receptive to Christianized Tagalogs than to an invading Spanish missionary, however well he might speak the local language. This way of thinking and its associated strategies were also applied further afield. As we saw in chapter 2, when the Jesuits from the Philippine Province extended their mission to the Mariana Islands in the late seventeenth century, they took with them musical instruments and three indigenous musicians from the Philippines and used dance as a lively physical means of attracting attention. Dance is, of course, an important element of early modern evangelistic endeavors that we should not overlook. Throughout the Philippines, European dance forms were regularly introduced by missionaries as an additional cultural trapping of Christianity, besides reading, writing, and music. Dance, as the literal embodiment of rhythm and music, enhanced the visual aspect of festive performances and contributed to a general sense of physical freedom and well-being in the missions, even though the philosophical principles and religious tenets of indigenous cultures were being changed. Of course, indigenous communities continued to perform traditional dances, but some of these were influenced by imported styles. Castanets were introduced into Filipino dance forms at an early stage in the Spanish colonial period, and many traditional dances eventually came to be accompanied by other European instruments. For instance, Alzina observed in the 1660s that the Visayan dance taruc had once been accompanied by bells and other small percussion instruments, “but these were their ancient instruments and now they use guitars, harps, and other musical instruments in our style.”85 This shift is represented by iconographical evidence from the Tagalog region: almost seventy years later, Cruz Bagay produced an engraving of two Filipino children dancing the indigenous comintano to the accompaniment of a guitar or vihuela (figure 4.3). This song and dance genre, which is now known as the kumintang, predated the Spanish conquest; it is said to have originated from the Province of Batangas, although it gained currency in many other regions.86 It was generally accompanied by a guitar or other plucked string instruments in triple time—a meter that demonstrates the genre’s hispanization, because triple meters are uncommon in nonhispanized Filipino musical practices—and by the end of the colonial period the kumintang had become exceedingly popular throughout the country.87 Traditional dances were retained throughout the archipelago, as the contents of ethnographies and vocabularios demonstrate, but they coexisted with new forms that were introduced by colonialists and missionaries. (Of the European dances mentioned in early modern accounts, the minuet, fandango, and contredanse are the most frequently described.)

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figure 4.3. Indios bailando el comintano, detail from a vignette in Pedro Murillo Velarde, et al., Carta hydrographica, y chorographica delas Yslas Filipinas (Manila: Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay Indio Tagalo, 1734). © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (K.Top.116.37).

In the Visayas, Juan de Ballesteros was responsible for the introduction and diffusion of many types of dances; according to Murillo Velarde, Ballesteros taught them not only to the indigenous communities but also to the Jesuit fathers.88 Of course, it was not just Spanish dances that were introduced and practiced in the early modern Philippines; dances from many other cultural backgrounds are mentioned. Murillo Velarde, for instance, described in great detail a suite of dances performed in mid-eighteenth-century Manila, each section of which represented (and originated from) four major parts of the world: the Americas, Africa, Asia, and Europe. Dressed in masks to personify deposed Aztec Emperor Motecuhzoma II (c. 1466–1520), the Mexican tocotín was first danced by children (probably Filipino) to the accompaniment of ayacastles (sonajas or rattles); Africans themselves danced the mototo to the rhythm of the birimbao (musical bow or jaw harp).89 Next, Asia was represented by performers dressed as exotic parrots, dancing to the sound of the tambor and castanets, and finally, Europe was represented by rustic peasant dances, or the mojiganga, the performers being clad in the dress and masks of the matachines (traditional rustic dancers in Spain).90 In early modern Manila, a global city and colonial capital, the four major parts of the known world thus converged to create a vivid multicultural display of international interaction. Many voices were welcome to enter the contrapuntal fabric of colonial society, as long as they adhered to the rules and regulations that were imposed. Yet at the same time, the layering of new, introduced cultures onto the traditional indigenous societies of the Philippines obscured their identities and diluted their precolonial histories.

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A Disregarded Past “Cultural amnesia” is a label that one often hears applied in the Philippines today. Continual innovation and importation mean that many old ways of life are being rapidly forgotten. Ever since the incorporation of the Philippines into a world-system of trade, migration, and cultural exchange in the sixteenth century, the level of adoption, adaptation, and synthesis of foreign cultural traits by the islands’ population has been rapidly increasing. Of course, this process reflects the desires and aspirations of the Filipino people to embrace worldwide cultural trends, and it can in no way be slighted, for appropriation and absorption are important characteristics of Filipino culture (as they are of most cultures, particularly those of peoples in colonial, postcolonial, or neocolonial societies). To counter “cultural amnesia” in the Philippines, however, there is currently a strong drive toward the conservation of cultural heritage— spearheaded by governmental departments, such as the National Commission for Culture and the Arts—and toward the orchestration of programs that seek to raise public awareness of the preservation of historical artifacts, institutions, relics, and unique living traditions cultivated by minority and mainstream communities alike. If “cultural amnesia” exists today, then many parallels can be drawn with the process of hispanization in the early modern period, and perhaps precedents can be found there. New colonial musical practices were adopted, and precolonial ones often waned or were forgotten. Such a state of affairs benefited the missionaries in carrying out their projects of religious conversion and hispanization. Missionaries actively sought to suppress indigenous practices that were not compatible with the ideologies and cultural practices of the new religion that they promoted. But as Costa pointed out, “the fathers never destroyed or forbade a pagan usage without introducing a similar Christian usage to take its place.”91 The Church in the Americas and the Philippines tried as far as possible to maintain precolonial practices and customs that were not contrary to European concepts of nature, or to Christianity, as Pedro Borges has stressed.92 Consequently, many accounts suggest that musical transculturation was a combination of passive disuse (on the part of the Filipinos) and active suppression (on the part of the Spaniards). Incidental observations on musical change found in colonial historiography are often coupled with statements of intent by missionary writers and evaluation of how successfully their aims were being achieved. Of course, the inflated rhetoric of missionary writing always tends to exaggerate the successes of the missionaries in evangelization, using hyperbolic terms to affirm the inroads being made in conversion. The irrevocable shift in cultural practices of music from indigenous traditions to a hispanized currency is reflected clearly in the language used by early

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modern missionaries, who describe the waning of performance on indigenous instruments or already refer to these instruments in the past tense. As early as 1640, Bobadilla noted the incursion of European instruments such as the flute, guitar, and harp into Filipino musical culture, commenting offhandedly that “they had in old times an instrument named cutiapé [kutyapi], which some among them still use.”93 In 1754, Murillo Velarde wrote of the Tagalogs that “their musical instruments were the coryapi [kutyapi], of two or three copper strings, which they played with a quill [plectrum]; and the bangsi, a type of flute . . . which some still play today, and I have seen it played with the nostrils.”94 His use of the past tense for the kutyapi suggests that, as far as he could tell, it was no longer used by Christianized populations in the surrounding urban areas, whereas bangsi practice survived in isolated instances. The relatively ready availability of imported or locally made European instruments such as the harp and guitar would have contributed to this transition. In this sense, European music also became Filipinized, as Filipinos embraced and used European instruments. A noticeable trend in colonial historiography is the use of the concept of “forgetfulness” in the relation of cultural transformation: old traditions fell into disuse, and new ones were established. Explicit statements that Filipinos were gradually forgetting their traditional musical practices are observations that serve to demonstrate the clearly visible and audible nature of the hispanization of Filipino music. They may also reflect the sentiments and objectives of the authors, however, who probably saw musical transformation as an external manifestation of spiritual conversion. Sometimes musical conversion was more successful than religious conversion. Alzina, for instance, attested that whereas the word of God may not have entered fully into the Visayans, other European cultural aspects had certainly been adopted by these neophytes in their use of guitars, harps, fiddles, bandurrias, and other instruments, “which they play so expertly that their own instruments are being forgotten.”95 Alzina probably hoped that this type of apparently irrevocable transition in musical taste and practice would extend to the spiritual domain. Similarly, song-texts were recognized as having an important function in the process of religious conversion, as we see in a letter written by Jesuit Antonio Masvesi extolling the life and works of another Jesuit, Pedro de Estrada (1680–1748).96 According to Masvesi, Estrada composed a paraphrased history of the Passion of Christ in indigenous Visayan verse-form, as well as many hymns and devotional prayers. These were sung by young Visayans, who “left behind and forgot” their former “profane” songs.97 New, hybrid forms occupied the cultural and artistic niches of old styles. This practice of genre substitution had been common in the Jesuit missions of the Visayas since the late sixteenth century.98 But it was not a phenomenon that just occurred naturally, with the simple outcome of being documented passively by missionary writers after the event; rather, it was one

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of the specific aims of textual and musical composition. Dominican historian Diego Aduarte (1569–1636) thus noted of the Visayans that when they row their boats, or when many of them are gathered together, it is their custom to sing, in order to stave off and relieve their tiredness. They used to use their old profane (and even injurious) songs, as they had no others. Accordingly, [Francisco Blancas de San José] composed many songs in their language and according to their verse-form, but a lo divino [that is, with sacred texts], for he had a particular grace in doing so. He introduced these songs among them for these occasions, so that with the songs they would forget their old verses, which were either useless or harmful. [In doing so,] he did not detract from the songs’ function as a form of relaxation, but rather increased the enjoyment of them with the devotion of the new verses.99 In this way, it was acknowledged explicitly by chroniclers of religious orders that the production of new musical compositions—or the imposition of new texts on old melodies—was a hegemonic tool for the missionary enterprise in effecting the religious aspects of transculturation.100 This fact was recognized by Filipino nationalists in the late nineteenth century, including Rizal, who wrote in 1890 about the songs that had been forgotten as a result of religious conversion and hispanization. He lamented the dearth of traditional music and dance of the Philippines, noting that “all this has been lost, not through the fault of anybody, especially not of these Filipinos, who have been pressured to leave behind their own traditions in order to take up new ones.”101 The language of vocabularios had already begun to mirror this shift in the eighteenth century. Although definitions in the vocabularios suggest that equivalent indigenous terms for chordophones and aerophones were used to refer to similar Spanish instruments (that is, kutyapi for any European chordophone except keyboards, and bangsi for flutes), it appears that some indigenous instruments coexisted physically with their European counterparts in practice from the early seventeenth until the end of the eighteenth century, as suggested by Murillo Velarde’s observation of the bangsi. However, certain entries attest to the complete replacement of indigenous instruments by European instruments. In Pampanga the cudiapi (kutyapi) had by 1732 been superseded by Spanish plucked string instruments, as the definition in Bergaño’s vocabulario states that it is “like the harp [but] it is no longer there.”102 Similarly, the Tagalogs had referred to a European bowed string instrument (such as the viol or rabel) as coryapi (kutyapi) in earlier times; but in 1703 Santos stated that European terms were used to describe European instruments: “already, almost all call it rabel or violon.”103 Such a comment demonstrates that shifts in organological nomenclature clearly followed in the wake of instruments’ physical replacement.

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The hispanization of Filipino music depended on a combination of passive disuse of precolonial practices by Filipinos, active suppression of these practices by Spaniards, and active appropriation of colonial musical forms and structures by Filipinos. All these processes could feasibly take place within the span of one generation, depending on the intensity of intercultural contact and enharmonic engagement. Within and around urban centers, where trade was brisk and movement of visitors rapid, hispanization progressed quickly. In more isolated settlements in some provinces, hispanization often took more time and relied on injections of cultural inspiration from Manila. Documentation of hispanized music cultures in the Philippines was uneven, however, and most often relied on observations made in major metropoles, such as Manila and Cebu. As we saw in an earlier chapter, American trader Nathaniel Bowditch observed in 1796 that the music of the Filipinos in Manila was “the same as the Spanish.”104 Such an appraisal was echoed by nineteenth-century travel writers and also the fledgling “universal histories” of music by the likes of Calcuttabased Indian scholar Sir Sourindro Mohun Tagore (1840–1914).105 Thus many music historians considered the hispanization of musical practice and taste in the colonies of Spain to be an inevitable consequence or by-product of imperialism. The introduction of early modern European traditions of musical performance and literacy into Filipino cultures (in which music was based primarily on oral transmission and imitation) appears to have instigated a situation whereby stylistic or generic developments in the constantly evolving and hegemonic European musical culture were mirrored in the society of the colonized. This imitative counterpoint between the cultures of parent state and colony (or colonies) sometimes resulted either in florid elaboration by the musical voices that entered later in the contrapuntal texture or in a distant echo of the main theme that was established firmly by the first voice. By extension, the persistence of artistic “development” or “progress” in the colony at a rate comparable with that of other major imperial centers—whether in the plastic or temporal arts—was dependent on regular interchange and cultural dissemination. Such a sentiment was expressed at the beginning of the nineteenth century by Martínez de Zúñiga, whose questioning of indigenous ability to contribute to artistic, cultural, or technological innovations was indicative of the patronizing attitudes perpetuated by European religious personnel in the islands. He hypothesized that “if no new models had been brought from Spain, then we would [still] walk around in the same [type of] clothes and shoes as used by the conquistadores; we would have the same music, the same paintings, and the same buildings taught by the Spaniards who took possession of Manila. The Filipinos are very good at imitating what they see, but they do not invent anything.”106 In this comparative and rather disparaging assessment, however, Martínez de Zúñiga failed to recognize the largely self-sufficient nature of

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traditional societies, thereby reinforcing in his own mind the necessity of the presence of European ecclesiastical functionaries for the ongoing development of hispanized culture in the Philippines. This missionary and his contemporaries evidently had very specific ideas of what constituted invention. But if he had broadened his perspective, he would have seen that innovation took place all around him through the continual process of transculturation and absorption of foreign cultural elements that were desired by Filipinos.

Conclusion In the diffusion of European music in the Philippines and its adoption and adaptation into local practices, there were two levels of transculturation. Spaniards hispanized indigenous populations in closest contact; these populations then passed on hispanized cultural traits to communities who were further removed from the Spanish source. This was an ongoing process, for the models of Spanish culture in the Philippines were constantly subject to unremitting waves of influence and renewal from the parent state (and, between 1565 and 1815, from Mexico) in a type of consistent relationship that characterizes all colonial societies. Initial introduction or imposition and then acceptance or rejection of certain Spanish cultural elements meant that the establishment of a hispanized culture in the Philippines during the early modern period was contingent on external influences and their subsequent adoption, reinterpretation, and reproduction by indigenous populations from generation to generation. The Jesuits, for instance, appear to have been shrewd in realizing that when they began evangelizing in new territories, they needed to show their neophytes some proof of the enticing cultural consequences of conversion. The Franciscans (and many other religious congregations), following their experiences in Latin America, recognized the power of music in “seducing and reducing” the indigenous populations of the Philippines. Hispanization was the Filipinos’ reciprocal response to Spanish ethnology; it represented their own form of observing and attempting to understand Spaniards, and it provided an unsettling mirror for the colonial overlords, for Spanish observers saw their own civilization reflected in the cultural traits of the Filipinos. We should remember that within colonial relationships, however, the native populations of colonies generally have a deeper understanding and broader knowledge of their imperial oppressors—as promoted and broadcast by the expatriates of the parent state, who usually do not provide the best examples of their patria’s highest cultural standards—than the stay-at-home citizens of the parent state have of daily life in the colonies. In the early modern period, the parent state effectively went to the colonies, but the colonies did not so often go to the parent state. This is yet another side of colonial counterpoint: an inversion of what we would see to be the typical imbalance of ethnological

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knowledge within early modern colonial empires. If we think of Said’s use of contrapuntal analysis in dissecting a nineteenth-century English novel, we can see that the fictional characters taking tea in a drawing room have little idea of the cost in human lives that is represented by their choice of whether to take sugar. The colonies are out of sight and out of mind. But the lived reality for the slaves in the plantations of the West Indies (discussion of which is conspicuously and significantly absent from the narrative) is one of a brutal colonial regime. They know their oppressors intimately. Although the forcible conversion—both religious and cultural—of subjugated populations within the Spanish colonial empire was an official policy of Church and Crown that was carried out with great efficacy, we should note that it also took place in Spain, among the judios and moros who converted to Roman Catholicism to stay on the Iberian Peninsula after the reconquista of 1492. With the discovery of the presence of Muslims in the Philippines at the initial point of contact in the sixteenth century, the crusading vigor of Spain was renewed. If Roman Catholic missionaries lost their footing in any part of the archipelago, so the reasoning went, surely the representatives of Islam would assume their place. Planting the Christian religion in these islands and making sure it took root meant that the soil had to be cultivated assiduously. Missionaries actively contributed to the process of hispanization so that indigenous cultures would be changed and so they would embrace and depend on Roman Catholicism. Without a doubt, the early modern missionaries seem to have achieved their goal, as the Republic of the Philippines is today the only Asian country whose population is predominantly Roman Catholic. Hispanization was symbolic of the deepest and most intractable form of conquest: the cultural and the spiritual. Music and many other types of performing arts that were associated with religious ritual and celebration simply represented the most conspicuous and easily discernible means by which the hispanization of the indigenous Filipino population could be tried and tested.

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5

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Courtship and Syncretism in Colonial Genres

In November 1790, the citizenry and populace of Manila converged to celebrate the proclamation and vows of Carlos IV and his wife, María Luisa de Borbón, as king and queen of Spain. The festivities lasted nineteen days and included religious ceremonies, military displays, and processions, as well as secular entertainment such as music, dance, and drama. During this time, the governor permitted four comedias to be played in the “Teatro cómico” of Manila.1 The texts of comedias were regularly imported from Spain and Latin America or written locally in the Philippines, as we saw in chapter 2; significantly, they were usually complemented by performances of other dramatic genres such as saraos and loas. Loas, as dramatic and musical vehicles for the rendering of homage, were habitually commissioned and composed for specific celebratory events. On this occasion, they were performed at night in the Plaza de Palacio, in full sight of the governor’s residence. They attracted the attention of the official chronicler, Dominican Manuel Barrios, who noted in his account of proceedings that the Tagalog performers “declaimed them in the forthright manner to which they are accustomed in similar performative acts: their articulation is very precise, and agreeable to Spanish ears. For it is already well known that the dialects of the Malay language are so analogous with the Castilian language in this context, that it would not be easy to identify the true cause of this rare phenomenon.”2 This remarkable statement encapsulates some of the widespread assumptions held by colonial observers about the homologous nature of certain aspects of Filipino and Spanish cultures. Essentially, by locating points of cultural convergence between two performance traditions, they could attempt to justify the “naturally ordained order” of imperial domination. What Barrios noted was also a form of convergent evolution: cultures evolving in isolation from one

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another had developed behavioral traits that in some respects bore similarities. Just as the first Europeans to arrive in sixteenth-century Japan encountered a society with a feudalistic structure that seemed comparable to their own, Spaniards in the Philippines found that there were many semblances between Filipino and Spanish cultures, including sonic aspects of Filipino languages, the religiosity of the people, a propensity to use verses in rendering honor and respect in formal situations, and even a state of coexistence with a neighboring Islamic region. The apparent similarities that precolonial Filipino and Spanish cultures had developed prior to contact may seem somewhat tenuous or specious to us today. But these points of convergence (or consonances, according to our contrapuntal metaphor) within the field of the performing arts became critical beacons to light the path for intercultural engagement, once the two cultures came into sustained contact in the colonial milieu. Some of these “beacons” flourished as performative forms that could be produced and appreciated by both parties. The tempering of Filipino and Spanish cultures subsequently allowed for fluid modulations through enharmonic regions and the development of new compositional artforms. These were the real points of enharmonic engagement. The parallel existence of certain comparable musicopoetic genres at the point of contact meant that mutual recognition of each other’s forms allowed for some degree of empathy. Filipinos could identify with some performative acts of Spaniards, and Spaniards could incorporate some Filipino performances (most often dance and Christianized verse) into their own rituals. Their reciprocal gaze across the enharmonic gulf essentially embodied a form of courtship. Recognition of genres represented engagement, and performative exchange symbolized a marriage of sorts. This relationship between Filipino and Spanish poetic and musical elements finally resulted in the gestation and birth of syncretic genres. But lest we think that the relationship was in any way a case of rapacious Spaniards imposing outright change on defenseless Filipinos, we should recall the disparity in the numerical strength of their respective population sizes, and recognize that these transitions took place slowly, often through indigenous responsiveness or receptivity to certain foreign stimuli. In some respects, the cultural condition of the colonial Philippines—and many other parts of the world subjugated by European imperial powers—can be seen as analogous to the so-called Stockholm syndrome, in which captives grow accustomed to their captors and develop a certain level of sympathy for them.3 This syndrome is attributed by some psychoanalysts to the presence of the captives’ instinctive defense mechanism for survival. Similarly, in cultural terms, we can see that many indigenous styles survived through adaptation or the process of intercultural syncretism. Such a phenomenon, seen in art forms of numerous European colonies, has been described by Serge Gruzinski and other scholars as mestizaje, literally “mixing” or “miscegenation.”4 Yet the

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development of artistic or cultural mestizaje was not contingent on the birth of children with both Filipino and European genes. Rather, it depended on the coexistence of multiple cultures and the way they interacted. Of course, the emergence of a mestizo ethnic category (according to the system of castas) promoted the idea of a mestizo cultural identity. But whereas some mestizos attempted to distance themselves from Filipinos and identify with Spaniards, others—together with the ladinos—occupied a truly liminal niche as mediators between the highest and lowest ranks of colonial society. Historical musicologists working on the sacred and secular art music of colonial Latin America have long tried to identify and define a mestizo baroque style, in which indigenous voices can be clearly heard within an otherwise European texture. Their endeavors have been largely based on the analysis of musical scores and vocal texts. In his study of colonial Cuzco, however, Baker argued against this idea and its associated methodologies, because they privilege text over performance and discount oral traditions of indigenous participants in the art forms that were supported, approved, and patronized by colonial authorities.5 The early modern repertory used by these musicologists to support the argument for an inclusive colonial aesthetic consists of art music that in every way attempted to emulate the most current trends in peninsular Spanish and Italian style. This art music of colonial Latin America, including many canonic works that are now heard in major concert halls throughout the world and on countless recordings, should thus more appropriately be called “criollo baroque.” If there really is (or was) a mestizo baroque style that fused elements of both Old World and colonial cultures, it is more likely to be found in oral traditions of indigenous communities who were—to lesser or greater extents— conversant with the colonizers’ art forms. (Perhaps it should even be called “ladino baroque.”) This is what can be identified in the Philippines: colonial musicopoetic genres that fuse Filipino and Spanish styles of versification, as well as indigenous and European forms of popular chant, which have been performed and preserved in oral tradition until our own times. In spite of the reigning terminological confusion that surrounds the word “mestizo,” I retain the familiar term “mestizaje” as the marker of an idea that has long held currency among scholars of Hispanic literature and art. If transculturation was the process by which indigenous societies received the impact of colonization by Spain, then mestizaje was the outcome or the product. I treat mestizaje here as a condition of indigenous societies in the Philippines whose cultures were influenced by elements of hispanization and not as a characteristic related exclusively to new identities formed through miscegenation. That is to say, mestizaje was not reserved only for mestizos. Many Spanish-Filipino mestizos aspired to assimilate into Spanish society and acquire and cultivate Spanish cultural traits, but a considerable proportion of them also constructed their own identity between the poles of “fully” Spanish and “fully” Filipino. This identity became central to the revolutionary movements of the nineteenth

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century. I contend, however, that mestizaje related to the Christianized Filipino population as a whole and constituted a subversive form of cultural expression. Since art forms with a hispanized veneer were considered acceptable to colonial authorities, mestizaje provided a means for resistance and self-identification. Mestizaje and the development of syncretic genres allowed old indigenous traditions to be retained under the guise of hispanization. Here, in one of the most far-flung colonies of early modern Europe, we see the baroque act of “masking” in full swing. In this chapter I offer case studies of three Filipino genres: auit (now awit), loa, and pasyon. I have succumbed to the temptation of calling them “colonial genres.” By “colonial” I do not mean hegemonic—although they were hegemonic to some extent, in terms of encroaching on the niches originally filled by other indigenous traditions. Rather, I mean that they were art forms born from the colonial relationship between Europeans and indigenous Filipinos. Within this broad category, we can see that Spanish missionaries wrote song-texts in indigenized forms, whereas Filipinos wrote verses in Spanish forms and adopted European melodies. We saw in the previous chapter how the Letra en tagalo and the transcription titled “Quædam Musica” provide documentary evidence of such exchanges in the seventeenth century.6 But here we see how musicopoetic colonial genres arose from the colonial condition to become potent symbols of indigenous self-definition within the colonial milieu. These also bound together the entire population—with the exception of the highest echelons of the Spanish colonial elite—in the development of a new, hybrid identity.

Auit “Auit” is a term that proliferates in early modern sources, but the term is endowed with a mulitiplicity of meanings, and great care must be taken in interpreting its use in different historical contexts. Primarily, the auit was a distinctive precolonial song genre that appears to have retained its popularity during the colonial period.7 Although it was considered by writers of poetry treatises as a specific genre with its own characteristics, the term came to be used by succeeding generations of ethnographers as a common word for “song” in a number of dialects—a dual function of the term similar to the French word chanson or the Spanish term canción in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Canave-Dioquino notes that auit became “an umbrella term for song,” and Manuel offers three general concepts of the Tagalog term: namely, its general meaning as “song,” its use as a generic label for all songs, and its specificity as a type of song “sung in the house.”8 In the early modern Philippines, other major dialects—including Visayan, Kapampangan, and Bikol (but with the notable exception of Ilokano)— also used the term auit in reference to any type of “song.”9

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The entry for auit in the 1754 Tagalog vocabulario of Noceda and Sanlúcar points explicitly to the general function of the term. The definition states that “their songs are: Diona . . . Talindao . . . Auit . . . Dolayanin[,] in the street. Hila. Soliranin. Manigpasin, whilst rowing. Holohorlo. Oyayi, rocking the baby. Umbay,i, sad. Umiguing[,] sweet. Tagumpay[,] in triumph. Dopay[a]nin. . . . Hilirau. . . . [and] Balicongcong.”10 Thus in Tagalog the auit was considered a generic category, as well as a specific song genre. Both Gaspar de San Agustín and Oyanguren de Santa Ynés claimed in the eighteenth century that the Tagalog auit differed from other musicopoetic genres based on its syllabic structure and musical composition, but they gave no particular details.11 Alzina, on the other hand, devoted a lengthy discussion to the Visayan auit genre in his ethnography of the Visayans: Leaving aside other special types of poetry . . . we shall finish this subject with those they call auit. This means to sing and is the genre they use in their voyages, always singing to the sound or rhythm of the oars. It corresponds to the zalomas that our sailors sing on the Mediterranean, even if those of the Visayans are more numerous. Their tonadillas [songs] are either very slow or fast depending upon the need for rowing [that is, depending on the speed of the oars]. The spirit behind the oars in any voyage is a fine singer (called the paraauit), and there are some who are so skillful that they sing for entire days without stopping, for there are many songs composed by their ancestors for this purpose. Some (although difficult to understand) are also the most ingenious and metaphorical. The fathers teach them to their sons, and some Visayans are so productive in this type of poetry that they sing fluently without lacking subject matter for many hours. The auit is also composed of two verses without rhyme in a couplet, having one that is like a short estribillo of two or three words, no more, that is repeated by all. This auit permits only one license, namely that a word can be divided so as not to lengthen the verse, placing a syllable of the beginning of the word in the first line (verse) and putting the other or others in the following. This makes its continuation somewhat easier, a necessary move for one who jointly uses the voice for intoning and the hands for rowing. The rhythm of the voice and the songs are used to hurry or retard the movement of the oars; they entertain greatly on the continuous and tedious voyages with which we, the ministers of the Gospel, are constantly occupied and even troubled among these Visayans.12 Although Alzina highlights the maritime function of the song, his description of the hereditary method of oral transmission should be noted. These traits, along with its repetitive performance during manual labor (at least in the Visayan practice of the genre) identified the auit to the missionaries as one of

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the principal and most effective vehicles by which Christian doctrine could be disseminated through newly composed song-texts. In the Visayas, as elsewhere in the archipelago, auit referred to the noun “song” or the verb “to sing.”13 William Henry Scott notes that in the Visayas, auit was always “the general term for singing”—except when distinguishing different song genres, when it was used as a “specific term for sea chanteys.”14 Alzina’s mention of verses (coplas) and refrain (estribillo) bring to mind the Spanish villancico genre. Again, his identification of parallel structures in indigenous and Spanish traditions enabled the construction of mutual frames of reference for enharmonic engagement and the development of syncretic forms of expression that allowed for fluid enharmonic transition between the two cultural systems.15 The historiographical treatment of the auit reveals two main forms of syncretism: the incorporation of Christian concepts in song-texts and/or the incorporation of European musical idioms. In regard to the former, Colín described in the mid-seventeenth century the “use of songs, and facility of composing them” among some recent converts, citing the example of a woman singing in traditional style a paraphrased version of the sermon preached the same day.16 The gradual incorporation of European idioms into indigenous song is illustrated most clearly by an example discussed in the previous chapter, the transcription of the melodic fragment entitled “Quædam Musica,” which shows that Tagalog women were adapting European melodies into their traditional song. These two types of syncretism probably gave rise to observations by Alzina and others, seen in the previous chapter, that indigenous music was “improving,” as it approached the realms of European modal norms. Thus, the teleological ideologies implicit in all assessments made by Spaniards about Filipino music are clearly revealed: missionaries considered moves toward points of convergence to be an inevitable outcome of evangelization and hispanization, not to mention one that was believed to be divinely ordained. Both forms of syncretism within the auit—textual and musical—are a clear example of musical and cultural convergences in colonial praxis. Members of Spanish religious orders gave the name auit to the song-texts in indigenous languages that they composed. Such works can be found in the prefaces or appendices to various religious publications in indigenous languages. For example, the Tagalog book Librong pinagpapalamnan yto nang aasalin nang tauong Christiano sa pagcoconfesar, at sa pagcocomulgar by Blancas de San José—first published in c. 1607 and so popular that by the end of the nineteenth century it had been reprinted in eight editions—includes didactic texts in the form of auit. These auit are headed by a title in Spanish, which reads (in translation): “Songs in their style concerning Confession and Communion, which are the subject of this book.”17 The song-texts are strophic, and although it is difficult to identify precisely the meaning of the title’s qualification “in their style,” it probably refers to the use of local melodies or Filipino poetic forms. Another large set of song-texts, a collection of eleven candos in the

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Visayan language by Jesuit Pedro de Estrada, survives in his Practica del cathesismo donde se enseña un methodo compendioso para componer las costumbres (a publication that exists today only in its second edition printed in 1746).18 These candos are quatrains with six or seven syllables in each line, and they were probably disseminated widely throughout Visayan-speaking regions. Although the term “candos” might appear simply to be a transliteration of the Castilian word cantos, a vocabulario compiled by Sánchez (before his death in 1618) gives the definition of the Visayan noun candù (now kandu) as “poem, or song, with which they sing their stories.”19 Filipinos appear to have embraced the auit genre in its new, colonial form, employing it as a tool for self-identification and for the elevation and consolidation of their position in colonial society. In his 1610 treatise on the Spanish language Librong pagaaralan nang manga Tagalog nang uicang Castila (Book with which Tagalogs can learn Castilian), Filipino printer Pinpin composed six bilingual auit as a pedagogic tool for learning Spanish vocabulary; each line of Tagalog alternates with its equivalent in Spanish. Damon Lawrence Woods has noted that “the structure within the auit suggests that he has a particular tune or melody in mind. Pinpin includes words that do not seem to belong to the category of vocabulary of a given song, and uses ellision [sic] at times, all apparently to allow the words to fit the melodic structure that he has in mind.”20 The song-texts are given titles such as auit (“song”), icalauang auit (“second song”), and isa pang auit (“one more song”) to distinguish them as pieces to be performed, rather than just being lessons. Lumbera maintains that these texts were composed as Spanish poems, as their lines are “hexasyllabic,” with “assonantal a-e rimes”; the Tagalog equivalents were probably inserted thereafter, in a process Rafael has called “syncopation.”21 Rhythmic manipulation along these lines contributed to greater complexity within the contrapuntal texture of colonial society as independent voices were interwoven. A significant consequence of the hispanization of Filipino music was an apparent decrease in the number of song-texts that treated secular subjects—at least in terms of those that were recorded. The publication of meditations by Jesuit Francisco de Salazar (1559–99) (based on the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius) were translated into Tagalog in 1645 by Augustinian Pedro de Herrera (d. 1648), who has been called the “Horace of Tagalog.”22 They included what was, according to Lumbera, “the biggest collection of seventeenth-century [Tagalog] poems by a single writer.”23 Augustinian Juan Serrano (1715–54), whose edition of this publication was reprinted in 1762, recommends the poetic works of Herrera in his introduction, writing that “at the end of this Book are appended those Dalits composed also by the Very Reverend Father Lector Pedro de Herrera, which should replace and be substituted for the various evil auits and plosas that bewitch you and paralyze everything good in your soul.”24 The use of the term “auit” in this context probably refers to traditional, non-Christian songs before it became synonymous with any type of song; the dalit genre, on

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the other hand, was described by Gaspar de San Agustín as “serious, and sententious, in the style of what the Greeks and Romans called epic dithyrambs,”25 which could explain why this term was used by Herrera and Serrano. Serious genres were used for serious subjects. Although several vocabularios defined dalit as “song” or “sung couplet,” Lucrecia Roces Kasilag (1918–2008) classed the genre as a “mournful plaint” in honor of the Virgin Mary in our own times, and Canave-Dioquino has noted its use in wakes.26 Nevertheless, the auit, as a didactic text and pedagogic tool, generally maintained its position as an allencompassing term for “song” in many subsequent evangelistic publications and devotional texts, and awit (in its modern orthography) still remains the noun for “song” in Tagalog and many other Filipino languages.

Loa As with the auit, the prevalence of the loa genre in early modern sources is probably due to the existence of parallel genres within both Filipino and Spanish traditions. Whereas the Spanish loa was introduced to the islands in the late sixteenth century, it is important to recognize that before the arrival of the Spaniards in the islands, there existed several indigenous musicopoetic genres that served to honor luminaries, living or dead, in festivities and at special events. Early missionary linguists and ethnographers considered these genres to be the equivalent to the Spanish loa, as we can see from correlations found in early vocabularios, in which several terms were translated into the Castilian language as loa. For instance, the Tagalog genre puri was described by San Buena Ventura and Santos in their vocabularios as an equivalent of the loa, with Santos qualifying that it could be used to praise God or man.27 Meanwhile, in Visayan and Ilokano dialects (although their speakers were geographically distant from one another) the word dayao was equated to loa, as it referred to the rendering of praise in verse or song.28 During the colonial regime, there emerged plurality in the use of the loa by the indigenous population: some poet-musicians retained their native traditions, continuing to compose verses in their own languages, some incorporated elements of the Spanish loa in thematic content and style, and others composed and performed loas in the Castilian language and Spanish style. The evolution of the indigenous loa in the colonial Philippines is a complex phenomenon; it is a genre that challenged Barrios in the eighteenth century, Retana in the late nineteenth, and literary analysts in our own times.29 The early modern Filipino loa developed as a result of sustained cultural interface between colonizer and colonized, involving indigenous appropriation of generic function within the colonial regime, and adaptation of stylistic elements from the equivalent Spanish tradition.30 Although the development of this genre within colonial contexts demonstrates considerable cultural and

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literary syncretism, the Spanish loa imported to the islands (as composed and performed by Spaniards, mestizos, and ladinos) retained its similarity to practices elsewhere in the empire.31 The loa in its multiple forms thus needs to be considered within the context of both indigenous and Spanish traditions, as all sorts of loas were performed in public festivities, particularly in the capital. As an act of homage, the Spanish loa in Manila could be spoken or sung in honor of such important personages as the monarch or governor, the Virgin Mary, or prominent saints. From the beginning of the seventeenth century, all governors-general of the Philippines were received with a loa performance on their arrival in Manila.32 According to Retana, this would require a theatrical setting in which an individual would recite from memory a poetic composition praising the recently arrived personage and pondering on his accomplishments, whether or not these deeds had ever taken place.33 In the colonial milieu, the loa was a genre that could be used to express respect in any language, and one scholar has even suggested that it provides a musical representation of all the elements and ideas that make up a society.34 Written in verse, the texts of loas could be simply declaimed, but in many cases they included musical interpolations or were set completely to music. They were often published and circulated widely; some twenty-six complete texts of Spanish loas from Manila printed between 1677 and 1749 are still extant.35 However, no musical scores have survived, as they were usually composed for a single occasion and not preserved. For this reason, it can be difficult to determine whether music was included in loas, unless the texts contain explicit indications of musical involvement (as many do, specifying singing, dancing, and instrumental interludes). Given that there exist no texts of precolonial indigenous loas, it is difficult to assess their levels of similarity to the Spanish genre. However, Alzina offers a detailed description of the Visayan genre sidai (now siday), which he considers to be “the most difficult of all” styles, and which seems to be very similar to a loa.36 He writes that they use it in order to praise others or to relate the accomplishments of their ancestors or to extol the beauty of some woman or a brave man. It is difficult to understand on account of its form and even the Visayans themselves do not all understand it because there is hardly a word that is not metaphorical. These people love to listen to these sidai and they spend many hours especially in the evening without [any] yawning or falling asleep. They are accustomed to pay or reward very highly those who are skillful in this poetic art, so that they may come to their houses and render sidai. These are always rendered in song. I must admit, as regards these sidai, that the understanding of them cost me much work and many bribes to the skillful ones, just so that they would sing them to me. However, they have certain repetitions somewhat boring for they constantly repeat many and

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enharmonic engagement very long phrases, adding only one or two new words. Honestly, this is the most difficult of all the forms as I have said previously.37

These observations probably could be applied to the same type of genre practiced by other major ethnolinguistic groups in the islands. Long phrases in Tagalog loas were also noted more than a century later by Martínez de Zúñiga, who wrote that “the verse is always made up of twelve syllables, according to the narrative tone [style] that is observed in them.”38 This was a larger number of syllables than in many other forms of Tagalog poetry, demonstrating a greater level of gravity in the composition and delivery of loas than in other genres. Although Alzina claims that sidai were sung, like all forms of indigenous poetry, the introduction of the multifaceted Spanish loa genre, which could be completely sung or completely recited (or recited with musical interpolations), evidently resulted in direct adoption by Filipinos of the Spanish genre within Hispanic contexts. For example, in the celebrations held in Manila for the accession of Fernando VI, a “eulogistic hymn” was sung by “four choirs of excellent musicians,” directly after which a loa was recited—not sung—in Castilian by a Tagalog performer. The author of the published account reproduced fragments of this loa’s verses, to demonstrate the “passionate heart of these Islanders towards their beloved Lord, and King, obliging them to speak in a language so foreign to their own.”39 The division between reciting and singing poetry appears to have emerged in Filipino communities as a result of Spanish cultural influence. But other loas were certainly sung. An account of ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ I’s entry into Manila in 1750, written by Dominican Juan de Arechederra (d. 1751) just a year later, refers to the performances of groups of Filipinos, mestizos, and Chinese being accompanied by “choirs of music with loas especially appropriate to the occasion.”40 From this description of multiple choirs, we can surmise that these loas were perhaps sung polychorally and that some were in languages other than Castilian. It is likely that the melodies traditionally used in the performance of indigenous poetry would not have been to the taste of colonial authorities in public performances, which means that loas performed directly to this audience were often recited or sung to European music. As we saw at the start of this chapter, an account from 1791 of the festivities surrounding the proclamation and vows of Carlos IV and his wife, Luisa de Borbón, describes a night performance of little dramas or loas in Tagalog in the plaza of the governor’s palace. These loas were “declaimed” in Tagalog, and with their “precise” articulation they were “agreeable to Spanish ears.” Although Barrios points out the analogous nature of Malay dialects and Castilian in the context of loa performances, he hesitates to “identify the true cause of this rare phenomenon.”41 The fact that the Tagalog loas appear to have pleased a Spanish audience suggests three possibilities: (1) that there was considerable similarity between the aural aesthetic of both traditions; (2) that the performance in the context of rendering homage pleased

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the colonial authorities; or (3) that the Tagalog loa had undergone sufficient transformation so as to make it appear similar in poetic style to the Spanish loa. Along with this third possibility, the “precise articulation” of the Tagalog language in this performance, as Barrios heard it, may have contributed to the welcome reception given by the Spanish audience. Following two centuries of synthesis, the Filipino loa clearly emerged as a unique colonial genre, versatile in its various performance styles and functions. Barrios is correct in noting the difficulty of identifying exact influences in the development of the loa, and his comment is indicative of the relatively influential cultural policies of grafting Spanish forms onto preexisting Filipino genres and of absorbing local practices into the broader context of state festivities. Yet his remark may also be representative of a significant level of curiosity about the loa among educated Spanish observers at the time. This theory is lent some credibility by an account of a loa performance that took place in 1800 in Lipa (Province of Batangas), not far from Manila. Written by Martínez de Zúñiga, this account concerns the reception in Lipa of a visiting general from the Spanish navy, Don Ignacio María de Álava (1750–1817), where a Filipino performer presented what must be called a loa in the middle of the theatre, and was well dressed, like a Spanish gentleman. He was seated and reclining in a chair as if sleeping; behind the curtains the musicians sang a lugubrious song in the language of the country. The sleeping man awoke and began to doubt whether he had heard any voice, or whether he had dreamed what he heard. He sat down again, sleeping, and the song was repeated in the same lugubrious manner. He awoke again, stood up and pondered anew on the voice which he had heard. This scene was repeated two or three times, until he persuaded himself that the voice told him that a hero had arrived and it was necessary to make a eulogy. Then he began to declaim his loa with great decorum, acting it out, as the actors do in the coliseum, and gave an account in his native language in praise of the one in whose honor the fiesta had been ordered. This loa celebrated the naval expeditions of the General, the awards and titles with which the king had decorated him, and finished by giving him thanks and recognition of the favor which he had done in passing this town and visiting them, they being poor wretches. This loa was in verse, composed very rhetorically in a diffuse style, in accordance with Asian taste. The verses did not fail to mention the expeditions of Ulysses, the voyages of Aristotle and the unfortunate death of Pliny, and other passages of ancient history which they like very much to introduce into their accounts. . . . I believe that the Fathers brought these loas here in the old days.42

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The “lugubrious song” to which Martínez de Zúñiga refers could be considered as the interpolation of an auit. Within the context of the European loa genre, the mixture of singing and recitation is to be expected; in the last sentence, Martínez de Zúñiga clearly associated the loa with elements of performance style and subject matter introduced to the Philippines by Spanish missionaries over the previous centuries. Although it is evident that a laudatory verse or song genre already existed in both Filipino and Spanish performance traditions prior to contact between the two cultures, it is also apparent that the Spanish loa, characterized in its colonial function as the legitimization of authority through ritualized praise, was a hegemonic force that gradually made a lasting impact on the traditional practices of Filipino communities. Even today the loa exists throughout the Philippines in various fiestas, and similar forms of homage exist in practices such as the flores de mayo, the floral offerings to the Virgin Mary made every day in May, in which devotional hymns are sung between the mysteries of the rosary. Doreen Fernandez (1934–2002) observed that certain elements of Spanish feasting set a standard for religious and secular celebration and were reflected in indigenous fiestas in derivative form; a Filipino komedya on a feast day might start with a loa in honor of the patron saint, which may include references to “the mayor, or the hermano mayor, or town personalities.”43 This usage reflects indigenous adaptation of the Spanish theatrical function of the genre. In a study of the modern-day loa in oral literature of the Province of Samar, Minodora S. Magbutay claims that the folkloric form “is lyrical [and] deals with some elemental emotions of its singers and reciters. Complete in four verses or quatrains, [it] has a variety of rhyme schemes. . . . The loa is rich in imagery and when it is set to music, as it often is, it becomes a haunting and melancholic song. But the loa is not all tears. It also embodies humor, one that may be truly characteristic of the common people.”44 She goes on to add that “God, religious rites, biblical figures [and] saints are not very popular loa figures. The Blessed Mother is more often mentioned than any other saint or figure of the Christian faith.”45 The universal function of the latter folkloric form could indicate the genre’s derivation from precolonial traditions. The loa became a symbolic form of resistance in the context of struggles between ecclesiastical and secular authorities. An example of the loa’s power in this respect is illustrated by the account of an incident in Pampanga in 1772, shortly after the archbishop of Manila, Piarist Basilio Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina (1728–87), had enforced the transfer of parishes that were under regular control (that is, the control of the religious orders) to the charge of indigenous secular (diocesan) priests. As Santiago has shown, Filipino priest Nicolás Dorotheo Masangcay y Coronel (1736–95) had been assigned to the parish of Bacolor and following his first four months there, “the sacristan mayor together with the other church sextons and singers arranged a celebration on the occasion of his thirty-sixth birthday. . . . Don Nicolás Capid, the sacristan . . . composed a

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musical loa in his honor and erected a modest stage for the presentation.”46 Suspecting that trouble would arise with the local civil authorities—whose grudging acceptance of the installation of Filipino priests had led to a great deal of conflict in the region—Masangcay pleaded with the composer and musicians to cancel their performance and yield to him the manuscripts of the loa. However, this did not prevent the town mayor from storming the church with three armed soldiers and arresting Capid for his controversial composition, “the exact nature of which was never clarified except that it was laudatory of Masangcay.”47 The power with which the loa was invested is demonstrated explicitly by this political episode, and the censorship of such a performance—regardless of its language, which was probably the local dialect—maintains the position of the loa as a symbol of social identification. Music invested with textual power gradually became the new force for social change and a tool for the establishment of identity.48 But the loa, as a relatively small-scale performance, could in no way match a genre such as the pasyon in the sense of mass movement and popular participation.

Pasyon The pasyon is an account of the life of Jesus Christ in an indigenous Filipino language, typically made in several thousand verses in the Spanish quintilla poetic form (five lines of eight syllables each). Some histories begin at the Book of Genesis and, after treating the life of Christ, go on to cover subsequent historical events, whereas others focus specifically on the Passion story. The narrative is usually interpersed with short episodes of a type of homily called an aral (lesson); these exhort the listener to reflect with penitence on moral implications of events in the Passion.49 Ricardo Trimillos observes that the pasyon “may be recited, cantillated, or sung in nonstop performances lasting from twelve hours to five days.”50 The text is sung antiphonally or serially by two or more groups of singers, indoors or outside, to a skeletal melodic formula called punto or tono, which can be ornamented.51 It is usually monophonic, but sometimes additional parts are added to the texture in a process that in Tagalog is called habi (weaving): a Filipino form of counterpoint. The performance of the entire pasyon can be undertaken as the fulfilment of a vow, or as a personal sakripisyo (sacrifice), and usually involves the duet partners or groups competing with one another for the more expressive and effective rendition of the chant. In Tagalog regions, the term pabasa is also used to refer to the act of singing or reciting the pasyon during Lent, while the term “pasyon” refers to the text itself. According to Retana, the singing of the Passion of Christ in Tagalog probably had its origins in the middle of the seventeenth century.52 The first known published version of the pasyon text was composed by Gaspar Aquino de Belén,

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a Filipino nobleman from the town of Rosario (Province of Batangas) and a printer of books for the Jesuit press. At the beginning of the eighteenth century he was granted a license to publish his 980-verse pasyon titled Mahal na Passion ni Iesu Christong P[anginoon]. natin na tolâ, which was appended to a Tagalog translation of the Recomendación del alma by Jesuit Tomás de Villacastín (1570– 1649).53 The earliest extant edition of this work is the fifth, which was published in 1760, but the original licenses of the government and Holy Office reproduced within it date from 1703. They are accompanied by a pronouncement from the archbishop of Manila, dated January 23, 1704, allowing forty days of indulgence to all who read (recited) or heard a pasyon.54 In 1738, Augustinian Juan Sánchez (1689–1758) published a Pasión de Nuestro Señor Jesucristo en lengua panayana (a Visayan dialect spoken on the island of Panay), and in 1740 El infierno abieṛto, en lengua panayana, which, according to nineteenth-century Spanish Filipinist Vicente Barrantes (1829–98), also contained a pasyon text.55 Another eighteenth-century pasyon text in Tagalog was probably composed in c. 1740 by the Tagalog principal Don Luis Guian, as we know from a literary allusion by Delgado, who in 1751 claimed that he ordered it reprinted in Manila.56 Jesuit Estrada also “composed in Visayan verse the History of the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ.”57 This proliferation of pasyon texts, composed by religious personnel and laymen throughout the eighteenth century, was a trend that continued into the nineteenth century. In 1814, Filipino priest Mariano Pilapil published what was to become one of the most popular and enduring pasyon texts, the Casaysayan nang pasiong mahal, by one or more anonymous authors, which still maintains widespread influence.58 This version expands the Passion story exponentially: it consists of 2,660 quintillas and, in the words of Canave-Dioquino, “begins with the creation of the world, covers the life of Jesus, and ends with Empress Helena’s finding the holy cross. It contains sixty-eight intervening episodes, which insert twenty moral lessons or sermons (aral). The stanzas of each episode may be performed in narrative (salaysay) or as dialogues.”59 Today it is sold in cheap editions that are available in abundance during Lent. The pasyon genre clearly became one with which indigenous poets and singers identified strongly, and its popularity increased rapidly throughout the islands during the colonial period. Elena Rivera Mirano writes that the date of the earliest public performances is unknown, “but by 1827, when a parish priest complained in a letter about erroneous doctrinal ideas being spread by such performances, it could be assumed that the pabasa must have been a wellentrenched custom.”60 The subversion and even inversion of orthodox religious doctrine through the indigenous practice of the pasyon contested the authority of both Church and Crown. The deep-seated predilection of many Filipinos for the performance of this genre throughout Lent and on Good Friday amplified its power to act as a poignant counterpoint to the religious hegemony of imperial Spain. The Passion story was so central to the Spanish religious

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crusade of evangelization that its appropriation and reinterpretation by Filipinos—according to their own theological perspectives—could strike at the heart of the Roman Catholic mission and present an imposing challenge to the role of religious conversion as an agent of colonialism. The pasyon has been variously classed as a literary genre, a dramatic genre, and a composite musicopoetic genre, but there has been relatively little consideration of the genre’s traditional musical component per se, apart from the work of Mirano and Trimillos. This lacuna is probably due to the fact that pasyon’s melodies have been sustained through oral transmission rather than in any notated form and possibly because the pasyon is seen as a paraliturgical genre of lay devotion within the context of the Christianized culture of the Philippines, thus worthy of less scholarly attention than musical or dramatic performances in fiestas. But however we might choose to categorize the pasyon, we must recognize that it clearly represents a unique synthesis of Spanish and Filipino stylistic traits. To construct an understanding of the musical performance of such a genre, then, it is essential to make reference to descriptions of precolonial practices as well as to the musical elements of Tagalog poetry as mentioned in some of the treatises discussed in chapter 3. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, ethnographers observed indigenous practices of singing genealogies and histories, particularly those performed while traveling on the water. For instance, Chirino noted at the turn of the seventeenth century that Filipinos sang long songs to relate “the fabulous genealogies and vain deeds of their gods.”61 He may have observed performances of the Tagalog genre pamatbat, which was defined by Noceda and Sanlúcar as “that which they sing in their voyages, in the manner of a history, or when they drink.”62 In terms of its narrative qualities, the pamatbat seems (apart from the drinking) to bear some similarities with the pasyon. But Alzina also described a traditional vocal genre of the Visayas that appears to share even more characteristics with the pasyon: There is still another form of poetry called haya which they had here and still have now to weep for their dead, which is sung by mourners called parahaya, women who hire themselves out for this purpose. Their task is to sing dirges in a mournful tune, mixing in threads of praise for the deceased or their ancestors and to which the relatives, the husband or wife of the deceased reply with some weird outburst, shout, or scream. This is their method of weeping for their dead without really shedding a single tear. . . . Here it is sufficient only to mention that which concerns their verses and poetry pertaining to their dead, also called anogon or canogon, which is the same as saying something regrettable, unenjoyable, or a loss.63 The Tagalogs had a parallel genre called panambitan, which Ortiz describes as “to sing, crying” or “to cry, singing” of the deeds of a deceased parent.64 These

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practices, among others, provided a performative foundation for devotions to the Passion of Christ, in terms of mourning for and extolling a great deceased hero. They enabled the Spanish missionaries to replace traditional texts with newly composed Christian verses in indigenous languages. The indigenous and Spanish traditions from which the authors of pasyon texts came probably resulted in the use of poetic styles stemming from both traditions or an admixture of the two. The pasyon of Aquino de Belen demonstrates the adoption of the Spanish quintilla form for poetry in the Tagalog language, in line with a process in local poetic traditions that Lumbera labels “assimilation and synthesis.”65 In 1889, Barrantes provided a detailed bibliography of European antecedents dating back to the fifteenth century, documenting the Roman Catholic poetic tradition that he believed to have been introduced to the islands. However, he made the assertion that the indigenous pasyon developed directly as a translation of Latin and Spanish texts, without any reference to the indigenous narrative genres such as pamatbat.66 Lumbera cites Spanish literary influences on Tagalog author Aquino de Belen, including Iñigo de Mendoza’s Vita Christi (Zamora, 1482), Comendador Roman’s Coplas de la Pasion con la Resurreccion (Toledo, 1490), and Juan de Quiros’s Cristo Pathia (Toledo, 1552), among others.67 But in a seminal essay on the sources of the earliest extant pasyon text in Tagalog, Javellana proposes that Juan de Padilla’s Retablo de la Vida de Cristo hecho en verso (1585) “is the immediate and principal source of Aquino de Belen’s pasyon and [that] from which he derives the basic outline of his work,” citing as evidence the similarities in “outline and content,” “technique,” and “expression in more than a few instances.”68 This hypothesis is supported by comparisons that include the techniques of “dramatic dialogue, direct address and short sermonette [aral].”69 A number of scholars (including Canave-Dioquino, Mirano, Trimillos, and Mary Arlene Pe Chongson) have focused on the modern manifestations of the pasyon tradition, but any attempts to trace the musical development of this genre during the early modern period have been frustrated by the lack of sources apart from the poetic texts themselves. What appears to be the earliest extant example of staff notation of any of the musical puntos of the pasyon is included in the 1892 publication La música popular de Filipinas by Manuel Walls y Merino (figure 5.1).70 This punto displays a recitational quality similar to the tones used for performing the Passion in the Roman Catholic tradition of Europe.71 However, the style remained identifiably indigenous, one that ostensibly hearkened back to precolonial times (although it would be difficult to trace its origins with precision). The late seventeenth-century melodic fragment “Quædam Musica,” discussed in the previous chapter, could also possibly be a representation of a pasyon tone, but if so, it was clearly adapted from a European melodic structure (probably plainchant).72

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figure 5.1. Earliest known published pasyon tone, transcribed from Manuel Walls y Merino, La música popular de Filipinas (Madrid: Librería de Fernando Fe, 1892), 25. The Tagalog orthography has been modernized.

The pasyon and another Holy Week ritual, the Passion play called sinakulo (from the Castilian term cenáculo), were instituted among Filipino communities by Spanish authorities to propel the dual aims of evangelization and hispanization. But as Tiongson and Ileto have shown, these performative genres had the contradictory effect of providing Filipinos with a linguistic and dramatic vehicle to enable the articulation of their own values, ideals, and aspirations for freedom and autonomy. Ileto has cited the mass performance of the pasyon genre as a major factor in fomenting nationalist sentiment and revolutionary action in the late nineteenth century.73 We may ask: once the Passion story had been introduced and had taken root in the indigenous consciousness, did Filipinos identify with the sufferings of Christ as an analogy for their own status as subjugated indigenous peoples under colonial rule? Did the Roman centurions who were acted out in the sinakulo take on the character of Spanish military auxiliaries (of any ethnicity) who upheld the political status quo in the islands? Filipino singers of the pasyon and performers of the sinakulo may have subverted the meanings and significances of the Lenten rituals approved by Church and Crown to present the central meaning of the Passion story as a symbol for struggles against social injustice—and to convey the message that suffering and self-sacrifice would eventually triumph and result in redemption.

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As a genre that combined indigenous music with indigenous-language poetry in the style of the colonial dominators, within Roman Catholic religious practices, the pasyon allowed Filipinos to assert their identity through song. Performed at home, before altars, shrines, or carros (floats) intended to be used in a Good Friday procession at sundown, the communal activity of sharing verses between singers provided increased levels of relatedness and belonging within a barangay or pueblo. The genre also had a propensity to bring together large groups of Filipinos—and thus enact mass movement—and it was possibly for this reason that its performance was briefly prohibited in 1856.74 Although the pasyon has today undergone radical transformations in its use of electronic musical equipment, traditional forms remain in place in many regions, albeit often with fewer, and aging, practitioners.75 In some areas of Luzon, the pasyon is sung in visitas while actual crucifixions (with real nails) take place in the adjacent plaza. Genres intended specifically for Holy Week or for other parts of Lent also appear to have been used for both contexts relatively indiscriminately by indigenous populations in various regions of the Philippines. For instance, according to Barrantes, the tradition of singing the indigenous pasyon did not take hold in the Provinces of Ilocos (northern Luzon); there, the Lamentations of Jeremiah were sung during Lent.76 Meanwhile, as Trimillos has observed, the practice of performing stanzas “in a two- or three-part choral style (called lamentasyon) by rotating groups of twelve to twenty performers each” that can total more than 100 singers—and can even include the participation of brass instruments—has persisted in the town of Pamplona, Camarines Sur.77 The pasyon genre clearly remains a complex practice that represents a significant level of syncretism: it emerged from blending Spanish Passion poetry and indigenous musicopoetic traditions that mourned the dead or related genealogical histories, as a result of their similar religious and cultural functions at the point of contact.

Conclusion The dimensions of syncretism in the auit, the loa, and the pasyon spanned not only the links between poetry and music but also the connections between Spanish and Filipino cultural patterns. Degrees of similarity between the formulation, function, and practice of genres from both cultures prior to Spanish conquest—as well as certain religious orders’ customs of accommodating local traditions to Catholic usage—resulted in unique genres being developed in the colonial milieu. These genres have become so thoroughly ingrained in musical practices of the country that they are now viewed as indigenous and “traditional,” in many ways reflecting Phelan’s quite discursive treatment of the “‘Philippinization’ of Catholicism.”78 Although these new syncretic genres remained the domain of indigenous and mestizo performers, they were clearly

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proposed, influenced, and promoted by Spanish individuals and institutions. Parallel with religious practices, indigenous musicopoetic genres in the Philippines adopted elements of similar Spanish forms, thus assuming the guise of colonial artistic functions that symbolized obeisance and assimilation, while at the same time developing and consolidating unique characteristics that distinguished them as uniquely Filipino. The early modern age of encounters—and unprecedented acceleration of intercultural exchanges on a global scale—corresponded to European music’s progression from modality to tonality and the tempering of intervals to a sufficient degree that allowed for the circle of fifths’ comfortable circumnavigation by European composers and listeners alike. Similarly, a literal counterpoint between cultures not only emphasized musical difference at the point of contact; it also provided a framework for subsequent exchange through enharmonic engagement and even allowed for intercultural inversion. After members of different groups had tempered their musical perspectives to accommodate a sufficient degree of intercultural empathy, enharmonic engagement allowed musicians from one ethnolinguistic group to appropriate and redefine musical elements from another, different cultural system. Still, a clear line remained drawn between many Asian and European practices. As we will see in the third and final part of the book, a form of strict counterpoint was imposed on society in the regulation of musical traditions in the colony’s major religious institutions and the construction of ethnic hierarchies for performances at major festivities.

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STRICT COUNTERPOINT

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Cathedrals, Convents, Churches, and Chapels

This final trilogy of chapters examines how musical practice was subject to strict regulation in religious institutions, Filipino communities, and public festivities. I named this part of the book “Strict Counterpoint” because the forms of control that were wielded by Spanish ecclesiastical and secular functionaries—then imposed on the activities and interactions of musicians and listeners within colonial society—were in many ways analogous to the enforcement of contrapuntal rules in early modern European art music. Individual notes had to fit in with other notes according to an established set of norms and functions. Another reason for the name is that the practice of European music in the early modern Philippines embodied a literal “counterpoint” to its contemporaneous equivalent in Spain. As we shall see, world travelers who were familiar with Spain and its colonies, and who observed their local environment with open ears and eyes, constantly compared and contrasted musical practices from these opposing poles of the Spanish Empire. One of the most interesting characteristics to emerge from observations of church music in the early modern Philippines—if we are to take into account all ecclesiastical institutions, from the most central to the most peripheral— was that Filipinos made up the vast majority of church musicians. Spanish immigrants who brought great musical expertise were relatively few in number during the early modern period; many of them belonged to religious orders, in whose historical annals and necrologies they are extolled as performers, composers, theorists, and pedagogues. But apart from cultivating sacred and secular musics in their own “private environment,” one of the most important social and cultural functions of musical Spaniards was to act as conduits through which Filipino musicians could extract information about the most recent

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developments in European and Latin American art forms—especially in terms of sacred music repertory. Filipino ecclesiastical musicians were valued members of colonial society. They held positions in every parish throughout the islands, and they were exempt from tribute and other forms of colonial oppression. Of course, some historians might see service to the Church as a form of oppression in itself, but we should recognize that musical activity was predominantly voluntary on the part of Filipino musicians and was actively used as a means of improving their material circumstances. Training began at a young age, and promising musicians were destined for church posts. By the early eighteenth century, Juan Francisco de San Antonio observed that among the Filipinos “there are good singers, and they have positions with an appropriate salary in all the churches, from the cathedral to the poorest ministry. Thus they are raised from the time they sing treble.”1 Most of the teachers who trained the young musicians were Filipinos themselves, and a great number of early modern accounts (mostly written by Spaniards) attest to the high level of skill attained in the performance of hispanized ecclesiastical music by indigenous ensembles. Some non-Spanish visitors to the islands had different perspectives, however. Le Gentil de la Galaisière, whose opinions of the Spanish colonial Philippines were generally disparaging, took enough notice of music in ecclesiastical institutions of Manila in the 1760s for his musical observations to merit their own place in the index to his Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde on the publication of this travelogue in Paris in 1779–81 (only the most important or curious subjects were indexed). This Frenchman’s view of Filipino musicians in parish churches was fairly disdainful and a far cry from the glowing reports of Spanish missionaries. “For the most part they [the Tagalogs] go around barefoot,” he observed; “even so, they are the masters of music in the churches. The music that they offer is so unique that one could hardly think of anything more wild; one hardly hears anything other than choirs, in which the parts go however they can, whether together or not—it’s all the same. It is a type of rough music [charivari] that pretty much resembles the sort of noise made by a group of drunks coming out from a tavern.”2 This sort of reaction is unsurprising from a Frenchman who was inevitably making comparisons between the formalized (and even strictured) French sacred music of the mid-eighteenth century and the more exuberant musical aesthetic of a tropical Spanish colonial milieu. As we will see later, his description of a Mass with choir and orchestra in a parish church of Cavite made him point out the fact that musical ensembles in most churches—including the director—consisted entirely of Filipino musicians but led him to draw some rather patronizing and paternalistic conclusions about their performance. Of course, all musical ensembles have their “off days,” and this event might have been one of those.

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Frustratingly, records of individual Filipinos within colonial historiography are few, and descriptions of their activities are often quite generalized. Because Filipinos often took Spanish names, their identity is subsumed in a mass of Spanish archival data. It is difficult to make assumptions about ethnicity based on surnames in the early modern Philippines, as it was only in the mid-nineteenth century that legislation was passed to enforce the systematic adoption of Spanish surnames (taken from a published alphabetical list) by Filipinos who had not had a family name for more than four generations.3 Generally, members of the indigenous principalía had retained their dynastic names (such as Magsaisay or Dobali), but mestizos and many converted Filipinos in the metropoles bore Spanish surnames, especially those Filipinos who became lay members of religious congregations. Names with obvious religious symbolism such as Santos (saints), Reyes (kings/Magi), and Cruz (cross) were popular among Christianized Filipinos, but these names obviously also proliferated among the Spanish community. Thus, there is only a handful of individually named musicians in early modern documents who can be identified positively as Filipinos. For this very reason, it is necessary to interpret a wide range of sources contrapuntally to tease out details about Filipino musicians within the cathedrals, convents, churches, and chapels of the capital, as well as further afield. In this chapter, we see how religious institutions in Manila attempted to replicate the practices of Spain and Latin America. From the cathedral to the cloistered environments of religious communities, and from the devotions of confraternities in private spaces to parish churches outside the walled city, music created within the colonial milieu became a veritable symbol of the power of Church and Crown. Of course, the availability of musical resources and the level of sophistication in musical performances required by a religious institution depended on its size, wealth, and social context; this means that historians of music in the Spanish Empire may reap great archival rewards from metropolitan institutions, especially cathedrals. Recently, however, some musicologists have begun to criticize the “cathedral-centered” approach to urban music histories in the Hispanic world, arguing that a focus on the apex of this hierarchical pyramid in fact reinforces hegemonic power structures, particularly in colonial contexts. I agree with this position, and although I have decided to begin with the cathedral, the musicological approach I have adopted here is necessarily decentered, because this institution was lying in ruins or was under (re)construction for a significant portion of the colonial period. Earthquakes and fire made their mark on the city, and Manila Cathedral was a persistent phoenix, rising again and again from the debris of its previous incarnation. Yet it was surrounded by a constellation of convents, beaterios, and parish churches, and these smaller institutions assumed great significance as sites of rich musical activity.

