Symphony and Song: The Intersection of Words and Music 1443897612, 9781443897617, 9781443857338

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Symphony and Song

Symphony and Song: The Intersection of Words and Music Edited by

Victor Kennedy and Michelle Gadpaille

Symphony and Song: The Intersection of Words and Music Edited by Victor Kennedy and Michelle Gadpaille This book first published 2016 Cambridge Scholars Publishing Lady Stephenson Library, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2PA, UK British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Copyright © 2016 by Victor Kennedy, Michelle Gadpaille and contributors All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book 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 the copyright owner. ISBN (10): 1-4438-9761-2 ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-9761-7

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements ........................................................................viii Introduction ....................................................................................... 1 Victor Kennedy and Michelle Gadpaille Chapter One ..................................................................................... 15 “The Windmills of Your Mind”: Notes Towards an Aesthetic of the Pop Song Hugo Keiper Chapter Two .................................................................................... 51 Mozart’s Music: A Universal Language for the Human Brain? Katarina Habe Chapter Three .................................................................................. 75 Kim Jong Il’s Gesamtkunstwerk: Text, Music and Drama in the North Korean Opera Sea of Blood Lisa Burnett Chapter Four .................................................................................... 95 “Comprate il mio specifico, per poco ve lo dò”: A Stylistic Analysis of Dulcamara’s Rhetorical Skills in the Original Italian and in English and Slovene Translations of Donizetti’s Opera L’elisir d’amore Tomaž Oniþ Chapter Five .................................................................................. 118 Balzac and Music: Between “Preserving Idealism” and “Transcending Sensualism” Jan Kaznowski

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Chapter Six .................................................................................... 135 Beyond “Flower of Scotland”: The Independence Question in Scottish Music Kirsten Hempkin Chapter Seven................................................................................ 152 A Romantic Singer of the Soviet Union: Individualism and Rebellion in Vladimir Vysotsky’s Songs Natalia Kaloh Vid Chapter Eight ................................................................................. 171 How Covers Change Musical and Linguistic Sounds: A Case Study of “Love is Blindness” by U2 and Cassandra Wilson Mariusz Gradowski and Monika Konert-Panek Chapter Nine.................................................................................. 186 “Come Rain or Come Shine”: Kazuo Ishiguro and Frank Sinatra, Two Crooners in Comparison Carla Fusco Chapter Ten ................................................................................... 194 Sting: A Poet Who Sings, a Singer Who Reads Andrea Stojilkov Chapter Eleven .............................................................................. 218 “Had I a Song”: Ivor Gurney’s War Poetry Wojciech Klepuszewski Chapter Twelve ............................................................................. 229 Implied and Unspoken Words in Instrumental Surf Music Victor Kennedy

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Chapter Thirteen ............................................................................ 252 Correlations in Structural Processing of Music Note and Speech Sound Sequences in Popular Music Writing Klementina Juranþiþ Petek Chapter Fourteen ........................................................................... 272 Tracing Orality in Contemporary Indigenous Poetry in Australia Danica ýerþe Chapter Fifteen .............................................................................. 287 Music and Early Language Development Ester Vidoviü Contributors ................................................................................... 298 Index .............................................................................................. 304

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book is a sequel to Words and Music, published in 2013. We would like to thank the contributors for their insights into different aspects of the relationship between words and music. We would also like to thank the Dean of the Faculty of Arts at the University of Maribor, Božidar Kante, for his help and support for our project, and we are especially grateful for the outstanding organizational efforts of Tjaša Mohar. Cveto Kobal and Žarko Ignjatoviþ This book is one of three collections of essays that emerged from our research project. The IATEFL Slovenia Magazine, under the able editorship of Kirsten Hempkin and Katja Težak, published one group of papers that focussed on pedagogical aspects of words and music in the Autumn of 2015. A second collection focusing on literary and linguistic aspects of song lyrics was published in the Summer 2016 edition of the journal ELOPE, edited by Nada Šabec. We thank the journal editors, Smiljana Komar and Uroš Mozetiþ, for inviting us to contribute to the Words and Music issue. Last but by no means least, thanks go to Marko Bencak for his help in formatting the manuscript, to Tomaž Oniþ for allowing us to use a picture of his piano, and to Amy Kennedy for the cover photograph.

INTRODUCTION VICTOR KENNEDY AND MICHELLE GADPAILLE

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! “Kubla Khan” (Coleridge 1798)

When Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a poet with a philosophical bent, wrote these lines, he had been contemplating the nature of the imagination, and he believed that it worked through an association of all the senses. “Kubla Khan” is a poem about the power and the mechanism of the creative imagination, and it uses a variation of the concept of ekphrasis, in which a work in one artistic medium is described and recreated in another.1 This book, a sequel to Words and Music (Kennedy and Gadpaille 2013), takes its title from Coleridge’s poem, and seeks to explore the relation between words and music from a variety of critical and practical perspectives. As Theodor Adorno pointed out, “Music resembles a language… but music is not identical with language” (Adorno 2011, 1). The contributors to this volume explore the relationship between music and language, applying recent theoretical approaches to the analysis of songs, song lyrics, 1

See “Musical Metaphors in the Poetry of Wallace Stevens” for a discussion of variations of the technique of ekphrasis (Kennedy 2016).

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poetry and ekphrastic prose. We are interested in the myriad effects music exerts when combined with words. Each author is convinced that something is added, and this volume thus constitutes an attempt to measure and describe that something from a range of perspectives. Traditional music critics, such as composer Aaron Copland and pianist and conductor Daniel Barenboim, have described the effects of music subjectively, and with extensive use of metaphor (Barenboim 2001, 2013, Copland 1959, 1988). Researchers in other fields, such as physician Alfred Tomatis (Tomatis 1991), psychologists Frances Rauscher (Rauscher, Shaw, and Ky 1993, 1995) and Daniel Levitin (Levitin 2007), neurologist Oliver Sacks (Sacks 2008) and cognitive scientists such as Mark Johnson and Steve Larson (Johnson and Larson 2003) look at music from different perspectives, examine the mechanisms in the brain devoted to the perception and appreciation of music, and provide new insights into the way we understand and enjoy it. These studies have expanded our knowledge of how music works and have empirically established a connection between the music and speech centres of the brain. Johnson and Larson in particular built upon the work of George Lakoff and his colleagues (Lakoff and Johnson 1980, Lakoff 1987, Lakoff and Turner 1989) to apply the theory of conceptual metaphor, which posits that metaphor is not merely a linguistic device, but an integral part of the way the human brain works, to music, as well as speech. Gerard Genette’s work on transtextuality (Genette 1997b, a) is another approach that has proven invaluable in the study of the relation between words and music. A further theoretical tool used by some of the authors in this volume is stylistics, which applies the objective techniques of linguistics to the study of literature (and here, music) (see Leech and Short 1981, Simpson 2004). The authors in this volume apply these interdisciplinary approaches, and more, to an analysis of opera, jazz, pop and rock music. We begin with Hugo Keiper’s “’The Windmills of Your Mind’: Notes Towards an Aesthetic of the Pop Song.” Keiper’s analysis is based on a lifelong attachment to and admiration for a well-known pop song from the 1960s, Noel Harrison’s English megahit version of Michel Legrand’s original French song “Les moulins de mon

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cœur,” and its various covers and contexts, intermedial and otherwise. Keiper examines the underlying aesthetic and structural devices of pop and rock songs, such as hook lines, chorus, bridge, verse and their interrelations, and the various rules and precepts of commercial songwriting that are seldom acknowledged in the scholarly analysis of pop song lyrics. Keiper then compares “The Windmills of Your Mind” to Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly with His Song” in order to work towards a general aesthetic of pop songs in terms of their “ideal” elements and intended impact on the listener. Katarina Habe combines the insights of psychologist, musicologist and professional musician in her chapter, “Mozart’s Music: A Universal Language for the Human Brain.” This chapter provides an overview of recent psychological studies of the effects of music on the brain, with a focus on the controversial topic of the “Mozart Effect,” a term coined by French researcher Alfred Tomatis (Tomatis 1991) and tested in a seminal study entitled “Music and Spatial Task Performance” (Rauscher, Shaw, and Ky 1993). Although newspaper stories at the time claimed that the study showed that listening to Mozart’s music increased children’s IQs, further experiments over the years show that the connection is more complex (Jausovec and Habe 2003, 2004, 2005), while others have failed to replicate the effect at all. Habe and her colleagues claim that listening to music (Mozart’s in particular) stimulates diverse regions of the brain and thus “binds” together various aspects of sensory stimuli into a perceived whole. Brain scans show that many areas of the brain “light up” when we listen to music. When we listen to a song, the senses working together could be the reason we feel the experience so deeply. The next three chapters provide an assortment of perspectives on the traditional genre of opera that, with its music, lyrics, dance, sets and costumes, constitutes the original multimodal experience. In a chapter combining musical and intercultural studies, musicologist Lisa Burnett’s “Kim Jong Il’s Gesamtkunstwerk: Text, Music and Drama in the North Korean Opera Sea of Blood” unites sociopolitical analysis with a close examination of musical motifs and influences in North Korean opera. Although North Korean music is not well known in the West, its endeavours are both unique and

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worthy of scholarly attention. Even less widely known than the repertoire itself is that Kim Jong Il is credited as the author of a series of aesthetic treatises, including On the Art of Music and On the Art of Opera, that prescribe the foundational principles of North Korean music and drama. Kim discusses the relationship between words, gesture, melody and harmony, the proper subject matter of post-revolutionary works of art, and the desired socio-political effects of such art on its audience. Throughout Kim’s writings on music, the revolutionary opera Sea of Blood (Pibada) is held up as a model for North Korean musical works. Paradoxically, Kim advocates not only a smooth and total integration of music, text, and stage action in revolutionary opera, but also a fusion of both traditional Korean and foreign musical and dramatic traditions in order to create a new, avowedly nationalistic form. Burnett’s analysis of Sea of Blood and Kim Jong Il’s writings on music shows that these works represent something revolutionary: a distinctly North Korean vision of Gesamtkunstwerk. The two following chapters examine the more familiar world of nineteenth-century European opera. Tomaž Oniþ’s “‘Comprate il mio specifico, per poco ve lo dò’: a Stylistic Analysis of Dulcamara’s Rhetorical Skills in Italian, English and Slovene,” demonstrates the subtle process of characterization in an operatic aria, and goes on to show how the challenges of translating the piece into two different languages are met. Dulcamara is a skilled con man and manipulator; nevertheless, he still is a popular character among the other characters as well as the audience. The reasons for this mostly lie in the use of his powers of persuasion, which depend on his intricate yet subtle use of language, combined with his charismatic and ultimately agreeable personality. Oniþ describes the rhetorical devices Dulcamara uses and explains how various translators attempted to preserve the structure of these devices while coping with the metrical requirements allowing the lines to be sung to the music.2 This chapter demonstrates clearly the

2

See also (Oniþ 2006, 2014, Zupan 2006).

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delicate interdependence of words with melody in the traditional genre of opera.3 Jan Kaznowski’s “Balzac and Music: Between ‘Preserving Idealism’ and ‘Transcending Sensualism’” explores the French novelist Honoré de Balzac’s connection with opera, using the debate between German and Italian composition styles of the early nineteenth century as a background for a discussion about the nature of art. Among the many themes addressed in La Comédie humaine is Balzac’s interest in music. Balzac considered himself a dilettante, and his main interest was not focused on musical theory. Above all, music for him was an expression of the human heart and mind and an extraordinary psychological problem. Balzac’s interest in music was so important (for his writing, he conscientiously consulted specialists on the matter) that Mireille Labouret has suggested that the La Comédie humaine can be read as “quasi una fantasia.” Two of Balzac’s stories, “Gambara” and “Massimilla Doni,” were dedicated to the subject of music. Written in the middle of a great quarrel between the Italian musical conception represented by Rossini and the German conception of Meyerbeer that divided critics and music lovers in the 1830s and 40s, they express Balzac’s ideas on the debate. Nevertheless, Balzac goes further: he poses more essential questions. What is the process of artistic conception and its development in the mind of the creator? Can composer and performer express in their real lives the emotions they express through their art, and if so, how? Or, on the other hand, is an artist condemned to the “destructive power of thought”? Is it possible to “preserve idealism” while “transcending sensualism”? Nationalist rivalry is not the sole province of either the nineteenth century, or traditional musical genres. As Kirsten Hempkin demonstrates in her chapter entitled “Beyond ‘Flower of Scotland’: The Independence Question in Scottish Music,” nationalist themes in Scottish songs became unofficial and semiofficial national anthems in two referendums on independence. Twice since the 1707 Acts of Union politically united Scotland and 3

In an earlier essay, Oniþ provides a similar analysis of another famous aria from La Traviata (Oniþ 2013).

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England, Scots have been asked to decide whether they wished to remain part of the United Kingdom. The first referendum was held in 1979, the second in 2014. A great deal changed politically and socially in Scotland during this thirty-five-year period, not least the granting of devolved powers to a Scottish government in 1997 and the establishment of a parliament in Edinburgh. Hempkin offers a comparative analysis of popular pre-referendum songs of the late 1970s and songs of the present day in an attempt to assess the impact of the independence question on the Scottish music scene. She considers the extent to which the independence theme is present in the song lyrics of the two periods in question, differences in the message conveyed by artists on that theme, and the manner in which those messages are expressed. She also draws attention to political parties’ use of music in their campaigns to influence the electorate on the independence issue. A similar discussion of ideology and political themes in songs and song lyrics informs Natalia Kaloh Vid’s “A Romantic Singer of the Soviet Union: Individualism and Rebellion in Vladimir Vysotsky’s Songs,” which provides a peek behind the Iron Curtain with its account of the life and work of a well-known Soviet-era protest singer. Vladimir Vysotsky was an established actor at the Taganka Theatre and in Soviet films and radio broadcasts. His original songs and vocal performances were critical of the regime, but his fame as an actor protected him from prosecution, although his song lyrics were never officially published. His music thrived in the artistic underground, with home recordings passed around handto-hand. His lyrics criticised Soviet life and culture, and alluded to the existence of well known but officially non-existent institutions such as the Gulags. Vysotsky was a founder of the style known as avtorskaia pesnia, which can be compared to the style of American folk and protest music of artists such as Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and Joan Baez from the 1930s through the 1960s. Kaloh Vid traces the origins, development, and characteristics of this genre, discussing several examples of Vysotsky’s work, before concluding with a statement on the importance of popular music for preserving a spirit of freedom of thought and expression in a totalitarian regime.

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We turn next to a different concept of musical translation, that between originals and their “covers.” In a chapter providing a close analysis of singing style, Mariusz Gradowski and Monika KonertPannek provide an interdisciplinary (musicological and linguistic) comparison of the original version of the song “Love is Blindness” by U2 (Achtung Baby 1991) and its jazz cover by Cassandra Wilson (“New Moon Daughter” 1995). Gradowski and Konert-Panek first address the notion of the cover in order to focus on the two versions of the song. The original and the copy, rock and jazz, a man and a woman—different musical and linguistic perspectives are subject to analysis, the common ground being the language. How does Bono interpret the lyrics in comparison with Wilson’s interpretation? How is pronunciation related to the manner of their singing and how is it reflected in the overall composition? Gradowski and Konert-Panek first focus on the phonetic, articulatory dimension, in particular on phonostylistic processes, with reference to psychoand sociolinguistics; subsequently they address the musicological dimension: the interpretation, rhythm, the use of the vocal and its distinct emotional impact in the two versions. The next section extends the exploration of musical translation by examining the adaptation of a piece of music into fiction, with Carla Fusco’s “‘Come Rain or Come Shine’: Kazuo Ishiguro and Frank Sinatra, Two Crooners in Comparison” and Andrea Stojilkov’s “Sting: A Poet Who Sings, A Singer Who Reads,” about songs that allude to literary works. These chapters draw on concepts outlined in Stam and Raengo’s seminal work on adaptation theory, such as transvocalization, transmodalization, performance and dialogization (Stam and Raengo 2005, 25), each of which exemplifies the phonological relation broached by Fusco and Stojilkov. While several chapters in this volume consider the effect of literature on songs, Fusco examines whether the influence can go in the other direction. “‘Come Rain or Come Shine’: Kazuo Ishiguro and Frank Sinatra, Two Crooners in Comparison” bridges the divide between song and story and compares the stylistic interpretations of a song by jazz singer Sinatra and a short story of the same name and subject by writer Kazuo Ishiguro. Fusco considers whether narrative voice in a story can emulate a singer’s

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style. Sinatra and his contemporaries created a new style in popular singing called “crooning,” which was cosier and more confidential than earlier jazz stylings. Subsequently, the content of song lyrics was adapted to this singing style. Songs turned into a sort of intimate declaration of love, with the singer pretending to whisper into a lover’s ear and not to a huge audience. “Come Rain or Come Shine,” written in 1946 by Harold Arlen with lyrics by Johnny Mercer, was interpreted by many singers, and Frank Sinatra made the song a worldwide hit in the 60s. “Come Rain or Come Shine” is also the title of a short story by Kazuo Ishiguro from his volume Nocturnes. Both the song and the short story depict the lover’s intention to be together with his partner at all costs in the name of a love that can never end. Through an epistemological analysis of both texts, Fusco argues that Ishiguro’s writing style and content can be considered a form of crooning. Moving toward a later era and another genre of popular music, Andrea Stojilkov’s “Sting: A Poet Who Sings, A Singer Who Reads” traces the literary influences in Sting’s lyrics by examining the boundaries between high and popular culture, and shows how the songwriter alludes to and adapts features of canonical literature in his songs. When compared to “high” art, “popular” art inevitably assumes the undesirable connotation of a product that appeals to consumers for its simplicity and shallowness, and lacks any quality deserving a more profound interpretation; “worthy” is a category reserved for classical music and literary classics, while contemporary novels and popular music are often characterized as disposable consumer goods. Literature has suffered in a society that prizes celebrity and mass consumption. Some artists, however, strive to create popular but high-quality art. Singer-songwriters in all genres of popular music write lyrics that are a hybrid art form in the liminal area between poetry and music. Accompanied by a suitable melody and a carefully chosen and effective arrangement, these lyrics contain many of the elements common to twentiethcentury modernist poetic masterpieces. Stojilkov’s analysis establishes the potential for intermodal production among contemporary creative artists who resist generic and professional pigeonholing. The corpus for this chapter consists of twenty-five songs from various stages of Sting’s career, some created in the 21st

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century and credited to him exclusively, others dating back to 1980s England, when he was the front man, bass player and lead vocalist of The Police. Stojilkov shows that, like any other literary discourse, his lyrics can be analyzed on the level of themes, motifs, techniques, dynamics and intertextuality. Returning to an earlier era of the twentieth century and to “high” culture, Wojciech Klepuszewski’s “‘Had I a Song’: Ivor Gurney’s War Poetry” examines the relationship between Gurney’s poems and music. Gurney was a composer and poet who was wounded during the Battle of Passchendaele and later confined to a private mental hospital, where he died in 1937. Klepuszewski focuses on the intersection of music and poetry, as expressed in Gurney’s poems, within the context of the Great War, and examines Piers Gray’s observation that “Gurney is attempting the impossible: to find the words that recreate the experience of noise.” The next chapter discusses the liminal relationship between musical compositions and the verbal texts that contextualize them. Victor Kennedy’s “Implied and Unspoken Words in Instrumental Surf Music.” This chapter applies Gerard Genette’s concept of “transtextuality” to popular music. According to Genette, “transtextuality” is “all that which puts one text in relation, whether manifest or secret, with other texts” (Genette et al. 1997, 1). Genette defines five types of transtextual relationships: Intertextuality (1-2); Paratextuality (3); Metatextuality (4); Architextuality (1) and Hypertextuality (5). Kennedy’s analysis of musical metaphors in surf music addresses paratextuality and hypertextuality to discuss a different kind of musical transtextuality, musical metaphors in instrumental surf rock. He shows how music uses tropes similar to the figures of speech in spoken and written language, and in linking words to musical rhythm, sonic equivalents to allusion, pastiche and parody. He argues that instrumental music can use sound effects and sonic tropes to create metaphors for the four pillars of California surf culture: sun, sand, surf and cars. He also shows how surf musicians used intertextuality to allude to and absorb the soundtracks of movie and TV Westerns, and how their creations were subsequently adapted for the soundtracks of spy and space stories. Music is influenced by and influences its paratext, to the point where an art form that is sometimes considered forgotten

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has become a major influence not only on American, but also on world culture. In linking words to musical rhythm, Kennedy applies to instrumental music the paradigm of conceptual metaphor developed by George Lakoff and his colleagues, especially Mark Johnson and Steve Larson’s idea of metaphors of motion in music. Johnson and Larson make two claims: first, our understanding of musical motion is entirely metaphoric, and second, the key metaphors are grounded in three of our basic bodily experiences of physical motion: pitch “moves”; rhythm “moves”; words “move” us (Johnson and Larson 2003, 63-64). While Johnson and Larson focus on the lyrics to George Harrison’s “Something in the Way She Moves,” Kennedy argues that the music also “moves” the listener. Klementina Juranþiþ Petek’s “Correlations in Structural Processing of Music Note and Speech Sound Sequences in Popular Music Writing” applies the tools of linguistic analysis to an exploration of the relationship between musical tones and the sounds of the lyrics in the process of writing popular songs. Comparing song lyrics written in two very different languages, English and Slovene, she demonstrates how the sounds of the language in which they are written affect the melodies, rhythms and accompaniment of the songs. Like Lisa Burnett’s discussion of North Korean opera, Danica ýerþe’s “Tracing Orality in Contemporary Indigenous Poetry in Australia” examines an art form little known to Western scholars and consumers of popular music. Australian indigenous poets have recently gained increased critical attention in Australia, but within Western critical discourse their work still remains relatively unexplored. Drawing on the work of Stuart Cooke, ýerþe argues that this is because literary critics have seldom rigorously engaged with indigenous oral poetic tradition in Australia, thereby failing to account for the extensive cultural heritage of contemporary indigenous writing. Consequently, Australian literary studies have ignored the relationship between contemporary indigenous poetry and traditional forms of song lyrics, connected with a larger ignorance of the relationship between the voice of the poet and the written word. ýerþe examines the work of Romaine Moreton as an example of Australian indigenous poetry that questions

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contemporary political and social thought, and shows how it functions rhetorically and performatively on its audience. ýerþe contends that oral tradition, with its “dimension of performance and a specific attitude to the potency of the spoken word” is not “obsolete,” but continues to be an important part of today’s Aboriginal poetry. The Aboriginal tradition that underlies Moreton’s work thus exists at the boundary where sounds and words overlap, the precise territory that the contributors to this volume have been exploring. The final chapter, Ester Vidoviü’s “Music and Early Language Development,” outlines the practical application of the words/music relation, showing how the musical elements in songs can be used in teaching second language students. Music plays an important role in a child’s life, and much recent research indicates that listening to music, combined with creative music pedagogy, can be beneficial for children’s intellectual development. Vidoviü argues that songs are excellent pedagogical tools for language teaching precisely because of their multiple textualities. She explores their importance for the linguistic development of children at an early age. In her view, songs are useful for acquiring new vocabulary primarily through the motivating effect of their rhythm, rhyme and content. Drawing on recent research in the field of multimodal learning, Vidoviü argues that, combined with movement, rhymes help children develop their language skills through fun and play. Vidoviü emphasizes the principles of the Total Physical Response Method, one of the principal methods of teaching foreign languages to children. The fifteen chapters of Symphony and Song thus trace a parabola, from the high culture of the nineteenth century, through various popular genres of the 20th and 21st centuries, to the contemporary use of music in preparing future generations for an appreciation of the blended power of language and melody. Each of these writers argues for the inter-disciplinary nature of scholarship (or pedagogy) concerning music and its accompanying words, narratives or paratext. By contesting traditional genre and disciplinary boundaries, such approaches begin the process of restoring and reinvigorating the symphonic aspect of humanities scholarship.

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References Adorno, Theodor. 2011. Quasi una Fantasia: essays on modern music. Translated by Rodney Livingstone, Radical thinkers. London; New York: Verso. Original edition, 1956. Barenboim, Daniel. 2001. “Love, the Hard Way.” The Guardian, 31 August. —. 2013. “Beethoven and the Quality of Courage.” The New York Review of Books LX, no. 6: 30. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 1798. “Kubla Khan.” In The Norton Anthology of English Literature, edited by M.H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt, 440-441. New York: W.W. Norton & Company. Copland, Aaron. 1959. The Pleasures of Music. Durham, New Hampshire: The University of New Hampshire. —. 1988. What to Listen For in Music. New York: McGraw-Hill. Genette, Gerard. 1991. “Introduction to the Paratext.” New Literary History 22, no. 2: 261-272. —. 1997a. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Lincoln; London: University of Nebraska Press. —. 1997b. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Original edition, 1987. Jausovec, Norbert, and Katarina Habe. 2003. “The ‘Mozart Effect’: an Electroencephalographic Analysis Employing the Methods of Induced Event-related Desynchronization/synchronization and Event-related Coherence.” Brain Topography 16, no. 2: 73-84. Jausovec, Norbert, and Katarina Habe. 2004. “The Influence of Auditory Background Stimulation (Mozart's Sonata K. 448) on Visual Brain Activity.” International Journal Of Psychophysiology: Official Journal Of The International Organization of Psychophysiology 51, no. 3: 261-271. Jausovec, Norbert, and Katarina Habe. 2005. “The Influence of Mozart's Sonata K. 448 on Brain Activity During the Performance of Spatial Rotation and Numerical Tasks.” Brain Topography 17, no. 4: 207-218.

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Johnson, Mark, and Steve Larson. 2003. “‘Something in the Way She Moves’—Metaphors of Musical Motion.” Metaphor and Symbol 18, no. 2: 63-84. Kennedy, Victor. 2016. “Musical Metaphors in the Poetry of Wallace Stevens.” ELOPE 13, no. 1: 41-58. Kennedy, Victor, and Michelle Gadpaille. 2013. Words and Music. Newcastle upon Tyne, UK: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Lakoff, George. 1987. Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal About the Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lakoff, George, and Mark Turner. 1989. More Than Cool Reason: a Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Leech, Geoffrey, and Mick Short. 1981. Style in Fiction: a Linguistic Introduction to English Fictional Prose, English Language Series. London; New York: Longman. Levitin, Daniel. 2007. This Is Your Brain on Music: The Science of a Human Obsession. New York: Plume/Penguin. Oniþ, Tomaž. 2006. “Alliteration as a Means of Characterization of Dramatic Personae: a Translation Issue.” ELOPE Literary Criticism as Metacommunity: a Festschrift for Meta Grosman 3, no. 1/2: 247-255. —. 2013. “Germont's Aria: Between the Original and the Slovene Translation.” In Words and Music, edited by Victor Kennedy and Michelle Gadpaille. Newcastle upon Tyne, England: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. —. 2014. “Univerzalnost literarnega sloga: vpogled v grafiþni roman.” Primerjalna književnost 37, no. 3: 179-198. Rauscher, Frances H, Gordon L Shaw, and Katherine N Ky. 1993. “Music and Spatial Task Performance.” Nature 365, no. 6447: 611. Rauscher, Frances, Gordon Shaw, and Katherine Ky. 1995. “Listening to Mozart Enhances Spatial-temporal Reasoning: Towards a Neurophysiological Basis.” Neuroscience Letters 185: 44-47.

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Sacks, Oliver. 2008. Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain. New York: Vintage. Simpson, Paul. 2004. Stylistics: a Resource Book for Students. London; New York: Routledge. Stam, Robert, and Alessandra Raengo. 2005. Literature and Film: a Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Malden, MA: Blackwell. Tomatis, Alfred. 1991. Pourquoi Mozart?: essai. Paris: Fixot: Diffusion, Hachette. Zupan, Simon. 2006. “Repetition and Translation Shifts.” ELOPE. Literary Criticism as Metacommunity: a Festschrift for Meta Grosman 3, no. 1/2: 257-268.

CHAPTER ONE “THE WINDMILLS OF YOUR MIND”: NOTES TOWARDS AN AESTHETIC OF THE POP SONG HUGO KEIPER

How do you eat an elephant? At first glance, it might appear that the attempt to set forth an “aesthetic of the pop song” is an overambitious, desperate enterprise, not unlike eating an elephant: a chunk too big to swallow. But just as an elephant can be eaten— bit(e) by bit(e)—I would submit that the basic features and most distinctive constituents of such an aesthetic can indeed be identified. Such a project has been “in the windmills of my mind” for a long time, at least since 2004, when I started doing serious research relating to pop songs and their lyrics, but perhaps even earlier, since the 1980s, when I began using pop songs in my teaching, sometimes devoting special classes to their analysis. About ten years ago the idea began to grow on me, vaguely at first, as a hidden agenda, in various talks and essays, about reading and misreading pop songs such as “All You Need Is Love,” for example, and the textual, aesthetic reasons for such acts of (mis-) reading (cf. Keiper 2007 and 2008b); or about Sade’s highly idiosyncratic, yet nonetheless quite representative approach to songwriting and her specific intermedial use of lyrics (Keiper 2009); but also about the mechanisms underlying mondegreens, the notorious mishearings of single words or phrases of song lyrics, which have much to do with how pop songs work as intermedial artefacts and are decoded in general ways (Keiper 2008a). Around that time the project of working out a systematic aesthetic of pop songs first emerged, revolving especially around

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Chapter One

the intermedial dimension of such songs, the highly complex and varied interplay of words and music, of lyrics and melody plus arrangement, which captured and held my intense interest. Partly, this sharpened interest had to do with the growing insight and acceptance of literary and cultural critics that pop songs were about to replace, or at least to offer significant competition to “serious,” “traditional” poetry, while at the same time their peculiar intermedial nature as songs, with all its implications, made them radically different from written or recited poetry, in terms of their composition, for their listeners and “readers,” as well as regarding the implied workings and aesthetic of such songs. Still, while pop songs, or at least some of them, were gradually beginning to be canonized, their specific medial nature and what this meant for their adequate analysis were largely ignored. Indeed, not much research has been conducted in terms of close, comprehensive analysis of such songs, paying sufficient attention to both the lyrics and the musical side, but especially to their unique modes of interplay.1 At roughly the same time the question first crossed my mind whether there might be anything like an ideal pop song. I happened to hear “The Windmills of Your Mind” on the radio, a song I had been familiar with for decades, in various covers and contexts, largely superficially, though likely as an earworm on occasion. This time I listened closely and thought, this could be it. Or perhaps it was the other way round: hearing the song and ruminating on it, turning it round in my head, as tends to happen with earworms, gave me the idea of looking for the ideal pop song in the first place. Whichever way, I soon convinced myself that I had found it in “The Windmills of Your Mind,” and that conviction has grown over the years. Somehow, all these ideas began to appear related, and I can 1

A recent exception is Victor Kennedy’s Strange Brew (2013), which offers several useful perspectives and suggestions for approaching the analysis of pop songs. To my mind, and despite enthusiastic praise by some reviewers, Eckstein (2010) is much less useful, because this monograph about “reading song lyrics” attempts to cram every possible consideration and aspect into a few pages, often confusingly, thus forcefeeding the reader without really offering useful methodological guidelines or handily practicable avenues.

Notes Towards an Aesthetic of the Pop Song

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now offer a few notes towards an aesthetic of the pop song, if not a comprehensive vision and systematic framework for such an aesthetic. To begin with, two fundamental terminological and notional points should be clarified. First, I use the term pop song as an umbrella term including all sorts of related genres and subgenres, such as rock, hard rock, punk and rap, in accordance with other scholars and handbooks,2 mainly in order to avoid any discussion about hard-and-fast distinctions between them, which will usually hinge on a range of ideological and/or aesthetic criteria and may be historically variable and contentious, as in the case of rock or punk. In the following, therefore, the term pop song includes several million songs that are obtainable right now, in ever growing numbers, and which loosely belong in the area of popular culture with its many subcultures and trends, even though my main focus will be on commercial songwriting and songs catering for larger audiences and ultimately a mass market. This takes me to my second qualification. With a minimum of five to six million, or even as many as 37 million pop songs readily available for download on various servers;3 and with many more that have been released over the last decades on other media, one would be ill-advised to claim that one particular song could be the one that ideally represents an underlying aesthetic in total perfection—if there is any such overarching framework in the first place. There must be many others, I am sure, that might serve equally well. Such a proposition, however, has never been my intention, for what I am suggesting is not to spot a single pop song 2

Cf. e.g. Wicke et al. (2007, s.v. "Popmusik" and "Popular Music"). See further the All Music Guide: The Definitive Guide to Popular Music (2001), which is also based on such an open, comprehensive notion of pop(ular) music, including a wide range of styles, genres and directions, from Rock, Folk, Country, or Easy Listening to even Jazz and Avant Garde (see table of contents). 3 One should not forget about YouTube and the free accessibility of a large number of clips there, which, among many other things, has in a sense revolutionized the teaching of pop songs. At the same time, this example shows that things might change quickly, since recently there has been talk about having to pay for access to YouTube as well.

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Chapter One

that is ideal in the Platonic or any other essentialist sense. Rather, what I have in mind is a prototype, along the lines of Eleanor Rosch’s prototype theory; that is, a song that comes close to representing, and just possibly epitomising, what to most people is most typical about pop songs, and that comprises and combines such features in particularly effective ways—in other words, in an aesthetically satisfying manner, in terms of both composition and reception. Hence, what I think I have found is a particularly representative specimen of pop song that is sufficiently prototypical to serve as a point of reference for the underlying principal quest and argument. In this respect, moreover, one must bear in mind one more set of important facts. While it is true that today we have access to a huge, ever growing number of songs, spanning an enormous range and diversity of genres, subgenres and styles, and which it has become even mathematically impossible for any one person to have heard in a lifetime, there is yet the actual practice of songwriting and the concomitant modes of reception, of hearing and reading such songs. That is to say, most of these songs will be composed— and received—within certain traditions and aesthetic conventions and will thus refer to a limited number of prototypical patterns as an underlying foil, using and relating to them in one of two principal ways: as either (1) a model, in largely affirmative, imitative terms, with variations, and with aesthetic developments or progress, but more often than not in epigonous ways; or otherwise (2) utilising or calling attention to such traditions by way of differentiating themselves, of deconstructing such patterns or distancing themselves from them. Either way, and notwithstanding any number of possible in-between positions, most of these songs will in some ways refer to prototypical elements of pop songs, especially in the field of commercial songwriting, and many of the underlying, guiding models will be derived from a comparatively modest, indeed restricted catalogue of canonised songs,4 as can be found in the various best-of lists such as the “Rolling Stone 500 Greatest Songs of All Time” or other such compilations, or from 4

Accessed January 16, 2015. http://www.rollingstone.com/music/lists/the500-greatest-songs-of-all-time-20110407.

Notes Towards an Aesthetic of the Pop Song

19

what can be heard on the radio, on TV, etc. In the light of such considerations, I would claim and will attempt to show that Michel Legrand’s song “The Windmills of Your Mind,” with lyrics by Alan and Marilyn Bergman, provides a fitting example, coming close in many ways, and on different levels, to the prototype I would like to advance. In the following pages I offer basic suggestions relating to a comprehensive aesthetic of pop songs. I will focus mainly on a series of readings of that song which I consider adequate in terms of approaching and highlighting its generic specificity and paradigmatic qualities, while giving a quick rundown of other salient points, briefly also touching on another prototypical song, “Killing Me Softly with His Song,” as a second representative example and point of reference. Given these parameters, what I say here is still tentative, incomplete, and—possibly—subject to reconceptualization. However, before taking a closer look at “The Windmills of Your Mind,” let me sketch in some important background about the basic elements and constituent structures of pop songs, and about the terminology used to describe them, which also defines the fundamental categories underlying the composition and conception of such songs. One aspect in particular is that most of these terms and concepts derive from, and have been systematically established and described in, the context of commercial songwriting, an area that has developed into a separate field of applied academic training. In recent years, some of the basic terms such as verse, bridge, and hook have found their way into academic discourse, and even into everyday speech, partly because songwriters and musicians use them in interviews. Moreover, the number of practising songwriters is ever increasing, which helps to spread awareness of the terminology via the media. 5 Yet not much is known about the backgrounds to such notions, especially from the point of view of text production—the verbal dimension, i.e. the lyrics, and the 5

In German-speaking countries in particular, the highly popular format of casting shows has done much to spread basic terminology, such as “Strophe” (the German equivalent for verse) or Chorus / Refrain.

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Chapter One

musical side as well as their interplay. Similarly, adequate scholarly analysis of pop songs has made little progress in recent decades, particularly in terms of developing a systematic and comprehensive approach that is practically applicable. An awareness of such backgrounds, underlying principles and textual strategies is of utmost importance, since most pop songs, generally the products of commercial songwriting, follow a limited set of rules, conventions and underlying patterns that are geared to secure the success of a song as a commodity within a strictly circumscribed context of production and reception that is governed by its own laws, but ultimately by the ways such rules are hoped to guarantee success in the market place. Over the years, a set of directives has been developed that is not far removed from the type of comprehensive rhetoric and concomitant set of rules which was derived from, and ultimately governed, the Baroque doctrine of the affections, or Affektenlehre, or similar comprehensive systems of composition and their intended effects. The striving of that earlier theory and practice to achieve a unified, focussed effect on the audience by insisting on the observance of specific, clear-cut rules is comparable to the overriding position accorded to the hook line and chorus in contemporary commercial songwriting. As a consequence, a great and increasing number of textbooks and manuals of professional instruction have come out in recent decades for teaching aspiring songwriters, for example, The Craft and Business of Song Writing—a comprehensive and successful textbook by John Braheny, which first appeared in 1997 and has now reached its Third Revised Edition (of 2006). The title, and subtitle, a practical guide to creating and marketing artistically and commercially successful songs, are telling, since they emphasise the two most important aspects of the matter. Many more books combining instruction and theory have come out over the years, some focusing on particular aspects of the craft (and business), such as the lyrics, the tunes, even the rhymes. The Berklee College of Music, in particular, has recently specialized in that area and in publishing textbooks on all of these aspects (see References, Pattison and Perricone). Such precepts are derived from longstanding traditions of composition, especially music-hall and Tin Pan Alley, but also, and

Notes Towards an Aesthetic of the Pop Song

21

equally importantly, conventions of popular songs, particularly folk songs, ballads, blues and jazz, all of which can be detected behind such rules, not to mention the sophisticated developments of such traditions in pop and rock music since the 1950s and 60s, with ever greater emphasis on marketing and hit potential. Moreover, many of the most creative (earlier) writers of pop songs, such as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, or Bob Dylan learned their craft by initially covering and adapting or appropriating traditional or preexisting material covering a broad range of traditions. 6 Gaining experience and developing their own styles in such ways early in their careers made them familiar with the most successful patterns tradition has to offer, usually with a touch of genius added to craft and commerce. The commercially most successful songs of The Beatles, for example, rely on a skilful, original combination of such rules and patterns, whether by intuition or instruction, or both, departing from these patterns in inventive ways (see Ettl 2010). In such songs, it is almost always possible to discern the underlying genres and their characteristic elements and conventions, covering virtually the full range of styles mentioned before. Even in the case of The Beatles, one should not forget that George Martin, the arranger, producer and music manager, was an increasingly important influence on their work, at least on the finished products, thus earning the title of Fifth Beatle. Martin was a classically trained and oriented musician before he took over as producer for The Beatles at EMI/Parlophone, no doubt with high-flying artistic ambitions, but always with an eye on effective marketing strategies for the product. The present section, then, is not just about fundamental terminology and backgrounds but also highlights core features of a comprehensive aesthetic of pop songs by pinpointing the principal underlying patterns, as well as the decisive shaping forces on the production side, which serve to create a song from its beginnings to the finished product. Today virtually anyone aspiring to be a 6

The myth that all material in the area of pop and rock is original is easily dismantled by looking at the song credits on records, which clearly, and often surprisingly, show that original compositions are often only a part, sometimes a small part, of the recorded material.

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Chapter One

successful songwriter will either seek professional academic training at such institutions as Boston’s Berklee College of Music, or Belmont University, Nashville, which offer degree programmes in songwriting; or they will consult the self-training books that are published by such institutions or by teachers or consultants affiliated with them. Besides, many music publishers and studios provide professional advice and help to musicians polishing commercially promising songs for release. The most important shaping structural elements are verse, chorus and bridge, but above all, the hook (or hook line). Daniela Ettl, a professional songwriter, wrote a brilliant diploma thesis under my supervision, 7 analysing the twelve commercially most successful Beatles songs against this background. She states: “Apart from these core sections, other building blocks, such as refrain or pre-chorus, can also have a significant impact on the commercial potential of a song, provided that they either show a supportive function towards the hook line or even include characteristics that are similar to the qualities of a hook” (Ettl 2010, 7). Both qualifications apply to “Windmills” in striking ways.8 The following definitions of basic terms and concepts might have been taken from any number of sources, but the explanations given by Jai Josefs, in his Writing Music for Hit Songs, are most concise and apposite. They demonstrate that not much has changed 7

I wish to express my gratitude to Daniela for pointing out to me long ago the centrality of such elements in commercial songwriting, as well as the strict rules governing that area of practice. 8 We are now witnessing radically changing conditions and major shifts in the publishing, marketing, and distribution of pop songs, caused by the disintegration of traditional markets and marketing structures, as well as the massive impact that digital media, especially the internet, have in those areas. This might lead to momentous changes or shifts of emphasis in the aesthetic of pop songs and the structures or elements used, resulting in an even greater importance and enhanced centrality of the hook, as can be seen in recent songs by Katy Perry, Rihanna, and their contemporaries, and even more in wholly commercially oriented songs of the past few years, which are frequently reduced to virtually endless repetitions and loops of hooks or hook-like elements (oohoohoo, for example, or similarly indistinct moaning noises).

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in the basic outlook and tenets of commercial songwriting since this book first came out in 1989. 9 A chapter entitled “Contemporary Song Forms and Hooks” gives a clear impression of priorities. Here, Josefs gives short definitions and examples of verse, chorus and bridge as the most important “Building Blocks of Song Structure,” stating that “[v]irtually all of the hit songs on the charts over the last thirty years,” going back to the late 50s and early 60s, “have been built with combinations of three sections: the verse, the chorus, and the bridge” (Josefs 1996, 8). The definitions that follow are clear: (1) Definition of verse: “A verse in contemporary music can be roughly defined as the section of a song in which the melody and harmony repeat, but the lyric changes. It is also, generally, but not always, the first part of a song that we hear” (9). (2) The chorus “can basically be defined as the section of the song that repeats musically as well as lyrically” (9). (3) The bridge “can generally be defined as a section that appears only once in a song, both musically and lyrically” (10). Sometimes the term release is used for the bridge “because this section usually occurs later in a song and provides melodic and harmonic (as well as lyrical) contrast with the sections that precede it” (10).

Writers associated with The Berklee College of Music have established additional, finer distinctions, introducing such terms as the transitional bridge or primary bridge, pre-chorus, etc., which are useful in both practical terms and for analysis. In the present context, however, we need not go into the subtleties of such subcategorizations, 10 even though it is worth mentioning that in 9

In 1996, a second, updated edition came out, “including new songs from the 90s” (subtitle on copyright page, not on cover), but Josefs states in his preface to this edition: “I was pleased at the chance to demonstrate that the information I wrote about in the first edition was still being used in the most current charted hits”; and: “[…] the basic principles of melody and chord progression then and now remain unchanged […]” (Josefs 1996, xvii). 10 Even though there is a consensus of sorts, a close comparison of leading instruction manuals and text books shows that these categories are not

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Chapter One

Berklee terminology, lines 29-44 of “Windmills,” the third section of the song (lyrics), could be described as a primary bridge (as opposed to a transitional bridge), which “is found in verse/chorus songs after the chorus section and, most usually, after the second chorus has been stated. It provides contrast or relief from previously heard sections and prepares a return (sometimes with a modulation) to either the verse or chorus” (Perricone 2000, 87).11 In the lyrics of section 3, which consist of four quartets (16 lines altogether), there is a clear contrast to the previous sections consisting of 14 lines (or three quartets plus two lines of chorus12), but also in the sense that in this section there are no similes as were previously dominant, but a series of descriptive passages and questions that appear to be triggered associatively by the earlier images. The contrast is enhanced through a slightly different melody line and the fact that there is no modulation in section 3, as there is in the chorus-part of the preceding two sections. Josefs goes on to describe common, especially successful combinations of the described building-blocks, making up song forms that put the pieces together in certain established patterns with hit potential, as for instance the Verse-Chorus Song Form, or the Verse-Chorus-Bridge Song Form (cf. 10-13). These are also known by the appropriate combinations of capital letters, such as Aalways defined or used in exactly the same ways. To some degree, this makes the analysis of songs along those lines a matter of discretion or deliberation, “Windmills” for example, where we might speak of a six-line chorus following the so-called “standards” form (for details see fn. 33), but also, equally convincingly, of a combination of pre-chorus and chorus proper (or even refrain, depending on the exact understanding and interpretation of these terms). Incidentally, The Oxford Dictionary of Music, as a standard general handbook, is silent on such points even in its latest edition (Sixth Edition, 2012): there is no entry for “chorus,” whereas the entry for “refrain” (s.v.) is totally inadequate, equating as it does refrain with burden and chorus. 11 Perricone points out that “the term primary bridge is a Berklee College of Music term coined to differentiate it from the term transitional bridge” (87). For forms and functions of the bridge as pertinent in some respects to “Windmills,” see further Braheny (2006, 84-5). 12 See note 10 above.