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Manila Cathedral Among the churches, chapels, and convents of Intramuros, the santa iglesia catedral was intended to be the most significant and dominant ecclesiastical institution. In line with standard practices of town planning in Spanish colonies, the cathedral fronted the plaza mayor (main square), flanked on either side by governmental buildings including the casa del cabildo (or ayuntamiento) and the palacio del gobernador. Manila Cathedral, arguably the most important in East and Southeast Asia during the early modern period, has been rebuilt no fewer than seven times, because of the destructive forces of fire, tropical monsoons, earthquakes, and the bombs of 1945. The present edifice is the eighth to be constructed on the same site.4 Although there was not always a complete building to house services, the celebration of the Divine Office and feasts was disrupted but did not cease, even though necessity required that they be performed elsewhere (usually in the chapel of the Santa Mesa de Misericordia, the incomplete cathedral, or some temporary structure). Yet the level of grandeur with which ceremonies were carried out was undoubtedly linked to the state of the cathedral: the total functionality of the building allowed for musical performances and festivities to be enhanced with much greater pomp. The early modern musical history of Manila Cathedral can be traced through three categories of surviving documentary sources: administrative records (including details of financial orders, statutes, decrees, various regulations, and employment of personnel), inventories of musical commodities and records of their construction or importation, and accounts of performances. Although no music dating from before the nineteenth century remains, many other archival sources attest to the apparent opulence of music in the cathedral (when the building was fully serviceable), including printed accounts that describe performances in great detail. The Diocese of Manila, originally suffragan to Mexico, was created by Pope Gregory XIII in 1576 and given by Felipe II into the charge of Bishop Salazar in 1578.5 Following Salazar’s arrival in Manila in 1581, the first cathedral church was built, initially as a temporary edifice made from nipa palm and bamboo. As discussed in an earlier chapter, Salazar brought with him musical instruments and his personal library, which included a collection of music books. Thus, he provided the resources for ecclesiastical music to be performed at a level of considerable complexity and sophistication by the standards of the time. But the cathedral still needed people who could fill roles of responsibility in this respect. In the early days of Manila Cathedral’s existence, the positions of several musical functionaries and their duties were detailed in a document concerning the erection of the institution. One was the chantre (cantor), “for which role no one ought to be presented who is not trained and experienced in music (or at least in plainchant): whose duty shall be to sing at the facistol, to teach and to

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correct and rehearse whatever is necessary or required for the singing, and in all cases by himself and not with the help of another.”6 Another important role was that of the organist, whose duty was “to play on feast days and at other times at the direction of the chapter,” with the annual salary fixed at sixteen pesos.7 Within the first year of the cathedral’s foundation, a choir of men and boys was established, and from 1582 it performed polyphonic music accompanied by recorders, shawms, and organ, under the direction of the chantre Francisco de Morales.8 On June 18, 1583, Salazar wrote to Felipe II that “with the boys of the choir, and others who know music, and with the organs and flutes [recorders] and shawms that I brought with me, the Divine Office is celebrated on feast days as it could be celebrated in another cathedral more ancient and richer than this one.”9 But the temporary cathedral burnt down in a fire later that year, destroying the pipe organs and probably also the music books brought by Salazar in 1581.10 According to William John Summers, the departure of chantre Morales in 1584 and then Salazar in 1591 probably had an adverse effect on the state of ecclesiastical music in Manila.11 This situation was soon remedied, however, for in 1595, the same year the diocese was elevated to an archdiocese, Felipe II sent a real cédula (royal decree) to the ecclesiastical council of Manila, giving an annual allowance of 500 ducats for the salaries of musicians, singers, beadle, and choirboys.12 This financial support would undoubtedly have provided impetus for the improvement and enlargement of the cathedral’s musical forces. Although we have no concrete evidence of the repertory that was sung in Manila Cathedral during the final decades of the sixteenth century, the recent rediscovery of the 1589 musical inventory of Mexico City Cathedral indicates what types of works may have been transmitted across the Pacific. As Javier Marín López has shown, Mexico City Cathedral had an exceptionally large collection of printed and manuscript polyphony, one that dwarfed its peninsular equivalents. It included music by the usual suspects—Tomás Luis de Victoria (1548–1611), Cristóbal de Morales (c. 1500–53), and Francisco Guerrero—but it also featured works by Franco-Netherlandish composers and Mexican maestros.13 Given that every bishop- and archbishop-elect of Manila passed through Mexico City and attended its cathedral en route to the Philippines, it seems likely that musical commodities were shared or transmitted between the two institutions. As we shall see, Archbishop Rojo del Río sent a facistol from Manila to Mexico City in the mid-eighteenth century, and the reciprocal exchange of certain ecclesiastical items during the early modern period was probably a common occurrence, even if it was not frequent. Antonio de Morga described how the second cathedral was “furnished with an organ, lecterns, and all other requisite items,” that it had a choir, and that the Divine Offices were celebrated there with proper solemnity and ceremony.14 This incarnation, built of stone, was destroyed by an earthquake in

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1600. The third cathedral lasted from 1614 to 1645 and included three naves, seven chapels, and ten altars, but was also eventually toppled by great earthquakes. A makeshift structure was hurriedly erected in the main plaza.15 Although it represented a major setback, this sort of destruction (or rapid decay) of cathedrals and other public edifices in the Spanish colonies due to natural disasters was not at all a rare circumstance, especially in territories close to equatorial zones. On the arrival in 1653 of Archbishop Miguel de Poblete (1604–67), the services of the cathedral were relocated to the chapel of the Santa Mesa de Misericordia for the next six years while the building was reconstructed in its fourth version.16 During this time, the position of Ministro y superior de la capilla y música was held first by a man named Luis de la Cruz (whether Spanish or Filipino we do not know), then by a man with a noble Tagalog name: Don Baltazar gat Dobali, from Cainta (Province of Rizal).17 The inclusion of the respectful adjunct “gat” in the latter indicates that this man was a member of the principalía. The archival record of Dobali, dating from 1657, appears to be the earliest evidence of a named musician who is clearly identifiable as indigenous, but no more is known about him, apart from the name of his hometown. The new cathedral was able to function for worship by 1659; Letona noted in his “Descripcion de las Islas Filipinas,” published in 1662 (when the cathedral was still under construction) that “the cathedral has a good choir of singers, also chaplains and many able clerics, and two curas and two sacristans.”18 Archbishops Diego Camacho y Ávila (1652–1712) and Juan Ángel Rodríguez (1687–1742) undertook repairs and restorations of the fourth cathedral building during their reigns (1697–1705 and 1736–42, respectively). Rodríguez, who arrived in the islands in 1736, was responsible for many major projects, including the casting of fifteen large bells for the cathedral, the making of choirbooks, and the reform of feasts and processions.19 One of his most significant acts was the revitalization of cathedral music, which culminated in the foundation of a school for trebles, as we shall see. During the eighteenth century, musical life in the cathedral began to be more regular and systematic than it had been in the seventeenth century. An ecclesiastical survey of the islands carried out in 1742 codified the structure and salaries of cathedral personnel. Posts with musical involvement included the chantre and the maestro de ceremonias, who had annual stipends of 500 pesos and 200 pesos, respectively.20 The latter post had been newly established in the cathedral, on February 22, 1734,21 and its incumbent was responsible principally for supervising large events, especially processions. Five hundred silver ducats were reserved annually for the payment of the pertiguero (beadle), musicians, “and other servants.”22 The term “musicians” here most likely refers to singers and instrumentalists who were hired for the celebration of major feasts. Because the post of organist is not mentioned in this document, his salary may also have been drawn from this particular amount of money. In 1740, one of

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the few organists listed by name in the “Libro de gobierno” was Faustino Magsaisay, whose surname is Tagalog.23 Archbishop Pedro de la Santísima Trinidad Martínez de Arizala (1690– 1755), who arrived in 1747, decided to rebuild the cathedral altogether. The fifth edifice was designed by “a Florentine architect and engineer,” Giovanni Uguccioni (a missionary sent east from Rome by the Sacra Congregatio de Propaganda Fide), who passed by Manila in late 1750. Resembling the Roman church of Il Gesù in its design and decoration, the cathedral was inaugurated in 1760 but not completely finished until 1781.24 Arguably the grandest cathedral built in the early modern Philippines, it was depicted in 1792 by Fernando Brambila (figure 6.1). This was also the most enduring version of the cathedral; it lasted until it was seriously damaged by an earthquake in 1852.25 It would be expected that such an edifice would have housed one or more organs that were commensurate with its grandeur. According to Esteban Rojas y Melo, the obrero mayor in charge of building the fifth cathedral, “an expert master [organbuilder], and the only one in the islands,” had begun the construction of an organ “worthy of a cathedral” in 1752, and by that stage it had already cost 700 pesos.26 It probably incurred further costs by the time of

figure 6.1. Fernando Brambila, Vista de la catedral i plaza de Manila (1792). Museo Naval. Madrid.

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the cathedral’s inauguration, but no relevant documentation has yet been found. In fact, the only extant early modern inventory of the cathedral, which dates from 1761, lists just “a small organ that currently serves the church” in the category of miscellaneous items.27 It is most likely that this entry refers to a small portative organ that could be moved around the building and used by the choir. The absence of a large, main organ from this inventory is probably due to its installation in a fixed position. Equally, the reference to this small instrument “currently serving the church” could indicate that the larger instrument (apparently built in the 1750s) was temporarily out of order or still under construction. A grand organ was certainly built in this cathedral, as other documentation attests to its existence, but it seems that the instrument was under construction for the larger part of the decade: in his eulogy for the funeral of Archbishop Rojo del Río, celebrated on June 7, 1764, Ignacio de Salamanca states that the deceased had paid for the “construction of that big Organ” and other parts of the cathedral.28 Whatever happened in the second half of the eighteenth century, we do know that from 1802 to 1806 Diego Cera built a new organ for this institution.29 Archbishop Rojo del Río also commissioned the making of a number of facistoles, one of which he sent as a gift to Mexico City Cathedral.30 The 1761 inventory also lists “Missales y Libros de Choro,” among which feature thirteen books of music. Although few clues to their contents are evident, there were clearly six large manuscript choirbooks: two contained music for Prime and Vespers, respectively, and the remaining four contained music for the Offices of Corpus Christi, Holy Trinity, the Office of the Virgin, Christmas, the Feast of Saint Peter, and the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. There were also three printed choirbooks, probably imported from Spain, which were housed in the colegio de tiples; these were a Psalter, an Antiphonary, and a Gradual. Lastly, the collection was complemented by two pasionarios, a Gradual, another Psalter, and an Office for Palm Sunday.31 It is likely that most of the manuscript choirbooks were those that had been commissioned by Archbishop Rodríguez (as discussed later). Following the arrival of Archbishop Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina, many reforms were made to the governance of the cathedral. His long reign (1767– 87) saw the expulsion of the Jesuits from the islands in 1768, the indigenization of the secular clergy and their installation in many parishes formerly held by religious orders, and the celebration of the Provincial Council of Manila in 1771. These reforms also resulted in the production of a sizable document titled “Estatutos, y reglas consuetas de la Santa Metropolitana Yglesia de Manila,” a normative source that details the celebration of the Divine Office and Mass, liturgical ceremonies including funeral rites and the administration of the sacraments, and the official roles and duties of functionaries in the cathedral.32 Of particular interest to the musicologist are the chapters detailing the duties of the chantre, cantores, and organista. In the late eighteenth century, these

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positions had developed into roles with quite different responsibilities from those that had been established two centuries previously. The chantre was required to be well instructed in music (plainchant and polyphony), and to give the pitch of everything sung within the choir and in processions. He was to appoint an ecclesiastic talented in music as sochantre (succentor), who would act as an assistant and deputy when necessary. The chantre and sochantre were collectively responsible for the musicians of the capilla de música, and were required to formulate rosters for the daily singing of the Divine Office, as well as to direct and instruct the singing of the Passion, Lamentations, and lessons and prophecies during Holy Week. The chantre was also responsible for taking care of the choirbooks.33 The cantores had to be in attendance for sung Masses (misas cantadas), Vespers, and Matins, and were required to be familiar with plainchant (canto llano or canto gregoriano), measured or figured plainchant (canto llano figurado), and polyphony (canto de órgano). These three styles of singing had their respective directors: the first was led by the sochantre (who would give the pitch of Psalms, introits, and responsories), the second by the maestro mayor de capilla, and the third by the maestro de capilla, who was in charge of the entire ensemble. 34 The organist was required to play for major Masses and holy days. The rulings dictated that the organ must never begin hymns, the Magnificat, or Nunc dimittis; nor the Eucharistic motets Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel (this reference could equally refer to the canticle of Zechariah, Luke 1:68–79), Tantum ergo Sacramentum, and Crux ave spes unica; nor the Gloria Patri or Kyrie. Rather, these were to be started by the capilla de música. The practice of alternatim was to be avoided in the Gloria and Creed, although the organ was permitted to accompany the musical ensemble (it is likely that this ruling also applied to the rest of the Ordinary of the Mass).35 All these specifications appear to have been aligned to an ideal model of practice in Spanish cathedrals; however, it remains unclear whether there were always sufficient musical resources to allow in Manila the exact emulation of these rituals. The “Estatutos, y reglas” also refer to the control of villancico practice in the cathedral. Chapter 8 in this document (“Methodo que se ha de guardar en dichos Maytines”) includes descriptions of the division of duties for the singing of lessons in Matins. It states that although the practice of singing villancicos immediately after the lessons had been introduced into the cathedral only a short time previously (the date is not specified), these could not begin until the end of the responsory, which would be proclaimed in a loud voice by one of the chaplains “so that everyone hears it.” A further stipulation was that these villancicos were only permitted on Christmas Eve to contribute to the “solemnity and universal rejoicing.” On other days with sung Matins, the responsory would be performed by the choir in Gregorian chant.36 It is likely that these statutes and rulings remained applicable until the nineteenth century, although

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they may have been modified periodically whenever changes to the structure of the archdiocese and Roman ritual took place. The fifth cathedral survived more or less intact until 1852, when an earthquake damaged it so severely that a new construction was deemed necessary. However, the sixth cathedral, which was inaugurated in 1858, lasted only five years: the dome collapsed in a sudden earthquake on June 3, 1863, during the celebration of Vespers for the feast of Corpus Christi; among the many victims crushed beneath the rubble were three cantores and four tiples.37 The seventh cathedral was completed by 1879 and lasted until its destruction by bombing in 1945; the eighth cathedral stands today. The story of this institution’s musical life seems patchy at present, but further archival research in Manila, Spain, Mexico, and Rome may reveal much more about music in the cathedral in its early modern and successive incarnations.

The Colegio de Niños Tiples de la Santa Iglesia Catedral Boys sang in the cathedral choir from the very foundation of the institution by Bishop Salazar. These boys were probably sons of Spaniards, but it is likely that Filipino boys (most likely the sons of nobles) soon entered the ensemble. As we saw in a previous chapter, the musical skills of Filipino tiplecillos were admired by Spanish aristocrat Valenzuela, and he took a group of them to Mexico in the late seventeenth century. It seems that plans were sometimes made to “export” a small number of tiples from Mexico to the Philippines as well: Marín López has shown that two seises (a term that refers to choirboys38) from Mexico City Cathedral, named Miguel and José Ramírez, were ordered to accompany the archbishop-elect, Carlos Bermúdez de Castro (1678–1729), to the Philippines in 1722. But although Bermúdez de Castro was presented in Mexico as archbishop of Manila that same year, he was only consecrated in 1725, and then had to wait three more years for a ship to the Philippines, finally taking possession of his archdiocese in August 1728. Whether the two boys (presumably teenagers by this stage) actually accompanied the archbishop to Manila in 1728 is unknown.39 We can assume that with all the fluctuations in cathedral organization, and the constant deterioration and restoration of the building itself, the boys’ choir was fairly disorganized throughout the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, apart from brief periods when individual maestros whipped it (probably literally) into shape. In a letter to the king written in 1738, shortly after his arrival in Manila, Archbishop Rodríguez claimed that he had discovered cathedral music to be in a deplorable state. I established Gregorian chant in the cathedral for the Office and Mass, which was neither known nor used. There was not a lectern

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nor a choirbook, a state of affairs that forced me to teach [liturgical music] privately in my house. . . . I have already had a good lectern made, appropriate for the choirbooks, which are [also] being made. Four of these have already been made at my own cost. . . . A significant number of cantorcitos [literally “little singers,” or trebles], or seises, have been added to the choir, and they are dressed in the style of the cathedrals in Spain. . . . These trebles, who are most skillful, these Filipinos instructed in polyphony[,] also serve for the perfection of the [capilla de] musica [sic].40 Although Rodríguez, like most colonial officials, probably exaggerated to substantiate his pleas for support, this letter likely reflected the vicissitudes of the colonial situation quite aptly. A year later, he wrote that because on his arrival he had found no book in the choir other than an old torn Gradual, he had ordered sixteen choirbooks to be made, at a cost of 670 pesos. These must have been produced in local scriptoria (probably within the convents of Intramuros), and their contents were probably copied from or based on Spanish or Mexican models. Archbishop Rodríguez boasted of their luxuriousness, stating that they could shine in the richest cathedral of Spain “without embarrassment.”41 But choirbooks by themselves were of little use; the archbishop needed singers to transform script into sound. After further petitions, and having taught music himself since 1737, Rodríguez formally founded a school for trebles, the Colegio de Niños Tiples de la Santa Iglesia Catedral, in June 1739.42 In a letter to Felipe V (1683–1746), he described the reason for his actions, and listed the frustrations he encountered in reinstituting the practice of plainchant (canto llano) in the cathedral. I took the license of maintaining eighteen boys, who, instructed [in music], attend the choir at all the Hours [of the Divine Office], six by six with long habits and surplices. Together they serve as trebles for the [capilla de] música. I have experimented with this to very good effect, for although some prebendaries are [still] missing, the Hours will be said with more decency and volume so that they will be able to be heard even outside the church, whereas beforehand they could not even be heard inside the church. And together with this I have introduced plainchant—which has never been practiced here—to the clergy. It is sung by all the Filipinos, [who] cause an intolerable disarray, as they are badly instructed in the rules of music, and are overall ignorant of them, and of Latin.43 Rodríguez was mistaken in writing that plainchant had “never been practiced” in Manila, but perhaps there was a hiatus in its use at the time of his arrival. The following part of this letter suggests that before the archbishop made a final decision on the number of tiples, there were already many Filipino singers

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in the cathedral. They came dressed in Filipino style, and in Rodríguez’s eyes they made for “a sorry sight.” He gradually replaced these singers by the eighteen tiples “dressed in the style of Spain.”44 The wearing of the uniform may have acted as a requirement for admission to the cathedral’s capilla and a way of weeding out Filipino singers not wanted by Rodríguez. If this is the case, then it appears that indigenous musicians in ecclesiastical institutions had to yield to those who wielded power. The tiples were first instructed in the house of Isidoro Arévalo, precentor of the cathedral chapter, but were subsequently moved into the archbishop’s palace in 1742.45 The real cédula formalizing the establishment of the Colegio de Niños Tiples was signed at Aranjuéz on April 26, 1742.46 An obra pía (“pious work,” meaning a financial bequest) with a principal of 3,972 pesos was established for the maintenance of eighteen seises, and included a monthly allowance of rice.47 However, Rodríguez died on June 24, 1742, not long after the cédula had been signed in Spain but before this news of the royal approval arrived in the Philippines.48 The following decade, Juan de la Fuente Yepes (d. 1757), bishop of Nueva Segovia, bequeathed houses and money to the Colegio.49 The wording of Rodríguez’s letter cited above is slightly ambiguous, but it is clear that tiples of Filipino parentage were included in the Colegio de Niños Tiples from the date of its foundation. They were accepted alongside Spaniards, but other racial strictures were set in place. In his historical account of c. 1946, Gutiérrez y Maríveles claimed that “according to the will of Archbishop Rodriguez this College was opened to receive Spanish, Mestizo and pure Filipino boys, provided they are good for the choir service. Negro or mestizo negro boys were excluded.”50 We do not know the original ethnic make-up of this group of trebles; the only record of identities that has been preserved from the eighteenth century is a listing of the names of five tiples from the original intake, reproduced by Gutiérrez y Maríveles: “Cristobal Damaso, Clau[di]o Severo, Bartolome de los Santos, Pedro de los Reyes, Juan de la Cruz.”51 It is impossible to determine the ethnicity of these boys from their names alone, but it is likely that a significant proportion of the original eighteen boys was indigenous or mestizo, as Rodríguez’s letter suggests. Following the foundation of the colegio, six tiples were required to attend the cathedral daily, and “for this purpose they were divided into [three] groups. The boys attended processions and solemn functions performed by the Cathedral Chapter,” and were provided with red silk cassocks and white linen surplices as uniforms.52 The foundation of this Colegio de Niños Tiples was one of the most important developments for music in the cathedral and has been cited by a number of histories of Manila and the Philippines as being of seminal importance in the growth of music schools in the country.53 The Colegio operated as a center of music education in Manila for over 200 years, until the destruction of Intramuros in 1945. However, there have been no detailed studies of the institution as it existed in the second half of the eighteenth century. One possible

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reason for this lacuna is that it flowered in the following century, taking on characteristics similar to conservatories in continental Europe. But it was still definitely geared toward ecclesiastical music, leading Rizal to comment on the absence of conservatories in the Philippines, as we saw in a previous chapter. A short account of the “Boys’ Singing School,” dating from 1901, proffers a working picture of the Colegio at the end of the Spanish colonial period, describing the nineteenth-century methods (treatises) used in the musical instruction of the boys, following the curriculum of the Conservatorio de Madrid, including Hilarión Eslava (1807–78) for singing and harmony, José Aranguren de Aviñarro (1812–1903) for piano, Román Jimeno Ibáñez (1799/1800–74) for organ, Delphin Alard (1815–88) for violin, and Antonio Romero y Andía (1815–85) for vocalization (solmization).54 It also maintains that the school “has subsisted and still subsists with the same property from the pious bequest of its foundation.”55 Although the names of some maestrescuelas (“schoolmasters,” really teachers of theology) can be gleaned from late eighteenth-century records, there is no evidence for the substance of the curriculum between the foundation of the school in 1742 and the late nineteenth century, for the theory course of Eslava and other pedagogic methods were probably only employed in the final few decades of the nineteenth century, as Maceda has pointed out.56 The survival of relevant archival data has allowed us to sketch the foundation story of a significant center of European musical training in early modern Asia, established by an archbishop of Manila with funding from Spain. What began as a humble enterprise flourished into a successful music school in the nineteenth century. It is important to remember, however, that the cathedral, though a principal player, was not the only institution that fostered rigorously codified music-making or trained tiples for musical service in the church. The male religious orders made some of the most prominent contributions to musical life within Manila, and the rich and diverse documentation of their musical activities serves to reveal a colorful picture of music within and beyond the cloisters of their institutions.

Institutions for Men and Boys The seminal role of convents and monasteries in the musical lives of cities of the early modern Hispanic world has recently become a fruitful area of study. Far from being completely isolated, cloistered communities, it is clear that members of these institutions were actively involved in musical performance, pedagogy, and composition. In early modern Manila, the constant need for their interaction with the wider metropolitan community for such purposes as the acquisition, fabrication, and maintenance of musical commodities (such as instruments and sheet music), the employment of outside musicians for major

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performances, and participation in civic celebrations all positioned convents as primary centers of music-making and music education. Moreover, their links with other institutional nodes in the worldwide networks of the various religious orders provided the means by which currency in the art form and the academic discipline of music could be sustained. The Augustinian, Dominican, Franciscan, and Recollect orders were bound to their daily duties of the Divine Office. (The Society of Jesus was not a religious order in the sense of the other mendicant congregations present in Manila—its members did not sing daily in choir, nor did it retain a “convent” or “monastery” as such—thus the musical lives of Jesuits are discussed later, along with those of musicians in Manila’s other churches and chapels.) The documentation surviving from Manila is not sufficiently consistent to allow the detailed reconstruction of the role of music in locally specific liturgical practices. But because liturgy in Manila did not deviate significantly from patterns and traditions established in Spain and Latin America, what is of more interest here is a consideration of how the musical prowess of members of religious orders permeated the fabric of civic society. In this sense, musicians from these communities appear to have made a tangible contribution through performances for important feasts in their own churches and especially by their participation in public festivities, whether by means of composition, pedagogic dissemination, or practical music making. Convents in the Philippine colonial milieu—and we should note that in the Hispanic world the use of the term convento (convent) usually refers to an institution for men—differed markedly from their European counterparts. The “mother houses” in Manila sought to act primarily as an administrative base for the work of each religious order throughout the islands. They also provided a sanctuary where newly arrived religious could acclimatize and study the languages and cultural traditions of different Filipino groups before being dispatched to missions in the provinces—but relatively few religious were in residence at any one time.57 The Augustinian Convento de San Pablo (more commonly called Convento de San Agustín), the Franciscan Convento de San Francisco, the Dominican Convento de Santo Domingo, the Recollect Convento de San Nicolás de Tolentino, and the Convento de San Juan de Dios with its hospital were all within the walled city, a short walking (or processional) distance from the cathedral, and they housed a considerable number of skilled musicians. A small number of extant records identify the musicians (some of whom were Filipinos) who held posts including organist, chapelmaster (maestro de capilla), vicar choral (vicario del coro, more or less equivalent to the role of the chapelmaster), and the makers of musical instruments and choirbooks (cantorales) in convents of Manila. Associated institutions such as colegios also benefited from musical interaction with conventual musicians. Several Augustinians, in particular, had a musical influence that spread far beyond the walls of San Pablo. The surviving documentation concerning these

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musicians is the most detailed of any of the religious orders and congregations in early modern Manila. This is due primarily to the biographical information contained in the work of Agustín María de Castro (Pedro Andrés de Castro y Amuedo), whom Retana dubbed “the greatest bibliographer of the Philippines.”58 Castro’s necrological work is a valuable font of biographical and bibliographical data, and it has been a source for many subsequent studies on the work of the Augustinian order in the Philippines. It reveals, for instance, that many of the most renowned Augustinian musicians who went to the Philippines had originally been based at the Convento de San Felipe el Real in Madrid, where they had professed and/or had been coristas. One of these musicians was the “Augustinian Orpheus” Lorenzo Castelló, who, as mentioned in an earlier chapter, spent many years in the Visayas, teaching music and administering the sacraments, before returning to Manila. In 1732 he directed sumptuous vocal and instrumental performances for the festivities surrounding the inauguration of the church and convent of San Juan de Dios. Hospitaler Juan Manuel Maldonado de Puga describes how the octavario (the seventh day after the initial feast, or an eight-day period beginning with the feast) of these celebrations was enhanced by the coordination of multiple ensembles in the city (“Maestros, y demàs Ministriles”) “to make up a sumptuous choir” for Vespers under Castelló’s direction.59 This account demonstrates a high level of cooperation and interconventual participation among the religious orders of Manila. Given that the cathedral was periodically out of action due to natural disasters, probably with dire implications for its capilla de música, it appears that the musicians from convents rose to a position of great prominence in the city, especially in terms of their direction of public musical performances for celebratory occasions. Castro writes that Castelló also “reformed and added to all the choirbooks” in the convent of Manila; having “rare ability as a composer,” he left six volumes of works: two volumes “in folio” of Misas clásicas, another two of Vespers settings and “various processions,” and two “big volumes” of villancicos and arias.60 Two manuscript treatises, one on plainchant and another on polyphony, have also been attributed to Castelló.61 However, none of these works have yet been located, and they probably do not survive. Another illustrious Augustinian musician to come to the islands was Juan Bolívar (1708–54), who had been the vicar choral (vicario del coro) at Madrid’s San Felipe el Real for eighteen years. From his original base in Madrid, he was solicited by Toledo Cathedral for a permanent position as a singer, being offered an annual salary of 600 pesos and licenses from Rome; Mexico City Cathedral made him a similar offer. Instead, he traveled to Manila, arriving in 1739, and he soon became renowned for his exquisite ability in singing and his “incomparable vocal timbre,” with the result that many groups of people traveled large distances to hear him. Apparently a proficient player of the organ, harp, violin, recorder, and many other instruments, he was also a competent composer; his polyphonic villancicos and settings of the Gloria and Creed, in “three folio

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volumes” (also lost), were “kept in the sacristy” of the Augustinian convent. His influence spread far beyond Manila, for at the age of thirty-three he was sent to the Augustinian missions on the Visayan island of Panay, where “almost all of the [indigenous] maestros de capilla . . . were his disciples.”62 Besides Castelló and Bolívar, many other prominent instrumentalists, singers, and choirmasters are mentioned by biographers of the Augustinian order, and these men were responsible for the production of multiple cantorales and treatises on music.63 Most of the musicians identified in the chronicles originally came from Spain, but several were born in the Americas.64 Information on musicians from the Augustinian order in Manila thus illustrates their musical activities within and outside the walls of their convents, indicating the extent to which they interacted with the local population as performers and pedagogues. Some of them were evidently well-respected musicians in Spain and the Americas, yet, like Bolívar, they prioritized their religious calling and mission to the Philippines over secure positions at wealthy institutions in major Spanish cities. In this respect, their vocational choices emphasize the primacy of the religious enterprise in the most distant colony of the Spanish Empire. It is also worth noting that a probable reason the most proficient European musicians in early modern Asia were predominantly those from religious orders and congregations was that religious institutions provided stable sociocultural and economic contexts in which these men and women could practice their art. Although it is acknowledged that numerous Filipino musicians were active in the convents of Manila during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, so far only two have been identified by name in chronicles; both of them were hermanos legos (lay brothers) of the Augustinian order. One, Marcelo de San Agustín (d. 1697), who was of noble birth, was praised by famous chronicler Gaspar de San Agustín in this way: We have a brother in religion, called Brother Marcelo de San Agustín, native to this city, who could be the crown[ing glory] of the Tagalogs, for his rare virtue, and for the good service he has rendered to the Convent of Manila, in various capacities, all those for which God gave him ability. For he is the most dextrous organist known among the Filipinos, who are very skillful in playing instruments; he is a composer, and master of the singers, and minor sacristan, and has made and written many choirbooks, and above all, he is a great servant of God.65 This was high praise indeed, coming as it did from an Augustinian who later wrote a long diatribe about the supposed “indolence” of the Filipino population.66 But although the biographical account of Marcelo has been noted by a number of historians of Filipino music as an example of a hispanized ecclesiastical musician, no notice has been taken of the importance of subsequent comments made

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by Gaspar de San Agustín, who must have known his subject personally. Gaspar elaborated that Marcelo’s “parents were nobles, and on the site where the church and sacristy of the [Augustinian] Convent of Manila are presently situated, stood houses and lands of his grandfather, a reason that motivated him to take up the Habit.”67 The significance of this link cannot be emphasized enough: music provided the means by which Marcelo could continue to assert his familial authority on his ancestral lands within the structure of the colonial regime. Given the racial strictures on entry to the religious orders, there was no other way Marcelo could rise to prominence within this institution.68 Through his direction of the Augustinian coro (and possibly also the capilla de música), he regained some element of control over the very institution that had usurped his dynastic seat. If we are to trace his ancestry back some further generations, we can see an even more remarkable lineage: as Santiago has shown, Marcelo de San Agustín was in fact a direct descendant (a great-great-grandson) of none other than Rajah Soliman, the ruler of the original settlement of Maynilad, who had been unseated by Legazpi in 1571.69 The distinction of Marcelo as the best organist “among the Filipinos” suggests that a large number of indigenous instrumentalists were employed in this capacity. Although many were surely local, some ecclesiastical musicians in the city came from further afield. For example, Juan Alfaro, the other named Filipino musician, was from Tanauan on the Visayan island of Leyte; he professed as a lay brother in the Convento de San Pablo on September 15, 1695, and held the post of organist there for twenty years.70 He would have known—and was possibly taught by—Marcelo de San Agustín. Whereas musicians associated with the Augustinian order are relatively well documented, few Dominican musicians are mentioned by name in early modern chronicles and archives of their Provincia del Santísimo Rosario. An exception can be found in the description of Francisco de la Maza (d. 1703), who was a “sculptor, painter, and musician all at once.”71 According to Domingo Collantes (d. 1808), Maza taught the youths of his house in a Dominican mission in the Province of Pangasinan; “some to paint, others to sculpt, and others to play various musical instruments, all of which were directed towards the worship of God, and the adornment of His temples.”72 Manila’s Convento de Santo Domingo boasted at least two organs in the mid-eighteenth century; these were mentioned in 1742 by Diego Saenz (1694–1742), the convent’s prior at that time: “such [was] the tuneful consonance, and sweet melody of various musical instruments; especially the great Organ of the two, contained in our Choir, [which is] the admiration of all who know what it cost, and what it is!”73 The “great organ” must have been acquired shortly before the time of Saenz’s writing, although whether it was constructed locally or imported from Mexico or Spain is impossible to extrapolate. The confraternity of Nuestra Señora del Rosario also had its own organ in the Dominican church (as we shall see later), and this was probably housed in the Capilla del Rosario. In Santo Domingo, there appears to have been a rich tradition of singing polyphonic Masses on

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major feast days, as we know from a beautifully preserved volume dating from 1741 that sets out all the ceremonies “pertaining to the Divine Cult.”74 As well as detailing the convent’s own performance practices, it describes how the convent’s singers would sometimes be augmented by those from elsewhere in the city, for instance on the feast of Saint Mark, when the cabildo would bring its own cantores for the singing of Mass, and even its own choirbooks.75 The Dominicans in Manila played an important role as educators, teaching at levels that ranged from the most elementary rudiments of literacy to the most complex parts of standard European university curricula. The Colegio de San Juan de Letrán, which had originally been founded as an orphanage (for Spanish boys) in 1630, was one of the principal primary schools of the Dominicans; it was widely considered to be a preparatory school for the Dominican University of Santo Tomás.76 Music was included in its curriculum, as Fernández Navarrete reported in 1675: Some other Matters of less moment concerning Manila had like to have slip’d me, but it is not fit they should be forgot. One is a College call’d of the Children of S. John Lateran; it was founded by a LayBrother of my Order, his name B. James of S. Mary: In my time it had once above 200 Boys, to the great benefit of the Islands. His way of governing them was inimitable, he taught them to read, write, Grammar and Musick; for Philosophy and Divinity they came to our College [the University of Santo Tomás]. He cloth’d them twice a Year, taught them their Christian Doctrine in the morning before Breakfast; they said the third part of the Rosary divided into two Choirs, another third at noon, and the other third in the evening, with the Salve and Litanies of our Lady. . . . From thence some went to be Soldiers, some Clergymen; others into the Religious Orders of S. Dominick, S. Francis, and S. Augustin. So that it was a nursery of Spiritual and Temporal Soldiers. . . . An Heroick Undertaking!77 Although this school was originally intended for the education of Spanish boys, mestizos and some aristocratic Filipinos were also admitted.78 Little other information has emerged concerning the musical life of San Juan de Letrán or processes of music education there before the ninteenth century. However, given that Fernández Navarrete claims the boys were taught “Philosophy and Divinity” at the University of Santo Tomás, it seems possible that they also received some training in music theory there.

Institutions for Women and Girls In early modern Manila, there were several institutions intended specifically for the religious vocation or education of women and girls. These included a

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nunnery (the Real Monasterio de Santa Clara), a number of institutions called beaterios, and several colegios.79 Although Santa Clara was officially open only to Spanish women and Spanish mestizas, the beaterios were intended primarily for women of Asian parentage who wished to live as a religious community, and many of these institutions were established in Manila from the late seventeenth century onward. Their founders were pious Filipino or mestiza women who, sometimes together with Spanish (or criolla) laywomen, petitioned the respective religious orders for approval. In terms of colegios for girls, the foremost were those of Santa Potenciana, founded in 1589 for daughters of Spanish officers, and Santa Isabel, founded by the Hermandad de la Santa Mesa de Misericordia, for the education and housing of Spanish girls.80 Within the Southeast Asian region, Manila figured prominently as a metropolis where there was a considerable number of institutions in which women could devote themselves to spiritual lives. The Monasterio de Santa Clara was founded at the instigation of Jerónima de la Asunción, also known as Jerónima de la Fuente (1555–1630), a Poor Clare from Toledo.81 In 1620, she sailed from Spain with nine sisters (one of whom died at sea), and they arrived at the Philippines the following year. They made an official entry to Intramuros on August 5, where they were greeted by “nine angelic choirs” symbolizing the nine nuns. A wealthy lady, Doña Ana de Vera, offered them land in Sampaloc, Extramuros, and in 1622 a monastery was constructed, but this building was short-lived due to the earthquakes of 1645 and 1658. The nuns were transferred to Intramuros, where a new monastery was established, and from this time until the end of World War II, they lived in the Real Monasterio de Santa Clara—with the exception of the British occupation of 1762–64, when they were relocated to the Franciscan convent of Santa Ana de Sapa.82 In 1662, Bartolomé de Letona published in Mexico the writings of Sor Jerónima as three books (bound as one), prefacing them with a description of Manila.83 He devoted book I to a biography of this foundress of Santa Clara; books II and III reproduce Sor Jerónima’s teachings, meditations (titled Oracion), and annotations of the rule and constitutions of the Poor Clares. Within her Oracion, Sor Jerónima quotes a poem by Saint Teresa de Ávila, Vuestra soy, para vos nací (the only poetry contained within her writings, as published by Letona), although she does not acknowledge the authorship of the famous Carmelite nun.84 Sor Jerónima, who clearly admired Saint Teresa, evidently found this poem a source of great religious inspiration. The authorship of Vuestra soy was later (mistakenly) attributed to Sor Jerónima in a musical setting by an anonymous composer in Manila, for which Letona’s publication was used as the source of the text (both Letona’s name and the correct folio number are cited).85 Although little documentation of early modern musical practice in Santa Clara has survived, it is known that in the late seventeenth century Filipino craftsman Alonso of Camarines constructed an organ that was installed in the

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Monasterio.86 It is probable that one of the sisters held the post of organista. Few directives for musical practice are included in a combined volume of the regla and constituciones for this institution, published in 1729. They do, however, detail the responsibilities for the vicaria del coro, who “must take great care that the Divine Office is sung and prayed with much devotion, saying it with all due unhurriedness, everyone beginning and ending together at the same time, so that there is uniformity, and consonance, taking great care, in assisting the nuns in what is sung and prayed.”87 More evidence for music in Santa Clara exists for the nineteenth century: María Concepción Echevarría Carril and María Alexandra Gil Iñigo Chua have independently examined the four choirbooks printed by the monastery annually from 1871 to 1874. These books contain “music for the Office of the Dead (Oficio de Difuntos), . . . music for the mass, processions and benedictions (Misas Clasicas, processiones y benediciones), . . . music for the Divine Office such as Vespers and Matins (Visperas y Matines), and . . . miscellaneous music such as villancicos, Salve Reginas, Motetes, Gozos, the Miserere, Antiphons and others.”88 Much of the notation was mensural with square and diamond noteheads; these publications were disseminated throughout the island and were used in parish churches as far afield as the island of Bohol.89 It is possible that this collection of canto llano, canto llano figurado, and canto de órgano developed from the early modern musical traditions of the monastery, but at this stage no more details are known. Although the music of the Poor Clares appears to have been performed by Filipinos in parish churches throughout the archipelago by the late nineteenth century, the atmosphere of the monastery itself long remained almost exclusively Spanish. The regulations of the early eighteenth century stipulated strict racial requirements for the religiosas del coro in Santa Clara: Inasmuch as the Mother Founders bore witness of the most wicked inconveniences that can originate in the Community from giving the habit of the religiosa del coro to pure Filipinas, and since the foundation [of the monastery] until the present [they] have practiced the non-admittance [of Filipinas] to the Choir, unless they [the Filipinas] are daughters of Spanish fathers, or mothers; we order that the Provincial Minister should not give license, nor should the Mother Abbess admit under any pretext a pure Filipina to be a choir-novice, even if she should be of aristocratic birth.90 Still, many native women petitioned the Monasterio de Santa Clara asking for entry to its cloisters: Santiago has shown that in 1628 Doña María Úray (“úray” signifying “lady rajah”) wrote asking to take up the veil or even to become a “slave” in the monastery but was twice rejected.91 In 1631 or 1632, the first Filipina nun, a Kapampangan woman named Sor Martha de San Bernardo (c. 1605–50), was allowed to enter the monastery and take the veil. Two more Kapampangan women, Sor Madalena de la Concepcion (c. 1610–85) and Sor

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Juana de Sanct Anttonio (1600–71), were admitted in the 1630s. But they were probably classed as monjas legas, or lay nuns, who were required to carry out menial tasks, and they were exceptions, for no other indigenous women were allowed to enter Santa Clara until the 1880s.92 It seems that these sorts of petitions and exceptions advanced the cause for religious institutions to be founded for native women. Although Sor Jerónima’s initial attempt to make such a foundation had been frustrated by bureaucracy, success came by the end of the seventeenth century. Around this time, groups of Filipinas, mestizas, and some criollas (who had hesitated to enter Santa Clara but who nevertheless followed the life of a Tertiary) met in community for prayer and reflection; they gradually began, in the words of Nick Joaquin (1917–2004), “to emulate the strict observance of a formal nunnery. The members went to church as a group, rose in the night to sing in chorus the matins of the Virgin, fasted as one, [and] experimented together in the forms of mental prayer.”93 Eventually the various groups were recognized and formalized as beaterios. By the end of the eighteenth century, there were five significant institutions of this type within and around Manila, each attached to a major religious congregation. These were Santa Catalina de Sena (attached to the Dominican order), San Sebastian de Calumpang (Recollects), that of the Compañía (Jesuits), Santa Rita de Pasig (Recollects), and Santa Rosa de Lima (Dominicans).94 The beaterios were also responsible for the education of young girls, and some developed into colegios that were prominent in music teaching during the nineteenth century. Musical traditions of beaterios probably imitated those of Santa Clara to some degree. Dominican historian Vicente de Salazar wrote in 1742 that the beatas of Santa Catalina “know plainchant and music very well, and certainly appear to be a choir of angels, celebrating all these Offices with great devotion.”95 He detailed their daily schedule: In the morning at five o’clock, they enter Choir, where they have half an hour of mental prayer, and afterwards they pray Prime and Terce of the Officio parvo [Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary], and hear Mass. At half past ten they pray Sext and None, and also a part of the Rosary. At two o’clock they return to pray again, together with Vespers, and again at five o’clock after Compline, having sung the Salve beforehand, and pray also the Litany of Our Lady, with some other preces and prayers. At seven o’clock in the evening they pray Matins, and have another half-hour of mental prayer. As they already have the concession of the King our Lord to celebrate the Divine Office, on some days of solemnity they sing Mass, and others also Vespers and Matins, conforming to the hierarchy of the festivities.96 Music thus formed a significant part of all beatas’ devotional lives, from the time of their entry to a beaterio and throughout their lives as religious devotees.97

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Devotional songs in indigenous idioms probably figured among the musical practices of the beatas, although in 1756 Governor Arandía banned them from speaking Tagalog or using Tagalog prayer books in the beaterios.98 This kind of ruling, although it may simply have been ignored, may have discouraged the singing of traditional songs—even the singing of Tagalog texts to hispanized music—and boosted the practice of singing devotional songs in Spanish, but it is impossible to know to what extent this ban may have had effect in such a private environment as a beaterio. Some beaterios formulated strict sets of rules that governed the use of music. For instance, the constitutions of the Jesuit beaterio, which date from 1726 (and were probably composed in a large part by the Jesuit spiritual directors of the beatas), mandated the performance of a misa cantada on Saturdays but forbade the entry of “music or dancers into the house or the garden in order for sisters to play instruments, to sing, or to dance.”99 Strict social and religious counterpoint depended on and functioned by means of the imposition of these sorts of rules by the hegemonic power structure onto the multiple voices of colonial society, especially onto communities of people whose race and sex rendered them doubly marginalized. But the Filipina beatas had challenged racial discrimination through their persistence and their eventual recognition by colonial authorities, and in this sense they presented a very visible and audible counterpoint to the Spanish nuns.

Chapels and Parish Churches Besides the churches and chapels that were linked directly to convents and the Clarisse monastery, many others maintained elaborate musical traditions. Among the prominent chapels within the city walls were those of the Venerable Orden Tercera de San Francisco and the Hermandad de la Santa Mesa de Misericordia, as well as the Jesuit church of San Ignacio and the capilla real. There still exists information relating to the musical lives of these wealthy institutions. Major parish churches of Extramuros with significant musical traditions included Tondo, Malate, Binondo, Santa Cruz, Quiapo, the Parian, and Hermita (now Ermita). Isolated pieces of archival data permit the construction of a mosaic-like picture of the prevailing musical trends in parochial spaces and in private or exclusive chapels. The Venerable Orden Tercera de San Francisco maintained a chapel adjacent to the Franciscan convent in Intramuros (figure 6.2). The order was founded in the Convento de San Francisco in 1611; in 1618, a small chapel was erected for the order’s use, and this served for religious celebrations until 1723, when “it was rebuilt and enlarged.” The new edifice was completed in 1733 and dedicated the following year.100 The constitutions for this order, published in 1746, make few explicit references to music, but they describe how major festivities were celebrated in the chapel with “the greatest brilliance, and authority,”

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figure 6.2. Fernando Brambila, Vista de la plaza de San Francisco en Manila (1792). Museo Naval. Madrid.

with the attendance of the governor, archbishop, and Franciscan provincial, together with members of the Franciscan convent.101 After an election within the order, all the hermanos were required to gather together to sing the Te Deum.102 Later the hymn Veni creator Spiritus would be sung “after the cantores,” with some verses performed by the presiding brother, and the cantores would finish with the Benedicamus Domino.103 According to chronicler Huerta, who wrote in 1865, “every year on the Tuesday of Holy Week, the loving and devoted procession of the via sacra would proceed along the streets of Manila and conclude with a fervent sermon in the church of our convent.”104 He also described how the motets for four voices by Péris de la Concepción, mentioned in an earlier chapter, were in fact composed in the late seventeenth century for the express purpose of being sung during this same procession.105 Given that the reference to these motets comes from the late nineteenth century, it is possible that they were still known at that time and that these same works became part of an annual tradition. The Jesuit church of San Ignacio in Intramuros was a splendid building replete with paintings and sculptures. Murillo Velarde boasted of it: “I believe that the church is the most beautiful, the best made, the strongest, the most

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magnificent, and has the best design of any [church] that the Company [Society of Jesus] has in all the Indies.”106 The prominent role music played in this church is demonstrated by archival evidence from the late sixteenth and midseventeenth centuries. An early milestone in the musical life of this institution was the donation in 1594 by the wealthy merchant Captain Esteban Rodríguez de Figueroa of an ensemble of nine “black slaves” (“esclavos negros”), who played recorders and shawms.107 It is possible that these musicians came from and received their musical training in Mexico, where Africans were often instructed in ecclesiastical music; more likely, however, they could have come directly from Africa or the Indian subcontinent via Portuguese trade routes. The Jesuit annual letter of 1595–96 makes a brief reference to their musical skills: “We also have for Sundays and feasts a musical ensemble of nine slave musicians which Captain . . . Figueroa, our founder, left us for this purpose. These [musicians] play very well, already with shawms and recorders, for the devotional uplifting of those who hear Mass in [our] house.”108 This musical group seems also to have directed and/or accompanied a choir of Tagalogs, who sang at celebrations of Mass and Vespers, and performed for other acts of public devotion and penance.109 Costa describes the catechetical instructions preceding the sung Vespers as being “so well attended that many people who could not squeeze into the church stood outside in the street and the plaza to listen. . . . Noting the great delight the Tagalogs took in church music, Prat [viceprovincial of the Jesuit Province from 1596] permitted all the Sunday Masses in which a sermon was given to be sung with choir and orchestra [that is, an ensemble of shawms and recorders].”110 San Ignacio continued to enjoy a healthy musical life during the seventeenth century. According to a memorandum from Father Provincial Rafael de Bonafé (1606–68) to the Society’s Father General Gianpaolo Oliva in 1665, so much music was performed in the liturgy—especially villancicos—that official visitors were hesitant to attend feast days there. His Excellency the Governor and the gentlemen of the royal audiencia are most reluctant to attend our feast days because at the solemn Mass two villancicos are usually sung, lasting almost half an hour; and now, by order of your Paternity, the creed, the preface, the paternoster, and all the other parts of the Mass so designated by the rubrics must be sung too; all of which, added to the sermon, which is usually of some length, they find it very hard to sit through. In the cathedral they intone the creed, but they go on with the Mass without waiting for the choir to finish singing. They do not sing the paternoster nor the Pax Domini nor even the Preface, because it is very hot in this country.111 The tropical climate of Manila, not to mention the many layers of clothing that would have been worn within church, evidently made for an uncomfortable

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experience, one that was prolonged by the importance given to the performance of villancicos. Costa, who identified this document in Roman archives in the mid-twentieth century, noted that “the rest of the passage is difficult to read because of a patch on the manuscript; but enough is legible to make it clear that Bonafé wanted permission to adopt the short cuts of the cathedral. Father General Oliva’s laconic reply would have rejoiced the heart of Saint Pius X: ‘The solution is simple; omit the villancicos or make them very short.’ ”112 Whether this directive was in fact applied we do not know. But as we see in the next chapter, villancicos and other devotional genres in vernacular languages were regulated or suppressed in the late seventeenth century—especially in their use in the misas de aguinaldo, celebrated each morning on the nine days before Christmas—but they later regained permission for use. A “custom book” for the Colegio de San Ignacio dating from 1752 reveals that “serious and devout” villancicos were being sung during the misas de aguinaldo, and that extra money (in the sum of four reales) was allocated to feed the cantores each morning.113 In 1768, the order for the expulsion of the Jesuits from the Philippines was put into effect, and extensive inventories of all the Society’s possessions had to be made at the time of their seizure by functionaries of the state. Given that musical instruments were usually considered to belong to an institution rather than an individual, it is unsurprising that many are found listed in the inventory of items confiscated (or “compulsorily acquired”) from the church of the Colegio Máximo de San Ignacio. Two viols, two violins, a harp, two oboes, a dulcian, a drum, and a rattle were held in one case, while “a well-treated medium[-sized] organ with all of its parts” was held in another. The organ (which, given the description of its size, was probably portative) was valued at almost five times the amount of all the other instruments put together; its considerable worth may imply that it had been imported from Mexico or Spain, rather than being a local product. The variety of stringed and wind instruments located there suggests that the scoring of concerted music performed in this church—liturgical or paraliturgical genres such as settings of the Mass Ordinary, Psalms, canticles, and villancicos—reflected mid-eighteenth-century compositional trends in Spain and Latin America, where voices were usually accompanied by two melodic lines (in which violins and oboes doubled or alternated) and basso continuo (in this case played by viols, harp, dulcian, and organ). The percussion instruments (drum and rattle) were most likely used in the performance of festive villancicos and other paraliturgical devotional music. Within the cases were also found “various pieces of sheet music and solfa notation” (“varios papeles de música y puntos de Solfa”), which were taken into the charge of the judge making the inventory. The scribe writes that the sheets of music would be placed with other manuscripts from the colegio for identification and inventory, but no further documentation has emerged.114 Thus was the inglorious end of the first period of Jesuit musical influence in

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Manila, before the reestablishment of the Society of Jesus in the Philippines in 1859. Another opulent religious building in Intramuros was the capilla real, which was founded in 1636 by Governor Don Sebastián Hurtado de Corcuera (d. 1660). Situated beside the door of the almacenes and close to the fort of Santiago, it was dedicated to “la Encarnación de Nuestra Señora.”115 Its principal purpose was to serve as a parish church and burial place for the soldiers of the Tercio de Manila and to carry out functions and celebrations of the real audiencia.116 Because there was a need for a group of boys to assist at services as acolytes, sacristans, and tiples, Corcuera (who had also approved the foundation of the Colegio de San Juan de Letrán) arranged for the students of San Juan de Letrán to act in these roles in return for the payment of an annual subsidy.117 There is a dearth of information relating to music in the early modern capilla real, but several contemporary observers attested to the great skill of the singers and classed them among the best in the islands. Letona, for instance, stated in 1662 that the chapel had “a choir, an organ, and a famous chorus of singers,” and this same observation was repeated in 1738 by Juan Francisco de San Antonio, who made a point of emphasizing the material wealth of the chapel, especially in terms of its rich ornamentation.118 Delgado noted that the great expense of the decoration, which was heavy in gold, corresponded to “the reality of the [royal] name,” and that the “good choir of singers” had “proportionate salaries.”119 Although little other early modern documentation survives, we can very likely assume that a position in the musical ensemble of Manila’s capilla real was highly prized and well paid, given the institution’s elite patronage and its wealthy state. One of the most splendid parish churches of Extramuros was that of Ermita, which housed the image of Nuestra Señora de Guía. Devotion to this manifestation of the Virgin Mary had strong local resonance for the colony, and a significant cult grew up around the image.120 On February 7, 1666, Archbishop Poblete “solemnly blessed the Church . . . Together with the organ and the choir, the Archbishop spent ₱500.”121 Before his death in 1667, Archbishop Poblete had paid 300 pesos for a bell and 150 pesos for an organ for this church, but little else is known about this parish’s early modern music traditions, apart from the Masses performed by priests and singers, paid for by chantry funds that had been established by prominent patrons.122 The church was described in verse by Gaspar de San Agustín in 1712. Replete with classical and mythological references, it is possible to infer from his versified history that music, loas, and “various inventions” all contributed to religious celebrations in this church.123 Resident Spaniards wrote hyperbolically about musical performances in and around Manila, but some visitors to the city and its environs had other perspectives. In the 1760s, Le Gentil de la Galaisière described the musical performance of a solemn Mass at one of Cavite’s churches in very derogatory terms. He claimed that he and his companions entered the church “to the

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sound of the wildest musical ensemble that one could imagine, consisting of Filipinos playing on some bad violins and a harp.” The musical performance of the mass itself, he averred, “was something so wild and so barbarous that it is impossible for me to describe it, no more than to paint my surprise. . . . I heard confused shouts that were out of time and out of tune, while the ensemble that accompanied [the singers] had the skill of making it yet more horrible. Such is the state of music at Manila, and this is pretty much what one hears in all the churches on the days of great feasts.”124 Of course, a well-educated Frenchman like Le Gentil de la Galaisière probably hoped to convince his European readership of his own good breeding and refined taste in music by leveling harsh criticism at the hispanized traditions of Filipino church musicians, thus assessing his own qualities of aesthetic taste through oppositional self-definition. But as much as he directed this excoriation at the performers themselves, he was equally critical of Spaniards for what he saw as their “laissez-faire” attitude toward the Filipinos’ cultivation of music in church, as noted in an earlier chapter. (We should remember, of course, that French music of this time was no less subject to harsh criticisms from across cultural divides within Europe itself. A direct counterpoint to Le Gentil’s disdain for Filipino performances can be found in an anecdote related by English music historian Charles Burney [1726–1814], just a few decades after the publication of Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde: “A young Greek lady being brought from her own country to Paris . . . was, soon after her arrival in that city, carried to the opera by some French ladies, supposing, as she had never heard cultivated music [that is, French music], that she would be in raptures at it; but, contrary to those expectations, she declared that the singing only reminded her of the hideous howlings of the Calmuc Tartars.”125 Thus we see that early modern encounters with other styles of musical performance often result in prejudiced accounts and assessments, particularly when the observer is disembedded from her or his own familiar environment.) Other parishes around Manila contributed to the thriving culture of ecclesiastical music, and it appears that each church owned a range of musical instruments. Although there is little surviving documentation that can attest to the extent of an individual parish’s wealth in instruments, an exception is a record of the 1783 archiepiscopal visitation of parishes in Extramuros—Tondo, the Augustinian church of Malate, Binondo, Santa Cruz, Quiapo, the Parian, and the secular (diocesan) parish of Hermita—which includes an inventory of each church’s possessions (a rare treasure from early modern archives).126 Alongside instruments, music books are also listed, but with few details. In the church of Santa Cruz there was “an organ in the tribune of the presbytery,” whereas the parish church of the Chinese Parian possessed “a very badly treated medium-sized organ, and unserviceable,” “a large harp, and another small one for the Rosary,” as well as “a violoncello, and two violins, all badly treated, and which must be fixed.”127 The Augustinian church of Malate had “three Missals

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with all the new Saints, and a very old one for the singers . . . a violoncello and a violin for the choir,” and the church of Binondo contained “an organ” (which, because there is no qualification of its state, was presumably in working order at this time) and “an old violoncello.”128 These instruments doubtless belonged collectively to the capilla de música of each church and remained housed there for use by various instrumentalists in worship. The musicians of all of these parishes would have been Filipinos or mestizos (either Spanish or Chinese), and by the end of the eighteenth century, the priests in charge of most of the secular parishes—that is, the parishes under diocesan control, rather than those administered by the religious orders—were indigenous curates.129 The description of the use of a small harp “for the Rosary” in the church of the Parian is intriguing; presumably, the harp was used to provide a bass for melodies to which the Rosary was chanted (or possibly sung), perhaps even outside the church. Equally, the entry in the inventory could possibly refer to its ownership by some confraternity named for the Santo Rosario, given that the eponymous province of the Dominican order was allocated the responsibility of administering to the Chinese converts. Beyond Manila, early modern sources pertaining to musical commodities belonging to individual parish churches are few and far between.130 Yet it is possible to infer from a variety of scattered references that musical activity was certainly alive and well and that each church owed much to its four to eight official cantores, whose appointment will be discussed shortly. The proliferation of pipe organs in parish churches of relatively small Filipino towns throughout the islands becomes apparent from descriptions of travelers and even from reports of natural disasters. Regarding the latter, an account of a devastating earthquake that took place on January 12, 1743, in southern Luzon describes the damage inflicted on parish churches: “a fine organ” was crushed in the church of Tayabas, and likewise in Lucban; a “beautiful organ” also perished in Nagcarlan.131 Although there seem to have been many organs installed in churches throughout the Philippines during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the smaller number of organs mentioned by nineteenth-century travelers was probably due to irreparable damage caused by earthquakes and adverse climatic conditions. In the 1840s, French writer Jean Baptiste Mallat de Bassilan (1806–63) claimed that “there is not a village, however small it may be, where the Mass is not accompanied by music [that is, the community orchestra], for lack of [an] organ.”132 This seems to be a peculiar circumstance, given the arrival of Diego Cera in the 1790s and his bolstering and promotion of the skill of organ-building. One explanation could be that the average church organ was becoming larger and more expensive in the early nineteenth century, so smaller parishes chose to make do with their instrumental ensembles. The main reason Cera constructed his famous pipe organ at Las Piñas from bamboo was that it was an abundant local resource and the use of it (instead of metal) would save the parish a considerable amount of money.

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Confraternities Confraternities or brotherhoods (cofradías or hermandades) are organizations of laypersons whose devotional (and penitential) activities are characterized by charitable and pious acts, such as the provision of dowries for orphans, care of the sick, or prayers for souls in Purgatory. It is difficult to estimate the number of these organizations founded in early modern Manila, as almost every major institution in the city and throughout the provinces had one or more resident confraternities.133 Phelan notes that these groups “contributed to the formation of a Christian community consciousness” and that the Jesuits used sodalities (another term for confraternities) “as instruments to consolidate Christianization.”134 The works of these groups often involved sonic and visual embellishment of the liturgy in the celebration of major feasts, and music figured prominently in this act. Among the most significant lay organizations was the Hermandad de la Santa Mesa de Misericordia, created in Manila in 1594 by Juan Fernández de León. It had its own church in Manila and also maintained the girls’ school Colegio de Santa Isabel.135 The ordinances of this brotherhood, formulated in 1606 and printed in 1675, describe how the group sought the advocation of the Presentation of the Virgin at the Temple, whose feast day fell on November 21.136 The eve of this feast was celebrated with solemn Vespers and a sung Mass “by three Fathers” with a sermon on the day itself.137 On the day following the annual procession of Nuestra Señora de Guía, the Hermandad would make a thanksgiving novenario (nine-day period of devotion) of sung Masses and Salves; this event probably involved hiring instrumentalists, as required by the Hermandad’s own manifesto.138 Cofradías associated with religious orders included one devoted to Nuestra Señora de la Consolación y Correa, linked to the Augustinians, and one devoted to Nuestra Señora del Rosario, linked to the Dominicans.139 In 1612, the latter confraternity commissioned an organ with money provided by one Pelayo Hernandez (although whether this instrument was to be imported or made locally is unclear), and hired shawm players.140 Another group associated with the Dominicans was the Cofradía de los Esclavos de Jesu Cristo Crucificado, established in the santuario of San Juan del Monte in April 1643. This confraternity is probably responsible for an unusual source of music that survives from early modern Manila: a manuscript titled “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” now held in Ávila, Spain.141 Containing eighteen musical works transcribed together with prayers, poetry, and descriptions of church decoration, this source emanates from the Dominican santuario de San Juan del Monte as part of the archives that survived the bombing of the church and convent of Santo Domingo, Intramuros, in December 1941.142 It was identified in 1981 by Cainglet, who gave it a tentative dating of c. 1763.143 Following a contextual

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study by Eladio Neira on the history of the santuario, Summers examined the manuscript and revised this date, placing it in the late seventeenth century.144 Of the musical works, which are transcribed as single melodic lines with ambiguous rhythmic notation, two have texts in Latin, one is in Tagalog, and the rest are in Castilian. Although the heading on f. 13r refers to the works as letras (a term that we could translate loosely as “songs”), four are obviously villancicos by virtue of the specification of estribillo or coplas. Due to their function as paraliturgical works in vernacular languages (with the exception of the Latin texts), however, the majority of the compositions could also be identified as villancicos, given the terminological inconsistency that persisted well into the seventeenth century. The texts of several works in the manuscript have fluvial references, notably A de la orilla à de la barca (f. 22r) and Ola jau divino barquero (ff. 22v–23r). The latter implores Jesus, the “divine boatman” (“divino barquero”), to navigate the protagonist out of his place between two oceans, one of tears and one of fire. The single work in Tagalog, Letra en tagalo (f. 23r) (which begins “Ang mahal na larauan”), consists of seventeen four-line coplas and a refrain, “Tunghan mot [sic] patauarin / ang dung maraing,” for which the melody is the same as that for the Castilian text Pecador miserable (ff. 14v–15r). The most extensive and elaborate musical setting, Ola jau divino barquero (ff. 22v–23r), makes use of repetitive rhetorical devices in the text setting, rising harmonic sequences, and rhythmic syncopation (figure 6.3). Although only the melody line is notated for each of these works, they were possibly intended for multiple parts and bass.145 Most of the texts are anonymous, but the scribe attributes two works, respectively, to Lope de Vega Carpio and to Sor Jerónima de la Asunción (founder of the Monasterio de Santa Clara), giving the exact folio numbers of the published sources (figures 6.4–6.5). The text by Lope de Vega Carpio that is set to music in the San Juan del Monte manuscript (ff. 18r–19r) is the poem Lagrimas que, which was originally printed in his Rimas sacras of 1614.146 As we saw earlier, the poem Vuestra soy, para vos nací (set on ff. 19v–20v) is commonly attributed to Saint Teresa de Ávila, but it was evidently sourced by the composer from the writings of Sor Jerónima de la Asunción as published by Letona. The other poems and musical settings in the manuscript appear to be original material; no textual or musical concordances have emerged from elsewhere. Thus, this manuscript retains its significance as the only source known so far of locally composed nonliturgical (albeit paraliturgical) music from early modern Manila.

Musical Appointments in the Parishes and Missions Besides the major institutions of the metropolis, other ecclesiastical institutions throughout the islands had rich musical lives that were governed by strict

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figure 6.3. Music from San Juan del Monte, Ola jau divino barquero, from “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” f. 22v. Reproduced by kind permission of the Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila.

legislation. Many rulings on music applied universally to all the islands’ Christianized communities, as we shall see in the next chapter, and they also spelled out the privileges and remuneration that could be enjoyed by parochial musicians. Other than the cathedrals of the three dioceses suffragan to the archdiocese of Manila—Cebu, Nueva Cáceres (in Camarines), and Nueva Segovia (Ilocos)—religious institutions beyond Manila were mainly limited to parish churches. Their musical resources and capabilities echoed the musical practices of institutions of the capital and its environs; nevertheless, they flourished in their own particular ways. In provincial parishes where Christianity had already been firmly established and less ground-level indoctrination was

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figure 6.4. Music from San Juan del Monte, Lagrimas que, from “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” f. 18r. Reproduced by kind permission of the Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila.

necessary, the one or two priests who were present would have had relatively little to do with the practical measures of music-making, as their time would have been taken up largely by the continual administration of the sacraments. The performance of music in the vast majority of ecclesiastical institutions throughout the country relied on the employment of indigenous musicians in each parish. Many musicians employed by convents and the Monasterio de Santa Clara in the metropolis would have had contracts negotiated specifically for their terms of service. Evidence of this type abounds in Latin American archives, and although no documentation survives from the early modern Philippines, it is

figure 6.5. Music from San Juan del Monte, Vuestra soy p[ar].a vos naci, from “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte,” ff. 19v–20r. Reproduced by kind permission of the Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila.