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A-B-A (for the Verse-Verse-Bridge-Verse form), even though the exact use and reference of these letters is not always clear or the same but varies with context and writer.13 “Windmills” follows the standard pattern of Verse/Chorus-Verse/Chorus-Bridge-Chorus. Of greater concern for our purposes (and for commercial songwriters) is the hook, which is frequently more or less the same as the song title, and is even supposed to be deployed in exactly this way. Opening his section on the hook, Josefs points out: Perhaps the most important word in the songwriter’s vocabulary, at least in the realm of song structure, is the term “hook.” The hook, which generally contains the song’s title, is the part of the song that is repeated frequently and therefore tends to remain in the mind of the listener. Or, you might say, it is the part that you’re left “hooked” on or left singing after the song is complete. In most songs, particularly those with a verse-chorus form, the melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic components of the hook are crucial. A hook should have a melody that is original and memorable, and yet at the same time is easily singable […]. (Josefs 1996, 15; see further chapters 13-15)

Hooks are often described as “worming their ways into the listeners’ minds,” suggesting a clear connection to earworms or sticky tunes. Moreover, the hooks of songs are utilised in market research, by radio stations, for instance, to assist in gauging the popularity of a song by the recognizability of its hook (cf. Wikipedia [English], “Hook”). It is not just frequent repetition that makes the hook so special and such a fundamental element in (commercial) songwriting; it is its particular qualities, in musical and lyrical terms, and the inspiration and, sometimes, hard work that is needed to find a good hook14 that are of concern to songwriters. Much has been written to 13

Cf. the relevant sections in Josefs (1996, 11-17); Braheny (2006, 86-92); Perricone (2000, 88-90), or Pattison (1991a, 74-88). 14 One need only refer to chats and forums of songwriters on the web, with their perennial cries for help to find a good hook. See especially Braheny (2000, 92ff) for information about different types of hooks and their

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Chapter One

give advice on hooks and their construction, lyrically and musically. Hence, the concept has come to dominate and must be considered fundamental to any aesthetic of the contemporary pop song. Moreover, as insiders well know, the verse, or even bridge, are generally not expected to be listened to closely or to be fully understood semantically or in terms of content, since this may distract listeners from the hook and its specific function of being pivotal for the reception of the song, for hitting the audience and sticking in their minds. In other words, typically, everything in a song is to be focussed on the hook and its power of grabbing the listener’s attention and working its way into his or her mind. By contrast, the verse lines or parts of the verse are often meant to be fillers with a supportive function, frequently using suggestive words and phrases or even jingle jangle, often with little coherence or narrative logic.15 From an historical, evolutionary perspective, this is not so different from what is called the weak line (the second of four lines) in traditional ballad stanzas; and of course the refrain as well. Functionally speaking, the hook (plus chorus) in pop songs is likely to have its traditional roots there. It might seem, then, that the conventional relationship between weighty semantic content and expletive repetition is reversed in pop songs, since the weak line, as opposed to lines one and three, usually carries no new information, much the same applying to the refrain too. However, despite its express function of projecting a song’s central point, the hook is semantically the repetitive, jingling part of the lyrics, especially in its typical relation to the verse sections: although its primary task lies in summing up a song’s central theme(s) and motif(s,) this is commonly achieved in a powerfully suggestive rather than contentridden way. Just as in traditional folk song and ballad lyrics, this basic pattern of semantically privileging certain building blocks at relationship to the chorus, including detailed practical advice and exercises. 15 This may be one possible source of mondegreens, as the frequently misconstrued line: “There’s a bad moon on the rise”, as “there’s a bathroom on the right,” for example, because that phrase lacks context and clear reference if the verse is not sufficiently understood.

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the expense of others, or vice versa, of foregrounding semantically weak sections, offers space for creative uses and surprising or alienating effects, such as juxtaposition in ironic or mutually undercutting ways,16 and for playing with the audience’s construal of meaning. Against this general background, “The Windmills of Your Mind” will be used as an “ideal” or “perfect” pop song to exemplify, comment and enlarge on the basic features and strategies so far outlined. This song has a fascinating, multifaceted history. 17 It was first released in 1968 by Noel Harrison (considerably boosting the singer’s career) as the theme song to Norman Jewison’s movie The Thomas Crown Affair, starring Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway. Having been specifically commissioned by the director to support the scene with the glider, the music to the song was composed by the celebrated French jazz musician and composer Michel Legrand, who was responsible for the entire musical score to that movie. 18 The (original) English 16

In many ballads, “The Cruel Brother,” for example (see The Oxford Book of Ballads, ed. J. Kinsley, # 60), the weak line (“With a heigh-ho! And a lily gay”) plus the refrain (“As the primrose spreads so sweetly”) initially support the deceptively jolly beginning of the story, but then, being unchanged, increasingly provide a grimly ironic contrast to the gruesome continuation of the story. Nick Cave repeatedly makes effective use of such hoary conventions. Also, one might think of “Scarborough Fair,” where the weak line “parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme” works like a hook and tends to stick in the mind, as an earworm. Similar effects can frequently be observed with regard to weak lines or refrains of folk songs. 17 For details, see Wikipedia, “Windmills of Your Mind” and “The Thomas Crown Affair,” but also “Noel Harrison fan site,” especially the sub-link relating to the song. Here, background information is given on the gestation of the song, besides highlighting the unbroken popularity of the song as well as the fact that the song has again hit the charts in recent years. 18 Jewison requested a piece (from the Bergmans, apparently) that sounded like the Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields Forever.” Legrand, on the other hand, seems to have been partly inspired by Mozart's Sinfonia Concertante, K. 364 (Second Movement), for the musical introduction (see Wikipedia). For the film having finally been cut and edited to fit the music, rather than the other way round, and the altogether quite revolutionary relationship

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Chapter One

lyrics, on the other hand, were provided by Alan and Marilyn Bergman, a seasoned team of lyricists, and there seems to have been mutual inspiration going on between Legrand and the lyricists until the finished product took shape. 19 In Harrison’s hauntingly brisk version, the song was awarded The Academy Award for Best Original Song in 1968 and hit the UK single charts at #8, but this was not the last time that it hit the charts. The song turned out to be highly successful, a pop evergreen, and was subsequently covered by many singers, including Dusty Springfield’s well-known version of 1969, followed by more covers by José Feliciano, Petula Clark, Neil Diamond and Kiri Te Kanawa, the famous classical soprano, or Jimmie Rodgers, Barbra Streisand, and Eva Mendes.20 The song was included, again as a theme song, in a jazzy rendering by Sting21 between score and movie, see Faust (2003) (online): This author, however, while he has praise for the lyrics and the haunting arrangement, takes a dim view of Harrison’s performance, which he denigrates as “dandy crooning.” 19 One might argue that a song which was created in the Tin Pan Alley tradition might be problematic as a representative specimen of contemporary pop songs, but apart from the continuation of that tradition beyond the 1950s, the assumption that 60s and post-60s pop and rock songs were always the creation of the performers themselves is largely a myth even in the case of singer-songwriters. Apart from The Beatles in their career proper and a few others like The Stones, once they had been forced by their manager to create their own materials, thus emulating The Beatles, most bands and performers released, and still do, a mix of original material and cover versions. Besides, in a sense, being covered is still a seal of quality for any pop song, as can be seen from Sinatra’s covers of Beatles songs (quite appalling in the case of “Something”) or the inspired cover albums by Annie Lennox and many other leading performers in the field of pop. 20 There has also been a successful French version performed by Natalie Dessay (lyrics by Eddy Marnay) and a German rendering by rock star Udo Lindenberg (“Unterm Säufermond”). See article on “Windmills” in Wikipedia. Legrand and Natalie Dessay, another classical singer, have been touring very successfully in recent years performing Legrand’s music, of course featuring “Windmills” prominently in their PR. 21 For the use of that version in the film as well as in Jewison’s original movie, see the Appendix.

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in John McTiernan’s 1999 remake of Jewison’s film, this time starring Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo. In 1977, a parody of “Windmills” was featured on The Muppet Show (second season, first episode, produced May 1977). All of these versions and revamps, in a variety of musical and media contexts, are part of the dynamic, still developing overall aesthetic of this song, creating ever new contexts for reading (and enjoying) it. Many successful songs have gone through similar transformations, and even if that aspect is usually ignored, many popular songwriters and singer-songwriters have worked for the screen, or even acted in movies,22 and many pop songs are closely associated with movies and/or TV. Since the main focus of my argument will be on the listening experience, with an emphasis on the words and their interplay with the music, it is recommended that readers take the time to listen to the song, preferably the original version by Noel Harrison or the fine cover by Dusty Springfield (both of which can be found on YouTube). While paying close attention to the lyrics, one should, if possible, still enjoy the song for what it primarily is: a comprehensive experience to be relished. For close, easy reference to textual detail, the lyrics are provided in an appendix, indicating a rudimentary structural analysis. The following readings of the text at several levels will focus on the lyrics, simultaneously emphasizing different layers, dimensions and aspects of the song as an intermedial text. This is how a listener typically experiences a pop song, but especially its lyrics, that is, if he or she listens with close attention, not just to the hook (or chorus) but to the verse sections as well: much listening is a halfhearted act of reception and occurs with divided attention or a wandering mind. One might call this the muzak phenomenon, when songs function as background noise, allowing the mind to range freely, carried away by all kinds of associations. In the final analysis, one might take this assertion further and suggest that such reception is a legitimate and even intended mode of reception of 22

Apart from Bob Dylan, Kris Kristofferson or Paul Simon, one might point out Carole King, Gordon Lightfoot, Randy Newman or Neil Young, and many others.

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Chapter One

pop songs in general, one, moreover, which has been used to achieve artistic effects specific to the aesthetic of pop songs. Such a graded approach takes us closer to how the song works, as well as to its core meaning, if there is one, because in pop songs and their underlying aesthetic response is process, a process that is characteristically staggered and spaced over long stretches of time, and a potentially unending series of repetitions. Hence, what we confront is a receptive or interpretive loop that may stop at any level, or never really start, if, for example, a song is an ephemeral affair for the listener and quickly disappears from the charts. On the other hand, it is always possible to return to a song and discover new, often surprising meanings, which is comparable to reading any other piece of literature or art. Reading a pop song is thus an open process, suspended somewhat precariously between rut and revelation. This kind of flexible, open-ended and multi-layered processuality is perhaps the central tenet of my argument and the core of the aesthetic of pop songs being proposed. Just as in “serious,” traditional poetry, the reception of pop songs, especially their lyrics, is thus potentially without closure, even though in partly different ways, because the experience of pop songs is intermedial by definition and therefore ultimately more complex and multidimensional, possibly of an entirely different order. Notwithstanding common prejudice, pop songs are not always straightforward affairs lacking depth or complexity, as the example of “Windmills” clearly demonstrates. The process resembles the movement and dynamic of the hermeneutic circle or spiral in any act of reading, but in the case of pop songs, there are special aspects to be considered, in particular their being geared to and even constructed to draw attention, initially and primarily, to the hook, which is specifically foregrounded and privileged within a song’s processes of creating or projecting meaning(s). Hence, the readings here will proceed from first or ephemeral, quite superficial impressions to more in-depth observations, but without losing sight of the specifics and strange dynamics of the reception and special aesthetic of pop songs as they work in practice. The first layer of impressions generalizes my own readings and experience with “Windmills,” and with pop songs in general.

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31

Additionally, as a seasoned teacher of such songs,23 I use informed guesses based on my experience of how students react, and what they reveal about their readings, or misreadings, of songs. As a first impression, which may remain with a listener for a life-time, including mishearings or mondegreens,24 one is likely to register a series of apparently disconnected, random images and associations given in the verse sections, especially the opening verse, fleeting images and scenes that seem only very generally, or thematically, connected by the underlying idea of roundness or of cyclic or spiralling movement. These impressions are supported and enhanced by the melody and the musical arrangement, and are ultimately brought out by the chorus (or refrain, lines 13-14) and especially the hook concluding each verse-chorus section of the song: “Like the circles that you find / In [hook] the windmills of your mind” (my italics).25 By themselves, these images project a sense of being disembodied, somewhat like the ghosts of ideas, memories and questions, floating and circling aimlessly around the mind, in accordance with the hook, but perhaps suggested by it in the first place. For it is clearly the hook, providing as it does a climactic 23

In over 30 years I have regularly taught seminars on pop songs ranging from The Beatles and The Stones to Dylan, Don McLean and other singersongwriters like Leonard Cohen or Joni Mitchell, to Madonna or Ani DiFranco, including classes on all sorts of ballads and folk songs. Moreover, I have supervised over two dozen diploma theses plus two doctoral dissertations on the subject, most of them dealing with such questions, including the very special phenomenon of punk. 24 Of course, mondegreens provide a sound factual basis for readings/misreadings, but especially for what utter nonsense we are ready to accept as textual meaning, in (pop) songs at any rate, but we need further studies of how the huge amount of data we have relates to particular structural elements such as verse, bridge, chorus or hook. For a first scholarly discussion of basics, cf. Keiper (2008a), also for the evergrowing databases available for that instructive phenomenon. See further Klasinc (2009). 25 For a more detailed discussion of the chorus and song structure generally of “Windmills,” see the concluding part and appendix of this chapter.

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ending to each verse section on both the verbal and the musical level, which neatly sums up those dreamlike images and compacts them into the highly evocative and culturally charged metaphor of the windmills of your mind, which reaches back as far as Don Quixote, or beyond, to fairy tales, legends, archetypes. Moreover, it involves the listener in the song’s subtly entangling web of association by employing, and addressing him or her through, the possessive pronoun your, even if in ambiguous ways.26 What sticks with the listeners, who are conditioned by the song’s movement and by listening habits to react in exactly that way, will mainly be the hook, “[in] the windmills of your mind,” which is repeated and highlighted by the prominent end position it holds in each verse section or chorus. Together with the chorus, the initial lines, “Like a circle in a spiral / Like a wheel within a wheel,” are repeated in the final, compressed section of the song, where they segue into the concluding repetition of the chorus, which in its turn repeats the hook. Thus, one could speak of a double hook, but it is clear that the introductory image of the circling spirals (and its impressive, highly visual amplification in the image of a “wheel within a wheel”) 27 prepares the ground for what follows, providing a thematic bracket connecting with and supporting the chorus and hook, which characteristically is identical with the song’s title. However, when listening to a song on the radio, we are not always aware of that song’s proper title.28 As a critic with a background in poststructuralist theory, I had the impression at that stage that this text came close to a manifestation of pure form, of perfect word music and imagery, with no underlying argument or story, or with intimations of 26

Your can also be construed in an impersonal way, meaning “one’s.” For a similar use, see John Lennon’s “All You Need Is Love” (see Keiper 2007 and 2008b, 97). 27 The sixties were an age of optical illusions and psychedelia. It is not unlikely that many listeners would have (visually) associated “hypnotic spirals” and the like with such images. 28 In earlier decades, however, it was more common for DJs to announce the singer and title of a song before and/or after it aired. Now, on the other hand, we have the internet to find out or even “listening” tools like Shazam that give all the information on a song in an instant.

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dormant stories, and with little content, in short, lyrics of unalloyed self-reference and untempered associative power. The evenly spaced series of similes making up the verse lines (with the exception of the bridge, section 3) were vehicles without tenors. For a while, the text appeared to embody pure processuality, a referenceless meta-referentiality, conveying no reference beyond itself and its circular churning of seemingly random images, while simultaneously they occur in the listener’s mind. Every line or pair of lines seemed a suggestion, a promise, carrying a wide range of associations, most connected with cycles and mutually enfolded, turning spirals, endlessly gyrating in the windmills of one’s/your mind. Yet everything else in the text seemed geared towards the climactic hook and its overriding presence in the speaker’s as well as in the audience’s minds.29 The text can be read along such lines and can be seen as a subtle interior monologue or stream-ofconsciousness. Indeed, lyricist Marilyn Bergman has stated that “The lyric we wrote was stream-of-consciousness. I think we were thinking… you know when you try to fall asleep at night and you can’t turn your brain off and thoughts and memories tumble” (Noel Harrison fan site). This statement supports my first impressions, while it shows that the lyricists’ intentions have clearly succeeded. This introduces the next major step in the analysis. Having known the song since the early seventies, I first let the text unfold its various impressions on the purely auditory level by occasionally listening to it or ruminating on my impressions. Thus, keeping an eye on its intermedial dimension, the interplay of the song’s music and lyrics, I maintained an intermediate, in-between state, suspended between listening, thinking, and detailed analysis of the remembered text before I finally printed the lyrics to analyse them more closely. One of the methodological problems encountered in approaching pop songs lies in the fact that the tools of literary critical analysis are not well suited to analysing orally transmitted and aurally received texts. Our analytical procedures usually rely on printed texts, not just on listening and aural reception as well as memorial 29

These qualities make the song a prototypical earworm. For that important aspect, see my concluding remarks.

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retention. While such established analytical procedures are helpful in terms of precision and the scholarly validation of impressions, they may on the other hand result in a serious warping of the common and intended modes of reception of pop songs, which are aural, intermedial, and reliant on memory, and their exigencies and inevitable accidents, including misconstruals such as mishearings or mondegreens. Hence, traditional critical approaches might lead to fundamental misunderstandings and misrepresentations of how such texts are meant to be received and read, in any context, and are in fact commonly received, in highly idiosyncratic, partial or slanted ways. As a consequence, the question is how to approach and analyse such works of art. In this case, literary critical analysis will corroborate what has been said so far.30 This need not necessarily be the case, depending on the relationships between the constituent parts and dimensions of a song and possible complexities in terms of tensions, incongruities, or clashes arising from ironic, contradictory or mutually relativizing, or undercutting relationships between them, as well as, possibly, the lyrics and the musical dimension, all of which may be inscribed, in various ways and combinations, in a particular text. Such is the case, for instance, with John Lennon’s “All You Need is Love,” but also with many other songs that thrive on self-deconstruction and a complex, dialectical dynamics of its constituents. Such complexities, however, do not apply here, because in the case of “Windmills” the lyrics as a whole, that is the verse-chorus-cum-hook and the bridge, and the musical dimension are mutually supporting, thus 30

Metrical analysis is another matter, since in songs it is usually the musical structure and rhythm which determine, and sometimes override, the purely linguistic prosodic features of the lyrics. A closer discussion of this important issue is beyond the scope of this chapter, but one should be aware of the particular methodological and procedural/analytical problems it raises. Another important aspect in that connection is that the original language of the lyrics and its prosodic and intonation patterns will often determine musical prosody and even the melody line in recognizable ways, giving them a characteristic “flavour,” especially if the lyrics precede the musical composition. This may have been the case with “Windmills” and its originally English lyrics, whose intonation may have inspired the movement of the melody line.

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buttressing and enhancing each other’s effect and overall impact.31 In “Windmills” the melody and most arrangements function to support, iconically enhance and mirror the verbal message in a device which, following the lead of Thomas Morley and John Dowland, the great Elizabethan composers and music theorists, could be termed “word illustration.”32 Not long ago, Dowland, who was also a singer and lutenist, was designated by Sting a major predecessor and role model as a singer-songwriter. The intuitive impression that the series of similes making up the verse sections is a sequence of vehicles without tenors, or without a clear reference, and may thus connect to almost any tenor that enters the reader’s mind, can be verified with reference to the printed text. Nevertheless, there is one reservation: the isolated word round, which opens the text. Many listeners fail to notice this word, although it constitutes the thematically relevant opening gambit, whose slightly awkward position in structural terms is reflected in the music, but also in the fact that some printed versions (or transcriptions) of the lyrics give it a separate one-word line preceding the first verse proper. In contrast, Noel Harrison’s fansite prints “Round” as the first word of the first verse line, as does the sheet music.33 31

One reason for this might be the fact that initially the song was written to illustrate a particular scene in the movie; it also appears that the music was written to fit the lyrics, which seem to have been written first. 32 Or “word painting” (onomatopoeia): cf. Bernhart (2008, 41f.) for term(s) and context. One could even speak of “word expression,” in the sense that the music itself, and “on a more sophisticated level, […] attempts to use its expressive means to reflect more differentiated and subtle emotional states” (see 42). For the historical side, see Bernhart (1993, 55-86). 33 See the Noel Harrison fan site. The sheet music has “Round” on a crotchet on the first beat, printing it as opening the first verse: “Round like a circle …”. This underscores the musical emphasis given to the word, despite its initially awkward relation to the subsequent lyrics. In a sense, the function of round can be compared to an “introductory verse” in the “standard” song form, which “var[ies] greatly” and “is usually stated only once and functions as an introduction to the main body of the song” (Perricone 2000, 88). Perricone (88) also points out that the “’standards’

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However, even if a listener does note the word, he or she will not be immediately aware of its full implications: it serves as a common denominator for the subsequent lines and images, especially in relation to the hook, “the windmills of your mind.” What does the word round, mentioned once, proleptically, imply within the song’s dynamics and in a processual sense? In grammatical terms, it might be viewed as an elliptical construction, suggesting circular movement, or else it might point to the rough shape of some of the objects or events named in the verse lines, or the scenes described there. At the same time, a reader of the text on the page will probably construe it as defining the subsequent series of similes. Yet, with reference to this series of similes, most of which are introduced by the anaphoric phrase like a …, it still doesn’t provide a tenor in the proper sense, but at best a (metaphorical) ground, for we are never explicitly told what precisely is (round) like a circle in a spiral. Hence, on the verbal level, this unobtrusive evocation of the notion of roundness or of spiralling movement might be seen as a device that skilfully sets the associations in the listener’s mind going, just as in the speaker’s, or perhaps his diegetic addressee’s mind. Since there is no apparent tenor, each reader will tend to follow his or her idiosyncratic ideas, reminiscences, or feelings of nostalgia, if the word is noted at all.34 In other words: what we have here is ultimately a blank, or series of blanks that operate on the strength of the specific, elliptical use of a series of similes, the word like being the operative stimulus opening type of song, written mainly between 1920 and 1950, is still the mainstay of theatre songwriting. The focus of this form is placed on the chorus because the dramatic action on stage usually doesn’t require a verse to tell the story […]”. “Windmills,” having been composed to support a movie scene, owes a lot to this tradition. On the other hand, round relates, by way of anticipation, to the chorus and hook in the sense of summarizing the main theme of the song’s lyrics. The considerable range and variety of possible transcriptions or layouts of “the text on the page” is another characteristic of song lyrics, because frequently there are several ways of conceiving of or construing their structure as poems. 34 Functionally, then, it operates just like the opposite of a hook, and is in fact, intentionally so, very close to phenomena such as mondegreens, only in a cleverly, advisedly provoked or induced sort of way.

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avenues of associative implication and meaning, all of which are set off by the vehicle, not by a clearly discernible tenor (or ground). It is only in the hook, at the end of each section, or perhaps towards the end of the song as a whole, that we realize that “the windmills of your mind” might function or step in as a tenor, which, on a meta-level, summarises the trains of thought that are going on in the speaker’s mind, but at the same time, by suggestion and the concomitant associative processes, in the listener’s mind. Here, and in many specific lines, indicated by the letter “M” in the Appendix, we find a strong meta-referential dimension inscribed in the song, especially the lyrics, but in the tune and arrangement also, by way of musical iconicity, which is partly dependent on what the words of the lyrics suggest in the first place. The chorus “Like the circles that you find / In the windmills of your mind”; or the lines opening the bridge (section 3), “Keys that jingle in your pocket / Words that jangle in your head,” help to turn the following verse lines into almost personal, apparently idiosyncratic associations in the listeners’ heads. The inclusive use of the second person pronouns your and you throughout, but more densely towards the end, is consummate textual strategy, because its reference and appeal is both to the diegetic, fictional addressee and to the listener “out there,” whose mind has been set spinning like windmills by the half-images and their associations. In this way, the listener is increasingly drawn into the gyrating images of the unfolding text, but at the same time into an own inner world of imagination and memory. Much the same could be said of the scattered hints of an underlying story, likely of a love gone sour or broken up, that seems implied especially in the last but one section (the bridge). Attentive listeners might catch this, especially watching the scene in the film with the glider, where his lover is watching Thomas Crown looping the loop.35 This is the original context for the song, as a musical support and illustration. If the song is heard outside that context, this remains just a vague possibility. The listener’s attention will be deflected by the heap of broken images, losing 35

Scene 16, see Appendix. The song is presented here in a shorter version, as opposed to the “Opening Sequence,” which offers the full version.

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track of the text, if only for a moment, being caught up in personal associations and images, this being an integral part of the specific aesthetic of pop songs. “The Windmills of Your Mind” can be considered prototypical, partly because the craftsmanship of the lyrics is admirable: the Appendix shows many fine jingles and sound effects, complex uses of rhyme and assonance, including internal rhyme. The stanzaic structure is also remarkable. As the lyrics appear in print or internet transcription, and as the sheet music and score suggest, the first two sections comprise fourteen lines each, which are in turn divided into a verse proper of eight lines and six lines of an extended chorus section, 36 thus playing with, or alluding to the octave-sestet structure of the Petrarchan sonnet. The two concluding lines of the chorus (including the hook), which also function as a traditional refrain, operate as a final couplet reminiscent of the English or Shakespearean sonnet, thus intricately combining both dominant 36

The subsection starting with “Like a clock …” does not resemble the first part of the chorus in the first major section, the first time round, and especially not in terms of the lyrics, but since it is repeated in the second section, it functions technically as a chorus, or introductory part of the chorus, even though it is repeated only in the second section, following verse 2. This, however, corresponds with a widespread structural type or “song system” (cf. Pattison 1991a, 74ff) featuring two full verse-chorus sections followed by a bridge and a concluding section focussed on some variation of the chorus. Still, the concluding two lines of the full or extended chorus (5-6/13-14 of the whole section), which are repeated in the final section, might be seen as a chorus in the strict sense or as a refrain. On the other hand, six-line chorus sections are not unusual, especially since the music moves into G major in this section and departs from the verse section in important ways, providing a “climb,” or “lift,” culminating in the final two lines. According to more recent terminology, lines 9-12 could thus also be construed as a “pre-chorus” (cf. Braheny 2006, 85f.). Moreover, all this coincides with the ambiguous poise of these final six lines between the English and Italian types of sonnet. Note, however, that the music is divided into a section of 8 and 6 bars (common time) respectively, which is once repeated and then followed by the 16 bars of the bridge, each previous section subtly carrying over into the subsequent one, in an effect which echoes the introductory crotchet connected with “Round”.

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types of the English sonnet tradition, while simultaneously playing with traditional structures and elements of song forms prevalent in commercial songwriting. Further on, the poetic field of formal association is obliquely invoked by combining four quartets to form a sixteen-line section that can be termed a bridge or primary bridge, and finally by an intricately constructed, somewhat unusual sevenline/eight-bar concluding section (a final chorus or outro) which combines the song’s (four) opening lines, as a reprise, with the twoline chorus plus a variation, by inserting a new and significant transitional line between the familiar ones, segueing into the twoline chorus: “As the images unwind” (48). Altogether, on the verbal level, this constitutes a seven-line section consisting of a quartet rhyming DaAa (see Appendix) and a tercet rhyming ddd, thus picking up on the rhymes of the chorus and providing a fitting, weighty ending in formal terms. Moreover, through the overall circular structure it creates, the outro emphasises the underlying central motif of the song. The four-line units, on the other hand, are also suggestive of a connection to folk songs and traditional ballad metres, which is further emphasised by a recurrent rhyme scheme reminiscent of the common metre of traditional folk ballads, xaya. Such formal frameworks and associations will most likely not be “heard” by listeners (except for well-trained ones), and even readers, except for literary critics analysing the lyrics, will not discover these patterns as a matter of course. Yet by appealing to culturally entrenched formal traditions of lyric poetry, they still play a part in the overall effect exerted by the song, even if largely on a subconscious level. Such inspired handling of form is a hallmark of commercial songwriting, pointing back historically to pre-Romantic traditions of poetry composition which regarded writing as the expression of perfect craftsmanship rather than of genius or authentic emotion. The best products of contemporary songwriting, even commercial songwriting, can be ranked among the heritage of such superb literary artefacts.37 37

Here, the similarly superb craftsmanship of many Tin Pan Alley songs can be seen as a forerunner of contemporary pop songs, not least in the area of their highly original handling of various types of rhyme and other sound effects.

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More should be said about the musical dimension of “Windmills,” but since I am not a musicologist, I chose to focus on the lyrics and the intricate reading processes they may trigger in the reader’s mind, in conjunction with the music. It is worthwhile to take a closer look at Legrand’s composition, at how the melody line moves through a concomitant chord progression of considerable evocative power (from E minor through the minor subdominant A, to G major etc.), ascending and then descending in a spiralling movement, and how all this in turn is supported and enhanced by the “soaring arrangement” (cf. Noel Harrison fan site, sub-link “The Windmills of Your Mind”) in Legrand’s own “original” version, but also in Dusty Springfield’s cover, partly through the clever, iconically suggestive deployment of strings. Thus, the musical and the verbal dimensions create a convincing relationship of mutual support and enhancement, each helping to project the song’s core message “in (bitter-)sweet harmony.” Clearly, this is a convincing example of word illustration, plus emotional expression. The connection of the hook and the chorus and their specific functions with the intriguing, enigmatic phenomenon of earworms (or sticky tunes) should be explored more thoroughly as part of an aesthetic of pop songs. The connection has variously been pointed out as pertinent but should be pursued with more vigour. 38 “Windmills” turns out to be a prototypical example: not only does it have all the ingredients an earworm needs, especially in the way it prepares for and projects its hook; I also found that in working on this study, I was unable to get the song off my mind for days on end, especially its hook and/or chorus, but also the “pre-hook” (lines 1-2). Generally, the receiving end of pop songs should be given closer attention, of a different sort, especially by analysing songs themselves, as well as their implied or even explicit aesthetic. For example, Roberta Flack’s 1973 hit “Killing Me Softly with His Song” is another notorious earworm. This piece refers to Don 38

For basic information on earworms, see Wikipedia: “Earworms,” plus the literature listed there. For readers of German, one can also recommend two instructive recent magazine articles: Schnurr (2007) and Fellmann (2012).

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McLean performing his song “Empty Chairs,”39 and gives a precise, partly meta-textual account, from the point of view of a (female) spectator, of how some songs and performers “hit” their audience on a visceral level, and yet manage to keep their distance and universality of appeal. All this can be gathered from the lyrics, in lines such as “Strumming my pain with his fingers / Singing my life with his words” (lines 1-2, as a pre-chorus of sorts), or: “I felt all flushed with fever / Embarrassed by the crowd / I felt he found my letters / And read each one out loud” (second verse, 1-4); on the other hand, the speaker-as-audience complains: “He sang as if he knew me / In all my dark despair / And then he looked right through me / As if I wasn’t there / And he just kept on singing / […]” (third verse). Part of the universal appeal of “Windmills” also derives from the, apparently, individual, deeply personal implications evoked in the mind of each individual listener or reader by the images and situations in the lyrics. Beyond their pertinence for an aesthetic of pop songs, exploring such aspects might help to explain more comprehensive phenomena relating to the reception of pop songs, or even single performers or bands, such as Beatlemania (when nearly everybody in the audience, but especially young girls, seemed to believe that Paul, John, George, or Ringo were referring to and performing just for them). All this touches in fundamental ways on the construction of listeners and audience in pop songs in general, on the relationship between performer(s) or speaker(s) and addressee(s), not least through the use of personal pronouns. In this connection, close attention should be paid to the distinction between dominantly visceral and dominantly cerebral songs, and their appeal to audiences, even if on closer inspection the two extremes will tend to unfold a complex, dialectical dynamic. These are categories that could be

39

For the somewhat unclear, inconclusive accounts of how this song came into being, and its interesting, controversial history in general, including cover versions, see Wikipedia, “Killing Me Softly with His Song.” The full text of the song can be retrieved from the web.

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applied to “Windmills” with interesting results and should perhaps be made a general part of an aesthetic of pop songs.40 As a final point, “Windmills” is a perfect example of a “smooth,” or formally “affirmative” song in the sense that all of its parts are mutually supporting and enhance each other, thus combining to produce a uniform, unidirectional effect. This, however, is the principal horizon of expectations against which more complex relationships between the constituent parts of a song, its lyrics, music, or both, can be played out. I have written at length about such artistically complex, subversive, even disruptive songs, or otherwise playful pieces, using especially the example of “All You Need Is Love,” but also of some of Sade’s songs (cf. Keiper 2008b and 2009). Such intricate uses of the fundamental patterns and their aesthetic potential might be regarded as artistically more challenging and satisfactory, and might hence be preferred by highbrow audiences; naturally, these are not restricted to pop songs, 41 but should be considered as part of a comprehensive aesthetic of the pop song. Among examples representing various types of interplay on those levels, there are Sting’s “Every Breath You Take” (not a romantic love song, as is frequently assumed, but a song about stalking), or Christie’s 1970 hit “Yellow River” (about returning home from war, despite the cheerful music), the lastfarewell ballad “The Green, Green Grass of Home” (a nostalgically escapist vision by a speaker who is soon to be executed), or many songs by Manu Chao. The aesthetic of pop songs has never been a wholly stable affair, or an unchanging set of rules and principles. As a system of signification for creating and projecting meaning in the most comprehensive sense, and despite obvious continuities, even firmly set patterns, it can never be arrested in its restless dynamic or remain unchanged or unchallenged for long: in fact, change is the heart and soul of any such cultural system and its related phenomena. Hence, there will always be a certain evolutionary 40

See Bernhart (2008, 42) for the remotely comparable distinction between “pathogenous” and “logogenous” texts in relation to Elizabethan poems and songs. 41 See also Bernhart (2008).

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dynamic, swings of the pendulum, shifts in emphasis or trend, and counter-trends, from one pole of possibilities to the other. In describing these we can only take provisional snapshots of doubtful reliability. Moreover, what can be claimed as true or pertinent for now or recent decades, is ephemeral and a tiny slice of reality, of an ever broadening range of styles and directions, and may change quickly, if only in terms of perceptions.

Discography (including films) Flack, Roberta. 1973. “Killing Me Softly with His Song.” Killing Me Softly. Atlantic Records [CD digitally remastered]. Jewison, Norman. 1968. Thomas Crown ist nicht zu fassen (The Thomas Crown Affair). Twentieth Century Fox: DVD (English, German etc). MGM, 2009. Contains: Noel Harrison, “The Windmills of Your Mind.” McTiernan, John. 1999. Die Thomas Crown Affäre (The Thomas Crown Affair). MGM: DVD (English, German etc). Frankfurt / Main: Twentieth Century Fox, 2009. Contains: Sting, “The Windmills of Your Mind.” Springfield, Dusty. 1969. “The Windmills of Your Mind.” Dusty Springfield. [Colour Collection]. Universal Music, 2000 / 2006.

References Bernhart, Walter. 2008. “What Can Music Do to a Poem? New Intermedial Perspectives of Literary Studies.” In Literatures in English. Priorities of Research, edited by Wolfgang Zach and Michael Kenneally, 41-46. Tübingen: Stauffenburg Verlag. —. 1993. “True Versifying.” Studien zur elisabethanischen Verspraxis und Kunstideologie. Unter Einbeziehung der zeitgenössischen Lautenlieder. Tübingen: Niemeyer. Braheny, John. 2006. The Craft and Business of Songwriting. A Practical Guide to Creating and Marketing Artistically and Commercially Successful Songs. Cincinnati: Writer’s Digest Books, Third Revised Edn.

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Bogdanov, Vladimir, Chris Woodstra and Stephen Thomas Erlewime, eds. 2001. All Music Guide: The Definitive Guide to Popular Music. San Francisco: AMG / Backbeat Books. Eckstein, Lars. 2010. Reading Song Lyrics. Amsterdam: Rodopi. Ettl, Daniela. 2010. All You Need is Words. An Analysis of the Beatles Hits Against the Background of Commercial Songwriting. Graz: Diploma Thesis: Online: full text accessible via Graz, University Library (online catalogue). Fellmann, Max. 2012. “Melodie des Grauens.” Süddeutsche Zeitung Magazin. Accessed April 3, 2014. http://sz-magazin.sueddeutsche.de/drucken/text/38561. Faust, Edwin C. 2003. “Michel Legrand–The Thomas Crown Affair.” Stylus Magazine (February 1, 2003). Accessed December 20, 2014. http://www.stylusmagazine.com/articles/on_second_thought/mic hel-legrand-the-thomas-crown-affair.htm. Josefs, Jai. 1996. Writing Music for Hit Songs. New York et al., Schirmer Trade Books (second edition; first edition 1989). Keiper, Hugo. 2007. “It’s Easy (?): Literaturdidaktische Reflexionen zur Poplyrik am Beispiel von John Lennons ‘All You Need Is Love.’” Arbeiten aus Anglistik und Amerikanistik, 32.ii: 165-195. —. 2008a. “‘It’s a Hard Egg’: Mondegreens and Other (Mis)construals of Pop Lyrics–and What They Can Teach Us.” In English Language, Literature and Culture in a Global Context, edited by Nada Šabec, 32-45. (Zora, 57.) Maribor: Slavistiþno Društvo. —. 2008b. “‘There’s Nothing You Can Do ...’: The Power of Love, or The Continuing Story of (Mis-) Reading John Lennon’s ‘All You Need Is Love’ (1967).” In Summer of Love. The Beatles, Art and Culture in the Sixties, edited by Jörg Helbig and Simon Warner, 93-114. (Focal Point, 8.) Trier: WVT. —. 2009. “‘No Ordinary Love’: ‘Sexie Sade’ and What They Can Teach Us About Pop Lyrics as Avantgarde Poetry.” In High Culture and / versus Popular Culture, edited by Sabine CoelschFoisner and Dorothea Flotow, 123-136. (Wissenschaft und Kunst, 12.) Heidelberg: Winter.

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Kennedy, Michael, Tim Rutherford-Johnson and Joyce BourneKennedy, eds. 2013. The Oxford Dictionary of Music. Sixth Edition. Oxford: OUP. Kennedy, Victor. 2013. Strange Brew: Metaphors of Magic and Science in Rock Music. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Kinsley, James, ed. 1969. The Oxford Book of Ballads. Oxford: OUP. Klasinc, Lara. 2009. Mondegreens, Mishearings and Similar Phenomena—A Survey. Graz: Diploma Thesis: Online: full text accessible via Graz, University Library (online catalogue). “Noel Harrison Fan Site.” Accessed April 3, 2014. http://www.thewindmillsofyourmind.com/; Specifically, for “The Windmills of Your Mind” (including text): see sub-link: http://www.thewindmillsofyourmind.com/thewindmillsofyourmind. Pattison, Pat. 1991a. Songwriting: Essential Guide to Lyric Form and Structure. Tools and Techniques for Writing Better Lyrics. Boston: Berklee Press. —. 1991b. Songwriting: Essential Guide to Rhyming. A Step-byStep Guide to Better Rhyming and Lyrics. Boston: Berklee Press. —. 1995. Writing Better Lyrics. The Essential Guide to Powerful Songwriting–From Generating Ideas to Developing Verse and Beyond. Cincinnati: Writer’s Digest Books, Third Edn. Perricone, Jack. 2000. Melody in Songwriting. Tools and Techniques for Writing Hit Songs. Boston: Berklee Press. Schnurr, Eva-Maria. 2007. “Ohrwurm: Wenn einmal der Wurm drin ist.” Zeit Online (04/2007). Accessed December 20, 2014. http://www.zeit.de/zeit-wissen/2007/04/Ohrwurm. Wicke, Peter, Kai-Erik Ziegenrücker and Wieland Ziegenrücker. 2007. Handbuch der populären Musik: Geschichte, Stile, Praxis, Industrie. Mainz: Schott. Wikipedia (English): Accessed December 20, 2014, Articles on: “Hook,” “Earworm,” “Doctrine of the affections,” “The Windmills of Your Mind (Song),” “The Thomas Crown Affair.” Wikipedia (German): Accessed December 20, 2014. Articles on: “Hookline,” “Ohrwurm,” “Affektenlehre,” “The Windmills of

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Your Mind (Song),” “Thomas Crown ist nicht zu fassen,” “Die Thomas Crown Affäre.”

Appendix: “The Windmills of Your Mind” (music: Michel Legrand; lyrics: Alan and Marilyn Bergman) The text has been transcribed by the present author from Noel Harrison’s and Dusty Springfield’s performances with the help of various online sources, but especially the sheet music, subject to corrections. As noted above, the text on the page can be divided in different ways, depending on whether or not it is part of the score or sheet music. Common alternative divisions render the final two lines of chorus as a separate section, or else divide the whole text, including the bridge, into separate quartets (plus a couplet for the chorus “proper”). The initial word round is sometimes given an extra line at the beginning (the present choice); or it is printed as the beginning of the first verse line (as in the sheet music). My preference for the divisions displayed in the text has also to do with the musical dimension: sheet music usually treats the sections as suggested here, even though one could begin a new section after line 8 of each verse. The sheet music and some transcriptions provide a gendered alternative for lines 41-44, for “(Girl)”. The sheet music can be downloaded from various servers.

verse 2 (= verse/chorus 2)

chorus / refrain (13-14) hook (14)

chorus (9-14) / pre-chorus (9-12)

verse: 1-8

verse 1 (= verse/chorus 1)

[‘introductory verse’]

I

6

8

II

14

12

8

4

III

[Like] a tunnel that you follow [15]

[0] Like a circle in a spiral [1] Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning On an ever-spinning reel Like a snowball down a mountain [5] Or a carnival balloon Like a carousel that’s turning Running rings around the moon Like a clock whose hands are sweeping Past the minutes of its face [10] And the world is like an apple Whirling silently in space Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind [14]

Round

IV

Notes Towards an Aesthetic of the Pop Song

E (> e)

(see l. 21, 25) c d d

b A (< a) b A (< a) c

a A (< a) a A (< a)

D (> d)

(> line 5)

V

((M))

M M

(M)

VI

47

verse: 15-21

(primary) bridge (29-44)

chorus (27-28) Hook (28)

chorus (23-28) / pre-chorus (23-26)

48

6

8

4

14

12

8

4

Keys that jingle in your pocket Words that jangle in your head [30] Why did summer go so quickly? Was it something that you said? Lovers walk along the shore And leave their footprints in the sand Is the sound of distant drumming [35]

To a tunnel of its own Down a hollow to a cavern Where the sun has never shone Like a door that keeps revolving In a half-forgotten dream [20] Or the ripples from a pebble Someone tosses in a stream Like a clock whose hands are sweeping Past the minutes of its face And the world is like an apple [25] Whirling silently in space Like the circles that you find In the windmills of your mind! [28]

Chapter One

A (< a) g E (< e) h A (< a)

G (< e / > f) g

c d d

(see l. 11, 25) f (< a) A (< a) c (see l. 11, 21)

e A (< a) f (< a)

e

M

M

(M) (M) (M)

3

chorus (50-51)

4

[Like] a circle in a spiral [45] Like a wheel within a wheel Never ending or beginning On an ever-spinning reel As the images unwind Like the circles that you find [50] In the windmills of your mind

Just the fingers of your hand? Pictures hanging in a hallway And the fragment of a song, Half-remembered names and faces, But to whom do they belong? [40] When you knew that it was over You were suddenly aware That the autumn leaves were turning To the color of her hair!* [44]

* Sheet music, lines 41-44: “(Girl) When you knew that it was over / In the autumn of good-byes / For a moment you could not recall / The color of his eyes! [Like] indicates that Harrison leaves out these words in his performance.

Hook (51)

4

4

16

(transitional line [49])

reprise / [outro]

(final) chorus (45-51) /

4

12

4

Notes Towards an Aesthetic of the Pop Song

d

a A (< a) a d d

D (< d)

E j A (< a) j

h (C) i (< E) C i

M

(M) (M) (M) M M

(M)

(M)

M M M/(M)

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Structural analysis Column I suggests possible structural divisions or units, giving the line numbers for each unit; columns II and III indicate the relationship of individual sections or subsections to the Italian (II) and the English (III) types of sonnet, respectively, as well as quartets generally. Column V uses letters to indicate rhymes, assonances, and the like: lower case letters (indicating perfect rhymes) and capitals (indicating half-rhymes and jingles) have been used in relation to particular sound clusters only once throughout the text (not starting afresh for each major section) to indicate the echoes and sound relations transcending the boundaries of sections, apart from the recurring couplet indicating the (concluding) chorus/hook section. The symbols < and > have been used in connection with both typographical conventions in order to indicate proleptic (>) or analeptic (>) sound relations, most often between assonance and perfect rhyme in case of end positions. Column VI: M: meta-textual phrase/line; (M): implied meta-textuality. Italics in the text indicate additional internal rhymes, assonances, consonances and jingles (but are not highlighted in exactly repeated sections). Occurrences of “Windmills” in the films Jewison (Noel Harrison): (1) Scene 1: “Opening Sequence”: 0:00:17—0:02:30; (2) Scene 16: “The Glider”: 0:39:04—0:40:42: features a shorter version consisting of verse 1 + chorus, immediately segueing into the bridge and then the final two lines of the chorus section. McTiernan (Sting): (1) Special Features: “The Windmills of Your Mind”: Promotional Music Video, Title 5: 01: 00:00-04:01. (2) Movie: (A) Chapter 24: “Cutting In” (the ballroom scene: just parts of the song [instrumental] played by a combo): 0:54:48—0:56:13 [for “Windmills”]; (B) the full version by Sting, extended by repetitions from line 37 to end, accompanies the credits section: Chapter 36: 1:43:21—1:48:36.

CHAPTER TWO MOZART’S MUSIC: A UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE FOR THE HUMAN BRAIN?1 KATARINA HABE

Introduction My aim here is to present different perspectives on why music speaks so universally to the human brain. Many researchers have claimed that Mozart’s music, in particular, when compared to other types of music, carries in itself a special code that allows every human brain to understand it equally and that the reaction to it is universal. A number of studies give us different theories about the cause of this unique effect; one of the most persuasive explanations lies in the frequency structure of Mozart’s music, and another in the symmetrical structure of Mozart’s compositions. First, I will survey recent research findings that support the idea of music as the first language of humankind from a phylogenetic and ontogenetic point of view. Second, the connection between music and language from various perspectives are introduced. My main interest is in the Mozart Effect on spatial-temporal reasoning; for this discussion, I will use the example of the influence of Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos in D major, K448. I 1

The results presented in this chapter are a summary of experimental findings from a multi-year research program conducted with my colleague, Norbert Jaušovec, at the University of Maribor, Slovenia. Several sections are reproduced from earlier publications with the kind permission of the original copyright holders.

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will present the main outcomes of several research studies that my colleagues and I conducted on Slovene university students; first, three preliminary neurological studies were performed, followed by the main experiment on a sample of 315 students. A summary of our main conclusions from neurological studies is that Mozart’s music has a universal and specific effect on the human brain. The universal effect can be recognized in the “binding” of different brain areas when listening to the music, so that the brain works more synchronically and holistically. On the other hand, the specific effect is seen in enhanced mental concentration, which results in better reasoning. The results of our experiment showed that the group with the Mozart Effect and the group without the Mozart Effect differed in general intelligence and in learning styles; subjects who had experienced the Mozart Effect processed information more on auditory and holistic levels and showed lower IQ levels compared to the group without the Mozart Effect. We propose the idea that music can be used as a tool for cognitive optimization in some individuals.

Discussion According to Plato, “Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything” (Watson 1994, 45). Many educators feel that if we were truly aware of all the benefits that music holds in itself, we would implement it in every human activity. Ancient Hindus were convinced that the universe was born out of music; the ancient Chinese and Egyptians believed that music reflected the main principles in the universe, and the ancient Greeks thought that music had a healing power and was also the most important element of a good education. Music is an essential component of human functioning that provides adaptive value. Supposed by some to be written into the human genome, music represents the most ancient language of humankind. Musical activities, such as listening and creating, are among the oldest (in evolutionary terms) abilities of humankind. From a phylogenetic point of view, music is thought to have been the first means of human communication to be oriented primarily

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towards expressing an individual’s emotional state. It is supposed that music was used as a means of communication in mate selection, social cohesion, group effort, conflict reduction and transgenerational communication (Huron 2003). On the other hand, the ontogenetic development of the human species also supports the idea of the importance of sound and music. The ear is the first organ to develop in the embryo and becomes functional after only eighteen weeks; it listens actively from twenty-four weeks onwards. There is even clear evidence of an in utero response to music (Leader et al. 1982; Lecanuet, Granier-Deferre and Busnel 1988).

Music–the first language of humankind The use of music as a means of communication is evident from the varying theories about the evolutionary origins of music. According to Wilfried Gruhn (2006), musical abilities played a key role in the evolution of language in the phylogeny of man. Rousseau (1781/1993) (see Ackermann et al. 2006) was convinced that the first languages were sung, not spoken. According to Rousseau, language evolved from music for the sake of expressing emotions and achieving rational organization of human society. As part of his evolutionary theory, Charles Darwin (1871) interpreted proto-musical emotional expressions as a step towards language, whereas Herbert Spencer (1857) made the opposite assumption: that it was the emotional content of language that led to music (Ackermann, Wildgruber and Riecker 2006). Neurobiology can offer new explanations to the old debate on the origins of music and language (Wallin, Merker and Brown 2000). Roedere (1984), for example, concluded that music had several advantages over language. Singing is much louder than speaking, so singing may facilitate group interactions.

The connection between language and music Language and music are genuine human universals that are present in every culture. The interest in the music–language relationship is over 2000 years old, going back at least to Plato. The question of a common or separate origin for language and music lay

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at the centre of heated debates between philosophers and scientists from the seventeenth to the nineteenth centuries (Besson and Schoen 2003). The first basic function of both language and music was probably to express emotive meaning through variations in the intonation of the voice (intonational prosody) and rhythm (Brown 2000; Molino 2000; Spencer 1857). In recent decades, it has been proposed that music and language have common roots in an evolutionary and neurobiological sense, which has led to the idea of a “musilanguage” (Brown 2000), which has in turn initiated new lines of research on animal and human vocal communication. There is increasing interest in the emotional prosody of animals (bats, monkeys, mice and rats), in the cries of infants (Lehr et al. 2007; Zeskind 2007) and in infants’ early preverbal vocalizations (Leimbrink 2010). From an early child development perspective, many scholars believe that music and language are equally important and share some commonalities during infancy (see Ilari 2002; Trehub 2002; Trevarthen and Malloch 2002). Parental speech to infants has many music-like characteristics. Several researchers have even argued that the melody is the message that is transmitted to pre-verbal infants (Fernald et al. 1989). According to these studies, babies are attuned and respond to the melodic contours found in parental speech and in infant-directed singing (Trehub 2003). One of the most prominent researchers addressing the connection between music and language, Aniruddh D. Patel’s book Music, Language and the Brain (2008) claims that music and language share many similarities, but also some differences. He recognizes similarities in rhythm (systematic patterns of timing, accent and grouping), melody (structured patterns of pitch overtune), syntax (discrete elements and principles of combination) and affect (you can read emotions in the sound of a person’s voice or in a piece of music). On the other hand, he emphasizes the differences in rhythm (language does not have a beat), melody (melodies use stable pitch intervals), syntax (from music you cannot tell who did what to whom and why) and affect (which is sometimes difficult to recognize exactly in music). Patel proposed the idea that there are also hidden connections between music and language; one of his research conclusions was that instrumental music reflects the

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composer’s native language, and that speech patterns enter the music through implicit learning (the rhythm of the language of early childhood). Regarding syntax, he proposed a theory about resource sharing, which claims that there are common neuro resources (integrative processes) for organizing language and music. He is convinced that musical harmonic processing interferes with linguistic syntactic processing but does not interfere with semantic processing (so patients with aphasia also have problems with musical syntax). Perrachione et al (2013) “investigated how pitch processing is shared between language and music by measuring consistency in individual differences in pitch perception across language, music and three control conditions intended to assess basic sensory and domain-general cognitive processes”. Their results showed that “individuals’ pitch perception abilities in language and music are most strongly related, which is consistent with the presumption that cognitive mechanisms for pitch processing may be shared between language and music.” Morril and colleagues (2015) examined the relationship between music and speech prosody processing, while controlling for cognitive ability. Their results revealed that only music perception was a significant predictor of prosody test performance. Music perception accounted for 34.5% of variance on a prosody test performance; cognitive abilities and music training added only about 8%. The authors concluded that musical pitch and temporal processing are highly predictive of pitch discrimination in speech processing.

Music, language and the brain Several studies have investigated the similarities and differences between language and music in brain functioning: “Despite the view of some linguists that music and language are strictly separate domains (Pinker 1997), other findings indicate that the human brain engages a variety of neural mechanisms for the processing of both music and language, underscoring the intimate relationship between music and language in the human brain” (Koelsch 2006, 151).

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Besson and Schön (2001) conducted a comprehensive metaanalytical review of brain imaging studies trying to examine similarities and differences between language and music processing from an evolutionary and a cognitive perspective. They concluded that results favour language specificity when certain aspects of semantic processing in language are compared with certain aspects of melodic and harmonic processing in music. On the other hand, when aspects of syntactic processing in language are compared with aspects of harmonic processing in music, results support the view that general cognitive principles are involved. Let us start first with the differences between language and music processing, since they are fewer. According to Jackendoff, “Language and music differ substantially in their rhythmic structure, in their use of pitch, in their “meaning” (propositional versus affective), and in the form and function of their hierarchical structures” (2008). Considering differences in the rhythmic structure, an interesting interdisciplinary study was conducted by Magne et al. (2004): “The Event-Related Brain Potential method was used to study perceptual and cognitive processing related to the rhythmic and semantic/harmonic incongruities” (1). Magne and his colleagues reported that “The results indicated that the processing of rhythmic incongruities was associated with increased positive deflections in the Brain Potential in similar latency bands in both language and music. However, these positivities were present independently of the participants’ focus in the music part while they were only present when the participants focused on semantics in the language part.” Considering the difference in lateralization, language processing is a function more of the left side of the brain than the right side, and takes place particularly in Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area. On the other hand, music is processed by both the left and the right sides of the brain (Koelsch et al. 2000). Stewart et al. studied the differences between speech production and song production using transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS) (2006). They found that “TMS applied to the left frontal lobe disturbs speech but not melody, supporting the idea that speech and melody are subserved by different areas of the brain.” They suggest

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that “a reason for this difference is that speech generation can be localized well, but the underlying mechanisms of melodic production cannot.” Alternatively, they suggest that “speech production may be less robust than melodic production and thus more susceptible to interference.” Differences in brain functioning for processing music and language have also been confirmed by ERP studies, which concluded that the processes that govern semantic expectancy and are reflected by a negative component, peaking at around 400 ms, the N400, are qualitatively different from those involved in musical expectancy that are reflected by a positive peaking at around 600 ms, P600 (Besson and Schoen 2003). On the other hand, several contemporary studies support the parallels between language and music processing. Kunert and colleagues (2015) used fMRI to examine the anatomical overlap of brain activity involved in linguistic and musical syntactic processing. Their results showed that the processing demands of musical syntax (harmony) and language syntax interact in Broca’s area. The second important similarity between language and music has been shown in brain processing of the syntactical information mechanisms in both music and language. Jentschke et al. (2008) conducted a study investigating the processing of music in children with specific language impairments (SLI) using two specific eventrelated brain potential (ERP) components to investigate musicsyntactic processing in children: the ERAN (early right anterior negativity) and the N5. The results showed that “neither an ERAN nor an N5 was elicited in children with SLI, whereas both components were evoked in age-matched control children with typical language development. Moreover, the amplitudes of ERAN and N5 were correlated with subtests of a language development test” (1940). In a later study, Jentschke and Koelsch (2009) compared the neural correlates of language- and music-syntactic processing between children with and without long-term musical training. Their data suggest that the “neurophysiological mechanisms underlying syntax processing in music and language are developed earlier, and more strongly, in children with musical training.” More precisely, “musically trained children had larger

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amplitudes of the ERAN (early right anterior negativity), elicited by music-syntactic irregularities, and the ELAN (early left anterior negativity), a neurophysiological marker of syntax processing in language.” Shared processing between language and music has also been confirmed at the conceptual level. According to Deutsch and her colleagues (Deutsch et al. 2006; Deutsch et al. 2009) the prevalence of absolute pitch is much higher for speakers of tone languages, even controlling for ethnic background, showing that language influences how musical tones are perceived Several interesting research studies comparing similarities and differences between language and music have also been performed on poetry. Studies comparing poetry to music reveal that more emotionally charged writing arouses several of the regions in the brain that respond to music. These areas, predominantly on the right side of the brain, had previously been shown to give rise to the “shivers down the spine” caused by an emotional reaction to music” (Zeman et al. 2013). Lerdahl concluded that “grouping, meter, duration, contour, and timbral similarity are mind/brain systems shared by music and language, whereas linguistic syntax and semantics, and musical pitch relations, are systems not shared by the two domains” (Lerdahl 2001). To sum up, the results of a number of brain studies strongly suggest that, on the one hand, there is language in music and, on the other, that there is also music in language. The brain processing in language and music is bilateral, but there are many brain systems not shared by the two domains.

What is the Mozart effect? As I have stated before, “the Mozart Effect refers to an enhancement of performance in spatial-temporal reasoning or a change in neurophysiological activity associated with listening to Mozart’s Music” (Habe and Jaušovec 2003). The effect was first reported in 1993 by Rauscher, Shaw and Ky. Studies on the Mozart Effect can be organized into three main categories: (1) Mozart Effect listening experiments; (2) direct tests of the trion model of higher brain function; and (3) music training

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that enhances children’s spatial-temporal reasoning and math learning. In general, we can say that studies into the Mozart Effect involve using Mozart’s music as a window into higher brain function. The starting point for all the research is that the human brain possesses a built-in, innate ability to recognize symmetries and to use them to see how patterns develop in space and time. The trion model of the cortex provides a causal basis for relationships between musical ability and spatial reasoning ability. The main purpose of research into the Mozart Effect is to gain a better understanding of higher brain functions; music is used as a mediator, as a key to understanding how we think, reason, and create, and how we can enhance these higher brain functions through our innate spatial-temporal reasoning abilities. Researchers have used Mozart’s music as “the most optimal window” among various musical genres and composers for studying higher brain functions. There is controversy about the Mozart Effect, however. While some studies confirm the Mozart Effect (Habe, 2005; Jaušovec and Habe, 2003, 2005; Lin et al., 2010; Lin et al., 2014; Rideout, Dougherty and Wernert, 1998; Rideout and Laubach, 1996; Rideout and Taylor, 1997; Turner, 2004; Wilson and Brown, 1997), several other studies have failed to replicate it (Carstens, Huskins and Hounshell, 1996; ýrnþec, Wilson and Prior, 2006; McCutchen, 2000; McKelvie and Low, 2002; Newman, Rosenbach, Burns, Latimer, Matocha and Vogt, 1995; Steele, Ball and Runk, 1997; Steele, Bass and Crook, 1999; Steele, Brown and Stoecker, 1999; Pietschnig, Voracek and Formann, 2010). Clémentine Beauvais addressed the Mozart Effect from a different perspective as an interesting sociocultural phenomenon in late 20th-century America. She concluded that “phenomena like the ‘Mozart Effect’ do not just take advantage of a fortuitous alignment of circumstances, but lastingly modify in turn the different fields which have allowed them to grow.” In her opinion, “the popular and commercial success of the Mozart Effect rested on the belief, cultivated by advertising, that certain possessions can confer positive attributes to those who come into close contact with them” (Beauvais 2015, 22).

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The Neurological basis of the Mozart Effect Although brain functions are typically associated with specific, localized regions of the cortex, higher cognitive abilities draw upon a wide range of cortical areas (Petsche et al., 1993; Sarnthein et al., 1997). Leng and Shaw (1991) proposed that exposure to music excites the cortical firing patterns used in spatial-temporal reasoning, thereby affecting cognitive ability in tasks that share the same neural code as spatial-temporal tasks. The improvement of spatial reasoning capabilities after listening to music has been studied by electroencephalographic (EEG) power analysis (Rideout and Laubach, 1996). Sarnthein et al. (1997) reported “the presence of right frontal and left temporo-parietal coherent activity which was induced by listening to Mozart and which carried over into spatial-temporal tasks in three of seven subjects. This carry-over effect was compared to the results of an EEG coherence analysis of spatial-temporal tasks after listening to text.” They suggest that “these EEG coherence results provide the beginnings of an understanding of the neurophysiological basis of the causal enhancement of spatial-temporal reasoning after listening to specific music. The observed long-lasting coherent EEG pattern might be evidence for structured sequences in cortical dynamics which extend over minutes.” Bodner et al. (2001) used fMRI to examine the specific structural activations that occur in subjects during exposure to the Mozart Sonata (K448) but not during exposure to control (piano) music. They found, in particular, that “listening to the Mozart Sonata (K448) resulted in the activation of the prefrontal and auditory cortex for all three subjects. The fact that no prefrontal activation was observed for either the popular or the Beethoven piano music (which was familiar to the subjects) shows that this activation was not due to expectations from knowing the piece, general expectations because the piece was classical, or some type of general build-up or discharge of activity.”

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Why do we believe that Mozart’s music speaks universally to the human brain? Musicologist Ulrich Konrad (2008) wondered, as have many others, “What makes Mozart’s music so exceptional? What makes it different from other works of his epoch, the classical period, with its clear rules for the form and harmony of compositions?” According to Konrad, “Mozart found astonishing combinations within the usual, and used these in such a fitting way that it sounds unique for his time, and often exceptional. Mozart described his ideal very simply: “The middle-thing—the truth in all things.” Many people feel that the imperative of classicism of finding harmony and balance in the arts was perfectly accomplished in Mozart’s music. There are several different explanations for why Mozart’s music speaks so universally: (1) the high frequency structure in his music (Campbell 2001); (2) the balance between tension and relaxation in his music (Balzer 2009); (3) the inherent symmetry of his music (especially the piano sonatas) that overlaps with spatial-temporal reasoning in our brains (Shaw 2000); and (4) the Golden Ratio/Golden Section in his musical compositions (Putz 1995). Don Campbell (2001) claimed that much of Mozart’s music is in the high frequency range, which Alfred Tomatis (1991) found to contain the most stimulating and emotionally charged aspects of sound. The higher frequencies help activate our brains and increase attentiveness. Hughes and Fino (2000) conducted research to address the question of why Mozart’s music so specifically results in a decrease of epileptiform activity. Their conclusion was that one salient aspect of Mozart’s music lay in its “long-term periodicity,” which could well resonate within the cerebral cortex, while also being related to coding within the brain. Hans-Ulrich Balzer (2009), a researcher at the Salzburg University Mozarteum, demonstrated using chrono-biological analysis that listening to Mozart’s music leads to an astonishingly quick synchronization with the body’s own rhythms, as the steering of the rhythms happens through processes taking place in the brain. Balzer’s observations are in line with the discovery of Wolf Singer (2005), a renowned German

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brain researcher, who proposed the analogy that the brain operates like an orchestra.  One of the most controversial theories about the Mozart Effect is Putz’s concept (1995) of the Golden Ratio/Golden Section in Mozart’s music. “Putz measured those of Mozart’s piano sonatas that were most convenient because they are customarily divided into two parts: (1) the exposition; and (2) the development and recapitulation. Many Mozart piano sonatas seem to employ the Golden Section, but there are also some that deviate considerably” (May 1996). Putz therefore could not conclude that Mozart consciously used the Golden Section to “improve his music, but he definitely used it frequently.” The mathematical astrophysicist Mario Livio (2003, 2005) has studied the relationship between art and mathematics. He is convinced that most people are attracted to symmetry when there are also some elements of surprise. In these elements of surprise, he sees the answer to why Mozart’s music has such a broad and varied effect on human brain functioning. Gordon L. Shaw, a member of the team that first proposed the Mozart Effect, proposed a trion theory that is based on a symmetrical concept as a theoretical background for Mozart Effect studies (2000). Rauscher and Shaw (1998) argued that music, like the Mozart Sonata, that is structured in a complex way in tempo, melody, organization and predictability might also enhance spatial task performance. “The link is subserved by similarities in neural activation between music listening and spatial reasoning, as specified in the trion model of cortical organization” (Leng and Shaw 1991; McGrann et al. 1994; Shaw, Silverman and Pearson 1985; Shenoy et al. 1993). “Music acts as an exercise that excites and primes the common repertoire and sequential flow of the cortical firing patterns responsible for higher brain functions. The cortical symmetry operations among the inherent patterns are enhanced and facilitated by music” (Rauscher, Shaw and Ky 1995). Leng and Shaw (1991) proposed that music is a “prelanguage” available at an early age, and can access these inherent firing patterns and enhance the ability of the cortex to accomplish pattern development, thus improving other higher brain functions.

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To sum up all the explanations of the origins of the Mozart Effect, we can see that some researchers believe that Mozart’s music holds a perfect balance between tension and relaxation, which affects the human brain. This balance can also be observed in the symmetrical structure of his music that overlaps with symmetries in higher brain functioning. Mozart’s music actually primes our brains for better spatial-temporal reasoning.

The main findings from our research on the Mozart Effect (ME) The aim of our research project on the Mozart Effect was multifaceted; first we wanted to establish neurological bases of the Mozart effect, the second step was to test the two distinct previous theories about the origins of the Mozart Effect: indirect (arousal/mood theory) and direct (priming theory); the third step was to compare the group who experienced the Mozart Effect with the other group in which the Mozart Effect was not evident, in intellectual, personal, emotional characteristics and the differences in learning styles. The aim of our first study (Jaušovec and Habe 2003) was to test the two distinct theories about the origins of the Mozart Effect: the arousal-mood theory and the priming theory. On a sample group of 18 individuals, we conducted event-related response EEG analysis employing the methods of induced, eventrelated desynchronization/synchronization (ERD/ERS) and eventrelated coherence (ERCoh). We used three musical clips with differing levels of complex structure, induced mood, musical tempo and prominent frequency: Mozart’s Sonata (K448), Brahms’ Hungarian Dance No. 5, and a simplified excerpt of Haydn’s Symphony No. 94 played on a synthesizer). Our results showed that Mozart’s music influences the respondent’s level of attention–the level of alertness and expectancy. Our findings speak more in favour of the priming theory, since only the Mozart clip, compared to the other two musical clips, with no regard to the level of induced mood, musical tempo or complexity, influenced the level of arousal.

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In our second study, we investigated the influence of auditory background stimulation (Mozart’s Sonata K448) on visual brain activity (Jaušovec and Habe 2004). Twenty test subjects solved a visual oddball task in two response conditions: the first, while listening to Sonata K448, and the second while listening to nothing. The recorded event-related potentials (ERP) were analyzed in the time and frequency domains. In the theta, lower-1 alpha and gamma bands, we observed increases in induced event-related coherences while respondents solved the oddball task and listened to music; in the silence response condition, we observed a decoupling of brain areas in the gamma band. Our results confirmed the thesis that auditory background stimulation can influence visual brain activity, even if the two stimuli are unrelated. In our third study, we investigated the influence of Mozart’s Sonata K448 on brain activity during the performance of spatial rotation and numerical tasks using induced ERD/ERS and ERCoh (Jaušovec and Habe 2005). The music condition had a positive influence on respondents’ ability to perform spatial rotation tasks, and a slightly negative influence on the performance of numerical tasks when compared with the silence condition. On a psychophysiological level, we observed an effect of Mozart’s music on brain activity in the induced gamma band, accompanied by a more specific effect in the induced lower-2 alpha band that was present only while respondents were solving numerical tasks. We suggest that listening to Mozart’s music can increase activity in specific brain areas, and thus can facilitate the selection and “binding” together of pertinent aspects of sensory stimulus into a perceived whole. On the basis of the findings of our three neurological studies, we suggest that Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos in D Major speaks universally and specifically to the human brain. The universal effect can be recognized in the “binding” of different brain areas when listening to the music, so that the brain works more synchronically and holistically; the specific effect is a result of enhanced mental concentration that results in better reasoning. Our study of the Mozart Effect (Habe 2005) was based on the question: Is the Mozart Effect—an increase in spatio-temporal reasoning (STR) performance immediately after exposure to a

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Mozart piano sonata (MS)—a genuinely universal human phenomenon, or does it differ between individuals with different intellectual abilities, emotional intelligence, personality traits and learning styles? The experiment was performed on a sample of 315 students, aged 19 to 23. Since we were able to confirm the Mozart Effect in our initial research, based on the results of those experiments, we selected between an enhancement group that experienced a positive effect (+Mozart Effect = 30) and a stagnation group which experienced little or no effect (ØMU=30). For these two groups, we examined differences in general intelligence using the Advanced Progressive Matrices by Raven, Raven and Court 1999), emotional intelligence using the Mayer-Salovey-Caruso emotional intelligence test (2002), learning styles using the Keefe and Monk Learning Style Profile (1990), and personality using the Big Five Observatory (Caprara et al. 2002). Our results showed that the Mozart Effect is not influenced by the personality or emotional intelligence of an individual. On the other hand, the performance of the two groups differed significantly with respect to general intelligence and learning styles; the Mozart Effect was more pronounced in (1) individuals who scored a lower IQ compared to those with higher IQ, (2) in those who processed information more on an auditory and on a holistic level (while the stagnation group was more visual and analytical). Our results therefore indicate that listening to Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos (K.448) has a positive influence on cognitive functioning, but the extent of this effect depends on various factors, such as intellectual capacities, perceptual style and the method of informational processing used by each individual.

Conclusion We believe that music is one of the essential languages of humankind. The evidence for this is apparent from both the phylogenetic and the ontogenetic perspective on human development. In our studies, we found evidence to support the proposition that listening to Mozart’s music has broad and varied beneficial effects on human brain functioning. Mozart’s music can be argued to speak universally to the human brain, although the

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answer to why it does so remains unclear. The real explanation for the Mozart Effect probably depends on a combination of factors, including the benefit of higher frequency structure, on the one hand, and the benefit of optimal balance and symmetry in Mozart’s work, on the other. Even though the results of different studies about the Mozart Effect are contradictory, many researchers have confirmed its existence on a neurophysiological level. Moreover, the implications of the Mozart Effect in the clinical and educational domains are potentially very important, so practitioners should be aware of the important prerequisites of the Mozart Effect considering personality (general intelligence, learning style, personality traits, musical background) and situational factors, such as the use of Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos K.448 instead of other musical pieces, listening through earphones, listening to music before and not during problem solving, and solving spatiotemporal tasks. We believe that the Mozart Effect can be an important tool for cognitive optimization in some individuals.

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Jaušovec, Norbert, and Katarina Habe. 2004. “The Influence of Auditory Background Stimulation (Mozart’s sonata K. 448) on Visual Brain Activity.” International Journal of Psychophysiology 51, no. 3: 261-271. Jaušovec, Norbert, and Katarina Habe. 2005. “The Influence of Mozart’s Sonata K. 448 on Brain Activity During the Performance of Spatial Rotation and Numerical Tasks.” Brain Topography 17, no. 4: 207-218. Jentschke, Sebastian and Stefan Koelsch. 2009. “Musical Training Modulates the Development of Syntax Processing in Children.” NeuroImage 47, no. 2: 735-744. Jentschke, Sebastian, Stefan Koelsch, Stephan Sallat and Angela Friederici. 2008. “Children with Specific Language Impairment also Show Impairment of Music-syntactic Processing.” Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience 20, no. 11: 1940-1951. Jusczyk, Peter W. and Carol L. Krumhansl. 1993. “Pitch and Rhythmic Patterns Affecting Infants’ Sensitivity to Musical Phrase Structure.” Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance 19: 627-640. Keefe, James and J.S. Monk. 1990. Learning Style Profile. Reston, VA: National Association of Secondary School Principals. Koelsch, Stefan. 2006. “Neural Substrates of Processing Syntax and Semantics in Music.” In Music that Works: Contributions of Biology, Neurophysiology, Psychology, Sociology, Medicine and Musicology, edited by Roland Haas and Vera Brandes, 143-153. New York: Springer. Koelsch, Stefan, Thomas Gunter, Angela Friederici and Erich Schröger. 2000. “Brain Indices of Music Processing: ‘Nonmusicians’ Are Musical.” Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience 12: 520–541. Koelsch, Stefan and Walter Siebel. 2005. “Towards a Neural Basis of Music Perception.” Trends in Cognitive Sciences 9: 578-84. Konrad, Ulrich. 2008. “Zu einem wiederentdeckten autograph Wolfgang Amadé Mozarts. Das ‘Skizzenblatt Nantes.’” Acta Mozartiana, Mitteilungen der Deutschen Mozart-Gesellschaft 55, no. 3/4: 91-95.

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Kunert, Richard, Roel Willems, Daniel Casasanto, Aniruddh D. Patel and Peter Hagoort. 2015. “Music and Language Syntax Interact in Broca’s Area: An fMRI Study.” PLoS ONE 10(11): e0141069. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0141069 Leader, Leo, Peter Baillie, Bahia Martin and Elsebeth Vermeulen. 1982. “The Assessment and Significance of Habituation to Repeated Stimulus by the Human Fetus.” Early Human Development 7: 211-219. Lecanuet, Jean-Pierre, Carolyn Granier-Deferre and Marie-Claire Busnel. 1988. “Fetal Cardiac and Motor Responses to Octaveband Noises as a Function of Cerebral Frequency, Intensity, and Heart-rate Variability.” Early Human Development 18: 81-93. Lehr, Victoria, Philip Zeskind, John Ofenstein, Eugene Cepeda, Indulekha Warrier and J. V. Aranda. 2007. “Neonatal Facial Coding System Scores and Spectral Characteristic of Infant Crying During Newborn Circumstances.” The Clinical Journal of Pain 23, no. 5: 417-424. Lerdahl, Fred. 2001. “The Sounds of Poetry Viewed as Music.” Annals of New York Academy of Science 930: 337-54. Leimbrink, Kerstin. 2010. Kommunikation von Anfang an. Die Entwicklung von Sprache in der ersten Lebesmonaten. Tübingen: Stauffenburg Verlag. Leng, X., and Gordon Shaw. 1991. “Toward a Neural Theory of Higher Brain Function Using Music as a Window.” Concepts in Neuroscience 2: 229-258. Lin, Lung-Chang, Wei-Te Lee, Hui-Chan Wu, Chin-Lin Tsai, Ruey-Chang Wei, Yuh-Jyh Jong and Rei-Cheng Yang. 2010. “Mozart K. 448 and Epileptiform Discharges: Effect of Ratio of Lower to Higher Harmonics.” Epilepsy Research 89, no. 2-3: 238-245. Lin, Lung-Chang, Mei-Wen Lee, Ruey-Chang Wei, Hin-Kiu Mok and Rei-Cheng Yang. 2014. “Mozart K.448 Listening Decreased Seizure Recurrence and Epileptiform Discharges in Children with First Unprovoked Seizures: A Randomized Controlled Study.” BMC Complementary and Alternative Medicine, BMC series open. Livio, Mario. 2003. The Golden Ratio: The Story of Phi. New York, NY: The Crown Publishing Group.

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Rideout, Bruce, and Jennifer Taylor. 1997. “Enhanced Spatial Performance Following 10 Minutes Exposure to Music: A Replication.” Perceptual and Motor Skills 85: 112-114. Roederer, Juan. 1984. “The Search for a Survival Value of Music.” Music Perception 1: 350-356. Rousseau, Jean-Jacques. 1781/1993. Essai sur l’origine des langues. Paris, France: Flammarion. Sarnthein, Johannes, Astrid von Stein, Peter Rappelsberger, Hellmuth Petsche, Frances Rauscher and Gordon Shaw. 1997. “Persistent Patterns of Brain Activity: An EEG Coherence Study of the Positive Effect of Music on Spatial-temporal Reasoning.” Neurological Research 19: 107-116. Shaw, Gordon L. 2000. Keeping Mozart in Mind. San Diego, CA: Academic Press. Shaw, Gordon, Dennis Silverman and John Pearson. 1985. “Model of Cortical Organization Embodying a Basis for a Theory of Information Processing and Memory Recall.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences USA 82: 2364-2368. Shenoy, Krishna, Jeffrey Kaufman, John McGrann and Gordon Shaw. 1993. “Learning by Selection in the Trion Model of Cortical Organization.” Cerebral Cortex 3: 239-248. Singer, Wolf. 2005. Das Gehirn—ein Orchester ohne Dirigent. Max Planck Forschung. Das Wissenschaftsmagazin der Max-PlanckGesellschaft 2/2005: 15-18. Spencer, Herbert. 1857. “The Origin and Function of Music.” Fraser’s Magazine 56: 396-408. Steele, Kenneth, Tamera Ball and Rebecca Runk. 1997. “Listening to Mozart Does Not Enhance Backwards Digit Span Performance.” Perceptual and Motor Skills 84: 1179-1184. Steele, Kenneth, Karen Bass and Melissa Crook. 1999. “The Mystery of the Mozart Effect: Failure to Replicate.” Psychological Science 10: 366-369. Steele, Kenneth, Joshua Brown and Jaimily Stoecker. 1999. “Failure to Confirm the Rauscher and Shaw Description of Recovery of the Mozart Effect.” Perceptual and Motor Skills 88: 843-848. Stewart, Lauren, Vincent Walsh, Uta Frith and John Rothwell. 2006. “Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation Produces Speech

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CHAPTER THREE KIM JONG IL’S GESAMTKUNSTWERK: TEXT, MUSIC AND DRAMA IN THE NORTH KOREAN OPERA SEA OF BLOOD LISA BURNETT

Introduction The tantalizing prospect of bringing together poetry, music, and drama in a single work of art has captured the imagination of artists and critics alike, often not without significant debate as to which should take primacy, words or music. The best-known proponent in the West of such a union of the arts is the composer Richard Wagner, from whose oeuvre the term Gesamtkunstwerk, or “total art work” gained wide currency. The phenomenon, however, is not limited to the grandiose visions of nineteenth-century European Romanticism. One of its more surprising outlets is modern North Korea, whose late leader, Kim Jong Il, took on the role of aesthetic theorist-in-chief. In the 1960s and 1970s, Kim shaped the development of a specifically North Korean conception of the “total art work,” with revolutionary opera at its pinnacle. Where Westerners long struggled with how to reconcile music and text, Kim purported to have found a solution: the strophic song, which is then supported by a collection of other musical and textual techniques. Kim’s writings point to the 1971 opera Sea of Blood as “the perfect revolutionary opera,” and proclaim it as the paradigm for all future revolutionary operas to emulate. In this study, I analyze both Kim’s writings and the opera Sea of Blood in order to show that, whereas in the West the Gesamtkunstwerk’s constituent pieces should theoretically melt into a seamless whole, with none

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taking precedence, in North Korean theory the relevant component art forms are carefully arranged in a hierarchy, each retaining its identity while performing a specialized function contributing to the overall impression of the work. In practice, however, the gulf between the two conceptions, Western and Eastern, is not nearly as wide as one might expect.

Kim Jong Il’s Musical Theories Kim Jong Il’s two chief treatises on music, On the Art of Opera (1974) and its companion, On the Art of Music (1987), display many features influenced—directly or indirectly—by late Romantic European conceptions of opera, while at the same time expressly reacting against other features of the Western tradition in favor of a new, revolutionary style specific to the DPRK. Between the founding of the republic in 1948 and the younger Kim’s venture into the form in the early 1970s, North Korea had mounted occasional performances of select pieces from the Western/Soviet operatic canon, as well as trying its hand at producing its own Communism-themed works of musical theater. These typically took the form of “Western-style” operettas (employing arias and recitatives and scored for Western orchestra) or changgǎk, performed using Korean instruments and a more traditional native style of vocal declamation between speech and song. Changgǎk also featured stylized costumes and—at the time of Kim’s writing—relatively minimal props and sets, somewhat similar to those employed in Beijing opera.1 According to official accounts, neither form had gained much traction in the public imagination prior to Kim Jong Il’s reform efforts (Munhwayesul sajǂn 1972, 1; Kang, ed. 1975, 4-5). On the Art of Opera is a transcription of a lengthy 1974 address to the nation’s creative workers, following the debuts of the first set of revolutionary operas during the three years 1

Changgǎk, despite sometimes being referred to as “Korean traditional opera,” is a syncretic form developed in the early twentieth century that combines the traditional musical narrative form known as p’ansori with elements of Chinese, Japanese and Western forms of opera (Killick 2001: 53-55).

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prior. The treatise provides a theoretical framework that places these path-breaking works in a privileged position and exhorts the nation’s creative minds to produce more works in the same style, both for their potential to inspire the masses, and for the edifying ideological effect their composition and production would have on their creators.2 At the forefront of Kim’s theory of opera is the idea of Juche, the name given to the philosophy instituted by Kim’s father, Kim Il Sung, in the 1950s, and which has provided the basis for North Korean government policy ever since.3 Regardless of the form or genre, all music in the DPRK must, by definition, support and illuminate the philosophy of Juche, and there is no question as to whether ideological or aesthetic issues are the most important benchmarks of a work’s quality. “Ideological quality is the first criterion of a masterpiece,” Kim writes; “music without ideological quality is useless” (Kim 1987/2004, 33). The universe of Juche themes is bounded in such a way that archetypal Communist heroes, (military and/or civilian) are the bedrock of revolutionary opera’s subject matter. Kim actively encourages this development, writing that “[t]he heroes of our operas are prototypes of the times who embody a noble moral world and sublime moral traits” (Kim 1987/2004, 27), and that “[a]n opera can deal with a legend or an historical event” (Kim 1987/2004, 5) (but not, apparently, anything else). Revolutionary opera in the DPRK is thus designed to deal exclusively in the mythic, the heroic and the archetypal. By fusing such depictions with music intended to embody Korean national characteristics and to appeal to the people of the 2

Although Kim is these treatises’ sole credited author, the possibility that he received unacknowledged assistance from one or more speechwriters or ghostwriters, perhaps with conservatory training, cannot be dismissed. Nonetheless, by delivering the texts himself and having them published under his name, Kim certainly ratified and endorsed their contents, and so I treat him as their “author,” while acknowledging the problematic nature of this attribution. 3 Juche is usually translated as “self-reliance,” but scholars outside of the DPRK have struggled to supply a single coherent exegesis of its tenets. It is usually thought to incorporate elements of Marxism-Leninism, Confucianism and Korean ethnic nationalism (Lee 2003, 112).

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nation (“our people” in Kim’s parlance), Kim envisions that revolutionary opera will serve a dual purpose: providing the masses with artistic entertainment while at the same time inspiring them with Juche’s characteristic blend of reverence for the leadership and fervent nationalism: In order to give proper operatic expression to our national characteristics, we must sustain our people’s national life and feelings evolved over a long historical course and realistically describe our people’s beautiful and noble mental and moral traits… Opera art, whose mission is to educate people in a revolutionary way, should be not only high in ideological quality but also high in artistic quality. (Kim 1987/2004, 7)

To ensure that opera’s mission is carried out successfully, all works must have at their root what Kim calls an ideological “seed,” (chongja, sometimes translated as “kernel”) here employing an organic metaphor not unlike those favored by European Romanticism a century before, although used with quite a different philosophical objective in mind. The seed is not identical with the theme of the work, but rather gives rise to it, as well as to the work’s actual content. The seed should not simply parrot a precept of Juche ideology, but should illuminate some facet or application of it in a given situational context: The seed of a work in itself is not a theme or a thought but the ideological kernel, which underlies and determines them. Only through his study and analysis of life from his class position and his aesthetic point of view can a writer grasp an ideological kernel of life which inspires him to creation: that is the seed….[It] must be capable of providing a solution to the problem of the destiny of the popular masses[,] who are struggling for an independent and creative life and to the problems of national liberation, class emancipation and man’s freedom. (Kim 1974, 12-13)

Since the ideological seed is so fundamental to the proper development of an operatic masterpiece, great care must be taken in selecting a high-quality seed before one even begins to think of composing a libretto or score:

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In creative work, therefore, the main attention must always be paid to the selection of the right seed. If a[n opera] librettist starts to write without selecting a proper seed, mixing up the seed and the theme, he cannot produce a good libretto. (Kim 1974, 12-11)

Although all arts in North Korea are to be based on an ideological seed, opera is the most important of all art forms, Kim writes, because through music, it “presents to the people a beautiful and noble life and teaches them a lot about their life and struggle,” and “because it is a mixed art” that brings many different forms together, and can thus be used to judge the standard of a nation’s artistic output in general–proclamations that would not sound out of place in late 19th-century Europe (Kim 1974, 2). Opera is conceived as a grand union of the arts (and the standard by which all of a country’s arts should be assessed), but unlike in Western Gesamtkunstwerk theory, it is not a union of equals. Kim envisions the integration of opera’s constituent art forms, the integration element of the Gesamtkunstwerk, as a segmented hierarchy, with the ideological seed at the apex. Vocal music should dominate over instrumental music, instrumental music over dance, and Korean instruments over Western ones. Each component art form in opera also has its own internal hierarchy, so that a libretto has a hero and various subsidiary characters, a score will have a theme song and supporting songs, and so on. Singers and orchestra are subordinate to the conductor, who in turn answers to the director, who is charged with coordinating music, dance, acting, costumes, set design and the technical aspects of stagecraft. Kim also repeatedly emphasizes that for cast, crew and composer, the act of creating and performing opera is not just a means to an end, namely, inspiring the audience with the Juche-themed message carried by the ideological seed, but a way of inspiring and educating the creative team as well. What transpires behind the curtain is as important as what occurs onstage? If On the Art of Opera appears to echo certain Western notions about high art, it also contains reactions against the Western (nonSoviet) classical tradition that are the most explicit found anywhere in Kim’s writings. He displays detailed knowledge of Western operatic forms of musical organization, including recitative, aria

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and leitmotif, and repudiates each of these in turn, explaining why a new, revolutionary method of organization suitable to modern North Koreans must be developed: The forms and methods of portrayal of conventional [i.e. Western] operas, which were made to cater to the tastes of the exploiting classes, contain many aspects that do not appeal to the tastes and feelings of the people of our times. Our people today do not like amorphous lyrics, complicated rhythms, recitatives that are neither songs nor speeches, outmoded stage-settings and other stereotyped methods of portrayal.…We must conduct a revolution in all domains of opera: the content and form, the system and method of creation. (Kim 1974, 2)4

The most significant development, and the one to which Kim calls the most attention, is the structure of revolutionary opera: a series of stanzaic songs linked through orchestral music and spoken dialogue. The art of opera has a history of hundreds of years. However, there has never been an opera in which all its songs were stanzaic. At one time stanzaic songs were used in Western opera, but they were only a small part of the whole of the musical composition, in which the aria was predominant…. In Western operas the aria has been considered the “flower of opera” that is capable of describing the hero’s spiritual world better than any other musical form and which enables the composer and singer to display their musical talents to the full [sic]. In this context, more and more complicated and intricate arias have been produced whether the people understand them or not. In some operas free singing parts were included at the close of arias, which gave the singer the “freedom” to perform whatever feats he could. The songs of such operas were so difficult to understand, so unnatural to the ear and so difficult to sing that the people did not like them. (Kim 1974, 25) In order to make opera art a truly popular art, we must discard the recitative and make all operatic songs stanzaic. In Sea of Blood-style 4

This passage may also be read as a reaction against the minimalist sets and distinct vocal declamation found in Beijing opera and changgǎk.

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operas not only the recitatives but also the arias and all other songs have been replaced by stanzaic songs…. Because a stanzaic song integrates poetic words and beautiful melodies, it can express the characters’ thoughts and feelings intensively in a simpler structure than an aria or a recitative. (Kim 1974, 9)

The recitative/aria distinction is not the only Western-style operatic structure with which Kim wishes to break. …Sea of Blood-style operas are totally different from the [Western] operas of the past which, regarding the recitative as a means of musical dramaturgy, gave prominence to the dramatic development of the music, which depended on leitmotif…. (Kim 1974, 10)5

Operas constructed as a series of strophic songs with spoken dialogue were, of course, not new in 1971–the structure has, inter alia, an obvious (though unacknowledged) kinship with Soviet revolutionary opera. Kim complements stanzaic songs with an additional innovation that he hails as being “purely of our own [i.e. North Korean] style”: the use of pangch’ang, an offstage chorus that can act as a narrator and/or reveal characters’ unspoken thoughts and feelings: The newly-created pangc’hang describes the times, situation and the inmost world and actions of the characters in an objective way, conveys the inmost thoughts and feelings of the characters, provides links between the stage and the audience, and helps the characters to perform well…. The introduction of the pangch’ang has provided our operas with a powerful means of portrayal not present in the operas of the past and has broadened the scope of operatic portrayal beyond measure. (Kim 1974, 9)6 5

Kim does not define what he means by leitmotif and his references to it are vague and imprecise, while later in the treatise he calls for “characteristic melodies” from an opera’s songs to be developed by the orchestra, a practice not entirely dissimilar to Western leitmotif in some contexts. 6 Although such choruses are not characteristic of Western operas of the 18th and 19th centuries, one might draw a parallel here with the role of the chorus in ancient Greek drama, which influenced Western opera

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These formal structures are the chief means by which North Korean “revolutionary opera” is to be differentiated from all that came before it. 7 Revolutionary opera will be novel and forwardlooking in that its integrated, yet hierarchical structure is seen to represent a radical break from the past; that its content will be Juche-oriented is not sufficient on its own to render it “revolutionary.” The precise nature of the relationship between text and music in the hierarchy, though, is complex. Initially, it appears that text determines music, not the other way around: “the seed and theme of an opera, and its characters and storyline, are all indicated in the libretto; the music, dance and stage art, too, are determined by the libretto” (Kim 1974, 11) However, later Kim advises that “all means of [dramatic] portrayal are combined and harmonized on the basis of stanzaic songs,” and the libretto must itself be constructed with sections of rhyming verse suitable for strophic musical setting (Kim 1974, 10). The solution to this dilemma lies in the vital role played by the stanzaic song: The stanzaic song provides an easy solution to the problem of coordinating the music and drama in an opera. The stanzaic song facilitates the unity of music and drama because the intercourse and interchange of thoughts and feelings between characters is done by means of songs, lines of which are sung by turns by different singers…” (Kim 1974, 25)

Thus, neither text nor music per se sits atop the other in the revolutionary opera hierarchy, but rather both are governed by the particular union of text and music represented by the stanzaic (in text) and strophic (in melody) song. In addition to being strophic, revolutionary opera songs, should have singable, beautiful, gentle melodies constructed from indirectly. If Kim or his ghostwriter was aware of such a parallel, however, the treatise gives no hint of it. 7 This includes Beijing opera and Korean p’ansori and ch’anggǎk, though Kim typically refers to those genres by name rather than lumping them in as “operas of the past,” a phrase that seems directed primarily—if not entirely—at Western opera.