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likely that such a pattern was also followed there. What survives from colonial historiography, however, is a swath of decrees spelling out universal employment conditions for Filipino musicians in parish churches throughout the islands. As we have seen in this and previous chapters, a frequent feature of early modern descriptions of music is the observation that eight cantores were exempted from tribute and paid rice subsidies in return for providing music for the Divine Office, Mass, and other religious functions in each Filipino parish. These were attractive positions for which many musicians vied. As Fernández Navarrete put it: “His Majesty allows every Church eight Singing Men, who enjoy Privileges, are employ’d at the Divine Office, sing well; and there being always some aiming at those Places, the actual number is greater, but only the Eight that are appointed enjoy the Privileges granted.”147 In the seventeenthcentury Visayas, Alzina also described this system of what was effectively direct royal patronage of indigenous musicians, claiming that it was indispensable for the celebration of principal feasts “with all their solemnity.”148 An appointment as a cantor provided the means by which a Filipino musician could become socially mobile and enjoy a greater degree of enfranchisement within colonial society. A Jesuit book of rules and customs from the Visayas qualifies that the leading role of maestro de capilla was given to one of these eight singers exempted from tribute.149 This position of authority put the maestro de capilla in direct contact with the parish priest in organizing and performing music for church rituals. The Augustinians decreed that cantores, as privileged parishioners, could not be made to look after cows or horses, nor to serve in the kitchen or provide personal services to priests.150 They became the elite of their parishes. Although only eight cantores could be appointed, other hopeful candidates for these positions swelled the numbers to make a large musical ensemble. The popularity of the material privileges enjoyed by cantores meant that the number of musicians engaging in performance and training exceeded the requisite number of available tributary concessions. Only on the occasion of death, retirement, or incapacity of one of the official cantores would there be the opportunity for another to take his place, and some families became musical dynasties that commonly provided the successors to these posts. Early modern observers noted the large numbers of church musicians throughout the islands. For example, Austrian Jesuit Andreas Mancker (1640–84) wrote in a letter of 1682 that each Visayan town with a market had an ensemble of sixteen or seventeen musicians, who were exempted from tribute to provide music for the church (he did not specify to his correspondent that only eight enjoyed privileges). Mancker noted that among their instruments were “lyres, harps, cornetts, and chalumeaux”; he considered their performance superior to that of similar groups in European cities.151 The competitive selection of singers for official church posts explains the intensity of singing practice from a young age. The Franciscans established

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special schools for the cantores in their parishes, probably to streamline this process as much as to promote general singing by their parishioners. As one Franciscan historian noted in 1741: From these [people] are selected the most appropriate for the service of the church, and cult of God, in that they perform duties, some in the office of sacristan, and others in that of cantor. As such, the Divine Offices are celebrated admirably with devotion, and solemnity, owing to the personal service of some sacristans who are well informed in the practice of ritual, and to the skill of musical voices, as the singers have practiced since their youth. There is no church that lacks a very capable ensemble of voices and instruments, which the religious use in the [celebration of the] Divine Cult, in its sensitive consolation, which the Filipinos like to attend.152 There is no mention of gender in the descriptions of the cantores, but we know that most official posts mentioned in the Recopilación de leyes and other decrees were usually designated for men unless specifically noted. Some sources also seem to imply that cantores specialized in vocal music, but other references to village bands would suggest that many singers were proficient on instruments and that they frequently swapped between these roles. It is possible, however, that many of the instrumentalists merely augmented the singers—voluntarily—without enjoying “the Privileges granted,” as noted by Fernández Navarrete. Nevertheless, the general clamor of wishful candidates participating in the same duties as the officially appointed cantores provides a prime example of political decree not only regulating but motivating the indigenous populace into acts of musical performance. It is worth examining the laws on which the privileges of parochial musicians were established and built. The official legislation for the tributary exemption of the cantores appears to originate from the Recopilación de leyes (libro VI, título III, ley vi). First promulgated by Felipe III (1578–1621) in Madrid on October 10, 1618, the law concerns the official number of cantores and sacristans allowed in each town of the Indies, proclaiming that “in all the towns that have more than one hundred indios, there will be two or three cantores.”153 A far cry from the eight places mentioned by Fernández Navarrete and others, the original number of cantores mandated by Felipe III was apparently viewed as a ratio of singers per tributes. When and how the increase in the official number occurred appears unclear—the publication of a fourth edition of the Recopilación as late as 1791, for instance, simply reproduced the same number as decreed in 1618—but it was probably a simple matter of local application by the governor and the ecclesiastical authorities. In 1739, Manuel del Río (d. 1749) published a small volume containing moral and religious instructions for the governance and direction of the Dominican ministries, in which he described the number of singers per tributes

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in each parish as 8 cantores for parishes with more than 500 tributes (approximately 2,000 souls), and 4 cantores for those with fewer.154 Over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, several Spanish governors of the Philippines compiled guidelines for their subordinates (which were also intended to act as a reference for subsequent governors), titled Ordenanzas de buen gobierno. These “ordinances” took into account recent local political developments as well as new legislation from Madrid. Governor José Antonio Raón y Gutiérrez (1703–70), who ruled from July 1765 to July 1770, made some revisions of the ordenanzas in 1768, decreeing that a community of more than 500 tributes should have 8 cantores and one of 400 tributes should have 6 cantores; this decreased to 5 cantores for 300 tributes, and 4 for 200. But he insisted that no community, however small, should have fewer than four cantores. The cantores (four, five, six, or eight), two sacristans, and one porter in every community were to be given a certain amount of unhusked rice annually (each individual was issued with an amount that equates to some 82.56 kilograms in modern measurements). The governor rounded off this order by citing abuse of these rules, and warning alcaldes mayores that they would face a heavy fine for any further transgression.155 The insistence on the maintenance of a minimum of four singers, however small the community might be, is noteworthy. This number was an ideal minimum for the effective performance of sacred vocal polyphony and conforms to the little that is known about the teaching of European liturgical music—plainchant and polyphony—in missions of the Philippines during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Consequently, there was a significant number of professional musicians throughout the country. We can make a mean estimate on the basis of Delgado’s ecclesiastical survey of 1750–51, which offered details for 529 parishes in the islands.156 Even if, for argument’s sake, half of these parishes were regarded as “small” (and thus appointed only four cantores), a simple calculation would reveal that in the mid-eighteenth century, around 3,500 cantores would have been exempted from tribute in exchange for their provision of musical services in parishes throughout the Philippines. This is a comparatively small percentage of the entire pacified and Christianized population; Delgado estimated at the time that the number of Christian Filipinos over the age of seven was 904,116.157 But it is a relatively large and symbolic number in musical terms, for in no other territory of early modern Asia could there be found such a substantial corpus of professional ecclesiastical musicians literate in European musical practices and Roman Catholic liturgy. Still, this estimate of practicing church musicians is conservative, as it accounts only for the cantores officially appointed by the Church and exempted from tribute. It does not consider the other musicians who, aiming for these places, swelled these numbers (as noted by Fernández Navarrete). Of course, cantores were paid for some aspects of their work, besides receiving tributary concessions and rice subsidies. They were paid cash for

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performances at feasts that were supernumerary to the Church calendar and for the provision of musical services at funerals or weddings. In Manila, two aranceles (schedules of ecclesiastical fees) from the second half of the eighteenth century, which were promulgated by archbishops Martínez de Arizala and Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina in 1755 and 1771, respectively, detailed the payments that had to be made to musicians at particular ceremonies and rituals.158 The hierarchies of fees reveal the importance of the musical profession as seen by the Church authorities. For instance, while Spaniards, mestizos, or indigenous Filipinos paid for the presence of a sacristan at a wedding on a financial scale that reduced as it went down the casta system (a Spaniard, six reales; a mestizo, three reales; and a Filipino, two reales), someone who wanted music at a wedding, regardless of ethnicity, had to pay the same amount (two reales) to each shawm player or any other musician hired.159 Music at weddings was considered an extravagance that had to be paid for. On the other hand, when it came to funerals (which included vigil, misa de cuerpo, and interment), Spaniards were required to pay fifteen pesos for the “ensemble of sixteen musicians [cantores] in the curacy of Manila,” whereas mestizos would pay a discounted rate of ten pesos and four reales, and Filipinos seven pesos and four reales.160 Pablo Fernández notes that the arancel of Martínez de Arizala also required each tribute-paying adult to give one and a half reales on the occasion of his annual confession to pay for the wax (for candles) and cantores, and to cover the deficit of the priest’s stipend and the building of the church.161 These funds and others provided for wax and singers at the three major feasts of the year: Titular (patron saint of each church), Corpus [Christi] and Monumento.162 For the Masses of these feasts, ten reales would be given to the singers (as a group), and the same for Vespers; for tinieblas (the Tenebrae rites for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of Holy Week) four reales would be given to the maestro and two reales to each singer.163 We have seen how the patronage of the Spanish monarch brought about musical performances by Filipinos. But if we look more closely at church ceremonies, we can see an interesting case of reciprocal patronage. Significantly, a few Filipinos are prominent within ecclesiastical records because they were patrons of church music. From the early seventeenth century, a number of wealthy indigenous principales—men and women alike—established capellanías (endowed chantry funds) in their wills for the benefit of their souls in Purgatory, paying for Masses to be said or sung by priests and/or cantores.164 Evidence of capellanías can be found in and around Manila, and especially in the nearby Province of Pampanga. The foundation of these chantry funds just a few decades after the Spanish invasion of Luzon had commenced illustrates the extent to which the indigenous nobility embraced the new religion, with its rituals and its doctrine. Indigenous patrons paid priests and local choirs to sing for their souls after their deaths, leaving detailed instructions in their wills. An inversion and subversion of the colonial power structure took place

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in this way: it was now the Spaniard who would sing at the behest of the Filipino. For example, in the mid-seventeenth century a wealthy Tagalog lady named Doña Juana Guinto bequeathed a plot of land to the church of Nuestra Señora de Guía in Ermita, in exchange for an annual Mass to be sung for her soul in that church, together with “a vigil and a prayer for my soul at the end of the mass like the chaplaincies of the Cathedral Church of Manila”; she requested that the funds to pay for the costs of the Mass and for hiring singers should be paid out of the rent from the land “so that the benefits to my soul will never be interrupted.”165 From the will of Doña Juana Guinto, it is evident that the practices of the cathedral were models that participants in sacred ceremonies aspired to emulate within other ecclesiastical spaces. Performances by musicians and the enactment of ritual were thus reliant on indigenous patronage as well as indigenous cooperation. Yet they also depended on the acquiescence of European clergy, whose willingness to sing Masses for the souls of the indigenous (and wealthy) departed had to be gauged before such an arrangement could be made. We can see that in this way the patronage of church music by Spaniard and Filipino alike allowed for a certain degree of egalitarianism within the otherwise intractably stratified society of Manila.

Conclusion Cathedrals, convents, churches, and chapels in Manila and throughout the Philippines were important sites of musical exchange between members of different social strata, and were places where musical practice was very strictly prepared and governed. A plentiful and regular supply of missionaries arriving from Spain and Latin America represented new musical entries to the contrapuntal texture of the colonial Philippines, and local musicians adopted and adapted fresh musical styles introduced from other parts of the empire. Institutions appear to have built up impressive collections of European instruments and sacred musical repertory; this equipment became indispensable to the resident ensembles of musicians. The musical profession was attractive to Filipino musicians as a mechanism for social mobility and enfranchisement, in Manila and the provinces alike. The institution of the cantores in each Filipino community was one of the most significant changes made by the colonial power to native social structures, even though professional mourners/singers had existed in each barangay long before the arrival of the Spaniards.166 The musician was placed in a coveted position within colonial society, and dynastic hierarchies were created around these posts. Cantores and maestros de capilla were able to occupy a liminal space in colonial society—poised at a social frontier—enjoying direct access to the religious authorities and to the spiritual realm, at the same time

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as being envied by their community for the material benefits they enjoyed. Yet they also unwittingly acted as agents for the reinforcement of the hegemonic authority of Church and Crown over indigenous society. Through their transmission of knowledge to students and apprentices, the cantores consequently made music education function as a catalyst for transculturation and social formation. In some ways they effectively supported the suppression of precolonial practices and the increasing conformity of ecclesiastical music throughout the islands. But although parochial cantores, within their communities, may have experienced certain levels of independence, autonomy, and authority that could be found in few other contexts of society, their positions and roles were rigorously codified by colonial authorities. This is true of many other musicians in the Philippines, whether indigenous or European. As the following chapter will show, the practice of music in the Spanish colonial Philippines was constantly subject to an imposed set of rules—just like strict counterpoint.

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Regulations, Reforms, and Controversies

The performance of music in both sacred and secular contexts was in many ways essential to the effective implementation of colonial policies in the early modern Philippines—especially those related to evangelization—as it reinforced hegemonic power structures through the perpetuation of Roman Catholic ritual and tradition. Yet it is important to remember that the sector of the population that predominated in the practice of this art was Filipino. As much as religion might have been “the opiate of the masses,” sacred music appears to have represented another means by which the subaltern could alleviate the burden of colonial oppression. Music and the musical profession became powerful tools of cultural self-expression, subversion, and protest. Musicians’ skills could be employed as a powerful agent for social change, providing the means for the indigenous population to challenge the authoritative precepts of both Church and state. Likewise, the persistence of certain indigenous Asian musical traditions represented to some extent a degree of cultural resistance to the introduction of Roman Catholicism to the islands. All these circumstances resulted in continual reforms of musical practices and regulations for their usage throughout the islands, and deliberations over the best way of proceeding occasionally resulted in theological controversies. Ensuing legislation was directed principally at any instances of profanity, excesses, or decadence in musical performance, particularly as it related to ecclesiastical usage; no part of society was exempt from these rulings. European residents of Manila were also subject to prohibitions and regulations that were set in place to curb the perceived excesses of their musical and theatrical performances, ostensibly to avoid their descent into any form of cultural decadence. Although the regulation and censorship of music in ecclesiastical and secular contexts was common in Spain, it was made considerably more complex

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within the Philippines and Latin America by the consideration of different cultural traditions and attempts to control the social mixing of different ethnic groups. The enforcement of European moral standards for musical performance on peoples in a distant colony (with considerable time delays of governance from Europe) often resulted either in the formulation of dogmatic local rulings or a blind eye being turned. Many early modern documents attest to the recurrent dismay of church authorities and their persistent attempts to rectify the mores of society. These sources include the acts of ecclesiastical councils and synods, archiepiscopal decrees and proclamations, constitutions of religious orders, directives to parishes served by secular and regular clergy, pastoral letters, and even decrees sent directly from Rome. The majority of rulings on music, which essentially encode colonialist strategies, expound the prohibition of particular practices or the tempering of performative excesses. Great attention was devoted to the potential censorship of certain Asian musics, devotional vocal music in vernacular languages, and devotions to the Virgin Mary, as well as the regulation of liturgical and instrumental music in church, proscriptions of theatrical performances, and reforms of processions and feasts. Many rulings were a result of an absolute decree being issued by the archbishop of Manila—who expected compliance within the parishes and suffragan dioceses under his influence— while the Augustinian, Dominican, and Franciscan orders produced normative manuals for their own members assigned as priests in parishes around the islands.1 These sorts of regulations were, of course, the product of ceremonial institutions that ritualized the periodic reiteration of “position statements” of moral viewpoints, as well as the issue of strict edicts that it expected the faithful to obey.2 The publications of religious orders have immense historical value in revealing how music functioned in the particular institutions and ceremonies of each Christianized community. For example, the Franciscan order’s constitutions of 1655 and its Estatutos y ordenaciones of 1726 specified the roles of music and musicians in parishes and convents, as well as giving guidelines on the care of music books and instruments. Augustinian Casimiro Díaz Toledano (1693–1746), who held an exalted view of the role of music in the celebration of the Divine Office by Christian Filipinos, drew on guidelines established by his order and other councils within the Hispanic world for his Parrocho de indios instruido de un perfecto pastor of 1745; a similar approach is found in the 1731 manual Practica del ministerio produced by Tomás Ortiz, another Augustinian. Likewise, the Dominican Instrucciones morales y religiosas of 1739 by Manuel del Río gave explicit instructions to parish priests in regard to the use of music, the celebration of feasts, and the instruction of singers. Several other publications by religious orders, including guides for novices and treatises on the administration of the sacraments, incorporated instructions for the use of music in ecclesiastical contexts. Thus, a great deal of data on the musical and

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cultural history of the islands can be extrapolated from these sources; however, we should remember that they were prescriptive rather than descriptive texts and were probably often at variance with what actually took place. Of the diocesan and archdiocesan meetings held in the Philippine Islands during the eighteenth century, two in particular are remarkable: the Provincial Council of Manila in 1771, and the Synod of Calasiao (in the diocese of Nueva Segovia) in 1773.3 Motives behind the organization of these conferences included the universal clarification of doctrine throughout the Indies and the intended abolition of decadent local practices that had allegedly crept into the colonial Church. Moreover, the celebration of new councils reaffirmed the authority of the Crown over ecclesiastical administration under the auspices of the patronato real (which allowed the king of Spain to have direct control over Church structures in the Spanish Empire without constant recourse to Rome).4 Music constituted a significant part of the deliberations and discussions, especially in regard to its relevance to liturgical reforms, the promotion of popular piety, and the suppression of abuses. However, evidence of political intrigues and subterfuge in Manila resulted in the king refusing to sign the acts of the council and the synod, which meant that papal approval was not forthcoming. As a result, none of the rulings ever held legal validity, in spite of the considerable amount of preparation that had been undertaken for their celebration.5 Nevertheless, the texts emanating from these meetings provide an abundant source of pertinent information concerning the state of the Church, its liturgical practices, and its musical traditions in the Philippines at this time.6 The continual prohibitions and reforms provoked by supposed excesses of the populace—not to mention reports of the difficulties that ecclesiastical authorities encountered in controlling the apparent religious fervor of the people—demonstrate the extent to which the practice of music was perceived as being inextricably intertwined with the practice of religion. A prevailing belief that music was a power that could either edify or corrupt was central to deliberations about its practice in the eighteenth century. Although music was recognized by the religious and secular hierarchies as a powerful tool for the “pacification” and urbanization of the Filipinos, there was fear that its performance (if left unmonitored) could lead to decadence and irreligiosity, at least as those concepts were defined by the precepts of the Church. The amount of time given over to performative acts in the official calendar was also cause for concern. In the early eighteenth century, the number of feast days celebrated in Manila equated to almost one third of the year; as we shall see, one of the greatest reforms of the time was their reduction and codification by Archbishop Rodríguez in 1737. Many political and theological factors thus contributed to the governance and control of musical practice in the early modern Philippines. In this chapter, I draw on a wide variety of sources to examine six areas on which ecclesiastical decrees and legislation had influence on the society and culture of Manila (and, by extension, all Christianized territories in

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the islands): Asian musics; vernacular-language vocal music in sacred contexts; musical practices for Marian devotions; liturgical music and the use of instruments; theatrical performances; and music in processions, celebrations, and feasts.

Rulings on Asian Musics There exist relatively few early modern rulings on indigenous practices, for a great deal of Filipino music and dance was allowed to be perpetuated in Christian guise under the veil of hispanized or syncretic formulations. As Borges has noted, indigenous social celebrations and traditional songs and dances were generally respected, but those with any possible pagan connotations were eliminated.7 The latter were usually replaced with comparable Christian substitutes. Meanwhile, indigenous artistic practices that could be reformed and redefined according to Christian parameters were frequently accommodated by the hegemonic power structure and incorporated into colonial culture. As discussed in previous chapters, the emergence of new genres through a process of syncretism was a result of the toleration and encouragement of indigenous musicopoetic art forms by religious authorities—and the composition of “model” works by missionaries themselves. However, the preponderance of indigenous vocal genres necessitated regular inspection and censorship of texts.8 In the 1740s, Díaz Toledano related how the early Augustinian missionaries established in the regional visitas (outside the main missions) the practice of singing traditional verses “in the style of Hymns”—evidently in the local indigenous language—which explained the “Mysteries [of the Rosary], or referred to the life and death of Christ, of his Most Holy Mother, and of the Saints.” Although some later missionaries considered these verses to be indecent, Díaz Toledano declared that there was no reason to oppose or impede the practice of this custom, as long as the Filipinos were not permitted to sing anything that was not first examined and approved by the parish priest.9 As justification, he cited precedents from ancient Greece, where the people of the early Church sang hymns and verses after the conclusion of the sermon and discussion of the Christian doctrine.10 Again, as in so many areas of colonial life, analogy with antiquity rendered certain Filipino customs acceptable to Spaniards. In the interpretation and censoring of song-texts, the metaphorical nature of musicopoetic traditions often hampered comprehension of the deeper meanings of indigenous-language songs. Outside ecclesiastical spaces or sacred contexts, however, it appears that indigenous traditions of vocal music and poetry that were not related to theatrical performance occasioned little ire.

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The only evidence of legislation against such non-theatrical practices is the proscription of the genres dalit and karagatan by Archbishop Rodríguez in 1741.11 This prohibition related to their use in the Visayas by way of honoring the dead, in which context Rodríguez considered them inappropriate and irreligious. In the course of a belasiyon (from the Spanish velación, meaning “wake”), the winner of the karagatan, a poetic contest, would receive a prenda (token pledge) from the loser, which could be regained by the latter if he performed a loa.12 The authorities’ treatment of the Chinese community in the Philippines, however, was markedly different. Classical traditions had been imported from mainland China and were perpetuated by the Chinese in their new locality, particularly by immigrants who had not converted to Christianity. The prominence and alterity of Chinese music (“música de los Sangleyes”) in Manila at the beginning of the eighteenth century provoked Bishop Camacho y Ávila into prohibiting its performance.13 In the mid-eighteenth century, the funerals of non-Christian Chinese in the Parian of Manila were subject to strictures, due to Spanish suspicions of “superstition and idolatry”: while alcaldes mayores tolerated lights and a gathering (acompañamiento) on some occasions, songs, prayers, or any other ceremonies were banned.14 On January 28, 1756, Spanish authorities made a lengthy list of Chinese celebrations (ordered according to the lunar calendar) that were prohibited; for example, they were forbidden to celebrate the Chinese New Year “with lights and din of drums.”15 No Chinese idols were permitted to be imported to Manila; furthermore, the Chinese were not allowed to give the name of the goddess Machon (Mazu) to any image of the Virgin Mary.16 It is unlikely that the policing of such legislation outside the metropoles— and beyond the control of the small numbers of religious personnel stationed throughout the parishes—would have been effective. However, in the performance of vocal music within the liturgy or in other sacred contexts, religious ministers were positioned to take direct control and promulgate relevant decrees. Indigenous Filipino instrumental practices were apparently tolerated, as long as they were not explicitly associated with paganism, and the use of European instruments was promoted and encouraged by religious functionaries. As we have seen previously, the Visayan chordophones coriapi (kutyapi) and corlong (kodlong) were noted by Alzina to harbor and express lascivious desires, which caused missionaries to deplore the possible offenses committed against God, but no written legislation dictating their suppression can be found. Rather, the teaching and active promotion of European musical instruments by missionaries contributed to the gradual disuse of their indigenous equivalents. Of course, musical instruments—tangible, material artifacts— could be assessed, then tolerated, destroyed, or replaced with relative ease, but vocal music was another matter altogether.

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Vernacular Vocal Music in Sacred Contexts The performance of sacred devotional music sung in indigenous languages or in Spanish is described by a wide range of terminology in decrees, constitutions, and regulations. These include chanzonetas, cançiones, villancicos, “worldly songs,” and “ridiculous things.” Descriptions of genres such as these refer to performances by all ethnic groups but do not clarify whether their music was in an indigenous or hispanized idiom. As discussed in an earlier chapter, Chirino observed in the early seventeenth-century Jesuit missions of the Visayas that indigenous-language sacred texts were performed both in traditional style and in European polyphony. By the eighteenth century, when hispanization had resulted in the prevalence of European musical styles and instruments within sacred contexts, it is unlikely that European writers would have used these terms to refer to a performative act that was distinctly different from their own experience; but equally, they could have used a broad term to cover any musical performance in vernacular languages. Although references to indigenous musicopoetic genres by their original names occur in the discussion of extra-ecclesiastical practices or the remnants of precolonial traditions, the evidence examined here will show that within the Church, Spanish terminology was also applied to performances in indigenous languages. The provision for vernacular-texted devotional genres in sacred contexts in the Philippines followed similar practices existing in Spain and Latin America.17 Interpolation of these sorts of compositions within Latin liturgical ceremonies promoted popular piety and allowed for greater understanding of religious doctrine through the use of newly written texts that highlighted, elucidated, or paraphrased the teachings of each occasion. This opportunity enabled performers and audience to interact in a mutually comprehensible state within rituals that otherwise excluded them linguistically. Performances of villancicos were also considered to alleviate the tedium of lengthy religious rituals (although the length of these works themselves occasionally caused concern), and this circumstance sometimes gave rise to performative excesses that pushed the boundaries of propriety within ecclesiastical spaces. All these genres were frequently subject to strictures in the islands; the more dramatic forms were probably the object of attack in the Dominican manual Instrucciones morales y religiosas, whose author, Río, wrote: “so that ecclesiastical functions are celebrated with solemnity and proper decorum, the minister will endeavor to ensure that the singers learn their pieces well, and that by no means will they be permitted to sing inappropriate things, especially in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass.”18 But the lack of specificity in this prohibition—“inappropriate things” could, after all, be interpreted in any number of ways—suggests that a wide range of song types might have been considered inappropriate. In the Augustinian manual Parrocho de indios, Díaz Toledano

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forbade contrafacta, and the minor alteration of secular texts to make them appear sacred, in any Filipino parish under the care of his order: “They must never be permitted to sing burlesque villancicos, nor any profane things which have been rendered a lo divino; it is indecent that texts devised for the theater should be transferred into the church.”19 Later in the eighteenth century, it was declared in the Act concerning Spiritual Exercises at the Synod of Calasiao that “vigilant care should be taken that during a sung Mass no songs, except those prescribed by the rubrics of the Missal be chanted [that is, sung]. We condemn the ridiculous manner practised in some parishes where the choir sings all kinds of songs while the priest says the Mass. Therefore, we make this provision, namely, whenever a Mass is to be sung, [that] only the chants prescribed in the Missal should be sung and when none is prescribed therein there should be no sung Mass.”20 The Franciscan Estatutos y ordenaciones of 1732 prohibited Filipinos from celebrating the “fiestas de la Cruz de Mayo,” but in case of parishioners’ insistence, they made the concession that devotional practices could be limited to the singing of letras—probably in indigenous languages—in praise of the Holy Cross and its mysteries before sunset.21 It seems that offenses were taking place sufficiently often to be in need of “correction” by the missionaries. In 1790, Castro journeyed to Batangas and noted in this province the retention of the feast of Santa Cruz de Mayo, performed with what he considered “abuses.” He recommended that it would be better to prohibit this feast, for “even though it started at the beginning with the best intention and with the practices of the early Christians as a model,” it had turned into dances that brought together boys and girls during the day and the night, and the singing of profane songs and tonadillas that were not in keeping with the “holiness owed to the sacrosanct mysteries of the cross.”22 Similar objections were made in reference to music surrounding celebrations for the Feast of the Nativity, especially in the misas de aguinaldo, which were celebrated at dawn on each of the nine days prior to Christmas. The performance of songs in the vernacular in these Masses appears to have been a great attraction for the populace and was recognized as such by Church authorities in the early days of the evangelization of the archipelago. Pablo Fernández acknowledges that the misa de aguinaldo “was added, just like the Saturday votive Mass in honor of the Virgin Mary, for the preservation of the Catholic Church in these Islands.”23 When the Franciscans of the Philippines formulated their constitutions following their Provincial Chapter meeting in 1655, they confirmed that “the aguinaldo Masses must start in the doctrinas on the eighth day of the Conception,” and that these Masses were ordained “for the conservation and improvement of the islands and the conversion of pagans.”24 By the end of the first century of Spanish colonization, the practice of the misas de aguinaldo had become ingrained among Christianized communities. Alzina gave a detailed account of the aguinaldo Masses in the Visayas in the mid-seventeenth century. He attributed their local introduction to the Jesuit

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ministry, as a result of widespread devotion to the Immaculate Conception of the Most Holy Virgin. He admitted, however, that he could not trace “the origin of this very devout custom, so holy and so worthy of attention,” continuing: The first time that I heard and saw these festive performances, with the nine Masses [misas de aguinaldo], was in Mexico, where this celebration is entrenched. The seminary for natives that the Society of Jesus has in that city [Mexico City], called San Gregorio [a secondary school for Nahuas], is the first [place and] time I admired it, so much for the famous and demonstrative nature of this celebration, as for the piety and holiness of the solemnity. It is, without doubt, from there—I mean Mexico (in Spain I did not see it)—that it must have been brought to these islands, where it is celebrated with no less ostentation, and in this our ministry we do it in the best way we can, performing all the nine misas cantadas, with very good music, villancicos, musical instruments, and all that will lead to the pious demonstration of holy expectation [that is, Christmas].25 Though it appears that the misas de aguinaldo were already being practiced in the Visayas at the time of Alzina’s arrival in 1634, it is difficult to estimate the date of their introduction to the Philippine Islands. It is beyond doubt that these masses originated in Spain, in spite of Alzina not having seen them there; the word “aguinaldo” itself originally signified “a New Year’s gift or a Christmas box” but eventually came to refer to the novena of dawn Masses celebrated before the Feast of the Nativity.26 In his description of the manner of celebrating Christmas in the Visayas, Alzina considered the misas de aguinaldo to be a proper form of preparation for devotion. He noted that at the Vigil of the Nativity, following refreshments in which wine was served in moderation to the cantores, Matins was sung by the Visayan cantores “with their villancicos in the nocturns, and some in their own language so that they understand [the texts] better.”27 After the Vigil Mass, the Calenda was sung in Latin with all its appropriate music, then repeated, spoken, in Visayan.28 The Visayan language played a central role in this ritual. According to Alzina’s description, the methods of celebrating Christmas in the Visayas included the construction of a nativity scene complete with shepherds, sheep and other animals, the Magi, and a grotto so “that they may see with their own eyes,” as well as dances by small boys and the addition of Southeast Asian flavor in the form of puppet and shadow shows.29 Just as bawdy performances of vernacular-texted songs in the misa de aguinaldo had already occasioned censure in the Iberian Peninsula in the sixteenth century, their parallel enactment in the Philippines over the following two centuries incurred similar wrath, as is evident in a series of subsequent decrees. Excesses displayed in Christmas festivities during the late seventeenth century caused the archbishop of Manila, Monsignor Felipe Pardo (d. 1689), to write to the Sacred Congregation of Rites in Rome to plead for greater solemnity in the

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Nativity devotions. His letter complained of many abuses committed in the aguinaldo masses that merited correction: “The reason: some lay-people come together in choir and sing worldly songs which provoke the congregation to laughter in choir and are certainly not appropriate to the time and place. A fitting remedy must be applied to this abuse so that the scandal may be completely eradicated.”30 The response from Rome, dated January 16, 1677, gave authority to Pardo to root out such “scandalous” practices. According to the author of the “Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas,” the misas de aguinaldo had already been banned in the archbishopric of Mexico and were no longer sung there.31 He went on to transcribe Pardo’s subsequent Archdiocesan Decree of Prohibition: In as much as we have received the news that a decree has arrived prohibiting the celebration of the Masses that are sung on the nine days preceding the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ (which are commonly called “de aguinaldo”), we decree that they no longer be sung in any manner whatsoever and that their music, the instruments, and the chanzonetas are now proscribed. Since it is proper that such prohibition be observed and honored in this Archbishopric, by these present, We order that by no means the said misas de aguinaldo be sung or recited; that no rejoicings be made in the churches to the sound of music; that no instruments be played nor any chanzonetas be sung or any other songs for that matter, even though they be seemingly religious. Whoever dares to do the contrary falls under the threat of punishment which will be inflicted upon him as one disobedient to the decrees of Our Most Holy Mother the Church and Ours. And We command that this decree be posted at the gates of the churches of the City and be forwarded to the beneficiaries [clergy] so that they may become familiar with them. Given at San Gabriel, Extramuros, on October 12 in the year 1680.32 This decree evidently proved very unpopular, and the degree of protest it provoked resulted in the misas de aguinaldo being (re)approved by the Sacred Congregation on January 24, 1682, and, in the words of Pablo Fernández, “since then this mass has been continued to be said until now.”33 The power of music in the early modern Philippines was evidently so great that it led to the investment of considerable effort in procuring judgments from Rome on the suitability of popular songs’ use in religious devotions. The performance of the misas de aguinaldo appears to have been a common practice throughout the Spanish Empire. The Sacred Congregation of Rites in Rome had considered these masses to be superstitious because of the abuses of rubrics and the insertion of worldly songs, according to an eighteenth-century Dominican historian of the Philippines, Vicente de Salazar (d. 1754). Although the ban was lifted in 1682, “these Masses were not celebrated . . . as long as the Archbishop was alive”—that is, until his death in 1689. “The practice was

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eventually resumed with some moderation of the abuses that were previously customary,” continued Salazar, “[but] I do not know whether this was universal [throughout the archipelago].”34 Thus, in spite of Pardo’s efforts, the misas de aguinaldo retained their popularity, and their performative excesses were evidently not curbed in the course of the eighteenth century. But regulatory sources from this period are contradictory: some allow the Masses, whereas others do not. For example, the statutes and ordinances of the Franciscans that were formulated by the Provincial Chapter on June 8, 1726, and printed in 1732, ordered that the misas de aguinaldo were not to be sung, maintaining the custom “of many years” of avoiding their performance; caution was to be taken in following the rubrics of the missal in all the Masses of the year.35 As we noted in the previous chapter, however, the misas de aguinaldo were permitted to be celebrated in the Jesuit Colegio de Manila in the mid-eighteenth century.36 We can see from a pastoral letter of Archbishop Martínez de Arizala, dated November 4, 1751, that these masses were still being celebrated in many parts of the Philippines. The archbishop observed that an infamous abuse that had been introduced in Manila and its surrounding areas was the impious singing of the Rosary of Our Lady in the Octave of the “Most Pure” (Immaculate) Conception, in the aguinaldo Masses, Feasts of the Holy Cross, and others of the year, in which people of both sexes and all ages gathered together after having sung the Rosary on these occasions, and engaged in dances, songs, and indecent games. He considered these traditions to be more appropriate for “heretics, Gnostics, gentiles, and Muslims than for true Christians,” and his letter was a warning for priests to stamp out these practices to avoid a denunciation in his visitation of parishes.37 Yet all these observations and decrees concerning devotional songs in vernacular languages demonstrate that there was continuity of musical practice in spite of repeated legislation. Music was opposition.

Reforms of Marian Devotions and Music The comments of Archbishop Martínez de Arizala in his pastoral letter reflect concerns emerging in doctrinal discussions of the eighteenth century regarding the veneration that the Filipino people accorded to the Virgin Mary, which was seen as disproportionately greater than the honors that were rendered to the Holy Trinity. This devotion stemmed from Filipinos’ traditional reverence for mother figures, and from the beginning of the evangelistic enterprise of Spain, shrines dedicated to Mary proliferated throughout the islands.38 Reinhard Wendt has noted that the cult of the Virgin Mary in the Philippines has been interpreted by some authors as “a distant memory of pre-colonial creator goddesses and priestesses”; this perspective supports his thesis that “elements taken from traditional [Filipino] culture were accorded new attributes” within

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the Spanish colonial framework.39 Such a circumstance was, of course, by no means unusual. Elsewhere in the world, there were similar cases of the worship of sacred feminine figures transformed by Roman Catholic missionaries into the veneration of the Virgin Mary.40 The singular devotion to the practice of reciting the Rosary in mid-eighteenth-century Manila was described in detail by Murillo Velarde, who claimed not only that it was sung in street processions during the night but that in most (if not all) houses of the city, it was prayed publicly, several times a day. Furthermore, he averred, it was difficult to see a Spaniard, Filipino, or African who did not wear a rosary or pray it every day.41 In the Filipino towns observed by Murillo Velarde, the Rosary was sung in houses, in the streets, and during voyages; the Salve Regina was also sung to “the most beautiful harmony.”42 On Saturday afternoons the Rosary was chanted or sung by the entire community and the Salve was sung in Tagalog (or other indigenous languages). On Sundays, before Mass began, a procession of youths would carry a standard bearing an image of the Virgin, singing the Doctrine all around the town so that the people would gather together.43 Juan Francisco de San Antonio listed similar devotions in his history of the Franciscan Province, stating that the tradition of sending children into the streets singing the Rosary was both endorsed and mandated by Archbishop Bermúdez de Castro.44 Although many accounts of Marian devotions approve the popular piety that was manifested in public displays of religiosity during the seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, regulations and reforms subsequently began to be formulated to temper these practices. Deviation from the orthodox doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church was clearly considered problematic and was debated at great length in the proceedings of both the Council of Manila and the Synod of Calasiao. Through religious conversion, Filipinos had apparently succeeded in effecting the inversion and even subversion of the imposed religious doctrine. Barrion observes that “the devotion of the laity to the Blessed Mother was a reality, a devotion that was an integral portion of their Christian life. . . So great was the veneration shown to the Blessed Virgin that many of the faithful believed she was God.”45 In a similar vein, Pablo Fernández asserts that some of the converted population rendered divine honors to Mary that “they refused to her Son, whom they did not consider as a true God.”46 According to a letter written in Latin by an unnamed Jesuit on December 13, 1771, Archbishop Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina proposed at the Council of Manila to abolish the solemn votive Mass of the Blessed Virgin Mary (sung every Saturday “for the preservation and spread of the Catholic religion”) “under the pretext that the Indians [that is, the Filipinos] might not [thereby] be led into idolatry and the worship of Mary as a goddess.”47 This idea was strongly opposed by the bishop of Nueva Cáceres, however, who left the assembly in an indignant rage. Although the votive Mass was ultimately not abolished, other measures moderating Marian devotion were set in place, and in

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1773 the Acts of the Synod of Calasiao reflected the changes proposed to spiritual exercises: “we forbid, wherever it is done, the daily singing of the ‘Salve Regina,’ except on Saturdays, Sundays, and on high feasts of our Lord Jesus Christ and of His Most Blessed Mother. On these days we command that the Church bells be rung at a convenient time in the afternoon to summon the faithful for the singing of the ‘Salve Regina’ which is to be followed by the recitation of the holy Rosary in the church or going in procession through the streets.”48 Similarly, local practices concerning the praying of the Rosary in the Diocese of Nueva Segovia were condemned, even though the synod acknowledged the Rosary as an easy and convenient form of devotion: “We have noticed that in many parts of our Bishopric, the Rosary is recited without saying the mysteries corresponding to the day; instead they have introduced some verses which they sing, and which, apart from making the recitation of the Rosary very boring, no one understands[,] not even the singers themselves.”49 To counter this practice, it was ordered that anyone reciting the Rosary must say “the mysteries of the Rosary corresponding to that day.” The reference to the incomprehensibility of the verses that interpolated the prayers of the Rosary brings to mind the frustration of Alzina, who found that the indigenous poetry of deepest emotive power had metaphorical texts that bore little relation to colloquial vocabulary, as noted in an earlier chapter.50 The practice of chanting or singing the Rosary while processing through the streets was banned to all except children; children were also permitted to sing the Salve Regina daily.51 This concession is a clear demonstration of the religious authorities’ intention to indoctrinate younger generations of Filipinos and instill in them a sense of piety that they would, in time, pass on to their offspring. Adults were recommended to pray four decades of the Rosary in church with great devotion on principal feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary and were also permitted to solemnize the feast with a procession—but only when the parish priest could attend, ostensibly to supervise—followed by the Litany of the Blessed Virgin.52 In other reforms of Marian devotions, Bishop García commanded that no bells should be rung in any church of the diocese when images of the Virgin were exposed; “this should be done only for the Sacramental Presence of Jesus Christ” (that is, at the Eucharist).53 All these measures were intended for the official theological hierarchies to be maintained and reinforced among the Christianized indigenous population through control of musical expression, thus “correcting” localized “deviations” of religious belief. The figure of the Virgin Mary remained central to the faith and devotion of the people, however, and was promoted by Church authorities who wished to “engrave and impress in the hearts of the faithful a loving devotion and tender affection to Mary.”54 Regarding the irreligious rendering of the Rosary, it was not only bishops or archbishops who expressed displeasure. Simón de Anda y Salazar (1701–76),

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the governor-in-exile during the British occupation of Manila, strongly voiced his disapproval of excesses that were purportedly committed by Archbishop Rojo del Río in the 1760s. In a letter addressed directly to Rojo del Río, the governor claimed that the archbishop had used the inspection of a ship that was under construction at Cavite as a pretext to go to that port and celebrate in grand style. Anda y Salazar alleged that the archbishop had invited and pressured ladies from Manila (whether Spanish, mestiza, or Filipina we do not know) to travel to Cavite, where he encouraged and impelled them to sing secular songs while going around the town. These ladies interpolated the songs with a recitation of the Rosary at a church, and then attended a dance party at the archbishop’s local accommodation, where he effectively acted as the dancing master and persuaded them to perform lascivious dances.55 Anda y Salazar considered this behavior by a senior prelate to constitute gross misconduct and set a bad moral example for the people. It thus seems that the practice of peppering the Rosary with secular songs extended to the Spanish population of the Philippines (and the Rosary itself may have been sung to popular melodies). The apparently scandalous episode just related shows clearly that the temptation of incorporating profane music into devotional practices was widespread throughout colonial society. Dancing was also considered by some authorities to lower moral standards. Rojo del Río’s behavior at Cavite provided Anda y Salazar with evidence for blatant irreligiosity, which he could readily use to attack his rival. Secular music offered an easy target for criticism, of course, because it could easily be accused of distracting people from spiritual matters. On the other hand, music for church had more complex regulations—but these were also subject to varied interpretation.

Liturgical Music and Instrumental Practice The statutes, ordinances, and constitutions of religious orders often detail the type and amount of music allowed or mandated in the Filipino parishes under their care. For example, Dominican Río instructed that “an inviolable law is set in place in our churches that from the Sanctus until the Agnus [Dei] nothing should be sung, nor should instruments be played.”56 Musicians in the Dominican parishes were to be treated specially, and Río commanded that the tiples should be instructed separately from the rest of the children, in their own school.57 The indoctrination of youth in both religious and musical terms was of course essential to the continuation of the evangelistic project and the preservation of the Roman Catholic Church. Augustinian Díaz Toledano devoted a large chapter section to a discussion of how the cantores should be instructed and stated that the parish priest (the “perfect pastor” of his book’s title) could not employ his time any better than in teaching these musicians how to

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“pronounce well” the Psalms, Antiphons, and other parts of the liturgy.58 Much of his chapter is given over to a discussion of the history of liturgical music and whether polyphony is an acceptable form of divine praise. He points out that neither Saint Augustine nor Saint Jerome knew of polyphony, “as it was invented in the eleventh century.” Although the Philippines represented a relatively recent extension of Christendom, Díaz Toledano’s reference to Christian figures of late antiquity and the Middle Ages affirms the continuity of ecclesiastical tradition in a new territory, as well as the persistence or reproduction of old prejudices. Probably a great deal of what was sung in the churches of the early modern Philippines (just like their counterparts in Europe) was improvised polyphony, with local and spontaneous interpretations of contrapuntal rules.59 Although this Augustinian writer concedes that the invention of counterpoint has “lowered the gravity and authority of the church”—we see that even Spaniards could take an oppositional view of musical counterpoint—he admits that it should not be dismissed out of hand, but tolerated and permitted. Nevertheless, he still proclaims that the singing of cantinelas and recitados “lacking seriousness” (“cantinelas, ó recitados agenos de la gravedad”) is “worthy of condemnation.”60 In his Practica del ministerio, Ortiz also gives a detailed description of musical requirements in the parishes administered by the Augustinian order. The minister was required to sing Mass on Fridays and Saturdays, as well as on major feasts, and to say Mass on Sunday, although the cantores would “sing the sung masses.” On all feast days, Vespers would be sung as well as Mass. The Salve was to be sung on Saturdays, in some places in the mornings and in others the afternoon, depending on the custom of each province. In the case of the former, the Litany of Our Lady would also be sung during Mass, after the Sanctus. For the latter, the Litany and the Rosary would follow the Salve. Every day, an adult cantor together with the tiples would sing the Te Deum Laudamus and the Prime of Our Lady very early in the morning; at two o’clock in the afternoon they would sing the Vespers of Our Lady and the appropriate Antiphon.61 The role of music in Filipino ministries and doctrinas administered by the Franciscan order is set out in great detail in the Estatutos y ordenaciones. Music in such settings was clearly elaborate; the consideration and regulation of the organization of schools for cantores, the acquisition and care of musical commodities, and the role of music in the Divine Office all attest to the prevalence of musical culture and the extent to which its use was controlled. In the schools of Franciscan parishes, where children learned to read, write, count, sing, and serve at Mass, the maestro—who had to be the most skillful and talented cantor of the parish—was required to teach plainchant and polyphony, recorder, and “all musical instruments that are customarily played in the churches.”62 According to this publication, the Franciscan vow of poverty entailed the prohibition of organs within any convent of the community, but organs, harps,

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and other instruments were licensed to be used by Filipinos in the parishes, “at the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and in other divine praises.” Greater concessions were thus made to Filipinos than to European religious, on the grounds that value was accorded to musical instruments in attracting Filipinos to worship and consolidating the important position of musical practice within ecclesiastical rituals. Ministers of religion were informed, however, that “the penalty for allowing instruments to be bought or made without the permission of the aforementioned license is suspension of one’s office for two months.”63 Organs appear to have proliferated throughout the Franciscan parishes. In an account of a journey made in 1790 throughout the Province of Batangas, Augustinian Castro related that “I have seen in all the provinces of the Philippines administered by the discalced Franciscan Fathers, and some of the Dominicans, large and good bells, and fine organs in all [of] them.”64 In the Franciscan parishes, the care of instruments and music books was the responsibility of the minister, who was required to provide these commodities and, if necessary, renew them with church alms or with the alms of the convent. Some responsibility was also delegated to the maestro of the cantores, who would be warned by the minister that users of these items would have to pay for them if they were lost or destroyed.65 All the cantores in the Franciscan parishes who were married or exempted from tribute by virtue of their service to the church were obliged to sing at Vespers of every Sunday and of feast days observed by the Filipinos, as well as Prime, Mass, and Vespers for the principal classical feasts of the Franciscan order, the Benediction on Fridays, and on Saturdays the Prime, Mass of Our Lady, Vespers, and Salve. On all these days they had to go to the school with the maestro, to learn what they had to sing and repeat what they had learned, “so as not to forget it.” They also attended the ceremonies in honor of deceased religious.66 At Prime, there were to be two strokes of the bell following mental prayer, and the youths of the school would process to the church with their maestro following behind, praying the Confession or any prayer from the Christian doctrine; having arrived at the church, the maestro de los cantores would sing the Te Deum with the verse and prayer of the Most Holy Trinity. Once this had concluded, the Prime of the Officio parvo (Little Office) of the Blessed Virgin Mary would be sung, then the Conventual Mass would follow while bells were being rung. On feast days that required the altars to be covered in purple, the Litany of Our Lady would be sung in place of the Te Deum; the Estatutos y ordenaciones also permitted the playing of the organ, if the parish owned one, and other instruments at Mass.67 As we have seen, the surviving regulations for liturgical music and instrumental practice relate primarily to Augustinian, Dominican, and Franciscan parishes (around two-fifths of the total number in the mid-eighteenth century), but it is likely that in parishes administered by the Jesuits, the Recollects, and the secular clergy, similarly strict rules were set in place.

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Regulations of Theatrical Performances Religious authorities were determined not to allow churches to turn into “theaters,” but it seems that theaters themselves were subject to almost as many restrictions as religious spaces were. In early modern Manila, theatrical genres from European and Asian traditions alike were often censored or prohibited outright. The implications for musical performance in the context of theatrical regulations are considerable, given the high level of involvement of song and instrumental music in most dramatic genres of the Hispanic world. Whereas the indigenous theater underwent a great deal of change during the colonial period, the imported Chinese and Spanish theatrical traditions appear to have retained stylistic links with practices of their respective mother countries. As early as 1589, Dominican Juan Cobo (1546/7–92) noted that “the Chinese also have comedies . . . They act in loud voices with gestures and they sing a great part of what we would recite.”68 Cobo had developed a detailed knowledge of Chinese language and customs, which allowed him to sniff out and censor (or censure) what he saw as “superstition and idolatry” in many theatrical and musical performances by the Chinese. His apparent knowledge of the Chinese language enabled him to inform Cristóbal de Salvatierra (the local representative of Bishop Salazar after Salazar’s return to Spain in 1591) that their theatrical works contained elements of “superstition and idolatry.” According to Aduarte, whose work was published posthumously in 1640, these Chinese performances were very popular, and Spanish men and women would go out at night to see them. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the texts were required to be read and approved by Spanish religious officials versed in the Chinese language, before they could receive a license for performance.69 On February 20, 1701, Archbishop Camacho y Ávila issued an outright ban of three dramatic genres: comedias, coloquios, and entremeses.70 This ruling applied to all works, regardless of the style and language in which they were written. They could only be performed if their texts were submitted to the archbishop’s provisor or vicar general for examination two months before the intended performance.71 Camacho also mandated that no women should take part in such performances, and that they should “in no way be obscene, nor treat amorous or illicit subjects, nor incite evil.”72 The archbishop restricted the performance of theatrical works because he believed they had the potential to damage public morality. Pedro Rubio Merino has observed that the sorts of “dangers” that theatrical performances presented were amplified in the Indies, where the environment created by the social mixing of different ethnic groups contributed to the supposed relaxation of moral norms, seen most clearly on the occasion of such performances, when order could “break down.” He notes that among Camacho’s objections was the performance of dances involving both genders.73

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A major offense against this ruling was committed in 1702 by Sargento Mayor Don Mateo López y Perea, whose military company (the Tercio de Manila) presented farces and entremeses as part of the festivities for the feast of the Immaculate Conception. In spite of his high military and social ranking, this man was excommunicated by the archbishop, thus providing for the populace an example of the severity of punishment for all levels of the population.74 A real cédula of August 12, 1705, reaffirmed that no (theatrical) composition in Castilian or any local dialect could be performed without prior censorship and approval from the governing authority.75 The Franciscan Estatutos y ordenaciones, however, permitted Filipino players to present one or more comedias in any of the order’s convents (except one) on major feast days. These performances probably took place in plazas, courtyards, or certain salas (internal rooms). Dramatic works were not allowed to be played inside the churches attached to the convents, however, unless they were a short and devout coloquio for Christmas Eve; the first offense against this rule would result in the suspension of the convent guardian from his office for two months, and for the second offense the guardian would be relieved of his post, after severe castigation by the Franciscan Provincial. Before any comedia, entremés, or coloquio could be performed, the text had to be inspected to see whether it was “decent.” If the actors planned to make use of any religious vestments, they were to be stopped. Special effects such as the use of fire, acrobatics, or guns of any type were also prohibited. The ruling against the use of vestments could be an attempt to avert any comical or “seditious” representation of a friar that could sow political dissent, or (less likely) it could have been a simple rule to prevent the wear and tear of these expensive garments. Interestingly, no comedia was allowed to be performed in the Convento de San Francisco in Intramuros, and severe penalties were reserved for any transgressor against this rule. It seems that the Mother House in the capital officially had to appear free of anything that might be interpreted as moral turpitude.76 Other rulings applying to society at large were decreed on March 29, 1741, by Archbishop Rodríguez, who declared that “if there are any who consent to the Chinese performing their comedies and theatrical presentations, or the Spaniards or ANY NATION without license, and if these have not been first seen and examined by the Ordinary, and given his express license, IN THE MANNER WHICH HAS BEEN SANCTIONED AND MANDATED, or any who arrange for them to be performed without the said license in their ranches [estancias], lands, or properties,” they would be subject to penalties.77 This ruling demonstrates that landowners and institutions frequently engaged players to present theatrical performances on their properties, and provides evidence of the extent of this practice. Another restriction placed on theatrical performances concerned the use of arnis, a type of martial art that had precolonial origins and became a prominent feature of comedias. In 1764, Governor Anda

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y Salazar banned arnis (and other games), allowing its use only in comedias as a performative act by arnis veterans selected by the parish priests.78 Theatrical performances were certainly popular in the early modern Philippines. At the end of the eighteenth century, Castro noted the widespread existence of coliseos (theaters or amphitheaters) in Filipino towns, with the exception of those that could not afford to maintain one. Although Castro accepted that the ministers could not impede the performance of comedias, he besought them to keep their superiors informed and solicit the reformation of theatrical practices in Filipino towns. In this way works could be approved and performed according to the “laws and circumstances” of the theaters in Madrid, Mexico, and Manila; Castro states that he himself had assisted Filipino performers by doing so.79

Reforms of Processions, Celebrations, and Feasts Of course, Filipinos did not necessarily need specific spaces or buildings for performance. As mentioned in an earlier chapter, Le Gentil de la Galaisière noted in the mid-eighteenth century that the absence of an artificially constructed theatrical space made no difference to Filipinos, who were able to give dramatic performances wherever they were. Song, dance, instrumental music, and drama could all be enacted in processions, in plazas, or on temporary platforms as part of larger festivities that involved whole communities. Many of these occasions were bound up with religious observances. The celebration of religious feasts in colonial Manila was based on a hierarchy of obligation for different sections of the population, and feast days were marked on the calendar with one to three crosses. A three-cross feast was a holiday of obligation for all Spaniards and natives to hear Mass and abstain from manual labor; those with two crosses required Spaniards and Europeans to hear Mass and abstain from servile work; and one-cross feasts obliged Spaniards and Europeans to hear Mass but not refrain from working.80 The ten feasts of three crosses were holidays for the entire population, just like all Sundays throughout the year, and were comprised of the five feasts of Our Lord (Circumcision, Epiphany, Ascension, Corpus Christi, and Christmas Day), the four feasts of the Virgin Mary (Purification, Annunciation, Assumption, and Nativity), and the feast of Saints Peter and Paul. These were originally established for the indigenous peoples of the Indies by the papal bull Altitudo divini consilii, promulgated by Paul III on June 1, 1537. Though the numbers of one- and two-cross feasts (days of obligation for Spaniards and Europeans) were gradually reduced over the following centuries, the ten three-cross feasts originally mandated by Paul III (days of obligation for all Roman Catholics, regardless of ethnicity) remained unchanged during the colonial period.81 A major reform of feasts was made on November 1, 1737, by Archbishop Rodríguez, who complained that on his arrival in the islands he found such an

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excessive number of feast days were being observed that they equated to almost a third of the year.82 In a letter to the king, dated July 1, 1738, he wrote that this circumstance was due to local ignorance of the papal bull of Urban VIII, promulgated almost a century earlier, which in 1642 had reduced the number of holy days of obligation, besides Sundays, to thirty-four.83 Rodríguez thus observed that the feasts instituted by his predecessors in Manila numbered thirty more than in any other place.84 His reforms, titled Edicto sobre las fiestas, were published in a large-scale format in 1737, with the command that they be publicized in all parishes of his diocese on the first feast day of the following year. The changes mainly affected Spaniards; still, this hierarchical three-tiered structure was set in place and remained more or less unchanged throughout the nineteenth century.85 Aside from these reforms, in 1738 Rodríguez “prohibited all night processions as they were inconvenient in this land.”86 The veil of darkness evidently allowed for Filipinos to control their own movements and subvert the social order that the Spanish hierarchy wanted to impose. Nighttime also facilitated the uninhibited social mixing of people from both genders and the performance of lascivious dances (something that the colonial authorities were eager to prevent). Thus, all and any changes to the celebration of feast days—which were sponsored by both Church and Crown—had significant implications for musical performances. Filipino musicians throughout the Christianized territories of the islands expended a great deal of time and effort in preparation for feast days—as much today as in the early modern period. The censure and reduction of celebratory community performances simply meant that musical inspiration and creativity would be directed toward other recreational or devotional contexts. It is likely that Filipino musicians would have been employed to provide music for some ceremonies on one- and two-cross days, which were reserved for observance by members of higher castas in the colonial hierarchy. But celebrations for the three-cross feasts remained the most significant, because they involved all sectors of the population. They had to adhere strictly to the calendar promulgated by Archbishop Rodríguez, although every parish was of course entitled to celebrate the feast of its patron saint, as illustrated by Río’s Instrucciones morales y religiosas of 1739. This document mandated that in the Dominican parishes, the feasts of the patron saint, Corpus Christi, and Monumento should be celebrated “with the greatest possible solemnity, with sung Vespers, Mass, sermon, and [a] procession . . . On the two feasts of Corpus, and Patron [saint], there can be permitted dances, soirées, loas, and other festivities of the Filipinos, conforming to the capabilities of the town.”87 A critical issue for the successful celebration of feasts was the financial well-being of each community after the event. Some towns would run the coffers dry with too much expenditure on these occasions, but at the same time, the pride and the reputation of the town were also at stake. A balance thus had to be struck between proper celebration and proper fiscal management.

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Conclusion Colonial authorities were probably well aware of the contradictory nature of their rule. However, because they regarded their mission of hispanization and Christianization as a divinely ordained process, contradiction simply became a composite part of the immutable set of rules and regulations applied to colonial society. Contradiction also characterized the actions of the subaltern, for Filipinos and other Asian communities in the islands were often frustrated in their attempt to articulate their cultural identity through song and dance or the maintenance of ceremonies—even though many practices appear to have continued in spite of prohibitions and censorship. Nevertheless, their (probably unwitting) act of resistance was the absorption and reinterpretation of European religious practices, which appeared to be sufficiently different in their reproduction so as to cause considerable controversy and debate among colonial authorities. Functionaries of Church and Crown struggled to constrain and contain the quodlibet nature of Filipino musical and religious practices within a strict set of rules and regulations that they attempted to impose on the subjugated population. These regulations and reforms were devised by religious and state leaders to redress problems created by controversies over the population’s traditional musical practices, as well as to moderate or “correct” the syncretic devotional practices that diverged from orthodox Roman Catholic doctrine. Just like the simplest species of musical counterpoint, there was no allowance for any variation from the rules. But the centrifugal force of rulings from Manila lost some of its inertia in the provinces: greater distance from the capital allowed for greater dilution of the strict decrees that were issued. Of course, the colonial government attempted to counteract any laxity by organizing regular visitation by ecclesiastical authorities and by constantly replenishing religious posts with recruits from Manila, Mexico, and Spain. In addition to this form of control, Spanish discrimination between different levels of the colonial casta system meant that each level would develop its own cultural identity and, moreover, the behavioral standards that were expected from each stratum would become rigorously enforced by society at large. Yet these constructed boundaries could be either intensified or dissolved in different contexts of musical and dramatic performances. As we see in the next chapter, disparate elements of the population regularly converged for the celebration of festivities, in which some parts of the social order could be inverted or subverted. Filipinos made the Hispanic fiesta their own, simultaneously embracing features of the introduced religion, appropriating cultural traits of immigrant groups, defending indigenous identities, and contesting heteronomy.88

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Fiesta filipina: Celebrations in Manila

Fiestas (feasts or festivities) in early modern Manila and throughout the Philippine archipelago were focal points of celebration and music-making that involved the entire spectrum of the population. Significantly, fiestas embodied the active participation of Manila—the most distant colony of Spain—in the political affairs, theological discourses, and ideological debates of the rest of the empire. They provided an unparalleled local opportunity for musical, theatrical, and artistic expression, and a considerable portion of Manila’s civic budget was spent on them.1 Many accounts stress—usually in hyperbolic tones—the contribution of all ethnic groups in the city to a display of loyalty to Spain and the empire. Because almost all of the sources pertaining to these fiestas were produced by the elite of Manila’s society, however, we are presented with an inherent bias in their perspective, which complicates any attempt to make meaningful evaluations of the extent to which different ethnic groups or social castas were involved in the celebrations. Early modern authors carefully molded descriptions of events to meet (or mold in turn) the expectations of the rulers of an idealized Hispanic world, and so we are presented with the idealized view of a utopian, multiracial community bound together by collective loyalty and in carrying out ceremonies that upheld and legitimated the authority of Church and Crown.2 In Manila and its environs, it could be argued, non-European peoples benefited from a greater degree of integration into the commercial and cultural life of the metropolis than their counterparts in Latin American cities. This state of affairs was probably due to the smaller number of Spaniards in the Philippines, a steady commerce with neighboring countries and across the Pacific, and the constantly fluctuating population of visiting foreigners, all of which are typical attributes of a port city at the crossroads of trade.3 But racial segregation in Manila was, in fact, rigorously imposed, and ethnic categories

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were rigidly defined. This segregation extended to the production of fiestas; surviving records indicate that different parts of the fiesta were reserved for different sections of the community. Thus the fiesta simultaneously upheld and reinforced colonialist ideologies. Mikhail Bakhtin (1895–1975) identified the idea of the “carnivalesque”— the celebratory part of a feast, as opposed to the official, ritualized components—as a form of public celebration that can momentarily suspend and invert the hierarchies of stratified societies (an apt representation of invertible counterpoint in our metaphor). But other scholars have argued against the “emancipatory potential” of festivities. They point out that the deliberate official approbation of an apparently subversive public event may in fact have underscored the intensification of hegemony.4 Another view, offered by Reinhard Wendt, is more nuanced: he asserts that fiestas in the Philippines “were by no means simply a cultural-imperialistic instrument in the hand of colonial masters, used to establish and buttress their power. The same festivals, steeped in the traditions of the Christian West, presented the indigenous population with a means to assert themselves culturally under changed political and economic conditions, and even eventually to resist heteronomy outright.”5 We see, then, that the Filipinos’ active appropriation of hispanized practices contributed to the gradual acquisition of an increasing amount of cultural control. While Spanish colonial authorities manipulated the rules of strict counterpoint, Filipinos and other Asian communities constituted the fundamental bass (or base) on which the rest of the contrapuntal fabric (or superstructure) rested. In the revolutionary era of the late nineteenth century, the strict rules of counterpoint eventually disintegrated as the ancien régime of colonialism gave way to struggles for independence. In all the components of fiestas, ritualized and celebratory alike (representing strict and free counterpoint respectively), musical practice provided a central point of interface between contrasting cultures, races, and religions, even though the musics of these groups had quite different meanings. Fiestas were divided nominally into civic and religious celebrations, but there was considerable overlap between these categories. Civic events involved religious observance, and religious celebrations involved the patronage of the city’s officials. A clearer dichotomy, however, can be seen in the two groupings of “seasonal” and “occasional” fiestas. The seasonal religious fiestas were rigorously codified by the ecclesiastical rulers (whose pronouncements were upheld by secular functionaries), and these holy days entered into annual cycles that became immutable, with the inclusion of musical elaborations that were relatively standardized. By contrast, the occasional (or “one-off ”) fiestas—commemorating such events as royal births, accessions, marriages, and funerals; royal, gubernatorial, and religious entries into the city; or beatifications and canonizations—necessitated performances that were innovative and specific to

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every occasion, with various factions of society attempting to outdo one another in splendor and invention. This final chapter surveys some of these celebrations, exploring aspects of the imperial ideologies of loyalty, ceremony, and racial integration in musical performances that took place in early modern Manila. We will see how “baroque” music was reproduced at the farthest geographical limits of the Spanish Empire—and how the term “baroque” itself was reinterpreted in extraEuropean contexts by a French commentator in the late eighteenth century as a result of witnessing Chinese musical performances in Manila. It will also become apparent how music in these metropolitan celebrations enabled the populace to express a collective identity while at the same time reinforcing rigid social and racial hierarchies.

Festivities for Royal Occasions Royal accessions, births, and marriages were all celebrated in Manila to reinforce local loyalty to empire and emphasize Spanish sovereignty over the islands in visual and aural terms. Portraits of the royal figures were often displayed for the populace, as they were in other parts of the empire; in 1678, for instance, “reverence” to a portrait of Carlos II was made during the performance of a sarao in the celebrations for his accession to the throne.6 Portraits of royalty were also taken through the streets of the city on floats in the midst of performances, and obeisances were made before them. For example, a loa was performed by mestizos before portraits of the prince and princess of Castile in 1766, as Le Gentil de la Galaisière described.7 Although this type of practice, also prevalent throughout Latin America, appears in some ways not dissimilar to the Chinese veneration of ancestor portraits and might have been viewed with some empathy by the Chinese population, effigies and likenesses of Spanish royalty usually acted as potent visual symbols of both imperial sovereignty and colonial oppression. Following the accession of the House of Bourbon to the throne of Spain in 1700, public celebrations were held in Manila just as elsewhere in the Spanish Empire (but unfortunately the official account from Manila seems to have been lost).8 Just seven years later, news of the birth of Prince Luis Felipe Fernando (1707–24), the eldest son and heir of Felipe V, gave rise to state-sponsored celebrations throughout the empire, as the prince embodied the continuation of the Bourbon bloodline on the Spanish throne (although he had a relatively short life). This news was greeted with some of the most extravagant festivities ever held in Manila during the eighteenth century.9 Surviving evidence shows that at least three distinct events were held by various groups in the city. The most substantial were those spanning December 10 to 18, 1708, and January 6

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to 8, 1709, which included Masses, military displays, and the performances of comedias, entremeses, at least six new villancicos, and twelve loas.10 The novena of December 1708 included “a graceful entremés, in the style of the land,” a description that probably implies a drama in Tagalog verse.11 On the following days there were runnings of the bulls, Tagalog and Chinese celebrations, masquerades, and fireworks.12 Newly composed loas by Augustinians Gaspar de San Agustín and Nicolás de San Pedro del Castillo (a Spanish mestizo, d. 1715) preceded performances of imported comedias by Mexican poetess Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, including Amor es más laberinto and Los empeños de una casa, works whose texts indicate considerable musical involvement within the drama.13 As the festivities moved on to the civic celebration of the birthday of the king and birth of the prince, three works by mestizo Augustinian San Pedro del Castillo were premiered, and surviving texts show that each of them involved a considerable amount of music.14 The first is a vejamen (a festive literary genre that can be written in verse or prose), which features singing by the characters Musica and Juno, as well as by two choirs.15 The first half, which begins “Ola, ola, a de los cielos,” displays elaborate polychoral exchanges between Musica, Juno, and four unnamed soloists; in the second half, Juno and Musica engage in a lively debate, with Juno declaiming verses in Spanish and Musica responding to each with a Bible verse in Latin.16 The conclusion of this spectacular work was followed by a procession with a “carro Triumphal” (triumphal float) entering the plaza mayor of the city, where the former performance had presumably also taken place. The carro approached the balconies of the palace, and a loa was performed in the presence of the governor. The author of this loa is not specified in the record of the festivities, but Retana maintains that it was also San Pedro del Castillo.17 Multiethnic displays of loyalty were also noted in accounts of festivities in Manila that celebrated royal betrothals and marriages that had taken place in Europe. In some ways their descriptions could be considered to have intentionally symbolized “marriage” between different ethnic groups of the empire. For instance, verses were written to describe how Filipinos, Japanese, and Africans all joined in dancing for the joint nuptials of the prince of Asturias with the Infanta of Portugal, and the Portuguese prince of Brazil with the Infanta of Spain.18 Similarly, a 1749 account of festivities for the accession of Fernando VI offers detailed descriptions of the performance of loas in Spanish by Tagalog declaimers and the use of Chinese instruments.19 Royal deaths were also commemorated in Manila by all factions of the population; in these cases, however, the descriptions of music (at least those known so far) do not mention any performance styles other than European.20 For example, the death of Spain’s Crown Prince Balthasar Carlos (1629–46) resulted in elaborate public processions, vigils, and funerary rites.21 An anonymous writer recorded that “this whole community constituted a theater of grief,” and that the display of emotions was fitting to the loyalty felt by each person, causing amazement among

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“the barbarous nations who carry out trade in these islands.” During a procession, each religious community in order “sang its responsory with different ensembles of musicians [capillas de músicos],” who were “so skilled that they could compete with those of Europe.” The following day, all religious participants met in the capilla real before sunrise “with the contribution of all the different choirs [ensembles] of musicians.” There, “at different altars, to which they were assigned, each group sang its Mass, and afterwards its responsory in front of the royal catafalque,” before the Office of the Dead commenced.22 Similar events celebrating the deaths of kings and queens are related in published accounts.23 All these commemorations serve to reinforce the idea of monarchy that was created and upheld in overseas territories, where the vassals of a king or queen were required to express loyalty and devotion to a leader they would never see (even though effigies were created as objects for devotion, and catafalques were constructed). But by contrast, eminent persons who physically entered Manila became tangible and human focal points of celebration.

Entries to the City In early modern Europe, royal entries into cities assumed an important propagandic role in publicly emphasizing the imposition of sovereignty and the divine right of the monarch to rule. As Tess Knighton and Carmen Morte García have noted, “music and dancing of various kinds” in royal entries to European cities “all formed part of a royal spectacle devised according to the political process of image-making.”24 In Southeast Asia, entries of important personages into Manila similarly occasioned jubilant celebration; these included entries of governors, religious groups, bishops and archbishops, sacred images, and even Asian nobility. Such performances enhanced local concepts of connection with the empire at large and the notion of intransigent authority wielded from across two oceans. The most important political figure in the islands was the governor, and considerable funds paid by the city were allocated to his official reception on arrival.25 Some of the most extravagant festivities were those held in 1793 for the arrival of Governor Rafael María de Aguilar y Ponce de León with his wife and son; these celebrations lasted six days and included dances, musical performances, refreshments, and banquets.26 It was not only on initial arrival to the islands that the islands’ ruler was feted. Following the military conquests of Governor Hurtado de Corcuera in Mindanao, he was welcomed back to Manila on May 24, 1637 with peals of bells and the performance of a villancico.27 An official feast of thanksgiving was held on June 7, and the procession that preceded it “was enlivened by a great variety of dances and similar exhibitions, accompanied by various musical instruments and two portable organs.”28 Polychorality, music, and dance all surrounded religious processions, which were events that sometimes lasted

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several days. One of the lengthiest descriptions of an extravagant entry to the city of Manila is Murillo Velarde’s account of mid-eighteenth-century festivities in honor of the arrival of Our Lady of Peace and of Good Voyage (the Virgin of Antipolo). It is worth considering this text at length, as it demonstrates the central role that music played in this type of celebration.29 As we saw in chapter 1, this image had accompanied many galleon voyages across the Pacific as a spiritual protectress. In the islands, she was usually enshrined in the town of Antipolo (close to Manila), where a strong cult grew up and took root in the national consciousness.30 In 1748, the Virgin returned to the Philippines from her last transpacific voyage, and was welcomed with “the most solemn reception ever seen in these islands.”31 On January 23, the governor, archbishop, many members of the religious orders, “almost all the [Spanish] citizenry, and innumerable people” went to the beach to welcome the Virgin. Amid artillery salvoes and fireworks, a procession singing hymns and praises accompanied the image to the Convento de Santo Domingo; the following day, the Virgin was removed to the chapel of the governor’s palace, where devotees could visit and render praise.32 On February 18, the image left the city in a fluvial procession, accompanied by the governor himself in the same champana (boat), and many other richly adorned champanas carrying Spaniards, Filipinos, Chinese, and representatives of “other nations.”33 This order reflected the social hierarchy of the Virgin’s devotees, according to the precepts of the colonial casta system. During the two-day trip to Antipolo, the procession passed the town of Pasig, where the banks of the river were lined with arches, flags, hangings, and altars. Murillo Velarde relates that “the procession halted before two of these [altars], as the Most Holy Virgin was feted with elegant devotional loas, and with beautiful songs by smooth and gentle voices, accompanied by sweet tuneful instruments. The harmonious consonance of fiddles [rabeles], harps, violoncellos, flutes, and oboes was matched by the continuous shots of the fireworks, the horror of one sound, and the smoothness of the other, interpolated by the joyful warlike harmonies of drums, horns, and clarions.”34 In the midst of dances, songs, instrumental music, litanies, masses, and other celebrations, the procession arrived at Antipolo on February 20; on the entry of the Virgin into the church, a polychoral Te Deum was performed to instrumental accompaniment by the choir of the capilla real of Manila and choirs of many other towns.35 The following day was designated as the day of festivity, with Mass being accompanied by the musicians of the capilla real and a sermon preached by Spanish mestizo Jesuit Sanlúcar. Subsequently, the female Marian sodality of Antipolo (known as “Las Congragantas de la Santisima [sic] Virgen”) began the celebrations: “with great affection and devotion they sang the Aba po, or Salve, in Tagalog,” which was followed by the singing of poetic verses of praise and welcome in “elegant meter.”36 Dances depicting Asia, Africa, America, and

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Europe were performed with appropriate costume, songs, and instrumental music. After all these exotic displays, however, Murillo Velarde seems to have been most impressed by the culmination of the festivities, which was marked by performances of European music: These two nights there were two serenatas, in which were sung Spanish and foreign compositions, old and modern; in which the best of the art was demonstrated in arias, recitatives, fugues, graves, and all other variety of genres, and good taste [was demonstrated] with some seasoned farces. Many wind and string instruments were played with delicacy, alternating with the voices of trebles, altos, and tenors, who sang with great gracefulness, elegance, and skill, for in this town were gathered the best and most skillful voices, and the most intelligent musicians of these islands. And without difficulty the two serenatas could have earned applause in any large European city.37 By “foreign,” it is likely that Murillo Velarde means that the music came from European countries other than Spain: it was possibly Italian or French. But as is the case with so many other sources, the text offers us little more than a hazy idea of what repertory was performed on this occasion. This lengthy account brings a number of issues to the fore. The plurality of symbolism(s) that the Virgin of Antipolo provided for the colonial population as a whole allowed for different sectors to render praise and devotion in their own way, similar to the veneration of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Latin America.38 The Virgin of Antipolo’s arrival at Manila (following successful protection of a galleon’s return voyage across the Pacific) consolidated her blessing of transoceanic imperial connections in the eyes of the faithful. Furthermore, the colonial government’s “borrowing” of the brown-skinned image from the Tagalog town of Antipolo, where the Virgin was watched over by a staunch group of devotees, symbolically acknowledged the devotion of the Spaniards to the same spiritual protectress as the Filipinos and the debt they owed to the Filipino guardians of Antipolo. Respect for the same divine entity mediated between different ethnic groups in this colonial context. Few other writers give such a detailed step-by-step account of celebrations for official entries to Manila, but from around the same time there survives a Spanish description of a royal entry—the only entry into the capital by a monarch in person rather than effigy—made, ironically, not by a Christian ruler but by the Muslim sultan of Sulu, ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ I.39 As we noted in an earlier chapter, the moro courts in Mindanao and Sulu had long been a thorn in the side of the Spanish government in Manila, but ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ I, who had acceded to his throne in 1735, sued for peace with Spain in 1737, and a five-point treaty was signed. The following decade, however, the sultan was deposed by his brother and sought Spanish aid to regain his throne.40 He arrived in Manila on January 3,

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1749, with a retinue of seventy.41 Fifteen days later, the “public entry” was staged; this delay demonstrates the symbolic nature of such an event, which had to be carefully prepared and rehearsed for it to have its full impact. During the initial procession, there was “continuous music of sonorous instruments”; in each city neighborhood the citizens competed for “sweetness, and melody . . . with trilling graces, low sighs, pauses, and echoes . . . With trebles, with tenors, and altos, multiple voices, and numerous choirs, [they] celebrated the entry of the Sultan with [much] more than just plainchant.”42 This example of such jubilant celebrations for the official entry into a Spanish city by an Islamic ruler appears to be unprecedented and unparalleled in the early modern Spanish Empire—and possibly never repeated. With the prospect of peace with the moros, the honors accorded to ’Azīm ud-Dīn by the Spanish citizens of Manila were akin to victory celebrations not unlike those following Hurtado de Corcuera’s conquest of Mindanao. For the residents of Manila, the potential for the sultan’s conversion to the Christian faith heralded the possibility for lasting peace in the region. Juan de Arechederra—then bishop of Nueva Segovia and acting governor of the islands, who wrote a detailed account of ’Azīm ud-Dīn’s entry—compared Manila’s reception of the sultan to Moorish-Christian relations in Spain during the reconquista.43 Celebrations such as these probably contributed to the development of the moro-moro genre, a music-drama depicting a conflict between Christians and Muslims, which became exceedingly popular in the nineteenth century.44 Amid great controversy among the religious leaders of Manila (many of whom doubted the sultan’s readiness), ’Azīm ud-Dīn received baptism into the Roman Catholic faith on April 28, 1750—in the nearby town of Paniqui, beyond the jurisdiction of ecclesiastical opponents to this event—and was named Fernando I, king of Jolo.45 Subsequently, he was welcomed back (again) to the city with great jubilation; a proclamation was put out to all residents of Intramuros and Extamuros ordering four days of “luminarias,” three days of mojigangas (masquerades), three days of bullfights, four nights of fireworks with three comedias, and, to crown the celebrations, a panegyrical Mass of thanksgiving.46 The mojigangas of the Filipinos, mestizos, and Chinese began the festivities; they were performed with a procession of carros (with fire) accompanied by “choirs of music with loas [composed] especially for the occasion, and fantastic spectacles, together with dances and many inventions, which were at the time very pleasant, and very joyous.”47 The other ingredients of Hispanic festivities—bullfights, fireworks, and comedias—were probably contrived with the intention of astonishing the new Christian monarch. Whether they had the desired effect, however, we do not know. Arechederra describes how the ideological conquest of Jolo’s dynasty would continue, comparing it to a similar case in Latin America. The eldest son and daughter of ’Azīm ud-Dīn would be brought to Manila for instruction in Spanish religious institutions; Arechederra theorizes that since this plan

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worked for the Inca of Peru, “to assure their conquest,” it should also work in this Southeast Asian case.48 But in 1751, on ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ ’s return to the south together with Spanish allies, Spaniards found letters written by him in Arabic that were suspected to contain treasonable intent—he had reported that in converting he had been forced to act under duress—and he was unceremoniously brought back to Manila and imprisoned there for more than a decade.49 It was only in 1762 that he was freed and then restored to his throne by the British forces that were occupying Manila at the time.50 The entries of several other noble non-Europeans into Manila occasioned similar expressions of jubilation, but had outcomes that were more fortunate for the parties in question. Among the mass exodus of Christians from Japan in 1614, a number of distinguished converts, including daimyō (warlord) Justo Takayama Ukon (1553–1615) and his entire household, sailed directly from Nagasaki to Manila, where they were greeted and given a ceremonial welcome by the Jesuits and other religious congregations. As Colín recounted, the procession entered Intramuros, and because in the path from the palace to our [Jesuit] College they were obliged to pass by the Cathedral and Convento de San Agustín, they were saluted in both places with a peal of bells, and the capitulars and religious came out of their doors to receive them. Seeing this, they were obliged to enter into these churches and make a brief prayer, accompanied by music of the ministriles, organs, and other instruments. In our College they were given the same reception, and with the same solemnity and festivity: adding to this a Te Deum Laudamus in thanksgiving, sung in polyphony by a very good choir.51 Within the Spanish Empire as a whole, Manila appears to have distinguished itself by honoring non-Europeans with such elaborate festivities—a phenomenon rarely seen in the overseas territories of other early modern European empires, although within Europe itself, many non-European embassies were honored with extravagant celebrations.52 At the most distant frontiers of the Spanish Empire, such acts had to be deliberately and carefully orchestrated (and choreographed), with due consideration of the religious persuasions or political motives of the intended visitors from adjacent regions. The survival of the isolated Spanish colony on the doorstep of Asia necessitated delicate diplomatic negotiations with powerful neighbors, and also the assertion of Spain’s religious identity and the military strength of its empire.

Beatifications and Canonizations, Seasonal and Votive Festivities An endogamous European expatriate community that was far removed from its mother country in the early modern period needed to exaggerate and

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reinforce its own cultural practices and traditions to maintain a sense of identity. The Spaniards in Manila did so by keeping abreast of the latest political and religious developments in Europe and the Americas, even going to the extent of reproducing or imitating important “one-off” church ceremonies. From the late seventeenth century onward, lengthy accounts were published of celebrations surrounding beatifications and canonizations; several include full texts of new compositions that had been commissioned locally for the occasion.53 In 1742, Dominican Diego Saenz reported on festivities held the previous year in honor of the beatification of “the new Dominican star” Pope Benedict XI (1240–1304), enthusing hyperbolically: And so that all outside the Temple [church] [there] would be a poor imitation of glory, there were heard sweet motets, soft alleluias, and melodious canticles of exultation to the sound of tuneful instruments ([with] the voices of men serving to imitate those of Angels), those which were directed to the Majesty [of God] occupying the throne, [and those that] filled the Catholic hearts of all the Filipinos with devotion and jubilation.54 The periodic announcements of beatifications and canonizations gave an opportunity for the religious congregations of the islands to celebrate in grand style. Following official ceremonies in Rome, repetition or confirmation in Manila symbolized the worldwide nature of religious connections and some imposed form of standardization: the blesseds or saints in question were seen to intercede no less for Catholics in the Philippines than for those in Europe. A sense of rivalry between the conventos of Intramuros also raised the level of expectation in festivities, although there was often some level of collaboration and cooperation between members of different religious orders. Events of great local significance in Manila included celebrations for the beatifications of Ignatius of Loyola and Francis Xavier in 1611 and 1621, respectively, for the canonizations of these same Jesuits in 1623, and in 1630 for the beatification of the Nagasaki Martyrs of 1597, some of whom (including the Franciscan Pedro Bautista) had traveled to Japan from Manila.55 All these events represented a type of imitative colonial counterpoint, as this sort of news from Rome took its time to reach the islands. Beyond the ecclesiastical ceremonies that emulated European practices, there was always considerable involvement of non-European and syncretic genres of dance, music, and drama. But as we have seen, Asian musicians performing inside the churches of Manila usually made use of music in European idioms. They were also occasionally commissioned to compose works for these events, as becomes apparent in three accounts of Manila’s celebrations for the beatification of Francis Xavier. These texts mention the involvement of a Japanese cleric, who was a prominent organist and composer. The Jesuit annual letter for 1621 relates that this man was the “best organist” and composed masses and antiphons especially for the

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celebrations, in which three choirs sang.56 This letter is an intriguing source, because it may be the earliest known documentation of a Japanese-born composer writing works in a European idiom and for multiple choirs. Two candidates immediately present themselves for the identity of this unnamed Japanese musician: either Luis Shiozuka (1576–1637), a Japanese Christian who had received his musical training at the Jesuit seminary of Arima (Japan) and who was living in exile in Manila, or the Augustinian Guillermo de Silva y Cárdenas (d. 1647), an organist of the Convento de San Agustín in Manila who had been born in Japan (but whose ethnicity is not made clear in the convent’s records).57 The participation of a Japanese musician in these festivities was particularly appropriate, given that they were held in honor of Francis Xavier, the apostle of Japan. It also points to the integration of musicians from different Asian ethnic groups, which was made possible through the union of different musical ensembles for the purpose of public celebration in the city. Some of the performers under the direction of the Japanese cleric may have been Europeans, and if this were the case, we would see here an obvious inversion of strict social counterpoint. On February 1, 1630, an octavario was held in Manila to celebrate the beatification of the twenty-six martyrs of Nagasaki.58 Vespers were sung in the cathedral “by seven choirs of harmonious music, under the direction of Fr. Martín Carmena [or de San Bernardo], a Franciscan and an excellent musician.”59 According to Bañas, the celebrations continued with fireworks, horse races, games, comedias, literary contests (probably including works in Japanese and Tagalog), and a “kind of game managed by the Japanese in Manila.”60 We see that the Japanese community in Manila, which was made up of exiles or religious refugees who had achieved the social distinction of being “living martyrs” by virtue of forsaking their own country for their faith, appears to have taken control of proceedings to some extent, thereby subverting the hierarchical colonial power structure. Aside from special events such as beatifications and canonizations, seasonal and votive festivities held pride of place in early modern Manila. Among the regular feasts of the liturgical year, these annual events in Manila’s calendar were celebrated with particular grandeur. Feasts that stood out were (unsurprisingly) Christmas, Holy Week, Corpus Christi, feasts for the Virgin, and the feast days of Manila’s patron saints, together with the feast days of other protectors against disasters such as earthquakes and fires.61 Three feasts related specifically to military and naval victories: the feast of Saint Potentiana (May 19), the day on which Legazpi occupied Maynilad and established the Spanish capital of Manila; the feast of Saint Andrew (November 30), on which day the city was saved from an attack by the Chinese pirate Limahong in 1574; and the feast day of Our Lady of the Rosary, later called La Naval (October 2), the intercessions of whom were believed to have saved Manila from Dutch forces in 1646.62 Given that an alliance of Spanish and Asian forces resulted in

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all these victories (Visayans were involved in the conquest of Maynilad in 1571), it is unsurprising that these events brought together different parts of the populace each year in forms of commemoration. Even the feast of Saint Andrew presented an opportunity for the Chinese community of Manila to demonstrate their loyalty to the local government in spite of the actions of their sixteenthcentury compatriot Limahong (and in spite of Spanish attitudes towards the Chinese). The feast for the Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary, on December 8, achieved lasting status as a pivotal event of the year. Officially declared “universal patroness” of Spain and the Indies in 1760, the Immaculate Conception and its veneration prompted extensive celebrations throughout the empire. We should note that this feast day had already achieved great popularity more than a century beforehand in 1619, when, according to Costa, “the approval given by the Holy See to the public celebration of the feast . . . became known in Manila.”63 That year, the celebrations for this feast lasted nineteen days.64 The Jesuit author of an account of the proceedings mentions Chinese fireworks and the performance of the mitote (a Mexican dance), enthusing that “our people [the Jesuits] played a thousand musical instruments.”65 The students of the Jesuit Colegio de San José appeared in three carros respectively containing clarion players, singers, and players of stringed instruments. On another day, “a dance was given by more than sixty Japanese, who danced and sang to the accompaniment of various instruments, according to their custom.” This description may illustrate equal participation by different racial groups, but one small detail reminds the reader of the inescapable nature of colonial hegemony: the mention of a triumphal float being “drawn by two savages.”66 However, the range of performance styles seen here is characteristic of a frontier territory, and also reflects the “catholicity” of the Spanish Empire—bound together through Roman Catholicism, with all its religious rituals and social manifestations—that was promoted by colonial authorities.

Racial Segregation or Integration? As we have seen, celebrations in Manila were characterized primarily by the mix of different races and cultural traditions—a diversity that seems to have been unparalleled throughout the Spanish Empire. Material goods such as silks and fireworks were brought from China and decorations imported from as far away as Bengal and Persia.67 Performative elements such as dances, theatrical presentations, song, processions, and instrumental music by the Spanish, Filipino, Chinese, and Japanese populations all added to the complex cultural mixture. Contributions by different ethnic groups were noted specially in descriptions of festivities, probably to highlight the prevailing catholicism (that is, universality) of Hispanic social practices, such as religious and civic

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fiestas, among diverse races in this Oriental colony. Yet these accounts also show that a strict hierarchy was often imposed on celebrations: a day for the Filipinos, a day for the Chinese, and so on. All groups were given an opportunity to demonstrate their loyalty to Church and Crown, but paradoxically, the successful integration of each group into society at large was judged by differentiating between ethnic categories within a festivity. Their voices interacted in strict counterpoint, according to a set of rules imposed from above. This sort of strict governance also applied to dance, which, with its music, was visually and aurally representative of distinct cultural traditions.68 The combined effects of dancing, singing, and playing instrumental music constituted a powerful symbol of cultural identity for any faction of the multiracial community. Often these performances were viewed with considerable suspicion by European observers. Le Gentil de la Galaisière, for instance, described Chinese music and dance performances in mojigangas (which he called “mascarades”) on the feast of Saint Charles, name day of the king (Carlos III), on November 5, 1766. He wrote that the customs of the Chinese were too different from those of the Spaniards or the Filipinos for him to find them enjoyable and that a dance with large paper horses, fish, and a forty-foot-long snake (by which he evidently means a dragon) “was accompanied by a Chinese music or song [which was] quite baroque and most disagreeable, hardly cadenced or measured, . . . which they performed principally before the snake [dragon], causing it to make at the same time various movements that were very singular.”69 Notably, his observation provides a relatively early printed example of the term “baroque” in relation to music—but his use refers specifically to “bizarre,” “outlandish” Chinese traditions.70 Writing in the 1770s, Le Gentil de la Galaisière was probably familiar with the 1768 Dictionnaire de musique by Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712–78), which included the following definition: “A baroque music is that in which the harmony is confused, charged with modulations and dissonances, the melody is harsh and little natural, the intonation difficult, and the movement constrained.”71 Le Gentil de la Galaisière’s description of Chinese music as baroque was very likely intended to accord with Rousseau’s definition and must be one of the earliest applications of this term to non-European music. The attempt by the Chinese population to render homage and please spectators in 1766 appears not to have had its desired effect. Le Gentil de la Galaisière states that the governor, instead of being pleased, was revolted; he saw in the dragon evidence of the persistent “idolatry” of the Chinese. The fact that no one among the ruling class of Manila could understand the Chinese songs made them think they saw the performance of a ritual cult, and the governor promised that he would not allow it again.72 Since this was in the midst of controversy concerning the 1766 expulsion of the Chinese, any evidence of a division of loyalty within Manila’s society would have provided a catalyst for political action.

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Another pertinent observation made at this point by this Frenchman relates to the autonomy of practice: the Chinese of the Parian acted out their indigenous traditions of their own accord, whereas the performances of mojigangas by the Filipinos were conducted by the Jesuits.73 The ideological and artistic control thus exercised over the indigenous population was considered trustworthy—a legitimate expression of fidelity—whereas the Chinese “genius,” incomprehensible to the Spaniards, could not convey any notion of assimilation into the empire. In this context, the comment of a Chinese mandarin recorded in Beijing by French Jesuit Jean-Joseph Marie Amiot (1718–93) holds sway: “European music is not made for Chinese ears, nor Chinese music for European ears.”74 Thus we see that in spite of music’s capacity to transcend social and cultural boundaries constructed through the articulation of collective identities, the more ingrained prejudices of court cultures often resulted in clashes and impasses. From a different perspective, however, Japanese immigrants to early modern Manila were not viewed by Spaniards as being on the same social level as Filipinos, as we noted in an earlier chapter, nor were they treated with the same contempt or fear as the Chinese. Members of the Japanese community in Manila often performed their traditional dances and music in festivities and spectacles, and some Japanese musicians trained in European music served in churches and convents of the city. Chirino witnessed a performance of a Japanese dance at the feast of the Most Blessed Sacrament in the Jesuit church of Manila in the 1590s, describing the steps and movements in great detail. He claimed that they sang on divine subjects as they danced and that those who could understand the text were inspired with devotion.75 The performance of non-European musics and dances certainly had their place in Spanish-controlled Manila. But they had to be situated in approved contexts (most often Christianized contexts) and vetted for suitability. Only in this way could they enter the strict contrapuntal fabric of colonial society and culture.

Conclusion The participation of Filipino, Japanese, Chinese, African, and American musicians and actors in the Spanish festivities of Manila resulted in celebratory performances that were remarkably diverse, yet rigidly structured and carefully monitored. There were various levels of racial integration and racial segregation in different contexts of the fiesta, depending on the motives of religious and secular authorities. Integration promoted “catholicity” or religious uniformity, whereas segregation provided the means for political control and manipulation. The occasional fiestas, often described in great detail in accounts that were published in Manila and Mexico, provided the colonial counterpoint to the equivalent celebrations enacted on the Iberian Peninsula. Celebrations in

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Spain that were inspired by the same historical, political, or religious events still involved African and Moorish elements in their musical and dramatic performances, but almost no other part of the Spanish Empire could match Manila in terms of its display of cultural diversity. The descriptions of events in Manila thereby inverted the primacy of the “mother country” in terms of fiestas’ sophistication and extravagance. A great number of racial and cultural elements combined to demonstrate the “mosaic” created and fostered by Spain in the Philippines, at the most distant frontier of its empire, amid a complex network of human interchange and commerce. Festivities were intended by imperial Spain to promote and sustain the colonial enterprise and its ideologies, while still giving distinct Asian populations of Manila occasions to establish and affirm their place in colonial society. In this respect, the fiesta provided the interface between different cultures, classes, and races. Ceremonial displays of loyalty to the Roman Church and the Spanish Crown bound subjugated peoples together in forms of mass movement that eventually led the way to resistance against colonial structures. We have seen in this final part of the book that the forms of social, religious, political, economic, linguistic, and ideological control wielded by Spain correspond aptly to the analogy of strict counterpoint. Early modern counterpoint is symbolic of the political ancien régime, the hegemony of the church, and ideological or aesthetic conservatism: voices could only enter the contrapuntal texture or operate within it if they conformed to a set of immutable rules imposed and manipulated by the colonialist contrapuntist. Colonial historiographers seem to suggest that the strict counterpoint imposed by Spain on the inhabitants of the early modern Philippines embodied an idealized social structure that attempted to achieve consonance between different cultures. However, it is clear that in practice there were many dissonances that defied resolution.

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© Conclusion Contrapuntal Colonialism

Opposition is an essential part of music. Without opposition, we can have no high pitches or low pitches, no loud notes or soft notes, no fast speeds or slow speeds. Forget consonance and dissonance; never mind major and minor. All these qualities in music can be defined only in relation to their antitheses. In similar terms, many cultures can only discover their own identity through opposition or difference. Today, historians of any country that was once the mother state of an overseas empire will never know their own country’s history or culture without also knowing those of the colonized territories. Only the study of global connections between different and localized spheres of knowledge can frame a structure within which the national, imperial, or colonial pasts can be interpreted. As British historian Sir John Robert Seeley (1834–95) put it, the history of eighteenth-century England is, for example, “not in England but in America and Asia.”1 Correspondingly, historians of Spain have long been aware of the immense impact that the collision of the Old World and the New World had on the development of Spanish culture in the early modern period. Spain’s connections with Asia—across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans until 1815, then a direct Cádiz–Manila link until 1898—have provided a further dimension of cultural influence and exchange. The counterpoint of the colonies can offer deeper insight into the histories of European nations, as well as requiring us to step back and observe the bigger picture of increasingly entangled global histories. In similar terms, Western music has never existed in a vacuum; it has always been contingent on exchanges and transactions with other, often opposing cultures. Western music frequently defines itself in opposition to the musics of other cultures, but it can only do so in reference to the knowledge of musics from the rest of the world. This knowledge was constructed largely

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through the (usually violent) acts of colonialism and globalization. Early modern globalization at first increased the diversity of musics known and practiced in societies that were linked to global networks of exchange and commerce. But this heterogeneity gave way, over time, to a standardization or homogeneity that was enforced by imperial hegemony.2 Still, Western music cannot exist without its Others.3 The positioning of Western music within an integrated system that takes global musical cultures into account thus requires analysis of binary oppositions, such as consonant/ dissonant and soft/harsh. Relationships of difference provide the best means of cultural self-definition for all parties, and these relationships themselves assume primary importance as crucial components of interdependence and exchange. Their impact has been considerable: Timothy D. Taylor has even argued that it was the construction of the binary opposition of cultural selfidentity/alterity through the creation of colonial empires that propelled the domination of tonality and the new genre of opera in the musical practices of early modern Europe.4 Yet there are instabilities in binary oppositions, too, and their internal links and structures are often arbitrary. It is easy to polarize two different cultures that come into contact with each other, and unless there is some sort of willing exchange on mutual terms, together with an offering that represents over and above what is required through the ritual of trade or encounter, fruitful engagement may not take place.5 Although we should recognize the “fundamental role of singing as a constitutive element in the making of both indigenous and colonial worlds,” as Gary Tomlinson has pointed out, we should also acknowledge that the meetings of indigenous peoples and Europeans in the “making” of colonial empires involve a confrontation at a frontier or the negotiation of place or identity within a “contact zone.”6 Of course, intercultural engagement that gave rise to any kind of musical outcome often involved some sort of acquiescence under duress, within the colonial contexts of power imbalances. Similarly, the bass in strict musical counterpoint is fundamentally stronger than the treble, and it usually dictates the center of tonality, especially in reductionist or Schenkerian analysis. Only when the voices are manipulated by contrapuntal analysts so that they may be invertible does a conceptual subversion of this power structure appear possible. Ethnomusicologists have long railed against comparative approaches to non-Western music, arguing that a musical culture must be studied on its own terms and from a relativistic perspective. This is necessarily true. But ethnomusicology typically relies on “observation of the present,” as Bruno Nettl puts it, to form ideas about a musical culture.7 The more abstract, reverential, and historicized approach to the musical past belongs to the domain of historical musicology, and this discipline focuses largely on the study of Western cultural contexts. How, then, do we approach musical cultures that have evolved within the context of global interdependence and exchange—that is, within the context

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of early modern globalization? How can we consider or interpret the musical pasts of colonial societies that were produced through the hegemony of European expansion? I suggest that we attempt to conflate the methodologies of historical musicology and ethnomusicology, and that we agree with Nicholas Cook that “we are all (ethno)musicologists now.”8 Many cultures of musical heterophony around the world were subsumed by the heteronomy of European colonial empires. The coercive nature of an imposed social system meant that the subjugated subaltern reacted to the existence of newly introduced social and musical structures by adopting them and adapting them within their own cultural frameworks of references and meaning. If we invert the Weberian concept that social and economic developments are determinants of musical change, we can see that musical change sometimes also takes place to effect or attain social and economic “improvement.” This is as true now as it was in the early modern period. In many industrialized societies today, social and economic ascendancy often goes hand in hand with the development of a taste for “art music”—a professionalized art form that is the product of elite patronage. The cultivation or appreciation of certain types of music confers social power and privilege. The strict counterpoint of intercultural musical encounters and engagement during the early modern period gave rise to the development of global networks of interdependence and exchange. Histories of musics in colonial territories of early modern European empires must thus embrace a whole world of divergent musical cultures, aesthetics, and philosophies that converged in specific localities. When we come to study the histories of multiethnic societies that emerged from these crucibles, however, our tendency to focus on just one element (for example, the European or the indigenous) to the exclusion of all other parts does little to contribute to an understanding of common humanity, or a collective global musical consciousness. Many limitations to an all-inclusive history are set in place because of absences and silences in colonial historiography and also because many subaltern societies recorded or upheld their pasts in ways that diverge fundamentally from modes of past and present Western epistemological discourse. The incommensurabilities of European and non-European music histories are thus themselves constitutive of a need for a structuralist approach that examines the ways the analysis of humanly organized sound can mediate between seemingly irreconcilable cultural differences. Of course, writing histories to treat the musics of colonial empires forces the pasts of many minority societies to conform to historicized standards and norms that are set by a musicological community that is predominantly Western. But we can aim to avoid such a predicament by attempting to treat plural musical cultures contrapuntally. Through an analytical approach that examines the relationships between contrasting pairs of elements—and these

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relationships representing “intercultural contact,” for want of a better term— we can begin to construct new webs of meaning that contribute to the history of cultural globalization. I contend, therefore, that a contrapuntal approach is the only way to transcend the comparativist nature of early modern colonial discourse or historiography. In terms of music history, too, counterpoint is the best analogy we can have for the interpretation of how plural voices—whether European or non-European—functioned together in the early modern world. All at once, colonial counterpoint symbolizes thesis, antithesis, and synthesis; at the same time, binary oppositions are mediated through encounters, exchanges, or engagement between different cultures. Colonialism itself is contrapuntal. In this book, we have seen that the introduction of European music to early modern Manila and its imposition on the local population brought about some remarkable exchanges and transformations throughout the Philippine archipelago as well as the wider East and Southeast Asian region. Manila became an important node in a world-system of capitalist commerce, and the exchange of many forms of capital. This city was a multifaceted, multiethnic, and wealthy entrepôt; as such, it acted as a catalyst for intercultural exchanges between Asia, Europe, the Americas, and Africa. It was also the geographical missing link in the formation of early modern global networks of trade and communication. A rich variety of European musical commodities made their way to the Philippines, and these were diffused throughout the surrounding region by means of the individual and collective enterprises of merchants and missionaries. Local industries relating to European musical practice (such as instrument-building, composition, and the production of music scores) arose in these islands, many supported by Filipino and other non-European craftspeople. Europeanized music professions were adopted by local inhabitants: I have identified the first named Filipino organ builder and offered possible identities for one of the earliest recorded native Japanese composers of music in European idioms. We have also seen that far from being ignored by zealous European missionaries, indigenous musical practices were documented extensively by the colonial agents of Church and Crown. Surviving texts indicate that language and literacy were key tools in European understanding of Filipino musics, and indigenous poetic forms were observed, theorized, and employed by European missionaries as a tool for religious indoctrination through song-texts. Music was recognized by missionaries as a powerful tool by which indigenous communities could be “seduced” and “reduced,” and music was used to “penetrate” indigenous genio, or creativity. Numerous ethnographic documents reveal the interest shown in the construction of indigenous instruments and demonstrate the various stages at which European musical terminology, theory, instruments, and practice were introduced to indigenous cultures. These documents allow us to trace the ways Filipino music was hispanized. When indigenous musicians were employed in ecclesiastical contexts,

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they were required to be familiar with European musical theory and practice. Although many of these musicians also perpetuated their traditional genres, European missionaries censored and modified their song-texts and composed many new works, actively encouraging indigenous musicians to “forget” precolonial non-Christian practices. European dances and dance music were introduced, and indigenous dances were retained but performed to European music. Although the process of musical transculturation was fostered by the missionaries, the collaboration of indigenous musicians themselves played an important part in the extent of Western music’s diffusion, given that there was a relatively small number of missionaries and a large number of indigenous parochial musicians. Whereas missionaries may have actively suppressed indigenous musics, the active appropriation of European customs by indigenous musicians themselves was equally influential in musical transculturation. From this process there emerged syncretic or mestizo creative forms, such as musical and poetic genres that fused Roman Catholic doctrine with traditional indigenous musical forms, as well as other influences imported from Europe, the Americas, and Africa. Born from intercultural contact, the phenomenon of syncretism usually relied on the parallel existence of broadly similar genres, whose resemblances in performance style, context, and function allowed for elements from each other culture to be assimilated or accommodated. In particular, three prominent musicopoetic genres—the auit, the loa, and the pasyon—enabled the assertion of an indigenous musical identity within the cultural framework of Roman Catholicism. Performance of these genres and other European forms was encouraged throughout the Philippine archipelago by members of religious orders and the diocesan clergy, whose headquarters in Manila also housed their own musical traditions. Although some of these institutions enforced racial strictures for entry to their ranks, most employed Asian musicians in specific contexts of music-making. Spanish institutions provided different types of education to all sectors of the population, and the teaching of music (along with European religion, literacy, and other arts and sciences) was a significant undertaking by pedagogues belonging to religious orders. Surviving colonial legislation reveals that tribute-free posts for ecclesiastical musicians (cantores) were established throughout the Philippines—between four and eight in each parish, although the number of supplementary and voluntary musicians increased the number of performers. Most of these musicians would have been familiar with European music theory (solmization and counterpoint) to varying degrees. Consequently, the Philippine Islands were distinct in early modern Asia as the territory with the greatest number of specialist musicians fluent in European musical styles. However, these musicians’ practice and performance were monitored and regulated by the ecclesiastical and secular governments of the colony. This control was extended to all sectors of the population; all members of society,

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regardless of their ethnicity, language, class or caste, were brought together in festivities, both occasional and seasonal, which were intended by colonial agents to mold and manipulate sentiments of loyalty and inclusivity. Ceremonies of homage—to religious figures, overseas royalty, or local dignitaries—involved music, theater, and dance, and reinforced the political and religious objectives of colonial authority. New musical and theatrical works in European or Asian idioms were composed by local musicians; some of these were published and disseminated throughout the Spanish Empire. The construct of musical counterpoint provided an unwavering foundation for compositional strategies and was a crucial constituent of European pedagogical systems that were imposed on indigenous societies in the Philippines. To a large extent, counterpoint also symbolized European motives of political expansion and cultural hegemony. As Susan McClary puts it, counterpoint was a form of “dissonance control.”9 And according to Yearsley, this idea of “control” relates to European ideas of rationalizing society as much as it relates to compositional practice.10 Counterpoint was essentially a manipulative form of controlling indigenous communities and, as such, was a tool of imperial heteronomy. The totalizing impulse of colonial counterpoint swept away many indigenous practices and subsumed others within its framework of oppositional relationships. Subaltern voices within colonial society were governed by a system of rules that channeled their sounds into “rationalized” forms of opposition with other voices. Although counterpoint as a social analogy presupposes the equality of different voices as independent musical lines, we have seen that a discriminatory hierarchy based on race was imposed on colonial society by the hegemonic ruling power. Consequently, it was only through hispanization, or imitation, that some semblance of parity could be achieved. The enharmonic engagement of Spaniard and Filipino served to indicate the location of homologies between their respective musical cultures, thus mediating transitions between two opposing poles. Spanish colonialists and missionaries went out of their way to develop strategies by which they coerced the Filipinos to participate in the institutions of the Church and the state, which could not operate without the acquiescence and collaboration of the subaltern. These same Spanish policies unwittingly laid the foundations for their own demise. In many ways, the Filipinos’ active appropriation and reinterpretation of imposed cultural trappings eventually made possible the indigenous articulation of political resistance and social enfranchisement. As much as counterpoint encodes colonialist strategies, we can see that indigenous musical practice also came to represent a counterpoint to colonialism. Indigenous skill in European music made Spanish musicians practically—“practically” in both senses of the word—superfluous. The emergence of popular syncretic colonial genres contested the privileged position of imported European art music in the contexts of devotion and celebration. Even the pipe organ, that supreme icon of

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European empire and religious expansion, began to be superseded by local instrumental ensembles in the early nineteenth century. Music is opposition. Counterpoint—note against note, punctus contra punctum—seeks to impose a set of strict rules on the combination of simultaneous voices to effect the consonance of vertical relationships. Likewise, all the processes of colonialism operate contrapuntally in order to control societies that are subjugated by ruling imperial powers. Counterpoint thus mirrors the objectives of empire in a vain attempt to create a formalized and harmonious structure: thesis and antithesis are therefore deliberately and forcibly brought into collision to produce a progression to some kind of teleological synthesis or gradus ad Parnassum. Throughout the history of the early modern world, we can see how Europeans attempted to use the imposition of musical counterpoint as a means of conquering, subduing, and “rationalizing” other societies. But Filipinos took colonial counterpoint and both inverted and subverted it.

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Notes

Institutional Abbreviations In the notes, citations of unpublished materials include initials in parentheses; these sigla indicate the names of the archives from which the sources come. The full details for each source may be found by referring to the data provided under the relevant institution’s name in the Archival Sources section of the Bibliography. AAM AFIO AGI AHSIC APDNSR APUG ARSI ARVM ASFMA AUST BAV BL BNE BP KCL LLIU NLC PNA

Archdiocesan Archives of Manila Archivo Franciscano Ibero-Oriental, Madrid Archivo General de Indias, Seville Archivum Historicum Societatis Iesu Cataloniae, Barcelona Archivo de la Provincia Dominicana de Nuestra Señora del Rosario, Ávila Archivio della Pontificia Università Gregoriana, Rome Archivum Romanum Societatis Iesu, Rome Archives of the Religious of the Virgin Mary, Manila Archdiocese of San Fernando Museum and Archives, University of the Assumption, San Fernando, Pampanga Archives of the University of Santo Tomás, Manila Biblioteca del Real Colegio de los PP. Agustinos Filipinos, Valladolid British Library, London Biblioteca Nacional de España, Madrid Biblioteca de Palacio, Madrid Marsden Collection, King’s College London Lilly Library, Indiana University, Bloomington Newberry Library, Chicago Philippine National Archives, Manila

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notes to pages 1–5

introduction 1. Significantly, the idea of opposition as a universal feature of music was identified and acknowledged in the late 1960s by José Maceda, the great doyen of Filipino musicology, within his theory of “drone” and “melody.” He proposed this theory as a means of analyzing Southeast Asian (and other) musics in terms of opposition between “a continuous sounding of one or more tones which act as organ points, ostinati, centres or pivots” and a circulating melody. See José Maceda, “Drone and Melody in Philippine Musical Instruments,” in Traditional Drama and Music of Southeast Asia, ed. Mohd. Taib Osman (Kuala Lumpur: Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka, Kementerian Pelajaran Malaysia, 1974), esp. 247 and 270–71. 2. I refer especially to Saussure’s theory of the construction of meaning through the semiological study of contrasting binaries, set out in Ferdinand de Saussure, Course in General Linguistics, trans. Roy Harris, ed. Charles Bally and Albert Sechehaye, with Albert Riedlinger (London: Duckworth, 1983), and the structural anthropological thinking of Claude Lévi-Strauss, whose The Raw and the Cooked: Introduction to a Science of Mythology: I, trans. John Weightman and Doreen Weightman (London: Jonathan Cape, 1970) proposes the location of meaning in the relationships that mediate between contrasting elements of culture. See also “Lévi-Strauss and the Methodological Value of Concepts of Binary Oppositions,” in Ho-chia Chueh, Anxious Identity: Education, Difference, and Politics (Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2004), 39–54. 3. See Jacques Derrida, Of Grammatology, corrected ed., trans. Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997). 4. See Bruno Nettl, The Western Impact on World Music: Change, Adaptation, and Survival (London: Collier Macmillan, 1985). 5. This decline or eradication has been attributed to the rise of a “global industrial culture.” See Walter Wiora, The Four Ages of Music, trans. M. D. Herter Norton (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1966), esp. 153–56. 6. See David Irving, “The Pacific in the Minds and Music of Enlightenment Europe,” Eighteenth-Century Music 2.2 (2005): 205–29, esp. 214–17; and Vanessa Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus: The Power of Music in Other Worlds (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), esp. 114–17. 7. Max Weber, The Rational and Social Foundations of Music, trans. and ed. Don Martindale, Johannes Riedel, and Gertrude Neuwirth (Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1958), 69. 8. On the distinctions and correlations between the colonial imposition and indigenous appropriation of European music in one such society (Cuzco), see Geoffrey Baker, Imposing Harmony: Music and Society in Colonial Cuzco (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008). 9. David Yearsley, Bach and the Meanings of Counterpoint (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 170. 10. On the use of contrapuntal analysis in international relations, see Geeta Chowdry, “Edward Said and Contrapuntal Reading: Implications for Critical Interventions in International Relations,” Millennium: Journal of International Studies 36.1 (2007): 101–16; and Sankaran Krishna, “Race, Amnesia, and the Education of International Relations,” in Decolonizing International Relations, ed. Branwen Gruffydd Jones, 89–108 (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield, 2006).

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11. Ben Etherington, “Said, Grainger and the Ethics of Polyphony,” in Edward Said: The Legacy of a Public Intellectual, ed. Ned Curthoys and Debjani Ganguly (Carlton, Vic.: Melbourne University Press, 2007), 227. 12. Of course, this situation is inverted in the works of Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936), who wrote in Britain for a domestic readership but whose plots usually unfold in India. Kipling made a great contribution to the tangible presence of colonial territories in the literary imagination of the Old World. It should be remembered that Kipling himself was responsible for coining the phrase “white man’s burden,” which was the title of a poem he wrote in 1899 in response to the invasion of the Philippine Islands by the United States. 13. Edward W. Said, Culture & Imperialism (London: Vintage, 1994), 59–60. 14. However, whereas Said takes “the late eighteenth century as a very roughly defined starting point” (Edward Said, Orientalism, rept. with a new preface [London: Penguin, 2003], 3), I refer to early modern texts produced from the sixteenth century onward. 15. Said, Orientalism, 43. On discourse, see Michel Foucault, The Archaeology of Knowledge, trans. A. M. Sheridan Smith (London and New York: Routledge, 2002). For a discussion of colonial discourse with reference to both Foucault and Said, see also Ania Loomba, Colonialism/Postcolonialism, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 2005), 42–53. 16. For a summary of these critiques, see Daniel Martin Varisco, Reading Orientalism: Said and the Unsaid (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2007). 17. Globalization as a social and cultural concept has multiple definitions and interpretations, but one of the more succinct and all-encompassing explanations refers to the phenomenon as “a multidimensional set of social processes that create, multiply, stretch, and intensify worldwide social interdependencies and exchanges while at the same time fostering in people a growing awareness of deepening connections between the local and the distant.” Manfred B. Steger, Globalization: A Very Short Introduction (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 13. 18. Ibid., 19. 19. John M. Hobson, The Eastern Origins of Western Civilisation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 34. 20. Dennis O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez, “Globalization began in 1571,” in Globalization and Global History, ed. Barry K. Gills and William R. Thompson (London: Routledge, 2006), 244. 21. Luke Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants, Missionaries, and Globalization in the Early-Modern Pacific,” Journal of Global History 1.1 (2006): 42. 22. See Dennis O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon’: The Origin of World Trade in 1571,” Journal of World History 6.2 (1995): 201–21, and “Globalization began in 1571”; see also Immanuel Maurice Wallerstein, World-Systems Analysis: An Introduction (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2004), 23, and The Modern World-System: Capitalist Agriculture and the Origins of the European WorldEconomy in the Sixteenth Century (New York: Academic Press, 1974). 23. Flynn and Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon,’” 201. It was only from 1571 that three approximately equal sectors of the globe’s surface area—Eurasia, the Americas, and the Pacific—were linked through regular and sustained transoceanic connections. See Flynn and Giráldez, “Globalization began in 1571,” 234–35.

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24. I am grateful to Margaret Rigaud-Drayton for her suggestion of this very appropriate analogy. 25. James Stuart Olson et al., eds., Historical Dictionary of European Imperialism (New York: Greenwood Press, 1991), 495. 26. Teodoro A. Agoncillo, “On the Rewriting of Philippine History,” in Proceedings and Position Papers of the Fifth Regional Seminar on History, May 26–27, 1972, Baguio City (Manila: National Historical Institute, 1976), 44–45. 27. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. and extended ed. (London: Verso, 1991), 166. 28. Teodoro A. Agoncillo and Oscar M. Alfonso, History of the Filipino People, rev. ed. (Quezon City: Malaya Books, 1967), vi. 29. See Glenn Anthony May, A Past Recovered (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1987); William Henry Scott, Looking for the Prehispanic Filipino and Other Essays in Philippine History (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1992), and Prehispanic Source Materials for the Study of Philippine History, rev. ed. (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1984). 30. For a compelling autobiographical account of the “liberation” of Manila and the destruction of Intramuros, see Purita Echevarría de González, Manila: A Memoir of Love and Loss (Sydney: Hale & Iremonger, 2000), esp. 230. 31. Maria Rita Ferraris, “A Brief History,” in Archdiocesan Archives of Manila: A Catalogue of Archival Documents, Testaments and Holdings, ed. Ruperto C. Santos (Manila: Roman Catholic Archbishop of Manila, 1994), 30. 32. For an overview of archival holdings in Spain that pertain to the history of the Philippines, see Patricio Hidalgo Nuchera, Guía de fuentes manuscritas para la historia de Filipinas conservadas en España: con una guía de instrumentos bibliográficos y de investigación (Madrid: Fundación Histórica Tavera; Fundación Santiago, 1998).

chapter 1 1. On Manila as the final nexus for the establishment of world trade, see Dennis O. Flynn and Arturo Giráldez, “Born with a ‘Silver Spoon’: The Origin of World Trade in 1571,” Journal of World History 6.2 (1995): 201–21, and “Cycles of Silver: Global Economic Unity through the Mid-Eighteenth Century,” Journal of World History 13.2 (2002): 391–427; on the role of Manila as an important node in the early modern development of globalization, see Luke Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants, Missionaries, and Globalization in the Early-Modern Pacific,” Journal of Global History 1.1 (2006): 41–58. 2. Both of these had been prepared by the cartographer and mathematician Vicente de Memije, then engraved by the Tagalog artist Lorenzo Atlas. 3. My reading of this engraving is informed by the description given in Carlos Quirino, Philippine Cartography, 1320–1899. 2nd rev. ed. (Amsterdam: N. Israel, 1963), 57. Memije’s own explanation of the allegory reads: Es, pues, en este Symbolico Aspecto del Mundo Hispanico, que a V. M. tengo la dicha, de presentar con estas Theses, y Proposiciones, à cerca del presente Mapa Geographico de vuestros amplissimos Dominios: Es, digo, España la cabeza coronada de sus nobilissimos Reynos; el cuerpo el Mar del

notes to pages 22–24

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Norte; el vientre el Seno Mexicano; el purpureo Manto Real las dos Americas; el Mar Pacifico es la amplissima ropa talar, hasta los Archipielagos del Asia; y los pies son estas Islas Philipinas. Es el Ioyel de su pecho la Rosa de los vientos, con que por todos rumbos navegan vuestras Flotas, y Armadas, como dueñas de los mayores Thesoros del Orbe de la Tierra; son los Derroteros del Mar del Sur los pliegues de la ropa talar, señalados con sombras de lineas, que muestran los vientos dominantes: Y sirven à todo de complemento los Letreros precissos â la perfeccion, que puede, admitir este tosco diseño de la presente idea. Sirvele por consiguiente la Europa de dosel, el Nuevo Mundo de ropage, el Asia de peana; y el Africa sirve de sombra à sus realces. El Espiritu Santo la ilustra con su Divina Luz; es su Escudo el mas Venerable Blason de vuestro antiquissimo Glorioso Reyno, y su Espada es el Gran Rayo de Santiago; sirviendo la graduada Linea Equinocial de hasta de la Vandera de los demas Tymbres, y Blasones de vuestras innumerables Coronas. Y todo esto sin mudar, ni mover nada de lo dicho de su verdadera conocida situacion. Vicente de Memije, Theses mathematicas de cosmographia, geographia y hydrographia. En que el globo terraqueo se contempla por respecto al mundo hispanico: en el qual felizmente domina D. Carlos Tercero el magnanimo: a quien por tanto en su celebrado ascenso al throno las dedica, y consagra D. Vicente de Memije, Colegial Theologo, que fue en el Real Colegio de San Ioseph de Manila su Patria, y assi mismo contador escrivano de navio, y ultimamente primer theniente, y capitan de infanteria de el: presidiendo el R. P. Pasqual Fernandez Professor Publico de Mathematicas en la Real, y Pontificia Universidad de la Compañia de Iesus en la misma ciudad (Manila: Con las Licencias necessarias en la Imprenta de la Compañia de IESUS, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1761), n.p. 4. “De aqui, à venido a estenderse, el cetro y corona de España, por todo lo que mira el Sol, desde que nace, hasta que se pone.” Antonio de Morga, Sucesos de las Islas Philipinas (Mexici ad Indos: Samuel Estradanus, 1609), “Al letor [sic],” n.p. 5. On negotiations between Legazpi and local rulers, see Nicholas P. Cushner, Spain in the Philippines, from Conquest to Revolution (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1971), 67–68. 6. My overview of the conquest of Maynilad is largely informed by Antonio Molina, Historia de Filipinas (Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica del Instituto de Cooperación Iberoamericana, 1984), 1:63–65; and Robert R. Reed, Colonial Manila: The Context of Hispanic Urbanism and Process of Morphogenesis (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 18–25. 7. On the effects of natural disasters on the urban development of the city, see Greg Bankoff, “Fire and Quake in the Construction of Old Manila,” Medieval History Journal 10.1–2 (2007): 411–27. For a general overview of the city’s geographical history, see Reed, Colonial Manila. 8. See Felipe Fernández-Armesto, Pathfinders: A Global History of Exploration (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), 202–3. 9. See William Lytle Schurz, The Manila Galleon (New York: Dutton, 1959), 15; Benito J. Legarda Jr., After the Galleons: Foreign Trade, Economic Change and

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notes to pages 24–27

Entrepreneurship in the Nineteenth-Century Philippines (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1999), 32; William John Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila: Music and Rejoicing in an International City,” Budhi: A Journal of Ideas and Culture 2.1 (1998): 205. 10. Gregorio F. Zaide, “Manila and Acapulco,” Philippine Historical Review 4 (1971): 257. For a detailed study of the naval traffic, economy, and population of the port of Manila from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries, see also Pierre Chaunu, Les Philippines et le Pacifique des Ibériques (XVIe, XVIIe, XVIIIe siècles) (Paris: SEVPEN, 1960); and Schurz, Manila Galleon. 11. For a discussion of clerical involvement in the galleon trade, see Nicholas P. Cushner, “Merchants and Missionaries: A Theologian’s View of Clerical Involvement in the Galleon Trade,” Hispanic American Historical Review 47.3 (1967): 360–69. 12. See Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 111. 13. On the exchange of goods for silver, see Clossey, “Merchants, Migrants, Missionaries, and Globalization,” 44. See also John F. Richards, ed., Precious Metals in the Later Medieval and Early Modern Worlds (Durham, N.C.: Carolina Academic Press, 1983). 14. The image of the Virgin of Antipolo was carried on voyages leaving Manila in 1641, 1643, 1647, 1648, 1650, 1651, 1659, and 1746. (The voyages of 1647 and 1650 were aborted midway.) On its return from the last voyage in 1748, the image was enshrined in Antipolo and no longer made any more journeys to Acapulco. See Monina A. Mercado, Antipolo: A Shrine to Our Lady (Manila: Aletheia Foundation, 1980), 81–83. 15. This bas-relief was commissioned shortly after the Virgin of Antipolo returned to Manila on the galleon San José in 1662. See ibid., 81. 16. See María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el siglo de la Ilustración,” in Historia general de Filipinas, ed. Leoncio Cabrero (Madrid: Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica, 2000), 279–85. 17. See Legarda, After the Galleons. 18. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, La censura de imprenta en Filipinas (Madrid: Librería General de Victoriano Suárez, 1908), 1. 19. See Regalado Trota Jose, Impreso: Philippine Imprints, 1593–1811 (Makati, Manila: Fundación Santiago and Ayala Foundation, 1993), 7. In this same year, new types of mechanical presses were invented in London by German printers Friedrich Koenig and Andreas Bauer, representing a radical development in printing technology that soon swept throughout the world. 20. José Marques de Melo, História social da imprensa: Fatores socioculturais que retardaram a implantação da imprensa no Brasil (Porto Alegre, Brazil: EDIPUCRS, 2003), 87. On the other hand, the Portuguese enclaves of Goa and Macau had printing presses, which had been established in 1557 and 1588 respectively. Ibid., 64. 21. On the publication of musical works in nineteenth-century Manila, see Ma. Concepción Echevarría Carril, “La música franciscana en Filipinas (ss. XVI–XIX),” Nassarre 9.2 (1993): 206–9. 22. For a detailed survey of the buildings in Manila, see María Lourdes DíazTrechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española en Filipinas (1565–1800) (Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos de Sevilla, 1959).

notes to pages 27–32

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23. Fidel Villarroel, “Implications of the Religious Festival in Intramuros,” in Intramuros and Beyond (Manila: Letran College, 1975), 46. 24. “Los Edificios mas sumptuosos son las Iglesias, Conventos, y Colegios.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:53. 25. Fernando Valdés Tamón and Antonio Fernández de Roxas, Topographia de la ciudad de Manila, capital de las Yslas Philipinas, fundada en la de Luzon Nuevo Reyno de Castilla, dedicada al rey nuestro señor D. Felipe V (Manila: Hipolito Ximénez, 1717). 26. In Mexico this attempt eventually gave rise to the development of the casta painting genre, which sought to depict the identities of sixteen main castes. See Ilona Katzew, Casta Painting: Images of Race in Eighteenth-Century Mexico (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 2004), and Magali M. Carrera, Imagining Identity in New Spain: Race, Lineage, and the Colonial Body in Portraiture and Casta Paintings (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2003). 27. Giovanni Francesco Gemelli Careri, “A Voyage round the World, by Dr. John Francis Gemelli Careri; containing the most remarkable Things in Turky, Persia, India, China, the Philippine-Islands and New Spain. Translated from the Italian,” in A Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill (London: Awnsham and John Churchill, 1704), 4:420. The original text reads: “Farà Manila circa tre mila anime; però di persone, nate tutte dall’unione di tanti, e sì differenti semi in qualità, e in colore, che bisogna distinguersi con vari, e stravaganti nomi. Ciò è accaduto, per essersi congionti Spagnuoli, Indiani, Cinesi, Malabari, Neri, ed altri, che abitano l’istessa Città, e l’Isole dipendenti: siccome avvenne anche nell’Indie di Portogallo, e ne’Regni del Perù nella Nuova Spagna, e in altri dell’Indie Occidentali. Dano nome di Crioglio à colui, che nasce da Spagnuolo, ed da Indiana, o al contrario; di Mestizzo da Spagnuola, e da Indiano; di Castizzo, o Terzeron, da Mestizzo, e da Mestizza, di Quartaron da Nero, e da Spagnuola; di Mulato da Nera, e da Bianco; di Grifo da Nera, e da Mulato; di Sambo da Mulata, e da Indiano; di Capra da Indiana, e da Sambo, ed altri nomi ridicoli.” Giovanni Francesco Gemelli Careri, Giro del mondo del dottor D. Gio. Francesco Gemelli Careri, new corrected ed. (Venice: Sebastiano Coleti, 1728), 5:13. 28. On the reasoning behind the use of the term “Filipino” in studying colonial history, see William Henry Scott, Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and Society (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1994), 6–7. On the development of the term as a marker for national identity, see Domingo Abella, “From Indio to Filipino,” Philippine Historical Review 4 (1971): 1–34. 29. “La variedad de naciones, que se ven en Manila, y sus arrabales, es la mayor del mundo; pues se ven hombres de todos los Reynos, y naciones de España, Francia, Ingalaterra [sic], Italia, Flandes, Alemania, Dinamarca, Sueçia, Polonia, Moscobia, de todas las Indias Orientales, y Occidentales, Turcos, Griegos, Moros, Persas, Tartaros, Chinos, Xapones, Africanos, y Assianos: Y apenas en las quatro partes del mundo ay Reyno, Provincia, o Nacion, de donde no aya aqui hombres, por la generalidad de sus navegaciones de Oriente, Poniente, Norte, y Sur.” Bartholomé de Letona, La perfecta religiosa (Puebla: por la Viuda de Juan de Borja, 1662), “prologo,” n.p., no. 37. 30. “De aqui nace, que el confesonario [sic] de Manila es, à mi ver, el mas dificultoso de todo el Mundo, porq[ue] siendo imposible confesar à todas estas gentes en su propria lengua, es menester confesarlos en Español, y cada Naciona tiene hecho

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notes to pages 33–35

su proprio vocabulario de la lengua Española, con q[ue] comercian, se manejan, y se entienden, sin que nosotros los entendamos, sino con gran dificultad, y casi adivinado.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 5v. 31. For a full description of these engravings, see Quirino, Philippine Cartography, 51–55; see also María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Grabadores filipinos del siglo XVIII,” Anuario de Estudios Americanos 19 (1962): 286–89. 32. On the complex issue of precolonial class structure in the Philippines, see the essays “Filipino Class Structure in the Sixteenth Century,” in William Henry Scott, Cracks in the Parchment Curtain, and Other Essays in Philippine History, emended ed. (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1982), 96–126, and “Oripun and Alipin in the Sixteenth-Century Philippines,” in William Henry Scott, Looking for the Prehispanic Filipino and Other Essays in Philippine History (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1992), 84–103; see also Molina, Historia de Filipinas, 1:23. 33. See María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” in Historia general de España y América. América en el siglo XVIII. Los primeros Borbones, ed. Luis Suárez Fernández et al. (Madrid: Ediciones Rialp, 1983), XI–1:530. 34. For a contextual background of tribute, see Luis Alonso, “Financing the Empire: The Nature of the Tax System in the Philippines, 1565–1804,” Philippine Studies 51.1 (2003): 63–95. The tribute exacted from each Filipino family was set at ten reales, a rate that was much lower than in many parts of Latin America. Men began paying tribute from the age of eighteen; women were exempted. The Recopilación de leyes de los Reynos de las Indias mandated that indigenous peoples newly converted to the Christian faith should be exempted from tribute and other services for a period of ten years. In 1620 this same concession was extended to the Chinese in Manila. See Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias (1681; reprint, 4 vols. Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica, 1973), 2:ff. 208r–08v, 217r, 272r. According to Teodoro Agoncillo and Oscar M. Alfonso (History of the Filipino People, rev. ed. [Quezon City: Malaya Books, 1967], 88), the amount was raised to twelve reales in 1851. 35. Luis Alonso Álvarez, “Los señores del Barangay. La principalía indígena en las Islas Filipinas, 1565–1789: viejas evidencias y nuevas hipótesis,” in El cacicazgo en Nueva España y Filipinas, ed. Margarita Menegues Bornemann and Rodolfo Aguirre Salvador (Mexico City: Centro de Estudios sobre la Universidad; Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México; Plaza y Valdés, S. A. de C. V., 2005), 398. 36. Recopilación de leyes, 2:f. 221r. Luis Alonso claims that “the Spaniards acted more efficiently in the Philippines than in Mexico, considering that, in general, they won over and transformed the indigenous aristocracy into collaborators in a project that was full of contradictions, triumphs, and setbacks.” Alonso, “Financing the Empire,” 68. For a more extensive discussion of indigenous nobility and their role in the colonial regime, see Alonso Álvarez, “Los señores del Barangay.” 37. According to Santiago, “these included the Houses of Matanda and his nephew, Soliman of Manila, Lakandula of Tondo across the Pasig and Tupas of Cebu.” See Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Houses of Lakandula, Matanda, and Soliman

notes to pages 35–36

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(1571–1898): Genealogy and Group Identity,” Philippine Quarterly of Culture and Society 18 (1990): 40. One example of a coat-of-arms for a late eighteenth-century Tagalog noblewoman (“la muy clara y muy expectable señora doña Maria Magdalena de Pazis, Soliman y Lacandola: Principala Cazique del Pueblo y Cabeçera de Bulacan señora de la Casa de Lacandola. Capitana de Dalagas”) can be found in Agustín María de Castro y Amuedo and Antonio Graiño, Ortografía y reglas de la lengua Tagalog acomodadas a sus propios caracteres por D. Pedro Andrés de Castro (1776; reprint, Madrid: Librería General de Victoriano Suárez, 1930), n.p. The center of the shield shows three large rings in a triangle, joined together with links (as in a chain), possibly symbolizing the three noble houses of Pazis, Soliman, and Lacandola, from which this lady was descended. 38. “Mandamos, Que en las Islas Filipinas los Indios no sean llevados de unas [islas] á otras para entradas por fuerça, y contra su voluntad, si no fuere en caso muy necessario, pagandoles su ocupacion y trabajo, y que sean bien tratados, y no recivan agravio.” This law was decreed by Felipe II in Madrid, November 7, 1574. Libro VI, título I, ley xv of the Recopilación de leyes, 2:f. 189v. 39. E. Arsenio Manuel, “The Epic in Philippine Literature,” Philippine Social Sciences and Humanities Review 44.1–4 (1980): 328. 40. “À que son notablemente aficionados los Indios Tagalos; y muchos de ellos tienen voces tan suaves, y sonoras, que es una de las maravillas, que ay en Philipinas, el oyr tantos, y tan concertados choros de Musica.” Relacion de las acclamaciones festivas, plausible celebridad y expressivas demonstraciones de amorosa, y fina lealtad, con que solemnizò la nobilissima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y universal emporio de todo el Oriente. La publicacion de la jura, que en ella se hizo de el serenissimo principe de Asturias D. Luis Phelipe Fernando de Borbon, primogenito, y heredero legitimo de los catholicos reyes de España Don Phelipe Quinto, y Doña Maria Luisa Gabriela de Saboya, nuestros señores (cuyas vidas dilate, y prospere el cielo largos, y felicissimos años) el dia 14. de henero del año de 1712 (Mexico: Viuda de Miguel de Ribera, 1713), f. 26v. 41. Recopilación de leyes, 2:f. 273v. 42. “Il y a dans Manilla [sic] . . . Sangleyes ou Chinois, qui exercent tous les Arts necessaires dans une Republique.” Diego de Bobadilla (attrib.), “Relation des Isles Philipines, faite par un religieux qui y a demeuré 18. ans,” in Relations de divers voyages curieux, ed. Melchisedec Thévenot (Paris: Thomas Moette, 1696), 11. 43. “Les cordes dont ils se servent pour ces derniers instrumens [guitar and harp], sont de soye torse, & rendent un son aussi agréable que les nostres, quoy qu’elles soient de matière bien différente.” Ibid., 5. 44. “Ego Manilæ vidi operarium Sinensem extendere fere unciam argenti: vulgo petaca in filum longum ulnis hispaniæ. 900—seu palmos 3600. quorum quatuor complent dictam ulnam[;] erant tamen filla ita tenuissima, ut longitudo unius palmi facillime rumperetur.” “Musicalia Speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” late seventeenth century (BNE, Ms. 7111), 583. Although this thin silver wire, made of a relatively soft metal, would have been generally unsuitable for use on musical instruments, it is possible that it was produced as silver thread for exclusive items of clothing, such as liturgical vestments. I am grateful to Peter Leech for pointing out this possibility.

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45. For a summary of the principal laws, see Recopilación de leyes, 2:ff. 271v–73v. 46. For 1605, see Milagros Guerrero, “The Chinese in the Philippines, 1570– 1770,” in The Chinese in the Philippines, ed. Alfonso Felix Jr., vol. 1: 1570–1770 (Manila: Solidaridad Publishing House, 1966–69), 33. For 1702, see the real cédula dated Barcelona, February 8, 1702, limiting the number of Chinese in Manila to 6,000, copied in “Zedulas despachadas a Manila (1760)” (NLC, VAULT Ayer MS 1440), ff. 276v–78r. 47. Guerrero, “The Chinese in the Philippines, 1570–1770,” 25. 48. Rafael Bernal, “The Chinese Colony, in Manila, 1570–1770,” in The Chinese in the Philippines, ed. Alfonso Felix Jr., vol. 1: 1570–1770 (Manila: Solidaridad Publishing House, 1966–69), 56. 49. See Guerrero, “The Chinese in the Philippines, 1570–1770,” 35–36; Salvador P. Escoto, “Expulsion of the Chinese and Readmission to the Philippines: 1764–1779,” Philippine Studies 47.1 (1999): 53. 50. See Reed, Colonial Manila, 58–59. 51. “En mi tiempo he visto bolverse à China, y apostatar aun los que se juzgaban mas firmes en la Religion.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:57. 52. Chrétien de Guignes, “Observations on the Philippine Islands and the Isle of France, from the French of M. De Guignes,” in A General Collection of the Best and Most Interesting Voyages and Travels in All Parts of the World; Many of Which Are Now First Translated into English, ed. John Pinkerton (London: Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brows, Paternoster-Row; and Cadell and Davies, in the Strand, 1812), 11:83. The original text reads: “Les Chinois qui habitent Manille [sic], professent le christianisme, mais ce n’est que pour la forme, car, lorsqu’ils partent des Philippines, ils jettent à la mer les images ou les chapelets, et cessent d’être Chrétiens en passant la pointe Mirabelle.” Chrétien de Guignes, Voyages à Peking, Manille et l’Île de France, faits dans l’intervalle des années 1784 à 1801 (Paris: l’Imprimerie impériale, 1808), 3:401. 53. I am grateful to François Picard for discussing these ideas with me. 54. The Virgin of Casaysay, a Marian manifestation in northern Luzon, is essentially considered to be the goddess Mazu in Roman Catholic guise. She remains the patroness of the Filipino Chinese community today. 55. Domingo Fernández Navarrete, “An Account of the Empire of China, Historical, Political, Moral and Religious, written in Spanish by the R. F. F. Dominic Fernandez Navarette,” in A Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill (London: Awnsham and John Churchill, 1704), 1:238. The original text reads: “Las vacinetas de los Chinos, nos embobaro[n] mucho, porque no siendo mayores, que una vacía, tenian la voz como una campana grande. Es notable instrume[n]to.” Domingo Fernández Navarrete, Tratados historicos, politicos, ethicos y religiosos de la monarchia de China. Descripcion breve de aquel imperio, y exemplos raros de emperadores, y magistrados del (Madrid: Imprenta Real, por Iuan Garcia Infançon, 1676), 304. 56. “Los Chinos en sus festines usan de varios Instrumentos Musicos, como Flautas, ò Chirimias, y de una Campana de bronce redonda, como un pandero, hueva por en medio, y dandole con un palo hace un ruido intolerablemente desagradable, usan Tambores, Pifanos, y Sonajas, que mas sirven para ruido desapacible, que para Musica armoniosa. Hacen Comedias friissimas [sic], y suelen durar una tarde, ò un dia, ò una semana. Cantan por las narices.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica,

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7:148. The gong to which Murillo Velarde referred, which was “raised in the middle,” was probably a knobbed gong called gongluo or mangluo, commonly used in southcentral and southeastern China. See Alan R. Thrasher et al., “China,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 5:659. 57. In Thomas Riley McHale and Mary C. McHale, eds., Early American-Philippine Trade: The Journal of Nathaniel Bowditch in Manila, 1796 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1962), 41. The “violin” specified by Bowditch was probably an erhu, and the “flute” could have been either the transverse flute di (also called dizi) or the vertical flute xiao. The “two pewter plates” were most likely a pair of small cymbals known as bo. 58. Ibid., 36. 59. Abella, “From Indio to Filipino,” 10. 60. Inmaculada Alva Rodríguez, Vida municipal en Manila, siglos XVI–XVII (Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 1997), 30–34; Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el siglo de la Ilustración,” 253. 61. Maria Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” in Historia general de España y América. América en el siglo XVIII. Los primeros Borbones, ed. Luis Suárez Fernández et al. (Madrid: Ediciones Rialp, 1983), XI–1:530–31. 62. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 13. 63. Only eleven remained by 1746. See Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” 531. 64. See Recopilación de leyes, 2:ff. 200v–01r. 65. Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:56. On the role of the Inquisition in the Philippines, see Carolyn Brewer, Shamanism, Catholicism, and Gender Relations in Colonial Philippines, 1521–1685, Women and Gender in the Early Modern World (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2004), esp. 143–46. 66. See Antonio García-Abásolo, “The Private Environment of the Spaniards in the Philippines,” Philippine Studies 44 (1996): 349–73. 67. For instance, a report to Carlos III by Governor José de Basco y Vargas, dated December 29, 1778, mentions a ball that took place the day before the Hermandad de la Santa Mesa de Misericordia held elections for officials in their organization. This was attended by men, women, and girls from the Colegio de Santa Isabel. See Leoncio González Liquete, ed., Repertorio histórico, y bibliográfico: Colección de obras publicadas hasta el presente en la prensa de Manila, y ahora cuidosamente refundidas, y otros escritos todavia inéditos (Manila: Imp. del “Día Filipino,” 1930), 1:339–40. 68. See, for example, Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde, 2 vols. (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81); Pierre Sonnerat, Voyage aux Indes Orientales et à la Chine: fait par ordre du roi, depuis 1774 jusqu’en 1781. Dans lequel on traite des mœurs de la religion, des sciences & des arts des indiens, des chinois, des pégouins & des madégasses; suivi d’observations sur le Cap de Bonne-Espérance, les Isles de France & de Bourbon, les Maldives, Ceylan, Malacca, les Philippines & les Moluques, & de recherches sur l’histoire naturelle de ces pays, 2 vols. (Paris: Chez l’auteur etc., 1782); and Guignes, Voyages à Peking, Manille et l’Île de France. 69. “Les Espagnols à Manille n’ayant de goût pour aucun art, laissent faire les Indiens, qui leur donnent moyennant cela de la musique dans le goût de leurs tableaux, & dont on se contente à Manille.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage, 2:134.