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characteristic (“idiomatic”) motifs, which are composed in the style of existing national popular, revolutionary and folk tunes and are tailored so that their “tone” 8 matches both the dramatic situation and the tastes of the Korean people: In an opera a song which does not correspond with the [dramatic] situation must be dropped without hesitation and a new song composed to replace it. (Kim 1974, 33) Composers must, as a matter of course, study our revolutionary songs, folk songs and popular songs closely and discover among them Korean tones and melodies which suit our people’s national feelings and tastes and use them widely in musical creation. Sea of Blood-style operas overflow with national feelings because the folk and other songs which were created and widespread in the past have been incorporated in them in conformity with the characteristics of opera music, and the tones of these songs were preserved in every way… [C]omposers must produce all opera music on the basis of our national melodies and in accordance with our people’s tastes and sentiments. (Kim 1974, 29)

In opera, however, songs have the additional requirement of integration with one another; the songs in an opera should form related parts of a complete set that forms the whole, without becoming repetitive or formulaic in the process. Opera songs must have their own characteristics, and yet maintain internal connections according to the characters’ personalities and the logic of the dramatic development. They must form a harmonious unity as integrated opera music…. Only then can the characteristics of musical portrayal be preserved and its unity be realized. (Kim 1974, 33)

Kim is vague as to what these “internal connections” might be, leaving open various possible candidates: motivic unity, modal or harmonic connections, characteristic rhythmic figures and so forth. He does indicate that the orchestra plays a major role in linking an 8

The word “tone” is used flexibly to denote single pitches as well as aspects of timbre, genre and mode.

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opera’s songs, as well as integrating music, dialogue and stage action: In opera orchestral music fuses the characters’ songs, the pangch’ang and all the other songs into one musical sequence. Opera songs, no matter how many and how excellent they are, may sound like a mere collection of songs unless they form one stream. In an opera the orchestra is the only means of drawing songs into one stream and ensuring the consistency of the music. Playing continuously throughout the development of the drama, the orchestra connects one song to the next, supports the characters’ speeches and actions, strengthens the rhythms of the dances in harmony with them and allows the stage movement to flow; it links the stage movement into one musical flow and realizes the unity of the image. (Kim 1974, 43-44)

Songs also have their own internal hierarchy, with each opera having a “theme song” and “supporting songs.” Kim does not specify precisely how one is to distinguish the theme song from the rest; it need not be the most recurrent melody, nor does it have to appear at any particular point in the work. It is plausible that the theme song is the one that best encapsulates the ideological seed, whether through text, melody or a combination of both, but this is not explicitly stated in the treatise. One must turn from Kim’s writings to examples of his theory being put into practice to see how that relationship, along with the many others that constitute the unified hierarchy of revolutionary opera, plays out on stage.

Sea of Blood: The Perfect Revolutionary Opera Kim Jong Il describes Sea of Blood as “a perfect revolutionary opera” (Kim 1974, 8), and so it ought to exemplify his aesthetic precepts, with any additions or deviations being negligible. Kim Jong Il personally oversaw the creation and production of Sea of Blood, which took place over a frenzied four-month period between March and July 1971. His official biography describes him working tirelessly alongside the country’s composers and creative workers, with Kim nudging them away from songs too reminiscent of Western-style recitatives and arias and towards a purely

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stanzaic/strophic structure, sometimes going so far as to compose melodies himself so as to save them the trouble (Kim Jong Il: Biography 2005, 240). He is also said to have offered guidance in the proper deployment of pangch’ang and the finer points of realistic and three-dimensional set design (Kim Jong Il: Biography 2005, 240). Whatever the truth of such accounts of his compositional talent, the impetus for revolutionizing opera in the DPRK was certainly his, and North Korean state television documented his presence at rehearsals. Sea of Blood premiered on July 17, 1971 at the Pyongyang Grand Theater, with Kim Il Sung in attendance; the opera was a resounding success, spurring the creation of many more operas of the same type, including four that, together with Sea of Blood, are now known in the DPRK as the “Five Great Revolutionary Operas.”9 Because it predates On the Art of Opera by three years, Sea of Blood can be seen as the vehicle through which Kim crystallized his aesthetic ideas. For the “big picture” issues in operatic composition, theory and practice accord well, and the musical structures and libretto are very much in line with ideas in On the Art of Opera. Even the most seemingly comprehensive of theoretical treatises, however, cannot account for every potential detail of actual artistic practice, and Sea of Blood is no different. On many smaller details within each component art form, such as instrumentation or the treatment of recurrent melodies, the richness of practical realization and Kim’s nearly equal emphasis on correctness of the behind-the-scenes process as well as audience perception of the final product serve to obscure many of the treatise’s hierarchical distinctions and render them not easily discernible to the ear or eye. At the same time, in other relatively small ways, the creative team appears to have incorporated additional features and influences not mentioned in Kim’s work, but not directly proscribed by it either (and, given the circumstances of the opera’s composition, these were almost certainly approved by Kim tacitly or explicitly at the time). The result is a work of art where the separateness and organization of 9

In Korean, “5-tae hyǂkmyǂngkagǎk. The others are The Flower Girl, A True Daughter of the Party, Cry of the Forest and The Song of Mt. Kumgang.

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the different constituent elements is blurred, helping it give a more “total” impression to audiences than one might expect from reading the treatise on its own, while also satisfying the demands of the leadership and ensuring glowing praise among North Korean critics and scholars for years to come.10 Sea of Blood is large in scale, with its seven acts unfolding over roughly three hours and requiring around a dozen soloists, a full chorus and orchestra. The opera takes place over a period of 10-15 years, showing the struggles of its heroine, who is referred to as simply “Mother,” her husband, two sons and a daughter as they both flee from and resist the colonial Japanese administration in the area around Mt. Paektu. In the course of its seven acts, realized by a cast of at least a dozen soloists, a large chorus, a troupe of classically trained Korean dancers, and a full orchestra of both Western and Korean instruments, the heroine and her family encounter Korean villagers, farmers, miners, workers, Communist revolutionaries and Japanese officials. The heroine develops from an ordinary, illiterate villager to the leader of a Communist women’s underground resistance movement, which her daughter also joins. Her husband and younger son are killed by the Japanese, while her older son joins the Korean Revolutionary Army, returning in the final scene to help his mother and her comrades in leading an uprising against the local Japanese overlords. The musical and dramatic structures comprising Sea of Blood also harmonize well with Kim Jong Il’s theory. The opera does away with recitatives and arias and replaces them with strophic songs connected by pangch’ang, dialogue, dance and orchestral 10

Kang Myung Do, a member of Pyongyang society and later a prominent defector to the South, was present at the premiere and related how much the performance had impressed its audience and helped cement Kim Jong Il as Kim Il Sung’s successor (Kang 1995). The North Korean journal Chosǂn yesul [North Korean Art] gave one of many glowing accounts and devoted a cover to Sea of Blood in 1979 (Chosǂn yesul 1979). A similar tone is taken in a 2014 Rodong Shinmun article commemorating the 40th anniversary of the release of On the Art of Opera, describing Sea of Blood as a bold, new, uniquely North Korean work that set the standard for all revolutionary operas to follow and showed the world the high level of the performing arts in the DPRK (Rodong Shinmun Online 2014).

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music. The song melodies generally follow Kim’s guidelines as to melody and singability; coloratura and vocal pyrotechnics are absent, and at least some melodies sound distinctly folk-like, such as the village girls’ song and dance that opens Act III, Scene 2. The vocal technique employed is somewhere between what one would expect from a pop singer and that found in Western opera. The pangch’ang functions very much as Kim prescribes: it explains characters’ inner thoughts and feelings, and provides narrator-like commentary on particular characters and situations. In Act I, for example, the heroine is shown serving what little food the family has–a few dumplings–to her daughter, Kap Sun and older son, Wol Nam, saving nothing for herself. All three perform in silent pantomime as the offstage pangch’ang explains, in a haunting and mournful melody accompanied by the orchestra, that though mothers suffer most in times of hunger, in this instance, the heroine smiles through her tears, watching her children consume the dinner. As the scene unfolds, Kap Sun, the heroine’s daughter, realizes what has transpired and saves some of her meal, offering it to her mother. The pangch’ang notes how dutiful she is, and advises the audience that, although the protagonists face starvation, their hearts are full of love. The positive and negative characters are clearly differentiated in the libretto as well as in their declamatory style and gestural mannerisms onstage. This can be seen most clearly in the opera’s portrayal of the imperial Japanese, as in Act II when they come to inspect a schoolhouse in the village where the heroine’s now-teenaged children and their peers have gathered for lessons (implied to be Korean nationalist and pro-revolutionary in orientation, a fact they would wish to conceal from the colonial officials). The appearance of two such personages from the colonial administration is announced with sudden pizzicato strings in the orchestra, and an almost cartoonish evil laugh from offstage. When the Japanese appear, their gestures are comically exaggerated, and their declamation raspy and closer to speech than song. They are styled as buffoons, and in case this was not apparent from mannerism and sound alone, the pangc’hang gives this information explicitly a few minutes later, remarking on how foolish the two officials are for not seeing what is literally right under their noses: a group of young nationalist (and Communist) sympathizers

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disguising their activities by pretending to have a lesson in Japanese geography. On a macro level, Sea of Blood represents a finely crafted embodiment of Kim’s theory onstage. The deployment of purely orchestral music in Sea of Blood, however, may leave a somewhat different auditory impression of the orchestra’s role and relative importance than what one would have expected from On the Art of Opera. The function of the orchestra in Sea of Blood is larger than the treatise would suggest, and its treatment of motivic material is more reminiscent of film scoring than of a straight “numbers opera” consisting of strophic songs. The orchestra is ubiquitous, accompanying the songs themselves as well as filling in the non-sung portions of the drama with appropriate melodic gestures and/or sound effects. It is the orchestra that introduces the melodies to upcoming songs, whether new or recurrent, before the latter actually begin, and the orchestra that sounds a familiar bit of motivic material at points in the drama meant to call to mind the instances in which it was previously heard. The characteristic melody of the opera’s theme song, for example, is not only first heard in the orchestra before the curtain even rises, but is similarly heard in the orchestra before both instances of the song’s performance onstage. This can give the impression that the orchestra, rather than the ideological-seed-inspired songs, is leading both drama and music–a suggestion redolent of the Western late Romantic Gesamtkunstwerk that Kim’s treatise eschews. The significance accorded Sea of Blood’s theme song versus the other songs is another area in which there is apparent friction between theory and auditory experience, one which underscores the importance of the creative process as well as audience perception to the art work’s inspirational and educational function. Sea of Blood’s theme song, which Kim expressly identifies in On the Art of Opera, is the appropriately titled “Song of the Sea of Blood” (P’ibadaga). Kim also points out the three instances in which it appears: at the opening of the orchestral prelude, in Act I during the attack that burns the heroine’s village and forces her and her children to flee, and in Act VI just after the death of her youngest son. It is this last instance where the song is at last sung in full, performed by the heroine’s daughter accompanied by on- and off-stage choruses representing her comrades, both in her own village and, implicitly,

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across the rest of the Korean nation. Although its melody commences the orchestral prelude, the theme song is not the first to be sung in the opera (that honor belongs to “Do Not Cry, Dear Ul Nam” (Ulchi mala Ǎl-nam-a), nor is it the most frequently recurring, with only three appearances, and it isn’t ever sung by the heroine, who does, however, have many solo songs of her own. Any or all of these attributes would be strong markers of the song’s role atop the opera’s musical hierarchy, but they are curiously absent. Instead, the song’s theme song status is conveyed primarily by its title and its text, which reiterates the title and connects it to the opera’s plot (relating the deaths of the heroine’s father and her younger son to the broader question of how many must perish in a sea of blood before Koreans attain national independence), and, of course, Kim Jong Il’s word that this is indeed the theme song. The theoretical underpinning that orders and ranks Sea of Blood’s musical numbers by role and importance is obscured in performance by giving “lesser” songs more frequent recurrences, placing them at crucial or memorable junctures (such as the rise of the curtain), and/or assigning them to the main character. While none of these is prohibited in Kim Jong Il’s treatise, their effect could be said to undermine Kim’s theoretical precepts, at least in the realm of first level audience perception. Such instances of melodic recurrence, which itself forms an integral part of Kim’s theory of opera, begin to raise the specter of Western leitmotif, or at least its close cousin, the remembrance motif. Here, one may follow Kim Jong Il’s lead in taking as an example the opera’s opening (and signature) song, “Do Not Cry, Dear Ul Nam.” It recurs, among other places, partway through the first act as the heroine’s two older children express worry that it is late and their father has not yet returned home, and again in Act VI upon the (now prepubescent) Ul Nam’s return home with much needed medicine for his desperately ill mother. Kim Jong Il explicitly endorses the idea that the melody’s recurrence in this last instance will call to mind its previous iterations, the events they accompanied, and the emotions conveyed, in this case, themes of filial devotion and family loyalty, along with the expected prorevolutionary sentiment (Kim 1974, 56).

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Motivicc kinship am mong distinctt songs is annother way in i which ideas assocciated with Western W leitm motif creep iinto the textture, and one that m may help resoolve some of o the seeminng tensions between theory and practice. Allthough the full theme ssong occurs nowhere n else in the opera besiddes these two o instances and the prellude, the melodic geestures that make m up the A and B secctions of its strophes act as germ minal motifss for the restt of the operra’s songs. Figure F 2 shows the motif from m its A section, with asscending leaaps of a perfect fouurth that acccentuate thee fifth, firstt, and secon nd scale degrees, in that order.

Figure 1: Siignature motiff of A portion of “Song of thhe Sea of Bloo od,” in original form m that opens the t song (a) and abbreviateed version that closes it (b), authorr’s transcriptiion.

The siggnature motiff of the B portion p of thhe strophe, shown in Figure 1 iss characterizzed by repetiition of one pitch follow wed by a partially steepwise desceent of a majo or sixth, heree arriving on the fifth scale degreee.

Figure 2: SSignature motif of B portio on, author’s ttranscription The song “Do Not Crry, Dear Ul Nam” N retainss the 6/8 metter but shifts to minor mode and ellaborates on the t idea of the partially steepwise descen nt and the upward peerfect intervaal leap—enla arging it to a fifth—wh hile still emphasizingg scale degreees 1, 2 and 5.

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Figure 3: First phrase of “Do Not Cry, Dear Ul Nam,” author’s transcription.

“I Singlemindedly Keep My Heart Red [i.e. Communist]” (Ilp’yǂndanshim bulgǎn maǎm ganjik’amnida))11 has a melody that ascends a full octave with emphasis on the scale degrees 5-1-2-5, but shifts to 4/4 meter, minor mode, while lengthening the idea and building on it.

Figure 4: First phrase of “I Singlemindedly Keep My Heart Red,” author’s transcription.

The climactic phrase from “[Song of] Subjugation,” shown in Figure 6, uses triplets to give its 4/4 meter a hint of 12/8 and uses ideas from both sections of the theme song: ascending perfect fourths and partially stepwise descents, here only a fifth in size, rather than a sixth.

Figure 5: Motif from “[Song of] Subjugation,” author’s transcription.

One might be tempted to recall the presence of composers who had expressed skepticism at Kim’s insistence that an opera composed of a series of strophic songs could truly be “high art”— such persons are noted scornfully in Kim’s treatise as well as in the official North Korean history of revolutionary opera (Kang, ed. 1975)—and posit that they had used their Western-(Soviet-)tinged 11

Translated in (Kim 1974) as “I Shall Remain Singleheartedly Loyal.”

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conservatory training to fill the interstices of Kim’s chosen structure with material more suggestive of artistic pedigree. While theoretically possible, a more likely explanation is the infusion of conventions of film scoring into the theater. Suk Young Kim has described the creation of revolutionary opera in North Korea not as a new and unprecedented form, but instead as part of a broader effort to revitalize a live performance scene perceived to be lagging in comparison to the cinema (Kim 2010, 42). Suk Young Kim’s study focuses on techniques of acting, but other scholars have long noted similarities between film scoring and the late Romantic Gesamtkunstwerk, particularly with respect to the role of the orchestra and treatment of melodic material (London 2000, 87-88; Joe 2010, 19). Rather than contravening Kim’s theory, the prominence and function of the orchestra in Sea of Blood supplements it by integrating the norms and methods of another, already successful, art form so as to create the smooth, organic whole demanded by Kim’s theory. The theme song may owe much of its status to its role as fount and generator of melodic material, the melodic “seed” for the other songs, although some of the latter are afforded significantly more attention when the opera is staged. The use of the orchestra is not the only instance in which ideas from film make their way into this “perfect” revolutionary opera, despite the silence of Kim’s treatise on this point, for elements of Sea of Blood’s staging and scoring call to mind cinematic conventions. 12 The distinctive instrumentation, declamation and gestures used to depict Japanese imperial officers, for instance, have direct parallels in film, especially in those film types known for exaggeration both in scoring and in physical gesture onscreen, such as early animation or Charlie Chaplin films. Sea of Blood also contains an extended and elaborate dream sequence at the end of Act V, during which a bevy of classical Korean dancers, accompanied by pangch’ang’s offstage chorus, appears to the heroine to assure her that she will overcome her current 12

Kim Jong Il, as is well known, was no stranger to that repertoire, in fact admired it very much, although he omits any mention of filmic influence (Western or otherwise) in his theory of the aesthetics of revolutionary opera.

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imprisonment at the hands of the Japanese, and will live to greet her children once again, as well as to see the triumph of the revolutionary movement she has joined. Such dream sequences, while rare in opera, are conventional in film, and the dancers, although they are obviously trained in Korean classical forms, wear modernized versions of traditional costumes in sparkling, gauzy pink, and create formations onstage reminiscent of Broadway musicals and the many Golden Age Hollywood films inspired by them. The presence of such elements and outside influences in Sea of Blood shows how even a comprehensive theoretical framework like Kim Jong Il’s will nonetheless have gaps and silences that, however small, must be filled in by those directly involved in the creative process.

Conclusion In considering Kim Jong Il’s theory and Sea of Blood together, one can see how the process underlying the opera’s creation is at least as important to Kim as the sound of the resulting work; composers are to consider the ideological seed first, then use it to inspire their strophic songs, which may then be linked to each other motivically and via appropriate deployment of the orchestra. The Juche inspiration the work provides flows not only from the stage to audiences via the latter’s perception, but also to those behind the scenes as they strive to create the work using the Juche ideology and the method handed down to them by Kim Jong Il. Thus, as long as the creative process is carried out correctly, it is less problematic that the resulting opera may not be worlds away from its repudiated Western predecessors (as Sea of Blood, in some respects, is not), and that the hierarchy of importance may not be readily discernible to audiences on first hearing.

References Joe, Jeongwon. 2010. “Introduction: Why Wagner and Cinema? Tolkien Was Wrong.” In Wagner & Cinema, edited by Sander Gilman and Jeongwon Joe, 1-26. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.

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Kang, Myung Do. 1995. P’yǂngyang-ǎn mangmyǂng-ǎl kkumkkunda [Pyongyang Dreams of Exile]. Seoul: M&B. Kang, Yeong-Hee, ed. 1975. Yisipsegi hyǂkmyǂngkagǎk [Twentieth Century Revolutionary Opera]. Pyongyang: Pedagogical Press. Killick, Andrew. 2001. “Ch’angguk Opera and the Category of the ‘Traditionesque.’” Korean Studies 25, no. 1: 51-71. Kim, Il-Sung. 1992. With the Century, vol. 2. trans. Korea Friendship Association. Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House. Kim, Jong-Il. 1974. On the Art of Opera. trans. Korea Friendship Association. Talk to Creative Workers in the Field of Art and Literature, September 4-6, 1974. —. 1987/2004. On the Art of Music. trans. Korea Friendship Association. Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House. Kim Jong-Il: Biography. 2005. Pyongyang: Foreign Languages Publishing House. Kim, Suk Young. 2010. Illusive Utopia: Theater, Film, and Everyday Performance in North Korea. Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press. Lee, Grace. 2003. “The Political Philosophy of Juche.” Stanford Journal of East Asian Affairs 3, no. 1: 105-112. Lee, Kwang-Kyu, and Youngsook Kim Harvey. 1973. “Teknonymy and Geononymy in Korean Kinship Terminology.” Ethnology 12, no. 1: 31-46. London, Justin. 2000. “Leitmotifs and Musical Reference in the Classical Film Score.” In Music and Cinema, edited by James Buhler, Caryl Flinn and David Neumeyer, 85-96. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England. Munhwayesul sajǂn [Dictionary of Literature and Art]. 1972. Pyongyang: Scientific and Reference Press, 1972. Rodong Shinmun Online. 2014. “Widaehan ryǂngdoja Kim Jǂng-il tongji-ǎi burhu-ǎi gojǂnjǂn-nojak t’enkagǎgyesure daehaǂt’enpalp'yo t’oekt’oetol kinyǂmbogohoe jinhaeng,” [“Anniversary of Publication of Dear Leader Comrade Kim Jong Il’s On the Art of Opera Celebrated”]. Rodong Shinmun Online, www.rodong.rep.kp.

CHAPTER FOUR “COMPRATE IL MIO SPECIFICO, PER POCO VE LO DÒ”: A STYLISTIC ANALYSIS OF DULCAMARA’S RHETORICAL SKILLS IN THE ORIGINAL ITALIAN AND IN ENGLISH AND SLOVENE TRANSLATIONS OF DONIZETTI’S OPERA L’ELISIR D’AMORE TOMAŽ ONIý

In The Elixir of Love (It. L’elisir d’amore), the Italian librettist Felice Romani and composer Gaetano Donizetti created one of the most memorable characters in the Italian opera buffa: the “great physician and encyclopaedic doctor” Dulcamara. Even though he is not a doctor but rather a travelling charlatan selling a variety of false healing products, he is generally not perceived as a negative character. He sells his potions and creams with great enthusiasm, and at the end of the opera, he even honestly believes that it was his magic potion of Queen Iseult that helped ensure Nemorino’s wealth and finally brought the two protagonists together. I will focus on Dulcamara’s famous opening aria “Attention! Attention! You country folk!” (It. “Udite, udite, o rustici!”), in which he praises his most precious product, a miraculous potion good for practically any medical issue, from minor nuisances to serious diseases. After a brief inquiry into his persuasion methods and their comparison to modern advertising and marketing principles, I will shift to a stylistic analysis of the original aria libretto as well as to an exploration of how successfully these have

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been transferred into English and Slovene. Besides the Italian original, the analysis includes the English and Slovene translations of the relevant passages. I will, therefore, answer the question whether the English and the Slovene Dulcamaras are as successful rhetoricians as the Italian one. Translating is a difficult job, and it is even more difficult to maintain the sound and sense of an opera libretto in translation. I will use stylistic analysis to compare Slovenian and English translations with the Italian original of Romani’s and Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore. Since 1938, when it was staged for the first time in what is now Slovenia, L’elisir d’amore has been a fixture in the repertoires of Slovene opera houses. Most Slovene productions after WW2 were performed in Slovene; Špendal (2012, np) provides a list of productions in Maribor and mentions some in Ljubljana. However, in the last decade(s) of the 20th century, the performance trend started to move back towards singing in the original language. In these productions, the Slovene moved into the surtitles, thus ensuring that the domestic audience would understand the dialogue. Each of these kinds of translation, the first intended to be sung and the second intended for the surtitles, has a specific purpose, and therefore different translation techniques apply. Translating for surtitles is primarily intended for rendering the content of the dialogue into the target language. The main aim of the translation is to provide the audience with an idea of what, utterance by utterance, the characters say. Details and stylistic features are low on the translator’s list of priorities, since it is enough for the audience to get the gist of the dialogue, while rhythm and other structural characteristics are usually overlooked or omitted. Moreover, certain shortening and paraphrasing techniques apply and repetitions are omitted, since surtitling must follow certain technical principles, from the projection duration of each title, on the one hand, to the limitations of projection space for surtitles to ensure visibility, on the other. However, when the libretto is intended for vocal use, the translation is subject to limitations that are stricter than those in the case of surtitle translation, as well as different in kind. In fact, this type of translation is similar to poetry translation, since rhythm, phrasing, syllabic characteristics, rhyme and other sound effects

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must be preserved. What is more, the translator should respect the musical phrases to which these lines correspond: for instance, matching number and stress of syllables, speakability or singability, which is ensured by employing the appropriate vowel and consonant sounds, as well as other sound figures. In this respect, libretto translation follows even stricter parameters than poetry translation, since in the latter, the translator can probably afford to use a slightly changed rhythm or line arrangement, but this is not possible where words depend on musical phrases. The challenge is particularly acute in relatively closed units of the libretto, such as arias and duets, because of the inseparable unity of words and music. There are advantages and disadvantages to singing in translation, that is, in the language that most of the audience understands (when different from the language of the original). A major benefit is the ability of the listeners to follow the dialogues and monologues, thus not only knowing at every point of the opera what the characters are saying without depending on the surtitle translation, but also being able to enjoy the stylistic qualities of the text, such as poetic diction, rhythm, sound effects and repetitions, which when not preserved can considerably affect the translation (on iterations and translation shifts connected to them, see Zupan 2006). The comprehension aspect was even more important before the general availability of the technical means that enable surtitles. Moreover, translation into local languages provides an important enrichment of the domestic musical treasury. On the other hand, singing in the original language ensures that the harmony of words and music stays intact (it should be noted that the music is composed to the original lyrics and not vice versa; therefore, no translation can achieve this standard). From a global point of view, the exchange of singers is smoother and simpler if all stick to the Esperanto of the original; certain singers even condition their acceptance of singing roles on preserving the original language. Despite this commercially important factor, there are still many defenders of libretto translation (Verstovšek 2006, 82–83). Apart from the Italian original of L’elisir d’amore, I will take up a contrastive analysis of an English translation as well as two Slovene ones. All three translations belong to the latter group in the

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above classification, that is, they are intended for singing, so the stylistic aspects of the text were, without doubt, important for the translators to preserve in the target texts. My analysis will, therefore, focus on these and consider their relevance to the source as well as target texts. Particular care will be given to those stylistic elements that contribute to the speaker’s effective rhetorical presentation and their transferability into both languages. The English translation is from 1964 and was provided by Arthur Jacobs, while the two Slovene ones are from 1939 and 1957. The author of the earlier translation was the Slovene teacher and poet Ruža Lucija Petelinova, whose translation was titled Kapljice za ljubezen (Drops for Love in English word-for-word translation). The second translation by Pavle Oblak was given the title Ljubezenski napoj (Engl. Love Potion), which is more frequently used nowadays. Since the most recent Slovene translation from 2012 was made to be used for surtitles, it was not included in this analysis.

Stylistic Aspects of Dulcamara’s Discourse Since I want to focus on those linguistic and stylistic elements in Dulcamara’s discourse that chiefly contribute to his characterization as a successful rhetorician, the obvious choice of the libretto section for analysis is the cavatina “Udite, udite, o rustici!” (Engl. “Attention! Attention! You country folk!”) from the opera’s first act. In this dramatically effective address, the protagonist displays his compelling appearance and impressive rhetorical skills in order to sell his wondrous potion, claimed to have healing and other powers. However, it takes the audience no more than a few measures into the cavatina to realize that he is primarily a dexterous speaker, a good-hearted charlatan and a harmless manipulator, which are the very qualities that make him a memorable character, one of the best of his kind in nineteenth-century Italian comic opera. The cavatina begins with an appeal to the villagers. The opening line, containing a direct address, places him in a position of power similar to that of the traditional role of a herald. Apart from its progressive and non-hesitant rhetoric, the “Udite, udite, o rustici /

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attenti, non fiatate” is supported by the determined nature of the music. The English translation and both Slovene ones follow the same microstructure as the original appeal. Once he has gained the villagers’ attention, Dulcamara proceeds to establish his authority, a vital feature of every successful speech. To gain the trust of the assembled listeners, his potential customers, he lists his qualifications (great physician, encyclopaedic doctor and famous person) and implicitly strengthens their trust by openly presuming that they have surely heard about him before. For them, admitting the opposite would mean an acknowledgment of their lack of cosmopolitanism, and Dulcamara appears to be aware of that. The introductory passage of the Cavatina closes comically when in his own pretentiousness Dulcamara brings his hyperbole to an anti-climax: /…/ i portenti infiniti son noti all’universo... (pensando) e... e... e in altri siti.

For my skill with my cases is known in all the universe and… and… in other places

His fame supposedly reaches “beyond the limits of the universe.” This claim could have had the effect of hyperbole and oxymoron had he not formulated his phrase so clumsily. The hesitation, disclosed in the repeated conjunctions, as well as in the explicit stage direction, which in all translations has been omitted (pensando in brackets means thinking, considering), allows a range of theatrical interpretations, but nowhere does it give the impression that this is an intended statement. The theatre audience realizes that Dulcamara has entangled himself in an awkward verbal situation but then witnesses the skilful manner in which he pulls himself out of it. This is an example of extra-diegetic or external humour that is intended by the librettist to be perceived only by the theatre audience and not by other characters in the play (the villagers, in this case). The laughter directed at Dulcamara stems both from the awkwardness with which he formulates his statements, thus bringing himself into argumentative dead ends, and from the wit and ingenuity with which he handles the situation and saves himself from such self-generated traps. This goes hand in hand with the concept of comic opera, since the situation is in no way harmful,

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and it serves as aesthetically pleasing comic relief. Also manifested here is the role of such situations in Dulcamara’s characterization; the audience begins to see through his self-proclaimed competence, but also comes to admire and accept him as a benign comic character, while at the diegetic level, his speech continues in the same assertive tone while he gives no indication that the villagers could have perceived his previous remark humorously. While Petelinova’s 1939 Slovene translation follows the original closely, Oblak’s translation contains what seems to be a minor translation shift which proves to have a considerable influence on Dulcamara’s characterization. The word-for-word translation into English of the last line is “and … and … hah, hah … even among you.” The last phrase does not refer to undefined places outside the universe, which would create hyperbole, as in the original, but to the village and the villagers. In combination with the adverb even, this indicates Dulcamara’s belittling attitude towards them and thus obstructs our perception of him as a clumsy character, but instead exposes an unpleasant aspect of his personality. The explicit mockery is also suggested by the laughing interjection, also an addition to the target text: Moji leki so znani po vsem vesoljnem svetu in … in … ha ha … celo med vami. (Oblak, 1957)

The magic potion, which holds the central position in the plot of the opera as well as in Dulcamara’s famous opening cavatina, owes a considerable portion of its enchanting resonance to its name. The Italian word l’elisir conveys a certain degree of exoticism that transfers also into English, where it is most frequently translated as elixir. According to The Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, the expression is of Arabic origin (al-iksir meaning the philosopher’s stone) and came into European languages through Medieval Latin, which together with a relatively low frequency of use, makes it exotic to a certain extent. The effect in Italian and English is further intensified because of the whole phrase (l’elisir d’amore / elixir of love), which hints at the mysterious and

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supernatural quality of the substance and thus pulls the opera and its plot into the sphere of the mystical. Even though the word eliksir, which is derived from the same root and is equivalent in meaning, also exists in the Slovene language, neither of the two Slovene translators used it. When the opera was staged for the first time on Slovene territory in 1939, the translation of its title caused a considerable public debate. Hinko Košak, guest director of the 1957 Ljubljana production, reports that among several suggestions from almost two decades earlier were Ljubavni napitek and Ljubavni napoj (ljubáv is an obsolete expression for ljubezen, Engl. love), but the latter was criticized by the Slovene poet Oton Županþiþ, who criticized the noun napoj as “appropriate only for horses” (1957, 96).1 Eventually, Županþiþ’s suggestion (kapljice, or drops) was used, which suggests that the translation of the 1939 production title was not completely Petelinova’s decision. Despite the comment about horses, Oblak in 1957 went back to Ljubezenski napoj, which today has a more powerful and mysterious connotation than kapljice. The denotative meaning of drops suggests something small, and in everyday idiomatic language drops are a synecdoche for littleness. In contrast, the “almighty” potion that brings the young couple together should evoke the exact opposite connotations. Dulcamara uses many grand words to describe the secret medicine which he comes to the village to sell. Considering his rhetorical skills, one expects him to refer to the potion with a pretentious name that reflects its magnificent healing nature and other great powers. In the cavatina, Dulcamara refers to it by various terms including mirabile liquore and balsamico elisire (Engl. marvellous liquid, balsamic elixir), but most notably in the refrain he calls it il mio specifico, meaning my specific, which according to the Online Medical Dictionary means “a homeopathic medicine that is the precise remedy for a given symptom or illness.” In the Slovene translations, Petelinova and Oblak translate mirabile liquore as þudoviti lek (an obsolete expression for wonderful 1

Napoj is derived from the verb napojiti, which means give water to animals; it is only used for people when large quantities of (usually alcoholic) drink are consumed.

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medicine), balsamico elisire as napoj preblagodejen (Engl. potion beneficient) and izvarek brez primere (Engl. brew beyond comparison) and finally, il mio specifico as kapljice and specifikum, respectively. The term kapljice in the 1939 translation serves in a double role: it stands for the love potion that Nemorino buys from Dulcamara after the cavatina and upon special request in order to win Adina’s love—this is also the potion that is referred to in the title of the opera—while it also means the wonderful medicine, the main product that Dulcamara is selling to the villagers. It may be that the doctor keeps both drinks in the same barrel, since the medicine bottles actually contain cheap French wine; however, on the conceptual level these are two separate substances. Therefore, apart from the disadvantage of the translation kapljice in terms of verbal weakness, it also potentially confuses the two separate potions that Dulcamara sells. Oblak’s 1957 translation avoids these issues, since it employs the stronger Slovene expression napoj for the title word elisir, while it introduces a new, powerful expression, specifikum, for the doctor’s medicine. Apart from being a meaty four-syllable word, specifikum has a Latin-sounding suffix, so together with the semantic aspect, which by itself suggests that this is a special phenomenon, it creates a mysterious atmosphere around this potion and a powerful verbal entity in the merchant’s lexicon. Metaphorically, the semantic power of specifikum transcends the medical scope of the potion itself, extending to the villagers, who come to the market square, and, regardless of the obvious exaggeration of the product’s characteristics, are subdued by the powerful effect of the potion as well as its seller’s rhetorical skills. The English translation by Jacobs is rather literal for both supernatural beverages appearing in the plot: l’elisir d’amore becomes the elixir of love, and the mirabile liquore is simply rendered as medicine, while the mio specifico is translated as sovereign remedy, which is a semantically accurate technical term, on the one hand, and an obsolete idiom with almost fairy-tale and supernatural connotations, on the other. Another observation regarding the powers and the linguistic characteristics of the potion that adds another aspect to Dulcamara’s characterization in Oblak’s translation is that at a later point in the cavatina, Dulcamara refers to the healing product as maža, which means ointment or lubricant

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in a non-liquid form. This might be considered as a translation slip and a minor internal contradiction, yet it could also be an additional means of depicting Dulcamara as a clumsy merchant who cannot keep track of his own products and statements, since he calls it liquore earlier. As soon as the marvellous elixir is introduced in the cavatina, Dulcamara declares the vast diapason of its potential applications, from a toothache remedy to a pesticide (È questo l’odontalgico / mirabile liquore / dei topi e delle cimici / possente distruttore; Engl. this is a toothache / marvellous liquid, / of mice and bedbugs / a powerful eradicator). In this respect, both Slovene translations follow the original quite closely: they mention mice and bedbugs, but in one case they add insects (Petelinova 1939) and in the other, vermin (Oblak 1957). The reason for these additions was almost certainly metrical in nature: the original libretto contains merged prepositions/articles (dei, delle), which have no counterparts in the target texts. In Slovene, in particular, there are no articles, and prepositional functions are often contained in the declension suffixes. Clearly, the metrical scheme of the original libretto must remain unchanged because of the music, so the time intervals vacated in the translation process must be filled. Thus, the medicine in Oblak’s translation also cures sciatica. The English translation, on the other hand, omits everything about pest extermination and introduces painful irritation, pneumonia and constipation instead. Jacobs filled the empty spots in the metrical scheme with appropriate medical terminology that fits the context, but at the same time it changes the humorous dimension of the original, which contains the ludicrous idea that the same substance is used as a cure for serious diseases as well as a means of exterminating pests. In English, the very mention of constipation is inherently humorous. As is shown later, additions, deletions and radical changes of meaning can be identified in all three translations, mostly a consequence of rhythm and rhyme preservation. Verstovšek (2006, 78) reports that it is frequently difficult to work with translated librettos on stage, because verbal rhythm is often asynchronous with musical rhythm. The situation is different, however, when the translation is only intended for transferring the main content of dialogue in surtitles.

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Before continuing with the impressive list of various uses of the potion, Dulcamara boosts the value of his product by claiming that it comes with a certificate. At the same time, however, he fails to provide details regarding its origin or to disclose the authority who issued it. It is not clear from the libretto whether this information is withheld on purpose or by accident, but Dulcamara’s stage audience does not seem to notice it. This concealment may again be attributed to either clumsiness or cleverness, depending on the interpretation of each production and choices concerning his characterization. Even though the libretto does not specify a physical certificate, and Dulcamara only refers to it, productions often take the opportunity to visualize this verbal item in the form of a roll or a folded parchment with a seal, which can then be shown to the mistrustful villagers who can “touch, see and read” it. In the English translation, however, Dulcamara does not offer that everyone can see the certificate; he even refrains from mentioning it. Apart from stating that “it’s all authenticated,” referring to the many positive effects of the potion, he claims instead to possess testimonials from satisfied former consumers. After establishing and consolidating his authority by claiming the existence of the certificate, Dulcamara resumes the list of illnesses and disabilities that his medicine cures: Ei move i paralitici, spedisce gli apopletici, gli asmatici, gli asfitici, gl’isterici, i diabetici; guarisce timpanitidi, e scrofole e rachitidi, e fino il mal di fegato che in moda diventò. (Jacobs 1964)

For complaints cholerical, dyspeptical, arthritical, asthmatical, hysterical, bronchitical, paralytical, rheumatical, scorbutical, of pellicle or cuticle, and all the smarter illnesses, which folk in town have got.

Pomaga paralitikom, ozdravlja mrtvoudnike, nadušljive in padave, histeriþne in diabetiþne, olajša bol napetosti, krepi kosti rahitiþne

To zdravi paralitike in leþi mrtvoudnike, astmatike, božjasnike, histerike, diabetike, zmanjšuje vam napetosti, deluje pri rahitiki

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in še za bolna jetra je, ki v modi so ta þas. (Petelinova 1939)

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in še bolezni jetrni je v zadnjem þasu kos. (Oblak 1957)

The list of diseases varies considerably in these four versions, in content as well as in arrangement. In the English translation, some diseases are missing compared to the original (apoplexy, diabetes and eardrum inflammation), others have been added (arthritis, scurvy and rheumatism), and a few appear in a slightly different disease variation as well as at a different position in the text. Both types of changes, however, attempt to comply with rhythm and rhyme in the target text. Jacobs also preserves the waggish humour in the phrase mal di fegato, which appears in the closing couplet: the idiom means taking things too much to heart, while its literal meaning is pain in the liver. Dulcamara’s smirking and his subtle irony lie in the subsequent comment that this disease has become fashionable. As a seller of stress release balsam, he is thus mildly mocking his customers, who put themselves in a state of hypochondriacal stress just because it is trendy. 2 The English translation avoids the concrete name of the disease by generalizing the statement to “all the smartest illnesses / which folk in town have got,” while the two Slovene translations follow the original more closely and are also relatively close to one other. Based on the similarities between them, it is likely that Oblak in 1957 consulted the 1939 translation and retained or slightly remodelled the existing lines. Both versions, for example, add epilepsy to the list of curable diseases, although it is absent in the original, using slightly different expressions. Also, both speak about releasing tension but not in connection to the mal di fegato issue, while only the literal elements of the latter idiomatic phrase are preserved (bolna jetra, bolezen jetrna; Engl. sick liver, disease of the liver), so some of the humorous potential is lost. Petelinova, however, does preserve the comment that the disease is currently fashionable. Even though the 2

Furthermore, Dulcamara’s claim and consequently his whole sales pitch negate the popular contemporary belief that stress is a disease of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, and that stress release remedies are a modern invention.

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illness is different and the original has a less serious tone, in this translation Dulcamara does retain some of his roguishness. Apart from the list of diseases, which has a cohesive effect because of the formal similarity of the items it contains, this passage contains one of the best examples of parallelism in the libretto. This effective and aesthetically pleasing rhetorical figure, based on the structural repetition of words, phrases or full sentences, is particularly effective here because of its length and humorous potential. The list of patients who could benefit from the medicine consists of a clearly foregrounded string of parallel items. The parallelism is strengthened by notable Italian plural noun suffixes -itici, -etici and -atici: i paralitici, gli apopletici, gli asmatici, gli asfitici, gl’isterici, i diabetic. Some of the items in the list form another syntactic parallel structure of verb + article + plural noun: “move i paralitici, spedisce gli apopletici,” which increases its salience. Oblak’s translation follows the Italian original in both crucial aspects: the parallel list of diseases (in fact, patients with these diseases) is preserved in the first four consecutive lines, and the suffix in these remains consistent with the Slovene -ike (masc. pl. accus.): zdravi paralitike, mrtvoudnike, astmatike, božjasnike, histerike, diabetike. Petelinova is less successful in this respect, since she varies the forms of items in the parallel string, including at least five different word endings (-ikom, -ike, -ive, -ave, -iþne): pomaga paralitikom, ozdravlja mrtvoudnike, nadušljive in padave, histeriþne in diabetiþne. The problem lies partly in choosing a syntactic formulation that fails to employ the same parts of speech in all parallel clauses but moves from two nouns, each in a different case, to adjectives with various endings. In the English translation, the parallel structure also turns from nouns in Italian to a list of adjectives derived from the names of diseases, yet their form remains consistent: complaints cholerical, dyspeptical, arthritical, asthmatical, hysterical, bronchitical, paralytical, rheumatical, scorbutical. In addition to this prominent example of parallelism, there are a few more cases of the same rhetorical device, such as the string of three rhetorical questions that Dulcamara directs at three groups of villagers present: mature women (It. matrone), young women (It. donzelle) and young men (It. giovani), asking them in three

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structurally varied ways whether they want to be beautiful and popular. There is no objective reason why these could and should not be preserved in the translations (and they are): the questions are structurally similar and thus form a parallel structure cluster, most strongly linked with the same expression of direct address voi (Eng. you, 2nd person plural): O voi, matrone rigide, / ringiovanir bramate? /…/ Volete voi, donzelle, / ben liscia aver la pelle? Voi, giovani galanti, / per sempre avere amanti?