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70. Rafael Bernal, México en Filipinas: estudio de una transculturación (Mexico: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 1965), 109–10. 71. Reed, Colonial Manila, 55. 72. See, for instance, Shihan de Silva Jayasuriya and Jean-Pierre Angenot, eds., Uncovering the History of Africans in Asia (Leiden: Brill, 2008). Of course, connections across the Indian Ocean between Africa and Southeast Asia date back to an undetermined period prior to 1000 c.e., when Austronesians (from what is now Indonesia) colonized Madagascar. See Fernández-Armesto, Pathfinders, 61; Jared Diamond, Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York: Norton, 1999), 340, 380–81. Arab voyagers had also long transported Africans from their home continent to India. There was even one example of a seaborne link between East Asia and Africa: the east coast of Africa was the farthest point visited by Chinese navigator Zheng Ye during his fourth voyage of discovery (1413–15). See FernándezArmesto, Pathfinders, 109–12. 73. David B. Waterhouse, “Southern Barbarian Music in Japan,” in Portugal and the World: The Encounter of Cultures in Music, ed. Salwa El-Shawan Castelo-Branco (Lisbon: Publicações Dom Quixote, 1997), 365. 74. See Alicia M. L. Coseteng, Spanish Churches in the Philippines (Manila: UNESCO, 1972), 19; Regalado Trota Jose, Simbahan: Church Art in Colonial Philippines, 1565–1898 (Makati: Ayala Museum, 1991), 56–57. 75. A characteristic feature of earthquake baroque was the presence of heavy buttresses to shore up thick walls against the tremors of frequent seismic activity in this volatile geological region, located on the fringes of the Pacific Ocean’s ring of fire. These buttresses had the added advantage of providing ample fortification; ironically, however, some buildings in the Philippines that incorporated Moorish architectural features from Islamic Spain doubled as fortresses to withstand raids by Muslims (whom the Spaniards called moros) from the south of the archipelago.

chapter 2 1. As a point of comparison, see Carol E. Robertson, ed., Musical Repercussions of 1492: Encounters in Text and Performance (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992). 2. On the music books (“4 libros de canto”; “12 libros yntonatorios y procesionarios”) and other musical commodities brought by Salazar, see Robert William Harold Castleton, “The Life and Works of Domingo de Salazar, O.P. (1512–1594),” Ph.D. diss., University of London, 1974, 67–68, 288, 306; and William John Summers, “Music in the Cathedral: Some Historical Vignettes,” in Manila Cathedral: Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, ed. Ruperto C. Santos (Manila: Archdiocesan Archives of Manila, 1997), 153. The bookseller who provided the music books (at a cost of 1,100 reales) has been identified as Blas de Robles. See María Gembero Ustárroz, “Circulación de libros de música entre España y América (1492–1650): notas para su estudio,” in Early Music Printing and Publishing in the Iberian World, ed. Iain Fenlon and Tess Knighton (Kassel: Reichenberger, 2006), 154. 3. “[Serrano] era musico, y como tal traxo a estas Islas, y introduxo en ellas el baxo[n], instrumento tan importante para la Musica Eclesiastica, èl mismo lo tocava en

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el coro, y enseñò a los Indios como le avian de hazer, y tocar.” Francisco Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 461. 4. “Memorial del maestro fray Pedro de Solier,” June 15, 1616 (AGI, Filipinas, 79, no. 117). 5. Felix de Huerta, Estado geográfico, topográfico, estadístico, histórico-religioso, de la santa y apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio Magno de religiosos menores descalzos de la regular y más estrecha observancia de N. S. P. S. Francisco, en las Islas Filipinas (Binondo: Imprenta de M. Sanchez y Ca., 1865), 386; Eusebio Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico de los religiosos franciscanos de la Provincia de San Gregorio Magno de Filipinas desde 1577 en que llegaron los primeros á Manila hasta los de nuestros días (Manila: Imprenta del Real Colegio de Santo Tomás, á cargo de D. Gervasio Memije, 1880), 137. 6. Irving A. Leonard, Books of the Brave: Being an Account of Books and of Men in the Spanish Conquest and Settlement of the Sixteenth-Century New World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 234; William John Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila: Music and Rejoicing in an International City,” Budhi: A Journal of Ideas and Culture 2.1 (1998): 207. 7. “Plutarch. lib. de Musica.” Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las Islas Philipinas, China, Japón (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr. Juan del Sotillo, 1738–44), 2:506. 8. “Inventarium Generale Omnium Librorum huius Bibliothecae Conventus Divi Pauli Manilensis Ord. Eremitaru[m] S. P. N. August. in ha[e]c Provintia SS Nominis IESU Philippinarum,” 1754–62 (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 13), listed under caxon 6, estante 2. 9. See Pierre Bourdieu, “The Forms of Capital,” in Handbook of Theory and Research for the Sociology of Education, ed. John G. Richardson (New York: Greenwood Press, 1986), 243, 255n3. 10. Thanks to Renata Pieragostini for assisting with the English translation. “È tanto l’obligo che hò al V[ostra] R[everenza] non solamente per la gran carità, che VR usò meco in Roma, ma anche per l’insegnanza che VR tutto il giorno mi dà in queste ultime parti de mondo co’ suoi libri, non meno stimati qui, che in Europa, che sarebbe grande ingratitudine il non scrivere a VR: sappia dunque come il nostro viaggio da Roma insino alle Filippine fu felicissimo, e brevissimo; ma il Signore, le vie del quale sono imperscrutabili permise, che sei leghe lontano de Cavite, porto due leghe lontano da Manila, si levasse un vento contrario che chiamano Noroeste, o Vendarial che rompendo con grán furia alli 30 di Maggio nella notte precedente alla festa della SS.ma Trinità, le funi fece perdere alla nave tutte le anchore; siche fu necessario andare ad una spiaggia di arena vicina dove si salvò la gente, l’argento de Re et altre cose pretiose. Qui in Manila stò studiando il quarto anno di Theologia, e veggo con l’occhi molte maraviglie, che VR racconta ne suoi libri; de quali uno, cioe la Musurgia, io sono

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stato il primo che l’hò portato nell’Indie, e non dubbito che sarà di molto utile ai Padri delle missioni, dove s’insegna la musica publicamente; Il P. Ignatio Monti Germano Rettore di Silàn desidera leggerlo, e fra poco glielo mandarò.” Giovanni Montèl [Juan Montiel], letter to Athanasius Kircher, Manila, July 15, 1654 (APUG Kircher, Ms. 567), f. 155r. Also available online at the Kircher Correspondence Project, , Title-ID 150305. In Italian records, this Jesuit’s name is usually recorded as Giovanni Montiel. 11. “Ignatio Monti” doubtless refers to the Swiss-born Jesuit Walter Ignaz Sonnenberg (1612–80), who took the Spanish name Ignacio de Monte on his arrival in 1643. On the identity of Sonnenberg, see Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 225, 617. Thanks to Bonnie Blackburn for helping to decipher Montiel’s letter. 12. Ibid., 448–49, 614. 13. See John Fletcher, “Athanasius Kircher and the Distribution of His Books,” Library, 5th series, 23.2 (1968): 112–13; John Fletcher, “Athanasius Kircher and His ‘Musurgia Universalis’ (1650),” Musicology [Australia] 7 (1982): 76, 79. 14. “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” late seventeenth century (BNE, Ms. 7111), 481–596. For a more detailed discussion of this source, see David R. M. Irving, “The Dissemination and Use of European Music Books in Early Modern Asia,” Early Music History 28 (2009): 54–57. 15. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 298–99. 16. In Georgius Mensaert, Fortunato Margiotti, and Sixto Rosso, eds., Sinica franciscana, vol. 7: Relationes et epistolas fratrum minorum hispanorum in Sinis qui a 1672–81 missionem ingressi sunt (Rome: Scuola Tipografica “Pax et Bonum,” 1965), 1024. 17. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 298. 18. “Llegaron unos cantores de la Capilla del Colegio a quererle entretener con alguna musica, y preguntado, que gustaria que le cantassen? Dixo, que su regalada coplita: Veante mis ojos, dulce Iesus bueno; veante mis ojos; muerame yo luego. Entonòla un tiple de regalada voz.” Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 535. 19. This poem does not appear in Saint Teresa of Ávila, Efrén de la Madre de Dios, and Otger Steggink, Obras completas, Biblioteca de autores cristianos, 212 (Madrid: Editorial Católica, 1962), but its authorship is attributed to the saint in Arthur Terry, Seventeenth-Century Spanish Poetry: The Power of Artifice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 5. 20. Antonio García-Abásolo, “The Private Environment of the Spaniards in the Philippines,” Philippine Studies 44.3 (1996): 365. 21. Robert Murrell Stevenson, “Guerrero, Francisco,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 10:502; Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 203. 22. I am grateful to Iain Fenlon for his suggestion of this hypothesis. Joan Brudieu (c. 1520–91), whose collection titled De los madrigales was published in Barcelona in 1585, seems a possible candidate. 23. García-Abásolo, “The Private Environment of the Spaniards,” 365. 24. See Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences on the West Visayan Folk Song Tradition of the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Adelaide, 1981, 1:158, 352.

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25. Noël Golvers, “The Library Catalogue of Diogo Valente’s Book Collection in Macau (1633). A Philological and Bibliographical Analysis,” Bulletin of PortugueseJapanese Studies 13 (2006): 17, 31–41. The works by Duarte Lobo have been identified by Golvers (41) as Missarum IV. V. VI et VIII Vocibus (Antwerp, 1621) and Cantica B[eatae] Mariae Virginis, vulgo Magnificat (Antwerp, 1608 [sic; 1605]). According to Golvers (38–41), other significant works in this collection include Litaniae Sanctorum cum Hymnis, Precibus, et Orationibus (Lisbon, 1619); Pedro Navarro, Manuale Chori secundum Usum Ordinis Fratrum Minorum (Salamanca, 1586); and Pedro Ruyz Alcoholado, Ceremonial Romano para missas cantadas y rezadas (Alcalá, 1589). Unidentifiable entries in the catalog include listings such as “Tres libros de coro de solfa grandes, ass[im] hum antifonario Romano.” 26. On the facistol from Macau, see Pedro G. Galende and Regalato Trota José, San Agustín: Art and History 1571–2000 (Intramuros, Manila: San Agustín Museum, 2000), 137. 27. Relacion de las acclamaciones festivas, plausible celebridad y expressivas demonstraciones de amorosa, y fina lealtad, con que solemnizò la nobilissima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y universal emporio de todo el Oriente. La publicacion de la jura, que en ella se hizo de el serenissimo principe de Asturias D. Luis Phelipe Fernando de Borbon, primogenito, y heredero legitimo de los catholicos reyes de España Don Phelipe Quinto, y Doña Maria Luisa Gabriela de Saboya, nuestros señores (cuyas vidas dilate, y prospere el cielo largos, y felicissimos años) el dia 14. de henero del año de 1712 (Mexico: Viuda de Miguel de Ribera, [1713]), f. 26v; Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 219v. 28. Leales demostraciones, amantes finezas, y festivas aclamaciones de la novilissima ciudad de Manila, con que agradecida a los divinos beneficios expresa su fino amor en las nueve fiestas que celebrô, patente el divino rey de reyes en el ss. sacramento; y colocada en la capilla mayor desta s. metropolitana iglesia la milagrosa ymagen de Maria Santissima de Guia, en accion de gracias por el dichoso y feliz nacimiento de nuestro príncipe, y señor natural D. Luis Phelipe Fernando Joseph, que Dios guarde, y las consagra a magestad catholica del señor D. Phelipe quinto rey de las Españas (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus por D. Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1709), ff. 16v, 27v, 54v; Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos regozijos, que dispuso a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de San Lazaro. la elevacion al trono de su merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de las Españas, y de las Indias D. Fernando Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al mismo señor rey, y catholico monarca, los capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), ff. 61r–63r; Relacion de las acclamaciones festivas, f. 26v. 29. “Concurriero[n] a su tiempo a las Visperas todos los Religiossos [sic] nuestros del meridiano, y combidadas todas las capillas de musica de Manila, acompañadas a cinco choros de hermossa variedad de instrume[n]tos, cantaron obras nuebas en Psalmos y chanzonetas, rompie[n]do desde aqui el nombre a la zelebridad, y dandole

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desde luego elevacion.” Felipe Pardo et al., Sagrada fiesta: tres vezes grande: que en el discurso de tres dias zelebro el Convento de Sancto Domingo de Manila, primera casa de la Provincia del Sancto Rosario de Filippinas: en la beatificacion de los gloriossos sanctos Pio Quinto, Diego de Bebaña, y Margarita de Castello (Manila: Collegio, y Universidad de Sancto Thomas de Aquino. Por el Capitan D. Gaspar de los Reyes, 1677), f. 12v. 30. For a survey of surviving sources of texts and music of works composed in the early modern Philippines, see David R. M. Irving, “Colonial Musical Culture in Early Modern Manila,” Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 2007, 393–408. 31. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 473; Regalado Trota Jose, Impreso: Philippine Imprints, 1593–1811 (Makati, Manila: Fundación Santiago and Ayala Foundation, 1993), 122, no. 379. Despite claims to the contrary, it is likely that this treatise simply circulated in manuscript form. However, several music treatises on music were printed in the Philippines during the nineteenth century. They include the Pequeño método teórico-práctico de solfeo y colección de cánticos sencillos para los niños de las escuelas elementales de Filipinas, written by a Jesuit and published in Manila by the Spanish government in 1866 or 1867 (see Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences,” 1:136; and Pedro Vindel, Biblioteca oriental: comprende 2.747 obras relativas á Filipinas, Japón, China y otras partes de Asia y Oceanía. Con comentarios y 96 reproducciones en facsímil, etc. [Madrid: P. Vindel, 1911–12], 1:272), and Emilio Ramírez de Arrellano’s Apuntes para una introducción a la estética y literatura musical y ensayo de un programa de la misma ciencia (Manila: Rev. Mercantil, 1884) (see Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Aparato bibliográfico de la historia general de Filipinas deducido de la colección que posee en Barcelona la Compañía General de Tabacos de dichas islas [Madrid: Imprenta de la Sucesora de M. Minuesa de los Ríos, 1906], 2:988). Another treatise is the Breve explicación de los principios elementales de la música en idioma tagalog (Manila, 1888) by Filipino priest José Ma. Zamora. This source was listed as no. 2839 in Trinidad Hermenegildo Pardo de Tavera’s Biblioteca filipina: ó sea, catálogo razonado de todos los impresos, tanto insulares como extranjeros, relativos á la historia, la etnografía, la lingüística, la botánica, la fauna, la flora, la geología, la hidrografía, la geografía, la legislación, etc., de las Islas Filipinas, de Joló y Marianas (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1903, 437), but no copy has yet been located. It is also mentioned in the biography of Zamora in E. Arsenio Manuel and Magdalena Avenir Manuel, Dictionary of Philippine Biography (Quezon City: Filipiniana Publications, 1955–95), 3:466. I am grateful to Luciano P. R. Santiago for pointing out the references to the treatises of Ramírez de Arrellano and Zamora. 32. See Irving, “The Dissemination and Use of European Music Books,” 50–53. On the Jesuit press from Goa printing European music notation in Japan, see Eta Harich-Schneider, A History of Japanese Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1973), 473–74. 33. Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff, “Music, Religion and Politics: Teodorico Pedrini’s Correspondence from the Early Qing Court,” paper presented at the Twelfth Biennial International Conference on Baroque Music, Warsaw, July 26–30, 2006. 34. Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff, “From the Qing Court to the Vatican: Teodorico Pedrini’s Half Century of Letters,” paper presented at “Music and Inter-cultural Contact in the Early Modern Period,” study day at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, June 18, 2005.

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35. Peter C. Allsop and Joyce Lindorff, “Teodorico Pedrini: The Music and Letters of an 18th-Century Missionary in China,” Vincentian Heritage 27.2 (2008): 54–56. 36. Ibid., 43. “Bononcino” probably refers to Giovanni Bononcini (1670–1747), whose output of published instrumental music was greater than that of his younger brother, Antonio Maria Bononcini (1677–1726). 37. On Corelli’s music in India, see Raymond Head, “Corelli in Calcutta: Colonial Music-Making in India during the 17th and 18th Centuries,” Early Music 13.4 (1985): 548–53; and Ian Woodfield, Music of the Raj: A Social and Economic History of Music in Late Eighteenth-Century Anglo-Indian Society (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). 38. See Ian Woodfield, “The Keyboard Recital in Oriental Diplomacy, 1520– 1620,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 115.1 (1990): 33–62; Joyce Lindorff, “Missionaries, Keyboards and Musical Exchange in the Ming and Qing Courts,” Early Music 32.3 (2004): 403–14. 39. Pedro de San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance castellano puesto primero (Villa de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613), 207. 40. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 138. 41. “Diçe q[ue] queria ver com seus ochos, & a palpar com suos maõs, se os orgaõs como che disian eran de Bambu, & qua[n]do os vio, tocou, e ouvio suos vozes, não ficou pouco admirado.” “Papers Relating to the Jesuit Mission in Japan” (BL, Marsden Collection, Add. Mss. 9860), f. 52r. See also David B. Waterhouse, “Southern Barbarian Music in Japan,” in Portugal and the World: The Encounter of Cultures in Music, ed. Salwa El-Shawan Castelo-Branco (Lisbon: Publicações Dom Quixote, 1997), 365. 42. On this instrument and its maker, see Helen Samson-Lauterwald, The Bamboo Organ of Las Piñas, 2nd rev. ed. (Las Piñas, Manila: Bamboo Organ Foundation, 2006), esp. 105–10 for a discussion of the pipes. 43. “No es mui fazil hazer Organos, y hizo un Indio de Camarines llamado Alonso, el Organo de N[uestro]. M[onasterio]. S[anta]. Clara, y otro que llevo a China N[uestro]. H[ermano]. Fr[ay]. Lucas Eskuan. Otro Indio ay en [blank space in manuscript] que tambien haze Organos, y en Nagcarlan hizo casi nuebo el Organo otro Indio est[e] año de 1703, y el mismo año otro Indio hizo casi nuevo el de Lilio.” Juan de Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros misioneros acerca de la predicación y confesión de los indios,” 1703 (AFIO, 68/8), f. 1r. 44. “Un Maestro sumamente perito y único en las Yslas.” María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española en Filipinas (1565–1800) (Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos de Sevilla, 1959), 208. 45. “L’orgue est l’instrument favori, parce que c’est celui qui fait le plus de bruit; & pour avoir le plaisir de l’entendre, ils se rendent avec empressement dans l’église des Chrétiens. Plusieurs, par la seule habitude de l’entendre, ont appris sans maître l’art de le toucher.” François Henri Turpin, Histoire civile et naturelle du royaume de Siam, et des révolutions qui ont bouleversé cet empire jusqu’en 1770; publiée par M. Turpin, sur des manuscrits qui lui ont été communiqués par M. l’Evêque de Tabraca, vicaire apostolique de Siam, & autres missionnaires de ce royaume (Paris: Chez Costard, Libraire, rue S. Jean de Beauvais, 1771), 1:125–26.

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notes to pages 56–58

46. Samson-Lauterwald, The Bamboo Organ, 59–61; Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 230–31. 47. “Un Religioso subdito mio ha fabricado un Forte-Piano con varios registros nuevamente inventados; y asegurando d[ic]ho Religioso, que en su linea de Forte-Piano, no ha oido haya otro igual en n[ues]tra España, ni en Ynglaterra; he determinado presentarlo en nombre de mi Prov[inci].a â la Reyna n[uest]ra S[eño]ra.” Santa Orosia, letter accompanying the delivery of a fortepiano to María Luisa de Borbón, queen of Spain, Manila, October 29, 1793 (PNA, Patronatos 1686–1898, Bundle 13, L. 35–39). 48. There still remains the possibility that this “Forte-Piano” was in fact a harpsichord with a dynamically diverse range of registers, rather than a hammered keyboard instrument. I am grateful to Cealwyn Tagle for this suggestion. Renewed searches for a harpsichord—made from tropical woods and with multiple registers— that was present in late eighteenth-century Spain might yet yield fruitful results. 49. See Hans Gerd Klais, “Philippinische Orgeln aus dem 18. und 19. Jahrhundert,” Acta Organologica 24 (1979): 75–123; David Irving, “Keyboard Instruments and Instrumentalists in Manila, 1581–1798,” Anuario Musical 60 (2005): 35–38; and William John Summers, “Manila, the Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 15:761. 50. José-Antonio Guzmán-Bravo, “Mexico, Home of the First Musical Instrument Workshops in America,” Early Music 6.3 (1978): 351; Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Mexico (New York: Crowell, 1971), 92–93. 51. “Musicalia speculativa” (BNE, Ms. 7111), 596. 52. John M. Schechter, “Bandurria,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 2:657. See also Maurice Esses, Dance and Instrumental Diferencias in Spain during the 17th and early 18th Centuries, vol. 1: History and Background, Music and Dance (Stuyvesant, N.Y.: Pendragon Press, 1992), 323–26. 53. Esses, Dance and Instrumental Diferencias, 1:323; Juan Bermudo, Comiença el libro llamado declaración de instrumentos musicales (Osuna: Juan de Leo, 1555), Book IV, f. 98r. 54. See Jeremy Montagu, Origins and Development of Musical Instruments (Lanham, Md.: Scarecrow Press, 2007), 128, 132. 55. See Werner Bachmann et al., “Bow,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 4:130–31. 56. Muriel C. Williamson, “Saùng-gauk,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 22:332; Arsenio Magsino Nicolas, “Musical Exchange in Early Southeast Asia: Indonesia and the Philippines, ca. 100 to 1600 c.e.,” Ph.D. diss., Cornell University, 2006, 213. 57. See Montagu, Origins and Development, 196; Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 22–27; and David R. M. Irving, “Comparative Organography in Early Modern Empires,” Music & Letters 90.3 (2009): 379.

notes to pages 59–62

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58. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 455–56. 59. In Rodrigue Lévesque, ed., History of Micronesia: A Collection of Source Documents (Gatineau, Quebec: Éditions Lévesque, 1992–2001), 4:381–93. 60. In ibid., 4:382–83. 61. In ibid., 5:143. 62. “Historia 1663–1734” (ARSI, Philipp. 13), f. 233r. 63. “Siete violines con sus Arcos . . . Flautas dulces . . . Dos Arpas . . . un violin [sic; violón?] . . . un bajoncito con varios flores de mano . . . Un estante con papeles de musica . . . Dos Cornetas . . . tres violines . . . una Arpa.” “Diligencias hechas por S. M. sobre extrañamiento y ocupación de bienes de los jesuitas en Marianas,” 1769–86 (AHSIC, FILEXP-11: E.I,d-11), 90, 92, 97, 128. 64. Examples of gourd bows have also been found in Mexico, but these undoubtedly date from after the beginning of sustained transatlantic contact with Africa and Europe. See Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory, 22–27. 65. The significant absence of this instrument in any other part of the Mariana Islands supports the thesis that passengers on the transpacific galleons were responsible for introducing the instrument to Guam, because Guam was the principal island at which these ships landed. 66. “Se representò el Africa en una danza de Negros, que con medios toneletes al compàs del grosero birimbao, baylaron el mototo.” Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, f. 218v. 67. The following text is included in the explanation beneath a diagram of a jaw harp: “Apud Lusitanos Indiæ orientalis dicitur: Bìrimbào” (“Among the Portuguese of the East Indies it is called Bìrimbào”). “Musicalia speculativa” (BNE, Ms. 7111), 591. On Guam, the Chamorro word for “mouth” is pachot, so it is unsurprising that the common name for the jaw harp in Guam is belembao pachot. 68. In Mensaert et al., eds., Sinica franciscana, 7:356. 69. Javier Marín López, “Música y músicos entre dos mundos: la catedral de México y sus fuentes polifónicas (siglos XVI–XVIII),” Ph.D. diss., Universidad de Granada, 2007, 1:161. 70. See María Fernanda García de los Arcos, “La emigración a Filipinas en el siglo XVIII, según los fondos del Archivo General de la Nación (México),” in Extremo oriente ibérico: investigaciones históricas: metodología y estado de la cuestión, ed. Francisco de Solano, Florentino Rodao García, and Luis E. Togores (Madrid: Agencia Española de Cooperación Internacional, Centro de Estudios Históricos, Departamento de Historia de América, 1989), 240–41. 71. See Eduardus de Sande and Alessandro Valignano, De missione legatorum Iaponensium ad romanam curiam, rebusque in Europa, ac toto itinere animadversis dialogus, ex ephemeride ipsorum legatorum collectus, & in sermonem latinum versus ab Eduardo de Sande Sacerdote Societatis Jesu (In Macaensi portu Sinici regni: in domo Societatis Jesu, 1590. Reprint, Tokyo: Toyo Bunko, 1935). 72. Vicente Alemany and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, “Tercera parte de la vida del gran tacaño. Obra inédita publicada con prólogo y notas de W. E. Retana,” Révue hispanique 54.126 (1922): 509. 73. Luciano P. R. Santiago, The Hidden Light: The First Filipino Priests (Quezon City: New Day, 1987), 77.

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notes to pages 62–64

74. “El Señor D. Fernando Valenzuela, quando se fue de aqui año de 1689, llevo unos tiplecillos Indios.” Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros misioneros” (AFIO, 68/8), f. 1v. One of these boys, the Chinese mestizo Don Ignacio Gregorio Manesay, was admitted to minor orders in Mexico and later returned to Manila, where he professed as an Augustinian. He subsequently traveled to China as a missionary. See Santiago, The Hidden Light, 76–78. 75. “Declaro, por mis Esclavos los que parecieren ser mios, y tener en esta mi Casa, y Servicio, para que desde el dia de mis fallecimiento en adelante gozen de su libertad, y para su titulo les sirva de bastante una Copia de esta Clausula, por ser asi mi voluntad.” Fernando de Valenzuela, “Memoria escrita por D. Fernando Valenzuela,” in “Papeles varios, siglo XVIII” (BNE, Ms. 11033), f. 230r. Of course, Valenzuela may have taken other personal servants with him to Mexico, besides the tiplecillos, and the term “esclavos” may refer to these additional members of his retinue. 76. Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:55. 77. Gregorio Alexandro Bustamente Bustillo y Medinilla, “Breve y puntual relacion, de la Embajada, que executò en Siam el año de 1718, el general don Gregorio Alexandro de Bustamente, Bustillo, y Medinilla Manjon de Estrada, Señor y Mayor de las Casas de su Apellido: con una epilogada descripcion de aquel Reyno, y sus costumbres, y otra muy succinta de las Yslas Philipinas, su servicios en ellas, ay alguna parte de los trabajos, è infortunios, que despues le han seguido,” c. 1724 (LLIU, Philippine Mss. II), ff. 49v, 65v. 78. Huerta, Estado, 43. 79. “La Reyne qui ayme fort les Idoles, leur demanda quelle estoit leur loy, & quelles sortes de prieres elles chantoient: ces bonnes Religieuses répondirent constamment ce qu’elles devoient; mais la femme qui leur servoit d’interprete, ne rapporta pas fidellement leur réponçe.” Alexandre de Rhodes, Divers voyages de la Chine, et autres royaumes de l’Orient. Avec le retour de l’autheur en Europe, par la Perse & l’Armenie (Paris: Christophe Iournel, 1681), 232. 80. José S. Arcilla, “Montiel, Juan de,” in Diccionario histórico de la Compañía de Jesús: biográfico-temático, ed. Charles E. O’Neill and Joaquín Ma. Domínguez (Rome: Institutum Historicum Societatis Iesu; Madrid: Universidad Pontificia Comillas, 2001), 3:2733. 81. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 448–49. Costa notes that the assassination took place at the nearby locality of Bwayan. 82. See ibid., 543–44. 83. “Le Sultan montra une joie encore plus grande à cause d’un violon précieux envoyé en cadeau, et des expressions amicales que le gouverneur employait dans sa lettre pour honorer la sœur du Roi. Le gouvernement était informé du goût prononcé de la princesse pour les instrumens [sic] de musique et de son penchant pour les Espagnols.” “Relation des nouvelles missions à Jolo et à Mindanao, écrite par un missionaire des Philippines en 1748,” in “Serie de cartas escritas en francés desde 1677 á 1750 por varios PP. Misioneros jesuitas de la Provincia de Filipinas á otras personas, generalmente de las Provincias de Austria y del Rhin inferior á las cuales ellos pertenecian. 2.a Parte: 1732 á 1750” (AHSIC, FILCAR: E.I,a–18/2), 334.

notes to pages 64–65

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84. See Margaret J. Kartomi, “Portuguese Influence on Indonesian Music,” in Festschrift Christoph-Hellmut Mahling zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. Axel Beer, Kristina Pfarr, and Wolfgang Ruf (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1997), 1:658–59. In a publication of 1783, British orientalist William Marsden (1754–1836) wrote about music on the west coast of North Sumatra, noting that “the violin has found it’s [sic] way to them from the westward [sic]. . . . Those who perform on the violin use the same notes as in our division, and they tune the instrument by fifths to a great nicety. They are fond of playing the octave, but scarcely use any other chord.” William Marsden, The History of Sumatra, Containing an Account of the Government, Laws, Customs, and Manners of the Native Inhabitants, with a Description of the Natural Productions and a Relation of the Ancient Political State of That Island (London: Printed for the Author, and Sold by Thomas Payne and Son, 1783), 159–60. Dutch and English vessels carried violins as well and may also have been responsible for the transmission of the instrument to this region. English buccaneer William Dampier (1651–1715), for instance, described in his celebrated publication A New Voyage around the World how Captain Swan of the Cygnet “sent for his Violins, and some [men] that could Dance English Dances,” to entertain a local leader during their stay on Mindanao in 1686. See William Dampier, A New Voyage Round the World. Describing particularly, the Isthmus of America, Several Coasts and Islands in the West Indies, the Isles of Cape Verd, the Passage by Terra del Fuego, the South Sea Coasts of Chili, Peru, and Mexico; the Isle of Guam, One of the Ladrones, Mindanao, and other Philippine and East-India Islands near Cambodia, China, Formosa, Luconia, Celebes &c., New Holland, Sumatra, Nicobar Isles; the Cape of Good Hope, and Santa Hellena. Their Soil, Rivers, Harbours, Plants, Fruits, Animals, and Inhabitants. Their Customs, Religion, Government, Trade, &c., 2nd ed. (London: James Knapton, 1697), 361. It is possible that some ships’ instruments were traded with the inhabitants or copied by local craftsmen. 85. See Marcel Mauss, The Gift: The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies, trans. W. D. Halls, foreword by Mary Douglas. (London: Routledge, 1990). 86. Costa notes that Jesuit Josef Wilhelm (1710–48), who was stationed at Zamboanga from 1745, possessed an Arabic Book of Hours that had been published in Rome in 1725, which had been sent to him by a Dominican in Manila. ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ , when visiting Zamboanga, took a great interest in this volume, discussing and debating many points of the contents with Wilhelm. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 545. 87. Forrest observed that “the Rajah Moodo is elected by the states, and succeeds the Sultan; similar to the king of the Romans succeeding the emperors of Germany.” Thomas Forrest, A Voyage to New Guinea and the Moluccas, 1774–1776, 2nd ed. (London: G. Scott, 1780. Reprint, Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1969), 179. 88. Ibid., 296. 89. This story is related by Jesuit Jean-Baptiste Du Halde (1674–1743) in his Description géographique, historique, chronologique, politique, et physique de l’empire de la Chine et de la Tartarie Chinoise (Paris: P. G. Le Mercier, 1735), 3:266. 90. On the role of slave musicians in Sulu, see James Francis Warren, The Sulu Zone 1768–1898: The Dynamics of External Trade, Slavery, and Ethnicity in the Transformation of a Southeast Asian Maritime State (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1985), 225–26.

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notes to pages 65–69

91. Forrest, Voyage to New Guinea and the Moluccas, 330. According to Forrest, there were also some Spanish slaves in Sulu. 92. Nicholas Tracy, Manila Ransomed: The British Assault on Manila in the Seven Years War, Exeter Maritime Studies, no. 10 (Exeter, U.K.: University of Exeter Press, 1995), 9. 93. Ibid., 17. 94. Nicholas P. Cushner, Documents Illustrating the British Conquest of Manila, 1762–1763 (London: Offices of the Royal Historical Society, University College, London, 1971), 57. 95. Samuel Cornish and William Draper, A Plain Narrative of the Reduction of Manila and the Phillippine [sic] Islands ([London], 1764), 21. 96. See Rosario Mendoza Cortes, Celestina Puyal Boncan, and Ricardo Trota Jose, The Filipino Saga: History as Social Change (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 2000), 88–101. 97. See Woodfield, Music of the Raj, 102–03. 98. Cushner, Documents Illustrating the British Conquest of Manila, 118. 99. Galende and José, San Agustín, 48. 100. Ibid., 48, 138. 101. See Charles Ralph Boxer, “Preliminary Report on a Collection of Documents Looted at Manila in 1762–64, and now in the Lilly Library, Indiana University,” in International Conference on Asian History (Kuala Lumpur: University of Malaya, 1968). 102. “Les Anglois ont laissé à Manille beaucoup de contredanses fort bizarres, mais qui plaisent si fort que les Musiciens les font servir à l’église; après la Collecte, on est sûr de voir finir l’Office, dans toutes les églises, par une contredanse angloise, avec laquelle ils régalent & congédient les Spectateurs.” Guillaume JosephLe Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:133. 103. See, for example, Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones, ff. 44v, 60v. 104. Jean Baptiste Mallat de Bassilan, Les Philippines: histoire, géographie, mœurs, agriculture, industrie et commerce des colonies espagnoles dans l’océanie (Paris: Arthus Bertrand, 1846), 2:250. 105. John Nichols, Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century, Comprizing Biographical Memoirs of William Bowyer, Printer, F. S. A. and Many of His Learned Friends; an Incidental View of the Progress and Advancement of Literature in This Kingdom During the Last Century; and Biographical Anecdotes of a Considerable Number of Eminent Writers and Ingenious Artists; with a Very Copious Index (London: Printed for the author by Nichols, Son, and Bentley, 1812. Reprint, New York: AMS Press; Kraus Reprint, 1966), 3:126. 106. John Meares, Voyages Made in the Years 1788 and 1789, from China to the North West Coast of America: To Which Are Prefixed, an Introductory Narrative of a Voyage Performed in 1786, from Bengal, in the Ship Nootka: Observations on the Probable Existence of a North West Passage and Some Account of the Trade between the North West Coast of America and China and the Latter Country and Great Britain (London: Printed at the Logographic Press; and sold by J. Walter, 1790), 44. 107. Ibid., 44–45. On the musical implications of the use of the word “savage” in eighteenth-century European discourse, see Olivia A. Bloechl, Native American Song at

notes to pages 69–77

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the Frontiers of Early Modern Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 187–94. 108. Meares, Voyages Made in the Years 1788 and 1789, 45.

chapter 3 1. Dorothy Keyser, “The Character of Exploration: Adrian Willaert’s Quid non ebrietas,” in Musical Repercussions of 1492: Encounters in Text and Performance, ed. Carol E. Robertson (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1992), 185. 2. Ibid., 185–86. 3. See Reynaldo Clemeña Ileto, Pasyon and Revolution: Popular Movements in the Philippines, 1840–1910 (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1979) and Filipinos and Their Revolution: Event, Discourse, and Historiography (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1998). 4. For an overview of these types of written sources, see the seminal article by Corazon C. Dioquino, “Musicology in the Philippines,” Acta Musicologica 54.1–2 (1982): 124–47, esp. 124–26. 5. Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 140. 6. Historical reconstruction from colonial period documents should also be put into perspective by comparison with living traditions of minority groups who have preserved many precolonial traditions of making and playing musical instruments. (Many of these traditions are documented in José Maceda, Gongs and Bamboo: A Panorama of Philippine Music Instruments [Diliman: University of the Philippines Press, 1998].) Some communities in the Philippines were never directly subject to colonial rule and have retained many elements of their culture free from radical transformations as a result of having little or no contact with hegemonic cultural influences. Certain groups who were in contact with Spaniards but who resisted their claims of sovereignty (including the Muslims in the south of the archipelago and highland communities in Luzon) simply eschewed European musical practices as the cultural trappings of a colonial oppressor; others selectively embraced certain elements of European musical culture, adapting them to their own uses and purposes. But we should remember that the musical cultures of noncolonized peoples cannot be projected as some sort of vestigial evidence of the precolonial musical reality of the archipelago as a whole, because these communities often constitute minorities in territories that were relatively inaccessible to the mainstream population in the early modern period. 7. Joseph-François Lafitau, Mœurs des sauvages amériquains, comparées aux mœurs des premiers temps, 4 vols. (Paris: Chez Saugrain l’aîné; chez Charles-Estienne Hochereau, 1724). See a discussion of this work in Philip V. Bohlman, “Missionaries, Magical Muses, and Magnificent Menageries: Image and Imagination in the Early History of Ethnomusicology,” World of Music 30.3 (1988): 5–7. 8. Lafitau, Mœurs des sauvages amériquains, plate VIII, between 1:212–13. 9. See Joan-Pau Rubiés, “The Spanish Contribution to the Ethnology of Asia in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” Renaissance Studies 17.3 (2003): 443.

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notes to pages 78–79

10. Anthony Pagden, The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the Origins of Comparative Ethnology, corrected ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986), 4. 11. “El Bangsi, à modo de flauta, que parece sale de una sepultura, segun es triste . . . Los Visayas, Zambales, y Boholanos usan un Bayle muy guerrero, con lanzas, campilanes, y otras armas, como los Griegos, y Troyanos.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:34. 12. “Il maggiore loro solazzo però è la guerra de’galli (di cui abbiam favellato di sopra), giuoco usato alcuna fiata dagli antichi Imperadori Romani.” Giovanni Francesco Gemelli Careri, Giro del mondo del dottor D. Gio. Francesco Gemelli Careri, new corrected ed. (Venice: Sebastiano Coleti, 1728), 5:79. 13. “Uso semejante al de los antiguos Dramas en los combites, y desposorios, y derivado de los Hebreos a todas estas Naciones Gentilicas de la Asia.” Francisco Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 369. 14. “El otro llamàdo Dalit es mas grave, y sentencioso, al modo de los que los Griegos, y Latinos llamaron Epico dythirambicos.” Gaspar de San Agustín, Compendio de la arte de la lengua tagala (Manila: Collegio del Señor Santo Tomas de Aquino, por Juan Correa, 1703), f. 37v. 15. “Si juzgamos de la poesía de los peruanos por la de los tagalos, Racine el joven no hubiera hallado en sus dramas las calidades que creía . . . No sé cómo el P. Lafitau pudo comparar su retórica con la de Demósthenes y Cicerón.” Joaquín Martínez de Zúñiga and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Estadismo de las Islas Filipinas, ó mis viajes por este país. Publica esta obra por primera vez extensamente anotada W. E. Retana (Madrid: [Viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos], 1893), 1:512–13. 16. See Arsenio Magsino Nicolas, “Early Musical Exchange between India and Southeast Asia,” in Early Indian Influences in Southeast Asia: Reflections on CrossCultural Movements, ed. Pierre-Yves Manguin, A. Mani, and P. Ramysamy, vol. 2 (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, forthcoming); and Arsenio Magsino Nicolas, “Musical Exchange in Early Southeast Asia: Indonesia and the Philippines, ca. 100 to 1600 c.e.” Ph.D. diss., Cornell University, 2006, 149 (kamsa, gangsa), 208 (vamsa, bangsi), 211 (kacchapi, kudyapi). 17. I am grateful to Katherine Butler Brown for discussing with me her ideas for a theory of classicism in the early modern European study of ancient Indian literature. 18. “Misterio tiene en esta oracion la primera palabra ABA, que tiene fuerça de saludar; como Ave en Latin.” Pedro Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas i de lo que en ellas an trabaiado los padres dæ la Compañia de Iesus (Roma: Por Estevan Paulino, 1604), 36. 19. See Pagden, Fall of Natural Man, 194–95.

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20. See Florence Hsia, “Athanasius Kircher’s China Illustrata (1667): An Apologia Pro Vita Sua,” in Athanasius Kircher: The Last Man Who Knew Everything, ed. Paula Findlen (New York: Routledge, 2004), 390. 21. Pagden, Fall of Natural Man, 6. 22. “Siempre la lengua fue compañera del imperio.” Antonio de Nebrija, Pascual Galindo Romeo, and Luis Ortiz Muñoz, Gramática castellana: texto establecido sobre la ed. «princeps» de 1492 (Madrid: Edición de la Junta del Centenario, 1946), 2:3. 23. “Treinta años estuvo averiguando palabra por palabra, con tal empeño y teson, que se habia propuesto por regla infaliable el que no pasaría de una a otra sin que conviniesen doce indios ladinos en este idioma en la pronunciacion, acento y significacion de cada raiz; y vez hubo en que teniendo ya nueve, y pasándose mucho tiempo sin hallar ó poder cumplir con el numero prescripto, no se determinaba aun á notarla y apuntarla.” Juan José de Noceda and Pedro de Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1754), f. 4v. See also Bienvenido Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry 1570–1898: Tradition and Influences in Its Development (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1986), 2. 24. Scott has observed that the early vocabularios are “by far the richest sources of information on Filipino ethnography. . . . By their very nature, dictionaries contain more information than any other sort of literature or documentation.” William Henry Scott, Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and Society (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1994), 2. 25. In discussing Inca musical instruments, for instance, Stevenson notes that “anyone who has made use of the dictionaries soon comes to know them as the organologist’s best friends.” Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 260. 26. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 2–21. 27. Filipino women were generally noted to be much more proficient than men at reading and writing. 28. See William Henry Scott, Prehispanic Source Materials for the Study of Philippine History, rev. ed. (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1984), 56–58. 29. The practice of baybayin has not been completely suppressed; even after more than 400 years of Western cultural hegemony, it remains a traditional practice among some isolated communities, particularly on the islands of Mindoro and Palawan. Baybayin usage and orthography aroused the curiosity of both scholars and amateurs from the early nineteenth century onward, and its gradual disappearance from general practice increased its rarity value, especially among travel writers of the nineteenth century who sought to find relics of a distant past. See ibid., 52–62, and Vicente Rafael, Contracting Colonialism: Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society under Early Spanish Rule (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), 44–54. 30. Scott, Barangay, 215. 31. “Pero ellos despues de haver celebrado mucho la invencion de la Cruz, y haver dado muchas gracias por ella, resolvieron que no podia tener lugar en su escritura, porque era contra su intrinseca propriedad y naturaleza que Dios le dìo; y que era destruir de un golpe toda la Sintaxis, Prosodia, y Ortografia desu lengua Tagala, poniendola en mala Cruz. Pero que no era su animo tampoco, el disgustar alos

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notes to pages 82–84

Señores Españoles, y que harian lo que les mandasen, especialmente quando escriban cosas de lengua Española, en sus Caracteres Tagalos, y que procurarian llenarlo todo de buenas cruces, paraque mexor se entienda.” Agustín María de Castro and Antonio Graiño, Ortografía y reglas de la lengua Tagalog acomodadas a sus propios caracteres por D. Pedro Andrés de Castro [Ms, Manila, 1776]. (Reprint, Madrid: Librería General de Victoriano Suárez, 1930), 15–16. 32. Ibid., 19. 33. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism, 29. 34. “Es tanta su aficion á libros que no contentos con los impressos en su lengua, conpuestos [sic] por Varones Religiosos; de los sermones que oyen, de las historias sagradas, Vidas de Santos, Oraciones, y poessias [sic] a lo divino, compuestas por ellos: apenas ay hombre y mucho menos muger que en su lengua y letra, y escritos de su mano, no tenga uno mas libros, cossa en tan nuevos cristianos que no se save de ninguna otra nacion. Y puedo yo dar fe desto, por averseme cometido el esamen de estos libros este año de mill y seiscientos y nueve, por orden del Tesorero de la Metropolitana de Manila Provissor y Vicario General deste Arzobispado, que a fin de corregir errores, los mando Visitar todos.” Francisco Colín, Pedro Chirino, and Pablo Pastells, Labor evangélica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Jesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colín. Parte primera sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passó de los reynos de España a estas islas, por orden, y a costa de la catholica, y real magestad (Barcelona: Impr. y Litografía de Henrich y Compañía, 1900–02), 1:223. 35. This idea has been proposed by Costa in The Jesuits in the Philippines, 140–41. See also a comparison of Christian and Muslim forms of oral recitation in Anthony Reid, Southeast Asia in the Age of Commerce, 1450–1680 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1988–93), 2:155. 36. Doctrina Christiana: The First Book Printed in the Philippines: Manila 1593 (Reprint, Manila: National Historical Institute, 1991); Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 141. 37. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism, 40. 38. “Y apuntan también sus cosas, porque no se les olviden, y sus versos para cantar.” Juan José Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política y natural de las islas del poniente, llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 333. Also discussed in Damon Lawrence Woods, “Tomás Pinpin and Librong pagaaralan nang manga Tagalog nang uicang Castila: Tagalog Literacy and Survival in Early Spanish Philippines.” Ph.D. diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1995, 110. 39. Many early ethnographers observed that literacy came relatively late to the Visayans, and probably via the Tagalog population, from whose writing system the Visayan baybayin characters were derived. See Scott, Prehispanic Source Materials, 55. 40. “Oy dia se van olvidado de estas letras, porque los Españoles introdujeron las letras Gothicas, y los Operarios Evangelios ayudan con incessante desvelo, manteniendo en cada Pueblo su Escuela.” Melchor Oyanguren de Santa Ynés, Tagalysmo elucidado, y reducido. A la latinidad de Nebrija (Mexico: Imprenta de D. Francisco Xavier Sanchez, 1742), 4. Similarly, in the Arte de la lengua tagala, first

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published in 1745, the Franciscan Sebastian de Totanes ventured to introduce the Tagalog alphabet “in our Castilian [Roman] characters,” qualifying that “the Tagalog characters [baybayin] will not be treated here, because the Filipino who knows how to read them is already rare, and the Filipino who knows how to write them is the most rare. All of them already read and write our Castilian characters.” (“No se trata de los Caracteres Tagalos, porque es yà raro el Indio, que los saba leer, y rarísimo el que los sabe excribir. En los nuestros Castellanos lean yà, y escriben todos.”) Sebastian de Totanes, Arte de la lengua tagala, y manual tagalog, para la administracion de los santos sacramentos, 2nd ed. (Sampaloc: Imprenta de Nra. Sra. de Loreto por el herm. Pedro Argüelles de la Concepcion, 1796), 1. 41. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 55. 42. “Mangyan Rolls,” 1904 (NLC, Ayer MS 1726). This collection comprises twenty pieces of bamboo, inscribed with courting and begging songs. They were collected by Fletcher Gardner (contract surgeon, U.S. Army) in 1905. In a short communication from 1940, he claims that he was in the process of studying hundreds of such bamboo pieces, with diverse writings on them; see Fletcher Gardner, “Bamboo Writings from Mindoro and Palawan,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 60.2 (1940): 271–72. 43. Scott, Barangay, 213. 44. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism, 56–66. 45. Scott writes that “all this poetry was generally sung or chanted rather than recited, so our sources include songs in the same category as poems. Even real songs—that is, melodies with lyrics—were poetic rather than musical compositions: the singer set his words to common tunes known to all.” William Henry Scott, Looking for the Prehispanic Filipino and Other Essays in Philippine History (Quezon City: New Day Publishers, 1992), 107. In the Philippines today, not all indigenous poetry is sung, but it is possible that this shift in performance practice may have resulted from the influence of European styles of poetry recitation during the Spanish colonial period. 46. See San Agustín, Compendio; Oyanguren de Santa Ynés, Tagalysmo elucidado; Francisco Bencuchillo, “Arte poético tagalo,” 1759 (NLC, Ayer MS 1731); and Martínez de Zúñiga and Retana, Estadismo, chapter 3. 47. Francisco López and Andres Carro, Arte de la lengua ylocana compuesto por el padre predicador fray Francisco Lopez del orden de N. P. S. Augustin, y ministro por muchos años en la Provincia de Ylocos. Año de 1628. Corregido, y añadido segun lo que ahora se usa, por el M. R. P. predicador fray Andres Carro del mismo orden: examinador synodal del Obispado de Nueva Segovia; missionero por conventos de la dicha provincia, 2nd ed. (Sampaloc: En el Conv. de Nra. Sra. de Loreto. por el Herm. Baltasar Mariano Donado Franciscano, 1793 [1795]), 563–66. The original publication by López, Arte de la lengua iloca (Manila: Colegio i Universidad de S. Thomas de Aquino, por Thomas Pinpin, 1627), does not include any section on poetry. It is unclear as to whether it was López or Carro who was the author of the section on poetry included in the late eighteenth-century publication Arte de la lengua ylocana. 48. Alonso de Méntrida, Arte de la lengua bisaya hiliguayna de la isla de Panay, 2nd ed. (Manila: Imprenta de Don Manuel Memije por Don Anastacio Gonzaga, 1818). The first edition (of which there are no extant copies) was published in 1637; after the second edition in 1818, eight other editions appeared up until the end of the

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notes to pages 86–88

nineteenth century. For Alzina’s observations on Visayan poetry, see Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios bisayas del siglo XVII, Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 12–14. 49. The first was a dramatic verse-refrain (verso-estrivillo) type called tumaila, which was sung by rowers and at alcohol-laden festivities; the second was a more serious genre called dalit. See Alvaro de Benavente, Arte de lengua pampanga: Kapampangan Grammar circa 1699, trans. Edilberto V. Santos (Angeles City: Holy Angel University Press, 2007), 398–99. 50. “No dudo hecharàs menos aqui la Poèsia [sic], pero te aseguro, que aunque otros habrà mas Enemigos de ella, lo que es la Pampanga, me fastidia tanto que la cadencia, que dàn a sus versos mas me parece prossa, que verdadera asonancia, ò consonancia, por lo qual lo omito: Dandote en su lugar, aunque con brevedad, avisos suficientes para trasumptar bien, si sabes la Lengua.” Diego Bergaño, Arte de la lengua pampanga. Compuesto por el R. P. Lector Fr. Diego Bergaño, de el Orden de los Hermitaños de N. P. S. Agustin, examinador synodal de este Arzobispado de Manila, y Prior del Convento de Bacolor. Nuevamente añadido, emmendado, y reducido à methodo mas claro, por el mismo author, siendo actual provincial de esta su Provincia de el Santissimo Nombre de Jesus, 2nd ed. (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto, 1736), 217. 51. Elviro Jorde Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos agustinos de la Provincia del Santissimo Nombre de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde fundación hasta nuestros días (Manila: Establecimiento tip. del Colegio de Sto. Tomás, 1901), 279. Blake also cites a manuscript source by Moreno titled “Sobre el modo de comprender el idioma pampango y su poesia” (taken from Barrantes’s bibliography of Filipino linguistics), which suggests that Kapampangan poetry did exist and was not imposed by Spaniards—just misunderstood. See Frank R. Blake, “A Bibliography of the Philippine Languages, Part I,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 40 (1920): 50, no. 255. The linguistic bibliography from which the entry comes is found in Vicente Barrantes, El teatro tagalo (Madrid: Tipografía de Manuel G. Hernández, 1889), 167–96. 52. See Lumbera’s discussion of Gaspar de San Agustín’s observations in Tagalog Poetry, 46–47. 53. “Y assi aunque les muestren Sonetos, Rimas, Decimas, y Canciones à nuestro modo con consonante forçoso; como las que al fin de su arte puso el Ven[erable]. P[adre]. Fr[ay]. Francisco de San Joseph, no les parecen bien; y responden, magaling, datapoua hindi tola. Y no ay persuadirles otra cosa.” San Agustín, Compendio, f. 38r. 54. Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 12. 55. “Sus especies son auit, diona, oyayi, talingdao, dalit, soliranin, &c. Suelen constar de seis, siete, cinco, ocho, diez, doze, ó catorze sylabas; segun la cancion, ò tono, aquien sirven los versos.” Oyanguren de Santa Ynés, Tagalysmo elucidado, 219. 56. On pre-Columbian poetry in the Americas, see José Alcina Franch, Poesía americana precolombina (Madrid: Editorial prensa española, 1968), and Gary Tomlinson, The Singing of the New World: Indigenous Voice in the Era of European Contact (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). 57. See Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 49–82.

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58. “Todo su gobierno, i Religion, se funda en tradicion, i en uso introduzido del mismo demonio, que les hablava en sus Idolos, i en sus ministros: i lo conservan en cantares, que tienen de memoria, i los aprenden desde niños; oyendolos cantar quando navegan, quando laboran, quando se regozijan, i festejan, i mucho mas, quando lloran los difuntos. En estos cantares barbaros cuentan las fabulosas genealogias, i vanos hechos de sus dioses.” Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas, 52. 59. “Interrumpen los combites con musica de vozes, en que ca[n]tan uno, ò dos, y responden los demas. Son los cantos, lo comun, sus antiguallas, y fabulas, al modo que las demas Naciones.” Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 62. 60. “Bayles al son de sus campanas, y tamboriles . . . moviendose la marcha al son de campanas, y dulcaynas Moras.” Francisco Combés, Historia de las islas de Mindanao, Iolo, y sus adyacentes. Progressos de la religion, y armas catolicas (Madrid: Herederos de Pablo de Val, 1667), 60. 61. Deduced from Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 155–56, whose survey was made in 1750–51. 62. See Rubiés, “The Spanish Contribution to the Ethnology of Asia,” 443. 63. Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 12–15, 24–29, 211–17. 64. “No tuvieron ciencia ni principios científicos de la música que nosotros usamos y las más políticas naciones del mundo usaron y usan ya estos indios bisayas.” Ibid., 24. 65. “Algo mejor cantan hoy aun sus antiguos cantares estos indios porque se les ha ido con nuestra música apegando mejor la consonancia y modos músicos.” Ibid., 25. 66. “Se enamoran y requiebran con más sentimientos o sensualidad . . . que de palabra; cosa que fuera increíble si entre estos naturales la experiencia y la consonancia de estos instrumentos no lo testificara cada día ¡y ojalá no fuera tanto!, que se ahorraran no pocas ofensas de Dios en esta parte, que se hacen con menos nota.” Ibid., 26. 67. “Es de lamentar que estos cantares no se hubiesen conservado; por ellos tal vez se hubiera podido saber mucho del pasado de los Filipinos y quizás de la historia de muchas islas adyacentes.” Antonio de Morga, José Rizal, and Ferdinand Blumentritt, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas: obra publicada en Méjico el año de 1609; nuevamente sacada á luz y anotada por José Rizal; y precedida de un prólogo del Prof. Fernando Blumentritt (Paris: Librería de Garnier Hermanos, 1890), 266. 68. “La Musica, e’balli si fanno all’uso Cinese: cioè, quanto al cantare, l’uno dice, e ripete l’altro la strofa, al suono d’un tamburo di metallo: quanto al ballare, si è come una finta guerra; però con passi, e mutanze misurate. Fanno anche varii movimenti colle mani, e talvolta [sic] tenendo una lancia, colla quale si assaltano, si ritirano, e s’infuriano, e si mitigano, si accostano, e si arretrano con grazia, e bel modo; di maniera tale, che gli Spagnuoli non gli stimano indegni d’intervenire nelle loro feste. Le composizioni nella lor lingua sono anche graziose, ed eloquenti.” Gemelli Careri, Giro del mondo, 5:79. 69. Norberto Romuáldez, Filipino Musical Instruments and Airs of Long Ago: Lecture Delivered at the Conservatory of Music, University of the Philippines on November 25th, 1931 ([Manila]: National Media Production Center, 1973); Maceda, Gongs and Bamboo.

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notes to pages 92–93

70. The term kutyapi is also written as cutyapi, coriapi, codyapi, kudyapi, kudyapiq, kusyapiq, kutyapiq, and other cognates. 71. Teodoro A. Agoncillo and Oscar M. Alfonso, History of the Filipino People, rev. ed. (Quezon City: Malaya Books, 1967), 67. 72. R. Anderson Sutton, “South-east Asia,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 24:96. 73. Agoncillo and Alfonso, History of the Filipino People, 67. 74. “I aunque la Viguela, que llaman Cutyapi; no es mui artificiosa, ni la musica mui subida: no dexa de ser agra dable [sic], i a ellos mucho. Toncanla [sic] con una biveza, i destreza, que a quatro cuerdas, que tiene de alambre, las hazen hablar. Tenemos alla por cosa mui averiguada, que con solo el tocarlas, callando la boca, se dizen, i entienden todo lo que quieren. Cosa que no se sabe de otra ninguna nacion.” Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas, 39. 75. “Ils avoient autrefois un instrument commé Cutiapé, dont quelques-uns d’entr’-eux se servent encore maintenant: il ressemble assez à une vielle, & est monté de quatre cordes de cuivre; ils le touchent si adroitement, qu’ils luy font dire ce qu’ils veulent, & c’est une chose averée qu’ils se parlent, & se disent les uns aux autres ce qu’ils veulent par le moyen de cét instrument, addresse particuliere à ceux de cette Nation.” Diego de Bobadilla (attrib.), “Relation des Isles Philipines, faite par un religieux qui y a demeuré 18. ans,” in Relations de divers voyages curieux, ed. Melchisedec Thévenot (Paris: Thomas Moette, 1696), 5. 76. “Tenian un modo de vihuela, que llaman Coryapi, de a dos, ó mas cuerdas de alambre. Y aunque la musica no es muy artificiosa, ni subida, no dexa de ser agradable, mayormente para ellos, que la tocan con una pluma con gran viveza, y destreza. Y es cosa averiguada, que con solo tocarla se hablan, y entienden lo que quieren.” Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 62. 77. “Son éstas [cuerdas] dos no más (raro es el que sabe tañerlo con tres) o de alambre delgado, o de plata, que suele ser más sonora.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 25. 78. “El Coryapi, de dos, ò tres cuerdas de alambre, que tocaban con una pluma.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:34. 79. Diego Bergaño, Bocabulario de pampango en romance: y diccionario de romance en pampango (Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles, 1732), 121. Maceda comments that “unlike metal jaw harps, bamboo mouth harps should not touch the teeth. The lips may touch the bamboo, but the filament must vibrate freely.” Maceda, Gongs and Bamboo, 220. 80. “De çierta hechura toman un cañuto sin ñudos y hiendenle por la una punta, meten alli una hoja de palma o de la misma caña, soplan y suena como dulçayna.” Pedro de San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance castellano puesto primero (Villa de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613), 321. 81. “Taboli. Trompeta, o clarin de Cuerno, o Querno que sirve de Trompeta. = V.e Tamboli.” Tomás Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español que contiene muchas composiciones, locuciones, y Frases Tagalas explicadas a la letra en Español. Por el M. R. P. L. F. Thomas Hortiz Ex Provincial de esta Provincia del SS[antísi].mo Nom[br].e de Iesus del Orden de N. P. S. Aug[usti]n de Philippinas, y Prior del Convento de N[uest]

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ra Señor de Guadalupe. . . . Dedicado A S. Ioseph Profugo en Ægypto, Padre Putativo de IESUS, y Esposo Fidelissimo de MARIA. . . . En el convento de N[uest]ra Señora de Guadalupe. dia del Triumpho dela Cruz. 16 del mes de Iullio de 1726 años,” 1726–33 (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11), part I, f. 354r. A few decades later, Noceda and Sanlúcar listed this instrument as “Tamboioc . . . Corneta, para llamar gente,” in their Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 554. See also the listing of tambuli as a Tagalog horn in Maceda, Gongs and Bamboo, 305, 312. 82. “Hazen de caña, con que tocan en sus casas.” Domingo de los Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (La muy noble villa de Tayabas, 1703), 424. 83. “Flauta que tañen con las narices; y a las de Castilla las llaman así.” Alonso de Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya de la isla de Panay y Sugbú y para las demás islas, ed. with a study by Joaquín García-Medall (Tordesillas, Valladolid: Instituto Interuniversitario de Estudios de Iberoamérica y Portugal, Universidad de Valladolid, 2004), 295. 84. “Por la semejanza se estiende a nombrar nuestra Flauta.” Matheo Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya ([Manila]: Impresso en el Colegio de la Sagrada Compañia de Iesus por Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1711), part 1, f. 302r. 85. “Tingab . . . flauta de bagacay que se tañe con la boca.” Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya, 400. 86. “Cutiapi. . . . Guitarra . . . Dulus las cuerdas, biricbiric, las clavijas. Pidia, bidia, ipitan, el como traste.” Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, part 1, f. 157v. 87. “Un instrumento musico, proprio de mugeres, hazese de algun bias de caña buena, y recia.” Ibid., part 1, f. 144v. 88. “Vigolón de caña que se tañe como arpa.” Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya, 217. 89. “Bidia. . . . traste de guitarra; nagabidia. . . . entrastar guitarra; namidia. . . . puntear el que tañe, esto es, traer los dedos en los trastes.” Ibid., 187. 90. “Bidyà. . . . Los puntos donde ponen los dedos en los codyapes, como trastes en la biguela, que entre ellos son unos pedacitos de cera.” Marcós de Lisboa, Vocabulario de la lengua bicol, primera, y segunda parte (Sampaloc: Convento de Nuestra Señora de Loreto, 1754), part I, 108. 91. For example, in Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya, “dulus” is translated as “cuerda de arco de ballesta, de cítara, de guitarra, arpa. etc.” (236), and “litgit” as “cuerda de arco con que se to[c]a rabel, vigolón; y el rabel o vigolón le llaman litgit, etc.” (305). 92. “Cuerda[:] Cauar . . . de alambre en los monacordios o citaras . . . Cuerda[:] Dilis . . . de guytarra o arpa.” San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala, 207. 93. “Dulus . . . cuerda de arco de ballesta, de cítara, de guitarra, arpa. etc.” Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya, 187. 94. “Tirar cosa de playa, oro, ò alambre.” Francisco López and Andres Carro, “Tesauro, Vocabulario de la lengua yloca al castellano. Compuesto por el M. R. P. L. y V. Fr. Francisco Lopez del Or[de]n de N. p. s. Augustin Min[o]ro de la Prov[inci].a de Ylocos añadido por diversos padres de la misma Or[de]n, y Provincia, y puesta la ultima mano, añadiendo muchos terminos, frases, refranes, adagios conla virtud de varias yerbas. Al ultimo va el Tesauro del castellano al iloco por el mismo R. P. Carro,” 1794 (BAV), f. 98r.

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notes to pages 95–96

95. “Las cuerdas las tocan con una plumita como nuestras cítaras, y las voces son muy parecidas a ellas, aunque acá son menos sonorosas por pocas y por no tener el buque del instrumento con las medidas proporcionadas para las voces.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 25. 96. “Este es al modo de unas guitarrillas de caña que suelen hacer los muchachos en España.” Ibid., 26. 97. “Hácenlo acá las mujeres de un género de carrizo que llaman tigbao, atando diez o doce juntos como los dedos de la mano: su largor de un palmo y medio, nunca llega a dos; de ancho algo más de un palmo. De cada varilla o cañuela sacan una como cuerda en medio de la tez del dicho carrizo, y les ponen después sus puentecillas a un lado y otro; arrímanlas al pecho y tocan como guitarra o acompañándose tal vez con los cor[iapi] con su modo de consonancia.” Ibid., 26. 98. “Aunque no tan recias y sonoras como las de nuestras flautas, [sus voces] son tan suaves y más delicadas que ellas; y es cosa de admiración oir a algunos más diestros los varios sones y prolijos que tañen sin cansárseles el resuello de la nariz, que con dificultad, como puede hacer cualquiera la prueba, se puede alargar mucho tiempo; y con todo están grandes ratos, máxime de noche cuando mejor se oye y aun de algo lejos, tañendo con ellos y mudando sones muy a compás, sin otra ciencia más que la aplicación natural y el ejercicio y uso, cual se oía en los quiebros de la voz, suavidad del son y melodía, no ingrata a nuestros oídos de sus mudanzas.” Ibid., 26. 99. “No les faltó acá en su antigüedad la célebre trompa de París, que suelen llamar en algunas partes de España y en otras, que aunque las usan hoy de hierro como las de allá, lo más común es, aun hoy, lo que en su antigüedad usaron; y es hacerlas de una astilla de caña de éstas grandes y duras de acá, y cierto con tan recio son y tan vivo como las de hierro. . . . Es grande el uso que todos en general, hombres y mujeres, chicos y grandes, tienen de este instrumento, y todos ellos lo saben hacer, pues visto una vez es muy fácil.” Ibid., 26–27. 100. “Buscaban para ellos maderas sólidas.” Ibid., 25. 101. Delgado’s Tratado primero (de los arboles que se crían en llanos y playas) is found in his Historia general sacro-profana. Chapter 26, concerning “the wood called alagut-ut in the Visayas” (“la madera llamada en Visayas alagut-ut” [Cordia subcordata, Lam. in Latin]), states that “very good musical instruments can also be made of it, such as violins, fiddles, and guitars, with a sound that is somewhat soft, but sonorous and high. I have not heard anything special about this tree as regards medicines, but notwithstanding, it can be said that it has the virtue of sweetening the ears, and to make hearts joyful through the music of instruments made from it.” (“Fabrícanse también de él muy buenos instrumentos músicos, como violines rabeles y guitarras, de voz algo oscura, pero sonora y alta. No he oído cosa especial de este árbol en lo que toca á medicinas; mas no obstante, se puede decir de él que tiene virtud de endulzar los oídos, y alegrar los corazones por la música que hacen los instrumentos fabricados.”) Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 438. 102. Chapter 27, “of the tree named banago” (“del árbol llamado banago” [Cordia cumingiana, Vidal and Thespesia macrophylla, Bl. in Latin]), describes the plant’s musical nature: “So that there is no lack of food for the ears, nature places this wood into the hands of the natives, who make from it very sonorous instruments for their entertainment and recreation.” (“Para que no faltase pasto á los oídos, puso la

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naturaleza esta madera en manos de los naturales, dándoles en ella instrumentos muy sonoros, para divertirse y recrearse.”) Ibid., 439. 103. “Les cordes dont ils se servent pour ces derniers instrumens, sont de soye torse, & rendent un son aussi agréable que les nostres, quoy qu’elles soient de matière bien différente.” Bobadilla (attrib.), “Relation des Isles Philippines,” 5. 104. See Patrizio Barbieri, “Roman and Neapolitan Gut Strings 1550–1950,” Galpin Society Journal 59 (2006): 170. 105. For instance, Ian Woodfield has noted the use of silk strings for viols on board the ships of the English East India Company in the early seventeenth century, and suggests “the possibility that gut had been found an unreliable material in the humid and hot conditions experienced on previous voyages.” See Ian Woodfield, English Musicians in the Age of Exploration (Stuyvesant, N.Y.: Pendragon Press, 1995), 79. 106. On the production methods of cantorales in the Philippines, see María Alexandra Gil Iñigo Chua, “Kirial de esta Yglesia de Baclayon año 1826: A Study of an Extant Sacred Music Manuscript of the Spanish Colonial Period in the Province of Bohol.” M.Mus. thesis, University of the Philippines, 2000.

chapter 4 1. On “contact zones,” see Mary Louise Pratt, Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation (London: Routledge, 1992), 6–7. 2. Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller and Sean Williams (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:841; José Maceda, “Music in the Philippines in the Nineteenth Century,” in Musikkulturen Asiens, Afrikas und Ozeaniens im 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Robert Günther (Studien zur Musikgeschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts. Regensburg: G. Bosse, 1973), 218. 3. Maceda, “Music in the Philippines in the Nineteenth Century,” 218. 4. “Estos ni las tenian ni las usaban en sus bayles, y alas ande prendido.” Pedro de San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance castellano puesto primero (Villa de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613), 151. 5. “Castañetas. Castanitas. . . . ussan [sic] de ellas despues que las vieron à los Españoles.” Domingo de los Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (La muy noble villa de Tayabas, 1703), 226. 6. “Harpa, Ydem. . . . Instrum[en]to musico del Rey David, muy usado entre estos Ylocos, desde que la vieron tocar à un Soldado Español de aquellos Conquistadores.” Francisco López and Andres Carro, “Tesauro Vocabulario de la lengua yloca al castellano. Compuesto por el M. R. P. L. y V. Fr. Francisco Lopez del Or[de]n de N. p. s. Augustin Min[o]ro de la Prov[inci].a de Ylocos añadido por diversos padres de la misma Or[de]n, y Provincia, y puesta la ultima mano, añadiendo muchos terminos, frases, refranes, adagios conla virtud de varias yerbas. Al ultimo va el Tesauro del castellano al iloco por el mismo R. P. Carro,” 1794 (BAV), f. 207r. 7. Although the tradition of harp playing in the Ilocos region is now in decline, there are still some players in parts of the Visayas, especially Cebu and Bohol. See Stephen L. Grauberger, “Diatonic Harp of the Philippines: An Historical Overview and

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an Organological Comparison of the Cebuano-Bisayan Harp,” M.A. thesis, University of Hawaii, 1994, 42–45. 8. Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 424. 9. “Lantoy . . . tolali . . . flauta que tañen con las narices; y a las de Castilla las llaman así.” Alonso de Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya de la isla de Panay y Sugbú y para las demás islas, ed. with a study by Joaquín García-Medall (Tordesillas, Valladolid: Instituto Interuniversitario de Estudios de Iberoamérica y Portugal, Universidad de Valladolid, 2004), 295. 10. “Por la semejanza se estiende a nombrar nuestra Flauta.” Matheo Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya ([Manila]: Impresso en el Colegio de la Sagrada Compañia de Iesus por Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1711), part 1, f. 302r. 11. Diego Bergaño, Bocabulario de pampango en romance: y diccionario de romance en pampango (Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles, 1732), part 2, 22, 78. 12. “Punto, ô compas de lavoz [sic], ut sol seando.” Ibid., part 1, 158–59. 13. In Bikol: “Cosa unisonis, ò conforme,” with the action being “concordar las cuerdas ò concertar las voces ò una voz con la otra” (Márcos de Lisboa, Vocabulario de la lengua Bicol, primera, y segunda parte [Sampaloc: Convento de Nuestra Señora de Loreto, 1754], part 1, 583); in Tagalog: “Saliu. Consonar, o tocar con consonancia, un instrumento o a compas con otros. Vg. Campanas, Guitarras, Arpas, Clarines, Chirimias, &c.” (Tomás Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español, que contiene muchas composiciones, locuciones, y Frases Tagalas explicadas a la letra en Español. Por el M. R. P. L. F. Thomas Hortiz Ex Provincial de esta Provincia del SS[antísi].mo Nom[br].e de Iesus del Orden de N. P. S. Aug[usti]n de Philippinas, y Prior del Convento de N[uest] ra Señor de Guadalupe. . . . Dedicado A S. Ioseph Profugo en Ægypto, Padre Putativo de IESUS, y Esposo Fidelissimo de MARIA. . . . En el convento de N[uest]ra Señora de Guadalupe. dia del Triumpho dela Cruz. 16 del mes de Iullio de 1726 años,” 1726–33 [LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11], f. 305v); in Visayan: “Armonia. = Ulat. Angay” (Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua Bisaya, part 2, f. 3r). 14. “Acompás) Saliu (pp) Tocar con otro qualquier instrumento.” San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala, 16. 15. “Tipa. Pisar, o tocar algo con los extremos, o Yemas de los dedos. Vg.a el Horganista las Teclas del horgano, quando le toca; El Guitarrista las Cuerdas de la Guitarra, que pisa con las Yemas de los dedos de la mano hizquierda, quando la toca, losque tocan bajon, Chirimia, Pifano quetapan [sic] con las yemas de los dedos los Agujeros de ellos. &a.” Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español” (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11), f. 389v. 16. As we saw in chapter 2, Franciscan José de la Virgen used the Bikol dialect to compose a treatise on Gregorian chant in 1767. A number of Augustinian missionaries produced artes of plainchant and polyphony, but whether these were written in Spanish or indigenous languages is unknown. 17. “Si para causar más admiración y atención en los infieles les pareciere cosa conveniente, podrían usar de música, de cantores y de ministriles altos y bajos para que provoquen a los indios a se juntar y de usar de ellos.” Ordinance no. 143 in “Fundación de pueblos en el siglo XVI,” Boletín del Archivo General de la Nación 6.3 (1935): 358.

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18. “Iunto, contratar los relijiosos en sus doctrinas, de las cosas de la relijion de los naturales, trabajan en adestrarlos, en cosas de pulicia suya, teniendo escuelas de leer, y escribir, para los muchachos en español; enseñandoles, a servir la yglesia, canto llano, y canto de organo, y tocar menistriles [sic], dançar, cantar, y tañer harpas, guitarras y otros instrumentos, en que ya ay tanta destreça; especialmente, al rededor de Manila, que ay muy buenas capillas, de cantores y de menistriles, de los naturales, diestros y de buenas vozes, y muchos dançantes y musicos, de los demas instrumentos, que solenizan [sic] y adornan las fiestas del santisimo [sic] Sacramento, y otras muchas del año; y representan autos, y comedias en español, y en su lengua con buena gracia, q[ue] esto se deve al cuydado y curiosidad de los relijiosos, que sin cansarse entienden en su aprovechamiento.” Antonio de Morga, Sucesos de las Islas Philipinas (Mexici ad Indos: Samuel Estradanus, 1609), ff. 152v–53r. 19. “Tienen muy de hordinario á estos sus criados y á otros yndios que traen consigo yndustriados en tañer guitarras y otros ynstrumentos, danzar y cantar caralandas [sic; çarabandas?] y otros sones desonestos y proffanos, con que hacen fiestas á los que quieren regalar con mal exemplo de los yndios y poco provecho de todos.” Antonio de Morga and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas; enriquecida con los escritos inéditos del mismo autor, ilustrada con numerosas notas que amplían el texto y prologada extensamente, por W. E. Retana (Madrid: V. Suárez, 1909), 249. Sones are rustic types of music cultivated in Mexico (villancicos can fall into this category); these were evidently brought across the Pacific to the Philippines. 20. “Son aficionados â versos, y representaciones; y muy buenos Traductòres, que una Comedia de Español la traducen con primòr en versos de su proprio lenguage: y assi aunque todos son aficionados â leer, hombres, y mugeres; quando son cosas de verso, son en el leer inca[n]sables, y lo vàn representando, quando lo leen.” Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las Islas Philipinas, China, Japón (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr. Juan del Sotillo, 1738–44), 1:143. Another similar observation was made by Delgado: “Porque entre los indios hay buenos poetas, que componen con grandísima elegancia, y muchas perífrasis y alusiones, con excelentes comparaciones y parábolas; y no sólo esto, sino que traducen con propiedad y gracia nuestras comedias y versos castellanos en su lengua, tagala ó visaya.” Juan José Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política y natural de las islas del poniente, llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 333. 21. “Ils ont un goût singulier pour les vers & les représentations de Tragédies; on les voit représenter, en lisant, comme s’ils étoient sur un Théâtre. A Manille, où ils entendent tous trés-bien le Castillan, ils ont traduit & mis en vers dans leur Langue, des Pièces espagnoles.” Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:131. 22. “Antes de la venida de los españoles, todas las poesías de los indios eran líricas. . . . Después de la venida de los españoles tienen comedias, entremeses, tragedías, poemas y todo género de composiciones, trasladadas de la lengua española.” Joaquín Martínez de Zúñiga and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Estadismo de las Islas Filipinas, ó mis viajes por este país. Publica esta obra por primera vez extensamente anotada W. E. Retana (Madrid: [Viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos], 1893), 1:63.

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notes to pages 106–108

23. Bienvenido Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry 1570–1898: Tradition and Influences in Its Development (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1986), 52, 72–82. 24. “Pero bien averiguado, no pertenece esto al Padre Luis Serrano, sino a otro de su mismo tiempo por no[m]bre Christoval Certelio Italiano, q[ue] llegò a Manila dos meses despues de enterrado el Padre Serano [sic], y viviò en esta Ciudad, y Doctrinas de Tagalos solos tres años, pues passò a la otra vida en Agosto de 1606.” Francisco Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 461. 25. “Cantores los hay muy buenos, y en Manila hay capillas que pudieran lucir en España.” Juan de Medina, Historia de la Orden de S. Agustin de estas Islas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 4, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1893), 132. 26. “Ya todos danzan, bailan, tañen y cantan á nuestro modo, y usan de todos los instrumentos de los españoles, y cantan de manera que nosotros no les hacemos ventaja. Ellos son los músicos en todas las iglesias de estas islas, así de la catedral de Manila como de las demás iglesias y conventos que están dentro y fuera de la Ciudad. Y apenas se hallará un pueblo que no tenga su música con bastantes voces y tiples y muchos instrumentos: y es común sentir de los que han visto uno y otro, que hay aquí músicas que pueden competir con algunas de las catedrales de España.” Francisco de Santa Inés, Crónica de la Provincia de San Gregorio Magno de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco, en las Islas Filipinas, China, Japon, etc. (1676), Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vols. 2–3, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Tipo Litographía de Chofret y Compañía, 1892), 1:46–47. 27. Geoffrey Baker, Imposing Harmony: Music and Society in Colonial Cuzco (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008), 245. 28. Domingo Fernández Navarrete, “An Account of the Empire of China, Historical, Political, Moral and Religious, written in Spanish by the R. F. F. Dominic Fernandez Navarette [sic],” in A Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill (London: Awnsham and John Churchill, 1704), 1:240. The original text reads: “Dezia yo algunas vezes, que el fervor de los antiguos de Castilla, se avìa passado a los Indios, y Indias de Manila. Las fiestas celebran los Indios muchas vezes bien, raro se hallarà entre ellos, que no dançe lindamente; y assi usan en las Processiones de danças, y saraos, tocan muy bien arpa, y guitarra.” Domingo Fernández Navarrete, Tratados historicos, politicos, ethicos y religiosos de la monarchia de China. Descripcion breve de aquel imperio, y exemplos raros de emperadores, y magistrados del (Madrid: Imprenta Real, por Iuan Garcia Infançon, 1676), 306. 29. Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:38. Le Gentil de la Galaisière writes: “ils ont presque tous un violon sur lequel ils s’exercent continuellement à jouer.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage, 2:132–33.

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30. “Quædam Musica, quæ a feminis Tagalensibus philippinarum proprijs cantilenis sui idiomatis Solet decantantibus adaptari.” “Musicalia speculativa,” in “Observationes diversarum artium,” late seventeenth century (BNE, Ms. 7111), loose leaf between pp. 498–99. 31. See Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 157. See also the report of one of these observations in Colín and Chirino, Labor evangelica, 369. 32. “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte” (APDNSR, Sección 18 [San Juan del Monte], Tomo 1, Doc. 12), f. 23r. 33. In reference to the Jesuit missions in Mindanao, Chirino writes: “Ya gracias a Dios todo el rio se quiere bautizar, i no se oye otra cosa en todo el pueblo, i casas, quando trabajan, quando bogan, quando andan, sino cantar la dotrina [sic]: i assi e andado por todas las casas sin dexar ninguna, repartiendo los niños, que la saben, para que mientras trabajan juntamente canten, i apre[n]dan: i porque no ai muchachos para cada casa, hago que los vezinos se junten en las mas principales, i respondan al niño que canta. Estan las casas destos principales, que no paran de dia, i de noche de cantar . . . Cantan la dotrina las noches, que parece alegran los cielos con tan linda musica.” Pedro Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas i de lo que en ellas an trabaiado los padres dæ la Compañia de Iesus (Roma: Por Estevan Paulino, 1604), 83, 97–98. 34. See Baker, Imposing Harmony, 176–77. 35. “Los mas distinguidos, principalmente si han vivido en la casa de los Missioneros, tocan muy bien la Harpa, el Violìn, y otros Instrumentos Musicos, y con honra, y gusto dedican sus talentos à la celebridad del servicio Divino.” Letter from Gil Viboult to du Chambge [sic], Manila, December 20, 1721, in Cartas edificantes, y curiosas, escritas de las missiones estranjeras, por algunos missioneros de la Compañia de Jesus, trans. Diego Davin (Madrid: En la Oficina de la viuda de M. Fernandez, imprenta del Supremo Consejo de la Inquisicion, 1753–57), 14:70. 36. “En confirmación de su ingenio, digo conocí á uno de esta nación que sirvió á un Padre Misionero, que en menos de cuatro años sabía leer y escribir, tocar arpa, guitarra y violín.” Ángel Pérez, ed., Relaciones agustinianas de las razas del norte de Luzon, Spanish ed. (Manila: Bureau of Public Printing, 1904), 3:69. 37. On the concept of liminality, see Victor Witter Turner, The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1974), 81–82; see also Katherine Butler Brown, “The Social Liminality of Musicians: Case Studies from Mughal India and Beyond,” twentieth-century music 3.1 (2007): 13–49. 38. In Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 158. 39. See ibid., 91–95. 40. “Apre[n]de[n] a leer y a escrivir, a rezar y cantar, canto llano, y canto de organo, y a tañer cherimias, flautas y violones.” Marcello de Ribadeneyra, Historia de las islas del archipielago, y reynos dela gran China, Tartaria, Cuchinchina, Malaca, Sian, Camboxa y Iappon, y de lo sucedido en ellos a los religiosos descalços, de la orden del seraphico padre San Francisco, de la Provincia de San Gregorio de las Philippinas (Barcelona: G. Graells y G. Dotil, 1601), 66. 41. “Y en esto se tiene tanta curiosidad, que no ay lugar por pequeño que sea, que no tenga capilla de musicos, y chirimias. Paraque las fiestas a visperas, y missa mayor

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sea Dios alabado y servido. Los cantores son muchos, y se exercitan todos los dias a la mañana y tarde en el seminario, y estan repartidos, de tal manera, que cada dia por lo menos, cantan muy de mañana en la yglesia, por lo menos prima de nuestra Señora, y tañen flautas a la missa mayor, y a la tarde, cantan visperas de nuestra Señora, y al anochezer la salve.” Ibid. 42. See Eusebio Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico de los religiosos franciscanos de la Provincia de San Gregorio Magno de Filipinas desde 1577 en que llegaron los primeros á Manila hasta los de nuestros días (Manila: Imprenta del Real Colegio de Santo Tomás, á cargo de D. Gervasio Memije, 1880), 55–56; and “Opinions of the Religious Communities upon Waging War with the Zambales,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 8:233n33. 43. Joseph Jennes, A History of the Catholic Church in Japan, from Its Beginnings to the Early Meiji Era (1549–1873): A Short Handbook (Tokyo: Oriens Institute for Religious Research, 1973), 71, 77. 44. “Esta piadosa, como apetecíble, enseñanza de la Música la prosiguiò despues Nuestro Santo Mártyr de Japòn Fr. Juan de Santa Martha, excelente, y diestro Cantòr, enseñando el Canto de Organo à 400 Niños en Lumbàng, y à hacer, y tocar Instrumentos músicos con primòr.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:17. See also Ma. Concepción Echevarría Carril, “La música franciscana en Filipinas (ss. XVI–XIX),” Nassarre 9.2 (1993): 200. 45. This assumption has been repeated by many scholars summarizing the history of music in the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period. See, for example, Raymundo C. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater (Quezon City: Manlapaz Publishing, 1969), 29; Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowand Christian Philippines,” 841; and Lucrecia Kasilag, in José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 19:581–82. 46. Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 138. 47. On instrument construction, see Eta Harich-Schneider, A History of Japanese Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1973), 474. On the Mass: “en las Vísperas de su martyrio felìz, compuso en la Carcel, à Canto de Organo, una Missa muy cabal, y encargò, se remitiésse à esta Província por ultimo dòn.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:17. Santa Marta was beatified in 1867, but he has not been canonized. 48. Echevarría Carril, “La música franciscana,” 199; Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico, 36. 49. “La primera imposicion de la Música en los Naturales de este Pays, en conformidad de Reales Instrucciones del año 1573, la atribúyen nuestros Escritóres à N. V. Fr. Gerónymo de Aguilàr. . . . Sin que sea violéncia el creèr, que N. Santo Fray Pedro Bautista diéste à este exercício algun foménto especial, como quien se avía criado en èl desde su niñez, y estaba ya en Manila en esta occasion, contemporáneo de Fr. Gerónymo de Aguilàr.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:16. 50. “En la provincia de Camarines, tenia gran cuydado, q[ue] no dexassen los Indios la costu[m]bre de cantar las oras menores de nuestra Señora.” Ribadeneyra, Historia de las islas del archipiélago, 291. “Juntaba á los indios, y en particular á los que él había enseñado el canto, y después de haber cantado con mucha solemnidad con

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ellos lo que pertenecía al oficio del día, cantaba motetes y villancicos en alabanza del misterio, con primor y destreza, y con mucha devocíon.” Santa Inés, Crónica, 1:506. 51. “Déjan poca duda, para creèrlo assi, unas Lamentaciones músicas de excelentissimo punto, que se conservan oy, escritas en Pergamínos de poca curiosidad, pero de muy patente vejèz, que de Padres à Hijos vàn aprendiendo los Niños con tal perfeccion, que puede apetecèrlos Eurôpa para qualquiera Cathedràl; Obra singularissima de N. V. Aguilàr, en comun tradicion.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:16. 52. “Sabía este Siérvo de Dios, que tan bien ordenáda Música, sobre sèr pága jústa de la Divína Liberalidad, éra con su melodía suâve una deleytâble preparacion, para la Predicacion de Nuestra Santa Fè; y como para estos Infiéles de Philipinas la Fè, y la Doctrína Christiána éra tódo escabrosidad, púso à la Música por fundamento de la Christiandad en su nuéva Plantacion, paraque suavizádo el oîdo del Infièl con la sonôra voz, y alégre el ánimo con la música suavidad, estubiéssen dispuéstos, para oîr con gústo la palabra de Dios, y quedassen al mísmo tiémpo instruidos en la Música, para dar siémpre las debídas grácias, y alabánzas à su Magestad, por el beneficio de su Conversion. Este santo fin de logrò con tánta felicidad, que fuéron innumerables los Indios, que redújo à Nuestra Santa Fè, amansando su fiéra brutalidad con las suáves ármas de la Música de los Instruméntos, y de la voz. Assì triumphába Timothéo de Alexándro con gran facilidad; pues quando estaba mas ayrádo, como un furiôso Leon, le bolvía mas mánso, que un Cordéro, solo con cantar.” Ibid., 2:505–6. The classical story of Timotheus of Thebes, an aulos player, calming Alexander the Great through music has little historical basis, but it became a popular myth that was frequently cited by early modern authors. Although based on a corrupted reading of an anecdote in the Suda (Byzantine lexicon), this story pervaded early modern writings about music and was immortalized in Handel’s Alexander’s Feast, hwv 75, which was a 1736 setting of the Ode for Saint Cecilia’s Day (1697) by John Dryden (1631–1700), with additions from another Cecilian ode, The Power of Music (1720) by Newburgh Hamilton (fl. 1712–59). I am grateful to David Sedley for discussing with me the ancient origins of this story and Peter Agócs for helping me trace it in its various incarnations up to the early modern period. Fernández Navarrete, when he left the Philippines to continue his seventeenth-century epic voyage to China, was another writer who made note of this ancient demonstration of music’s power when he discussed Chinese writings on music. He compared these Chinese writings to the works of Saint Thomas Aquinas (in reference to this saint’s discussion of Pythagoras in De regno ad regem Cypri) and Saint Basil (from which the anecdote about Timotheus and Alexander also comes). He refers to Aristotle and Pliny, as well as the biblical story of David calming Saul, before loosely comparing Jesuit Matteo Ricci’s presentation of a clavichord to the Wanli emperor of China in 1601 with Emperor Constantine Copronymus of Byzantium’s sending an organ to Pepin, king of the Franks, in 766 (he probably means 757). See Fernández Navarrete, Tratados historicos, 156. 53. “Fuè singular dòn de Dios, el penetrar el génio de estos Indios, para aprovechàrse de èl para su Reduccion; porque, segun se vè, su inclinacion à la Música

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es tan singular, que yà es necessária la violéncia, paraque la suspéndan, y trabáxen, para comer: con que atrahída con la melodía de la Música aquélla bárbara Gentilidad, recibían despues las Doctrinas sagrádas con amor; y N. Siérvo de Dios administraba con gózo Espiritual.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:506. 54. “Es de edificacion comun; y aun es de ternúra singular, si se buélve la consideracion, à mirar à la antiguedad, en que en estos mismos lugáres daba cúltos al demónio ésta misma Generacion, que aôra con tanta veneracion adôra, y solemníza à la verdadéra Divinidad.” Ibid., 2:14. 55. “Finalmente les movia, como el glorioso Doctor S. Agustin dize de si, i todos lo experimentamos.” Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas, 125. 56. Chirino’s mention of Saint Augustine probably refers to book 13 the latter’s Confessions, which discusses the role of music in moving the listener, and debates whether music (which had the capability to “ensnare”) should be allowed in church. The saint is inclined to endorse the practice (but not altogether decisively). See Saint Augustine, Sancti Augustini Confessiones Libri XIII, ed. Lucas Verheijen, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, no. 27 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1981), 181–82. 57. Vanessa Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus: The Power of Music in Other Worlds (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 6. 58. Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos regozijos, que dispuso a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de San Lazaro. la elevacion al trono de su merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de las Españas, y de las Indias D. Fernando Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al mismo señor rey, y catholico monarca, los capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 15v. 59. Juan Manuel Maldonado de Puga, Antonio de Arce, and Joseph Andrade, Religiosa hospitalidad por los hijos del piadoso coripheo patriarcha y padre de pobres S. Juan de Dios en su Provincia de S. Raphael de las Islas Philipinas (Granada: Joseph de la Puerta, 1742), 136. 60. He had also been a preacher and confessor in this institution. See Gregorio de Santiago Vela, Ensayo de una biblioteca ibero-americana de la orden de San Agustín (Madrid: Imp. Asilo de Huérfanos del S. C. de Jesús, 1913–31), 1:651. 61. “Vino a . . . Filipinas el año de 1718; sirvió mucho en el coro de Manila, y enseñó la música a más de mil indios tagalos e ilocos con perfección, porque era de especial gracia y genio para sufrir el mal natural de estos bárbaros.” Agustín María de Castro, Misioneros agustinos en el extremo oriente 1565–1780 (Osario Venerable), ed. Manuel Merino (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas & Instituto Santo Toribio de Mogrovejo, 1954), 216. 62. “Después lo envió el Prelado a la Isla de Panay para que enseñase la música a los sacristanes de nuestras iglesias, y para administrar los sacramentos a aquellas fieras naciones que tenían falta de sacerdotes, y habiendo cumplido esto por espacio de diez años, lo volvió el Provincial a enviar al convento de Manila, en donde reformó y añadió todos los libros del coro.” Ibid. 63. Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences on the West Visayan Folk Song Tradition of the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Adelaide, 1981, 1:91. 64. Ibid.

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65. “No podemos negar que la Musica no es cosa como quiera, y vemos, que sin maestros; son los Indios bastante Musicos; como yo asisti en Pila año de 1686, a unas Visperas de el Corpus, que cantaron a cinco coros, sin tropezar en ellas. Vemos que hazen instrumentos musicos, y los tocan con primor.” Juan de Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros misioneros acerca de la predicación y confesión de los indios,” 1703 (AFIO 68/8), f. 1r. 66. “Cada dia entiendo menos a estos Indios!” Ibid. 67. “Je ne doute pas au reste que ces Indiens n’exécutassent très-bien de bonne musique s’ils étoient menés & conduits par des Européens habiles; mais les Espagnols à Manille n’ayant de goût pour aucun art, laissent faire les Indiens.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage, 2:134. 68. See William John Summers, “Manila, the Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 15:761. 69. “Tal vez debido á esta gran disposición músical, no se pone conservatorio de música por considerarlo inútil y superfluo.” Morga and Rizal, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, 331n1. 70. This trait was also noted by a number of nineteenth-century travel writers. See one example discussed in Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Spanish Traditions in the Philippines,” Miscellanea Musicologica 12 (1987): 49. 71. “Tienen notable habilidad para la Musica: no hay Pueblo, aunque sea corto, que no tenga una Musica muy decente de Instrumentos, y Voces para oficiar en la Iglesia, y todos saben Solfa. Hay excelentes Voces de Altos, Tenores, y Bajos, y especialmente de Tiples. Raro es el Indio, que cerca de Manila no sabe Harpa; y hay muchos, y excelentes Violinistas, Abuistas, y Flautistas de varios generos. Por la facilidad, que tienen los Indios en aprender lo que vèn, se dice, que los Indios tienen el entendimiento en los ojos, pues quanto vèn, tanto imitan.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:38. 72. “Todos estos Cantores entienden de solfa, cosa q[ue] no tiene equivalente en toda la Christiandad.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 348r. 73. Victoria Yepes and Francico Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios bisayas del siglo XVII, Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 25. 74. See Nicholas P. Cushner, “Early Jesuit Missionary Methods in the Philippines.” Americas 15.4 (1959): 361–79. 75. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 161; Pedro Chirino, Miquel Batllori, and Jaume Górriz, Història de la Província de Filipines de la Companyia de Jesús: 1581–1606 (Barcelona: Pòrtic, 2000), 243; Francisco Colín, Pedro Chirino, and Pablo Pastells, Labor evangélica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Jesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colín. Parte primera sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passó de los reynos de España a estas islas, por orden, y a costa de la catholica, y real magestad (Barcelona: Impr. y Litografía de Henrich y Compañía, 1900–02), 2:125.

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76. “Ya esta Iglesia era servida, i fruquentada como si fuera una de Europa con no tener mas de cinco años tassados, porque la Capilla de musica la auturizava [sic] grandemente: en particular las fiestas, no solo celebrando los divinos oficios a punto de organo, sino acompañandolos con letras; i motetes en su lengua Bissaya cantados al mismo punto, unos; i otros al tono, i uso de la tierra: que lo uno, i lo otro atraia mucho la gente, i la movia à devocion, i les hazia aprehender consentimiento [sic], i gusto nuestros sagrados misterios, puestos en su metro, i musica.” Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas, 124–25. 77. Chirino, Batllori, and Górriz, Història de la Província de Filipines, 310. 78. “Aquí en Carigara tenemos un maestro que enseña a cantar y leer a los niños. Es cossa de ver que presto que aprenden. Cada día se canta la salve a poner del sol, y acude alguna gente del pueblo especialmente los sábados a la letanía de nuestra señora; y a la missa los niños se crían en buenas costumbres.” Ibid., 243–44. 79. “Un maestro . . . les ha enseñado a leer, cantar y tañer flautas, con que el ofiçio divino se haze con mayor solemnidad.” Ibid., 245. Costa calls this educational establishment a “seminario de indios or boarding school for natives,” and claims it was the first of its kind to be established by the Jesuits in the Philippines. On the school at Dulac, see Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 159 (establishment), and 287–89 (later development). 80. Ibid., 161. 81. “Era cozinero, sachristan, Portero, Hortelano, Maestro de escuela, Arbañil, Carpintero.” Diego de Oña, “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis,” 2 vols., c. 1706 (ARSI, Philipp. 19), 1164. Costa adds “nurse” to this list and claims that Ballesteros was a builder of churches and homes; in 1620 Ballesteros became a lay brother, and in 1637 a temporal coadjutor. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 317, 609. 82. “Buscaba muchos papeles, de Musica, y quanto oya bueno en las Iglessias procuraba llevarlo para los nuevos Partidos. No se contentaba aun con esto. Sollicitaba [sic] el llevar algunos cantores diestros paraque instruyessen a los nuevos christianos, y quanto mas llevaba de uno, y otro iba mas contento.” Oña, “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis” (ARSI, Philipp. 19), 1165. 83. “Llenaba quantos papeles podia de buena musica, y buenos villancicos y quanto podia servir a las Iglesias de Bisayas, y aun llenaba algunos diestros Cantores, y muchos, y buenos instrumentos, para que instruyesen a los nuevos Christianos, y con este cebo hubiese mas asistencia en los Templos.” Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, f. 162v. 84. “No avia cossa que no hizisse.” Oña, “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis” (ARSI, Philipp. 19), 1164. 85. “Éstos eran sus antiguos instruments y agora usan de guitarras y arpas y otros instrumentos músicos a nuestro modo.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 213. 86. See Elena Rivera Mirano, Ang mga tradisyonal na musikang pantinig sa lumang Bauan, Batangas (Manila: National Commission on Culture and the Arts, 1997), 94–114. 87. See Manuel Walls y Merino, La música popular de Filipinas (Madrid: Librería de Fernando Fe, 1892), 30–34. 88. “He taught the children unusual and pleasing dances—very diligently, and with great taste—and not only the Filipinos themselves, but also the Fathers, who were

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called from one town to another, so as to be taught. And he trained them so that their dances were celebrated everywhere, and even in Manila they were famous, because at the feasts of the canonization of our Holy Saints [Ignatius of Loyola and Francis Xavier] they were the most colorful and gracious.” (“Para esto instruia con gran diligencia a los niños en danzas muy curiosos, y agradables, con tal gusto, no solo de Indios, sino de los Padres, que se llamaban de un Pueblo a otro, para que los enseñase. Y los adiestro de forma, que en todas partes eran celebres sus danzas, y aun en Manila se hizieron famosas, pues en las fiestas de la Canonización de nuestros Santos fueron las mas vistosas, y lucidas.”) Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, f. 162v. 89. Although the term birimbao confusingly refers to two different instruments, the jaw harp (alongside the gourd bow) was noted to be associated with Africans in the Philippines by the compiler of an early eighteenth-century Tagalog vocabulario: “Trompa [de París], Instrumento, con que, Tocan los Cafres. V.e Colaying.” See Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español” (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11), part II, f. 92r. 90. “Siguiòse una danza de niños, que ayrosamente vestidos al compàs de musicos instrumentos, y de sonoras vozes acompañaron con los ayacastles las gallardas mudanzas del tocotin, representando con la propriedad de las mascaras las antiguas memorias de Motezuma [sic], Emperador de los Mexicanos. Si estos representaron à la America, en breve se representò el Africa en una danza de Negros, que con medios toneletes al compàs del grosero birimbao, baylaron el mototo, significando al vivo la barbarie del Pays, que representaban en la desnudez del cuerpo, en lo bozal del lenguage de la cantinela, en el rudo sonido de los cascabeles, y en el incivil ademan de los movimientos. . . . Aun mas al vivo representaron al Asia unos Indios disfrazados de pajaros de estraña grandeza. . . . Estos baylaban al son de un tambor, bajaban à un tiempo los picos hasta la tierra, à otro toque los lebantaban tan altos, que sobresalian mucho à toda la gente del concurso, à otro toque castañeteaban con gran ruido los desmedidos picos, como haciendo la salva. . . . Y luego cantaban la victoria con horribles graznidos, à que hacian acorde compàs los Indios con sus descompasadas risadas. Luego saliò otra danza, o mogiganga de viejos vestidos de matachines, y enmascarados, que imitaban à los rusticos de España en varios juegos, bayles, y mudanzas, que hizieron al son del villano con toda propriedad.” Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, ff. 218v–19r. 91. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 156. 92. Pedro Borges, “Primero hombres, luego cristianos: la transculturación,” in Historia de la iglesia en hispanoamérica y filipinas (siglos XV–XIX), ed. Pedro Borges (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1992), 1:525. 93. “On les employez en ces derniers temps . . . à ioüer de la fluste [sic], de la guitarre & de la harpe . . . ils avoient autrefois un instrument nommé Cutiapé, dont quelques-uns d’entr’-eux se servent encore maintenant.” Diego de Bobadilla (attrib.), “Relation des Isles Philipines, faite par un religieux qui y a demeuré 18. ans,” in Relations de divers voyages curieux, ed. Melchisedec Thévenot (Paris: Thomas Moette, 1696), 5. 94. “Sus Instrumentos musicos eran el Coryapi, de dos, ò tres cuerdas de alambre, que tocaban con una pluma; y el Bangsi, à modo de flauta, que parece sale de una sepultura, segun es triste: la que hasta ahora tocan algunos, y yo la he visto tocar con las narices.” Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, 8:38.

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95. “Dijimos pocas son las que con esta música se acuerdan de la dulzura y armonía celestial, afecto ordinario de los que la oyen como se debe y levantan el corazón a Dios, que aun les ha entrado muy poco a éstos, si bien ha entrado muy bien en ellos, y ellos en nuestros instrumentos de guitarras, arpas, rabeles, bandurrias y otros que tañen diestramente, con que van olvidando los suyos.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 27. 96. Estrada worked in the Visayan Islands and was the Jesuit Provincial from 1744 until his death. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 601, 611. 97. “Con el numen, y habilidad no vulgar, que tenia de Poeta, compuso en verso Bisaya la Historia de la Passion de nuestro Señor Jesu-Christo, que, por ser estos Indios muy amigos de Poesìas en su lengua, y estàr dicha Obra con toda propriedad del verso Bisaya, ha sido de igual provecho, que gusto, en todas las Islas de Pintados. Compuso tambien, en verso, muchas letras, Oraciones devotas, ya al Nacimiento de nuestro Señor Jesu-Christo, al Santissimo Sacramento, à la Cruz, ya à la Santissima Virgen, y ya en alabanza de otros Santos, y a otros assumptos morales, à fin de que con aficionarse la gente moza à cantar essas Canciones, dexassen, y se olvidassen de las prophanas, que tenian.” Antonio Masvesi, Carta del Padre Antonio Masvesi, de la Compañia de Jesus, rector del colegio de Cavite, sobre la vida, muerte y virtudes, del padre Pedro de Estrada, provincial de Philipinas, de la misma Compañia ([Manila], 1748), 25–26. 98. Costa notes that in the late 1590s the Jesuit Encinas, “taking his cue from Chirino, put the principal truths of the creed and several hymns into the verse form of the traditional Visayan folk songs. These achieved instant popularity, especially at Carigara, where they sang Encinas’ compositions not only at Mass but in their houses in the evening.” Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 161. 99. “Y por q[ue] es uso suyo qua[n]do reman en sus embarcaciones, o tienen otras juntas de muchos, cantar para engañar y aliviar su cansancio, y no teniendo otros, usavan de sus cantares antiguos profanos, y aun nocivos, les conpuso [sic] muchos en aquella lengua, y modo de verso, pero a lo divino, (para lo qual tanbien tuvo particular gracia) y los introduxo entre ellos para aquellas occasiones, con que les hacia olvidar las coplas antiguas, que o eran inutiles, o dañosas, no les quitando el alivio, sino antes acrecentandosele con la devocion de las nuevas.” Diego Aduarte, Historia de la Provincia del Sancto Rosario de la Orden de Predicadores en Philippinas, Iapon, y China (Manila: Colegio de Sa[n]cto Thomas, por Luis Beltran, 1640), book 2, 15–16. 100. Carolyn Brewer, Holy Confrontation: Religion, Gender, and Sexuality in the Philippines, 1521–1685 (Manila: C. Brewer and the Institute of Women’s Studies, St. Scholastica’s College, 2001), 77. 101. “Todo esto se ha perdido, pero no por culpa de nadie, sino de los mismos Filipinos, que se apresuraron á dejar lo suyo para tomar lo nuevo.” Rizal, annotation to his edition of Morga, Sucesos de las Islas Filipinas, 331n1. 102. “Cudiapi. . . . Como Harpa, yâ no le ay.” Bergaño, Bocabulario de pampango en romance, 121. 103. “Violon. Coryapi . . . ò rabel grande. Ya casi todos le llaman rabel, ò violon.” Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 873. 104. Thomas Riley McHale and Mary C. McHale, eds., Early American-Philippine Trade: The Journal of Nathaniel Bowditch in Manila, 1796 (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1962), 36.

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105. In 1896, Tagore wrote that music in the Philippines was strongly influenced by the Spanish, on the basis of observations such as that of Bowditch: “The influence of Spanish music is reported by travellers to have made itself felt in the musical performances of the people in the Philippine Islands, and other places where the Spaniards at any time established a footing.” Sourindro Mohun Tagore, Universal History of Music: Compiled from Divers Sources Together with Various Original Notes on Hindu Music, Chowkhamba Sanskrit Studies, vol. 31 (Calcutta, 1896; reprint, Varanasi: Chowkhamba Sanskrit Studies Office, 1963), 324. 106. “Si no se les hubieran traído modelos de España, andaríamos con el mismo vestido y calzado que usaron los conquistadores; tendríamos la misma música, los mismos cuadros y los mismos edificios que les enseñaron los españoles que se apoderaron de Manila. Son facilísimos en imitar lo que ven, pero no inventan nada.” Martínez de Zúñiga and Retana, Estadismo, 1:509.

chapter 5 1. Manuel Barrios, Descripcion de la proclamacion y jura de nuestros soberanos y señores don Carlos IV, y doña Luisa de Borbon en la ciudad de Manila, y de las fiestas de publico regocijo que con este aplaucible motivo sè celebraron (Manila: Imprenta del Real Seminario de San Carlos: Por Agustin de la Rosa, y Balagtas, 1791), f. 12v. 2. “Por lo que hace à las Loas, las dijeron con el desembarazo, que acostumbran en semejantes funciones: y su articulacion ès muy propria, y agradable á los oidos Esp[a]ñoles, pues yá se sabe, que los Dialectos de la lengua Malaya tienen en esto tal analogia con la lengua Castellana, que nó será facil señalar la verdadera causa de este raro phenomeno.” Ibid., f. 18r. 3. I am grateful to Tess Knighton for this suggestion. We should remember, though, that the Stockholm syndrome, also known as “hostage identification syndrome,” is usually characterized by the constant and unremitting threat of violence. On the emotional identification of hostages with their captors, see Claudia Card, The Atrocity Paradigm: A Theory of Evil (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 213–14. 4. See Serge Gruzinski, The Mestizo Mind: The Intellectual Dynamics of Colonization and Globalization, trans. Deke Dusinberre (New York: Routledge, 2002). 5. Geoffrey Baker, Imposing Harmony: Music and Society in Colonial Cuzco (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 2008), 9, 248. Illari has also asserted that “mestizaje is no longer a synonym for Latin American identity.” Bernardo Illari, “The Popular, the Sacred, the Colonial and the Local: The Performance of Identities in the Villancicos from Sucre (Bolivia),” in Devotional Music in the Iberian World: The Villancico and Related Genres (1450–1800), ed. Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2007), 439. 6. In a similar vein, Nicanor G. Tiongson has shown that Mexican theatrical influence contributed to the evolution of syncretic dramatic genres in the Spanish colonial Philippines, in “Mexican-Philippine Relations in Traditional Folk Theater,” Philippine Studies 46.2 (1998): 135–50. 7. For an extensive treatment of the history, development, and current practice of the genre, in its many different manifestations in the town of Bauan, Batangas, see

284

notes to pages 138–139

Elena Rivera Mirano, Ang mga tradisyonal na musikang pantinig sa lumang Bauan, Batangas (Manila: National Commission on Culture and the Arts, 1997), 51–116. 8. Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller and Sean Williams (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:853. In Tagalog, for example, auit was defined by numerous lexicographers as “any type of song” or “romance.” See Pedro de San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala. El romance castellano puesto primero (Villa de Pila: Thomas Pinpin, y Domingo Loag Tagalos, 1613), 141; Juan José de Noceda and Pedro de Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1754), 30; and Domingo de los Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala (La muy noble villa de Tayabas, 1703), 216. On the role of the auit as a type of domestic song, see E. Arsenio Manuel, “Tayabas Tagalog Awit Fragments from Quezon Province,” Journal of Far Eastern Folklore 17 (1958): 56–58. 9. The word was spelled auet in Bikol; see Márcos de Lisboa, Vocabulario de la lengua Bicol, primera, y segunda parte (Sampaloc: Convento de Nuestra Señora de Loreto, 1754), part I, 59. In the Ilokano language, canta referred to the singing of sacred songs (with the definition “cantar cosas de la Yglesia”), while the term “danio” was used to refer to the act of singing “a profane song” (“cantar à lo profano”). See Francisco López and Andres Carro, “Tesauro Vocabulario de la lengua yloca al castellano. Compuesto por el M. R. P. L. y V. Fr. Francisco Lopez del Or[de]n de N. p. s. Augustin Min[o]ro de la Prov[inci].a de Ylocos añadido por diversos padres de la misma Or[de]n, y Provincia, y puesta la ultima mano, añadiendo muchos terminos, frases, refranes, adagios conla virtud de varias yerbas. Al ultimo va el Tesauro del castellano al iloco por el mismo R. P. Carro,” 1794 (BAV), ff. 134r–v, 166v. 10. “Sus canciones sòn: Diona. pp. Talindao. pc. Auit. pp. Dolayanin. En la calle. Hila. Soliranin. Manigpasin, Los remeros. Holohorlo. Oyayi. Arullos al niño. Umbay,i, Triste, Umiguing. Suave, Tagumpay. Detriumfo, Dopaynin [sic]. pp. Hilirau. pp. Balicongcong.” Noceda and Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 30. (The punctuation in the original source is ambiguous, but it is clarified somewhat in the translation in the main chapter text.) These song genres all have their own entries in the same vocabulario. Yet the same vocabulario defines three other verse genres (dalit, tanaga, and pamatbat) separately from those mentioned above, and Lumbera has suggested that this separation was intended “to distinguish [dalit, tanaga, and pamatbat] from those that were strictly musical in origin.” See Bienvenido Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry 1570–1898: Tradition and Influences in Its Development (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1986), 32; for Lumbera’s discussion of the genres mentioned by Noceda and Sanlúcar, see ibid., 21. Many of these same genres were also listed and defined in individual entries by San Buena Ventura more than a century earlier in his Vocabulario de lengua tagala of 1613. 11. See Gaspar de San Agustín, Compendio de la arte de la lengua tagala (Manila: Collegio del Señor Santo Tomas de Aquino, por Juan Correa, 1703), f. 37v. According to Oyanguren de Santa Ynés: “Sus especies son auit, diona, oyayi, talingdao, dalit, soliranin, &c. Suelen constar de seis, siete, cinco, ocho, diez, doze, ó catorze sylabas; segun la cancion, ò tono, aquien sirven los versos.” Melchor Oyanguren de Santa

notes to pages 139–140

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Ynés, Tagalysmo elucidado, y reducido. A la latinidad de Nebrija (Mexico: Imprenta de D. Francisco Xavier Sanchez, 1742), 219. 12. English translation based on Cantius Kobak, “Ancient Bisayan Literature, Music and Dances: In Alzina’s Historia de las islas y indios de Bisayas. 1668,” Leyte-Samar Studies 11.1 (1977): 37. The original text reads: Y dejando otros nombres especiales de poesías, que los dichos son los más nobles, acabemos esta materia de ellas con la que llaman avit [auit] que quiere decir cantar, y es el que usan en las navegaciones cantando siempre en ellas al son de los remos, que es lo que corresponde a las zalomas que nuestros marineros usan en el mar Mediterráneo, si bien éstas de estos naturales son más, y tantas que son sin número las tonadillas o más espaciosas o mas apresuradas que tienen para remar, siendo el alma de los remos un buen cantor (que llaman paraavit [paraauit]) en cualquiera embarcación; y los hay tan diestros que cantan dias enteros sin faltarles qué, porque hay muchos cantares suyos hechos de sus antepasados para el efecto, y algunos aunque difíciles de entender también los más muy ingeniosos y metafóricos, que los padres van enseñando a sus hijos, y algunos son tan fecundos en este género de poesía (es también de dos versos sueltos la copla, teniendo uno, que es como estribillo corto, de dos palabras o tres no más, que repiten todos) que de repente cantan sin faltarles materia en algunas horas. Sóla una licencia tiene este canto de los navíos y es que se puede partir la palabra por no alargar el verso poniendo una sílaba del principio en el primer verso, y prosiguiendo la otra u otras en el siguiente; y ni tampoco se pide tan puntual la sentencia como en los otros, que facilita algo más su duración, facultad necesaria para uno que juntamente usa de la voz entonando y de las manos remando, sirviendo de compás su voz y las tonadillas de apresurarse o detenerse más en el movimiento de los remos, que entretienen no poco las contínuas y penosas navegaciones con que andamos contínuamente los ministros del Evangelio ocupados y aun molestados entre estos naturales bisayas. Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios bisayas del siglo XVII, Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 14. 13. “Auit. . . . Cantar.” Matheo Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya ([Manila]: Impresso en el Colegio de la Sagrada Compañia de Iesus por Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1711), f. 38r. 14. William Henry Scott, Barangay: Sixteenth-Century Philippine Culture and Society (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1994), 110. 15. On syncretic forms of the villancico in the Philippines, see David Irving, “Historical and Literary Vestiges of the Villancico in the Early Modern Philippines,” in Devotional Music in the Iberian World, 1450–1800: The Villancico and Related Genres, ed. Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2007). 16. “Hazen de comunidad estos versos con grande gracia, y destreza, tanto, que poniendose un dia entre otros, el Padre a oir desde su casa lo que cantavan, advirtiò que una doncella que era la que entonava el cantar, ponia en èl toda la materia del

286

notes to pages 140–141

sermon que aquel dia les avia predicado. Causandole no pequeña admiracion la facilidad con que una moçuela iba ligando, y conprehendiendo Misterios tan altos, y puntos para ella dificultosos, sin dexar ninguno que no ingeriesse en su cantar.” Francisco Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 369. Also discussed in Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 157. 17. “CANCIONES A SU MODO [sic] acerca de la Confession, y Comunion, que son la materia de este Libro.” Francisco de Blancas de San Jose, Librong pinagpapalamnan yto nang aasalin nang tauong Christiano sa pagcoconfesar, at sa pagcocomulgar, 6th ed. (Manila, 1792), texts located in prefatory pages; n.p. 18. Pedro de Estrada, Practica del cathesismo donde se enseña un methodo compendioso para componer las costumbres, 2nd ed. (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus, por Don Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1746). The candos are found on ff. 33v–69v. 19. Sánchez, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, f. 126v. Costa writes that this vocabulario “may have circulated in manuscript for nearly a century before [its publication in] 1711.” Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 625. 20. Damon Lawrence Woods, “Tomás Pinpin and Librong pagaaralan nang manga Tagalog nang uicang Castila: Tagalog Literacy and Survival in Early Spanish Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of California Los Angeles, 1995, 198. 21. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 38; Vicente L. Rafael, Contracting Colonialism: Translation and Christian Conversion in Tagalog Society under Early Spanish Rule (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988), 63–66. 22. See “Herrera (Pedro de),” in Enciclopedia universal ilustrada europeo-americana (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1907–30), 27:1270. 23. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 32. 24. English translation in ibid., 51. The original text reads: “Sa cadolohan nitong Libro,y, nang~ araratig yaong mang~ a Dalit na quinatha din ng M. R. P. Lector Fr. Pedro de Herrera, na sucat ipalit, at inhalili doon sa ibang mang~ a masasamang auit at mang~ a plosang nacapanlolomay sa inyo,t, nacalolompo nang tanang cagaling~ an nang inyong mang~ a loob.” In Francisco de Salazar, Meditaciones, cun manga mahal na pagninilay na sadya sa sanctong pag eexercicios (Manila, 1645), trans. Pedro de Herrera, 2nd ed. (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañ[ía] de IHS, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1762), n.p. Four out of the five dalit are versifications that correspond to Latin texts, respectively Miserere mei Deus followed directly by De Profundis (Dalit sa pagsisisi sa casalanan), Parce mihi Domine (Dalit sa camatayan), Dies Iræ dies illa (Dalit sa Paghohocom nang ating Pang~ inoong Jesu-Christo), and the Te Deum (Dalit sa ualang catapusang hirap at saquit sa infierno). The Latin and Tagalog texts are printed alongside one another, thus confirming the function of the Tagalog works as meditations on sacred texts that were central to worship and also as providers of insight into the

notes to pages 142–143

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intricate layers of meaning within the standard texts. These dalit are found at the end of the book, unpaginated. 25. “El otro llamàdo Dalit es mas grave, y sentencioso, al modo de los que los Griegos, y Latinos llamaron Epico dythirambicos.” San Agustín, Compendio, f. 37v. 26. See Lucrecia Kasilag in José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 19:581, and Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” 851. In early modern vocabularios, this term is defined as “Cançion. . . . Cantarla lo ordinario es para picar a otro diciendole en ella algo que le pique,” in Miguel Ruiz, “Bocabulario tagalo, su autor el P. F. Miguel Ruíz del Orden de S. Domingo añadido por otros de Varias Religiones,” begun 1580 (KCL, MARSDEN M2/17), n.p.; and as “copla . . . para cantar,” in Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 286. 27. “Loar) Puri . . . qual quier cosa que sea. Vi. Alavar) nagpupuri din ang marg~ ail on sa maygaua sa canila rang canilang paghuni, loan los pajaros asu criador con su canto.” San Buena Ventura, Vocabulario de lengua tagala, 392. “Loa. Puri. . . . A Dios, ò al hombre alabandole.” Santos, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 504. 28. “Dayao. . . . loa activa. Dayao ogaling sa banoa can acun ini: esta es loa y honra que me da el pueblo.” Alonso de Méntrida, Vocabulario de la lengua bisaya, hiligueina y haraya de la isla de Panay y Sugbú y para las demás islas, ed. with a study by Joaquín García-Medall (Tordesillas, Valladolid: Instituto Interuniversitario de Estudios de Iberoamérica y Portugal, Universidad de Valladolid, 2004), 231. An applied definition of the Ilokano term dàyao is given as “Honra . . . alabar qualquiera cosa en Oracion” in the manuscript vocabulario by López and Carro, “Tesauro” (BAV), ff. 160v–61r. 29. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, “Las loas de los indios,” La política de España en Filipinas 36 (1892): 161–63 and “Otro género de loas ó la influencia del medio,” La política de España en Filipinas 37 (1892): 175–77; Minodora S. Magbutay, “An Analytical Study of the Loa in the Oral Literature of Samar,” M.A. thesis, University of Santo Tomás, 1970. 30. This discussion thus updates several conclusions made in David Irving, “Musical Politics of Empire: The Loa in Eighteenth-Century Manila,” Early Music 32.3 (2004): 384–402, which did not take the precolonial musicopoetic traditions of praising luminaries into full account. 31. On the origins and development of the Spanish loa, see ibid., 386–88. 32. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas de el teatro en Filipinas desde sus orígenes hasta 1898 (Madrid: Librería general de Victoriano Suárez, 1909), 37. 33. “Desde principios del siglo XVII á todo Gobernador general se le recibía con una loa, que es la menor cantidad de expresión teatral, pero teatral desde luego, pues que requería tablado y que un sujeto de ciertas dotes artísticas recitase de memoria una composición poética en alabanza del recién llegado, ponderando sus hazañas . . . aunque no hubiese realizado ninguna en los días de su vida.” Ibid., 37–38. 34. “En cualquier caso toda su fuerza está en el lirismo que en toda ella se exprese, y tanto los solos como los coros deben de tener aquella entonación propia de un homenaje artístico de alabanza, que contribuyen representados musicalmente todos los elementos é ideas que componen una sociedad.” “Loa. Mús.,” in Enciclopedia universal ilustrada europeo-americana (Madrid: Espasa-Calpe, 1907–30), 30:1226.

288

notes to pages 143–144

35. For a listing of these texts, see David R. M. Irving, “Colonial Musical Culture in Early Modern Manila,” Ph.D. diss., University of Cambridge, 2007, 395–99. 36. “Sidai llaman a otro género de poesía, y es el más difícil de todos.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 13. 37. English translation from Kobak, “Ancient Bisayan Literature, Music and Dances,” 36. The original text reads: Y lo usan o para alabar a otros, o para contar las hazañas de sus pasados, o las prendas o hermosura de alguna mujer o hombre muy valiente; es difícil sobre manera de entender, y aun los mesmos bisayas no lo entienden todos porque no hay palabra que no sea metafórica y que no tenga diverso sentido en este metro que fuera de él. Gustan mucho los bisayas de oirle y se están muchas horas, en especial de noche, sin bostezar ni dormirse oyéndolos; y suelen pagar o regalar muy bien a los diestros en esta poesía para que vayan a sus casas a cantarlas, que todas ellas las dicen cantando. Y yo confieso que de estos sidai me costó mucho trabajo el entenderlos y regalar no pocas veces a los más diestros en ellos para que delante de mí los cantasen; sólo tienen algunas repeticiones algo cansadas, porque vuelven a repetir muchas veces, con añadir sólo una o dos palabras, muchas y muy largas razones, y tal vez no puede ser menos por pedirlo mas materias que cuentan o cantan y ser el modo tan difícil como hemos dicho. Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 13–14. 38. “En las loas, el verso es siempre de doce sílabas, muy proporcionado al tono de relación que observan en ellas.” Joaquín Martínez de Zúñiga and Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Estadismo de las Islas Filipinas, ó mis viajes por este país. Publica esta obra por primera vez extensamente anotada W. E. Retana (Madrid: [Viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos], 1893), 1:64. 39. “Despues de una conceptuosa letra que cantaron quatro coros de excelentes musicos, comenzò à recitar una Loa, cuyos fragmentos pondrè aqui, no para ostentacion de el ingenio, sino porque en la estrañeza de las voces, representò ella misma, hasta donde podia llegar el abrasado corazon de estos Isleños à su amado Señor, y Rey, obligandoles à hablar en una lengua tan estraña à la suya.” Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos regozijos, que dispuso a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de San Lazaro. la elevacion al trono de su merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de las Españas, y de las Indias D. Fernando Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al mismo señor rey, y catholico monarca, los capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 41r. 40. “Acompañados de Choros de Musica con Loas muy al intento.” Juan de Arechederra, “Relacion de la entrada del Sultan Rey de Jolo Mahamad Alimudin en esta ciudad de Manila,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos, ed. Wenceslao Emilio Retana (Madrid, 1895–1905), 1:[34]. 41. Barrios, Descripcion de la proclamacion y jura, f. 18r.

notes to pages 145–148

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42. “Se presenta el que ha de decir la loa en medio del teatro, bien vestido, como un caballero español: está sentado y recostado en una silla en ademán de que está durmiendo; detrás de las cortinas cantan los músicos una letra de un tono lúgubre en el idioma del país; el que está dormido despierta u empieza á dudar si ha oído alguna voz, ó será sueño lo que oía: se sienta otra vez, durmiendo, y se repite la letra en el mismo tono lúgubre; vuelve á despertarse, se levanta y hace nuevas reflexiones sobre la voz que ha oído. Esta escena se repite dos ó tres veces, hasta que se persuade de que la voz le dice que ha llegado un héroe y es preciso hacer su elogio. Entonces empieza á decir su loa con bastante propiedad, representando, como hacen los cómicos en el coliseo y echando una relación en el idioma del país en alabanza de aquel cuyo respeto se ha dispuesto la fiesta. En esta loa celebraron las expediciones navales del General, los grados y títulos con que le había condecorado el Rey, y acabaron dándole las gracias y reconociendo el favor que les había hecho en pasar por su pueblo y visitarlos, siendo unos pobres infelices. Estaba esta loa en verso, compuesto muy retóricamente en estilo difuso, conforme al gusto asiático. No faltaban en ellas expediciones de Ulises, los viajes de Aristóteles y la desgraciada muerte de Plinio, y otros pasajes de historia antigua que les gusta mucho introducir en sus relaciones. . . . Creo que estas loas se las hicieron en tiempos antiguos los Padres.” Martínez de Zúñiga and Retana, Estadismo, 1:60–61. This episode in Martínez de Zúñiga’s travels is also discussed in Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas, 47–48. 43. Doreen G. Fernandez, “Pompas y Solemnidades: Church Celebrations in Spanish Manila and the Native Theater,” Philippine Studies 36.4 (1988): 424. 44. Magbutay, “An Analytical Study,” 50–51. 45. Ibid., 83. 46. Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Struggles of the Native Clergy in Pampanga (1771–77),” Philippine Studies 33.2 (1985): 191. The original source for this incident is found in “Año de 1772. Declaraciones de los PP. Clérigos de la Provincia de la Pampanga contra el Alcalde Mayor de ella,” in “Expedientes sobre Diferentes Materias,” 1730–79 (AAM, 7.B.5). 47. Santiago, “The Struggles of the Native Clergy,” 191–92. 48. This idea is pursued by Reynaldo Clemeña Ileto in his discussion of the formation of revolutionary ideologies in the nineteenth century, in Pasyon and Revolution: Popular Movements in the Philippines, 1840–1910 (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1979) and Filipinos and Their Revolution: Event, Discourse, and Historiography (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1998). 49. René B. Javellana, “The Sources of Gaspar Aquino de Belen’s Pasyon,” Philippine Studies 32.3 (1984): 310–15. 50. Ricardo D. Trimillos, “Pasyon: Lenten Observance of the Philippines as Southeast Asian Theater,” in Essays on Southeast Asian Performing Arts: Local Manifestations and Cross-Cultural Implications, ed. Kathy Foley (Berkeley: Centers for South and Southeast Asia Studies, 1992), 7. 51. Ibid., 8; see also Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” 844. 52. Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas, 43. 53. Tomás de Villacastin and Gaspar de Aquino de Belen, Mang~ a panalang~ ing pagtatagobilin sa Caloloua nang tauong nag hihing~ alo. Ang may catha sa uigan Castila ang M. R. P. Thomas de Villacastin sa mahal na Compañia ni Iesus. At ysinalin sa uican

290

notes to pages 148–149

Tagalog ni D. Gaspar Aquino de Belen. At ysinonod dito ang mahal na passion ni Iesu Christong P. Natin na tolâ; at ypinananagano sa cataastaasang Poong Iesus Nazareno, 5th ed. (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1760). A modern transcription (although with questionable editorial treatment of the early modern Tagalog orthography), accompanied by a critical analysis of the text and its performance practices, has been published as Rodel E. Aligan and Gaspar de Aquino de Belen, Pasyon (Manila: UST Press, 2001). 54. The text of this pronouncement reads as follows: “Manila, y Henero 23. de 1704. años. Concedense, quarenta dias de Indulgencia à todos los que leyeren, ù oyeren leer qualquier Passo de la Passion de Christo Señor Nuestro de este Libro, Impresso por todas las vezes, que lo hizieren: Assi lo concediò, y firmò su Señoria Illustrissima el Arzobispo mi Señor, de que doy feè [sic].” Villacastin and Aquino de Belen, Mang~ a panalang~ ing pagtatagobilin sa Caloloua nang tauong nag hihing~ alo, n.p. 55. Vicente Barrantes, El teatro tagalo (Madrid: Tipografía de Manuel G. Hernández, 1889), 159. The publication in question is Juan Sanchez, El infierno abierto, en lengua panayana (Manila: Imp. de los Jesuitas, 1740) (see Regalado Trota Jose, Impreso: Philippine Imprints, 1593–1811 [Makati, Manila: Fundación Santiago and Ayala Foundation, 1993], 157, no. 509). No extant copy of this original edition appears to survive. However, it appears that another edition was published in the nineteenth century, according to Elviro Jorde Pérez (Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos agustinos de la Provincia del Santissimo Nombre de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde fundación hasta nuestros días [Manila: Establecimiento tip. del Colegio de Sto. Tomás, 1901], 225–26): El infierno abierto con ang infierno nga bucas nga hinuad sa binisaya nga pulong sang M. R. Ex-definidor nga si Fr. Juan Sánchez sa Caparian ni San Agustín (Guadalupe: Imp. del Asilo de Huérfanos, 1886). 56. “Han impreso algunos libros con singular elegancia en verso heróico, uno de los cuales hice yo reimprimir en Manila, de que gustan mucho los tagalos, y contiene la Pasión de Nuestro Señor Jesucristo. Su autor es don Luis Guian, principal de tagalos.” Juan José Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política y natural de las islas del poniente, llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 333. 57. “Compuso en verso Bisaya la Historia de la Passion de nuestro Señor Jesu-Christo.” Antonio Masvesi, Carta del Padre Antonio Masvesi, de la Compañia de Jesus, rector del colegio de Cavite, sobre la vida, muerte y virtudes, del padre Pedro de Estrada, provincial de Philipinas, de la misma Compañia ([Manila], 1748), 25–26. 58. René B. Javellana, “Pasyon Genealogy and Annotated Bibliography,” Philippine Studies 31.4 (1983): 453–55; see also René B. Javellana, Casaysayan nang pasiong mahal ni Jesucristong Panginoon natin na sucat ipag-alab nang puso nang sinomang babasa (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1988). According to Lumbera, Pilapil was the editor of this pasyon text, not the author. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 93. 59. Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” 843–44. 60. Elena Rivera Mirano, Musika: An Essay on the Spanish Influence on Philippine Music (Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines Special Publications Office, 1992), 14. 61. Pedro Chirino, Relacion de las Islas Filipinas i de lo que en ellas an trabaiado los padres dæ la Compañia de Iesus (Roma: Por Estevan Paulino, 1604), 52.

notes to pages 149–151

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62. “Lo que cantan, en sus embarcaciones à manera de historia, ò quando beben.” Noceda and Sanlúcar, Vocabulario de la lengua tagala, 393. 63. English translation based on Kobak, “Ancient Bisayan Literature, Music and Dances,” 36. The original text reads: “Haya es otro modo de poesías que usaban y usan para llorar sus muertos; y de ahí llaman parahaya a las plañíderas, que son mujeres que se alquilan para este efecto. El oficio de éstas es cantar con voz lamentable endechas mezclando alabanzas de los muertos o de sus antepasados; a que corresponden los parientes, marido o mujer del difunto, con unos alaridos desproporcionados, que éste es su modo de llorar muertos, sin derramar comúnmente ni una lágrima . . . aquí sólo baste para lo tocante a sus versos y poesías esto que se usaba para los muertos, que también le llaman anogon o canogon, que es lo mesmo que cosa lastimosa o mal lograda.” Yepes and Alzina, Una etnografía, 14. 64. “Panambitan. Cantar llorando, o llorar Cantando, y diciendo sus des dichas. Vg.a el que esta entrabasos, el que llora a su Padre, madre, o Pariente difunto, que no solo canta y llora, sino que tambien dice su mal obrar con el difunto, y el bien obrar del difunto para con el, y muchas falsedades, y disparates.” Tomás Ortiz, “Vocabulario Tagalo Español que contiene muchas composiciones, locuciones, y Frases Tagalas explicadas a la letra en Español. Por el M. R. P. L. F. Thomas Hortiz Ex Provincial de esta Provincia del SS[antísi].mo Nom[br].e de Iesus del Orden de N. P. S. Aug[usti]n de Philippinas, y Prior del Convento de N[uest]ra Señor de Guadalupe. . . . Dedicado A S. Ioseph Profugo en Ægypto, Padre Putativo de IESUS, y Esposo Fidelissimo de MARIA. . . . En el convento de N[uest]ra Señora de Guadalupe. dia del Triumpho dela Cruz. 16 del mes de Iullio de 1726 años,” 1726–33 (LLIU, Philippine Mss. I, box 11), f. 242r. A related word is sambitan. 65. See Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 49–82. 66. Barrantes, El teatro tagalo, 22–23, 143–60. Yet as Javellana points out, Barrantes “does not bother to demonstrate through literary and textual analysis which part of the European pasion [sic] is borrowed by which Filipino pasyon.” Javellana, “Pasyon Genealogy,” 452. 67. Lumbera, Tagalog Poetry, 50. 68. Javellana, “The Sources of Gaspar Aquino de Belen’s Pasyon,” 310–11. 69. Ibid., 313. 70. Manuel Walls y Merino, La música popular de Filipinas (Madrid: Librería de Fernando Fe, 1892), 25. 71. The seventeenth-century transcription “Quædam Musica” discussed earlier displays certain features that could classify it as a punto or pie from a pasyon. First, it appears to indicate a “reciting tone”; second, Elena Rivera Mirano (in “The Pabasa of San Luis, Batangas,” Asian Studies 22–24 [1984–86]: 110) has noted that the range of women’s voices when performing the pabasa (pasyon) in Batangas is usually limited to the interval of a fourth; and third, women predominate in singing this genre. 72. I am grateful to Elena Rivera Mirano for her suggestion of this hypothesis. 73. See Ileto, Pasyon and Revolution, 12. On the Filipino passion play, sinakulo, see Nicanor G. Tiongson, Kasaysayan at estetika ng Sinakulo, at ibang dulang panrelihiyon sa Malolos: kalakip ang orihinal, partitura, mga larawan ng pagtatanghal (Quezon City: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 1975), 195.

292

notes to pages 152–160

74. “Entre nosotros se ha representado la Pasión todavía sin el menor inconveniente hasta el año 1856, en que fué prohibida por el Ministro de la Gobernación don Patricio de la Escosura (alta autoridad por cierto en cosas literarias) en un célebre Decreto, que produjo en la prensa política más de una polémica y al que esto estribe hartas satisfacciones de amor propio en los comienzos de su carrera oficial.” Barrantes, El teatro tagalo, 30. 75. See the discussion of modern-day forms in Mary Arlene Pe Chongson, “Pasyon and Holy Week: A Study of Music, Acculturation, and Local Catholicism in the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Texas at Austin, 2000. 76. “En Ilocos no es la Pasión, sino las Lamentaciones de Jeremías lo que cantan por Cuaresma. La primera no la cantan, sino que la leen, pero cada uno á sus solas. Esta costumbre será molesta para los que no quieren oir su música (del canto llano); pero los indios tienen sus gustos musicales y no podemos ni debemos quitárselos.” Barrantes, El teatro tagalo, 23n2. 77. Trimillos, “Pasyon,” 11. 78. In identifying “syncretic elements in Philippine Christianity,” Phelan notes that “the suppression of outward[ly] pagan rituals did not entail the abolition of a whole accretion of superstitious customs of pre-Hispanic origin. Rather these folk customs were gradually if only superficially Christianized. . . . In the seventeenth century syncretic elements are often apparent, but in the nineteenth century they are much less so.” John Leddy Phelan, The Hispanization of the Philippines: Spanish Aims and Filipino Responses, 1565–1700 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1959), 79–80.

chapter 6 1. “Ay buenos Cantòres; y los ay de Oficio en todas las Iglesias, con sus Salarios competentes, desde la Iglesia Cathedral, al Ministerio mas pobre; y assi se vàn criando desde Tiples.” Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las Islas Philipinas, China, Japón (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr. Juan del Sotillo, 1738–44), 1:143. 2. “Ils vont pieds nus pour la plus grande partie; ils n’en sont pas moins les maîtres de musique des églises. La musique qu’ils donnent est si singulière qu’on ne peut rien se figurer de plus sauvage; on n’entend guère que des chœurs, les parties vont comme elles peuvent, ensemble ou non, la chose est égale; c’est une espèce de charivari qui ressemble assez bien à celui que fait une troupe d’ivrognes qui sortent de la taverne.” Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:133. 3. See James C. Scott, Seeing Like a State: How Certain Schemes to Improve the Human Condition Gave Failed, Yale ISPS Series (New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1998), 69–71, and Domingo Abella, ed., Catálogo alfabético de apellidos (Manila: National Archives, 1973). 4. For a summary of the various incarnations of the cathedral, see Ruperto C. Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral: 1571 to 1945,” Philippiniana Sacra 35.103 (2000): 129–67.

notes to pages 160–162

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5. Isacio R. Rodríguez, “Filipinas: la organización de la iglesia,” in Historia de la iglesia en Hispanoamérica y Filipinas (siglos XV–XIX), ed. Pedro Borges (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1992), 2:705–6. 6. “Cantoriam, ad quam nullus possit praesentari nisi in musica, saltem in cantu plano, doctus et peritus exista[t], cujus in facistol cantare, docere et quae ad cantum pertine[n]t et expecta[n]t ordinare, corrigere et emendare in choro, et ubicumque per se et non per alium, officium erit.” Pablo Fernández, “The Constitution of the Manila Cathedral Chapter,” Philippiniana Sacra 27.77 (1991): 304. 7. Domingo de Salazar, “Erection of the Manila Cathedral,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–09) 34:344, 347. The original text reads: “Offic[i]um organistae, qui organa in diebus festivis, et aliis temporibus ad votum Praelati vel Capituli pulsari teneatur.” Transcribed in Fernández, “Constitution of the Manila Cathedral Chapter,” 306. 8. Robert William Harold Castleton, “The Life and Works of Domingo de Salazar, O.P. (1512–1594),” Ph.D. diss., University of London, 1974, 67; William John Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila, 1581–1621: The Role of Music in Rite, Ritual and Spectacle,” in The Jesuits: Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts, 1540–1773, ed. T. Frank Kennedy and John W. O’Malley (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 660; William John Summers, “Music in the Cathedral: Some Historical Vignettes,” in Manila Cathedral: Basilica of the Immaculate Conception, ed. Ruperto C. Santos (Manila: Archdiocesan Archives of Manila, 1997), 153. 9. “Con los muchachos del coro y otros que savian musica y con los organos y flautas y chirimias que conmigo traje celebravase el oficio divino en las fiestas como se pudieran celebrar en otra yglesia catedral mas antigua y mas rica que esta.” In Castleton, “The Life and Works of Domingo de Salazar,” 67. 10. See Vicente S. Hernández, History of Books and Libraries in the Philippines, 1521–1900: A Study of the Sources and Chronology of Events Pertaining to Philippine Library History from the Sixteenth to the End of the Nineteenth Century (Manila: National Commission for Culture and the Arts, 1996), 110; Castleton, “The Life and Works of Domingo de Salazar,” 68. 11. Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila,” 661. 12. Felipe II, real cédula, “Real cédula a los oficiales de Real Hacienda de Filipinas,” June 20, 1595 (AGI, Filipinas, 339, L. 2), ff. 92v–93v. 13. See Javier Marín López, “The Musical Inventory of Mexico Cathedral, 1589: A Lost Document Rediscovered,” Early Music 36.4 (2008): 575–96. 14. “En la mesma plaça, esta la yglesia mayor, de canteria, de tres naves, con su capilla mayor, y coro de sillas altas y bajas, cercado de rejas, adornado de organo, atriles, y lo demas necesario, sacristan y sus aposentos y oficinas.” Antonio de Morga, Sucesos de las Islas Philipinas (Mexici ad Indos: Samuel Estradanus, 1609), f. 148v. 15. Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral,” 139–40. 16. Juan Bautista de la Uriarte, Manifiesto, y resumen historico de la fundacion de la Venerable Hermandad de la Santa Misericordia de la ciudad de Manila, hospital, casa, y collegio de niñas, y iglesia de Santa Ysabel, con las conveniencias, y utilidades al comun, bien publico, y particular de estas islas ([Manila]: Collegio, y Universidad de Santo Thomas, con las licencias necessarias por Iuan Correa, 1728), f. 34v.