When introducing the certificate, Dulcamara promises he will allow everybody “to touch, see and read” it. This sequence of three infinitive verbs is another good example of parallelism, but its counterparts in the original as well as in both Slovene translations are more prominent, simply because of the nature of infinitive suffixes. In Italian they consist of two syllables, -ar(e) and -ere, which makes the infinitives toccar, vedere e leggere more salient than the English ones with a zero suffix. In Slovene, both translators move from the infinitives to participles in a Future Tense structure: dotaknil, videl, þital sam / lahko se bo vsakdo (Petelinova) and prebral in videl, tipal bo / med vami vsak lahko (Oblak), where the -l suffixes, according to their auditory effect, can be placed between the English and the Italian versions. It must be noted that in the earlier Slovene version there is a problem with the reflexive particle, which attracts attention because of its uneven use: of the three verbs dotakniti se, videti, þitati (Engl. touch, see, read), only the first is reflexive. Placing the reflexive particle se after the list and not after the appropriate verb is problematic, since the native speaker’s ear connects it automatically to the last item on the list, which sounds incorrect. The translator’s choice may have been formulated as a hyperbaton, yet it does not function perfectly in practice. Another type of rhetorical figure that often co-exists naturally with parallelism is iteration, sometimes referred to as accumulation figures. Most frequently this is anaphora, sometimes epistrophe. Anaphora appears when the same word or phrase is repeated at the

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beginnings of two consecutive lines or phrases. This kind of repetition tends to lead to parallel structures of whole lines or phrases, particularly if these are short. Dulcamara’s anaphoric structures in Italian are not always fully preserved in the English and Slovene translations. As the following series of excerpts shows, target language anaphoras sometimes contain slight grammatical variations expressing particular linguistic categories. In the English translation of the first excerpt, these are gender and number (da bravi, da brave; masc. pl. and fem. pl., respectively), but since the disagreement between the two occurrences is minor, this can still be considered an anaphoric opening of the lines. Sometimes, however, the anaphoric structure is lost, as in the second excerpt from Jacobs’ translation. In both Slovene versions, the anaphora is preserved only in the last of the four excerpts, so the first three are not listed here: Da bravi giovanotti, da brave vedovette, /…/ Mirabile pe’ cimici, mirabile pel fegato, /…/ voi, vedove e donzelle, voi, giovani galanti, /…/ Avanti, avanti, vedove, avanti, avanti, bamboli

Come all you lads and lasses, come sirs and pretty ladies, /…/ For pellicle or cuticle, rheumatical, scorbutical, /…/ come all you gallant gentlemen, come all you pretty ladies, /…/ Come young and old and buy of me, come all of high and low degree (Jacobs 1964)

/…/ Le semkaj, semkaj vdovice, le semkaj, semkaj deþvice (Petelinova 1957)

/…/ le sem, le semle, vdovice, le sem, le semle, punþike (Oblak 1957)

In many places in the cavatina, Dulcamara addresses his male and female audience separately. This leads into a repetitive pattern of double address, female and male and vice versa. This binary structure lays a good foundation for anaphora in apostrophic couplets, while it also creates a pleasant balance in them (as well as

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parallelisms) throughout the aria. In the English translation, however, this element is not always preserved, probably owing to the general characteristic of the English language in which the distinction between masculine and feminine forms of apostrophic nouns exists only in a few cases. The translator, therefore, faces a problem created by a linguistic gap caused by the lack of distinction between two linguistic structures in the target language, while it exists in the source language. In this libretto translation, the English translator usually solves the situation by introducing for each formal pair two distinct nouns that distinguish genders semantically (lads/lasses, ladies/gentlemen, sirs/ladies), but must in some cases sacrifice the semantic component of the translation choice; for example, vedovette, an endearing diminutive for widows, is translated as pretty ladies, and the same translation is used for vedove e donzelle, meaning widows and girls. Even though Slovene language translators do not experience the same problem, the double address pattern is still more frequently lost than preserved. Another frequent iteration on Dulcamara’s part is epizeuxis, the immediate repetition of a word or phrase (Avanti, avanti in the previous example). In general, this figure is not typical of prose speeches, while it appears more in poetry and poetic drama. In this cavatina it emerges prominently in the opening line Udite, udite (Engl. listen up, listen up) and thus also in the title of the cavatina. This immediate repetition is preserved in all translations, on the one hand because of its prominence, and on the other, because the musical score envisages two parallel amphibrachic exclamations in the two gaps provided for the solo vocal score. In the 1939 Slovene translation, the epizeuxis is not explicitly obvious from the libretto (the phrase is not repeated: Zdaj þujte, kmetiþi vsi; Engl. now listen, peasants (dim.) all), but the rhythmical situation with respect to the music allows no other way of singing this line but by repeating the Zdaj þujte address. The other notable epizeuxis is found in the refrain containing a direct appeal to the villagers to buy the product, since it is inexpensive: Compratela, compratela, / per poco io ve la dò. In English translation the figure is preserved (Come buy of me, come buy of me. / It will not cost a lot), and so it is in both Slovene versions.

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Having presented the merchandise and created interest in the product among his customers, Dulcamara finally addresses the issue of price and payment. His approach, whether conscious or intuitive, again shows that he follows the basic principles of modern marketing. First he presents the medicine’s exotic origin, not by stating the name of the producer, town or region where it originates but simply by claiming that it comes from a distant place. Mille miglia (Engl. thousand miles) is an exaggerated number, suggesting a great distance, so it is a hyperbole as well as a synecdoche, a metonymic figure substituting a definite for an indefinite number. He thus implicitly suggests high shipping expenses, which allows him to set an outrageously high price, only to be able to reduce it to an irrationally low amount, creating the impression of a considerable discount. This impression is, of course, fake, not judging by the final price, but because of the unrealistically high initial offer. The public outrage at the initial price is also reflected in the outcry of the villagers, after he suggests 100, then 30 and finally 20 scudi, which is the name for old Italian silver coins. He then applies a further selling technique by promising yet another special discount that seems to be exclusive: it is because he was born in the area (this argument is left out in the English translation). From the initial price of 100 scudi, he thus comes down to 1: L’ho portato per la posta da lontano mille miglia. Mi direte: quanto costa? Quanto vale la bottiglia? Cento scudi?... No... Trenta... No... Venti?... Nessuno si sgomenti. /…/ Ecco qua: così stupendo, sì balsamico elisire, tutta Europa sa ch’io vendo niente men di nove lire, ma siccome è pur palese, ch’io son nato nel paese, per tre lire a voi lo cedo, sol tre lire a voi richiedo. Così chiaro è come il sole,

The ingredients are rarer than the costliest of spices. You will ask me, tell us quickly, tell us quickly what the price is. Eighty florins? No! Forty? No! Twenty? At that I could sell plenty. /…/ Then observe! This mighty potion which renews a man or beast I could sell the whole world over for ten florins at the least. But if you would like to savour its electrifying flavour, then I’ll only ask three florins. Yes, for you I do a favour. For ’tis clear as stars in heaven,

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che a ciascuno che lo vuole, uno scudo bello e netto in saccoccia io faccio entrar. (Jacobs 1964) Pošta jih je pripeljala daleþ, daleþ iz tujine, le vprašajte, kaj bi stala merca take tekoþine. Sto cekinov? Ne! Dvajset? Ne! Sedem? Nihþe se naj ne straši. /…/ Glejte sem: tako izreden tak napoj preblagodejen, vsa Evropa ve da dajem stekleniþko po tri lire. A sluþaj mi je usojen, da v deželi tej sem rojen in zato še veþjo mero dajem vam samo za liro! Kakor beli dan je jasno, vsakdo, dokler ni prekasno, bo za zdravje svetlo škudo v svojem žepu še dobil! (Petelinova 1939)

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three from ten will leave you seven. Seven florins are your profit, as you all have understood.

Jaz iz daljnega sem mesta vam pripeljal ta zdravila. Kaj bi rekli, kakšna cena bo primerno odkupila. Sto cekinov? Ne! Petnajst? Ne! Osem? Ne plašite se, prosim. /…/ Glejte sem ta lek sijajen, ta izvarek brez primere po Evropi vsej prodajam niþ manj kot za štiri lire! A ker takšna je usoda, da sem te dežele roda, stekleniþko dobre mere dam za tri pribite lire. Muzika! Kakor jasni dan se kaže vsakdo, kdor ima te maže, v svojem žepu brez izjeme najmanj droben škud ima. (Oblak 1957)

The prices for which Dulcamara offers his product among the villagers raise an amusing translation issue. In all of the translated versions, these numbers comply with the same advertising logic (setting a high price and then lowering it); the proportions between the ranks of prices are preserved, while the numbers themselves differ in practically all cases. Dulcamara’s first bid and its lowering (Cento scudi?... No... Trenta... No... Venti?) goes from 100 scudi to 30, then to 20. The English translation uses an 80—40—20 scale, while both Slovene translations differ from these numbers: Petelinova employs 100—20—7, and Oblak 100—15—8. In all cases of shifts, the reasons can be sought in connection with rhythm and rhyme. Since the four-syllable phrase cen-to scu-di fits two trochaic feet determined by the music, this same meter is what the translator must aim for. Sto ce-ki-nov in Slovene fits this scheme,

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but One hun-dred flo-rins would be too long, while with the numeral hundred, one cannot be omitted. Following the model in the original where two currencies are mentioned (scudi and lire), both Slovene translators employ two currencies (cekini in lire), the first of which is domesticated in Newmark’s sense: if a cultural equivalent exists, it should be used in translation (2004, 82-83), while the English translation uses only one currency, florins. The Trenta… No… Venti? part turns into 40 and 20 in Jacobs’ translation. There are no metrical grounds for using forty instead of thirty, but it could be that the former is in general easier to pronounce, and, particularly, to sing. In Slovene, the trochee— beat—trochee formula to which this line corresponds can take neither 40—beat—20 nor 30—beat—20; the beat in both cases is occupied by the negative particle Ne!, since 40 (šti-ri-de-set) and 30 (tri-de-set) have four and three syllables, respectively. The translator, therefore, needs to choose two two-syllable (trochaic) numerals that roughly correspond to the numeric proportions from the original, so 20 (dvaj-set) and 7 (se-dem) used by Petelinova (1939) are fine, and so are 15 (pet-najst) and 8 (o-sem) employed by Oblak (1957). Considering end rhyme, however, Oblak’s version makes more sense, since osem near-rhymes with prosim (please), while in Petelinova’s translation the venti–sgomenti rhyme is lost. As the excerpt and its translations show, there are other numbers mentioned by Dulcamara when he further lowers the price, and these are slightly changed in the translations mostly owing to rhythmical characteristics of individual numerals and their immediate context. Another price-related observation appears in the 1957 Slovene translation of the second line from the refrain Compratela, compratela, / per poco io ve lá do (Engl. buy it, buy it, / for little [money] I sell it to you): while the other two translations are semantically accurate in promising that the product will be sold at a low price, Oblak’s translation is pod ceno vam ga dam, which means that Dulcamara is ready to sell it for an appropriately low price. Leaving the numerals and the financial aspect of the transaction aside, we can see that the Slovene translations, in general, follow the original more closely than the English one, which in some cases

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takes more freedom on the microstructural level. For example, the opening argument of distance from which the product originates is in Jacobs’ translation exchanged with that of rarity (The ingredients are rarer / than the costliest of spices); great distance is hinted at only in the reference to spices, which come from half way round the globe. In compliance with this, Jacobs also replaces the reference to Europe (tutta Europa sa ch’io vendo…) with that to the world, even though the original metonymy is meant literally (with much exaggeration, of course), while the one used in the English translation could pass as (at least partly) idiomatic. Moreover, at the moment when Dulcamara shows a bottle of his elixir (Ecco qua …), the English translation adds the comment that the potion “renews a man or beast.” This contradicts his earlier claim that the same potion kills mice and insects, but this is only true in the Italian (and both Slovene) versions; the English one never claims this. The English Dulcamara, therefore, markets a different, more animalfriendly product than the Italian and both Slovene ones. Each of the translations, however, is internally coherent and harmonized. As we can see, Dulcamara proves prone to exaggeration throughout the cavatina, and his exaggeration is almost invariably one of the sources of humour. This most omnipresent stylistic feature is usually transferred into translations; although in some cases the hyperbole is weakened, sometimes his statements are even more exaggerated. Such is the case when Dulcamara speaks about “more than one saddened widow who stopped crying” (It. più d’un’afflitta vedova / di piangere cessò) in one week because of his potion. The 1939 Slovene Dulcamara goes a bit further, since he claims that in one week the widow found herself a new partner (Slo. par; literally meaning couple). This could be seen as simply substituting the vehicle of the metaphor with its tenor, but it is in any case still a relatively soft translation shifts in comparison with the English “doctor” who promises awakening from death if one single drop of the potion is poured between the dead man’s tongue and teeth: “’Twould hardly be surprising / to see a dead man rising.” In both cases, this medicine, being nothing but cheap French wine, adds another layer to the humour of the scene. The mistaken popular belief that wine can solve problems by “helping one to forget,” in addition to the issues of an expressly consoled

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widow and a dead man awaking, multiplies this joke and contributes to the comedy. In the original script, one of Dulcamara’s strongest exaggerations is probably the longevity claim. Just before mentioning the consolation of widows, he claims that, with the help of his remedy, a man in his seventies can easily become grandfather to another ten babies, and then, as if this were not a strong enough advertisement, increases the number to twenty. Since he provides no additional commentary, the implication is that this is true for any man in his seventies. According to recent life expectancy statistics provided by the World Health Organization (2015), the countries in the Mediterranean are among those with the highest life expectancy. The main reason for this is healthy nutrition and favourable climate (Jones 2015, Walsh 2013). Meek reports that a Bordeaux cardiologist puts it down to wine in the case of the French (2001); this could possibly be similar to the kind that Dulcamara is selling as his “mirabile liquore” (Engl. marvellous potion). In Italy, where the story of the opera is set, the male population was expected to live about 43 years in 1900, about 64 years in 1950 and about 76 years in 2000 (Kinsella and Velkoff 2001, 26). For Spain, the setting of Eugène Scribe’s play Le Philtre (1831), which Felice Romani adapted for L’elisir d’amore, the data for the year 2000 is similar: 75 years. However, it is lower for 1950: 60 years, and considerably lower for 1900: 34 years. If we consider that the play and the libretto were written in the early 1830s and that Dulcamara is speaking to the rural population, which usually occupies the bottom part of statistical rankings, then one is justified in asking whether among Dulcamara’s village audience there were any men in their seventies at all, let alone anyone expecting to live for another decade or as much as necessary to produce ten or twenty more grandchildren. Even without the statistics provided here, the nature and the strength of this hyperbole suggest that it must be taken for a figurative ornament and thus as a humorous feature. In her translation, Petelinova keeps the numbers, 10 and 20 grandchildren (in fact, the male form grandsons is used, but it can be applied to both genders), while Oblak not only changes them but reverses the climactic logic: his Dulcamara first mentions 15 grandchildren and then decreases the number to 10. It is difficult to

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predict the reason for such a decision, but this suggests a slightly different character feature: one who realizes his own exaggeration and modifies it in a realistic direction, even though the whole idea is far from reality. The English translation, however, leaves out the numbers and simply states that by drinking the potion, the consumer in his seventies “regains his youth” which is probably not hyperbolic at all.

Conclusion The reasons for Dulcamara’s popularity in the extra-diegetic sense and for his commercial success from the diegetic perspective can be sought in his public appearance, his way with words and the fact that he is not a negative character but only a harmless quack. In this chapter, an attempt has been made to analyse the stylistic aspect of his rhetorical skill and to establish an estimate of the influence this aspect has on the perception of him as a skilled rhetorician as well as to what extent these features are preserved in translation. Our susceptibility to advertising is a relevant issue in modern consumer society, but the pure phenomenon of accepting and processing advertisements as well as trusting them has remained unchanged from the time before digital and mass media. We see that Dulcamara’s advertising methods are still being used today; what is more, we trust commercials for roughly the same reasons. Dulcamara persuades the villagers because he promises things they want to hear and believe; he is thoughtful and respectful to them and he skilfully appeals to their emotions rather than reason. Longer life, recovery from illness, even losing wrinkles, are typical examples of what modern consumers yearn for. We are rationally aware that such benefits cannot be obtained in an easy way or bought in the form of potion or pills, yet it seems to be extremely tempting to search for shortcuts that come from travelling salesmen or supermarket shelves. It is surprising that the more irrational certain promises or claims are, the more easily human vanity or distress succumbs to unreasonable yet emotionally appealing offers. These are launched by Dulcamara in a way that demonstrates his natural sense for the customer. He addresses a broad audience

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varied according to age, gender, health issues and emotional states, and he does it with compliments and the right balance of humour and seriousness. He persuades them that his merchandise is topquality and exotic as well as inexpensive, and at the same time he appeals to their emotions, since he is aware that “trust [of the customer] does not stem from the head, but from the heart, with the help of emotions” (Enkelmann 1997, 200). With these characteristics, he steals the scenes in which he appears and is frequently recognized as the most captivating character in this opera. The Slovene and English translations frequently move away from the original on linguistic and stylistic levels, but they maintain most of the general effect of the Italian text. The Slovene translations follow the original libretto relatively faithfully, almost line by line, only occasionally omitting iterations or other stylistic elements, which are then mostly compensated for. The English one, on the other hand, often allows for more artistic freedom, taking Dulcamara’s statements, his allusions, and his comparisons further away from the original, yet the effects as well as the main features of his character remain recognizable. Dulcamara, therefore, remains Dulcamara even on leaving his home in the Italian libretto.

References Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology, The, online version. 2003. DOI: 10.1093/acref/9780192830982.001.0001. London: OUP. Donizetti, Gaetano. 1997. L’elisir d’amore, audio recording [Sung in Italian]. London: Decca. —. 1999. The Elixir of Love, audio recording [Sung in English]. Colchester, Essex: Chandos Records, Ltd. Enkelmann, Nikolaus B. 1997. Moþ retorike. Kranj: Vernar consulting. Jacobs, Arthur, trans. 1964. The Elixir of Love. In The Elixir of Love [CD booklet], edited by Jonathan Cooper, 62–104. Colchester, Essex: Chandos Records, Ltd. Jones, Jessica. 2015. “Spaniards Have Highest Life Expectancy in Europe.” The Local (17 Apr). Accessed on 8 Jan 2016

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(http://www.thelocal.es/20150417/spaniards-have-highest-lifeexpectancy-in-europe). Kinsella, Kevin, and Victoria A. Velkoff. 2001. An Aging World. Washington: U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, et.al. Košak, Hinko. 1957. “Medicinska opera.” In Ljubezenski napoj [theatre programme], 93–97. Ljubljana: Opera SNG v Ljubljani. Medical Dictionary Online. 2013. Accessed on 12 Jan 2016 (http://www.online-medical-dictionary.org/). Meek, James. 2001. “Your Very Good ‘ealth.” The Guardian (20 Feb). Accessed on 8 Jan 2016 (http://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2001/feb/20/features1 1.g21). Newmark, Peter. 2004. A Textbook of Translation. Harlow: Longman. Oblak, Pavle, trans. 1957. Ljubezenski napoj, opera libretto, working translation. Ljubljana: Opera SNG v Ljubljani. Petelinova, Ruža Lucija, trans. 1939. “Aria Buffa.” In Gaetano Donizetti: Kapljice za ljubezen [theatre programme], ed. Matija Bravniþar, 20–23. Ljubljana: Narodno gledališþe v Ljubljani. Špendal, Manica. 2012. “Gaetano Donizetti: Ljubezenski napoj (L’elisir d’amore).” In L’elisir d’amore, Ljubezenski napoj: komiþna opera v treh dejanjih [theatre programme], 3–7. Maribor: SNG. Verstovšek, Nevenka. 2006. “Lektor v operi—med Scilo in Karibdo.” In Kolokvij o umetniškem govoru II, edited by Katarina Podbevšek and Tomaž Gubenšek, 78–83. Ljubljana: AGRFT. Walsh, Fergus. 2013. “Why do the Italians Live Longer than Us?” BBC News: Health (7 Mar). Accessed on 8 Jan 2016 (http://www.bbc.com/news/health-21690003). World Health Organization. 2015. Global Health Observatory Data Repository. Accessed on 8 Jan 2016 (http://apps.who.int/gho/data/node.main.688?lang=en). Zupan, Simon. 2006. “Repetition and Translation Shifts.” ELOPE. Literary Criticism as Metacommunity: a Festschrift for Meta Grosman 3, no. 1/2: 257–268.

CHAPTER FIVE BALZAC AND MUSIC: BETWEEN “PRESERVING IDEALISM” AND “TRANSCENDING SENSUALISM” JAN KAZNOWSKI

In the first half of the 19th century, Balzac was, in French literature, one of those authors for whom music had a special meaning, but was he a true connoisseur with musical theories that contributed something new to the endless erudite discussions held in his time? In the past two or three decades, scholars have been inclined to view Balzac’s musical flair with strong favour. In general, after the writer’s death, critics denied that Balzac had contributed anything new or interesting to musical studies (Barricelli 1990, 2-3). Later, however, Balzac’s contribution gradually began to be regarded with more appreciation. Hugh S. Worthington wrote in 1924: “His sense of music, was ‘très relatif [very relative]’. But he was genuinely interested in it and if he wrote of it inaccurately, he is not to be condemned. For, before establishing taste in music, one must establish taste for music, and Balzac contributed to propaganda for love of this art” (Worthington 1924, 415). Another critic wrote, more recently, in 1986, on Balzac’s considerations about opera: “All of that is so accurate, so well ‘sensed,’ that we should think of rehabilitating Balzac as a musician” (Lascoux 2005, 363). Not all opinions nowadays are quite so enthusiastic, but in general Balzac’s intuition in discovering a profound sense of music is undoubted. It has even been suggested that one could call Human Comedy a “quasi una fantasia” as a reference to Beethoven’s sonatas op. 27. (Labouret 2012, 124). In fact, as a writer and thinker, Balzac considered music more from a philosophical than a purely technical standpoint. We

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know that in his early years he adored religious chants during Catholic services (Barricelli 1990, 10) and that he took piano lessons. He also intended to install a piano in his garret in Paris, rue Lesdiguières. However, later on, he described his abilities ironically, for example qualifying a partition as a “book of magic spells” (Correspondance, 231) and describing himself as “nothing, musically speaking” (230). His strong interest in music, however, persisted. He loved opera above all, writing that “it is an ideal world” and that “the real world resembles it only in its privileged moments” (Lascoux 2005, 366). It is through opera that we can feel what real passion is and it is opera that reflects the extraordinary richness of humanity. In this vein, the human spirit can also be compared with music: “What an opera is the brain of man!” cries the French doctor in “Massimilla Doni” (34). References to music are numerous in Balzac’s work and correspondence. Bach, Handel, Meyerbeer, Beethoven, Chopin, Paganini, Pergolesi, Cherubini, Lully, Liszt, Rossini, Cimarosa, Hummel and many others are given as examples of various styles and expressions of human genius. This chapter will focus on two “artist stories,” dated 1837 and 1839 (although written simultaneously in 1837): “Gambara” and “Massimilla Doni,” both of which are dedicated to music. For the development of these stories, Balzac conscientiously consulted musical experts. Even so, he did not want to pose as an expert, but only to give himself more credibility and gain useful information for his work. Through his literature, he gained the opportunity to give his own opinion on music. In his two short stories, there was also something else that counted even more for him. In their eccentricities, the musicians from “Gambara” and “Massimilla Doni” embody the psychological phenomenon of the impact that music can have on the human character, intellect and behaviour. How far can one push himself to achieve his dream of perfection? What is the price of that perfection? What is the meaning of talent and how is it possible to give it a substantial shape? Finally, what makes musical expression authentic? There is no doubt that for Balzac, music represented above other things a philosophy, but expressed in a specific language. Balzac tried to understand it as well as he could. With his “second sight” (“Facino Cane,” 38), he intended to fathom the tendencies of human thought

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encoded in sounds and their structures. He also tried to imagine possible exaggerations of musical theories. That’s why there are several levels to Balzac’s musical insight, starting from taste and theory, passing through feelings and a poetical touch or sensual dimension, and ending sometimes in incurable obsessions that lead music beyond the limits of expression. Each character in “Gambara” and “Massimilla Doni” represents one or more type of musical aspects. Gambara is the most complex figure in all of Balzac’s artist stories. He embodies a mixture of the most exaggerated contradictions, making him one of the most interesting and tragic characters among all the artists in Human Comedy.

“Gambara” In 1836 Maurice Schlesinger, founder of the Revue et Gazette Musicale de Paris, offered Balzac a contract for a short story. Balzac eventually gave him two. Fearing for his gazette’s survival, Schlesinger had decided to engage some eminent writers to keep his readers from cancelling their subscriptions (Guise 2008, 1429). The two stories fell into an appropriate context. A quarrel was raging that had divided the musical world into two factions. The 1820s and 30s French capital and its theatres was the scene of a conflict between proponents of the German and Italian styles in music, both present on stages, both equally acclaimed and disparaged. In 1823, Stendhal had written a short account of this quarrel in his book Vie de Rossini. The quarrel was caused by a preference for German style harmony on one hand, and Italian style melody on the other. Balzac knew the essay and was aware of the problem. Rossini never liked the book; his perception of Stendhal’s arrogance and casualness offended him. One of his ex-primadonnas, scandalized by Stendhal’s eccentric remarks, wrote a 60-page polemic against the book (Prunières 1986, XXVII). Moreover, the antipathy between the two men was mutual, but if Rossini detested Stendhal as a critic and kept avoiding him, Stendhal was critical not only of Rossini’s imperfections as a composer, but also of his failings as a person (XXII). Balzac’s admiration for Rossini, however, was reciprocal and it is generally accepted that he wrote his stories as a

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Rossinist, as can be seen from his letter to Schlesinger dated May 29th 1837. Schlesinger was known for his predilection for German music, and especially Meyerbeer, whose reign on Paris’s stages had been incontestable since the premiere of Robert le Diable in November 1831. Balzac was supposed to praise the composer and he eventually obeyed, but as J.-P. Barricelli observed, it was an act of literary diplomacy (Guise 2008, 446), since the main interest of the novella lies elsewhere, even if he also held Meyerbeer’s masterpiece in very high esteem. In general, “Gambara” was meant to be an apology for the German school. In a letter to Schlesinger, Balzac asked him to assure Meyerbeer that the composer would be the keystone of the novella (Correspondance, 226). As we will see, this was not completely true. The story focuses on the personality of an idealistic composer, inspired inventor and whimsical experimenter named Paolo Gambara, whose musical theories and idealism lead him into madness. He is one of Balzac’s monomaniacal fools and geniuses, entirely devoted to an idée fixe, no matter what the consequences. His character is based on a parodic combination of E.T.A. Hoffmann and Beethoven (Labouret 2012, 134). A young exile from Milan, Andrea Marcosini, one of the main characters of the novella, is captured by the charm which Gambara could not fail to exert over every genuine artist. The composer was now forty; but although his high brow was bald and lined with a few parallel, but not deep, wrinkles; in spite, too, of hollow temples where the blue veins showed through the smooth, transparent skin, and of the deep sockets in which his black eyes were sunk, with their large lids and light lashes, the lower part of his face made him still look young, so calm was its outline, so soft the modeling. It could be seen at a glance that in this man passion had been curbed to the advantage of the intellect; that the brain alone had grown old in some great struggle. (“Gambara,” 1011)

This struggle has at least three aspects: practising music as a science; the search for a perfect instrumental voice; and elaboration

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of three opera partitions, the work of a lifetime and the fruit of endless meditation. In order to engage Gambara in conversation, Marcosini provokes him by extolling “the sublime works” of Beethoven (15). These are “especially noteworthy for simplicity of construction and for the way the scheme is worked out” (15), says Andrea, who insists on the unity of composition: “the orchestral parts of a symphony by Beethoven obey the plan ordered for the interest of all, and are subordinate to an admirably conceived scheme” (15). Marcosini is seconded by a half-deaf retired conductor for whom a musician, as “he looks through the C-minor symphony [the 5th one],” is “transported to the world of fancy on the golden wings” and “sees a whole realm, by turns glorious in dazzling shafts of light, gloomy under clouds of melancholy, and cheered by heavenly strains” (14). Subsequently, Andrea vehemently criticizes Rossini and the “babbling, chattering, vaporous” Italian music for its “feebleness of ideas,” “limpness of style,” “endless bravura passages,” “vocal fireworks” and so on (15-16). Gambara, however, is more restrained. He refuses every extreme judgment, qualifying both “Italian sensuality” and “German idealism” as “fatal heresy” (17). For Gambara, music is at once science and art (19). As a science, it is based on laws of mathematics and physics. Inspiration makes it an art, “unconsciously utilizing the theorems of science” (19). Thanks to a considerable development of mathematics, the creation of harmony was possible. Without that progress, the music of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Rossini would not exist. “The old masters could sing, says Gambara, but they had not art and science at their command–noble alliance which enables us to merge into one the finest melody and the power of harmony” (19-20). Like E. T. A. Hoffmann, he admits and cares for synaesthesia in the arts. He compares sounds to colours. Further analysis even brings him to consider that the very natures of sound and light are identical: “Sound is light, perceived under another form; each acts through vibrations to which man is sensitive and which he transforms, in the nervous centres, into ideas” (19). As for physics, the laws that govern the vibration of air and thus create new instrumental possibilities become Gambara’s obsession. Stating that “music is an

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art conceived in the very bowels of nature” (19), he struggles to recreate its vocal scales, studying and modifying all sorts of instruments. His greatest achievement in this field is an original instrument “that contained all the elements of a complete orchestra” (35-36), and is named Panharmonicon. Gambara’s misfortune consists in contrasts. He is constantly mocked and rejected by other people who tax him with all but lucidity or common sense. Paradoxically, the clarity of his ideas and speech is best after drinking. Another aspect of his eccentricity is that he is married but lives like a monk, behaving like a son or a father rather than a husband to his wife Marianna. Andrea, hearing Gambara play his opera Mahomet on a piano, observes the composer’s complicated nature. The passion with which Gambara plays his partition, his exaltation while speaking and explaining his work, his perfect lucidity and noble sensibility in recognizing the sufferings of Mahomet’s first wife Cadhige, who sacrificed all her love for the Prophet’s glory (a fate analogous to Marianna’s life), all this contrasts with a horrible execution. Andrea is shocked “by the terrible irony of the situation [...]. There was no hint even of a poetical or musical idea in [this] hideous cacophony” (34). The first principles of harmony, “the most elementary rules of composition, were absolutely alien to this chaotic structure” (34). What is even more astonishing is Gambara’s improvisation on his Panharmonicon. Here, the demonstration proves to be the “purest and serenest music that Andrea had ever listened to” (37). Hearing Gambara play, Andrea thinks of “some magic like that commanded by Paganini and Liszt—a style of execution which changes every aspect of music as an art, by giving it a poetic quality far above musical inventions” (38). Gambara then reaches one of the musical ecstasies which he never wants to abandon. Perfectly understanding love and human passions, he refuses to share them with anyone. He persists in refusing to deal with the common world. At the end of the story, he is reduced to a beggar, performing music with Marianna on the streets of Paris. Marianna makes him drink so that he will play simple songs instead of his bizarre and incomprehensible inventions. One day, when he is sober, he says to an Italian princess who is moved by his fate:

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Madame [...], we are victims of our own superiority. My music is good. But as soon as music transcends feeling and becomes an idea, only persons of genius should be the hearers, for they alone are capable of responding to it! It is my misfortune that I have heard the chorus of angels, and believed that men could understand the strains. The same thing happens to women when their love assumes a divine aspect: men cannot understand them. (57)

As for Meyerbeer, judgment on his grand opera is passed by Gambara during a conversation with Marcosini. The Italian exile has taken the composer to the opera house where they assist in a production of Robert le Diable. Back in Marcosini’s flat, the young exile provokes the composer with some critical remarks about the piece. Before finishing his story, Balzac had asked Schlesinger to send him two reviews of the opera, one very flattering and the other totally negative (letter from May or June 1837, Correspondance, 235), so that he could combine them into a sort of a compilation and thus fulfill his promise to Schlesinger and save his own artistic independence. In the scene, Marcosini represents the negative critics, while Gambara takes the role of defender. For the Milanese, Meyerbeer’s masterpiece has an “incoherent score” and is no more than a “dramatic nightmare, which oppresses the hearer without deeply moving him” (“Gambara,” 41). Marcosini accuses the opera of its lack of continuous melodic structure. Its other major fault is its absence of emotion. There are no “happy inventions, those artless scenes,” which would “leave a blissful impression on the soul” of the audience, he says (“Gambara,” 41). As for the harmony, he accords Meyerbeer a certain merit in this matter but reproaches him for harmonic exaggerations, blaming the poverty of the melody which vanishes too often for the benefit of harmony. For Marcosini, harmony “reigns supreme, instead of being the foundation from which the melodic groups of the musical picture stand forth” (“Gambara,” 41). This disproportion between melody and harmony makes comprehension of the piece impossible, even if Marcosini appreciates Meyerbeer’s “transcendent” learning (42). In general, for the Italian exile, instead of “truth” or “unity” in Meyerbeer’s music, there is only a huge “flood of instrumental

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noise” (41). Marcosini stands here for the interest of those in the audience who seek emotion in the music they come to listen to. Gambara’s opinion is the exact opposite of Marcosini’s judgment. For him, Robert le Diable is a “stupendous musical drama” (42). He extols the opera high above the greatest achievements of Gluck, and even compares its mastery with Mozart’s Don Giovanni. He reckons that “Don Giovanni is as yet the only musical work in which harmony and melody are combined in exactly the right proportions,” but also that Robert le Diable is “the richer work” (43) because of the ideas it expresses. Ideas, indeed, are the aspect of music most dear to Gambara. Amazed by the extraordinary “skill and learning” (42) of Meyerbeer, and the “cohesion” and “solidity of structure” (45) of his masterpiece, he expresses his gratitude to Marcosini, thanks to whom he has been “transported to the glorious land of dreams where our senses expand, and the world works on a scale which is gigantic as compared with man” (44). Where Marcosini perceives only noise and confusion, Gambara finds emotions driven to their highest tension. Epithets that Gambara uses to describe Robert, such as “tender,” “gloomy,” “wonderful” (44), “bright and graceful,” “infernal,” diabolical,” “terrible” (45), “noble” (47), “charming” (46) “magnificent” (48) and so on, show his admiration for the opera, so scorned by Marcosini. He regrets not having heard in Rossini’s Mosè the same prayer as this of Robert in the finale. The trio with Robert, Bertram and Alice, “to which the whole opera has led up” (50), has a special meaning for Gambara. Here, Robert triumphs against the temptations of the devil. For Gambara, it is a triumph of “the soul over matter, of the Spirit of Good over the Spirit of Evil” (50). It would not be an exaggeration to see in the context of Gambara’s own life an example of the opposition between soul and matter that Gambara finds in the opera. Here, the soul is juxtaposed with the Spirit of Good against matter, the Spirit of Evil. The choice of the word “matter” is in no way accidental. Gambara himself struggles against the material side of life and love for his wife for the benefit of his art and his ideals. In Meyerbeer’s opera he recognizes the achievement of what he always wanted to reach. “Ah! I, helpless wretch, should have been too happy to hear

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the sound of those heavenly voices I have so often dreamed of” (5051), he says to Marcosini. The ambiguity of Balzac’s judgment about Robert le Diable lies in the fact that Gambara praises the opera while completely drunk. The next day, he attacks the piece with even more brutality than Marcosini before him. Meyerbeer’s masterpiece is now nothing more than a “wretched opera,” written on “ordinary lines” and the success of which is owing to the fact that its music was “borrowed from everybody’s” (54). Nevertheless, during his analysis of Robert le Diable, Gambara reveals his true face to Marcosini. This is what the young exile hoped would happen. Indeed, Marcosini discovers that the true genius of Gambara is not his idealism and vast learning. In his opinion, regenerating an art is beyond Gambara’s powers (42). He tries to convince him that he should find another form of expression—in poetry. The drunken Gambara admires the science of Meyerbeer, his innovations and harmonic superiority, but without knowing it, in fact he praises something else: the power of emotion that enchanted him. That is precisely what Marcosini sees. Thus his remark: “this German has, you see, written a sublime opera without troubling himself with theories, while those musicians who write grammars of harmony may, like literary critics, be atrocious composers” (51). He adds, without beating about the bush: “if, instead of carrying musical principles to an extreme—which takes you too far—you would simply try to arouse our feelings, you would be better understood, unless indeed you have mistaken your vocation. You are a great poet” (51). During this detailed analysis of the Meyerbeer’s opera, this quality of Gambara emerges once more. Gambara cannot believe that his theories, despite being utterly sophisticated and intellectual, are incomprehensible to other people, precisely because they are impossible to understand. On the other hand, he certainly cannot agree with the deaf conductor for whom music can exist “independently of execution” (14). On the contrary, Gambara reckons that neither Mozart nor Beethoven could ever exist without execution. This is why he spent so many years on his quest for a perfect sound. In his opinion, the role of the audience does not pose a problem for the composer. He, who has found “the key to the heavenly tongue,” pays little attention to “the imperfect language of

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men” (51). Nevertheless, the truth is that, whether he agrees with it or not, his greatest talent consists of moving people with his improvisations, his fantasia, an ability which, according to Mireille Labouret (2012, 129), distinguishes a true artist in Balzac’s world. It was not his theoretical explanations that convinced Andrea, but Gambara’s improvisations on themes chosen from Robert le Diable. In the end, emotion prevails over theory. In this sense, Gambara reveals himself as a poet. He is gifted with the same faculty as Balzac’s other extraordinary performers, this genuine sense of rendering each performance balanced and perfect. For example, Marianina, from Sarrasine, possesses this talent. She “combined in equal degree purity of tone, exquisite feeling, accuracy of time and intonation, science, soul and delicacy. She has the type of hidden poesy, the link which connects all the arts and which always eludes those who seek it” (Sarrasine, 3). Unfortunately, even despite this real talent, this secret poetic feeling, Gambara will not abandon his “so-called mission” (“Gambara,” 42) of regenerating music. He would prefer to die than to give up his dreams. All his later misfortune comes from this “self-destructiveness of genius” (Barricelli 1990, 154).

“Massimilla Doni” If “Gambara” is focused on composition and theory, “Massimilla Doni” concentrates more on musical execution and its impact on the public. At least, this is what Balzac claimed in a letter to Schlesinger (May 1837, Correspondance, 226). In fact, both stories concern all of these aspects, but differently. If the first one is rather Beethovenian and perhaps Meyerbeerist, the second one is certainly a tribute to Rossini. The central part of the plot turns around a long analysis of Rossini’s Mosè in Egitto, “the grandest opera produced by Italy's greatest genius” (“Massimilla Doni,” 42). Massimilla Doni explains its mastery to a French doctor, a novice to Italian music. The conversation is held in Doni’s box in Fenice, Venice’s opera house. Mosè has a double meaning for the audience. Aside from its purely musical aspects, it is also a manifestation of Italian patriotism

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against the Austrian occupation of northern Italy. The action takes place in the 1830s. For Massimilla, modern music “is the language of loving and sentimental souls, inclined to lofty emotional aspiration [...]; it arouses sensations and ideas in their primitive form [...]. All other arts present to the mind a definite creation; those of music are indefinite—infinite” (46). As she says elsewhere: “There is nothing but music to express love” (37). Speaking of Rossini, she defends him against the fault of a supposed lack of harmony in the Italian school. Rossini is a master in expressing the sentiments, grief and joys of a whole nation, or in painting light with intelligently chosen instrumental sequences. He well knows how to use the art of contrasts by simple means: “To show you the glory of light he has worked by the same means that he used to represent darkness and sorrow” (50). The same key, “freshly treated by the master's hand, expresses the joy of all nature, while it soothes the grief it uttered before” (51). Besides keys and notes, the instruments also have a special role in the expressiveness of music. For Massimilla, who cites her friend Capraja, music is an art that paints with sound. We can note a similarity with Gambarian synaesthesia: each memory has its own colors. Instrumental timbres can associate them, call them to mind and awake emotions. Some instruments affect us more than others: Has not the oboe the peculiar tone that we associate with the open country, in common with most wind instruments? The brass suggests martial ideas, and rouses us to vehement or even somewhat furious feelings. The strings, for which the material is derived from the organic world, seem to appeal to the subtlest fibres of our nature; they go to the very depths of the heart. (66)

For Massimilla, Rossini’s notion of harmony is as perfect as can be. According to her, his music withstands comparison with “the most elaborate structures of the Germans.” It has also the advantage of not being “fatiguing or tiresome” (48). At the end of the overture she exclaims emotionally, “Handel, Sebastian Bach, all you old German masters, nay, even you, great Beethoven, on your knees! Here is the queen of arts, Italy triumphant!” (48). Rossini knows

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when to resort to science and when to let his imagination run wild. He reconciles melody and harmony in simplicity. “There is the hallmark of the great genius: Unity. It is the same but different. In one and the same phrase we find a thousand various feelings of woe, the misery of a nation. In one and the same chord we have all the various incidents of awakening nature, every expression of the nation’s joy” (51), says Massimilla, exalted. For her, Rossini’s sensuality is not as low or despicable as Andrea Marcosini would think. On the contrary, it is sublime, to the point of vying successfully with nature itself and sometimes letting the audience hear “the hymns sung round the throne of God” (65). After all, she leans towards melody, this genuinely Italian element, to the detriment of harmony: “it is melody, not harmony, that can survive the shocks of time” (67), she says to the Frenchman. Stendhal writes in a similar spirit in the “Introduction” to his Vie de Rossini: “In music, one can remember only what one can repeat; yet a man retired to his home in the evening cannot repeat a harmony with his voice alone” (vol. I, 9). He reminds us that the melodic aspect of music is particularly important for Italians, because of their temperament and sensuality. Sentiment in a sensible soul can easily produce melody. This is the case of a young girl inspired by love in another Balzac novel. Modeste Mignon, without, according to her mother, knowing music (Modeste Mignon, 560), composes a beautiful melody for a romantic poem. For Italians, whose souls, according to Balzac, abound in sentiment, creating a new aria is nothing extraordinary by itself. The pleasure alone of music matters for them, says Stendhal (Vie de Rossini vol. I, 11). As a result of that pleasure, they rarely forgive imperfections of a performance or tedious parts of a composition, or even scruffy scenery. Stendhal reports that the Neapolitan public was left at some points unsatisfied after the first performances of Mosè in Egitto, mocking the decorations before the passage of the Hebrews through the Red Sea before the finale. In order to fix this important mistake, Rossini composed the famous prayer of Moses: Dal tuo stellato soglio, which turned out to be a great success. If Stendhal is not mistaken, writing the aria took Rossini “eight or ten minutes at the most, without his piano,” during a conversation that was being held in his room at the time (Vie de Rossini vol. II, 72). That prayer gained

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Rossini the greatest admiration from the Italian audience. Hence, Massimilla’s admiration in Balzac’s story is plainly justified. She praises the prayer above any other moment of Mosè: In this scene (…), science is set aside. Inspiration, alone, dictated this masterpiece; it rose from the composer’s soul like a cry of love! As to the accompaniment, it consists of the harps; the orchestra appears only at the last repetition of that heavenly strain. Rossini can never rise higher than this prayer; he will do as good work, no doubt, but never better: the sublime is always equal to itself; but this hymn is one of the things that will always be sublime. (“Massimilla Doni,” 65)

The story presents an interesting debate between Duke Cataneo and Capraja concerning musical execution. The Duke is debauched and blasé; his only remaining passion is a search for a “perfect unison of two voices, or of a voice with the top string of his violin” (19). In this, he resembles Gambara in his quest for perfect sounds. Capraja, “this peaceful Diogenes” (40), always expects a perfect roulade, an excellent cadenza, during a singer’s performance (40). Cataneo retorts, teasing him: “You still need a thema, Capraja, but the pure element is enough for me” (41). According to Rose Fortassier, Balzac shows in this discussion something that we have already seen with Gambara: a certain excessiveness, which leads to an “abolition of any expression” (Fortassier 1965, 30). However, it is Capraja who knows how to explain difficulties of execution. Referring to the “preposterous flourishes” (“Massimilla Doni,” 57) and other failures of Genovese, a great tenor who had the misfortune to fall in love with la Tinti, his female partner on stage, Capraja says: When an artist is so unfortunate as to be full of the passion he wishes to express, he cannot depict it because he is the thing itself instead of its image. Art is the work of the brain, not of the heart. When you are possessed by a subject you are a slave, not a master; you are like a king besieged by his people. Too keen a feeling, at the moment when you want to represent that feeling, causes an insurrection of the senses against the governing faculty. (71)

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As long as Genovese’s passion for his partner remains unconsummated, he is incapable of singing with his usual ease and talent whenever la Tinti appears on the stage. His other duettos are impeccable, because while singing them, he presents nothing of passion. He is just showing off his talent. With la Tinti, he is “braying like a stag” (54). Finally, after la Tinti sacrifices herself for opera’s sake by becoming Genovese’s mistress, their duettos surpass the audience’s expectations. As we can see, both of these stories together form a whole. “Gambara” and “Massimilla Doni” are linked by allusions to each other. It is Massimilla who gives a coin to Gambara, and it is Capraja who once hosted Gambara in his home. Massimilla’s analysis of Mosè is very similar to Gambara’s interpretation of his Mahomet and Meyerbeer’s Robert le Diable. Balzac’s admiration for the two styles of music seems evident and after all, rather equal. His purpose was not to pass judgment in favour of one style over the other. The musical debate of his era served him mostly as a context. Each phenomenon of the society he lived in consisted for him but an element of a whole. Unity, for Balzac, was composed of even the most glaring contrasts. Balzac met Rossini before knowing Beethoven’s compositions. After discovering Beethoven on the 20th of April 1834, he was bewitched by the power of the 5th Symphony (Kolb 2009, 252). His admiration for the liberty of Italian music was equalled by the Prometheanism of Beethoven. As he wrote to Mme Hanska in 1837, he would prefer to be Beethoven rather than Rossini or Mozart (Kolb, 248), a confession that designated Beethoven mostly as a creator, possessing a power that must have fascinated the author of the impossible enterprise that the Human Comedy was (Kolb, 248-249). In his tastes, however, Balzac remained a Rossinist, even though his mind was obsessed with unity, searching for a reconciliation of all styles. His literary creation Massimilla also admired Mozart and Beethoven, and in the same way, Andrea Marcosini, after crying “Long live German music!” added immediately, “when it is tuneful” (“quand elle sait chanter”) (“Gambara,” 16). In Balzac’s other works, the names of composers of different times and representing various styles are often cited together, forming a complex human voice, inspiring and opening before sensible people

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new spheres of art and feeling. In A Daughter of Eve, published after his artist stories, Balzac wrote that Melody, Harmony and Composition are indeed three daughters of heaven (Une Fille d’Ève, 280). Is it really possible to reconcile them in perfect unity? In one of Balzac’s last novels, Cousin Pons, the musician Schmucke is able to combine all the qualities of music and musicians within himself. He can execute his caprices “with the grief and the Raphaelesque perfection of Chopin,” and “the ardour and grandiosity of Liszt” or Paganini. Finally, “he was at once Beethoven and Paganini, the creator and interpreter” (Cousin Pons, 705). In Balzac’s world, only the chosen ones are gifted with such generosity. As for styles, Balzac does not seem to have believed that a perfect fusion of them all would be possible. All schools, remaining separated and each keeping its own particularities, already formed a perfect unity altogether. Stendhal, however, believed that the fusion of the two main musical styles were inevitable and, in a sense, logical. For him, it was a general tendency in the musical world. He compared Italian and German music with two rivers which eventually would merge into one, creating a single school of musical style (Vie de Rossini vol. I, 160). That is how he tended to predict the future. The war between harmony and melody would end in peace. In his Apothéose composée à la mémoire immortelle de l’incomparable Monsieur de Lully, 1725, François Couperin proclaimed the reconciliation of French and Italian muses. Would it be the same for the German and Italian ones? This dream, at least in the 19th century, and despite Stendhal’s predictions, remained only a wish, as we can see in the characteristic differences between Wagner and Verdi, who came after Rossini, Beethoven and Meyerbeer. If the rather technical quarrel about styles caught Balzac’s attention as well, the author of “Gambara” and “Massimilla Doni” considered all expression of true musicality as much more than forms alone. Indeed, for Balzac, the art is, above all, intellectual, being a manifestation of philosophical conception. All of his geniuses tend to understand art through practising it. Also the extravagant experiment of Frenhofer, the painter appearing in Le Chef-d’œuvre inconuu, shows this struggle brilliantly. In music, all kinds of emotions, and indeed obsessions, expressed through

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sounds are, in fact, expressions of the mind. In La Comédie humaine, no music is possible without a strong power of thought. Therefore, the question of style is secondary, and the conflict between Harmony, or Idealism, on the one hand, and Melody, or Sensualism, on the other, is at the same time apparent and necessary. Apparent, because they complement each other, and necessary, because it is impossible to express one’s self plainly only through one aspect of a greater whole. If music transcends words, it seems that, for Balzac, words are still necessary to explain it.