294

notes to pages 162–164

17. Don Baltazar gat Dobali replaced de la Cruz on the illness of the latter. See William John Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila: Music and Rejoicing in an International City,” Budhi: A Journal of Ideas and Culture 2.1 (1998): 224. Dobali’s integration into Spanish social and musical institutions is further reinforced by the honorific title “don”; this was a privilege that was extended only to the elite of society within Spanish colonial territories. Stevenson has noted that “nowadays, the use of ‘Don’ as an honorific has become so widespread in Spain and in Latin America that not many stop to consider how few had a right to use it in the sixteenth century.” Robert Murrell Stevenson, Music in Aztec and Inca Territory (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1968), 205. 18. English translation in Bartholomé Letona, “Description of Filipinas Islands,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 36:208. It is possible, however, that Letona was referring to a memory of the third cathedral, but this is unlikely, given that the third was devastated by an earthquake in 1645. 19. See San Antonio, Chrónicas, 1:190. 20. Pablo Francisco Rodriguez de Berdozido, “Estado ecclesiastico de las referidas yslas Philipinas,” 1742 (BNE, Ms. 19217), 180–81. 21. Felipe V, real cédula, “Respuesta sobre maestro de ceremonias de Catedral de Manila” (AGI, Filipinas, 342, L. 10), ff. 27v–28v. 22. Rodriguez de Berdozido, “Estado ecclesiastico de las referidas yslas Philipinas” (BNE, Ms. 19217), 181. 23. Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 226. 24. María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española en Filipinas (1565–1800) (Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos de Sevilla, 1959), 202; María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el siglo de la Ilustración,” in Historia general de Filipinas, ed. Leoncio Cabrero (Madrid: Ediciones de Cultura Hispánica, 2000), 261. 25. Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral,” 150–51. 26. “Un Maestro sumamente perito y único en las Yslas.” Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española, 208. 27. “Un Organo pequeño q[u].e actualm[en].te sirve a la Yglecia [sic].” “Inventario delas Reliquias, Alajas de Oro, y Plata: y de mas Trastes, pertenecientes à la S[an]ta Yglecia Cathedral de esta Ciudad de Manila,” 1761 (AAM, 13.B.6/1), f. 19r. 28. “Costeò la obra de esse Patio, la composicion de esse Organo grande, esse Altar del Santo Christo.” Ignacio de Salamanca, Heros ecclesiasticus, oratio funebris quam in exequijs Manilae celebratis defuncto suo arhciepiscopo [sic] et gubernatori illustrissimo d. d. d. Emmanueli Antonio Roxo del Rio, et Vieyra pro illustri admodum: ac venerabile capitulo designatus orator dixit d. d. Ignatius de Salamanca. In alma Cathedrali ecclesia malinensi die 7 junij anno 1764 (Mexico: ex Regalis, & antiguioris divi Ildefonsi collegij typis, 1765), 36. Rojo del Río had assumed the archiepiscopal See in 1758, six years after the date of the initial evidence for construction of this organ. The long period of construction could justify the note from the 1761 inventory that a “small organ” was “currently serving the church.” 29. Helen Samson-Lauterwald, The Bamboo Organ of Las Piñas, 2nd rev. ed. (Las Piñas, Manila: Bamboo Organ Foundation, 2006), 70–72.

notes to pages 164–167

295

30. Pedro G. Galende and Regalado Trota José, San Agustín: Art and History 1571–2000 (Intramuros, Manila: San Agustín Museum, 2000), 137. Although commissioned in 1762 (probably before the British occupation of Manila), the facistol was probably sent to Mexico in 1764 or later, but it did not arrive there until 1770, due to intervention by a pirate. See Marín López, “Música y músicos entre dos mundos,” 1:94. 31. “Inventario delas Reliquias, Alajas de Oro, y Plata: y de mas Trastes, pertenecientes à la S[an]ta Yglecia Cathedral de esta Ciudad de Manila,” 1761 (AAM, 13.B.6/1), ff. 12r–13r. 32. “Estatutos, y reglas consuetas de la Santa Metroplitana Yglesia de Manila, mandadas hacer, y formar por el illustrissimo Señor D. Basilio de SS. Justa y Rufina, Digniss[i].mo Arz[obis]po Metrop[olita].no de estas Islas, del Consejo de S. M. y su Predicador, Then[ien].te de Vicario G[ene]ral de los R[eal].es Exercitos por Mar, y Tierra, à su V[enerabl].e D[ean]. y Cav[il].do y de Comission de este, à los S[eño].res Arcedeano Liz[encia].do D[o].n Estevan de Roxas y Melo; Canonigo Magistràl D[oct].or D[o].n Ygnacio de Salamanca; y Canonigo de Merced D[oct].or D[o].n Joseph Antonio Correa los hàn formado, y trabajado, sujetandose lo primero à la Ereccion de dicha S[an].ta Yglesia; à los celebrados Concilios de Lima, y Mexico; al Ceremonial de Señores Obispos; à las Rubricas del Missal, y Breviario; à las Decisiones, y Declaraciones de las Sagradas Congregaciones del Concilio, y Ritos, &c.a,” Manila, August 17, 1771 (AAM, 13.B.6/1). 33. Ibid., ff. 21v–22r. 34. Ibid., f. 27r–v. 35. Ibid., f. 27v. 36. Ibid., f. 5r. 37. Santos, “A History of the Manila Cathedral,” 154. This disaster was reported widely, and as far away as the United Kingdom an account was published in The Illustrated London News on August 29, 1863. Tragically and ironically, broken organ pipes were used in frustrated attempts to supply water to the victims buried under the rubble. See “The Earthquake at Manilla [sic],” The Illustrated London News 43.1219 (1863): 214. 38. For a detailed treatment of the practices of the seises in Seville Cathedral (the model for many cathedrals in Spanish colonies), see Lynn Matluk Brooks, The Dances of the Processions of Seville in Spain’s Golden Age, Teatro del Siglo de Oro: Estudios de literatura, 4, dir. Kurt and Roswitha Reichenberger with Evangelina Rodríguez and Antonio Tordera (Kassel: Edition Reichenberger, 1988), 91–143. 39. On the seises, see Marín López, “Música y músicos entre dos mundos,” 1:383; on Bermúdez de Castro, see Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson, “List of Archbishops of Manila,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 51:309. 40. “Entablè en la Cathedral el Canto Gregoriano en Oficio, y Missa, que ni se usaba, ni se sabia, ni avia Atril, ni un Libro de Choro, viendome precisado à ensenarlo [sic] yo privadam[en]te en mi Casa . . . Tengo yà hecho un Atril bueno, correspondiente à los Libros de Choro, que se estan haziendo, de que estan yà concluydos quatro à mi costa. . . . Añadi a el Choro un competente de numero de Cantorcitos, ò seises vestidos al uso de las Cathedrales de España . . . estos seises que son abilissimos estos Indios instruidos en el Canto de Organo sirven tambien para la perfeccion de la Musica.”

296

notes to pages 167–168

Letter from Juan Ángel Rodríguez to Felipe V, Manila, July 21, 1738 (AGI, Filipinas, 1006). 41. Francisco Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez, trinitario, arzobispo de Manila (1687–1742),” Revista de Indias 23.93–94 (1963): 498. 42. Ibid. 43. “Tomé la providencia de mantener dieciocho niños, los que, enseñados, asisten de seis en seis con hábitos largos y sobrepellices al coro a todas las horas, sirviendo juntamente de tiples para la música; con lo que se ha experimentado muy buen efecto, pues aunque falten algunos prebendados se dirán las horas con más decencia y voz perceptible aun fuera de la iglesia, cuando antes ni aún dentro de ella se oían; y juntamente con esto he introducido en el clero el canto llano, que jamás se había practicado, cantándose por todos los indios, aunque mal instruidos en las reglas de la música y del todo ignorantes de ellas y de la latinindad, causaban una desapacibilidad intolerable.” Letter from Juan Ángel Rodríguez to Felipe V, June 5, 1739, transcribed in Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez,” 498. 44. “Por lo que también su remedio, pues estándose estos niños en este ejercicio con ellos en hábitos de clérigos ordenados o no introducidos en el clero de la música, poco a poco, según se fueren proporcionando, se irán quitando los indios, no sirviendo muchos de ellos más que de hacer número, y viniendo como vienen en el traje de su nación, deforman aún a la vista el coro de los clérigos.” Ibid. 45. Simeon Gutiérrez y Maríveles (attrib.), “Historical Account of the Founding of the Colegio de Niños Tiples,” c. 1946 (AAM 40.B.4/1). Dr. Simeon Gutiérrez y Maríveles was the last director of the colegio, having taken up this post in 1929. He is the most likely candidate for the authorship of this account in English, which was written in about 1946 after the destruction and demise of the institution. 46. Felipe V, real cédula, “Respuesta sobre niños cantores y Seminario de San Felipe,” April 26, 1742 (AGI, Filipinas, 334, L. 15), ff. 29r–31r. 47. “Los expresados niños quedavan con Maestros que les enseñen à leer, y escrivir, Musica, y Grammatica; y que mediante aver adquirido, yà vuestra vigilanzia para la enseñanza, y manutencion de ellos, hasta la Cantidad de tres mil novecientos, y setenta y dos pesos de principal, y que hay parage proporcionado dentro de la misma Iglesia en que poder los hacer casa para su havitacion fuese yo servido de aprobanos esta obra, y concurrir a ella con treinta cabanes de arroz mensualmente del que hay en mis Reales Almacenes de esa Ciudad.” Ibid., f. 30r–v. 48. Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez,” 499. 49. Gutiérrez y Maríveles, “Historical Account” (AAM 40.B.4/1), n.p. 50. Ibid. 51. Ibid. 52. Ibid. 53. See, for example, Raymundo Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater (Quezon City: Manlapaz Publishing, 1969), 111–13; Delfin Colomé Pujol, “República de Filipinas,” in Diccionario de la música española e hispanoamericana, ed. Emilio Casares Rodicio, José López-Calo, and Ismael Fernández de la Cuesta (Madrid: Sociedad General de Autores y Editores, 1999–2002), 9:118; José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 19:581–82; Elena Rivera Mirano, Musika: An Essay on the Spanish

notes to pages 169–171

297

Influence on Philippine Music (Manila: Cultural Center of the Philippines Special Publications Office, 1992), 6; William John Summers, “Manila, the Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 15:761; and Summers, “Music in the Cathedral,” 155–56. Although the foundation of this colegio is frequently cited as an example of a fully fledged music school, there has been no examination in any of these histories of the original correspondence from Archbishop Juan Ángel Rodríguez, the founding documents from Madrid, nor the historicosocial context in which support from the Crown was sought to establish the necessary obra pía for its maintenance. Most of the documents concerning the foundation of the school are held in the AGI. 54. “The musical instruction given to those boys is according to the methods pursued in the conservatory of Madrid; for singing and harmony, Eslava; for the piano, Aranguren; for the organ, Gimeno; for the violin, its method and studies, Alard; and for vocalization, Romero.” “Boys’ Singing School,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 45:244. The “earliest professors” listed by Bañas, among them Blás Echegoyen, Remigio and Apolinar Calahorra, Oscar Campos, Luis Vicente Arche, Ramón Valdez, Ignacio and Bibiano Morales, and Hipolito Rivera, were all musicians active in Manila in the nineteenth century. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater, 112. 55. “Boys’ Singing School,” 244. 56. José Maceda, “Music in the Philippines in the Nineteenth Century,” in Musikkulturen Asiens, Afrikas und Ozeaniens im 19. Jahrhundert, ed. Robert Günther, Studien zur Musikgeschichte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Regensburg: G. Bosse, 1973), 219n20. In the late nineteenth century there was published a sixteen-page pamphlet titled Reglamento del Colegio de Tiples bajo la advocacion de la Santisima [sic] Trinidad, fundado para el servicio de la Santa Iglesia Catedral de Manila (Manila: Imp. del Colegio de Santo Tomás, 1877), but I have not yet located a copy. It is listed in Pedro Vindel, Biblioteca oriental: comprende 2.747 obras relativas á Filipinas, Japón, China y otras partes de Asia y Oceanía. Con comentarios y 96 reproducciones en facsímil, etc. (Madrid: P. Vindel, 1911–12), 1:273. 57. For instance, in the mid-eighteenth century, the sum total of religious resident in Manila was twenty-five Augustinians, eighteen Franciscans, twenty-five Dominicans, between eighteen and twenty Recollects, and forty Jesuits. See María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” in Historia general de España y América. América en el siglo XVIII. Los primeros Borbones, ed. Luis Suárez Fernández et al. (Madrid: Ediciones Rialp, 1983), XI–1:535. 58. Wenceslao Emilio Retana and José Toribio Medina, La imprenta en Filipinas: adiciones y observaciones à la imprenta en Manila de J. T. Medina (Madrid: [Imprenta de la Viuda de M. Minuesa de los Ríos], 1899), 10, note. 59. “Assi se diò fin, el assombro nunca visto en estas Islas Octavario, del qual solo se ha dicho lo mas principal; sin tocar la variedad de industriosos magestuosos bayles, Tornèos, Danzas, la melodìa de instrumentos, dulcisonas [sic] canciones, que en todos los dias se oyeron: Dispuesto por el Magisterio del Orpheo Augustiniano Fray Lorenzo Castrellòn [sic], que desde las Visperas de la Celebridad, de vino à este Convento, con grande primoroso acompañamiento de Maestros, y demàs Ministriles para componer un sumptuoso Coro.” Juan Manuel Maldonado de Puga, Antonio de

298

notes to pages 171–172

Arce, and Joseph Andrade, Religiosa hospitalidad por los hijos del piadoso coripheo patriarcha y padre de pobres S. Juan de Dios en su Provincia de S. Raphael de las Islas Philipinas (Granada: Joseph de la Puerta, 1742), 136. 60. “Compuso dos tomos en folio de Misas clásicas; otros dos tomos en folio de Vísperas y procesiones varias; otros dos tomos grandes de Villancicos y Arias.” Agustín María de Castro, Misioneros agustinos en el extremo oriente 1565–1780 (Osario Venerable), ed. Manuel Merino (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas & Instituto Santo Toribio de Mogrovejo, 1954), 216. 61. Gregorio de Santiago Vela, Ensayo de una biblioteca ibero-americana de la orden de San Agustín (Madrid: Imp. Asilo de Huérfanos del S. C. de Jesús, 1913–31), 1:652. However, this attribution does not appear in Castro, Misioneros agustinos. 62. “Juan Bolívar. Natural de Lacaitio [Lequeitio] en Vixcaya [sic]; diez y ocho años fué Vicario mayor del Coro de San Felipe el Real. La Catedral de Toledo le convidó muchas veces para su cantor perpetuo ofreciéndole 600 pesos anuales y sacar licencias de Roma; casi lo mismo le ofreció la de México; pero él, siguiendo su vocación, llegó a Filipinas el año de 1739. Cantó muchas veces en Manila, y venían las gentes en tropas de muy lejos a oírle cantar, por su exquisita habilidad y metal de voz incomparable. Tañía con primor el órgano, el arpa, el rabel, la flauta dulce y otros muchos instrumentos. Compuso también en canto de órgano tres tomos en folio, de varios Glorias, Credos y Villancicos, que hasta hoy se guardan en la sacristía nuestra de Manila. Pero viendo el Provincial su buen talento en el púlpito y la falta que había de ministros, lo envió a la Isla de Panay, teniendo de edad treinta y tres años, en donde aprendió con eminencia la lengua Hiligaina y trabajó en ella muchos años. Fué Ministro de Panay con voto en Capítulo, de Dumarao y de Dumalag; en Laglag murió religiosamente a 15 de Enero de 1754. Casi todos los maestros de capilla que hay en aquellas provincias fueron discípulos suyos, y hasta hoy celebran mucho su estupenda habilidad en los cantos llano y de órgano.” Castro, Misioneros agustinos, 193. The provinces on the island of Panay to which Castro refers are Dumarao, Dumalag, and Laglag. Bolívar’s biography (based on the Osario Venerable) is also found in Santiago Vela, Ensayo, 1:437, and Elviro Jorde Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico de los religiosos agustinos de la Provincia del Santissimo Nombre de Jesús de las Islas Filipinas desde fundación hasta nuestros días (Manila: Establecimiento tip. del Colegio de Sto. Tomás, 1901), 269–70. A good biographical summary is also given in Nuria Busto González and Pello Leiñena Mendizábal, “Bolívar, Juan Antonio,” in Diccionario de la música española e hispanoamericana, ed. Emilio Casares Rodicio, José López-Calo, and Ismael Fernández de la Cuesta (Madrid: Sociedad General de Autores y Editores, 1999–2002), 2:568. 63. Juan Jadraque (1699–1745) was from Durón, Guadalajara, and also professed in San Felipe el Real, Madrid. He was an excellent singer in the Convento de San Pablo, Manila, and for the last three years of his life was the director of the choir there. According to Pérez (Catálogo bio-bibliográfico, 238), he wrote a treatise on plainchant and polyphony. Bañas asserts that this last work was composed in collaboration with Nicolás Medina but does not substantiate this claim (see Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater, 27). However, no biographical entry for Nicolás Medina appears in the works of either Pérez or Castro. Ignacio de Jesús (d. 1747) was a prominent vicario del coro; he was born to a noble family in Salamanca and professed in the Augustinian convent of that city, where he

notes to pages 172–173

299

acted as superior for nine years, master of the novices for sixteen years, and vicario del coro for four years. He also worked in Burgos as maestro de los jóvenes before arriving at Manila in 1735, where he held similar positions in the Convento de San Pablo and the Convento de Guadalupe (Extramuros). According to Castro, many cantorales of Manila were copied in his hand (“escribió por su mano muchos libros de este coro de Manila”). See Castro, Misioneros agustinos, 164–65. José Calleja (d. 1765), took the Augustinian habit in Valladolid in 1756 and arrived in the Philippines three years later. He was known to play “any musical instrument with great skill” (“tocaba con primor cualquier instrumento músico”). Being well versed in the Kapampangan language, Calleja composed many comedias honestas in this language and a treatise on Kapampangan characters and orthography (attesting to the continuing use of baybayin in this province in the mid-eighteenth century). Castro points out, however, that these works were not published due to the poverty of the Augustinian order (“pero nada se ha impreso por la pobreza de aquellos Padres”). Ibid., 196–97. Another prominent instrumentalist from this order appears to have been Nicolás Sirvént (d. 1744). According to Bañas (who spells his name “Nicolas Servenit”), he was “an organist who taught many pupils in Manila.” Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater, 27. 64. One such man was Juan Andrade (c. 1731–55), who was born in Mexico and professed there in 1748 at the age of seventeen. Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico, 333. Following Andrade’s arrival in the Philippines he was, according to Bañas, “choir vicar [vicario de coro] and a celebrated singer of San Agustin Church.” Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater, 27. 65. “Un Hermano tenèmos en la Religion, llamado Fray Marcelo de San Augustin, natural de este Puevlo, que puede ser corona de los Indios Tagàlos, por su rara virtud, y los bien que ha servido al Convento de Manila, en varios oficios; para todos los quales le ha dado Dios habilidad. Porque èl es Organista el mas diestro que se conoce entre los Indios, que son muy habiles en Instrumentos; es Compositor, y Maestro de los Cantores, y Sacristan Menor, y ha hecho, y escrito muchos Libros de el Coro, y sobre todo, es gran Siervo de Dios.” Gaspar de San Agustín, Conquistas de las Islas Philipinas: la temporal, por las armas del señor Don Phelipe Segundo el prudente; y la espiritual, por los religiosos del Orden de Nuestro Padre San Augustin: fundacion, y progressos de su Provincia del Santissimo Nombre de Jesus (Madrid: Ruiz de Murga, 1698), 490–91. 66. See Gaspar de San Agustín, “Carta de Fr. Gaspar de San Ag[ustí]n, aun [sic] Amigo suyo en España, que le pregu[n]ta el natural i genio de los Indios naturales de estas Islas Philipinas,” June 8, 1720 (NLC, VAULT Ayer MS 1429). 67. “Sus padres fueron Principales; y el sitio donde està al presente la Iglesia, y Sacristia del Convento de Manila, eran casas, y tierras de su abuelo, razon que moviò tambien para darle el Abito.” San Agustín, Conquistas, 491. According to Santiago, Marcelo’s parents Don Francisco Banal and Doña Clara Morahin had originally “owned the land on which the [Augustinian] congregation’s famous church and sacristy in Intramuros were erected.” Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Houses of Lakandula, Matanda, and Soliman (1571–1898): Genealogy and Group Identity,” Philippine Quarterly of Culture and Society 18 (1990): 43.

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68. On racial strictures, see Damon Lawrence Woods, “Racial Exclusion in the Mendicant Orders from Spain to the Philippines,” UCLA Historical Journal 11 (1991): 69–92. 69. Genealogical research by Luciano P. R. Santiago has shown that Marcelo Banal de San Agustín was descended through Doña María Laran (his greatgrandmother), who was the daughter and only surviving child of Soliman. Santiago, “The Houses of Lakandula, Matanda, and Soliman,” 43, 46. 70. “Alfaro, (H[erman].o Lego Fr. Juan de). Natural de Tanauan, provincia de Samar, profesó en Manila el 15 de Septiembre de 1695, y desempeñó durante veinte años el oficio de Organista en el mismo convento.” Pérez, Catálogo bio-bibliográfico, 209. 71. “Escultor, pintor y músico a la vez.” Pablo Fernández, Dominicos donde nace el sol: historia de la Provincia del Santísimo Rosario de Filipinas de la Orden de Predicadores (Barcelona: Tall. Graf. Yuste, 1958), 272. 72. “À unos [criados de la casa] enseñaba à pintar, à otros à esculpir, y à otros à tañer varios instrumentos musicos, todo lo qual dirigia al culto de Dios, y adorno de sus Templos.” Domingo Collantes, Historia de la Provincia del Santísimo Rosario de Filipinas, China, y Tunquin Orden de Predicadores: quarta parte desde el año de 1700 hasta el de 1765 (Manila: En la imprenta de dicho Colegio, y Universidad [de Santo Tomás]: por Iuan Franc. de los Santos, 1783), 36. 73. “Y tal la acordada consonancia, y dulce melodia de varios instrumentos musicos, en especial del Organo maximo de los dos, que tiene nuestro Choro, admiracion de todos los que saben lo que hà costado, y lo que es!” Diego Saenz, Festivas expressiones, aplausos celebres, y sagrados triumphos, con que la Santa Provincia del Smo. Rosario de las Islas Philipinas celebró la beatificacion del nuevo astro dominico, San Benedicto XI. en el Convento de N. P. S. Domingo de la ciudad de Manila, el dia 7. de julio del año de 1741 (Sampaloc Extra-muros de la Ciudad de Manila: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Orden Seraphico, 1742), 23. 74. “Libro en que se contiene las Seremonias pertenecientes al DIVINO CULTO y estilos antiguos, y loables de este Conbento de N. P. S. Domingo de Manila. Año de 1741” (APDNSR, Sección 10 [Santo Domingo], Tomo 2). 75. “El Cabildo cantarà la Missa y traen sus Cantores, y libros Corales.” Ibid., f. 37v. 76. For a brief overview of the Colegio de San Juan de Letrán, see Sinibaldo de Mas, “Public Instruction,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–09), 45:251–52. 77. Domingo Fernández Navarrete, “An Account of the Empire of China, Historical, Political, Moral and Religious, written in Spanish by the R. F. F. Dominic Fernandez Navarette [sic],” in A Collection of Voyages and Travels, ed. John Churchill (London: Awnsham and John Churchill, 1704), 1:256. The original text reads: “Otras cosillas tocantes a Manila se me passavan por alto, las quales no es razon sepultarlas en silencio. Una es, de un Colegio, que se llama de los Niños de San Iuan de Letran. Fundòle un Religioso Lego de mi Orden, nombrado Fray Diego de Santa Maria. Llegò en mi tiempo a tener mas de ducientos muchachos, en gran beneficio de aquellas Islas. El govierno que con ellos tenia, era inimitable de otro alguno, enseñavales alli a leer, escrivir, Gramatica, musica: los Artistas, y Theologos acudian a nuestro Colegio; vestiales dos vezes cada año, doctrinavales; al amanecer antes de almorçar, rezavan a

notes to pages 174–176

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choros en voz alta un tercio de Rosario, a medio dia otro, a la tarde otro, y Salve cantada con Letania de nuestra Señora . . . obra cierto heroyca.” Domingo Fernández Navarrete, Tratados historicos, politicos, ethicos y religiosos de la monarchia de China. Descripcion breve de aquel imperio, y exemplos raros de emperadores, y magistrados del (Madrid: Imprenta Real, por Iuan Garcia Infançon, 1676), 323. 78. Sinibaldo de Mas (1809–68) noted in 1842 that although there were twentyone places for Spanish boys at the Colegio de San Juan de Letrán, which were subsidized by monies accrued to the Dominican order from indigenous labor in Pangasinan (amounting to 600 pesos per year), an unfixed number of Filipinos and mestizos were permitted to enroll, provided they each paid 50 pesos annually. See Mas, “Public Instruction,” 252. Santiago has identified several noble Filipino alumni of San Juan de Letrán in the seventeenth century. See Luciano P. R. Santiago, The Hidden Light: The First Filipino Priests (Quezon City: New Day, 1987), 26–27. 79. For a comprehensive survey of Roman Catholic female religiosity in the Philippines during the Spanish colonial period, see Luciano P. R. Santiago, To Love and to Suffer: The Development of the Religious Congregations for Women in the Spanish Philippines, 1565–1898 (Manila: Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2006). 80. These institutions, together with the boys’ colegio of San Juan de Letrán, were under royal patronage. Evergisto Bazaco, History of Education in the Philippines (Spanish Period 1565–1898), 2nd rev. ed. (Manila: University of Santo Tomas Press, 1953), 98. 81. A magnificent portrait of Jerónima de la Asunción was painted by Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (1599–1660). It is currently housed in the Museo del Prado, Madrid. 82. Information about the establishment of the Poor Clares in Manila is summarized from Felix de Huerta, Estado geográfico, topográfico, estadístico, históricoreligioso, de la santa y apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio Magno de religiosos menores descalzos de la regular y más estrecha observancia de N. S. P. S. Francisco, en las Islas Filipinas (Binondo: Imprenta de M. Sanchez y Ca., 1865), 36; María Alexandra Gil Iñigo Chua, “The Santa Clara Church Repertory: Women, Religiosity and Music in 19th-Century Manila,” unpublished paper presented at the University of the Philippines Conservatory of Music Seminar Series, November 2001; Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española, 263. 83. Bartholomé de Letona, La perfecta religiosa (Puebla: por la Viuda de Juan de Borja, 1662). 84. See a concordant source in Saint Teresa of Ávila, Efrén de la Madre de Dios, and Otger Steggink, Obras completas, Biblioteca de autores cristianos, 212 (Madrid: Editorial Católica, 1962), 482. Although several words and the order of some of the stanzas in Letona’s version differ from this twentieth-century source, it is clearly the same poem. 85. The poem appears in Letona, La perfecta religiosa, book II, chapter 21, 239–40. 86. Juan de Jesús, “Instrucciones a nuestros misioneros, acerca de la predicación y confesión de los indios,” 1703 (AFIO, 68/8), f. 1r. 87. “La Vicaria del Coro hà de tener gran cuydado, de que el Officio divino se cante, y reze con mucha devocion, haziendo se diga con la debida pausa, comenzando todas juntas, y acabando â un mismo tiempo, para que aya uniformidad, y consonancia, teniendo gran cuydado, en que las Religiosas ayuden al Coro en lo

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cantado, y rezado.” Regla primera dada por N. S. P. S. Francisco a la gloriosa virgen Santa Clara en el principio de la institucion de la Orden para todas sus hijas . . . assimismo las constituciones por donde se ha de governar, y ser governado el Real Convento de la Purissima Concepcion de Maria SS. N. Señora de religiosas descalzas de N. M. S. Clara de la ciudad de Manila (Manila: Convento de N. Señora de los Angeles, por el H. Pedro de la Concepcion, 1729), 81. 88. Chua, “The Santa Clara Church Repertory.” An inventory of the contents of these four cantorales is given in Ma. Concepción Echevarría Carril, “La música franciscana en Filipinas (ss. XVI–XIX),” Nassarre 9.2 (1993): 206–9. 89. Chua, “The Santa Clara Church Repertory.” 90. “Por quanto las Madres Fundadoras tuvieron presentes los pravissimos inconvenientes que podian originarse en la Communidad de dàr el Abito para Religiosa del Coro â Indias puras, y hasta el presente desde su fundacion se ha practicado el no admitir para el Coro, si solo â hijas de Padres, ò Madres Españolas; ordenamos al Ministro Provincial no dè licencia, ni la Madre Abadesa admite pretendiente alguna para Novicia del Coro, que sea India pura; aunque sea muy Principal.” Regla primera, 8. 91. Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The Flowering Pen: Filipino Women Writers and Publishers during the Spanish Period, 1590–1898, a Preliminary Survey,” Philippine Studies 51.4 (2003): 563; Santiago, To Love and to Suffer, 67. 92. See Santiago, To Love and to Suffer, 68–73, 80. 93. Nick Joaquin, Culture and History (Pasig City: Anvil Publishing, 2004), 174. 94. Their histories are summarized in Manuel Buzeta and Felipe Bravo, Diccionario geográfico, estadístico, histórico, de las Islas Filipinas, etc. (Madrid: Impr. de J. C. de la Peña, 1850), 1:164–65. For more details on their foundation and later development, see Santiago, To Love and to Suffer, esp. 91–160. 95. “Saben muy bien Canto llano, y Mussica [sic], y parece por cierto un Choro de Angeles, celebrando todos estos Officios con gran devocion.” Vicente de Salazar, Historia de la Provincia de el Santissimo Rosario de Philipinas, China y Tunking, de el Sagrado Orden de Predicadores. Tercera parte (Manila: Imprenta de dicha Collegio, y Universidad de Santo Thomas de la misma Ciudad, 1742), 661. 96. “Por la mañana à las cinco entran en el Choro, donde tienen media hora de oracion mental, y despues rezan Prima, y Tercia de el Officio parvo, y oìen Missa. A las diez, y media rezan Sexta, y Nona, y tambien una parte de el Rosario. A las dos buelven à rezar otra, junto con las Visperas, y otra à las cinco despues de Completas, aviendo antes cantado la Salve, y rezan tambien la Letania de Nuestra Señora, con algunas otras preces, y oraciones. A las siete de la noche rezan los Maytines, y ti[e]nen otra media hora de oracion mental. Como tienen yà concession de el Rey nuestro Señor, para celebrar los Officios Divinos, algunos dias solemnes cantan la Missa, y otros tambien las Visperas, y Maytines, conforme à la gerarchia de las festividades.” Ibid. 97. Cánticos were often performed on the occasion of a novice’s entry to a beaterio. For an observation of such a ritual in 1782, see Marta María Manchado López, “Religiosidad femenina y educación de la mujer indígena en Filipinas: el beaterio-colegio de la madre Paula de la Santísima Trinidad,” Revista de Indias 59.215 (1999): 190–91.

notes to pages 178–180

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98. Santiago, “The Flowering Pen,” 567. 99. “Todos los Sabados tras a las siete a la Misa Cantada de la Virgen . . . No permitira entrar en casa ni en la huerta musica ni danzarinas para tocar instrumentos, cantar o danzar de las Hermanas.” “Constituciones y Reglas de las Beatas Indias Doncellas que sirven Diós Nuestro Señor en este Beaterio de Manila debaxo dela direccion espiritual de los RR. Padres dela Compañia de Jesus,” 1726 (ARVM), capitulo tercero, no. 17 (misa cantada); capitulo cuarto, no. 15 (music and dance). 100. Huerta, Estado, 44–45. 101. “Que las Festividades, que nuestra Orden celebra, se hagan como hasta aqui, con el mayor lucimiento, y authoridad, assi en el ornato del Altar, y Capilla, como en procurar authoricen las Funciones los muy Illustres Señores Governador, Arzobispo, y N. M. R. P. Provincial, y assistencia de la Comunidad de la Orden Primera.” Libro de las constituciones municipales de n[uest]ra. sagrada Orden Tercera de Penitencia de N. P. S. Francisco; fundada en este religioso co[n]vento de la ciudad de Manila (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto, 1746), 15–16. 102. “En el dia siguiente à la eleccion se convocaràn todos los Hermanos, que pudieron, avisandole à cada uno de por sì, y se congregaràn en nuestra Capilla. Estando todos juntos se canta el Te Deum laudamus, desde la Sachristia hasta la Iglesia como se acostumbra.” Ibid., 47. 103. “Despues los Cantores, cantaràn el Hymno Veni creator Spiritus, &c. y el que preside cantarà el Verso: Confirma hoc Deus, &c. con los demas Versos, y Oraciones, q[ue] se acostumbran. Y finalizan los Cantores con el Benedicamus Domino, &c.” Ibid. 104. “Todos los años, el dia de Martes Santo, sale de esta Iglesia la tierna y devota procesion de la via sacra, corriendo las calles de Manila, y concluyéndose con un fervoroso sermon en la Iglesia de nuestro convento.” Huerta, Estado, 44. 105. “Un libro en fólio en punto de música, que tituló: Motetes á cuatro voces para el Via-Crucis de la Tercera Orden de S. Francisco de Manila.” Ibid., 524. In 1880, the biographical catalog of Franciscans makes the following listing: “Libro de música en fólio para el canto de Motetes á cuatro voces en el Via-Crucis de los Terceros de Manila.” Eusebio Gómez Platero, Catálogo biográfico de los religiosos franciscanos de la Provincia de San Gregorio Magno de Filipinas desde 1577 en que llegaron los primeros á Manila hasta los de nuestros días (Manila: Imprenta del Real Colegio de Santo Tomás, á cargo de D. Gervasio Memije, 1880), 298. 106. “La Iglesia es la mas bella, la mas bien hecha, la mas fuerte, la mas magnifica, y de mejor arquitectura, que creo tiene la Compañia en todas las Indias.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:53. 107. Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 175; Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 210; Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila,” 661. 108. “Tenemos tambien para los Domingos y fiestas un terno de musica que son nuebe pieças de esclavos que nos dejo el Capitan Estevan R[odrigue]s de Figueroa n[uest]ro fundador para este fin. Los quales ya con chirimias ya con flautas que las tocan muy bien entretienen con devocion a los que oien misa encasa, queste se permite por los indios y ser uso de las otras Religiones. En lo temporal a querido

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notes to pages 180–181

n[uest]ro señor pove [sic] ex con liberalidad a este Collegio como principio y fundamento de todas las casas destas yslas al qual tienen recurso los padres dellas fundole el Capitan Estevan Rodrigues de Figueroa dandole mil y quinientos p[eso]s de Renta. un terno de musica que son los negros que he dicho.” “Annua de la viceprovincia de las islas Phylippinas de Compañia de Jhs Año de 1595. 1596,” 1596 (ARSI, Philippinarum 5), ff. 11v–12r. 109. Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 210; Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila,” 661. 110. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 175. 111. English translation in ibid., 509. The original source is found in “Memorial del P. Rafael de Bonafe Provincial de la Provincia de Filipinas para N[uest]ro P[adr].e Vic[ari].o General Juan Paulo Oliva. año 1665” (ARSI, Congregationes 76), f. 130r, but the edges of the manuscript have deteriorated to the extent that small portions of the relevant text are now missing. 112. Translation in Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 509–10. The original text reads: “El remedio es facil, dexense [sic] los villancicos, o procurese [sic], q[ue] sean muy breves.” “Respuesta de N. M. R. P. Juan Paulo Oliva Preg.o G[enera].l de la Comp[añí].a de Jesus a un memorial del P. Rafael de Bonafe Prov[incia].l de la Prov[inci].a de Filip[in].as Año de 1665” (ARSI, Congregationes 76), f. 131r. 113. “A 16, comiensan las Missas de Aguinaldo que pueden cantar, los nuestros por determinacion de N[uestro]. P[adre]. Gen[era].l Ygnacio Visconte siendo su P[adr].e Vicario Gen[era].l La Missa comienza alas seis, y sirven de acolitos los Collegiales de San Joseph, ay musica y Villansicos, serios y devotos: al evangelio, y al alzar salen 4, Collegiales, con cirios encendidos danse cada mañana quatro rr[eal].es para almosar [sic] alos Cantores.” “Libro Septimo de las costumbres del Colegio de Nuestro Pader [sic] S[a].n Ignacio de Manila nuevamente corregido y aprovado por el P[adr].e Juan Antonio de Oviedo visitador General de esta Provincia de Philipinas segun el decreto 81= [?] de la congregacion 7 que dize assi” (AHSIC, FILMIS-058: E.I,b-04), f. 12r. 114. The full text of the inventory’s entries that refer to musical instruments and sheet music reads as follows: 300___Dos Violones á tres pesos = Dos Violines á quatro reales = Una Arpa en dos pesos = Dos Oboyes y un Bajon en seis reales = Un Tambor en dos reales = Una Sonaja en quatro reales, importa todo diez pesas y quatro reales. Los quales instrumentos en el Aparador antecendente . . . 10p. 4r. 301___Un Aparador mediano, bien tratado, de molave, de una vara y Quarta de alto, vara y Quarta de largo y dos tercias de ancho, con su cerradura y llave, y dentro de él, se halla un Horgano mediano bien tratado con todos sus adherentes, abaluó en cinquenta pesos . . . 50p. Importan dichas partidas ochenta y nuebe (89p. 3r.) pesos y tres tomines [sic]. Y haviendose hallado dentro de dichos aparadores varios papeles de música y puntos de Solfa se hizo cargo de ellas dicho Señor Oydor Juez, y distinguidos los pasó al aposento en que tiene separado los papeles manuscriptos para su reconocimiento é inventario. Manuel Galbán y Ventura, “Inventario de los bienes del Colegio Máximo S. Ignacio de Filipinas,” 1768–74 (AHSIC, FILEXP-07: E.I,d-07), 158.

notes to pages 182–183

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115. This institution was rebuilt in 1708. See Díaz-Trechuelo Spínola, Arquitectura española, 268–69. 116. “Tiene la ciudad de Manila una hermosa y rica capilla de la Encarnación de Nuestra Señora, fundación del gobernador don Sebastián Hurtado de Corcuera, donde se hacen las funciones y celebran las fiestas propias de la real audiencia, y sirve para el entierro de los soldados del tercio y administración del hospital real.” Juan José Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana: política y natural de las islas del poniente, llamadas Filipinas, Biblioteca Histórica Filipina, vol. 1, ed. Pablo Pastells (Manila: Imp. de El Eco de Filipinas de D. Juan Atayde, 1892), 187. 117. Evergisto Bazaco, Historia documentada del Real Colegio de San Juan de Letrán (Manila: Universidad de Santo Tomás, 1933), 68, quoted in Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila,” 216. 118. Letona, “Description of Filipinas Islands,” 208–9; San Antonio, Chrónicas, 1:193–94. 119. “Tiene . . . buena capilla de cantores con salarios proporcionados. El adorno, alhajas, ornamentos, vasos sagrados, altares y retablos corresponden á la realidad del nombre, y entre todos obtiene el primer lugar una grande custodia de oro apreciada en once mil ducados.” Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 187. 120. In circumstances similar to the discovery of the Santo Niño de Cebu (an image left behind by Magellan in 1521 and found by one of the soldiers accompanying the conquistador Miguel López de Legazpi in 1565), the image of Nuestra Señora de Guía was identified by a soldier, as legend has it, in one of the smoldering remains of the settlements around Maynilad on the evening of May 19, 1571, the day of the Spanish conquest. This image may have been traded or given by the Portuguese. For a colorful account of this story, see Nick Joaquin, Manila, My Manila (Makati City: Bookmark, 1999), 29. Both these discoveries in Cebu and Manila were portentous events during the conquest of the Philippines, as they seemed to the Spaniards to indicate the validity and seeming legitimacy of their enterprise through the apparent bestowal of divine approval. 121. Ruperto C. Santos, ed., Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas, 1574–1682: Philippine Church History: A Summary Translation, trans. Andres R. Pelingo (Manila: Roman Catholic Archbishop of Manila, 1994), 1:199. 122. Ibid., 1:216–17. See also Luciano P. R. Santiago, “The First Filipino Capellanías (1605–1699),” Philippiniana Sacra 22.66 (1987): 427–29. 123. Gaspar de San Agustín, Descripcion chronologica, y topographica de el sumptuoso templo de nuestra señora la Virgen Santissima de Guia, nombrada La Hermita, Extra Muros de la ciudad de Manila ([Manila], 1712/1717), f. 17v. 124. “Nous entrames [sic] au bruit d’une symphonie la plus sauvage que l’on puisse se figurer, exécutée par des Indiens, & composée de quelques mauvais violons & d’une harpe. . . . On célébra la Grand’Messe; elle fut chantée en musique, mais ce fut quelque chose de si sauvage & de si barbare qu’il m’est impossible de le rendre, non plus que de peindre ma surprise. . . . J’entendis des cris confus sans accord & sans mesure, que la symphonie qui les accompagnoit avoit l’art de rendre encore plus horribles: tel est l’état de la musique à Manille, & telle est à peu-près celle qu’on entend dans toutes les églises les jours de grandes fêtes.” Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage, 2:134.

306

notes to pages 183–184

125. Charles Burney, “Putaveri,” in The Cyclopædia; or, Universal Dictionary of Arts, Sciences, and Literature, ed. Abraham Rees (London: Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme, and Brown, 1802–19), 29:n.p. Of course, Burney was using this account primarily as a means to argue for the superiority of Italian music over French; he goes on to say that “soon after this experiment she went to Venice, where another trial was made on her unprejudiced ears, at an Italian opera, in which the famous Giziello sung [sic], at whose performance she was quite dissolved in pleasure, and was ever after passionately fond of Italian music.” Ibid. 126. “Testimonio litteral [sic] de la Santa Visita de los Pueblos Extramuros del Arzobispado de Manila. Vino con carta de 20 de Mayo de 1783, y reciviadela sec.va en 27 de Marzo de 1784” (AGI, Filipinas, 652). For each parish visited there is a “Relato del Cura” (a description by the curate of the church and its images, altars, and other items) and an “Inventario de Hornamentos, y Alhajas de la Yglesia.” 127. “Un organo que esta en la Tribuna de este Presbyterio”; “Ay un Organo mediano muy mal tratado, è inservible = Ytt. Ay un Arpa grande, y otra chica para el Rossario = Ytt. Ay un Biolon, y dos biolines todos estaban mal tratados, y los mande componer.” Ibid., ff. 14v (Santa Cruz), 38v (Parian). Although in the seventeenth century the term “biolon” would most probably imply an instrument of the viol family, it is more likely that by the 1780s it was being used in the Philippines to refer to the violoncello (“violonchelo”), as we can extrapolate from the fact that by this time the viol had largely fallen out of use in European and American metropoles. For a discussion of various issues encountered in translating the term violón, see Craig H. Russell, From Serra to Sancho: Music and Pageantry in the California Missions (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 52. 128. “Tres Missales con todos los Santos nuebos, y uno viegissimo para los Cantores = . . . Ytt. Un biolon, y un biolin para el Choro”; “Un organo . . . y un Biolon viejo.” “Testimonio litteral [sic] de la Santa Visita” (AGI, Filipinas, 652), ff. 51r (Malate), 62v–63r (Binondo). 129. Archbishop Sancho de Santas Justa y Rufina installed indigenous clerics in parishes vacated by the Society of Jesus after its expulsion in 1768 and also in those vacated by Augustinians in 1773. This action was considered controversial by many commentators of the time: Costa writes that “the quip became current in Manila that ‘there were no oarsmen to be found for the coasting vessels, because the archbishop had ordained them all.’” See Horacio de la Costa, “The Development of the Native Clergy in the Philippines,” in Studies in Philippine Church History, ed. Gerald H. Anderson (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1969), 95–99. 130. Jose has identified records for the purchase of instruments and the payment of musicians in the parish of San Luis Gonzaga, Pampanga. These data come from a “Libro de Cargo y Data, e Ynventario de varias alajas de plata, y ornamentos de esta Parroquia de S. Luis Gonzaga, que comprehende la maior p[a]rte del govierno de ella su proprio Cura d[o].n Gaspar Macalinao. Año de 1785” (ASFMA). They include entries such as the following: July 1786, “doi en data diez p[eso].s i dos r[eale].s derechos del P[adr].e cura cantores i sachristanes por las Tinieblas del Miercoles y Jueves Santo arreglados al Arancel de este Arzobisp[a].do” (f. 15v); October 1790, purchase of “un violin y cuerdas p[ar].a la Yglesia un peso y seis r[eale].s” (f. 32r); March 1791, the payment of “dos p[eso].s por un violon para la Yglesia” (f. 33r); and April 1801, the

notes to pages 184–185

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major purchase of “un Organo de cinco castillos y cinco registros cuya caxa es de Narra en quatrocientos y veinte p[eso]s” (inserted separately). I am grateful to Regalado Trota Jose for sending me this information. According to Jose, the parish of San Luis Gonzaga had been founded by the Augustinians but was turned over to indigenous secular priests in 1785. As surviving early modern records from Philippine parish churches are gradually examined, similar information is likely to emerge, allowing us to form new perspectives on the richness of musical lives in the churches of the provinces. 131. “Desplomòse la Fachada de la Puerta principal de la Iglesia, y arrojò à tierra, hechos confusos pedazos, el Coro, un lindo Organo”; “Desplomòse toda la Fachada de la Iglesia, llevandose consigo, y destruyendo el Coro, un lindo Organo”; “Esta se arruinò toda, el dia yà dicho, con el Terremoto, y Temblores: todo el techo con su maderamen, y tejas diò en tierra: escupieron sus Piedras las Paredes, y mucha parte del ripio: pereciò un hermoso Organo, y el Coro.” Melchor de San Antonio, Breve, y veridica relacion del lastimoso estrago, que hicieron los terremotos, y temblores, en las iglesias, y conventos, que están en las faldas de los montes de Saryaya, Tayabas, Lucban, Mahayhay, Lilio, y Nagcarlan, el dia 12. de henero de este año de 1743. entre las cinco, y seis horas de la tarde, en estas Islas Philipinas ([Sampaloc], [1743]), ff. 4r (Tayabas), 7r (Lucban), and 10v (Nagcarlan). 132. “N’[y] a-t-il un village, quelque petit qu’il soit, où la messe ne soit accompagnée de musique, à défaut d’orgue.” Jean Baptist Mallat de Bassilan, Les Philippines: histoire, géographie, mœurs, agriculture, industrie et commerce des colonies espagnoles dans l’océanie (Paris: Arthus Bertrand, 1846), 2:248. 133. Many are listed in Buzeta and Bravo, Diccionario, 1:166–68. They include “la venerable congregacion de San Pedro, príncipe de los Apóstoles” (founded 1698); “la archicofradía del Santísimo Sacramento” (1804); “la archicofradía del Santísimo de Binondo, la de Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno”; of which many principales were members; and “la [cofradía] de Nuestra Señora de la Soledad” (1651). 134. John Leddy Phelan, The Hispanization of the Philippines: Spanish Aims and Filipino Responses, 1565–1700 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1959), 74. 135. Antonio M. Molina, Historia de Filipinas (Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica del Instituto de Cooperación Iberoamericana, 1984), 1:93; Buzeta and Bravo, Diccionario, 1:166; María Lourdes Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Religiosidad popular en Filipinas: hermandades y cofradías (siglos XVI–XVIII),” Hispania sacra 53.107 (2001): 347–48. 136. Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Religiosidad popular en Filipinas,” 349. 137. Ibid.; Ordenanzas, y constituciones de la Sa[n]cta Misericordia de la insigne ciudad de Manila, reformadas conforme al estado, y disposicion de la tierra por los hermanos de la dicha hermandad, conforme por las ordenanças de la ciudad de Lisboa se dispone, y aunados a ella el año de 1606 (Manila: Colegio de S. Thomas de Aquino por el Capitan D. Gaspar de los Reyes Impressor, 1675), chapter 4. 138. “Que el dia siguiente esta Santa Mesa determinaba hacer un novenario de Missas cantadas, y Salves por las tardes à nuestra Señora de Guia en hazimiento de gracias, y que los Señores Prebendados se obligaban à decir las Missas por la intencion de esta Mesa, y la dicha Mesa se obligaba à pagar la Musica, y los demas gastos.” Uriarte, Manifiesto, y resumen historico, f. 35v.

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notes to pages 185–189

139. Pablo Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines (1521–1898) (Manila: National Book Store, 1979), 82–83; Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas en el siglo de la Ilustración,” 265. 140. “Se compre un organo para ornato de su capilla y del culto divino con que se escussara aver chirimias.” “Libro de los Cabildos y Ordenanças de la Cofradia del Sancto Rosario de la Virgen Maria Nuestra Señora de la illustre ciudad de Manila” (APDNSR, Sección 56 [Cofradías], Tomo I), f. 147r. Thanks to Regalado Trota Jose for pointing out this reference. 141. “Tanto, õ trasládo de todos los versos y letreros que tiene esta Iglesia de S. Juan del Monte” (APDNSR, Sección 18 [San Juan del Monte], Tomo 1, Doc. 12). For an overview of this confraternity and its music, see William John Summers, “New Perspectives on the Performing Arts in Historic Manila, Baroque Music in Rite, Ritual and Spectacle,” in L’umanesimo latino nell’area asiatico-pacifica: eredità e prospettive: atti del Congresso ([Treviso]: Fondazione Cassamarca, 1999), 64–67. 142. Santo Domingo was an early casualty in the war, during the first Japanese assault on Manila in December 1941. But the archives, housed in an underground chamber, remained unscathed. See Juan Labrador, A Diary of the Japanese Occupation: December 7, 1941–May 7, 1945 (Manila: Santo Tomas University Press, 1989), 28–30; and Louis Morton, The War in the Pacific: The Fall of the Philippines, originally published 1953, United States Army in World War II (Washington, D.C.: Center of Military History, 1989), 232–34. 143. Enrique Cantel Cainglet, “Hispanic Influences on the West Visayan Folk Song Tradition of the Philippines,” Ph.D. diss., University of Adelaide, 1981, 1:354. Why Cainglet chose to place the date during the British occupation of Manila (1762–64), however, is not made clear. 144. See Eladio Neira, Glimpses into the History of San Juan, MM: San Juan del Monte, Convento de la Santa Cruz, Santuario del Santo Cristo, Municipio de San Juan (San Juan, Philippines: Life Today, 1994); and Summers, “New Perspectives,” 65–66. Cainglet did not list all the musical sources, but a “preliminary inventory” was made by Summers, in “New Perspectives,” 83–86 (full manuscript), 85–86 (music [letras] only). 145. Convincing reconstructions of these works, with the missing parts written by Jean-Christophe Frisch, were performed by the ensemble XVIII–21 Le Baroque Nomade at a concert in Milly-la-Forêt, France, as part of the Festival d’Île-de-France, on October 5, 2008. 146. See the original text of this poem in Lope de Vega Carpio, Rimas sacras, facsimile ed. and study by Joaquín de Entrambasaguas, Clásicos hispánicos, Series 1, 4 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1963), ff. 164r–66v. The text as set in the San Juan del Monte manuscript has only two-thirds as many stanzas and some differences in their ordering; its last full stanza and two additional lines do not seem to appear in the publication of Vega Carpio. 147. Fernández Navarrete, “An Account of the Empire of China,” 240–41. The original text reads: “A cada Iglesia dà su Magestad ocho Cantores, tienen sus privilegios, ocupanse en los Oficios Divinos, cantan excelentemente, y como siempre ay pretendientes, el numero es mayor, pero los ocho señalados, usan solo de los privilegios concedidos.” Fernández Navarrete, Tratados historicos, 306.

notes to pages 189–190

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148. “Esta cantidad se manda dar por Su Magestad a las iglesias para el gasto de cantores y fiestas principales; que habiendo como hay cantores . . . y celebrándose como se celebran las fiestas mayores con toda su solemnidad, y es el canto no poca parte de ella.” Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Historia sobrenatural de las islas bisayas, del Padre Alzina, Biblioteca de historia de América, 18 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1998), 100. 149. “Tambien reserva el Rey de tributo a trece personas para servicio de la Ygl[esi].a, y del P[adr].e, y con el M[aest]ro de capilla siete Cantores[,] dos sachristanes, dos cosineros, y un portero.” From “Ritual o Libro de las Costumbres, y usos, que deben guardar todos los Nuestros en la Provincia de Bisayas. Corregido, y Confirmado por el P[adr].e Juan Antt[oni].o de Oviedo Visitador General de esta Provincia de Filipinas Año de 1724,” in “Compilation of Documents Pertaining to the Regulation of Jesuit Missions in the Philippine Province, 1724–1757” (NLC, Ayer MS 1711), f. 15v. 150. “No deve el ministro mandar assi â los Cantores como â los Sachristanes, otros trabajos distintos de los que corresponden â sus oficios, Vg. no les podrá mandar cuydar de las bacas, ô cavallos ni asistir en la cocina, ô convento para cuidar alli de estas ó las otras cosas, tampoco podrá tener Indios con nombre de Cantores ò Sachristanes, para que sirvean al Padre en el Convento, cocina, ô fuera.” Tomás Ortiz, Practica del ministerio, que siguen los religiosos del Orden de N. P. S. Augustin, en Philippinas. Recopilada y ordenada por el M. R. Padre Lect. F. Thomas Hortiz, ex-provincial de esta Provincia del Ssmo. Nomb. de Iesus del Ord. de N[uest]ro P. S. Augustin de Philippinas (Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles, 1731), 44–45. 151. “Chaque ville ou endroit où se teint [sic] un marché entretient à cet effet seize ou dix-sept musiciens, qui, en échange de leurs services, sont délivrés des corvées royales. Leurs instruments consistent en lyres, en harpes, en cornets et en chalumeaux; ils produisent un ensemble si harmonieux que beaucoup de villes d’Europe n’ont rien entendu de plus agréable.” Andreas Mancker, letter to Constantin Schiel, Manila, 1682, in “Serie de cartas escritas en francés desde 1677 á 1750 por varios PP. Misioneros jesuitas de la Provincia de Filipinas á otras personas, generalmente de las Provincias de Austria y del Rhin inferior á las cuales ellos pertenecian. 1.a Parte: 1677 á 1735” (AHSIC, FILCAR, E.I,a-18/1), 55–56. Although it was probably composed in German or Latin, this letter seems only to survive in a later French translation. The term “lyres” probably refers to bandurrias and related instruments, whereas it is more likely that “chalumeaux” refers to shawms (chirimías), which were prevalent in church bands throughout the islands. 152. “De estos se entresacan los mas aptos para el servício de la Iglesia, y Cúlto de Dios, en que se habilítan, unos, para el Oficio de Sachristan, y otros, para el de Cantòr. Assi se admíran celebrados los Divinos Oficios con la devocion, y solemnidad, que correspónde al servício personàl de unos Sachristánes bien informados en la práctica del Rituàl; y à la desstréza de vóces músicas, en que se exercítan los Cantóres desde su niñes; no aviendo Iglesia, que carézca de una Capílla de vóces, y Instruméntos músicos muy cabàl, con que los Religiosos suplen en el Divíno Cúlto, su sensible soledad, se aficiónan los Indios à las assisténcias de èl.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 2:14. 153. “En Todos los Pueblos, que passaren de cien Indios, haya dos, ó tres Cantores.” Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias (Madrid: Julian de Paredes, 1681. Reprint, Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica, 1973), 2:f. 198v.

310

notes to pages 191–192

154. Manuel del Río, Instrucciones morales y religiosas para el gobierno, dirección y acierto en la práctica de nuestros ministerios que deben observar todos los religiosos de esta nuestra Provincia del Santo Rosario de Filipinas del Orden de Predicadores (Manila: en el Colegio y Universidad del Señor Santo Tomás, 1739), f. 18v. 155. “24. Itt. Se declara que los pueblos que escedieren de quinientos tributos tengan solamente ocho cantores para el servício de las Iglesias, dos sacristanes y un portero, asistiéndole á cada uno de la Caja de comunidad con el arroz acostumbrado, que suelen ser al año cuatro fanegas de paláy de cuarenta y ocho gantas. En los pueblos de cuatrocientos tributos, seis cantores. En los de trescientos cinco. En los de doscientos cuatro, de cuyo número no se bajará, aunque el pueblo sea menor; entendiéndose, que los dos sacristanes y portero sean fijos en todas las Iglesias que tengan Cura ó Doctrinero; y porque en estos puntos ha habido muchos excesos en perjuício de la Real Hacienda y de los naturales, se manda que los Alcaldes aplique todo su celo sin consentir mas cantores, sacristanes ni porteros, pena de doscientos pesos.” José Felipe Del-Pan, Ordenanzas de buen gobierno de Corcuera, Cruzat y Raon (Manila: Establecimiento tipográfico de La Oceanía Española, 1891), 60. Regarding the calculation of the amount of rice in modern measurements, Arens observes that “one ganta of palay [unhusked rice] contains 1.72 kg.” Richard Arens, “The Rice Ritual in the East Visayan Islands, Philippines,” Folklore Studies 16 (1957): 280n3. Thus, 48 gantas equal 82.56 kg. 156. Delgado, Historia general sacro-profana, 155–56. 157. Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola states that approximately one million more baptized children under the age of seven can be added to this number. The nonChristian peoples of the islands are not included in this estimate, thus the total population of the archipelago would have been considerably larger in the mideighteenth century. Díaz-Trechuelo López-Spínola, “Filipinas,” 520. 158. Pedro de la Santísima Trinidad Martínez y Arizala, “Arancel de derechos parroquiales,” signed February 27, 1755, in “Concilium Primum Provinciale Manilanum Celebratum per Illmum. & Rmum. D. D. Basilium Sancho a Sancta Rufina, Archiepiscopum Manilanum et suos sugraganeos, in Civitate Manilae. Anno Domini 1771” (BAV); Basilio Sancho de Santa Justa y Rufina, Nos D. Basilio Sancho de Santa Justa, y Rufina por la gracia de Dios, y de la santa sede, arzobispo de Manila, con consejo, y consentimiento deiento nuestros comprovinciales. A todos los parrochos, coadjutores, juezes ecclesiasticos, y officiales de curia, salud en el Señor (Manila, 1772). The wording of the latter arancel (signed 1771) is almost identical to that of the former (1755), as are the fees. 159. “Por el velo, cruz y ciriales en el casamiento dará el español al sacristan = 6r = el mestizo = 3 y el indio = 2 = si huviere chirimias, ó musicos se les dará = 2r = á cada uno.” Martínez y Arizala, “Arancel de derechos parroquiales” (BAV), 172. 160. “Por entierro, Vigilia y misa de cuerpo presente dará el español = 15 pesos. = por toda la capilla de 16 cantores en el curato de Manila el mestizo = 10 pesos y 4 r = y el indio = 7 pesos y 4 r.” Ibid., 177. 161. Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 158. 162. “Monumento” refers to the object built to house the host (body of Christ), which was exposed from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. Thus the use of the term in reference to a feast with singers probably refers to Good Friday. It is defined in the Diccionario de autoridades as “el túmulo, altár ò aparáto, que el Jueves Santo se forman

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en las Iglesias, colocando en él, en una arquita à modo de sepulchro, la segunda hostia que se consagra en la Missa de aquel dia, para reservarla hasta los Oficios del Viernes Santo, en que se consume. Hácese en memoria del tiempo que Nuestro Redentor Jesu Christo estuvo en el sepulchro.” Diccionario de autoridades (Madrid: Francisco del Hierro, 1726–39. Reprint, Madrid: Gredos, [1963]), Tomo Quarto, 603. 163. Sancho de Santa Justa y Rufina, Nos D. Basilio Sancho de Santa Justa, y Rufina por la gracia de Dios. 164. See Santiago, “The First Filipino Capellanías.” 165. Ibid., 428. 166. Costa writes that during a three-day period of lamentation after the body of a deceased man had been embalmed, “not only the family took part but professional mourners also, who served for a fee.” Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 139.

chapter 7 1. Among the mendicant orders, the Recollects had a significantly smaller number of parishes under their care. This may explain the lack of official printed manuals, although such documents probably existed in manuscript form. 2. I am grateful to Janice Stargardt and to W. Dean Sutcliffe for their ideas on this issue. 3. These events were the first of their type to be celebrated in the Philippines for almost two centuries. The first Synod of Manila had been held in 1582, convened by Bishop Domingo de Salazar. The Diocese of Manila was suffragan to the Archdiocese of Mexico until 1595, when it was elevated to an archdiocese. However, Manila did not hold its own council; thus the acts of the third Mexican Council applied to the Philippines over the following centuries. Subsequent attempts to hold ecclesiastical assemblies in Manila during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were thwarted until Carlos III, in the spirit of colonial reforms, ordered in a cédula real of August 21, 1769, that archdioceses in the Indies should hold provincial councils and synods “without delay.” See Pablo Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines (1521–1898) (Manila: National Book Store, 1979), 95. 4. In the fraught relations between secular and regular clergy in the Philippines during the eighteenth century, the Provincial Council of Manila mandated the diocesan rights of the visitation of parishes administered by religious orders. 5. See a detailed discussion in Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 95–97, and Caridad M. Barrion, Religious Life of the Laity in the Eighteenth-Century Philippines as Reflected in the Decrees of the Council of Manila of 1771 and the Synod of Calasiao of 1773 (Manila: University of Santo Tomás Press, 1961). These circumstances were unknown to Bishop Miguel García of Nueva Segovia, who celebrated the Synod of Calasiao in 1773, in accordance with the instruction from the Provincial Council that all suffragan dioceses should hold synods. According to Barrion, “it is not an overstatement to say that the Synod was almost his [García’s] work alone.” There was no discussion at the Synod of the Calasiao; the bishop simply read the acts to the assembled clergy and demanded their approval. Barrion, Religious Life of the Laity, 10–11. 6. The original Latin text of the Acts of the Provincial Council of Manila are published in Pedro Natividad Bantigue, The Provincial Council of Manila of 1771: Its

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notes to pages 198–199

Text Followed by a Commentary on Actio II, De Episcopis, Canon Law Studies, no. 376 (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press, 1957). The acts of the Synod of Calasiao (1773) are translated in Philip F. Smith, “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao,” Philippiniana Sacra 5.13 (1970): 65–107, and [Philip F. Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao (Continued),” Philippiniana Sacra 5.14 (1970): 185–229. 7. Pedro Borges, “Primero hombres, luego cristianos: la transculturación,” in Historia de la iglesia en hispanoamérica y filipinas (siglos XV–XIX), ed. Pedro Borges (Madrid: Biblioteca de Autores Cristianos, 1992), 1:526. 8. The third Provincial Council of Mexico of 1585, convened by Archbishop Alfonso de Montufar, decreed that the feasts of the natives were to be regulated, and that “their songs [were] to be previously examined, so that there be nothing in them smelling of paganism or superstition.” José Luis Porras Camúñez, The Synod of Manila of 1582, trans. Corrita Barranco et al., General History of the Philippines, Part I, vol. 4 (Manila: Historical Conservation Society, 1990), 277n43. This policy was also carried out in the Philippines. 9. “Nuestros antiguos Padres establecieron el que en estas Visitas cantassen algunos Versos à modo de Hymnos, en que se explicaban Misterios, ò se referia la vida, y muerte de Christo, de su Madre Santissima, y de los Santos, lo que à algunos subcessores [sic] les parecio indecente, ò nada decoroso à los Templos, por lo que aceslado en los mas Pueblos. . . . De aqui es que nunca conviene oponerse, ni impedir à los Indios esta costumbre, bien que no se les permitirà canten cosa alguna, sin que primero passe por el examen, y aprobacion del Parrocho, antes sì se les debe animar, y les forzar à estas ocupaciones.” Casimiro Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios instruido de un perfecto pastor copiada de los SS. PP. y concilio con la resolucion de las principales dudas que en la administracion de los sacramentos se ofrecen á cerca de los indios (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1745), f. 144v. How this censorship worked in practice, however, remains unknown for lack of documentary evidence. 10. “Despues de acabado el Sermon, y conferencias de Doctrina Christiana, cantaba el Pueblo los Hymnos, y Versos.” Ibid. 11. Raymundo C. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater (Quezon City: Manlapaz Publishing, 1969), 181; Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller and Sean Williams (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:851. This prohibition may account for the change to the dalit, making it a devotional genre in honor of the Virgin Mary, as noted by Lucrecia Kasilag in José Maceda et al., “Philippines,” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., ed. Stanley Sadie and John Tyrell (London: Macmillan, 2001), 19:581. 12. Bañas, Pilipino Music and Theater, 181. 13. “Llenas de idolatría y superstición.” Pedro Rubio Merino, Don Diego Camacho y Ávila arzobispo de Manila y de Guadalajara de México (Seville: Escuela de Estudios Hispano-Americanos, 1958), 362. Francisco de la Cuesta, “Informe de la Audiencia al Arzobispo de Manila en materia de espectáculos públicos,” Manila, June 14, 1708 (AGI, Filipinas, 290). 14. “Les hàn tolerado llevar el cadaver con acompañamientos, y luces enterrandolo en un sepulchro de argamasa sin mas ceremonias, rezo, ni canto, todo lo qual ò es bueno, ò indiferente.” “Manifiesto: en que se evidencia ser gravemente ilicita la

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permision de los entierros solemnes en sepulchros publicos de los sangleyes infieles difuntos en la Alcaizería Parián extramuros de Manila: por ser contra la constumbre [sic] universal de la iglesia, y por cometer en ellos los Infieles idolatrias, y supersticiones,” addressed to governor Fernando Valdés Tamón, 1738 (NLC, Ayer MS 1458), 17. 15. “1756 28 Enero Edicto—prohibiendo á los Sangleyes 1.o Sus Pascuas gentílicas ó año nuevo de Sangleyes que celebran con luminarias y estrépito de tambores. llamados por ellos Chave.” Other proscriptions were as follows:

2.o las fiestas principales del Guausian el día 15 de la 1.a Luna. 3.o El Bonglanche ó día de los difuntos al 15 de la 7.a Luna; 4.o de Tiongchiu al 15 de la luna 8.a; 5.o el Tangche á Pascua de invierno á 15 de la luna 11.a II. Prohibimos encender luminarias, pebetes y candelas en las dichas fiestas. III. Uso del Calendario llamado Lansit [sic]. IV. El dinero de oro y plata que queman los gentiles en honor de sus falsos Dioses. V. A la llegada de las champanes de China, prohíbaseles desembarquen Papeles supersticiosos y hacer públicos sacrificios quemando estos papeles á sus idolos. VI. Que no traigan Idolos de China. &c. In “Libro de Gobierno en Sede vacante 1755–1759,” in “Copia de documentos antiguos del Archivo de la Misión de la Compañía de Jesus. N.o 1” (AHSIC, E.I: a.13), 153. 16. “[1759] 26 Setiembre. Edicto recordando y ampliando el de 28 Enero 1756 contra las idolatrías de los Sangleyes. Prohibimos 1.o el ídolo llamado Quamina, y el otro llamado Nioma, y el 3.o Michon; 2.a llamar Machon á la S[antísi]ma. Virgen Madre de Dios en sus imágenes como lo hacen con la de Casaysay—y que si quieren encender candelas, enciéndanlas á la Madre de Dios—cuya prerogativa no conviene al Machon Chino, como no lo ignoran los inteligentes de China y de sus cosas.” Ibid., 155. In spite of this eighteenth-century proscription, the practice of revering the Virgin of Casaysay as a Chinese goddess associated with the sea has persisted to this day among some members of the Chinese community of the Philippines. 17. See Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente, eds., Devotional Music in the Iberian World, 1450–1800: The Villancico and Related Genres (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2007). 18. “Para que las funciones ecclesiasticas se celebren con la solemnidad, y decoro debido, procurarà el Ministro, que los Cantores aprendan bien lo que hàn de cantar, y de ningun modo les permitirà cantar cosas ridiculas, especialmente en el Sancto Sacrificio de la Missa.” Manuel del Río, Instrucciones morales y religiosas para el gobierno, dirección y acierto en la práctica de nuestros ministerios que deben observar todos los religiosos de esta nuestra Provincia del Santo Rosario de Filipinas del Orden de Predicadores (Manila: en el Colegio y Universidad del Señor Santo Tomás, 1739), f. 18r. Pietro Cerone’s treatise El melopeo y maestro was very likely used in musical instruction at the Universidad de Santo Tomás, the Dominican university of Manila. It may have provided the impetus for the proscription of profane performances in Dominican ministries, as Cerone rails against such practices in his advice for the singing of

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appropriate music in church, disapproving of the recreational music employed in villancicos and claiming that some members of the congregation only attended church to hear such works. See Pietro Cerone, El melopeo: tractado de musica theorica y pratica (Naples: Juan Bautista Gargano and Lucrecio Nicci, 1613. Reprint, Bologna: Forni Editore, 1969), 1:196–97. 19. “Nunca permitirà que canten villancicos burlescos, ni aquellos profanos, que estàn trobados à lo Divino; es cosa indecente que las letras inventadas para los Theatros, las traslademos à la Iglesia.” Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios, f. 138r. Similar strictures were set in place throughout the Spanish Empire. 20. [Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao (Continued),” 189. 21. “Por ningun caso se les permitta à los Naturales celebrar de noche las fiestas de la Cruz de Mayo; y por tanto, si quisieren celebrarlas, sea despues de Visperas, delante de la Iglesia por alguna de las puertas, que miran al patio; en donde podràn cantar algunas letras en alabanza de la Santa Cruz, y sus Misterios, hasta la hora de ponerse el Sol, en que se retiraràn, sin que les anochezca, à sus Casas.” Estatutos y ordenaciones de la santa Provincia de S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de la regular, y mas estrecha observancia de N. S. P. S. Francisco de Philipinas. Dispuestas y ordenadas por el compromisso de el discretorio, y diffinitorio en el capitulo provincial celebrado en nuestro convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles de la ciudad de Manila el dia 8. del mes de junio del año de 1726. y mandadas dàr à la estampa por el ministro provincial, y vener. diffinitorio el año de 1730 (Manila: en la Impre[n]ta de dicha Provincia [Franciscana], 1732), 70. 22. “La fiesta, que llaman Santa Cruz de Mayo, creo que sería mejor prohibirla; porque aunque a los principios comenzaría con buena intención y con buenos modales de los cristianos antiguos, pero en el día todo se reduce a bailar los mozos junto con las mozas, y esto de noche, cantándose letras muy profanas en tonadillas poco honestas y poco conformes con la santidad que piden los misterios sacrosantos de la Cruz. Y, finalmente, todo viene a parar en beber mucho vino de coco y otros peligros y excesos. Por lo cual, muchos celosos ministros han prohibido totalmente a los indios esta dicha fiesta tan estimada y frecuentada de ellos. Pero otros parece que no hallan inconveniente especial en permitirla. Ipsi viderint. Este fue siempre mi sentir, salvo meliori.” Manuel Merino and Pedro Andrés de Castro y Amuedo, “La provincia filipina de Batangas vista por un misionero a fines del siglo XVIII,” Missionalia hispánica 34.100–102 (1977): 210. 23. Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 163. 24. “Las Missas de Aguinaldo se an de enpeçar en las Doctrinas el dia octavo de la Concepcion y el dia de Santo Thome y Dominica donde no huviere dos Saçerdotes se cantara la Missa de la festividad y Dominica. Y se diran por la conserbacion y aumento destas Islas y conversion de los infieles.” Constituciones desta Provincia de San Gregorio de Philipinas delos frayles descalços de la orden de los menores de nuestro padre S. Francisco hechas en el capitulo provincial que se celebro en la ciudad de Manila el año del Señor de 1655. en veinte y uno del mes de henero (Manila: Collegio y Universidad de Santo Thomas de Aquino, por Buenaventura Lampao, 1655), f. 13v. 25. “El origen de esta celebridad tan pía, santa y devota no le he podido sacar de raíz de dónde salió. La primera vez que yo oí y vi estas demostraciones festivas con las nueve misas fue en México, donde está muy introducida su celebridad, y en

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el Seminario de los naturales que tiene nuestra Compañía en aquella ciudad, llamado de San Gregorio, fue la primera vez que lo admiré, así por lo célebre y demostrativo de la celebridad, como por lo pío y santo de la solemnidad que de allá, digo de México, sin duda (que en España no lo ví yo) se debió de traer a estas islas, donde se celebra con no menos ostentación, y en este nuestro ministerio tiramos la barra cuanto podemos, diciendo las nueve misas cantadas todas, con muy buena música, villancicos, instrumentos músicos y todo cuanto conduce a la demostración pía de tan santa expectación.” Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Historia sobrenatural de las islas bisayas, del Padre Alzina, Biblioteca de historia de América, 18 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1998), 116. 26. Pepe [Juan José] Rey, “Weaving Ensaladas,” in Devotional Music in the Iberian World: The Villancico and Related Genres (1450–1800), ed. Tess Knighton and Álvaro Torrente (Aldershot, U.K.: Ashgate, 2007), 19; Cantius Kobak and Pablo Fernández, “Alcina’s Report on the Celebration of Feasts in XVIIth Century Samar and Leyte,” Philippiniana Sacra 16 (1981): 190. 27. “A los cantores se les da también aparte, con cuidado que no queden poco templados para cantar los maitines que a su hora se cantan solemnes con sus villancicos en los nocturnos, y se procura haya algunos en su lengua para que lo entiendan mejor.” Yepes and Alzina, Historia sobrenatural, 118–19. 28. “Se canta en esta vigilia después de la misa la calenda en latín con toda la música de por acá, y luego se les declara en su lengua (tengo yo traducida en ella la dicha calenda, que todavía tiene su dificultad) y se les platica algo.” Ibid., 118. 29. Ibid., 119. 30. Translation in Kobak and Fernández, “Alcina’s Report on the Celebration of Feasts,” 190. The original text reads: “Prætextu Devotionis Populi, et ad earum maiorem celebritatem multa eiunt remedio digna conveniunt enim in Choro canendi causa plura laici, et quasdam cantinelas risu moventes canunt; tempore, loco q[ue] ulla tenus consentanens. Huic damno debet opportunum adhiberi remedium, ut penitùs de medio tolleber scandalum.” “Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas y de la excellencia de potestad que los ss[eño].res arzobispos gozan como metropolitanos de ellas,” c. 1680 (AAM, 1.A.2), vol. 2, f. 120r. 31. “Â vista del exemplar del Arzo[bis]pado de Mexico, à donde se habian ya prohibido, y no se cantavan.” Ibid., vol. 2, f. 120r–v. 32. English translation modified from Kobak and Fernández, “Alcina’s Report on the Celebration of Feasts,” 191. The original text reads: “Nos el Maestro Don Fray Phelippe Pardo, Arzobispo Electo de esta Iglesia Metropolitana de Manila, del Consejo de SU MAG[esta]d, y Govenador de Este Arzobispado, &ca. Por quanto habemos tenido noticia, que hà venido prohibydo la Celebracion de las Missas que se Canten los Nueve dias antes de la Natividad de CHR[IST]O Señor nuestro (que communm[en]te llaman: De Aguinaldo) para que en ninguna manera se pueda Cantar, prohibidendo tambien todo genero de Musicas, è Instrumentos, y Chanzonetas: porque conviene que en este Arzo[bis]pado se observe, y guarde d[ic]ha prohibicion. = Por tanto, por el Pressente, Mandamos, que en ninguna manera se canten, ni recen d[ic]has Missas de Aguinaldo, ni se hagan en las Iglesias regozijos de Musicas, ni toquen Instrumentos algunos, ni canten Chanzonetas, ni otro Cantares, aunque sean â lo Divino: Pena de que se procederà al

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Castigo al que lo contrario hiziere, por Inobediente a los Mandatos de N. S. M. Iglesia, y Nuestros. = Y Mandamos se fixen en las Puertas de las Iglesias de esta Ciudad este Autho, y se remitta a los Beneffi[cia].dos para que les conste. = Dada en San Gabriel, extram[ur]os de Manila, en Doze de Octubre, de mil, seiscientos, y ochenta Años. = Fray Phelippe Pardo, Arzo[bis]po Electo de Manila. = Por Mandato del Arz[bis]po mi Señor. = Andres Escoto SS[ecretari].o [sic].” “Anales ecclesiasticos de Philipinas” (AAM, 1.A.2), vol. 2, f. 120v. 33. Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 163. 34. “Celebranse casi en todas las Indias las Missas, que llaman de Aguinaldo, mezclandose en ellas algunos abusos, que las maculaban de supersticiosas, y oppuestas [sic] à los sagrados Ritos de la Iglesia. Tolerabanse con capa de devocion, y aunque à algunos les parecia mal, no se atrevian publicamente à reprehenderlo, por no excitar contra si la piedad de el vulgo, siendo esta materia de las que pertenecen al zelo, y providencia de los Prelados; hasta que à representacion de personas zelosas, el dia 16 de Henero de el año de 1677 declarò la Sagrada Congregacion de Ritos, ser las dichas Missas de Aguinaldo, no solo repugnantes à las rubricas, sino tambien escandalosas, y supersticiosas, por entretexerse en ellas algunas cantinelas, con otros semejantes abusos; y llegando este Decreto de la Congregacion el año de ochenta à estas Islas, arreglado à èl el Señor Arzobispo prohibiò dichas Missas en su Arzobispado, y mientras viviò su Illustrissima, no se celebraron; aunque despues se bolvieron à entablar con alguna moderacion (no sè, si universal) de los abusos, que antes se acostumbraban.” Vicente de Salazar, Historia de la Provincia de el Santissimo Rosario de Philipinas, China y Tunking, de el Sagrado Orden de Predicadores. Tercera parte (Manila: Imprenta de dicha Collegio, y Universidad de Santo Thomas de la misma Ciudad, 1742), 493–94. 35. “Ordenamos, no se canten las Missas, que llaman de Aguinaldo, manteniendo siempre el estilo, que de muchos años á esta parte há avido de no cantar las, en cuya atencion se evitará qualquiera singularidad en todas, y cada una de las Missas de todo el año, celebrando las segun el ordinario, y Rubricas del Missal.” Estatutos y ordenaciones, 23. 36. “Libro Septimo de las costumbres del Colegio de Nuestro Pader [sic] S[a].n Ignacio de Manila nuevamente corregido y aprovado por el P[adr].e Juan Antonio de Oviedo visitador General de esta Provincia de Philipinas segun el decreto 81= [?] de la congregacion 7 que dize assi” (AHSIC, FILMIS-058: E.I,b-04), f. 12r. 37. “Advierto tambien, por averseme denunciado en la Visita, que procureis desterrar un infame abuso introducido, aun dentro de Manila, y sus contornos, con el motivo de cantarse el Rosario de Nuestra Señora en algunas casas, especialmente en el Octavario de la Purissima Concepcion, por los Aguinaldos, Fiestas de Santa Cruz, y otras del año, se congrega varia gente de entrambos sexos, y de todas edades, despues de aver rezado el Rosario (con que intencion? Con que devocion?) se ocupan en bayles, cantares, y juegos indecentes, y desembueltos, todo mas proprio de las costumbres de los torpissimos Hereges, Gnosticos, Gentiles, y Mahometanos, que de verdaderos Christianos.” Pedro de la Santísima Trinidad Martínez de Arizala, Carta pastoral. D. fr. Pedro de la Ssma. Trinidad, Martinez de Arizala, del consejo de su magestad, y del real, y supremo de las Indias, arzobispo metropolitano de estas Islas Philipinas. = A todo el clero, nobleza, y pueblo de nuestro cargo: salud, y gracia en nro. Señor Jesu-Christo &c. . . . Manila,

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y noviembre 4. de 1751 ([Manila]: Imprenta de Santo Tomas, [1751]), 68–69. See also Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 443. 38. See the “Marian map” of modern-day shrines dedicated to the Virgin throughout the Philippine archipelago, in Vitaliano Gorospe and René B. Javellana, Virgin of Peñafrancia: Mother of Bicol (Makati, Manila: Bookmark, 1995), 6–7. According to Wendt, 20 percent of all new churches built in the Philippines in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were dedicated to Mary. Reinhard Wendt, Fiesta Filipina: Koloniale Kultur zwischen Imperialismus und neuer Identität (Freiburg im Breisgau: Rombach, 1997), 347. 39. Reinhard Wendt, “Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” Philippine Studies 46.1 (1998): 7, 9. 40. See discussion of the Mexican and Canadian contexts in a number of chapters in Nicholas Griffiths and Fernando Cervantes, eds., Spiritual Encounters: Interactions between Christianity and Native Religions in Colonial America (Birmingham: Birmingham University Press, 1999). For discussion of Marian devotions and culture from biblical times to the establishment of global networks throughout the sixteenthcentury world, see Miri Rubin, Mother of God: A History of the Virgin Mary (London: Allen Lane, 2009). 41. “En Manila es singularissima la Devocion, que ay con el Rosario de la Santisima Virgen; pues no solo sale de noche en Procesion, cantando por las calles, si no que en la mayor parte de las casas, (sino en todas) se reza publicamente, y en algunas se repite dos, ò tres vezes al dia. A mi me ha servido muchas vezes de indecible consuelo, al andar por las calles, oir rezar à vozes de dia, y de noche el Rosario de Maria Santisima, de donde en gran parte se originan los favores, que Dios por intercesion de su madre, hace à estas Islas. Y creo, que con dificultad se hallarà Español, indio, ni Cafre, que no trayga su Rosario, y le reze todos los dias, aun quando por otra parte no es la vida tan christiana.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), f. 7v. 42. “Rezan à coros el Rosario en sus casas, en los caminos, y en las navegaciones . . . cantan con bellisima armonia la Salve, resonando en todas partes las alabanzas de Dios, y de su Madre.” Ibid., f. 348r. 43. “Los Domingos, antes de empezar la Missa, sale una Procession de muchachos con una Imagen de la Virgen en un Estandarte, cantando la Doctrina al rededor del Pueblo, para juntar la gente. Los Sabados por la mañana canta toda la Doctrina la gente moza: por la tarde reza el Pueblo el Rosario en comunidad, y cantan bellissimamente la Salve en Tagalo, y la Musica canta la del tiempo, descubierta la Virgen, y el Padre canta la Oracion.” Pedro Murillo Velarde, Geographia historica, donde se describen los reynos, provincias, ciudades, fortalezas, mares, montes, ensenadas, cabos, rios, y puertos, con la mayor individualidad, y exactitud, etc. (Madrid: Gabriel Ramírez, 1752), 8:41. 44. Juan Francisco de San Antonio, Chrónicas de la apostólica Provincia de S. Gregorio de religiosos descalzos de N. S. P. San Francisco en las Islas Philipinas, China, Japón (Sampaloc: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Pueblo de Sampaloc por fr. Juan del Sotillo, 1738–44), 2:14–15. 45. Barrion, Religious Life of the Laity, 69–70.

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46. Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 142. For a brief summary of Marian devotions in the Philippines, see ibid., 84–86. 47. “The Council of 1771,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 50:317. This proposal “had . . . its exact counterpart in several European countries, where, in almost the very same year, that identical movement was inaugurated in many places throughout all the dominions of Joseph II of Austria—in Austria itself, the Low Countries, Tuscany, Naples, etc.,” according to Middleton, in ibid., 318n156. 48. [Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao (Continued),” 188–89. 49. Ibid., 192. The noncomprehension of the texts probably relates to the type of “deep poetry” being practiced, as discussed in chapter 3. 50. See Victoria Yepes and Francisco Ignacio Alzina, Una etnografía de los indios bisayas del siglo XVII, Biblioteca de historia de América, 15 (Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1996), 12. 51. [Smith], “Acts of the Synod of Calasiao (Continued),” 193, 216. 52. Ibid., 193. 53. Ibid., 191. 54. Ibid., 190. 55. Simon de Anda y Salazar et al., “Anda and the English Invasion, 1762–1764,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 49:157. 56. “Y desde Sanctus hasta Agnus pongase por Ley inviolable en nuestras Iglesias el no cantar cosa alguna, sino precissamente [sic] se toquen instrumentos.” Río, Instrucciones morales y religiosas, f. 18r. 57. “Todos los muchachos, sean Principales, sean timauas, deben acudir a la escuela, y obligarles à ellos, y à sus Padres, ò parientes, para que por ninguna excusa, ni pretexto pueda eximirse de esta asistencia, excepto los tiples, que seràn enseñados à leèr, y escribir en la escuela de los Cantores.” Ibid., f. 38v. 58. “No puede emplear el Parrocho mejor el tiempo que tubiere desucupado [sic], que enseñandolos à pronunciar bien los Psalmos, Antiphonas, &c. Paraque alaven à Dios como se debe.” Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios, ff. 137v–38r. 59. I am grateful to Iain Fenlon for this suggestion. 60. “Question es muy reñida si son licitas las Musicas en los Divinos Oficios, y aunque ay Patronos que defienden el canto de Organo, á lo que yo alcanzo no tienen otro apoyo que à la costumbre; pues las Authoridades que trahen los SS. PP. antiguos no hablan de este canto de Organo, sino de el Gregoriano; pero valanse de ellas, porque hablan de bajo del nombre de Musica. Que no hablen ni N. P. S. Augustin ni San Geronimo de este canto de Organo, es claro; porque si esta introduccion de contra punto la inventò por los años de 1000. Guido, Aretino, que fue despues Cardenal, como podia N. P. S. Augustin hablar de èl quando 600. años antes havia ya muerto el Santo? Estilavase esta Musica de contra punto fuera de la Iglesia, pero dentro de ella, solo el canto llano à que dieron principio los Monges del Oriente, despues le perficionó San Isidoro, y San Gregorio, y hasta los años de 1000. No se oyo en el Choro de la Iglesia otro [sic] Musica, en que con occasion de algunas composiciones de Guido, excelente Musico fueron introduciendo cantar la Psalmo dia à contra punto, y aun los Instrumentos no los oyeron tocar en la Iglesia N. P. S. Augustin, ni San

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Garonimo [sic] porque el que mas antiguedad los dà es Platina, quien dice que se introduxeron por los años de 660[.] Pero Almoyno dice que fue por los de 820. En fin con esta invencion del contra punto, el canto ha subido tanto de punto quanto ha bajado la gravedad, y Authoridad de la Iglesia. No se puede condenar absolutamente este genero de Musica, mientras la Iglesia, ò la tolera, ò la permite; pero si es digno de condenacion el que se hagan los Choros coliseos profanos, ó Theatros de Comediantes embargando la Devocion con cantinelas, ó recitados agenos de la gravedad, que piden los Divinos Oficios.” Díaz Toledano, Parrocho de Indios, f. 138r. Díaz Toledano is probably refering to Saint Jerome’s “Commentary on the Epistle of Paul to the Ephesians,” which approves of “sweet singing” in church, and to Saint Augustine’s Confessions, book 13, which discusses the role of music in moving the listener. 61. “Los Viernes y sabados, que son dias de Ministerio, y tambien los dias Clasicos, cantara el Ministro la Missa; los Domingos, la dira rezada, pero los cantores cantaran lo que se â costumbra, cantar en las missas cantadas. En todos los dias festivos, que se cantaron Visperas, se cantará tambien la Missa . . . La Salve secantará [sic] los Sabados, en unas partes por la mañana, y en otras por la tarde segun costumbre de cada Provincia. Donde ay costumbre de cantarla por la mañana el Ministro luego, que acaba la Missa se desnudará la Casulla, y Manipulo, y sepondrá [sic] Capa blanca, y con una candela encendida en la mano sepondrá en la primara [sic] grada del Altar, y alli entonara la Salve &c. la Letania de Nuestra Señora la cantarán los Cantores mientras la Missa despues del Santus [sic]. Donde hay costumbre de cantar la Salve por la tarde, a las quatro de la tarde se tocara á la Salve á que asistiran los mismos que se dixo arriba debian asistir al Rosario. Primero se cantará la Salve que en tonará [sic] el P. Ministro en la misma forma, que arriva se dixo. Despues secantará la Letania, y se prosiguirá el Rossario. . . . Todas las Visperas de los dias Clasicos de N[uest]ro Señor y N[uest]ra Señora, San Pedro, y San Pablo; San Iuan Bautista, todos los Santos, fiestas Clasicas de los Santos de la Orden, Aniversario de la Iglesia, y de la Orden, y Patron principal del Pueblo se cantarán Visperas á que asistirá el Ministro revestido de Alba, y Estola, y el mismo dia se cantará la Missa. Todos los dias por la mañana muy temprano cantará un cantor con los tiples el Te deum Laudamus, y la prima de N[uest]ra Señora, y por la tarde á las dos cantarán las dichas Visperas de N[uest]ra Señora, y la Antiphona, y mientras se cantan todas estas cosas se encenderan dos Candelas en el Altar.” Tomás Ortiz, Practica del ministerio, que siguen los religiosos del Orden de N. P. S. Augustin, en Philippinas. Recopilada y ordenada por el M. R. Padre Lect. F. Thomas Hortiz, ex-provincial de esta Provincia del Ssmo. Nomb. de Iesus del Ord. de N[uest]ro P. S. Augustin de Philippinas (Manila: Convento de Nuestra Señora de los Angeles, 1731), 18, 32–33. 62. “Se enseñen á rezar leer, escrivir, contar, cantar, ayudar á Missa . . . Avrà siempre un Maestro, que lo sea de la escuela, y Cantores, el mas diestro, y Principal, persona de talento, á quien todos tengan respecto, que con cuydado assista á la escuela, y enseñe todo lo dicho en el numero antecedente, y assi mismo, el Cantollano, y de Organo, si lo huviere, el tocar las flautas, y demas instrumentos musicos que se acostumbran tocar en las Iglesias.” Estatutos y ordenaciones, 134. 63. “No se permittan en Convento alguno de Communidad, Organos, como siempre se hà observado; aunque en las Doctrinas, ô Ministerios, los podrà aver con licencia del Prelado Provincial, como assi mismo Arpas, y otros instrumentos, con que

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los Cantores Indios Offician el Santo Sacrificio de la Missa, y demas Divinas alabanzas, pena al que sin dicha licencia permittiere, que se compren, ô se hagan, de suspension de su officio por dos meses.” Ibid., 37. 64. “He visto en todas las provincias de Filipinas que administran los PP. Franciscanos Descalzos, y algunas de Dominicos, grandes y buenas campanas, y hermosos órganos en todas ellas.” Merino and Castro, “La provincia filipina de Batangas,” 209. 65. “Tendrà tambien cuydado el Ministro con los Libros de Canto, e Instrumentos musicos, que pertenecen al culto Divino, proveyendolos, y renovandolos con la limosna de la Iglesia; y quando no la huviere[,] con la del Convento, advirtiendo al Maestro, y á quien los trata, que los cuyden bien, y que si por su culpa, ò descuydo se pierden, ô se destruyen, que los hàn de pagar, por que no se descuyden con ellos.” Estatutos y ordenaciones, 135. 66. “Todos los Cantores casados, ô tributantes, tendrán obligacion; pues estan reservàdos para esso, de assistir á la Iglesia á cantar todas las Visperas de los Domingos, Fiestas de guardar d[e] los Indios, Classicas principales de nuestra Orden, y a la Prima, y Missa mayor de di[c]hos dias, y tambien el Viernes á la [B]enedicta, los Sabados á Prima, Missa de Nuestra Señora, Visperas, y Salve, y estos dias irán todos á la escuela con el Maestro, à estudiar lo que hán de cantar, y rep[a]ssar [sic] lo que hán estudiado, por que no se les olvide; y assistirán tambien á las honras, que se hazen por los Religiosos difuntos.” Ibid. 67. “A la hora de Prima se dirà las quatro horas menores; y acabadas juntamente con la media hora de Oracion mental, que se tendrà despues, se tocaràn dos golpes con la Campana, y los muchachos de la escuela, que yà estaràn prevenidos, iràn processionalmente à la Iglesia formados con su Maestro, que irà el ultimo, rezando la Confession, ô alguna Oracion de la Doctrina; y llegando à dicha Iglesia, el Maestro de los Cantores entonaràn el Te Deum, con el Verso, y Oracion de la Santissima Trinidad, y concluydo, proseguiràn cantando la hora de Prima del Officio parvo de Nuestra Señora, segun el tiempo, la qual concluyda, se dirà la Missa mayor, ô Conventual, y mientras se estuviere cantando dicha hora de Prima, se estara tocando la Campana, todo el tiempo que duràre dicho canto. Mas en los dias, que estuvieren los Altares de color morado, en lugar del Te Deum, se cantar à la Letania de la Madre de Dios. Y en el tiempo que la Missa se dize, se podrà tocar Organo, si lo huviere, û otros Instrume[n]tos, segu[n] el tiempo, y do[n]de huviere costumbre, se rezarà el Rossario [sic] despues de la Sumpcion de la Hostia, y Caliz.” Ibid., 128–29. 68. In Alberto Santamaria, “The Chinese Parian (El Parian de los Sangleyes),” in The Chinese in the Philippines, ed. Alfonso Felix Jr. (Manila; New York: Solidaridad Publishing House, 1966–69), 1:139. 69. Diego Aduarte, Historia de la Provincia del Sancto Rosario de la Orden de Predicadores en Philippinas, Iapon, y China (Manila: Colegio de Sa[n]cto Thomas, por Luis Beltran, 1640), 200–01. 70. Diego Camacho y Ávila, “Edicto para prohibir las comedias” (AUST, Libros, vol. 61, no. 16). 71. “Mandamos, que todas las d[ic]has Comedias, Coloquios, ô Entremeses, que en adelante se huvieren dos messes [sic] antes de su representacion ante n[uest]ro Provisor, y Vicario General, para que las apruebe, ô repruebe.” Ibid., f. 79v.

notes to pages 210–211

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72. “[Mandamos] que los representantes de ellas, sean todos hombres, y de ninguna suerte, ni manera mugeres. [Mandamos] que las Comedias, Coloquios, ô Entremesses, que assi se representaren sean honestas . . . de ningun modo obcenas, y de amores, y licitas [sic], è insitativas à mal.” Ibid., f. 79r. 73. Rubio Merino, Don Diego Camacho y Ávila, 357, 361–62. The restriction of all theatrical and dance genres would have had strong implications for the types of music that were allowed to be cultivated. Throughout the Spanish Empire, indigenous peoples were given little freedom in terms of arranging their own entertainment. The Recopilación de leyes went so far as to give a universal mandate that public dances organized by indigenous peoples could not take place without a license from the local governor. See Recopilación de leyes de los reynos de las Indias (Madrid: Julian de Paredes, 1681. Reprint, Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica, 1973), 2:f. 193r. 74. Rubio Merino, Don Diego Camacho y Ávila, 362–63. 75. “Con el fin de que en los Teatros de esta Capital existentes ó que puedan existir, no se ofenda á la moral y decencia y se guarde el decoro que se merece la sociedad, y en armonia con lo dispuesto en la Real cédula de 12 de Agosto de 1705 y 6 Setiembre de 1814 no se podrá representar ninguna composicion en español ó en idioma del pais sin previa censura y permiso de esta Superioridad.” Título VI, “De las representaciones ó comedias”: Artículo 49, in “Reglamento de asuntos de imprenta decretado por el Excmo. Sr. Gobernador Político Superior de estas islas en 16 de febrero de 1857,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos, ed. Wenceslao Emilio Retana (Madrid, 1895–1905), 1:[25]. Another ban on comedias was issued in the archdiocese of Manila on June 9, 1708: “Edicto sobre las comedias” (AAM, “Libro de Gobierno Eclesiástico, Fr. Cuesta [1707–1724],” 1.C.7, folders 9–11, ff. 75r–76v). Thanks to Luciano P. R. Santiago for drawing my attention to this decree. 76. “En los dias de dichas fiestas, y no en otros, se podrà permittir à los Indios, hagan alguna Comedia, ô Comedias. . . . Las quales por ningun modo se representaràn dentro de nuestras Iglesias, salvo, si fuere algun breve, y devoto Coloquio la noche de Navidad: el Guardian, que lo contrario hiziere, sea suspenso por la primera vez de su officio por dos meses; y por la segunda, aviendo sido amonestado por N[uest]ro. Ch. H. Provincial, sea privado del officio. . . . Ordenamos, que antes que dichas Comedias, Entremeses, ô Coloquios se hagan, ô representen, las vea, y registre con todo cuydado el Guardian, ô Ministro, reparando muy bien, si son, ô no decentes; ô si acaso ay en ellas el uso de algunas vestiduras Sacerdotales, ô Abito de nuestra Religion, ô de otra; por que en estos casos, no se permittiràn de modo alguno, y mucho menos, si se mezclan casos de administracion de Sacramentos, û otros qualesquiera actos Sacerdotales. . . . Prohibimos tambien, que en dichas fiestas aya fuego de voladores, ô que se disparen fusiles, ô arquebuzes, por los daños, y desgracias, que suelen suceder. . . . Assi mismo se ordena, que en nuestro Convento de Manila no se permitta representar, ô hazer Comedia alguna; y el Guardian, que lo confintiere [sic], sea privado de los actos legitimos por un año, y qualquiere Religioso, que en dicha Ciudad fuere à ver Comedias, si fuere Sacerdote, incurrirà en la misma pena; si Corista, ô Lego, se le pondrà un Caparon por un año.” Estatutos y ordenaciones, 70. 77. “Júzguese de la frecuencia con que antes de mediado el siglo XVIII se hacían comedias de todas clases y en todas partes, por esta exhortación del Arzobispo de

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Manila, fechada á 29 de Marzo de 1741; el prelado exhorta á que se declare: ‘si ay algunos que consientan que los sangleyes (chinos) hagan sus comedias y representaciones, y los españoles y DEMAS NACIONES sin licencia, y sin estar primero vistas y examinadas por el Ordinario, y con expresa licencia suya, DE LA MANERA QUE ESTA ASENTADO Y MANDADO, ó algunos que conciertan que en sus estancias, tierras ó huertas, las representen sin dicha licencia.’” Quoted in Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas de el teatro en Filipinas desde sus orígenes hasta 1898 (Madrid: Librería general de Victoriano Suárez, 1909), 42. 78. See Felicidad Mendoza, The Comedia (Moro-Moro) Re-Discovered (Manila: Society of St. Paul, 1976), 58–59. 79. “Comedias[.] Están ya tan introducidas entre los indios, que ganan ya en esto a los españoles; y el no tener ellos coliseo en cada pueblo es porque no alcanza más su caudal. Pero, en fin, ya que el ministro de Dios no las puede impedir totalmente, a lo menos debe informar a los superiores y solicitar por todos caminos su reformación; esto es, que sean comedias aprobadas, y con las leyes y circunstancias que tienen los coliseos de Madrid, de México y de Manila. A pocas he asistido yo de indios, pero me pesó a mí mil veces haber caído en este defecto.” Merino and Castro, “La provincia filipina de Batangas,” 210–11. 80. Fidel Villarroel, “Implications of the Religious Festival in Intramuros,” in Intramuros and Beyond (Manila: Letran College, 1975), 51. 81. Juan Ángel Rodríguez, Edicto sobre las fiestas (Manila, 1737); Fernández, History of the Church in the Philippines, 159–60. 82. See Francisco Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez, trinitario, arzobispo de Manila (1687–1742),” Revista de Indias 23.93–94 (1963): 493–94. 83. “Quando lleguè à estas Yslas Philipinas hallè tan excessivo numero de Fiestas de guardar, que llegaban, y cumplian un tercio de todos los dias del año . . . Examinada la materia, halle sèr la causa de lo dicho no haverse publicado en estas Yslas, como ser hizo en los Reynos de España, la Bulla de n[uest]ro. S. P. Urbano VIII sobre la Reforma de las Fiestas, ò por que no se dío ôportuno aviso de dicha Bulla, como ni de otras igualm[en]te aceptadas, y publicadas en los Reynos de España, ò por que se supo muy tarde, y solo por los Bullarios impressos.” Juan Ángel Rodríguez, letter to Felipe V, July 1, 1738 (AGI, Filipinas 1006). See also Mateos, “Fray Juan Ángel Rodríguez,” 493–94. On the reduction of holy days of obligation in 1642, see V. Ponko Jr., “Urban VIII, Pope,” in New Catholic Encyclopedia (Detroit: Thomson/Gale, and Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America, 2003), 14:341. 84. “Las Fiestas instituidas por mis Antecessores eran 30. fuera de otras, que instituidas tambien por los mismos llegaron despues con el tiempo à ser Universales ò en la Yglesia, ò en los Reynos de España.” Rodríguez, letter to Felipe V, July 1, 1738 (AGI, Filipinas 1006). 85. Rodríguez, Edicto sobre las fiestas. This calendar of feasts was reinforced and clarified in a simpler version published as part of the Ceremonial de las asistencias y funciones de la noble ciudad de Manila, written in 1775 by Andrés Joseph Roxo, the earliest extant edition of which was published in 1836. A table of required feasts for the city (taken from Roxo) is also reproduced in Luis Merino, The Cabildo Secular, or Municipal Government of Manila: Social Component, Organization, Economics (Iloilo: Research Center, University of San Agustín, 1980), 262–64. In 1879, however, three

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more three-cross feasts were added to the list by Pope Leo XIII: Saint James the Apostle, All Saints, and the Immaculate Conception. On the changes made in the late nineteenth century, see Villarroel, “Implications of the Religious Festival in Intramuros,” 52. 86. “Todas las Procesiones de noche las tiene prohibidas por inconvenientes de esta Tierra.” San Antonio, Chrónicas, 1:190. However, a mid-nineteenth-century description of a nighttime Corpus Christi procession suggests that this ruling was revoked at some stage. See Manuel Buzeta and Felipe Bravo, Diccionario geográfico, estadístico, histórico, de las Islas Filipinas, etc. (Madrid: Impr. de J. C. de la Peña, 1850), 1:157. 87. “Por tanto en todos nuestros Mininisterios [sic] (contribuyan, ò no los Indios para ello) se celebraràn cada año las tres Fiestas dichas, cada una por si, con la mayor solemnidad possible, aviendo Visperas cantadas, Missa, Sermon, y Procession, que andarà por fuera de la Iglesia, para lo qual se harà Palapala, y Altares (como se acostumbra) en las dos Fiestas de Corpus, y Patron, en las quales se pondràn permitir danzas, Saraos, Loas, y otros festejos proprios de los Indios, conforme la possibilidad del Pueblo.” Río, Instrucciones morales y religiosas, f. 18v. 88. For a discussion of “self-determination and resistance during the fiesta,” see Wendt, “Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” 6–7.

chapter 8 1. Luis Merino has shown, for instance, that in the years 1592–1691 22.42 percent of the total budget of the cabildo secular or municipal government of Manila was given over to religious feasts, and 5.35 percent was spent in receiving governors. Luis Merino, The Cabildo Secular, or Municipal Government of Manila: Social Component, Organization, Economics (Iloilo: Research Center, University of San Agustín, 1980), 213; see also William John Summers, “Listening for Historic Manila: Music and Rejoicing in an International City,” Budhi: A Journal of Ideas and Culture 2.1 (1998): 204n3. 2. Of course, in the absence of any other historical sources, apart from descriptions by (European) travelers such as Le Gentil de la Galaisière, these hyperbolic accounts must be treated with caution. 3. Alva Rodríguez notes that whereas feasts in Manila were celebrated on a smaller scale than some in other parts of the Spanish Empire, they nevertheless stood out in terms of “exoticism and originality.” Inmaculada Alva Rodríguez, Vida municipal en Manila, siglos XVI–XVII (Córdoba: Universidad de Córdoba, 1997), 123. She claims additionally that the religious feasts of the year that were most representative of the city were those of Saint Andrew, Saint Potentiana, and Corpus Christi. See ibid., 112. 4. Mikhail Bakhtin, Rabelais and His World, trans. Hélène Iswolsky (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1968), 10; Vanessa Agnew, Enlightenment Orpheus: The Power of Music in Other Worlds (New York: Oxford University Press, 2008), 126. 5. Reinhard Wendt, “Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” Philippine Studies 46.1 (1998): 6. 6. Note in margin to the text of the sarao: “Reverencia al Rei en su retrato.” Francisco Moya y Torres, Lealtad empeñada finezas de amor y bizarra idea de desempeños

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que dio la noble ciudad de Manila cabeza y corte de las Filipinas en las festivas acclamaciones, con que aplaudio la feliz nueva de el govierno del rey nuestro señor D. Carlos segundo que Dios guarde (Manila: Imprenta en la Compañia de Jesus por D. Santiago de Matangso, 1678), 39. 7. “Le jour destiné pour les Mœtis, ils parurent dans deux chars assez beaux, pleins de Musiciens & de Déclamateurs; dans un de ces chars étoit un tableau représentant l’Infant & l’Infante; ce char s’approcha du balcon, & un des Déclamateurs, après un compliment fort court, présenta le tableau au Gouverneur, & lui en fit présent au nom de ceux qui étoient dans le char, ensuite sortirent de ce char plusieurs danseurs, qui exécutèrent des danses & sauts singuliers à la façon du pays, au son de plusieurs instrumens.” Guillaume Joseph Le Gentil de la Galaisière, Voyage dans les mers de l’Inde (Paris: Imprimérie Royale, 1779–81), 2:125–26. 8. The only relevant text appears to be one titled “Celebridad de la Coronacion del S[eño]r. Philippo Quinto Rey de las Españas,” a manuscript by Jesuit Blaise de Mesa, dated 1701, which according to Robertson was held in the “Archives du Gesù” in Rome. See James Alexander Robertson, Bibliography of the Philippine Islands, Printed and Manuscript, Preceded by a Descriptive Account of the Most Important Archives and Collections Containing Philippina (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1908. Reprint, New York: Kraus Reprint, 1970), 321. However, this source has not yet been located in the Jesuits’ Roman archives and may be lost. 9. His birthdate was August 25, 1707, but the news took considerable time to traverse the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Luis succeeded to the Spanish throne on February 9, 1724, but died of smallpox on August 31, 1724. See Robert Murrell Stevenson, “Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz’s Musical Rapports: A Tercentenary Remembrance,” Inter-American Music Review 15.1 (1996): 18. Felipe V had abdicated in favor of Luis but resumed the throne after his son’s death. 10. An account of the festivities of December 1708 is given in Leales demostraciones, amantes finezas, y festivas aclamaciones de la novilissima ciudad de Manila, con que agradecida a los divinos beneficios expresa su fino amor en las nueve fiestas que celebrô, patente el divino rey de reyes en el ss. sacramento; y colocada en la capilla mayor desta s. metropolitana iglesia la milagrosa ymagen de Maria Santissima de Guia, en accion de gracias por el dichoso y feliz nacimiento de nuestro príncipe, y señor natural D. Luis Phelipe Fernando Joseph, que Dios guarde, y las consagra a magestad catholica del señor D. Phelipe quinto rey de las Españas (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus por D. Gaspar Aquino de Belen, 1709). There is also a description (published in Mexico) of nine “panegyrical expressions” that were held in Manila from January 6 to 8, 1709, not only in honor of the birth of the prince but also in celebration of the “joyful news of the triumphs and victories obtained” by the king. See Juan Ygnacio de Ochoa, Exprecion panegirica, solemne demonstracion de las festivas reales, y magestuosas pompas con que solemniçô el maestre de campo D. Thomas de Endaya, con su sargento mayor, capitanes y Real Tercio, dè estas Islas Philipinas. el feliz nacimiento de nuestro principe, y señor Don Luis Phelipe Fernando, (que Dios guarde) y las alegres noticias de los triumphos, y victorias conseguidas por nuestro grande monarca, y señor Philippo V. el grande. acuya magestad el capitan Juan Ignacio de Ochoa, vecino de la ciudad de Manila, y professor de mathematicas, sacrifica rendido quanto escriviò obediente (Mexico: Francisco de Ribera Calderon, 1710).

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11. “Despues de la primera jornada entretuvo el auditorio un gracioso entremes, al uso de la tierra.” Leales demostraciones, ff. 16v–17r. 12. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas de el teatro en Filipinas desde sus orígenes hasta 1898 (Madrid: Librería general de Victoriano Suárez, 1909), 45. 13. Leales demostraciones, ff. 27v, 54v. Although no musical details of these comedias’ performance in Manila are included in the descriptions of the festivity, Stevenson notes that the “one substantial musical interlude in Los empeños inhabits Act II, lines 413–444, at which juncture five soloists and two coros argue the question, ‘Which is the harshest of love’s pains?’” Stevenson, “Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz’s Musical Rapports,” 18. 14. San Pedro del Castillo was born in Parañaque, Extramuros de Manila. Santiago Vela writes that “it appears that copies or the original of these two compositions [the vejamen and the second loa] are found in the archive of San Agustín of Manila” (“parece que se encuentra copia o el original de estas dos composiciones en el archivo de San Agustín de Manila”). Gregorio de Santiago Vela, Ensayo de una biblioteca ibero-americana de la orden de San Agustín (Madrid: Imp. Asilo de Huérfanos del S. C. de Jesús, 1913–31), 7:257. Whether this source contained texts alone or musical settings as well is unknown. Although most of the Augustinian archives were moved to Valladolid before World War II, this particular source has not yet been located. These works and others are discussed in David Irving, “Musical Politics of Empire: The Loa in Eighteenth-Century Manila,” Early Music 32.3 (2004): 384–402. 15. Leales demostraciones, ff. 73v–77r. 16. The two finally agree, singing, “Buele Buele Buele / Por siglos y eternidades immensas” (“Fly, fly, fly / for centuries and immense eternities”). Ibid., f. 77r. 17. Wenceslao Emilio Retana, Aparato bibliográfico de la historia general de Filipinas deducido de la colección que posee en Barcelona la Compañía General de Tabacos de dichas islas (Madrid: Imprenta de la Sucesora de M. Minuesa de los Ríos, 1906), 1:230. 18. See verses describing demonstrations of loyalty, such as: “Coronaban las fiestas muchas danzas / De Indios, de Iapones, y de Negros, / Que à su barbara usanza competian / En jugar compazados sus meneos.” In Descripcion de las fiestas r[ea]les con que la muy noble, y siempre fidelissima ciudad de Manila, metropoli de las Islas Philipinas. celebro los felices desposorios del serenissimo señor D. Fernando principe de Asturias, con la señora infanta de Portugal D. Maria; y del serenissimo principe del Brasil, con la s[eño]ra infanta de España (Manila: Imp. de la Comp. de Jesus, por D. Sebastian Lopez Sabino, 1731), f. 15v. 19. Relacion de las expresivas demostraciones de la mas fina lealtad, en los publicos regozijos, que dispuso a su costa, y con que solemnizó la nobilisima, y siempre leal ciudad de Manila, cabeza de las Islas Philipinas, y madre de el basto archipielago de San Lazaro. la elevacion al trono de su merecida grandeza, de el grande rey, y señor de las Españas, y de las Indias D. Fernando Sexto de Borbon que dedican, y consagran al mismo señor rey, y catholico monarca, los capitulares de la nobilisima ciudad de Manila (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), ff. 41r, 46v. 20. Nevertheless, poems purportedly written by non-Europeans and made public in the funeral ceremonies were sometimes reproduced. See, for example, poems in Joaquin Mesquida, La perla del oriente derretida en llanto, y llanto elevado a perla fina de lealtad en las sentidas expresiones del dolor amante, con que la m. noble, y m. leal ciudad de

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notes to pages 218–219

Manila celebró las reales exequias a la immortal memoria de su querida catholico monarca. Don Philipo V. (que de Dios goza) consagrada a la S. C. R. M. G. del rey N. S. Don Fernando VI (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Jesus por Don Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1748). The title of this publication appears to contain one of the earliest known printed references to Manila as “Pearl of the Orient.” 21. See “Royal Funeral Rites at Manila,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 36:23–43. The news of this royal death reached Manila in December 1647 via the Dutch, who were attacking the Philippines at the time and used this news as means of demoralizing the Spaniards; the official royal announcement only reached the islands in July 1648, and “the king ordered the demonstrations of sorrow to be made on the same scale as if intended for his own person.” Ibid., 24–25. 22. “Haziendose toda esta Republica un Theatro de dolor, ostenta[n]dose en cada uno la lealtad tan correspondida de sentimientos, como admiraba de las naciones barbaras, que comercian en estas Islas . . . Cantó cada Comunidad sucesivamente su responso con diferentes Capillas de Musicos, tan diestros, que pueden competir con los de la Europa. . . . El dia siguiente Martes 10. de Noviembre antes que el sol despertara, madrugó el cuidado y solicitud de las sagradas Familias, concurriendo todas co[n] diferentes coros de musicos a la Real Capilla: donde en diferentes altares, que les fueron señalados, cantaron cada qual su Missa, y después su responso enfrente del Real Tumulo.” “Aparato fúnebre y real pira de honor. (Funerales en honra del Príncipe Baltasar Carlos.) Manila, S. Pinpín, 1649,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos, ed. Wenceslao Emilio Retana (Madrid, 1895–1905), 2:114–15, 123. 23. See, for example, Augustin Soler, Cenotaphio que erigio en las exequias de la serenissima señora Doña Maria Luisa Gabriela de Saboya reyna de las Españas N. Señora, la nobilisima ciudad de Manila. Capital de las Islas Filipinas. Con el epicedio, y funebre oracion, que en ellas oro el R. P. M. Augustin Soler, de la Compañia de Jesus. En la iglesia cathedral metropolitana de dicha ciudad el dia VII. de octubre de M.DCCXV. dedicados al serenissimo señor Don Luys Felipe Fernando de Borbon principe de Asturias, y jurado de las Españas (Manila: Impre[n]ta del convento de N. P. S. Francisco, por el H. Francisco de los Santos, 1716); Juan Antonio Cantova, Real mausoleo, que a la immortal memoria de su catholico monarca D. Luis I. erigió en sus solemnes exequias la muy noble, y leal ciudad de Manila, capital de las Islas Philipinas y lo dedica a la S. C. R. M. G. del rey N. S. D. Philipo V. Ideado, y descrito por el P. Juan Antonio Cantova de la Compañia de Iesus cathedratico de prima de sagrada theologia en su universidad (Manila: Colegio, y Universidad de Santo Thomas de Manila, por Iuan Correa, 1726); and Mesquida, La perla del oriente. 24. Tess Knighton and Carmen Morte García, “Ferdinand of Aragon’s Entry into Valladolid in 1513: The Triumph of a Christian King,” Early Music History 18 (1999): 119. 25. These celebrations were so extravagant that a cédula dating from September 12, 1686, limited expenditure to 2,000 pesos. See “Zedulas despachadas a Manila (1760)” (NLC, VAULT Ayer MS 1440), ff. 62v–63r. By the early eighteenth century this budget rose back to 4,000 pesos, but in 1759 was reduced by three-quarters due to poor civic finances: “October 23, 1759. The City of Manila had permission to spend

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4,000 pesos for the reception of new governors. In view of the poor financial state of the city as a result of general expulsion of Chinese pagans, the burning of the Parian which cost 28,000 pesos to repair, and the poor state of trade with New Spain, this sum is reduced to 1,000 pesos, half of which is to be taken from the funds of the Town Council.” See Nicholas P. Cushner, Helen Tubangui, and Domingo Abella, eds., Cedulario de Manila: A Collection of Laws Emanating from Spain which Governed the City of Manila 1547–1832 (Manila: National Archives, 1971), 93–94. 26. Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas, 58. 27. “Al descubrir al señor gobernador antes de entrar en la ciudad le hizo salva la artillería de los fuertes que están en la puerta de Bagunbaya, y viéndole dentro se repicó en nuestra casa, tocáronse las chirimías, y cantó la capilla un villancico.” Letter by Juan Lopez, reproduced in Vicente Barrantes, Guerras piráticas de Filipinas contra mindanaos y joloanos, corregidas é ilustradas por Don Vicente Barrantes (Madrid: Imprenta de Manuel G. Hernández, 1878), 305. 28. English translation in Juan Lopez, “Corcuera’s Triumphant Entry into Manila,” in The Philippine Islands, 1493–1898, ed. Emma H. Blair and James A. Robertson (Cleveland: Arthur H. Clark, 1903–9), 27:337. The original text reads: “Alegraban la procesion mucha variedad de danzas y otras invenciones con varios instrumentos músicos y dos órganos portátiles.” Barrantes, Guerras piráticas, 308. 29. Pedro Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas de la Compañía de Jesús. Segunda parte, que comprehende los progresos de esta provincia desde el año de 1616 hasta el de 1716 (Manila: en la Imprenta de la Compañía de Jesús, por D. Nicolas de la Cruz Bagay, 1749), ff. 216v–19v. For a translation and criticism of this text, see María Patricia Brillantes-Silvestre, “Literatura, música y cultura: una traducción al inglés de unos documentos selectos en español sobre la música de Filipinas pre-hispánica e hispánica,” M.A. thesis, University of the Philippines, 1998. 30. Its objective was, according to Wendt, “to promote the notion of a colonial society in which Spaniards and natives were united in their mutual veneration of the Madonna who spread her protective mantle over all sections of the population, . . . which at the same time made the existing social and political order appear natural and willed by God. . . . This Madonna, who with her brown skin seemed to be a local, was . . . not merely the patron saint of Spanish colonial interests.” Wendt, “Philippine Fiesta and Colonial Culture,” 11. See also Monina A. Mercado, Antipolo: A Shrine to Our Lady (Manila: Aletheia Foundation, 1980), 14, 49. 31. “Se les hizo el recibimiento mas solemne, que se ha visto en estas Islas.” Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, f. 216v. 32. “Salieron à la playa el Il[ustrísi]mo Señor Doctor Don Fr. Iuan de Arechederra, Governador, y Capitan General, el Il[ustrísi]mo Señor Doctor Don Fr. Pedro de la Santissima Trinidad, Arzobispo de esta Metropolitana, muchos Religiosos de todas las Sagradas Religiones, casi todo el vecindario, y Pueblo inumerable. Hizo salva la artilleria, y se dispararon muchos fuegos artificiales. Formòse una lucidisima devota procesion, y cantando Hymnos, y alabanzas à la Reyna de los Cielos, fue al Convento de Santo Domingo, en donde se colocaron las dos sagradas Imagenes. El dia siguiente se llevò à Palacio la Virgen de Antipolo, y se depositò en la Capilla; donde siempre ubo un crecido concurso de los devotos, que iban à rezar, à ofrecer obsequios, y à pedir mercedes à la Señora.” Ibid., ff. 216v–17r.

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33. “A demas de la Champana, en que iba la Virgen, acompañada del Señor Governador, la fueron cortejando varias Champanas, y embarcaciones de Españoles, Indios, Sangleyes, y otras Naciones.” Ibid., f. 217r. 34. “En dos se detubo el acompañamiento, mientras festejaban à la Santisima Virgen con loas devotas, y elegantes, y con bellas canciones de vozes suaves, y apacibles, acompañadas de dulces acordes instrumentos. A la armoniosa consonancia de rabeles, harpas, violones, flautas, y obues [sic], correspondian los continuos disparos de varios artificios de polvora, interpolandose entre el horror de los unos, y la suavidad de los otros, las alegres guerreras consonancias de tambores, trompas, y clarines.” Ibid., f. 217r. Although the term rabeles implies rebecs, it probably refers more loosely to a variety of treble bowed string instruments, so I have translated it as “fiddles.” 35. “Luego que entrò en su Templo la Soberana Emperatriz se entonò el Te Deum, que acompañaron divididos, y alternados varios coros de musica de la Capilla Real de Manila, y de muchos Pueblos con variedad de acordes sonoros instrumentos.” Ibid., f. 217v. 36. “Las Congragantas de la Santisima Virgen, como primogenitas de la Señora, fueron las primeras, que la empezaron à festejar. Cantaron con gran afecto, y devocion el Aba po, ò Salve en Tagalo. Despues en metro elegante del mismo idioma le dieron la bien venida, acompañando uniformes la voz, el instrumento, y el compàs con agradable armonia, cantaron, y recitaron con demonstraciones de cariño, ternura, y confianza muchas alabanzas, à la que veneran Madre.” Ibid., f. 218v. 37. “Las dos noches ubo dos serenatas, en que se cantaron tonadas de composicion Española, y estrangera, antiguas, y modernas, en que se viò lo mejor del arte en arias, recitados, fugas, graves, y todo genero de variedad, y buen gusto con algunos saynetes sazonados. Se tocaron con delicadeza, y primor muchos instrumentos de ayre, y de cuerda, alternaron vozes de tiples, altos, y tenores, que cantaron con gran gala, ayre, y destreza, por aver concurrido en este Pueblo las mejores, y mas diestras vozes, y lo mas inteligentes musicos de estas Islas. Y sin dificultad las dos serenatas ubieran tenido el debido aplauso en qualquier Ciudad populosa de Europa.” Ibid., f. 219v. 38. See discussion of celebrations in honor of the Virgin of Guadalupe in Bernardo Illari, “Polychoral Culture: Cathedral Music in La Plata (Bolivia), 1680– 1730,” Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 2001, esp. part III (vol. 2). 39. Retana remarks that “it is extremely curious that the unfortunate Alimuddin was the first sultan who entered Manila with the honors of a prince” (“Es sumamente curiosa: Alimudín, el desdichado, fué el primer sultán que entró en Manila con honores de príncipe”). Wenceslao Emilio Retana, ed., Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos (Madrid: Librería General de Victoriano Suárez, 1895–1905), 1:xxv–xxvi. But as far as is known, he was also the only sultan (from the Southeast Asian region or any other territory) to do so. 40. Horacio de la Costa, Asia and the Philippines: Collected Historical Essays (Manila: Solidaridad Publishing House, 1967), 81, 88; Nicholas Tarling, Sulu and Sabah: A Study of British Policy Towards the Philippines and North Borneo from the Late Eighteenth Century (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1978), 11–12.

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41. Juan de Arechederra, “Relacion de la entrada del Sultan Rey de Jolo Mahamad Alimudin en esta ciudad de Manila,” in Archivo del bibliófilo filipino: recopilación de documentos históricos, científicos, literarios y políticos y estudios bibliográficos, ed. Wenceslao Emilio Retana (Madrid, 1895–1905), 1:[11–12]. 42. “Causaban las continuadas musicas de sonoros instrumentos, que en cada morada de los Vezinos alternaban à competencia la suavidad, y melodia, yà con quiebros gorgeos, suspiros bajos, pausas, y ecos, yà con tiples, con tenores, y contraaltos [sic], multiplicadas vozes, y numerosos choros celebraban mas que con canto llano la entrada del Sultan.” Ibid., [12–13]. 43. Ibid., [15–16]. 44. For an overview of this genre, see Corazon Canave-Dioquino, “The Lowland Christian Philippines,” in The Garland Encyclopedia of World Music, ed. Terry Miller and Sean Williams (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998), 4:856; and Felicidad M. Mendoza, The Comedia (Moro-Moro) Re-Discovered (Manila: Society of St. Paul, 1976). 45. Horacio de la Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 1581–1768 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), 548. 46. “Se promulgó un Bando en consequencia de estos elevados respectos, paraque todos los Vezinos, y habitantes en los extramuros, y vezindades entendiessen que se avia de solemnizar, y celebrar al nuevo Rey Christiano con 4. dias de Luminarias, tres de Mogigangas, otros tres de Toros, y 4. noches de fuegos artificiales con tres Comedias, y por Corona una Missa de gracia con Panegirico, y assi que todos bien inteligenciados con curriessen [sic] de su parte cada uno aver y à alegrarse, y à contribuir festivas, demostraciones à el nobilisimo objeto del Santo Bautismo en el primer Rey de Iolo, que depuso el Mahometismo.” Arechederra, “Relacion de la entrada,” [33]. 47. “Las fiestas comenzaron publicamente en el Orden porpuesto; los gremios de los Pueblos ò de los extramuros, y arrabales, assi Naturales, Mestizos, y Sangleyes hizieron sus Mogigangas, con mill graciosidades porque traian sus Carros encendidos, acompañados de Choros de Musica con Loas muy al intento, y espectaculos muy del caso, enlazando danzas y muchas imbenciones, que hacian al tiempo muy grato, y muy alegre.” Ibid., [34]. 48. “El Señor Governador embie á Samboangan por su Hijo Primogenito, y la Infanta para que se eduquen en esta Capital conforme à la politica española, y professen la Ley de Iesu-Christo se pone la clave à la perplexidad. Los incas, para asegurar sus conquistas, traian à su Corte, los Primogenitos de los regulos, resguardo bien prudente, que vincula la seguridad en los baybenes de la fortuna, y volubilidad.” Ibid., [40]. 49. Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 548–49. After the arrival of Governor Arandía in 1754, however, he was allowed freedom of movement within Intramuros. Costa, Asia and the Philippines, 93. 50. In return, ’Azı m ̄ ud-Dı n ̄ ceded to the British his territories in northern Borneo. See Costa, The Jesuits in the Philippines, 549. For an overview of British involvement in this fascinating episode in the history of the Philippines, see Tarling, Sulu and Sabah, 10–22. 51. “Y porque en el camino de Palacio a nuestro Colegio, se ofrecia passar por delante de la Iglesia Cathedral, y Convento de San Agustin, en entrambas partes les

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saludaron con repique de campanas, y salieron a las puertas los Capitulares, y Religiosos a recibirles. Se vieron ellos obligados a apearse, y entrar en sus Iglesias, y hazer breve oracion, acompañada de musica de menestriles, organos, y otros instrumentos. En nuestro Colegio se les hizo el mismo recibimiento, y con la misma solemnidad, y fiesta: añadiendose un Te Deum Laudamus in gratiarum actionem, a canto de organo, con muy buena Capilla.” Francisco Colín and Pedro Chirino, Labor evangelica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Iesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colin provincial de la misma compañía, calificador del Santo Oficio, y su comissario en la governacion de Samboanga, y su distrito. Parte primera, sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passò de los Reynos de España a estas Islas, por orden, y a costa de la Catholica, y Real Magestad (Madrid: Por Ioseph Fernandez de Buendia, 1663), 741. Pastells, in his edition of Colín’s Labor evangélica, cites the original source: the “Anuas de Filipinas de 1614,” by Ledesma. This qualifies that the Jesuit college also received them with chirimías: “Aviendo de pasar por el camino hasta n[uest]ro. collegio, delante de la yglesia catedral, y de los P[adr].es Agustinos, todos començaron a repicar sus campanas, y salieron a la puerta para recebirlo, y assi fue forçado a apearse en ambas partes, y lo recivieron con ministriles, organos, y otros generos de musica, haziendole la mayor fiesta que de paso podian, en nro. collegio tambien fue recebido con la misma fiesta y solemnidad de repiques chirimias etc. acrecentando un Te Deum laudamus que in gratiarum actionem, se canto a canto de organo con muy buena capilla y de alli fue llevado al refitorio de donde aquel dia comio, y luego se fue a descansar a su posada, que eran unas casas principales cerca de n[uest]ro. collegio.” Francisco Colín, Pedro Chirino, and Pablo Pastells, Labor evangélica, ministerios apostolicos de los obreros de la Compañia de Jesus, fundacion, y progressos de su provincia en las Islas Filipinas. Historiados por el padre Francisco Colín. Parte primera sacada de los manuscritos del padre Pedro Chirino, el primero de la Compañia que passó de los reynos de España a estas islas, por orden, y a costa de la catholica, y real magestad (Barcelona: Impr. y Litografía de Henrich y Compañía, 1900–02), 3:489n1. 52. Consider, for example, a Japanese delegation to Iberia and Rome in the sixteenth century, Siamese embassies to France in the seventeenth century, and Ottoman embassies to Europe (especially France) in the eighteenth century. On these see, respectively, David B. Waterhouse, “Southern Barbarian Music in Japan,” in Portugal and the World: The Encounter of Cultures in Music, ed. Salwa El-Shawan Castelo-Branco (Lisbon: Publicações Dom Quixote, 1997), 351–77; Ronald S. Love, “Rituals of Majesty: France, Siam, and Court Spectacle in Royal Image-Building at Versailles in 1685 and 1686,” Canadian Journal of History 31 (1996): 171–98; and Yirmisekiz Çelebi Mehmed and Gilles Venstein, Le paradis des infidèles: relation de Yirmisekiz Çelebi Mehmed Efendi, ambassadeur ottoman en France sous la régence, trans. Julien-Claude Galland (Paris: François Maspero, 1981). 53. Some principal published accounts of festivities for beatifications and canonizations in early modern Manila include Jose Sanchez del Castellar, Descripcion festiva, y verdadera relacion de las celebres pompas, y esmerados aciertos, con que la sagrada religion de la Compañia de Iesus aplaudio gozosa en estas Philipinas la canonizacion de su

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gran padre San Francisco de Borja, y beatificacion del Beato señor rey Don Fernando, y del Beato Estanislao Koska de la Compañia (Manila: Imprenta de la Compañia de Iesus por Sanctiago Dimatangso, 1674); Felipe Pardo et al., Sagrada fiesta: tres vezes grande: que en el discurso de tres dias zelebro el Convento de Sancto Domingo de Manila, primera casa de la Provincia del Sancto Rosario de Filippinas: en la beatificacion de los gloriossos sanctos Pio Quinto, Diego de Bebaña, y Margarita de Castello (Manila: Collegio, y Universidad de Sancto Thomas de Aquino. Por el Capitan D. Gaspar de los Reyes, 1677); Pedro Murillo Velarde, Sermones, certamen, y relacion de la fiesta, con que solemnizo el maximo colegio de la Compañia de Jesus de Manila la canonizacion de los dos nuevos astros de la iglesia, S. Estanislao de Kostka, y S. Luis Gonzaga (Manila: Impr. de la Comp. de Jesus, por D. Sebastian Lopez Sabino, 1729); and Diego Saenz, Festivas expressiones, aplausos celebres, y sagrados triumphos, con que la Santa Provincia del Smo. Rosario de las Islas Philipinas celebró la beatificacion del nuevo astro dominico, San Benedicto XI. en el Convento de N. P. S. Domingo de la ciudad de Manila, el dia 7. de julio del año de 1741 (Sampaloc Extra-muros de la Ciudad de Manila: Convento de Nra. Señora de Loreto del Orden Seraphico, 1742). 54. “Y paraque en todo fuera un remedo de la gloria el Templo, à el son de acordes instrumentos (haciendo las veces, y imitando las voces de los Angeles los Hombres) se oìan dulces motetes, alleluyas suaves, y acordes canticos de exultacion, los que iban dirigidos à la Magestad, que ocupaba el Throno, y llenaban de devocion, y jubilo los corazones catholicos de todos los Philipinos.” Saenz, Festivas expressiones, 28. Although the label “los Philipinos” could be meant to apply strictly to Spaniards in the Philippines, it could also be interpreted here as a reference to all Christian inhabitants of the islands. 55. The celebrations for the beatification of Ignatius of Loyola were described by Jesuit Provincial Gregorio López. His lengthy account is reproduced in Colín, Chirino, and Pastells, Labor evangélica, 3:268–72n2. It is also discussed in William John Summers, “The Jesuits in Manila, 1581–1621: The Role of Music in Rite, Ritual and Spectacle,” in The Jesuits: Cultures, Sciences, and the Arts, 1540–1773, ed. T. Frank Kennedy and John W. O’Malley (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1999), 663–64. Celebrations for the beatification of Francis Xavier are reported in “Relatio brevis eorum, quæ Manilæ celebrata sunt, in die Beatificationis Patris Nostri S. Francisci Xaverij, 2. Decembris Anni. 1621” (ARSI, Philipp. 6–II), ff. 291v–302r. For observances of the beatification of the Nagasaki Martyrs, see Retana, Noticias históricobibliográficas, 31, and Juan de la Concepción, Historia general de Philipinas: conquistas espirituales y temporales de estos españoles dominios, establecimientos progresos, y decadencias (Manila: Por Agustín de la Rosa y Balagtas, 1788–92), 6:chapter 1. 56. “Ecclesia v.o hominum multitudine redundanti magna cum solemnitate vesperas inceperunt tres chori. Clericus quidam Japonensis opinione maior musicus organa percurrere cepit: et Missas composuit, antiphonas eaque quæ ad carmina honoris commoda erant modulatus est non pauca.” “Relatio brevis eorum” (ARSI, Philipp. 6–II), ff. 292v–93r. In around 1706, Oña updated this account in his unpublished history “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis,” claiming that alongside some very effective musical settings of Vespers and the Mass, this Japanese organist also composed a villancico “as he was very skilled in music” (“se comenzaron las Visperas en que no dexo de concurrir el Japon, por que un Clerigo su natural, q[ue] era el

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organista[,] avia compuesto para aquel dia Visperas, Missa, y Villancico con especial punto por ser muy diestro en la Musica”). Diego de Oña, “Labor evangelicus in Philippinis,” 2 vols, c. 1706 (ARSI, Philipp. 19), 89–90. Oña may have been expanding the letter of 1621, of course. Murillo Velarde also made a succinct summary of these accounts in his Historia of 1749, stating simply that the Japanese cleric, who was a musician and an organist, “in honor of and gratitude to his holy apostle, played various compositions of good taste” (“Concurriò à la celebridad de estas fiestas un Clerigo Iapon organista, y musico, que en honra, y agradecimiento à su Santo Apostol, hizo varias composiciones de buen gusto”). Murillo Velarde, Historia de la Provincia de Philipinas, f. 16v. 57. Born in Nagasaki in 1576, Shiozuka entered a Jesuit seminary in 1588 at age eleven, and was described as an artist, a performer on musical instruments (tangedor), and even choirmaster (mestre da capela). According to Yukimi Kambe, a letter written in 1603 by Diego Mesquita reported on the music training in the seminary at Arima, where students learned to sing plainchant and polyphony, “and to play the cravo, orgãos, violas darco [sic], and other instruments.” Kambe claims t