References Barricelli, Jean-Pierre. 1990. Balzac and Music. Its Place and Meaning in His Life and Work. New York & London: Garland Publishing. de Balzac, Honoré. 2006. “Gambara.” Translated by Clara Bell and James Waring. Gloucester: Dodo Press (original text published 1837). —. 2006. “Massimilla Doni.” Translated by Clara Bell and James Waring. Gloucester: Dodo Press (original text published 1839). —. 2006. Sarrasine and Facino Cane. Translated by Clara Bell. Gloucester: Dodo Press (original texts published respectively 1830 and 1836) —. 2009. Cousin Pons. La Comédie humaine, vol. VII. “Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.” Paris: Gallimard (original text published 1847). —. 2009. Modeste Mignon. La Comédie humaine, vol. I. “Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.” I. Paris: Gallimard (original text published 1844). —. 2011. Correspondance, vol. II. “Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.” Paris: Gallimard (correspondence 1836-1841). —. 2012. Une Fille d’Ève. La Comédie humaine, vol. II. “Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.” Paris: Gallimard (original text published 1838-1839). Fortassier, Rose. 1965. “Balzac et l’opéra.” Cahiers de l’Association internationale des études françaises 17: 25-36.

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Guise, René. 2008. Introduction and Notes for “Gambara.” La Comédie humaine, vol. X. “Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.” Paris: Gallimard. Kolb, Katherine. 2009. “Balzac et Birotteau devant Beethoven. Fonctions d’une exphrasis musicale.” L’Année balzacienne 10: 247-283. Labouret, Mireille. 2012. “Une Comédie humaine quasi una fantasia?” L’Année balzacienne 13: 121-141. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France. Lascoux, Liliane. 2005. “Balzac et Rossini: histoire d’une amitié.” L’Année balzacienne 6: 263-382. Prunières, Henry, 1986. Préface for Vie de Rossini by Stendhal, vol. I. Genève-Paris: Statkine Reprints. Stendhal, 1986. Vie de Rossini suivie des Notes d’un Dilettante, vol. I-II. Genève-Paris: Slatkine Reprints (original text published 1823). Worthington, Hugh S. 1924. “The Beethoven Symphony in Balzac’s César Birotteau.” Modern Language Notes 39, no. 7: 414-419.

CHAPTER SIX BEYOND “FLOWER OF SCOTLAND”: THE INDEPENDENCE QUESTION IN SCOTTISH MUSIC KIRSTEN HEMPKIN

For the second time since the 1707 Acts of Union politically united Scotland and England, the Scots were asked in 2014 to decide whether they wished to remain part of the United Kingdom. The first referendum was held in 1979, the second in 2014. Much has changed politically and socially in Scotland in this thirty-fiveyear period, not least the granting of devolved powers to a Scottish government in 1997 and the establishment of a parliament in Edinburgh. I offer a comparative analysis of the pre-referendum music of the late 1970s and the present day in an attempt to assess the impact of the independence question on the Scottish music scene. More specifically, I consider the extent to which the independence theme is present in the music of the two periods in question, differences in the message conveyed by artists on that theme, and the manner in which those messages are expressed. At the same time, I draw attention to the political parties’ use of music in their campaigns to influence the electorate on the independence issue. In 1979, the Scottish people 1 voted on devolution. Full independence was not offered as an option but was expected to follow if the result was positive. Although the majority voted in favour of devolving powers to Edinburgh, electoral turnout did not 1

I refer to the electorate here as the Scots and Scottish for ease of reference; British, Commonwealth and citizens of EU member states resident in Scotland were eligible to vote.

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pass the controversial 40% threshold demanded, and Scotland remained entirely under Westminster’s control. In 1997, another referendum was held, asking again whether Scotland should have its own national assembly and whether that assembly should have “tax-varying” powers. The results this time were 74% in favour of establishing an assembly and 63% in favour of granting it taxation powers, paving the way for the Scottish parliament, which was opened by Queen Elizabeth II in Edinburgh in 2004. Ten years later, the Scots were again asked to decide on their future within the United Kingdom. In September 2014, the question on the ballot papers asked whether Scotland should be an independent country, requiring a simple yes or no answer. Despite a late surge for the pro-independence campaign, the response was no, with 55% of Scots voting to maintain the political status quo.2 The results expressed in the above percentages tell us simply the number of Scots that voted for or against in the polling stations. Breaking the figures down demographically, we can speculate on the voters’ motivation for their decision, questioning why, for example, in 2014 Edinburgh voted firmly against but Glasgow voted for. What the bare statistics cannot begin to convey, however, is the profound significance for and impact the independence question has had on Scottish society. The Scots have been compelled to consider what it means to be Scottish—to articulate the values, behaviours and beliefs that make up the national identity—and how a separate Scotland, if it were to exist, should reflect that. Opting for independence would entail unpicking the intricate threads that have bound the four nations of the United Kingdom together for over three hundred years, a process that would be not only practically challenging but also highly emotionally charged. Unsurprisingly, the 1979 and 2014 campaigns were passionately fought, with deeply held convictions on both

2

There is some speculation that another referendum will be held on independence now that the U.K. voted for “Brexit” in June 2016. The Scots voted firmly to remain within the European Union.

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sides of the campaign,3 in many cases splitting friends and family along political lines. Over the last forty years, since the first devolution referendum, music and song have been intimately tied to the independence question. Pro-independence songs in particular have reflected perceptions of “Scottishness” both musically and lyrically, and many of these works have been adopted by the pro-independence groups or political parties. This is a common practice according to Wood (2012), who points out that musical expressions of national or cultural identity are often exploited for political ends. However, Wood also claims that music often does more than simply reflect; it can actually shape and inform our perceptions of national culture and identity, a role that can be ascribed to Scottish music in the 1980s and 90s.4 Analysing the pro-independence songs connected to the 1979 and 2014 campaigns provides both a valuable insight into the changing discourse on independence, in particular on perceptions of Scottishness and the Scots’ place within the United Kingdom, and an opportunity to consider the role that music has played in those shifts.

The Independence Classics: Songs of the 1979 Referendum A set of four songs, which I will refer to as “independence classics,” came to be closely identified with the independence movement around the time of the first (1979) independence campaign. “Flower of Scotland,” which was written by Roy Williamson of The Corries in 1974, was quickly adopted as a proindependence campaign song, as was “Freedom Come All Ye,” 3

There was much concern about how the Scots would react to the result of the 2014 independence referendum, given the emotional and divisive nature of the debate. This concern is captured in Christine de Luca’s poem “The Morning After,” imagining Scotland on 19th September, the day after polling, urging the Scots to think of what unites rather than divides the nation. 4 Street (2010) also draws our attention to the role of music in dictating political action (using events such as Band Aid as an example).

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written by Hamish Henderson in 1960; “Scots Wha Hae,” written by Robert Burns in 1793 and later set to music, became the official anthem of the Scottish National Party; “Both Sides the Tweed” was written by Dick Gaughan in 1979 in response to the failure of the referendum. The songs are similar in that they all belong to the folk/traditional genre, according to Symon (1997) the musical genre of national protest, yet they differ in the demands they make for Scotland and the Scots. Collectively, the Scotland of the independence classics is oppressed and in need of liberation. The songs appeal to the warrior Scots and their innate sense of social justice—two of the qualities associated with the Scottish national identity—to right this wrong. “Flower of Scotland” and “Scots Wha Hae” are battle cries, calling upon the Scots to rise and reclaim their independence from the English, appealing to the Scots to liberate themselves. “Both Sides the Tweed” and “Freedom Come All Ye” contemplate the difference between life in an oppressed and a free nation, and the creation of a society that rewards merit and hard work rather than wealth and status. The works by Burns and The Corries both make use of explicit historical reference: they cite the infamous Battle of Bannockburn in 1314, when the Scots led by Robert the Bruce defeated the English army led by Edward II and freed the nation from English control. “Scots Wha Hae” is believed to be based on an address Robert the Bruce delivered to his troops on the eve of Bannockburn; it is blunt in its use of extreme language and imagery to urge the troops into battle, depicting the gruesome fate awaiting the Scots if they do not resist—“Chains and Slaverie”—and expressing the utmost contempt for those who accept English rule as “traitors,” “cowards” and “slaves.” Of course, the battle will be costly (there are references to “spilling blood,” “draining veins,” and “gory bed”), but Burns also reminds the Scots that they have proved themselves capable of winning such battles: “Scots Wha Hae” translates into standard English as “Scots Who Have.” It is a reminder that they have defeated their greatest enemy before, an evocation of the heroic Scottish freedom fighters, Bruce and Wallace.

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There’s a strong sense of Scotland being pulled towards her fate in this piece. Lyrically, Burns claims that what is at stake is so great that there is no choice whether or not to fight, while musically, the threat posed by Edward (“Edward lours”) and the prevailing sense of menace and impending doom is conveyed by the rhythmic, steady beat, reminiscent of a clock ticking (a countdown to battle or Scotland’s future being decided?) or marching—be it the Scottish soldiers marching to the battlefield, or Edward’s army marching towards Scotland. This piece is usually sung by a strong bass or baritone male voice: Now’s the day, an now’s the hour: See the front o battle lour, See approach proud Edward’s power Chains and Slaverie

“Flower of Scotland,” in contrast, has a more melancholy air, as the song begins by lamenting the loss of Scotland’s freedom and the lack of an emblematic figure (no “Flower of Scotland”) to lead the Scots into the battle for liberation. This melancholy is mirrored in the performance of the song, as the first verse is usually delivered by single male voice, singing sotto voce, either a capella or accompanied by a subdued guitar sound. Instead of Burns’ bloody battlefields and heroes, we encounter depictions of the landscape, a common feature in Scottish songs, according to Donald “as icons of identity and attachment, pleasure and desire” (2011, 287). There is a poignancy in the description of the landscape. Scotland is not portrayed here as the majestic, fertile open land with which we are familiar; oppression has robbed and humbled Scotland to a few hills and valleys, “your wee bit hill and glen,” stripped of life “the hills lie bare now.” Yet, although there is a dormancy symbolised by the autumn leaves, there is also hope for the future that the Scots will fight for the country that is “so dearly held.” Again, the spectre of Edward looms, with an appeal to embrace the qualities embodied by the Scottish troops at Bannockburn. At this point, the music begins to swell: a second

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male voice joins the first, both singing full voice, accompanied by guitar and drums, to deliver the stirring chorus: But we can still rise now, And be that nation again, That stood against him, Proud Edward’s army, And send him homeward, Tae think again

“Freedom Come All Ye” and “Both Sides the Tweed” also rail against oppression, but not necessarily that of the Scots by the English. They call for freedom from slavery and oppression in any form, and an egalitarian society in Scotland and elsewhere, heavily reminiscent of Burns’s “A Man’s a Man”: Let virtue distinguish the brave Place riches in lowest degree (Gaughan) In yer hoose aa the bairns o Adam Will find breid, barley-bree an paintit room (Henderson)

As in “Flower of Scotland,” both songwriters draw heavily on the Scottish landscape and natural world (and in Henderson’s piece, the Scottish people), employing a series of divisions and contrasts to convey their message of social justice. Key to these pieces are geographical divides: Gaughan’s Tweed is the river that acts as the historical border between Scotland and England, while Henderson’s Great Glen is a geographical fault that runs through the Highlands. These geographical features are crucial to the songs; they serve as a physical setting for the works but also stand as symbols of what the authors see as a fundamental man-made division between the oppressor and the oppressed, which is thematically expressed in the contemplation of two Scotlands (life in oppressed Scotland and life in free Scotland, or any other oppressed nation). Within the picture of oppressed Scotland, we encounter a chain of sub-divisions and contrasts in human values and human beings

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themselves: in Henderson’s work, we hear of the black boy and the white Scottish soldier sent to repress him by colonial authorities; the rogues and braggarts (the military officer) and the bonnie callants (handsome youths) sent to serve in the military. In Gaughan’s piece, we read of the “poorest” and “richest,” not in material terms but referring to those who uphold and those who quash notions of liberty: Think them poorest who can be a slave Them richest who dare to be free

The authors’ use of landscape also reflects this pattern: in Gaughan’s oppressed Scotland, the natural wonders are robbed of their beauty and stripped of their meaning by those who have colluded with oppression for financial gain. The perfume of the jasmine and rose is overwhelmed by the stench of corruption. What’s the spring breathing jasmine and rose What’s the summer with all its gay train What’s the splendour of autumn to those Who’ve bartered their freedom for gain.

On the other hand, in Henderson’s work, the landscape itself is used as a tool of exploitation. Scotland’s vast, open spaces serve as a prison, confining people while they are oppressed, and the waters of the Broomielaw do not carry men onto the open sea to freedom but to fight and oppress others in colonial empires. It is only when Scotland and all other nations are free that natural harmony can be restored and savoured: “Aa thae roses an geans will turn tae blume.” Musically, although various arrangements of Henderson’s and Gaughan’s pieces exist, these works are also similar. There is little of the stirring element of Burns and The Corries. Instead, the overall sound is steady, subdued and melodic, conveying the reflective mood of the lyrics. Both works are usually sung by a solo male voice, accompanied by guitar and/or fiddle; yet, the instruments remain in the background, supporting the voice, allowing the poetic lyrics prominence.

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While these four songs differ to a certain extent in the message they convey, they are all uncompromising in their call for Scotland to free herself from her oppressors and transform herself into a more socially just society. This was entirely reflective of the rhetoric surrounding the 1979 referendum debate, which perhaps explains the appeal of these songs to the independence campaign. As the Scottish Political Archive at the University of Stirling points out, the referendum campaign was bitterly fought and the debate surrounding independence vociferous. There were numerous rifts and divides, not only between the Scots and the English but also among the Scottish political parties themselves. The SNP (Scottish National Party), a new party, was fighting for electoral ground with Labour, since the Conservatives were still a relatively strong force in Scotland, while the parties also split internally, with the formation of strong pro- and anti-devolution factions. We also have to consider that notions of British cultural identity were much stronger in the late 1970s. The lyrical and musical power of these songs reflects the enormity of the act of devolution: the ties binding the U.K. could be seen as stifling; to loosen them was almost unthinkable. Much of the debate about Scotland’s acquiring devolution centred on the integral role that Scotland played within the U.K. and the notion that Scotland’s national and cultural identity was inseparable from that of Great Britain. Alan Massie, a prominent Scottish writer and commentator, recently observed that one of the 1979 anti-devolutionist campaigns was simply entitled “Scotland is British.” While the “independence classics” are still very much present in Scottish political and cultural life, they have played a slightly less prominent role in 2014 campaigning. “Scots Wha Hae” is still the anthem of the SNP, sung at the end of every party conference. “Flower of Scotland” has become an unofficial sporting anthem,5 used at sporting events where a Scottish rather than British team competes. The stirring chorus is often sung in two parts, with the crowd singing parts of the lyrics to each other. At the same time, 5

The official national anthem of Scotland is the United Kingdom’s “God Save the Queen,” despite the infamous reference to “rebellious Scots to crush.”

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“Freedom Come All Ye” and “Both Sides the Tweed” are still sung at pro-independence rallies, while “Freedom Come All Ye” was adopted by the campaign for nuclear disarmament. Both songs have been officially recognised by Education Scotland as suitable songs for high-school study, despite Henderson’s previous hopes that the song retain its alternative character and some complaints about its pro-independence stance. It is perhaps also telling that when the Scottish parliament was opened, the song that was chosen to mark the occasion was Burn’s “A Man’s a Man,” a piece that, as already mentioned, has strong parallels to Henderson’s and Gaughan’s work, with its claim that the honest man is the king of men, and contempt for the so-called great and good in society, the noblemen and aristocracy.

Shifts in political rhetoric and the Scottish transformation The emphasis on, indeed the validation of social justice in Scottish life, was one of the key strands in the rhetoric surrounding the 2014 independence referendum. Freedom from inequality and injustice is an appropriate and fitting theme, while freedom from English oppressors is seen as outdated and passé. Mentions of the English oppressor Edward II in “Scots Wha Hae” can be overlooked in SNP circles, most likely because of the pedigree that Burns conveys, and on the football or rugby field, perhaps the last bastion of acceptable anti-Englishness, but they cannot be overlooked in other areas, especially public discourse. As Massie notes, the terms “British” and “Britain” in the 2014 independence campaigns are conspicuous by their absence, while Johnathon Freedman states in the New York Review of Books that the nationalist movement was “shorn of even the faintest hint of antiEnglishness” (2014, 48). He describes how the Scots have managed to create a distinct political culture, so that governing themselves would be best from a purely pragmatic point of view. He quotes from the white paper on independence, entitled Scotland’s Future (2013), which lays out plans for a post-independence Scotland, in

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which Alex Salmond (Scotland’s then first minister) 6 identifies what is perceived as the “Scottish difference”—that a Scottish society would be based on the values of “compassion and equality,” which may explain the enduring appeal of Burns, Henderson and Gaughan. This political shift—the forging of a transformed politics toward the “Scottish difference”—has also been mirrored culturally. Many authors have pointed to the transformative processes that Scotland underwent after the failed referendum of 1979 and the successful referendum of 1997, what Michael Gardner has described as “an extraordinary rebirth in confidence in Scottish politics and culture, and a serious rethinking of what kind of thing Scotland was” (2008, 18). In parallel, Massie points to a strengthening in national identity: the Scots see themselves as Scots first and foremost, rather than British, which is borne out by a study by Rosie and Bond which suggests that, given a choice, Scots are the most likely of the UK respondents to list their “best” identity as local, i.e. Scottish (rather than British) and that this has risen significantly since 1979: “The 1979 data suggest a substantial subsequent drop (of about 20%) in the proportions choosing British as their best identity and a symmetrical rise in the proportion choosing Scottish” (2008, 56). Conservatively speaking, we could say that three processes—the political and cultural changes as well as the shift in national identity—have taken place simultaneously; however, it is much more likely that they occurred symbiotically. In the 1980s and 1990s, Scotland was largely neglected by the London-based governments of Margaret Thatcher and John Major. Thatcher in particular was seen as uninterested in, if not hostile towards, Scotland. Politically, she understood that Scotland was a lost cause for the Conservatives, and she refused to entertain any notion of independence. Yet, as Scotland declined economically, and the sense of frustration and alienation with Westminster grew, Scots began to express their identity and assert themselves culturally. 7 6

Alex Salmond stood down immediately after the referendum defeat. He was replaced by Nicola Sturgeon. 7 This also happened in other economically disadvantaged parts of the United Kingdom, most notably Manchester, which came to be known for

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Generally, there was a growth of interest in Scotland, especially in the grittier side of life, and of tales told about Scotland by the Scottish in Scots (or at least using Scots dialect). This was the era of the hugely successful Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh; James Kelman won the Booker prize for How Late It Was How Late; detective dramas such as Taggart and Cracker were immensely popular on TV screens, just as Gregory’s Girl, Local Hero and, of course, Braveheart were in the cinemas. Music was a key element in Scotland’s cultural flourishing. The 1980s and 1990s were marked by mainstream pop and rock music adopting or incorporating what Wood describes as “Scottish sounds” from the folk or traditional genre; she identifies these as specific melodic/rhythmic styles, Scottish instruments and the use of Gaelic, Scots or Scottish (accented English) in singing. All of these elements can be heard individually or in combination with others in the work of several hugely successful artists: Big Country (bagpipe sounds), Capercaillie and Runrig (Gaelic) and The Proclaimers (Scottish English). The Proclaimers not only sang in heavy East Coast Scottish accents but their songs had a distinct political content. “Letter from America” chronicles the heavy flow of emigrants from Scotland and voices concern about the effect this will have on the homeland, while “Throw the R Away” is a wonderfully indignant riposte to those who claim that success is impossible with a Scottish accent. While recognisably Scottish artists were enjoying success across the U.K., Scotland also began to play host to hugely successful annual festivals: Celtic Connections, a folk and traditional gathering, and T in the Park, a three-day mainstream outdoor event.

The songs of the 2014 campaign In 2010, the Scottish National Party released a party political broadcast with a specially commissioned song “Let’s Work Together,” based on the Roxy Music Classic “Let’s Stick Together.” This was the first time a political party had specifically its thriving club scene, led by the Hacienda, and the number of iconic “Madchester” bands, such as Oasis, Stone Roses and Joy Division.

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commissioned a piece of music for such purposes, and an opportunity for Alex Salmond to articulate the values of Scottish nationalism in song, although this was the period prior to securing the promise of a referendum on independence from British Prime Minister David Cameron. What is immediately striking about the broadcast is how pareddown the overall effect is and how reflective it is of “the Scottish difference”: there are no striking pictures of Scotland, although there are immediately recognisable symbols of Scotland in, for example, the farmer tending his highland cattle. There are no grand statements about independence and no real hint as to what the “better” in the slogan to “be part of better,” delivered by Salmond at the end of the broadcast, might be. The key seems to lie in work, as the title of the song suggests. The professions portrayed are the “unsung heroes” of Scottish life—the office workers, the nurses, the painter and decorator—echoing Burns’ “honest man.” Even the retired and the very young are portrayed as engaged in productive activity, with the grandmother tending her roses and the young girl training a dog. In an interplay between the background music and the visuals, the participants begin to sing the song themselves, displaying the unity or harmony that Scotland will require, whether independent or not. In the 2014 campaign, the songs are mostly from mainstream genres rather than folk (albeit incorporating the folk sounds that made their way into mainstream music during the cultural shifts of the 80s/90s). The protest expressed in the 2014 songs is predominantly internal: Scotland is still portrayed as in need of liberation, but Edward is no longer “louring” over the Scots. The English threat is reduced to an unhappy partner in Stanley Odd’s “Marriage Counselling,” in which a dialogue between the two countries is imagined. Both nations (Caledonia and Britannia) air their grievances: Scotland complains that she is treated with a lack of respect: “I’m not a lap dog, a pet or a petulant wean” while England complains that all Scotland does is complain: “Bitch bitch moan moan. Give me a break, All you ever seem do is complain.” The lyrics refer to English “oppression” and suggest that “a trial separation” is required, yet it is clear that Scotland is not a helpless victim: she is equally to blame for her problems, described in the

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lyrics as irresponsible with money (seen in over-budget projects) and “alcoholic, sectarian and illiterate.” Scotland’s complicity in her fate is echoed in the Proclaimers’ “Cap in Hand,” which suggests that the Scots have allowed the English or British to rule them and dictate their politics. Interestingly, the guitar arrangement is upbeat, and there is little of the melancholy of the 1979 classics; however, the music works to emphasise the message the lyrics convey. The Proclaimers’ delivery of the song’s hook is particularly strident—almost an angry shout— ending in a high note: “I don’t understand why we let someone else rule our land,” with “let someone else” almost spat out. This is followed by “cap in hand,” which is much more softly delivered, with descending notes. This pattern is repeated in the lines: “we fight when they ask us,” “we boast then we cower,” creating an overall effect of shame, a reluctance to admit to the Scots’ role in their fate. The last line of the chorus is particularly powerful. It is sung in sections, with “we beg” first, then “for a piece of,” followed by “what’s already,” which is sung by overlapping voices with each of the words underscored by a twang of the guitar, until the final word “ours” is sung. The overlapping voices unite on the last word, the notes ascending, giving “ours” a special significance. There is a continuity of lyric and sound at this point: as the singing of “ours” fades, the guitars give way to the most recognisably “Scottish” sound of the song, a flute. The narrative of the official campaign concerns the Scots’ own negativity—that this is the greatest obstacle standing in the Scot’s path to independence. In the official Yes Scotland campaign video “What if I can’t do became I can do?” the dour Scot, the naysayer, is seen dispensing negativity to the young people he encounters, all of whom are engaged in trying to improve their lives in some way. The generic soundtrack gradually gives way to the chorus of Big Country’s “One Great Thing,” which reads If there’s one great thing to happen in my life If there’s one great day, if there’s one great height Let it be the time of peace Let it be the time of right If there’s one great thing to happen in my life

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The emphasis here is on the personal, not the “our” of the Proclaimers’ “cap in Hand” but on the internal narrative each Scot must have, “my life,” to vote for independence. Yet, the personal aspect of the lyrics is underscored by the collective nature of the music: the words are accompanied by the distinctively “Scottish” Big Country bagpipe/guitar sounds. The cultural transformation of the 80s and 90s resulted in a Scotland portrayed in song as ready to bear responsibility for her situation. One of the works associated with the 2014 campaign, Frankie Miller’s “Caledonia,” provides a metaphor for this change. The piece is an ode to Scotland (Caledonia) from an exile longing to return, a rich traditional motif in Scottish song, and opens with the lyric: I don’t know If you can see The changes that have come over me

Although the lyrics refer to the exile himself, they could equally stand for the transformation Scotland herself has undergone. The work is undeniably a romantic ballad and Caledonia could be a woman directly addressed by her lover: So let me tell that I love you And I think about you all the time Caledonia’s been calling me Now I’m going home

This piece has been recorded by various artists. Dougie MacLean sings the most popular version, performing the song with a wistful sound at the beginning. His voice is soft and he plucks gently at the strings of the accompanying guitar (and mandolin) to create a feeling of yearning for the homeland. As the narrative of the song reaches its climax—the singer has decided to return home—his voice swells to convey the determination he feels, and several guitars join the single instrument. In a clever piece of social network campaigning, impossible of course in 1979, a YouTube video captures the moment a busker singing “Caledonia” is joined

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by MacLean, who just happens to have been out on the streets campaigning for a “Yes” vote, and the two singers lead the crowd in a sing-a-long. It is also in the online arena that the folk and traditional genre, which was at the forefront of musical protest in 1979, has been most active in the 2014 campaign. Since mainstream music has absorbed some of the folk role in sound and content, a group of folk artists and performers have collaborated in the Trad Yes project. Under the umbrella of the National Collective (creatives for independence), they actively campaigned for independence through events and activities on social media. While the project describes their ultimate aim as connecting people, they also see themselves aiding the Scots in overcoming their lack of self-belief through culture and music, reflecting the thrust of the official campaign: “…helping build the confidence—in ourselves and in each other— to imagine possible futures and vote Yes in 2014.” The songs associated with the 1979 and 2014 campaigns reflect the contemporary discourse concerning independence and the Scots’ perceptions of themselves; the differences between the 1979 and 2014 songs reflect how much that discourse and those perceptions have changed. While the concern for social justice is still strong in contemporary Scotland, reflected in the enduring appeal of Henderson and Gaughan’s works, there has been a remarkable shift in the perception of the barriers to achieving an independent and socially just Scotland. As Scotland has loosened political ties with the rest of the U.K. and witnessed a resurgence in Scottish culture, partly driven by the emergence of an identifiable and popular “Scottish sound,” songs engaging with the independence question have moved away from notions of Scotland as a victim of English oppressors. Instead, the Scots were challenged to consider the role they themselves played in their situation and whether they now had the self-confidence to take the final steps to independence.

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Discography Adamson, Stuart and Tony Butler. 1986. “One Great Thing.” The Seer. Mercury Records. Burns, Robert. 1795. “A Man’s a Man.” The Glasgow Magazine. —. 1799. “Scots Wha Hae.” In A Select Collection of Original Scottish Airs for the Voice, edited by George Thomson. Gaughan, Dick. 1981. “Both Sides the Tweed.” Handful of Earth. Folk-Freak. Harrison, Wilbert. 1962. “Let’s Work Together.” (Recorded by Jakil 2010). Fury. Henderson, Hamish. 1977. “Freedom Come All Ye.” The Poems and Songs of Hamish Henderson. Claddagh. Jakil. 2010. “Let’s Work Together.” SNP. Leiber, Jerry and Mike Stoller. 2007. “Jailhouse Rock.” Essential Elvis Presley. BMG. MacLean, Dougie. 1983. “Caledonia.” Caledonia. Dunkeld. Reid, Charlie and Craig Reid. 2003. “Cap in Hand.” The Best of the Proclaimers. Parlophone. Scottish Independence: What If I Can’t Do Became I Can Do? www.YesScotland.net. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bn7OKRbX6n8 Williamson, Roy. 1974. “Flower of Scotland.” These Are The Corries Vol. 2. Philips/Phonogram.

References Dougal, Josephine. 2011. “Popular Scottish Song Traditions at Home (and Away).” Folklore 122, no. 3: 283-307. (DOI: 10.1080/0015587X.2011.608265) Freedman, Johnathon. 2014. “Will Scotland Go Independent?” The New York Review of Books LXI, no. 5 March 20-April 2. Gardner, Michael. 2005. Modern Scottish Culture. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Lynch, Peter, and Sarah Bromage. (n.d.) “The 1979 Devolution Referendum in Scotland.” The Scottish Political Archive (www.scottishpoliticalarchive.org.uk/wb/media/1979%20Refere ndum.pdf)

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Massie, Allan. 11.3.2014. “In Alistair Darling Salmond Has His Match but the Scottish Referendum Must Be Fought Decently.” The Telegraph. (http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/culture/allanmassie/100064692/inalistair-darling-alex-salmond-has-his-match-but-the-scottishreferendum-must-be-fought-decently/) Rosie, Michael, and Ross Bond. 2008. “National Identities and Politics after Devolution.” Radical Statistics 97. (http://www.radstats.org.uk/no097/RosieBond97.pdf) Salmond, Alex. 2013. “Scotland’s Future.” The Scottish Government (www.scotland.gov.uk/publications/2013/11/9348/0) Street, John. 2010. Music and Politics. Cambridge: Polity. Symon, Peter. 1997. “Music and National Identity in Scotland: A Study of Jock Tamson’s Bairns.” Popular Music 16, no. 2: 203216. Trad Yes. 2014. National Collective. nationalcollective.com. Wood, Nichola. 2012. “Playing with “Scottishness”: Musical Performance, Non-representational Thinking and the “Doings” of National Identity.” Cultural Geographies 19, no. 2: 195-215.

CHAPTER SEVEN A ROMANTIC SINGER OF THE SOVIET UNION: INDIVIDUALISM AND REBELLION IN VLADIMIR VYSOTSKY’S SONGS NATALIA KALOH VID

I’d like to say a few words about these songs of mine. Many years ago, I was with my closest friends. From my various travels I have brought back for them... well, impressions, impressions in verse set to a sort of rhythm. So I took my guitar in hand and began to strum away. And what emerged was something like a song. But it was not a song. It was the way I see it, poetry recited with musical accompaniment. In short, poetry set to rhythm.1 —V. Vysotsky

Vladimir Vysotsky, (1938-1980), a Russian singer, songwriter, poet and actor, embodied the spirit and the conscience of his time. The themes of his songs varied greatly, from war to political songs that satirized the Soviet system, to love lyrics and camp songs. Born behind the “iron curtain,” Vysotsky created a unique poetic oeuvre that reflected the real life of the country in the 1960s and 1970s. Although not officially recognized by the Soviet state, Vysotsky managed to become famous throughout the Soviet Union as a critic of the system. His aim was to show life as it was, to mock the attempt of the socialist system to present a utopian state, and to reveal the world of authentic human values. Vysotsky is an iconic figure in the Soviet and post-Soviet cultural landscape, a phenomenon of human self-revelation in the totalitarian regime and unique in contemporary Russian society. He embodied the spirit and the conscience of his time as the most 1

My translation from the original Russian.

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revered singer/poet the Soviet Union had ever known. Born in the country behind the “iron curtain,” Vysotsky managed to find his voice through artistic creation, in spite of restrictions imposed by official Soviet censorship. Some of his song lyrics are now frequently used as proverbs and sayings in media, film and everyday speech. Vysotsky gained official recognition first as the leading actor of Moscow’s Theatre of Drama and Comedy on Taganka.2 He joined the theatre in 1964 and performed there until his death in 1980, making headlines with his leading roles in William Shakespeare’s Hamlet3 and Bertolt Brecht’s Life of Galileo. He was also lauded for his performance in Pugachev as the runway convict Khlopusha and as Svidrigailov in Crime and Punishment. To a great extent the immense popularity of this theatre was owing to Vysotsky’s presence. While continuing his career in the theatre on Taganka, Vysotsky recorded several radio plays for broadcasting and acted in twenty-seven films produced for television and cinema. As Christopher Lazarski notes, “… this was a remarkable achievement for a man whom Soviet radio, television, and cinema producers were reluctant to employ” (1992, 60). The most popular television films presenting Vysotksy as a leading actor are The Meeting Place Can Not be Changed (Ɇɟɫɬɨ ɜɫɬɪɟɱɢ ɢɡɦɟɧɬɶ ɧɟɥɶɹ, 1979), in which he played a police investigator in the post-war Moscow criminal department; and Little Tragedies (Ɇɚɥɟɧɶɤɢɟ ɬɪɚɝɟɞɢɢ, 1980), a film interpretation of Alexander Pushkin’s dramas.

2

The Taganka Theatre is situated in an Art Nouveau building at Taganka square in Moscow, on a spot where there had been a prison before. The theatre was established in 1964 by Yuri Liubimov (1917-) and continued the traditions of his theatre school, the Vakhtangov Theatre, while it also tried to explore the possibilities of the epic theatre created by Bertolt Brecht. Under Liubimov’s direction, this theatre became the most popular in Moscow, but it got into trouble with the Soviet authorities, who banned many productions. 3 Vysotsky enrolled in a civil engineering institute but completed only the first semester.

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Vysotsky also served as lyricist or songwriter for several film productions, in some of which he also appeared as an actor.4 It is true that Vysotksy made his living as an actor, but his successful roles in the theatre and in cinema were greatly exceeded by his popularity as a songwriter and a singer. Although not officially recognized by the Soviet state, his songs spoke truth in the oblique ways typical of heavily censored societies and made him famous throughout the Soviet Union. Because of the official censorship enforced upon cultural productions, most of Vysotksy’s lyrics could not be heard on television or radio, but everyone knew them by heart. Vysotsky became known for his emotionally powerful singing style and for his highly eloquent lyrics, which often incorporated humorous street vocabulary into social and political commentaries. The secret of his success lies in his poetic skills and mastery of vocabulary. All the while, however, his music sounded a covert protest through symbolic language and musical allusions that escaped the notice of the regime’s legion of critics. An important element in Vysotsky’s songs was that he often spoke in the first person, but not as himself. As a talented actor, he was able to put on the mask of a certain character and acted out a mini spectacle. The authenticity of this artistic method gave rise to additional myths of Vysotsky’s life. By examining different voices and contexts in Vysotsky’s lyrics, it is possible to reconstruct the dialogue between cultures and subcultures, between official and underground, between legal and illegal in the Soviet period and therefore learn what a particular subculture of Soviet people valued as its ideal and why this ideal persist to the present days. Studying Vladimir Vysotsky’s songs provides a case study of the relationship between cultural communication and historic reality, as he represents not only a rebellious phenomenon in the subordinated Soviet system but a new individualistic discourse that consists of multiple voices. Two of them are the Russian individualistic heroism rooted in Lermontov’s

4

Perhaps the most well-known example of a song written for the film is “Song About a Friend” (ɉɟɫɧɹ ɨ ɞɪɭɝɟ) which appeared in the film Vertiɫal (ȼɟɪɬɢɤɚɥɶ) about extreme mountain-climbing.

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and Pushkin’s poetry and prose, and the phenomenon of the Gulag’s identity. Considering this point, what might have made Vysotsky particularly attractive for various social groups was the element of recognition and identification. In his songs, Vysotsky embraced the whole spectrum of various situations and characters, avoiding autobiographical reflection and constructing a creative dialogue with his audience. His lyrics were oriented toward the poetical presentation of trivial situations combined with philosophicalideological subtexts. The exact number of songs written by Vysotsky differs greatly according to various sources. Cataloguing the exact number proves to be difficult because of the profuse dispersion of recordings. Thus, Gerald Smith estimates Vysotsky’s catalogue to be over five hundred songs (1984, 175). Christopher Lazarski notes that Vysotsky left six hundred songs (1992, 61). Nathan Mer includes songs and poems in his estimation of seven hundred works (1991, vii) and Artemy Troitski gives a higher estimate of over one thousand songs (1998, 63). All estimates do not specify whether the songs include those in which Vysotsky wrote only a lyric. Vysotsky is also co-author of the novel The Black Candle (ɑɟɪɧɵɣ ɫɧɟɝ) that was published posthumously. The novel depicts the lives of Soviet ex-prisoners still working in the remote gold miles of the Russian north. Despite the fact that Vysotsky was credited as a songwriter or a lyrist in some films, he was almost an underground performer, never recognized by the Soviet authorities. 5 Brezhnev’s regime revealed its intolerance toward any forms of underground avantgarde cultural activities and an individual could receive hefty hard labour sentences for performing or publishing works regarded as anti-Soviet. Most popular and engaging music was circulating 5

It was only after Vysotsky’s death that the Soviet government allowed publication of the first collection of his poems Nerve (ɇɟɪɜ) and decorated him posthumously with the USSR State Award for his performance as Detective Zheglov in the TV police series The Meeting Place Cannot Be Changed (Ɇɟɫɬɨ ɜɫɬɪɟɱɢ ɢɡɦɟɧɢɬɶ ɧɟɥɶɡɹ) and for the performance of his songs.

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through underground recording (a phenomenon called Magnitizdat). Vysotsky’s rebellious poetry as well as his highly individualistic style of performance that labeled him as an anti-Soviet phenomenon can be interpreted as a reaction to the restraint placed upon cultural activities in the Soviet Union. His unofficial position meant that Vysotsky was not allowed to present solo concerts as a musician and performed wherever and whenever he could. The intimate atmosphere of his private, often illegal, concerts differed considerably from official pompous events organized in the Soviet cultural space. Thanks to his unofficial, relaxed approach to the audience, Vysotksy created an intimate sense of trust and having a conversation with people through song. While addressing the audience at one concert, he said: The atmosphere was one of trust, completely easy, and, what is more important, of friendliness. I saw, that they needed my songs that they wanted to hear what I was going to tell them in my songs. In short, it was a way of telling my close friends something, of talking to them (qtd. in Andreev and Boguslavski 1990, 4).

Because of his popularity, Vysotsky performed on average over three hundred concerts a year, most of which were unofficial and unadvertised. As only a few of his songs were released by Melodiya, the state-controlled recording firm, most of his lyrics circulated by means of an underground transmission of music called Magnitizdat,6 the musical equivalent of Samizdat, which draws its name from the Russian words “magnitofon” (tape recorder) and “izdat” (to publish). This means that tapes of live recordings made during his concerts were passed around and listeners made their own copies. The impact achieved can be compared only with that of the official media, while at the same time Vysotsky was bypassing official censorship.

6

The term Magnitizdat describes a mode of dissemination that encompassed all unofficial recordings: poetic recitation, interviews and music of the bards. Magnitizdat was enabled by the arrival in the early 1960s of affordable reel-to-reel tape recorders in Soviet stores.

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Vysotsky’s fifteen-year long career as an actor and a poetperformer unfolded in a climate of cultural repression. Since he never won formal recognition from the authorities as a poet, he didn’t have a chance to see his verse printed. None of his works had been published in book form when he died of a heart attack in 1980 at the age of forty-two. Vysotsky’s rebelliousness, as well as his distance from the mainstream of obedient artists faithful to the Communist Party, disqualified him as an official Soviet song performer. According to Lazaski, “Vysotsky challenged all the conventions imposed by state patronage on cultural activity: his verses ignored official optimism, reflecting instead the real life” (1992, 65). By exposing the degradation and hypocrisy of Soviet life and alluding to forbidden issues, such as the horrors of Stalin’s working camps (Gulags), or the suppression of independence in the Soviet Union, Vysotsky reminded his listeners of the bleak reality which could not be officially shown and evaluated in Soviet society. He was not given a chance to cultivate his public image, but he took care to maintain a variable repertoire, thus performing satirical, criminal, love, social and political songs. Like Vladimir Mayakovsky during his lifetime, Vysotksy was systematically attacked in the press for disfiguring the Russian language, and for singing “in the name of and on behalf of alcoholics, soldiers in disciplinary units and criminals” (qtd. in Sovetskaia Rossiia, June 9, 1968). Furthermore, his passionate performances were not considered appropriate either. As noted by Christopher Lazarski, “Apart from the great enterprises, which the Party periodically promulgated as the next step in building up Communism, the Soviet citizen should not have anything to be passionate about” (1992, 65). Finally, Vysotsky’s extravagant bohemian lifestyle provoked rumours and myths about his love affairs, alcoholism and drug abuse, not to mention his third marriage to the French actress Marina Vlady,7 all of which seemed out of place in the Soviet system governed by the principle of equality and subordination.

7

In the Stalin era, a law was adopted in the Soviet Union which forbade ordinary people from marrying foreigners.

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However, Vysotsky escaped the destiny of numerous Russian dissidents,8 as he was not officially silenced or expelled from the Soviet Union.9 According to Gerald Smith: There was a sort of unholy conspiracy between him and the Soviet official world. The Party and state apparatus by implication acknowledged him as the most authentic voice of their historical times and their country, someone who was perhaps unruly, disrespectful and even downright subversive at times, but nevertheless someone who spoke to them in their own language and about their own life. It is an important respect that Vysotsky was the unofficial bard of the official world instead of being like (Galich) a force alien to it, something it felt threatened by and needed to destroy (1984, 173).

In general, Vysotsky opposed the totalitarian system on moral grounds instead of political ones but he never attacked political leaders personally. Because of his careful balancing of his official and unofficial artistic status, Vysotsky managed to survive in Soviet cultural life. As his career continued, his fame and increasing popularity protected him from any castigation, even though occasional minor reprimands occurred. For instance, not a single line of his poetry was ever published by the official presses and the Union of Soviet Writers rejected his application twice. Even when Vladimir Vysotsky died in 1980, the official mass media ignored his tragic death. Although no official figure was released, it was later estimated that over one million people attended Vysotsky’s funeral—almost as many as that for Pope John Paul II in 2005. At this point it will be useful to discuss what is meant by avtorskaia pesnia. Vysotsky was one of the founders of the genre, which began in the post-Stalin era of the 1950s, known as the Thaw, when Nikita Khrushchev came to power and censorship 8

Many writers, theater directors and artists, including Vladimir Voinovich, Alexander Galich, Mstislav Rostropovich, Galina Vishnevskaia, Mikhail Baryshnikov and Oscar Rabin were forced to leave the country. 9 Vysotsky was even allowed to travel outside the Soviet Union, performing in Paris. He also performed at a concert at Brooklyn College that was recorded and released as an album in the United States in 1979.

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became slightly more liberal. It reached its peak in the 1960s and 1970s with the proliferation of affordable audio tape recorders, which enabled free or cheap access to music. The popularity of authors’ songs was based on the talent of the singers, on the themes and attitudes expressed, and on the special, intimate atmosphere in which these songs were usually performed. Bards provided a commentary on life that was often cynical, satirical or politically engaged. The singer was primarily the author of the text and accompanied himself alone on a guitar (or some other instrument, which was rare). The focus is primarily on the lyrics, which are emotional, eloquent and sometimes metaphorical, while the chord progressions tend to be very simple and similar from song to song, without instrumental solos. The simplicity of this genre is part of an aesthetic that includes an intimate atmosphere of performance, emphasis on the texts of the songs, as well as on the lyrical content. In general, the themes of the songs varied greatly, from war to political songs which satirized the Soviet system, and camp songs. While there is no exact equivalent of this tradition in the West, comparison may be made to the individualistic socially engaged style of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. The genre has its roots in earlier musical styles, such as gypsy song, which popularized the seven string guitar in Russia; cruel romance, a ballad-type song containing strong narrative elements, sometimes with parody and irony, and criminal songs, focused on the criminal underworld including stories of betrayal and revenge. Each of these styles has its background and original in Russian culture. In various ways, each of the above styles was adapted by Vysotsky, who most overtly personified the gypsy style, performing with “unbridled passionate emotion” (Smith 1984, 63). Two leading musical examples of gypsy songs are “Dark Eyes” (Ɉɱɢ ɱɟɪɧɵɟ) and “Two Guitars” (Ⱦɜɟ ɝɢɬɚɪɵ), both of which employ sudden tempo changes, accelerando and crescendo musical phrasing. The gypsy-song style musically contains “violent and rhythmical exotic flourishes of uncontrolled passion—intimations of sex, hysteria, flights of fancy, and flood of champagne” (Smith 1984, 13). In “My Gypsy Song” (ɐɵɝɚɧɫɤɚɹ ɩɟɫɧɹ), Vysotsky employed many of the themes and sounds found in the gypsy-song style.

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Avtorskaia pesnia did not belong to the officially allowed and promoted genres in the Soviet Union, because of its covert criticism of state politics (especially risky were labour camp songs) and highly emphasized sense of independence. During and after Stalin’s reign, composers and singers were closely watched to make sure their music conformed to Soviet ideology. Restraint on freedom of speech in the Soviet Union, including not only censorship but also other methods of control established by the Communist Party, subordinated all forms of cultural production. Consequently, most music of that period was not a spontaneous, self-reflecting, independent manifestation of an artistic soul but an artificial representation of a manufactured and idealized picture of every-day life. Originating as a free alternative to semi-official mainstream concert music in the Soviet Union, avtorskaia pesnia remains noncommercial and in this regard perhaps more independent than any other. Magnitizdat as well as small private concerts made it possible for authors’ songs to make their way around the Soviet Union and to become an important part of the Soviet cultural environment. As authors’ songs did not reflect an idealized vision of Soviet life, they inhabited the grey space between legal and illegal. Thus, the singers did not make any regular income from recordings, unlike other “official” artists, and they rarely profited from their public performances in small clubs or even private apartments. In most cases, audience appreciation was the only reward for writing and performing authors’ songs. In what follows, I will analyze songs chosen for their lyrical content and because of their occurrence on posthumously released recordings, locating different voices in Vysotsky’s lyrics. The themes of his songs extended to various aspects of Soviet cultural, social and political life, functioning as a poetic encyclopedia of the society in which he happened to live. What cultural values did he comment on? How was the contemporary social situation reflected in his songs? Is the music performed with the text important? Does it generate emotion for the audience and reflect the state of mind of the performer, as well as indicating possible associations with other music and thereby placing the song into a broader tradition of thought or dialogue?

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Vysotksy was already a respected theatre actor when he began writing songs in the 1950s, inspired by Bulat Okudzava, 10 and performed them in the small circle of his closest friends. Vysotksy’s songs are above all distinguished by a kind of “street aesthetics” and like other bards, he broke the social taboos of his time as his first songs were thematically and structurally close to the criminal song genre, based either on the city romance of Moscow (criminal life, prostitution and extreme drinking) or on life in the Gulags.11 Even though Vysotsky lived and created in a bohemian-theatrical atmosphere, far from labour camps and prisons, he was a master of the criminal song genre, using jargon, dialect words, reversed everyday speech expressions, as well as intentional lexical and semantic incorrectness typical of Russian slang. Later, he deemed these early songs to be “unsophisticated” and simple, depicting such topics as love, betrayal and friendship. With their deeply, even brazenly romantic take on crime and punishment, they attracted an audience of people far beyond the actual criminal underworld. It was later that the content of his songs became more complicated, though he noted that the essence of the message remained the same (Andreev and Boguslavski 1990, 201-202). The speaker of these songs is usually a man who narrates simple stories set in a criminal milieu, describing everyday life in non-standard Russian rife with slang. It is interesting that, according to Cherniavskiy, even this first cycle of Vysotksy’s songs was unique and judged by officials to be dangerous (2004, 63). Among Vysotsky’s early criminal songs are “The Song of the Criminal Code” (ɇɚɦ ɧɢ ɤ ɱɟɦɭ ɫɸɠɟɬɵ ɢ ɢɧɬɪɢɝɢ), “I am on the Job” (ə ɧɚ ɞɟɥɟ), “The City Romance” (Ƚɨɪɨɞɫɤɨɣ ɪɨɦɚɧɫ), “The Informer” (ɂɧɮɨɪɦɚɬɨɪ), “Red and Blue, and…” (Ʉɪɚɫɧɨɟ ɢ ɫɢɧɟɟ ɢ...) and “The Big Karetny” (ɇɚ Ȼɨɥɶɲɨɦ Ʉɚɪɟɬɧɨɦ). These are straightforward examples of Russian blatnaia (“outlaw”) songs, including references to drinking, girls, gangs, street fighting, and, most certainly, prison, softened with Vysotsky’s trademark 10

Bulat Okudzahva was a contemporary Soviet writer, poet and poetsinger (chansonnier). 11 Camp songs had not been part of the pseudo-criminal cabaret culture, nor were most of them composed by criminals.

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humour. There is no need to say that none of these criminal songs was officially performed or published during Vysotsky’s life. By exposing criminal individuals and sympathizing with their destiny, Vysotsky moved away from the officially sanctioned artistic way and challenged the ideal picture of the soviet community which artists were supposed to present. One of the most famous songs in the criminal genre that includes an autobiographical subtext is “The Big Karetny” (ɇɚ Ȼɨɥɶɲɨɦ Ʉɚɪɟɬɧɨɦ, 1962). The title of the song refers to the street in northcentral Moscow where Vysotsky lived during his adolescence. The lyrics describe the squandered youth in the Moscow environs. This is one of the most famous of Vysotsky’s criminal songs, which do not contain direct or metaphorical reference to political issues found in his later songs. As far as his performance is concerned, Vysotsky’s manner was distinguished by intense, passionate, dramatic singing combined with an intentionally husky voice, which is particularly evident in this song. He always accompanied himself with a sharply strummed and slightly out of tune Russian seven-string guitar, being one of the last high profile guitar players in Russia. According to Louise McReynolds and Joan Neuberger, many of his lyrics dealt with what Vysotsky himself characterized as extreme, life-threatening situations, “life on the edge” (2002, 303). As Vysotsky sings: - Ƚɞɟ ɬɜɨɢ ɫɟɦɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɥɟɬ? - ɇɚ Ȼɨɥɶɲɨɦ Ʉɚɪɟɬɧɨɦ. - Ƚɞɟ ɬɜɨɢ ɫɟɦɧɚɞɰɚɬɶ ɛɟɞ? - ɇɚ Ȼɨɥɶɲɨɦ Ʉɚɪɟɬɧɨɦ. Where were you at seventeen? On Bol’shoi Kartnyi. And where’ve your troubles always been? On Bol’shoi Karetnyi.12

Combining different voices and discourses, Vysotsky enciphered the expression of hidden protest against the regime in almost every criminal song, offering his listeners images that take them one step 12

Translated by Serge Elnitsky, 2006.

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beyond their static perception of reality. Instead of using the simplistic labels placed on criminals by the Soviet system that designated them as enemies of the nation regardless of the nature of their crime, Vysotksy reveals the other side of criminality in the Soviet Union, providing a testament to the courage and resolve of those who were imprisoned. Cherniavskiy states that “the memory of Stalin’s Great Terror, the image of immense sentences wandering through interminable exiles remained attached to Vysotsky’s pen throughout his creative life” (2004, 60). Cherniavskiy also particularly stresses that these reminiscences were instrumental in defining the nature of his first song cycle, which stood on the boundary between courtyard (or criminal) songs and camp songs (2004, 61). In the song “My Friend Has Left for Magadan” (Ɇɨɣ ɞɪɭɝ ɭɟɯɚɥ ɜ Ɇɚɝɚɞɚɧ), Vysotsky describes a visit to his friend in Magadan, where the winter temperatures can plunge to sixty degrees below zero. It is worth thinking about this place, which is grimly remembered as the secret site of scores of labour camps where thousands of prisoners died during Stalin’s rule: ə ɩɨɜɨɞɚ ɜɪɚɝɚɦ ɫɜɨɢɦ ɧɟ ɞɚɥ ɇɟ ɜɡɪɟɡɚɥ ɜɟɧɭ, ɧɟ ɩɨɪɜɚɥ ɚɨɪɬɭ,ə ɜɡɹɥ ɞɚ ɤɚɤ ɭɟɯɚɥ ɜ Ɇɚɝɚɞɚɧ, Ʉ ɱɟɪɬɭ! I didn’t give my enemies a chance, I didn’t slit my wrists or have a seizure. I simply told myself, ‘There’s Magadan. Be there!’

Some of Vysotsky’s camp songs relate cultural ideas and symbols associated with pre-Soviet Russian culture. In the “Ballad of a Bath-house” (Ȼɥɚɝɨɞɚɬɶ ɢɥɢ ɛɥɚɝɨɫɥɨɜɥɟɧɢɟ), Vysotsky provides an unusual metaphor, comparing Soviet labour camps with the bath (Russian bania) where all people, naked and humiliated, find themselves equal in front of inevitable fate:

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ɂ ɜ ɩɪɟɞɛɚɧɧɢɤɟ ɫɛɪɨɫɢɜɲɢ ɜɟɳɢ, ȼɫɸ ɨɞɟɬɨɫɬɶ ɫɜɨɸ ɩɨɡɚɛɭɞɶ Ɉɞɢɧɚɤɨɜɨ ɜɟɧɢɱɟɤ ɯɥɟɳɟɬ. Ɍɚɤ ɱɬɨ ɡɪɹ ɧɟ ɜɵɬɹɝɢɜɚɣ ɝɪɭɞɶ! When you take off your clothes you had better Dressing manners and habits forget! You’ll be birched and walloped, no matter How you try to preserve self-respect.13

This song provides clues to several possible social contexts. We know that during his lifetime, the memory of Stalinist labour camps was still fresh, and Vysotsky’s labour camp songs reflect the realization that the values of the nation had been lost and replaced with fear, treason and humiliation. Because of numerous labour camps, which became symbolic of the Stalinist epoch, the situation in the Soviet Union created a unique paradox in which most criminals were associated with a positive view of the criminal world. So many innocent people went through the Gulag during the Stalinist era that the contact of millions with the criminal world affected all of Soviet society in terms of language, mentality and other aspects of life. One of the many consequences of this diffusion was a mixed vocabulary. Words and phrases that originated in the labour camps became part of the Russian/Soviet vernacular in the 1960s and 1970s. In this song, as well as in other camp songs, Vysotsky’s interpretation is that prison is associated with the state as a whole; it is implied that under this regime, everyone had the potential to become a convict. It was this sorrowful narrative of the nation’s tragedy that drew people to Vysotsky’s songs. Instead of pompous, optimistic official songs, which were supposed to reflect an ideal picture of Soviet life, Vysotsky performed poetry that resonated with real life situations most people had experienced. Unable to talk openly about these themes in his songs without risking being censored, Vysotsky used metaphors and allusions, easily deciphered by those who had experienced life in the camps. 13

All songs are my translations.

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In the same song Vysotsky incorporates another social and traditional context, alluding to the famous orthodox tradition of being washed with holy water, which is used in Orthodox rites of blessing and exorcism, in order to wash the nation’s sins away. It is clear that numerous allusions to orthodox traditions and ceremonials were used not only as a tool to avoid immediate recognition and subsequently severe censorship, but also to establish a connection between the past and the present and to disguise the poet’s intentions. Using the image of the Russian bath (bania) in the poem “The Steam Bath” (Ȼɚɧɶɤɚ ɩɨ ɛɟɥɨɦɭ), Vysotksy again managed to incorporate ideals and symbols transferred from Russian culture into the Soviet context. The steam bath refers to the bathhouse that can be kept closed and thus become very steamy. The hero is a common man who has forsaken his life-long belief in Stalin after his return from the Gulag and is seeking an alternative to his society’s accepted values. In this poem Vysotsky touches upon a delicate subject, as, paradoxically, many people kept faith in Stalin even in the camps, believing he knew nothing of his hirelings’ atrocities; hence the widespread custom of tattooing his profile on the breast, described in the song: ɋɤɨɥɶɤɨ ɜɟɪɵ ɢ ɥɟɫɭ ɩɨɜɚɥɟɧɨ, ɋɤɨɥɶ ɢɡɜɟɞɚɧɨ ɝɨɪɹ ɢ ɬɪɚɫɫ, Ⱥ ɧɚ ɥɟɜɨɣ ɝɪɭɞɢ—ɩɪɨɮɢɥɶ ɋɬɚɥɢɧɚ, Ⱥ ɧɚ ɩɪɚɜɨɣ—Ɇɚɪɢɧɤɚ ɚɧɮɚɫ How much faith and firewood has been felled. How much sorrow and travel been known! And on the left breast, Stalin’s profile And on the right, Marinka, looking straight ahead.

The hero of the poem feels the weight of the nation’s sin of acquiescence to Stalin, which pervades his being as a kind of dirt and filth that must be purged and cleansed from the body by the searing steam. Here, Vysotsky refers to the Russian half pagan, half orthodox tradition of steaming oneself in a bath-hut, which was a necessary prelude to a religious, or any other kind of feast, a

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remedy for nearly all types of illnesses, and sometimes an act of preparation for death. Belonging to the post-war generation, Vysotsky was able to convey a sense of the many forms of loss created by the war even though he was born in 1938 and was not old enough to be a participant in hostilities. His skill as an actor at taking on the roles of his song’s narrators makes many of his songs on other topics powerful as well, but it is especially apparent in his songs about the Second World War. Vysotsky’s war is a more personal and complex issue than the official version, as he managed to perceive it from different sides. The songs about the many tragedies of war are some of Vysotsky’s most moving, without being overly sentimental. Thus, the “Song about Serezhka Fomin” (ɉɟɫɧɹ ɨ ɋɟɪɟɠɤɟ Ɏɨɦɢɧɟ), about a hated but well-connected draft-dodger who ended up a Hero of the Soviet Union, serves as a contradiction to official war songs as it points out issues of nepotism, privilege and social inequality that were part of Soviet reality. The song addresses issues that counter Soviet cultural practice. Even though Vysotsky maintains a positive view of Soviet people, the song also exposes the unfair treatment of those with rank and privilege: ɇɨ ɧɚɤɨɧɟɰ ɡɚɤɨɧɱɢɥɚɫɶ ɜɨɣɧɚ ɋ ɩɥɟɱ ɫɛɪɨɫɢɥɢ ɦɵ ɫɥɨɜɧɨ ɬɨɧɧɵ ɝɪɭɡɚ,ȼɫɬɪɟɱɚɸ ɹ ɋɟɪɟɠɤɭ Ɏɨɦɢɧɚ Ⱥ ɨɧ Ƚɟɪɨɣ ɋɨɜɟɬɫɤɨɝɨ ɋɨɸɡɚ But finally the war came to an end, Each of us returned from the bloody battle. So I meet Serezhka Fomin one sunny day And on his chest—the highest ranking Soviet medal.

In the song “Penal Battalion” (ɒɬɪɚɮɧɨɣ ɛɚɬɚɥɶɨɧ) Vysotsky refers to a real situation when state order number 227 introduced severe punishments, including the death penalty, for unauthorized retreats, while in “Common Graves” (Ȼɪɚɬɫɤɢɟ ɦɨɝɢɥɵ) he grasped the collective loss of the whole country:

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ɇɚ ɛɪɚɬɫɤɢɯ ɦɨɝɢɥɚɯ ɧɟ ɫɬɚɜɹɬ ɤɪɟɫɬɨɜ, ɂ ɜɞɨɜɵ ɧɚ ɧɢɯ ɧɟ ɪɵɞɚɸɬ, Ʉ ɧɢɦ ɤɬɨ-ɬɨ ɩɪɢɧɨɫɢɬ ɛɭɤɟɬɵ ɰɜɟɬɨɜ, ɂ ȼɟɱɧɵɣ ɨɝɨɧɶ ɡɚɠɢɝɚɸɬ They don’t put up crosses on communal graves, And widows don’t come to shed tears; But flowers are laid and eternal flames Will never be quenched, it appears.

In his songs, Vysotsky expresses the value and need for individual freedom and resistance in a totalitarian regime. As a Romantic hero of the Soviet era, Vysotsky valued the worth of the individual above all, choosing an independent path of resistance rather than more comfortable and safe conformity. Romanticism, and its varied forms, was a popular literary style and social phenomenon in the nineteenth century, signified by a high degree of subjectivity and individualist, often revolutionary, ideas. The “Cult of the Individual” is the most common concept associated with German and Russian Romanticism. The philosophy of Romanticism also reveals the relationship and conflict between art and state, individual poet and censor, freedom of artistic expression and ideology. Pushkin, the most significant cultural icon in the Russian Romantic tradition, was one of the first to recognize the growing need to liberate the artist from any form of subordination imposed by the state. Lermontov’s poetry also presents the case of the individual who attempts to exercise freedom in a society that had repressed any demonstration of independence. The problem of art, the individual and freedom is similar to that in Vysotsky’s era. An example of Vysotsky’s romanticized reflection of artistic freedom in a totalitarian regime is the song “The Wolf Hunt” (Ɉɯɨɬɚ ɧɚ ɜɨɥɤɨɜ), which reveals his deep prophetic understanding of the effect the regime has not only on the freedom of the artists’ expression but on the destiny of the whole nation. One of the key points in this poem is demythologization, which was an unusual artistic device at a time when artists were forced to create myths out of Soviet life. Soviet ideology demanded recreation of different phantoms, which were supposed to substitute

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for real life situations and conflicts, whereas Vysotsky’s aim was to show life as it was, to mock the endeavours of mythological representation and to reveal the world of authentic values. His songs are a most eloquent defence of human values and a poetical prophecy. The image provided in the song “The Wolf Hunt,” a wolf which is unable to run across red flags and is killed by a hunter, serves as a metaphor for those who lived in constant fear, unable to cross limits and to fight, or at least to escape. Gerald Stanton Smith views this song as a “direct ancestor” of a poem by early twentieth century poet Sergei Esenin, who identified himself as a hunted wolf (1992, 160). In this poem Vysotsky’s romanticized feelings towards artistic freedom and his rebellion against the state take a dramatic turn towards almost open protest. It could hardly be otherwise. By this period in Vysotsky’s songwriting, he had obviously become more concerned with the artistic limitations imposed by the Soviet state: ɂɞɟɬ ɨɯɨɬɚ ɧɚ ɜɨɥɤɨɜ, ɢɞɟɬ ɨɯɨɬɚ! ɇɚ ɫɟɪɵɯ ɯɢɳɧɢɤɨɜ—ɦɚɬɟɪɵɯ ɢ ɳɟɧɤɨɜ. Ʉɪɢɱɚɬ ɡɚɝɨɧɳɢɤɢ, ɢ ɥɚɸɬ ɩɫɵ ɞɨ ɪɜɨɬɵ. Ʉɪɨɜɶ ɧɚ ɫɧɟɝɭ ɢ ɩɹɬɧɚ ɤɪɚɫɧɵɟ ɮɥɚɠɤɨɜ. They’re hunting wolves! The hunt is on, pursuing The wily predators, the she-wolf and her brood. The beaters shout, the dogs bay, almost spewing. The flags on the snow are red, as red as the blood.

Vysotsky’s prophetic gift reveals itself in his later poetry when his own death became one of the central themes, as in the poem “Fastidious Horses” (Ʉɨɧɢ ɩɪɢɜɟɪɟɞɥɢɜɵɟ), which is recognized as one of his masterpieces. The poet Andrey Voznesenski commented that this “passionate personal anthem” was: … a great song and a great poetry… where the voice tosses the guitar away, wipes the cynical grin of everyday life from its lips… and gives itself up to the very highest spirit of poetry, the elemental truth and force of suffering—In it we hear not a chansonnier, but the destiny of a poet (qtd. in Smith 1984,177).

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The song is singled out as Vysotsky’s realization of life and death and a realization of his own destiny as a poet and a man: ɑɭɬɶ ɩɨɦɟɞɥɟɧɧɟɟ, ɤɨɧɢ, ɱɭɬɶ ɩɨɦɟɞɥɟɧɧɟɟ! ȼɵ ɬɭɝɭɸ ɧɟ ɫɥɭɲɚɣɬɟ ɩɥɟɬɶ! ɇɨ ɱɬɨ-ɬɨ ɤɨɧɢ ɦɧɟ ɩɨɩɚɥɢɫɶ ɩɪɢɜɟɪɟɞɥɢɜɵɟ, ɂ ɞɨɠɢɬɶ ɧɟ ɭɫɩɟɥ, ɦɧɟ ɞɨɩɟɬɶ ɧɟ ɭɫɩɟɬɶ! Slow your gallop, oh my horses! Slow your gallop I say! Don’t you listen to my stinging whip! But the horses I was given, stubborn and so unforgiving, Can’t complete the life I’m living, can’t conclude the verse I’m singing (refrain)

Vysotsky was not just one of many. The Vysotsky everyone loved and knew was not only a poet or a singer but also a certain character, a strong individuality, free and independent in the country behind the iron curtain. Vysotsky had a double repertoire, one for the public which was used for film and theatres, and one that was private and used for solo performances. The above examples are taken from the unofficial repertoire in which it is easy to comprehend the issues of un-soviet nature. These examples demonstrate Vysotsky’s ability to speak for a variety of individuals who shared similar events or ideas concerning the Soviet experience, signifying an “alternative reality” of Soviet life. His songs and magnitizdat recordings gave voice to those people whose reality was not exhibited in official art. Vysotsky’s songs in various ways reveal his response to the historical, cultural and social situation existing in the Soviet Union and discuss certain aspects of Soviet life that he confronts as a person and an artist. When viewed through the prism of the contemporary situation in the Soviet Union, the Vysotsky phenomenon is a remarkably clear reaction to the suppression of artistic freedom that resulted in the occurrence of his rebellious poetry. Vysotsky found novel ways to reproduce the structure of feelings created by constant subordination and the sense of fear in the society upon which the whole Soviet system was utterly and completely dependent for its survival. Unable to express themselves

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in other ways, people identified with his songs. Crucially, through his songs the larger values and hopes of the repressed Soviet society were made comprehensible and material.

Discography Vysotsky, Vladimir. 1980. ɉɟɫɧɢ / Songs. Melodiya. Collection of songs published shortly after his death. Melodiya Stereo C6014761.2. —. Sons Are Leaving for Battle. 1987. Melodiya. War songs. Archive recordings from between 1960-1980. Melodiya MONO M60 47429 008/006.

References Andreev, Yuri, and Iosif Boguslavsky, eds. 1990. Vladimir Vysotsky: Hamlet with the Guitar. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Cherniavskiy, Vlasimir. 2004. “Politics in the Poetry of Great Bards.” Russian Studies in Literature 41, no. 1: 60-82. Gorham, Michael S. 2003. Speaking in Soviet Tongues: Language Culture and the Politics of Voice in Revolutionary Russia. Illinois: Illinois University Press. Lazarsky Christopher. 1992. “Vladimir Vysotksy and His Cult.” Russian Review 51, no. 1: 58-71. McReynolds, Louise, and Joan Neuberger, eds. 2002. Imitations of Life. Two Centuries of Melodrama in Russia. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Smith, Gerald Stanton. 1984. Songs to Seven Strings: Russian Guitar Poetry and Soviet Mass Song. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Tokarev, George. 2004. “Vladimir Vysotsky.” VoicesNet Visions Literary Journal, 21. http://www.voicesnet.com/visionsliteraryjournal0021.htm (accessed: 20/12/2015). Troitsky, Artemy. 1998. Back in the USSR: The True Story of Rock in Russia. Boston: Faber and Faber.

CHAPTER EIGHT HOW COVERS CHANGE MUSICAL AND LINGUISTIC SOUNDS: A CASE STUDY OF “LOVE IS BLINDNESS” BY U2 AND CASSANDRA WILSON MARIUSZ GRADOWSKI AND MONIKA KONERT-PANEK

“Love is Blindness,” the final track on the 1991 album Achtung Baby, is regarded by both critics and fans as among the most significant accomplishments of the Irish rock band U2. The song also gives the opportunity for an intriguing comparison: in 1995 Cassandra Wilson released an album entitled New Moon Daughter with a jazz cover version of the song. This is a good starting point for a comparative stylistic analysis: the original and the copy exhibit distinct performance styles (rock and jazz) by a man and a woman, and varying perspectives provided by different languages. It is the language that is our main point of reference: how does Bono interpret the lyrics vocally in comparison with Wilson’s interpretation? How is pronunciation related to the manner of their singing and how does it affect the overall composition? This analysis focuses on the phonetic, articulatory dimension, in particular on phonostylistic processes, with reference to psycho-and sociolinguistics and addresses the musicological dimension, the interpretation, rhythm, the use of the vocal and its different emotional impact in the two versions. A “cover” is sometimes defined in a broad sense as “a recording of a popular song by a performer or performers other than those responsible for the original version; it can be a re-creation of the original or a radical reworking” (Gloag 2011). Similarly, George

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Plasketes (2010, 1) states that it is “the musical practice of one artist recording or performing another composer’s song.” However, such a broad definition of a cover may blur its character. Under this definition, every recording of Schubert’s “Winterreise” would be regarded as a cover, yet, we intuitively feel this is not the case. Melissa Hok Cee Wong points out the faultiness of this approach in her review of the collective work Play It Again: Cover Songs in Popular Music, edited by Plasketes. As Wong emphasizes, the consequence of Plasketes’ approach, in which cover songs “would therefore be the musical output of this practice—that is, one artist’s recording or performance of another composer’s song,” is problematic: The definition suggests that recording and performing artists must write their own songs; indeed, a number of authors in this volume seem to privilege the Romantic ideal of the artist, as embodied in the model of the singer/songwriter. However, many artists do not fit this mould, including names as varied as Elvis Presley, Céline Dion, and Milli Vanilli. Yet we would not label all of their recordings and performances “covers.” Rather, “Hound Dog” is considered to be a cover, but “Heartbreak Hotel” is not. The difference lies in the fact that “Hound Dog” was recorded and released by Big Mama Thornton prior to being recorded by Presley, whereas Presley himself was the first to record “Heartbreak Hotel” (Wong 2012, 639-641).

That is why the definitions that treat a cover as a relation between two recordings are more adequate, as is the case in the entry in The Grove Music Online Encyclopaedia, where Robert Witmer and Anthony Marks define cover as: a term used in the popular music industry usually for a recording of a particular song by performers other than those responsible for the original recorded version (Witmer and Marks 2014).

The phenomenon of recording a song previously popularised by the recordings of another artist appeared in the 1920s, together with the development of the phonographic industry and the rising significance of new popular music, rooted in blues and jazz. As a result, “during the 1930s and 40s virtually every worthwhile single

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was quickly covered by other major artists,” and since that time “covers [have become] ubiquitous in all forms of popular music” (Weinstein 2014), from show tunes (“Summertime”) and holiday standards (“White Christmas”) to jazz (“Mood Indigo”) and folk (“House of the Rising Sun”). In the 1950s, together with the emergence of rock and roll and the redefinition of popular music, cover songs had various functions: they helped record labels to increase profits (mainstream pop versions of songs that had recently been released by African American performers on independent labels), popularised and promoted less well-known recordings (covers of songs that had proven successful in small markets elsewhere) (Weinstein 2014), as well as presented songs to a new audience: “in the 1960s Eric Clapton presented as rock music blues songs which had originally been recorded by black rural blues singers in the 1920s” (Gloag 2011). At the end of the 1960s new functions of cover songs emerged. Witmer and Marks point out that Rock and soul artists recorded their own versions of songs which had often already been hits in their own right: thus John Lennon had a hit with Ben E. King’s “Stand by Me” in 1975. A cover can simply be a straightforward copy of the original song, or a more radical reinterpretation of it: the Talking Heads’ rendition of Al Green’s “Take Me to the River” actually appears to be an analysis of the song, and the arrangement of The Beatles’ “Help,” as performed by Tina Turner, changes the melody and harmony so fundamentally that it is scarcely the same song as that written by Lennon and McCartney. (2014)

The character of covers can be as versatile as that of the styles and genres in which songs are created and into which they are translated, as Deena Weinstein observes: “Covers may feature some or all of the original song’s arrangement as well as its instrumentation, rhythm, tempo, and vocal style, including crossgenre combinations, with the original translated into another genre” (2014). Cover songs usually involve some degree of reinterpretation, which creates new contexts. The notion of context is essential from a pragmatic perspective. Recently, both in musicology and linguistics, the pragmatic turn has taken place (Cram 2009). The

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greater focus is on performance rather than competence or musical score. Relevance theory, from the linguistic perspective, and the ecological approach, which positions the perceiver of music in the perceptual environment from the musicological one, aim at the same thing: an account of the filter through which a particular singer takes a song, changing its perception and modulating the score by a new context. Let us begin by focusing on the deepest and most fundamental level of the music—language relation: the level of speech sounds. From a linguistic perspective, what is interesting are the phonetic, articulatory differences in the two versions in question. This level of analysis is interlinked with the sound of words as such, the music of language, through which certain meanings may be emphasised. In a broader perspective, the articulation is also connected with certain sociolinguistic and psycholinguistic notions. The style of speaking is influenced by various factors, such as occupation, social position, age, and gender. David Crystal (1971) states that representatives of various occupations can be recognised by a characteristic set of suprasegmental features, particularly rhythm, tempo, and intonation. In the song under analysis, occupationrelated factors are not relevant, since the vocalists focus solely on interpretation rather than playing any specific social roles, unlike some singer-songwriters, such as Vladimir Vysotsky, Jacek Kaczmarski, or Bruce Springsteen. In this case we can expect differences stemming from the distinct musical styles presented by the two singers. The analytical question is as follows: what differences can we notice in the vocal, articulatory interpretation between the rock and the jazz versions? We expect some differences, since communicative acts always take place in a context, and this “total personal and environmental physical setting” (Crystal 1966, 94) must be taken into account. Speech varies in style, from formal to casual, depending on the situation (the aim, subject, relations between the sender and the receiver); the criteria that can differentiate between styles are tempo and carefulness of speech. A certain measure of this style distinction appears in the occurrence of optional prosodic (suprasegmental) phonostylistic processes, such as reduction, elision (the deletion of a speech

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sound) and degemination (the deletion of one of two identical consonants in a sequence), as well as assimilation, palatalization (the softening of a consonant) and coalescence (the fusion of two consonants). In “Love is Blindness,” we focus on such processes in both versions by Bono and Cassandra Wilson. Yet, the first observation that is connected with articulation is the lack of Americanisation in Bono’s pronunciation. In British rock in the 1960s, there was a tendency to standardise the English language in the American direction (the pronunciation of r, the simplification of diphthongs), as described by Trudgill (1983). Some artists, such as Syd Barret or David Bowie, did not follow the trend, and the final breakaway was the punk revolution at the end of the 1970s. Since that time, rock vocalists have instead tried to retain their accents. This is apparent in the case of Bono, since in this song he adheres to the British variety. In our comparison of Bono’s and Wilson’s pronunciation, we do not focus on the differences stemming from distinct varieties, since the abovementioned major phonostylistic processes are present in both British and American English. In Table 1 below we can see the results of the analysis. In the first column, there are fragments of the lyrics where the given processes occurred, in the second—the features of Bono’s pronunciation and in the third—Cassandra Wilson’s pronunciation. The fourth column features short descriptions of the processes.

Pronunciation: Bono

wanna [w‫ܥ‬nԥ]

won’t you [wԥ‫ݜ‬nt‫ ݕ‬ju]

night [naܼ]

around [ԥra‫ݜ‬n]

heart [h‫ܤ‬: ]

parkedcar [p‫ܤ‬: k‫ܤ‬:]

street [stri:]

made [meܼ]

Lyrics

Love is blindness I don’t want to see

Won’t you wrap

the night

Around me

Oh my heart Love is blindness

In a parked car

In a crowded street

You see your love Made complete Thread is ripping The knot is slipping Love is blindness

Table 1: results of the analysis

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made [meܼd]

street [stri:t]

elision of [d]—no elision

elision of [t]—no elision

elision of [t] and degemination of [k]—no elision, no degemination

elision of [t]—no elision

heart [h‫ܤ‬:rt]

parked car [p‫ܤ‬:kt k‫ܤ‬:r]

elision of [d]—no elision

elision of [t]—no elision

assimilation [palatalisation]—no assimilation

elision of [t], degemination and reduction— no elision, no degemination, weaker reduction

Process/articulatory feature

around [ԥra‫ݜ‬nd]

night [naܼt]

won’t you [wo‫ݜ‬nt ju]

want to [w‫ܥ‬nt tu]

Pronunciation: Cassandra Wilson

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The most frequent process is the elision of alveolar plosives (t, d) at the end of the word/before a pause (night, street) or in a consonantal cluster (around me, parked car). This was significantly more common in Bono’s version and only occasional in Wilson’s version, appearing only in the second part of the song. Another type of consonantal reduction, degemination, was present only in Bono’s pronunciation (want to, parked car). The first example (want to— wanna) is a common casual form, resulting from two processes: degemination and elision. Similar disproportions can be noticed in the case of another connected speech phenomenon, i.e. assimilation (palatalization), the context for which is present in the frequently repeated phrase won’t you [wԥ‫ݜ‬nt‫ ݕ‬ju]. Again, in the version by U2 it takes place several times, while it is present only once in Wilson’s version. In both versions the elision of d is present in the word blindness; though in Wilson’s pronunciation s is weaker, hardly noticeable. Bono articulates this consonant in a very clear way. This brings to mind the associations evoked by different speech sounds: the sound s, for example, was associated with unquiet, unpleasant, anxious impressions (connected with hissing) (Jakubinski 1970, 143). On the basis of these examples, we draw the conclusion that in the case of Bono, phonostylistic processes are common, while in Cassandra Wilson’s version they are rare. We cannot attribute this to the tempo, since both vocalists perform this song rather slowly. Thus, the occurrence of these processes on Bono’s part is not the consequence of trying to match the tempo and melody; instead it can be associated with casual, everyday speech. On the other hand, Wilson sometimes is close to unnatural correctness and carefulness, celebrating all the articulatory details in the phrase “in a parked car.” According to fundamental sociolinguistic principles, the choice of style is governed by social and psychological factors. The vocalist/speaker adapts to the listener/receiver (the theory of the accommodation of speech and related theories), which can be conscious or not. The most important function is to build relations and define one’s identity. This phenomenon was observed among radio announcers, who changed their accent and style of speaking

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depending on the radio station for which they worked (public channel vs. informal pop music channel) (Spolsky 1988). As we can see, Bono’s articulation and singing style are characterised by a natural closeness to casual, everyday speech. In this way he reaches the audience, solidarising with it. Wilson’s style, on the other hand, can be said to be studied, literary, in some sense—artificial, connected with art and artifice. Her articulation is careful, like that of actors or journalists on public stations but not common in everyday situations. In the case, however, when orthophonic rules would point to the careful pronunciation of s, Wilson avoids it, producing the sound more weakly than Bono, as if wishing to weaken the associations it brings. This reflects a distinct treatment of speech sounds. U2’s version is a rock one, focused on the content, meaning, and message. Wilson’s jazz version, on the other hand, is a classical one, focused on impressing the listener with the form and sound itself. We can venture a generalisation that this difference reflects more general tendencies in rock and jazz, at least in its current pop version. Rock still, after decades, claims to be a means of protest, while jazz, on the other hand, has lost its original rebellious character and now is predominantly an aesthetic medium. This contrast between rock and jazz is interesting when it comes to the origin of the song “Love is Blindness.” Bono composed it for jazz vocalist Nina Simone, but the band liked the song so much that ultimately it found a significant place on the album Achtung Baby as the final track. Bearing this original jazz context of the song in mind, let us now analyse its musical qualities, perceived from the two perspectives. The structure of “Love is Blindness” is based on the strophic form: introduction, verses and chorus are accompanied by the same harmonies and the same melodic line, with occasional modifications. This device makes the listener concentrate on the lyrics: harmony and melody, in their repetitions, do not bring new resolutions to impede the perception of the message. It is the arrangement that constitutes the diversity in this case: a two-part introduction, the interplay of instrumental and sung verses, part B with different harmony and melody, and above all, the conscious use of the repeated form. This repetition is justified by the lyrics:

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subsequent verses typically begin with “love is,” and at the end, like an echo, the word “blindness” returns, like Edgar Allan Poe’s “nevermore.” In order to avoid boredom and to bring out the meaning of the words, the arrangement is based on a gradual buildup of sound intensity and the increasingly emotional character of the vocal, leading to an inevitable climax of emotions. The culmination, counterintuitively, does not appear in part B, with the change of harmony, but together with the return to the previous scheme, with a solo guitar as the background. A strong, distorted “dirty” rock sound1 appears suddenly and sharply, achieved by a short glissando (the effect of shouting or wailing). This effective beginning is not developed, as if after the outburst of emotions there were no more musical means to construct a fully-fledged utterance. The guitar repeats the melodic phrase, less loudly; the first sound resembled a shout, but the following repetitions are helpless sobs. After the instrumental culmination, there comes a final verse and the final chorus; the whole form is finished with a long improvised coda, in which the expressive tremolo of the guitar is accompanied by singing without words, purely emotional, as if the words could not bear the emotions that gradually and consistently accumulated in the previous verses. While performing “Love is Blindness” Bono uses the simplest devices; his interpretation is characterised by a simple rhythm governed by the rhythm of words. The accents he introduces (extending a syllable, stronger intonation) appear only at the end of a phrase (which typically correlates with the end of the line). We get the impression that Bono’s singing anticipates the accompaniment—successive lines appear from the first beat, and— as they are short—a short time remains to take a breath before the next line begins. This technique can be interpreted in various ways, but it definitely suggests accumulated emotion and the need to

1

"Dirty" in rock terminology means fundamental tones, includes noise, fuzz, other effects, which used to be treated effects. Rock music often makes its communication of these “deficiencies.”

a sound which, apart from distortion, audio feedback and as aesthetically unwanted side primary means of emotional

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externalize it. This is the interpretation of almost every critical analysis of this song, as in this example: The song has images of terrorism, bomb-building, clockworks and cold steel, parked car. In a personal sense, I have observed the phenomenon of a person planting a kind of landmine that years later they will accidentally tread on and blow their lives to pieces. You can watch people doing it, wilfully getting involved in actions they will pay a very heavy price for later. (…) [The lyrics] mix up the personal and the political. There was some reference to the little death, which can be taken to mean a faint during orgasm but also works as an image of terrorism. (McCormick 2006, 228)

Andrea Morandi’s interpretation is straightforward: terrorism and the love of ideology are perceived as blindness that forces people to kill in the name of nationalism (2010).2 Even if this line of interpretation is only one of many possibilities, it is enough to state that the love in this case is far from a happy one. It causes suffering and madness: that is the source of emotions in “Love is Blindness.” Bono, interpreting the words in a way close to casual speech, does a very interesting thing. It is easy to cry out the emotions; it is a greater challenge, though, to convey them in a calm way, without making use of the means common in singing, such as hollering, melismata, articulatory nuances, and other performance techniques. That is why the first guitar solo, almost analphabetical from the perspective of technique, is so intense: from that moment, the emotions do not hide beneath the words, but are also apparent in the sound. The dirty sound of Edge’s guitar is now present in the arrangement of the final verses and interlinks with Bono’s calm vocal in the extended final part, which seems neverending because 2

At this point, notice the two-fold nature of blindness. In ancient Greece, it was the symbol of ultimate knowledge, but also of oblivion and rejection. In the madness of recognizing the truth, Oedipus gouges out his own eyes to lose knowledge (eyes and eyesight were symbolically connected with learning and knowledge). Closing one’s eyes to the visible meant opening one’s eyes to the invisible.

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of its fading out. This device is used when the arrangement does not bring the coda to a definite conclusion with a release of the harmonic and formal tension but the song has to finish, because of the limitations of extended play or single. The song is faded out then to signal that the band is still playing, but we need to finish at this point, though the utterance is not yet complete. In a sense, from the perspective of the anthropology and philosophy of music, “Love is Blindness” still continues. Cassandra Wilson’s version is a completely different interpretation of the song. This is apparent at the level of form and arrangement. The form remains almost the same, but the “almost” element changes the whole impression. This change is noticeable at the end of the song: a completely new part emerges, taking the rhythmic pattern from the previous ones and introducing a new harmonic pattern in a major key. Considering the key of the piece— B minor—this shift to a major key brings out the fundamental major-minor contrast: by introducing new material (change, interest), it brightens the sad impression of the previous fragments. Additionally, at the end of this short part, the first key returns, and the melodic line is disrupted just before the expected resolution, suspended, with no resolution to tonic. How can we interpret this device? Everything becomes clearer from the textual and interpretative perspective. Wilson, a soloist, the main performer on the album New Moon Daughter, is at the forefront of this version of “Love is Blindness.” Considering the usual virtuosity of jazz music, the accompanying band plays very modestly. It is based on the unamplified sounds of acoustic instruments not usually associated with jazz but rather with American folk music. We can hear acoustic guitar, banjo, double bass, percussion, cornet, and Hawaiian guitar. The arrangement alludes to the version by U2 (the guitar part refers to the organ part from the introduction to U2’s version), but the overall impression is completely different. In the Berlin studio during the U2 recording, a churchlike organ introduction was used (a symbol of reflection and prayer), a

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pulsating bass was recorded (twice as fast as the prevailing metre3), as well as the keyboards (Brian Eno’s synthesizers, the piano sound, as though a palimpsest of the original composer’s version4), and several guitar layers. Wilson’s arrangement does not incorporate this potential of the recording studio. The search for sound in the studio is rock music’s domain; classical jazz does not seek artistic expression through the use of musical equipment. In New Moon Daughter, this goes in yet another direction: the whole record alludes to the roots of jazz, blues, country and folk, with few purely jazz resolutions. There are no intricate saxophone or piano solos; there is modesty of playing and folk-like simplicity of arrangement.5 There is the trumpet sound, but its part is far from a typical jazz solo, developing the musical utterance in jazz improvisation. Its function refers to the guitar part in the U2 version: the use of a mute creates a wah-wah effect, a characteristic musical wail, centred around one sound. As in the original recording, intense emotions allow the musical utterance to develop and accumulate in a sob, the sound of wailing. The only strictly jazz element in this version of “Love is Blindness” is the singing style of the vocalist. Her voice is not only the conveyer of the lyrics, but first and foremost the musical instrument itself, which is used to express the ineffable. That is why Wilson uses a variety of singing styles, including changes of timbre, different colours of her voice, and variations in volume. She does not overuse these techniques, however; there is no hollering, there is no whispering. Selected parts of the text are emphasised; 3

Bono: “The bass sounds like liquid at the centre of the earth” (McCormick 2006, 232). “Love is Blindness” on Achtung Baby is in 6/8 meter, while the bass part has the rhythm of sixteenth notes. 4 Bono composed “Love is Blindness” on a piano, though he does not play this instrument frequently. This might be why the song is characterised by harmonic and formal simplicity. 5 It should be added that this simplicity is only apparent. On the whole album, including “Love is Blindness,” the musicians’ artistry is expressed through short phrases and sounds played modestly, but with great intuition. Acoustic instruments dominate and electric ones generate mild colours, devoid of aggressive, overdriven effects. Studio editing creates a calm, soft sound, which highlights the precision of the musicians.

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sometimes she emphasizes whole words, while in other cases, only the syllables or individual sounds. She is swinging, playing with the relations between the pulsing rhythm of the music and the rhythm of words, usually delaying the occurrence of the text. In places where Bono did not delay and sang fast, Wilson tends to slow down in oneiric reflection or in painful conflict. 6 Bono conveys the message in a direct, casual way, while Wilson first and foremost interprets it, treating successive motifs with special care, and changing the tone to the extent that even the choruses are repeated in their variants. She uses melismata, changing the timbre and colour of the voice to bring out the sound of words. She sings carefully, trying not to omit any of the inherent sound potential in the words. In her version of “Love is Blindness,” the melodic line is at least equally important, and sometimes even dominant over elements of the musical and verbal interpretation. Comparison of the two versions of “Love is Blindness” brings out their distinct emotional characters. This is the consequence of different interpretation of the text; in Wilson’s version, it is a song whose potential terrorist interpretation disappears completely. It is not crucial whether she knew Bono’s background regarding the origin of the song. Even if she did, her version on New Moon Daughter shows a different artistic vision of this text. The strongest indicator of this approach is visible in the words she adds to the original version. In the places where Bono sings the word “blindness” alone, Wilson adds “love is blindness,” repeating the whole phrase, which is disrupted in Bono’s version. In the places where Bono sings “oh my heart,” she sings “take my heart.” Take my heart, love is blindness. Wilson’s version is a song about the hardships of love. The interpretation of the whole song confirms this. Where Bono was unspecified, creating a monologue, she uses the actor-like qualities of singing, changing this into a dialogue with a lover. The “little death” in the original could allude not only to 6

Let us highlight the importance of meter shift—jazz swing is performed best in a classical 4/4 meter, which is the reason why in Wilson's version the rhythm is changed from the original 6/8, so that the singer can play with the melodic line.

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orgasm but also to terrorism, 7 but now it becomes a symbol of human love, unhappy, inevitably aiming at an end that is still love. Comparing the two versions of “Love is Blindness” shows two artists exploring different semantic spheres of the lyrics. Cassandra Wilson’s “Love is Blindness” emphasises love. She celebrates the words written by Bono, interprets the metaphors but, above all, sings a love ballad. The jazz performance style allows her to add to the text and to develop the sound of it, even if at the expense of naturalness of expression, as well as to underline the musical qualities of the text. The music, in relation to the text, is dominant. Bono and U2, on the other hand, emphasise blindness and its consequences in “Love is Blindness.” In the context of Achtung Baby, the text can be understood in different ways: as a reflection of the outbursts of terrorism in the 1980s and 90s in Ireland, as a metaphoric image of the thoughtless love of ideology, as well as the painful areas of human love, a love, which, paraphrasing Goethe, always seeks good, and always produces evil.

Discography U2. Achtung Baby. 1991. Island Records. Wilson, Cassandra. 1995. New Moon Daughter. Blue Note Records.

References Cram, David. 2009. “Language and Music: the Pragmatic Turn.” Language and History 51, no. 1: 41-58. Crystal, David. 1966. “The Linguistic Status of Prosodic and Paralinguistic Features.” In Proceedings of the University of Newcastle-upon Tyne Philosophical Society 1, no. 8: 93-108. Crystal, David. 1971. “Prosodic and Paralinguistic Correlates of Social Categories.” In Social Anthropology, edited by Edwin Ardener, 185-206. London: Tavistock. 7

Bono’s utterances in which he does not provide the unequivocal interpretation of “Love is Blindness” seem to be more convincing, unlike in the case of Morandi (2010), where explicitness may block interesting interpretative perspectives, suggested in McCormick (2006).

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Gloag, Kenneth. 2011. “Cover Version.” The Oxford Companion to Music, edited by Alison Latham, Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press. Accessed December 19, 2014. http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/opr/t114/e 1689 Jakubinski, Lew. 1970. “O dĨwiĊkach jĊzyka poetyckiego.” In Rosyjska szkoáa stylistyki, edited by Maria Mayenowa and Zygmunt Saloni, 133-150. Warszawa: PaĔstwowy Instytut Wydawniczy. McCormick, Neil. 2006. U2 by U2. London: HarperCollins Publishers. Morandi, Andrea. 2010. U2. The Name of Love. Inspiracje, znaczenia i historie tekstów U2. Zakrzewo: Wydawnictwo Replika. Plasketes, George. 2010. Play It Again: Cover Songs in Popular Music. Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate. Spolsky, Bernard. 1988. Sociolinguistics. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Trudgill, Peter. 1983. “Acts of Conflicting Identity. The Sociolingistics of British Pop-Song Pronunciation.” In On Dialect. Social and Geographical Perspectives, edited by Peter Trudgill, 141-160. Oxford: Blackwell. Weinstein, Deena. 2014. “Cover song.” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press. Accessed December 19, 2014. http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/mus ic/A2262167 Witmer, Robert, and Anthony Marks. 2014. “Cover.” Grove Music Online. Oxford Music Online. Oxford University Press. Accessed December 19, 2014 http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/mus ic/49254 Wong, Melissa Hok Cee. 2012. “Play It Again: Cover Songs in Popular Music.” Music and Letters 93, no. 4: 639-641.

CHAPTER NINE “COME RAIN OR COME SHINE”: KAZUO ISHIGURO AND FRANK SINATRA, TWO CROONERS IN COMPARISON CARLA FUSCO

“Come Rain or Come Shine” is a well-known blues song written in 1946 and interpreted by many famous singers, including Frank Sinatra, who made the song a worldwide hit in the 1960s. “Come Rain or Come Shine” is also the title of a short story by Kazuo Ishiguro from his volume Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall (2009). The song and the short story share the lover’s intention to be together with his partner at all costs in the name of a love that can never end. My aim is to show similarities through an epistemological analysis of both texts. A nocturne is a composition characterised by a lyrical and melodic style able to convey a dreamy atmosphere and ambivalent feelings of melancholy and nostalgia; in a broader sense, it is inspired by the night. The five stories that bear the title of Nocturnes, published by Ishiguro in 2009, always reach their climax at night. Five Stories of Music and Nightfall is the subtitle, which anticipates their oneiric and surreal peculiarity, creating a surprising alternation of mild and low tones much like a musical composition. Words and music therefore create a perfect synaesthesia except for one fundamental aspect: if the strategic construction of words absorbs and hides all the storms of the protagonists’ lives, music reveals their existential uneasiness. The crooner of the first story, for instance, once famous but now out of fashion, attempts to retain some shred of his past success by singing a serenade. However, the night-time serenade that he dedicates to his wife on a gondola, while at first seeming to be the romantic love

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tribute of a gentleman proves, instead, to be the first act of a cynical and pathetic restyling. The effect of music on love affairs is not enough to temper a persistent but essential irony that, on the contrary, shows many discrepancies. For all the melodies that run through the many sites of these stories—lagoons, Venice cafés, Malvern Hills, empty flats of old friends or hotel rooms of selfstyled cellists—there correspond intriguing seductions or sensational events. However, this is the most successful feature of the stories: the sense of frustration and the smug bitterness shared by the protagonists perfectly match the kind of music mentioned in the text. Ishiguro seems to be more interested in investigating in the soul of uncertain and timid characters, often unreliable and always caught in a problematic moment of their existence, rather than creating the stable and more reassuring figure of a hero.

Come Rain or Come Shine A special liaison between music and literature has always existed. Like literature, music, has a structure that makes possible speculative reflection in both directions. Music is able to multiply the meaning of discourses, creating a soundscape of voices that turn out to be the substance of a story more than mere background. Consequently, sound elements follow the diegetic level of a text to become co-protagonists themselves. However, sound architecture consists of audible, but extra-musical materials—voices included— and real pieces of music. The former seem to prevent and anticipate any conscious thought developing an identity in the vocal semiotic order that leads to Julia Kristeva’s thesis of the maternal law (1985, 133-152). The latter, instead, bring us back to the symbolic order of the paternal law. Reading a text evolves, therefore, into an inexhaustible quadrature, to borrow Jacques Lacan’s expression, into an endless process of fragmentation and recomposition of all its possible meanings. One might guess that jazz is the genre of music that best combines the sounds of real life with its intentional improvisation and dissonance. This syncopated music reproduces the hectic rhythm of daily routine, with each piece a unique, but repeatable musical event. Indeed, in an essay entitled “Palimpsest” and devoted to Thelonious Monk, Gerard Genette defines jazz

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music as both an autographic and allographic “artefact” (Rimandi 1999, 9). These two features can be synthetically identified by two opposite yet complementary aspects of a jazz performance: improvisation and musical score. The revolutionary impact of jazz also influenced the narratology of several great novelists, especially during the 1920s, sometimes referred to as “The Jazz Age,” in developing a new style of writing. Surprising hints of jazz are also present in Nocturnes: “the title of the collection (...) implies the wistful or even dark retrospect of Altersroman, a third-stage of Bildungsroman that consists of a final summing up of one’s life” (Tharaud 2012, 148). Each story is narrated by a first person narrator haunted by memories and pervaded by a sense of failure. These are peculiar features of Ishiguro’s narrative, but this quintet has the quality of a song cycle with recurring themes developed in different guises. A worldwide famous Broadway song provides, for instance, the title of the second story of the collection, “Come Rain or Come Shine.” This song epitomizes not only the kind of music that Emily and Ray, the protagonists of the story, used to listen to and love when they were at university, but also their special friendship bond: ‘Like me, Emily loved old American Broadway songs. She’d go more for the up-tempo numbers, like Irving Berlin’s ‘Cheek to Cheek’ and Cole Porter’s ‘Begin the Beguine’, while I’d lean towards the bitter-sweet ballads—‘Here’s That Rainy Day’ or ‘It Never Entered My mind’. But there was a big overlap, and anyway, back then, on a university campus in the south of England, it was a near-miracle to find anyone else who shared such passions. […] So it was a relief to discover someone else, and a girl at that, who appreciated the Great American Songbook. Like me, Emily collected LPs with sensitive, straightforward vocal interpretation of the standards—you could often find such records going cheap in junk shops, discarded by our parents’ generation. She favoured Sarah Vaughan and Chet Baker. I preferred Julie London and Peggy Lee. […] We loved playing different versions of the same song, then arguing about the lyrics, or about the singers’ interpretations. […] We were especially pleased when we found a recording—like Ray Charles singing ‘Come Rain or Come

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Shine’—where the words themselves were happy, but the interpretation was pure heartbreak’ (Ishiguro 2009, 37-38).

However, this song is not simply the title of the story; it also plays an important role in the detection of the text on a double level: content and style. Contrary to the protagonists’ opinions on the song, the latter is not happy, but it is a blues song. “Come Rain or Come Shine” was written by Harold Arlen with lyrics by Johnny Mercer for the musical St. Louis Woman and published in 1946. It is a love song that sounds like a melancholic plea: I’m gonna love you like nobody’s loved you Come rain or come shine Happy together, unhappy together And won’t that be fine Days may be cloudy or sunny We’re in or we’re out of the money But I’m with you always͒I’m with you rain or shine.

It is a poignant attempt to convince a lover that nothing could be better than their love. In Ishiguro’s story, the plea becomes necessary to defuse a marriage crisis between Emily and her husband Charlie. The story is set thirty years after their university years and precisely when Ray pays his yearly visit to Emily and Charlie in London after returning from Spain. The usual visit turns out to be different from the pampering and relaxation that he expects. The friendship between Emily, Ray and Charlie is a triangle based on precise social roles: Charlie is a successful businessman, “the one who’s always flying off—to Texas, Tokyo, New York—to his high-powered meetings” (39), while Ray, who works as a teacher of English for foreign students, is an unaccomplished personage, “stuck in the same humid buildings years after years, setting spelling tests or conducting the same conversations in slowed-down English” (39-40). Emily, who, in Ray’s memory, is beautiful, slim and surrounded by admirers, chose Charlie as her husband to realise her social ambitions. Despite her plans, disappointment and disillusion arrive as Charlie confesses, “the truth is, Emily and I have been going through a bit

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of a sticky patch. In fact, just recently, we’ve been avoiding one another altogether” (43). The marriage crisis is symbolically anticipated by an unusual mess in the room that the couple reserves for Ray: “I saw the room as I’d never seen it before. The bed was bare, the mattress on it mottled and askew. On the floor were piles of magazines and paperbacks, bundles of old clothes, a hockey stick and a loudspeaker fallen on its side” (42). Soon it becomes obvious that Ray’s presence is not purposeless. Charlie asks Ray to do him the favour of speaking to Emily and helping him to sort everything out while he (Charlie) goes on a business trip to Frankfurt. Ray is asked to convince Emily that, to paraphrase the song lyrics, Charlie loves her like nobody’s loved her. This confidence is exchanged in two moments of the story, at a restaurant before Charlie’s departure and on the phone when he is at the airport, in an accelerating pace. Charlie’s speech, comprising several digressions on the same theme, traces improvisation in the style of a crooner. These digressions are introduced by the repetition of allocutions that highlight the intimate and confidential tone of his stream of words, reminding the reader of a crooner. The well-known song “Come Rain or Come Shine” has been performed by many of the greatest singers, not least by Frank Sinatra, the most famous of the crooners. Once the microphone was invented, singers no longer needed to extend their voice to reach the rear seats of a theatre. The microphone let singers change their style, which became cosier and more confidential. The question is whether the intimate singing style can be replicated in Ishiguro’s story in such a way that the narrative voice recalls that of a Sinatralike crooner. This hypothesis is supported by Sinatra’s phrasing and timing, which were his special talent, and not easy to emulate (Federighi 1986, 102). What it means in practice is giving the audience the impression that you know very well when the note should come in and then deliberately doing something different—a performative singing technique like Impressionist painting or improvised jazz. There is a certain amount of randomness to the timing so that the audience cannot predict where the singer will come in, only where this conventionally should occur. Indeed, something unpredictable happens because, if on one hand Charlie asks Ray to look after Emily, on the other he is jealous of Ray about

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music, as he states: “There is just one thing, one little thing in your repertoire that won’t quite do here. You see, Ray, she’s got this idea that you have good musical taste. […] So Ray, you’ve got to promise not to talk about this topic. […] Just don’t start going on about that... that croony nostalgia music she likes” (63). Perhaps Charlie unconsciously hopes that Ray and Emily’s mutual passion for music can make a revitalizing miracle. Being the good friend that he is, Raymond agrees, and in the frantic succession of events he even happens to crumple a page of Emily’s diary and play the part of the neighbour’s dog to simulate sudden disorder and justify the damage. Nevertheless, when Emily is finally back home, old university times are revived by the power of that croony music, but this time their song is not “Come Rain or Come Shine,” but a languid one by Sarah Vaughan: At one point I was aware of Emily coming into the room and I thought she’d gone through to the hall, but then I realised she was crouching in the far corner, fiddling with the hi-fi. The next thing, the room filled with lush strings, bluesy horns, and Sarah Vaughan singing ‘Lover Man’. A sense of relief and comfort washed over me. Nodding to the slow beat, I closed my eyes, remembering how all those years ago, in her college room, she and I had argued for over an hour about whether Billy Holiday always sang this song better than Sarah Vaughan. Emily touched my shoulder and handed me a glass of wine. She had a frilly apron on over her business suit, and was holding a glass for herself. She sat down at the far end of sofa, next to my feet, and took a sip. Then she turned down the volume a little with her remote (81-82).

Melodies spread through the room, leading the story with their haunting presence/absence of past memories, with music as the aesthetic bridge between the here and now and the “remote” world of lost possibilities. Music creates a synesthetic effect able to associate terms referred to heterogeneous sensory areas. The result is a sort of audiosphere (Chirumbolo 1995, 2), or sound flow that pervades the atmosphere of the narration combining past and present. Music has the narrative function of underlining the special relationship between Ray and Emily and providing a psychological connection between the characters. Ray pretends not to remember

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much about their shared love of music, or even about the song that is playing, which was one of their favourites, only to please Charlie. He only reminds Emily how much Charlie loves her, and Emily surprisingly says: “[Y]ou are probably right. And we’re hardly young anymore. We’re as bad as one another. We should count ourselves lucky. But we never seem to be contented. I don’t know why. Because when I stop and think about it, I realise I don’t want anyone else” (84). That absoluteness shares the finality of a line like “Come Rain or Come Shine,” itself an echo of the marriage vows. It is dusk, at last and, as a result, Ray reconciles Emily to Charlie, reinforces Charlie’s success at manipulating people like himself, and demonstrates the easy complacency that has led to his own unsatisfactory life.

Conclusion As Eric Sandberg has observed, “Ishiguro studies with the detached clarity and deceptive simplicity (...) the difficulty of reconciling a series of contradictory states: romance and realism, authenticity and fraudulence, artistic integrity and commercial success, aspiration and resignation. While at the heart of each story music offers at least the possibility of access to the visionary, the realities of compromise, conciliation, and capitulation to the worldas-it-is are never evaded” (2010, 147). The title of the song, “Come Rain or Come Shine,” speaks (or croons) to the supposedly eternal verities of love, but the story speaks to the negation of those verities through Emily’s deliberate choice or through Ray’s complacency, and it presents a paradigm of the difficult struggle between success and genuineness. The music in the story opens up a world of ideal commitment, one that croons its seductive promises to Ray and Emily, but without the power to move people like Charlie. Aesthetics and ethics are in conflict, demonstrating the topic of a wasted life that is a leitmotif of the story telling of many Ishiguro’s protagonists.

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References Chirumbolo, Paolo. 2005. “La funzione della musica nella narrativa di Niccolò Ammaniti. Da Branchie a Io non ho paura”. Available: ps.library.utoronto.ca/index.php/qua/article/view/9123. Favaro, Roberto. 1993. L’ascolto del romanzo. Mann, la musica, I Buddenbrook. Milano-Modena: Ricordi-Mucchi. Federighi, Luciano. 1986. Cantare il jazz. L’universo musicale afroamericano. Bari: Laterza. Ishiguro, Kazuo. 2009. Nocturnes. Five Stories of Music and Nightfall. London: Faber and Faber. Kristeva, Julia, and Arthur Goldhammer. 1985. “The Female Body in Western Culture: Semiotic Perspectives.” Poetics Today 16, no. 2: 133-152. Rimandi, Giorgio. 1999. La scrittura sincopata: jazz e letteratura nel Novecento italiano. Milano: Bruno Mondadori. Sandberg, Eric. 2010. “Nocturnes. Five Stories of Music and Nightfall. Kazuo Ishiguro.” Edinburgh Review 2: 146-148. Tharaud, Barry. 2012. “Ishiguro’s Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall.” Kazuo Ishiguro and his Work. Ankara: British Novelists Series. Middle East Technical University Faculty of Education. Department of Foreign Language Education.

CHAPTER TEN STING: A POET WHO SINGS, A SINGER WHO READS ANDREA STOJILKOV

Song lyrics are a hybrid art form in the liminal area between poetry and music. Accompanied by a suitable melody and a carefully chosen and effective arrangement, they can achieve the status of true poetic masterpieces. Gordon Sumner, building his professional career under the pseudonym Sting, is both a modern poet and a renaissance-like versatile scholar. A teacher by profession, musician by vocation, Roman Catholic by birth, Buddhist by personal commitment, a philosopher-cum-adventurer, Sting joins all these experiences and interests in his work. The corpus for this study consists of twenty-five songs from various stages of Sting’s career, in addition to published and broadcast interviews and his memoir. Like any other literary discourse, his lyrics are analyzed on the level of themes, motifs, techniques, dynamics, and intertextuality. Sumner was born in 1951 in Wallsend, a small industrial town on the northern English coast. He spent his early childhood in the dreary surroundings of a shipyard, watching his and other workingclass families leading their hidebound lives. Being the eldest son, he used to help his father, who ran a private dairy (Sting 2003, 27). His mother was a hairdresser; however, she was the one who taught her son to fall in love with music. She sang and played the piano, and bought records by famous 1950s and 1960s rockers (19). Two events that happened during his elementary schooling were turning points to him—the revelation that his mother was unfaithful to his father, and the purchase of his first, second-hand classical

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guitar. The first discovery shook vigorously the close relationship he and his mother had developed. Family issues have significantly influenced the themes of many of Sting’s lyrics. On the other hand, the guitar was the ship on which he sailed off into the music world. As soon as he learned a few basic minor and major chords, he knew that music was his destiny, and that he had to fight for a way out of the preordained fate of languishing in Wallsend. The dream soon started to come true. Upon qualifying as a teacher in 1974, he worked in an elementary school in Cramlington for two years. Simultaneously with his enrolment at college, he started playing double bass and electric bass, performing with local jazz bands after classes and on weekends. He married actress Francis Tomelty at the age of twenty-five, became a father, and decided to quit teaching. Music was now more than a passion to him; it became a matter of business, a way of earning for a living. After trying to make ends meet for a whole year, the three of them moved to London, where they rented a flat. He had already been known as Sting at the time; the nickname was given to him by his namesake Gordon Solomon, a colleague from The Phoenix Jazzmen, when he turned up at a gig clad in a knitted jumper with yellow and black stripes. His wife eventually persuaded him to call up Stewart Copeland, an American drummer who was living in London at the time. This telephone call and the meeting which ensued marked the beginning of the history of the globally popular rock band The Police. Guitarist Andy Summers soon joined the rhythm section. They started building a career as an all-singing trio, Sting being the core of the band, the bass player, lead vocalist, and songwriter. The Police have always been difficult to assign to a clear-cut genre category. Guitars and arrangements reminded of punk, Sting’s singing was allusive of Jamaican reggae, the energetic drum beat at times sounded like classic rock, at times like an irregular jazzy rhythm. The band’s official webpage describes them as “indisputably the most adventurous ambassadors of the genre then known as new wave” (The Police 2014). Following six years of joint work and five best-selling albums, The Police disbanded in 1983, leaving each member to continue on his own.

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Sting certainly made the most successful solo career, his fame now being of much larger proportions than during his performing with the band. His Hollywood Walk of Fame star was revealed in 2000. He has won eleven Grammys, two Brit Awards, a Golden Globe and an Emmy. He has thrice been nominated for the Academy Award. These are just a few of the honours in which he can take pride. In his sixties, Sting is far from retirement; his imagination seems inexhaustible. Family, love, English society, and world literature have been a constant well of inspiration for this wondrous musician. Songs written by Sting in the period from the mid-1970s up to the present day show a significant variation in the maturity of the poetic subject. They do not appear to have been written by a single person. A number of voices can be heard: a love-struck and confused teenager, an aggressive youth, a rebel, a lonely adult, a contemplative intellectual, or a wise cynic. Sting somewhat recalls T.S. Eliot and his alteration of poetic subjects, Eliot being one of the authors who most influenced his writing. The thirty-year time span must have changed him, as many life experiences have left a mark on the content of Sting’s lyrics, which are developing hand in hand with their creator. Some of the greatest hits from The Police’s early period are songs whose themes were important to the young Sting, Copeland and Summers, and their peers worldwide. They were not a boyband; Sting and Copeland were experienced musicians in their twenties, Summers a decade older; nevertheless, they conquered the British and American music scenes with hits like “Can’t Stand Losing You,” “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic,” or “Roxanne.” Even though these lyrics are apparently infantile, they are not lacking in subtle poetic figures, intertextuality, and poetic passages—the typical features of Sting’s later creative period. “Can’t Stand Losing You” (The Police 1978a) was released on the band’s debut album. It featured Sting’s sinuous, jumpy singing, which became his hallmark, backed by the staccato strumming of electric guitars and blasting back vocals. Sting sings from the perspective of a heartbroken adolescent, suffering after the end of a childish romantic relationship. The song is actually a good-bye note written by a boy who is about to commit suicide because of

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unrequited love. Like a romantic hero longing for his lost loved one, he exaggerates his feelings, which span from insecurity, cowardice, being misunderstood, and reconciliation to shaken vanity and, finally, depression. The BBC ignored the single in 1978 because of the controversial record cover, which pictured Copeland the drummer standing on a giant melting ice cube with a noose around his neck (Garbarini 2000). The seriousness of the poetic subject’s suicidal idea is therefore not to be doubted, which is also indicated by the darker bass and the overall claustrophobic atmosphere of the repetitive chorus. A similar obsession with a girl is present in the joyful popreggae hit “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” (The Police 1981). In this song as well the poetic subject is an infatuated young man who fears rejection. He is trying to summon up the courage to confess his feelings to the girl, to “ask her if she’[d] marry [him] in some old-fashioned way”. However, as a result of the anxiety that hinders him from admitting his love to her, he always ends up alone. On the one hand, he attempts to tell her that he loves her on the telephone, stammering, preparing his speech, hesitant like an inexperienced teenager, while the chorus tells us that she enchants him as if she were a sorceress. On the other hand, the bridge is accompanied by the lines that have become a sort of Sting leitmotif, popping up in other songs (“Oh, God [The Police 1983d] and “Seven Days” [Sting 1993]): Do I have to tell the story/of a thousand rainy days since we first met? /It’s a big enough umbrella, / but it’s always me that ends up getting wet.

This metaphorical expression is completely out of sync with the rest of the danceable song, in contrast with its intricate guitar picking, prominent percussions, wild keyboards and island air; it is as if a more sensitive, more expressive, more mature, and poetically inclined young man spoke. It is no wonder that Sting used these very sentences in other contexts. One of the characteristic traits of his lyricism is the rain, a repetitive motif, although with a variable symbolism. Here the rain symbolizes grimness, disagreement, difficulties, setbacks, and even the helplessness of a man standing

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in the rain, not looking for shelter, but bearing the feeling of being neglected. It seems that being out of the protection of the umbrella presumes accusation, an unequal relationship, egoism, and the charming sorceress’s coldness. Therefore, it is hard to ignore the impression that these lines have been introduced into the lyrics just to serve the function of textual accompaniment to the melodic bridge, despite having been written for a completely different song. “Roxanne” (The Police 1978b) is an episode from a totally diverse life, a figment of Sting’s imagination spurred by the ambience in which it originated. In his memoir Broken Music (Sting 2003, 285), Sting describes the evening when he came up with the idea of the prostitute named Roxanne, the object of the infatuation of a young man who, in the manner of a messiah, strives to save her from the filthy world of masculine lust and the humiliating sale of one’s own body lacking any emotion whatsoever. While The Police were on tour, they stayed at a shabby hotel in the neighbourhood of a sex shop in the Paris red light district. Sting recalls “about twenty women leaning in doorways, chain-smoking” in “shiny open raincoats, short skirts, cheap boots, and high-heeled shoes. . . watch[ing] the street with hooded eyes, like spies in a B movie” (285). Upon going for a walk one day, he wondered what falling in love with one of the young streetwalkers would feel like. Here is how the invented girl, whose name he now mentions almost every day, was christened: In the dingy foyer of the hotel is an old poster from La Comédie Francaise, sadly peeling from the wall behind the desk. Cyrano de Bergerac, it proclaims, a play by Edmond Rostand . . . . It is a laughing portrait of a man with an enormous nose and a plumed hat. He is a tragic clown whose misfortune is his honour. He is a man entrusted with a secret; an eloquent and dazzling wit who, having successfully wooed a beautiful woman on behalf of a friend cannot reveal himself as the true author when his friend dies. He is a man who loves but is not loved, and the woman he loves but cannot reach is called Roxanne. That night I will go to my room and write a song about a girl. I will call her Roxanne. I will conjure her unpaid from the street below the hotel and cloak her in the romance and the sadness of Rostand’s play, and her creation will change my life (2003, 285-86).

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The Roxanne in the song is not an exemplary or meek girl. She seems to refuse to change her way of life, not seeing anything immoral or inappropriate about it. The boy addresses her protectively at first, soon shifting his tone to persuasive, telling her directly that it is high time she washed the heavy make-up off her face and pulled herself together, and realized how bad her behaviour is. Sting’s doleful singing, almost a howling call-out, and the disconnected guitar strumming follow the words perfectly. Since he possessively claims that “[he] won’t share [her] with another boy,” (Sting 1978b) it is clear that he himself is very young too. There is compassion mingled with disgust and jealousy, as well as intoxication with the purely physical passion. He craves an idealized world in which Roxanne would not have any scars of the past, where she would covet living with him exclusively. Still, his wishes seem to be far-fetched. Many years later, already a solo artist, Sting wrote romantic and fluttering lyrics for the song titled “Be Still My Beating Heart” (Sting 1987a). The title originates from a piece of seventeenthcentury poetry, when this phrase could be found in the works of, for example, John Dryden. Since then it has become a cliché commonly uttered by women, in the spirit of hopeless romantic love. Today, this sentence has a comic, pathetic sound to it. Lyrically, Sting sounds like a metaphysical poets’ epigone to a certain extent, although preserving his personal mark. However, the musical arrangement is rather modern, played from an elusive key, with Sting’s echoed voice overlapping with the backing vocals, creating an excessively eclectic combination of texture and lyrics in which the words fall into the shadow of the discordant melodic intervals. Unlike the inexperienced youths from the aforementioned songs, the poetic subject here is older, taught by life, careful and unwilling to open, torn between the mask of an indifferent man and the emotions that have overcome him like a smitten teenage girl. He does not want to be “taken for a fool” and he “[has] been to every single book [he] know[s]” searching for good advice. This appeal to the poetic subject’s own rationality is probably in vain, and he righteously “wriggle[s] like a fish caught on dry land.”

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The last song about love subordination is “Wrapped around Your Finger” (The Police 1983f). It is the link between the songs in which the poetic subject is being manipulated, and the songs that portray him as the one pulling the strings. The number’s genre is something that could be termed ‘rounded reggae’ with a free and easy African rhythm emitting temperance, like a musical slow motion. The poetic subject sings about a woman, somebody else’s wife, who seduces him and makes him play by her rules. He constantly accuses her of doing him harm, comparing her presence in his life to Scylla and Charybdis, a dead-end situation in which he will regret whatever decision he makes. Aware of his dependence on this woman, he likens her to Mephistopheles, the Devil from Goethe’s Faust. Accordingly, he compares himself to the eponymous character, a mortal whose thirst for absolute knowledge leads to the sale of his own soul to Mephistopheles, in exchange for all secrets of our world. He simultaneously predicts that a turn of fate shall follow, and that he, an obedient servant of this demonic woman, will become the master, having obtained the knowledge of “things they wouldn’t teach [him] of in college.” Many interpret these lyrics as if they related to an older woman, who married out of interest. However, knowledge of the role of Sting’s mother in his early life indicates that Sting actually might be condemning his mother’s betrayal of his father. Sting writes about her in his memoir, listing the practical things she taught him, and emphasizing “it was music and fires that retained an air of secret and arcane knowledge, which bound [him] to her like a sorcerer’s apprentice. [His] mother was the first mistress of [his] imagination” (Sting 2003, 19). Sting’s silence about his mother’s affair must have been a situation in which it was difficult to choose the lesser evil. Thus interpreted, the golden ring that taunts him is the mother’s wedding ring, a symbol of her marriage with his father, which she defiled. Echoing Shakespeare’s Hamlet, it must have been hard for Sting to accept the fact that his mother loved somebody who was not his father. Therefore, the song may be interpreted either as a relationship between two lovers, with her as somebody else’s wife from the start, or a woman who married another man in the meantime, like Goethe’s Greta, baited by precious jewels into something she did not really want. If it is so,

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the song falls into the same category as the already discussed songs about an impossible romantic relationship. By the same token, it may be understood as a song dedicated to the relationship between a mother and a son, stemming from Sting’s personal experience. Ambiguity was never alien to Sting. After romantic themes, Sting commits himself to social issues, which are always critically or satirically tinged. He has always had a keen sense of justice and the ability to feel and express compassion. Hence many of his songs tackle the problems of warfare, destruction, capitalism, and hardcore profiteers. It all started with “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da” (The Police 1980a). Sting had been curious about the secret of success of songs with completely nonsensical lyrics, like Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti” (Songfacts). As can be seen in interviews which he gives, Sting is extremely well read and a great connoisseur of art, particularly literature. The title of the song can be held for his plunge into Dadaism, joined with powerful metaphors of words as “the only cheques [he has] left unsigned in the banks of chaos in [his] mind” and the transparent criticism of demagogues, in which he counts poets, priests, and politicians. Sting’s message is that their weapons are vapid words, elegantly served. “De Do Do Do” hit the local and global charts of the time; however, the band felt that few interpreted the song correctly. The light and simple melody, regular beat, major chords, and a cheerful chorus only facilitated the shallow interpretation of the song. In an excerpt from a 1981 interview with New Musical Express, he says: Certainly what we’re producing is not elitist high art: But, equally, I think entertainment’s an art. I think my songs are fairly literate— they’re not rubbish. ‘De Do Do Do,’ for example, was grossly misunderstood: the lyrics are about banality, about the abuse of words. Almost everyone who reviewed it said—Oh, this is baby talk. They were just listening to the chorus alone, obviously. But they’re the same people who would probably never get through the first paragraph of Finnegan’s Wake, because that’s ‘baby talk,’ too (Songfacts “De Do Do Do”).

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This, in Sting’s words, “articulate song about being inarticulate” is reminiscent of Lewis Carroll’s nonsense poetry, or T. S. Eliot’s thunder which speaks Hindi—datta [give], dayadhvam [feel compassion], damyata [control]. According to the Indian Upanishads, these are the three diverse interpretations of the Father’s answer to the question which gods, humans and demons asked Him. They all wanted to know how to live well, whereas the Father sent the thunder as a response. The gods understood that the thundery rumble da meant giving, humans understood it as “be compassionate,” and the demons thought they needed to control and rule (see Atkins 2013, 44). It is as if Sting puts Hindu demons on a par with manipulating orators in this song. T.S. Eliot continued to haunt Sting as a role model. “Towers Tumbled” (Sting 1977), a track on the Police Academy album by the band Strontium 90 is yet another example of Eliot’s influence. Recalling his days in secondary school, Sting points in his memoir that his Literature teacher led them “through the barren landscapes of Eliot’s Wasteland, Dante’s Purgatorio, and the hellfire of Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man,” as well as revealing “the human tragedies of Shakespeare and the petty moral foibles of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales” (Sting 2003, 74). All these authors would find their place in Sting’s creative work. The lyrics feature internal rhyme; the onomatopoeic verbs abound and are in a natural alliterative harmony, as a result of the repeated phonemes (fumble, mumble, bumble, stumble, chatter, clatter, matter…). This again recalls nonsense poets, although it possesses the quality of a piece of modernist poetry by Mayakovsky, or, naturally, T.S. Eliot. The shattered elements of broken syntax and the seemingly randomly joined poetic images are reminiscent of “What the thunder said” from The Wasteland (Eliot 1922, 374-85). Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight

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And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.1

Sting criticizes our society, depicting an apocalypse, an extensive chaos where bourgeoisie affectedly and pointlessly put on a poor show and close their eyes at difficulties. Ballet dancers, musicians, politicians and their lady companions clad in silk, sipping expensive drinks at lavish banquets all have the ground shaking beneath their feet, and they still act oblivious to it. “Murder by Numbers” (The Police 1983d) is yet another ingenious critique by Sting. The poetic subject’s tone leaves the impression of a didactic nursery rhyme, sung by toddlers and their caretaker with lots of hand clapping and giggling. The pretty liberal and vibrant guitar frequently uses open strings, to be joined by the vocals and the watchful drum in the chorus to make a walkingtempo groove. The chorus and the way in which the poetic subject addresses the auditor, or the reader, create an illusion of innocence; however, Sting infuses dark and sordid ideas into each verse. There were music critics back in the 1980s who claimed that the song was so destructive that it sounded as if it had been the work of Lucifer himself (Songfacts “Murder by Numbers”). It is true that Sting’s lyrics very often deal with psychological deviation and twisted minds. In concerts, Sting announces this song as a “story about manipulation of the masses.” It seems very likely that the song’s title was inspired by Agatha Christie’s 1936 novel A.B.C. Murders. Christie’s murder is never accompanied by shock or astonishment, nor is it a bloody affair. Death is like an enigmatic riddle, far from any sort of personal tragedy. From the very first page it is known that, sooner or later, a murder is to happen, poisoning being a favourite way of committing it. The second verse of Sting’s song sounds like a straightforward compliment to the famous novelist, 1

Emphasis added.

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with quite a feminine style, as if the voice of the lyric subject changes. On the other hand, because of its appeal to cold-bloodedness and determination to commit an evil deed, the first verse is reminiscent of the scene in Shakespeare’s Richard III, I, 4, in which two assassins prepare to execute Richard’s brother, the Duke of Clarence. Since one of the assassins hesitates to commit the murder, the other is trying to persuade him not to give up the premeditated plan. Only after he really “turned his heart to stone” did the first executioner attend the task determinedly. Towards the song’s end, Sting turns to history, concluding that everything is essentially the same–killing has always been a “sport for the chosen ones” and a diversion of the ruling class. What is Sting’s intended allusion when he mentions “our history’s great dark Hall of Fame” (The Police 1983d)? Contemporary politicians could certainly join Edward of York, Richard III, Bloody Mary, Oliver Cromwell, Hitler or Stalin. Having discussed some social topics in Sting’s music artistry, we return to the personal issues and the individual’s impact on another, female person. In the song “Murder by Numbers,” (The Police 1983d) there is sociopathic content. Nevertheless, it is directed against everyone and anyone. On the other hand, Sting appears to be inspired by the covert nooks of human consciousness. In a Faulknerian manner, his focalization is set in the mind of someone who would generally be called a “deranged” person. Songs like “Demolition Man,” “Don’t Stand So Close to Me,” “Every Breath You Take,” and “Moon over Bourbon Street” all fall into this category. There is no need to explain the type of psychological deviation in “Demolition Man” (Sting 1981). The song was written for Grace Jones, who performed it in her raw, spooky and distinctively androgynous style. Sting had been reading Arthur Koestler, and building on Koestler’s writing on human need for self-destruction, he created the demolition man, the annihilator, a destructive poetic subject. Sting did a cover of the song for the 1993 film of the same title, this time not vocally highlighting the drama, but with the aggressive and machine-like music. His manner of introducing himself reminds of The Rolling Stones’ cheeky Lucifer in

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“Sympathy for the Devil” (1968). The Police even named their 1981 album Ghost in the Machine, which was the title of Koestler’s 1967 novel. Sting’s demolition man is so misfortunate that he destroys everything he touches. Still, this is not a remorseful song on the inability of finding true love; it is rather bragging about the lyric subject’s satanic character, which makes him consciously reject the woman who might even wish to come close to him despite his nature. “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” (The Police 1980b) raised many a suspicious eyebrow, triggering rumours that the song was autobiographical–a former teacher sings about the lust which he feels towards a student half his age. Sting did act the leading part of the torn teacher in the music video itself; however, he has always insisted that this song did not stem from personal experience. The musical arrangement reflects the poetic subject’s feelings: after the low and downbeat first verse and a gradual rise in power, the chorus comes abruptly, with singing higher by a whole octave and plenty of hi-hat cymbals. Sting has often been accused of being too pretentious. Not even in these lyrics could he restrain himself from revealing his knowledge of literature. He likens this feeling of physical weakness to what experiences “the old man in the book by Nabokov.” Humbert is taunted by the attraction which he feels towards the twelve-year-old Dolores, whom he likes to call Lolita (Nabokov 1955), and this certainly is a case of pedophilia, but being thirty-six, Humbert is far from an old man. Having tackled the topics of destruction, lust and sexual perversion, Sting goes on to sing about obsessive love. “Every Breath You Take” (The Police 1983a) skyrocketed to the top of all important pop-charts, making the band famous worldwide. The steady rhythm and moderate tempo matched with a very logical chord progression, a contagious vocal line and humming backing vocals were the winning combination. The song has remained one of the best-known songs, if not The Police’s number one hit, even thirty years after it was released. It appears at first to be wonderful love song, a sincere display of emotions and complete devotion to another person, a promise of a future filled with safety and emotional and moral support. Nonetheless, here is how Sting

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described it in a 1983 interview with the New Musical Express magazine: I think it’s a nasty little song, really rather evil. It’s about jealousy and surveillance and ownership…I think the ambiguity is intrinsic in the song however you treat it because the words are so sadistic. On one level, it’s a nice long song with the classic relative minor chords, and underneath there’s this distasteful character talking about watching every move. I enjoy that ambiguity. I watched Andy Gibb singing it with some girl on TV a couple of weeks ago, very loving, and totally misinterpreting it. I could still hear the words, which aren’t about love at all. I pissed myself laughing (Songfacts “Every Breath You Take”).

Indeed, when the listener pays close attention to the lyrics and disregards the music it becomes clear that the poetic subject is a possessive and obsessive man, ready to overreact if he notices anything that bothers him, incapable of having a healthy romantic relationship. Sting put all of this to simple clichéd rhyme, whether unconsciously or very consciously, as if he was striving to remember every monosyllabic verb that could fit in the verse (take, make, stake, break, fake…). There lies the danger of free interpretation—what some hear as promises and consolation, others hear as obvious threats and menacing warnings. Clearly, Sting is inspired by philosophers, classics of English and world literature, historical figures, and writers of detective novels. In addition to the detective novel, Sting is fond of the science fiction novel, or any other “fiction” genre. Having read Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire (1976), Sting wrote a musical horror about the novel’s hero, Louis the vampire. Sting places his anonymous character in the New Orleans street notorious for its atmosphere of debauchery (Sting 1985). He draws on Louis, a plantation owner who turns into a vampire after being bitten by another vampire, Lestat. Louis becomes Lestat’s companion, although he defies his innate drives and, at least in the beginning, feeds on animal instead of human blood. Louis becomes emotionally attached to Claudia, an innocent girl who, having been bitten by Lestat too, becomes a vampire forever captured in the

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body of a little girl. Sting took this relationship as the basis for “Moon over Bourbon Street” (1985). Ethical dilemmas and urges are the themes that move him once again. An outcast with “the face of a sinner but the hands of a priest” is an exemplary description of a half-vampire, half-human, a being who exists somewhere between the two worlds and is slowly losing the ability to tell right from wrong. Still, he is not totally deprived of emotions and reason, although beastly instincts run through his veins. His confession is served as a solo act in a musical like Webber’s The Phantom of the Opera, but it is not smothered by lavish orchestration. On the contrary, this song is dominated by the power of atmosphere and words. The double bass begins alone, followed by the drum holding tempo on the cymbal, and the other instruments—the whistly flute, saxophone, and keyboards intertwine, never taking over the breathy Sting’s voice, sincere and emotional, even agonized towards the end. Never crossing the fine line of a swingy but at the same time classical-like piece, because of its theatrical melody and nocturnal atmosphere, “Moon over Bourbon Street” is a real gem of Sting’s songwriting. Upon reading Sting’s memoir, one is under the impression that he has always been surrounded by many people—by family, friends, colleagues, musicians, women, and the audience. How come that there is so much loneliness in his songs then? Among his greatest hits and lyrically the most successful songs are those that talk about the horrible feeling of loneliness, being rejected, different and maladjusted. Let us name a few songs which date from the period of Sting’s working with the band, as well as those from the period of his solo career: “King of Pain,” “Message in a Bottle,” “So Lonely,” “Englishman in New York,” and “I’m So Happy I Can’t Stop Crying.” “So Lonely” (The Police 1978c) was the first time Sting sang about loneliness. According to him, he found inspiration in yet another book: Meetings with Remarkable Men by George Gurdjieff (1969). The song tells the story of a lonely young man who meets a wise blind man. The blind man advises him to go on a secret, mystic mental trip, because once he has done it, he will see much more than he is able now and he will learn to cherish what he has, and thus he will be open to such love he wishes for. The young

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man, however, after trying to decipher the meaning of the blind man’s advice, soon gives up and surrenders, moaning over his bad fate. The last verses bring an exceptionally beautiful allegory of Sting’s soul as a theatre where monodrama is performed publicly. Again, just like in “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic” (The Police 1981), there appears a verse that sounds cut from another context and then randomly pasted into the lyrics. It is worth noting that Sting often introduces the motif of the blind old man, which is reminiscent of Tiresias, the hermaphrodite clairvoyant from T. S. Eliot’s Wasteland (1922), or perhaps the blinded Earl of Gloucester from Shakespeare’s King Lear, who could not see the truth while still having his sight undamaged. However, the music is not in line with the lyrics. The classic reggae/ska verse and the upbeat pop-hit chorus do not allow the lyrics to come through, while Sting’s voice which, slightly irritatingly, never leaves the high register, pushes the meaning of the sung words in the background. The last Police album features “King of Pain” (The Police 1983b). The song may be considered a small masterpiece, composed of a regular and completely harmonious sequence of poetic images. It opens with the piano alternating simple chords and a tender pizzicato guitar to match the story: the first verse displays the minute imperfections marring the beauty of a day in the life of the poetic subject. Every new day should be special; however, he sees no changes whatsoever. The black hat caught in a high treetop, the ragged flag flapping in the ruthless wind, the little black spot that has the power to spoil the sunshine—all of these are symbols of hindered plans, dependence, and confinement. It is worth noting that all these poetic images are set high above in the sky as symbols of the poetic subject’s soul. The chorus featuring polyphonic singing and scratchy guitars again brings the rain as a negative leitmotif. The rain represents hardships; it is the opposite of light and serenity. There is also the motif of loneliness and seeking an escape from one’s self, the expectation for help that arrives from the outside; still, the poetic subject eventually accepts the fact that it is his destiny “to be the king of pain.”

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Sting uses animals as symbols in the second verse. Nature can be merciless towards a creature, no matter how innocuous and tiny, or gigantic it may be. The butterfly will easily get caught in the patient spider’s web; the salmon will end its life in the waterfall. Not even for the blue whale, the largest living mammal, are all its paths safe. Some lead only into pain and peril. The third verse contains four paradoxical images: a blinded king, a blind man looking for a shadow of doubt, a rich man sleeping in a golden bed, and a skeleton choking on a crust of bread. The first possible reference is to King Oedipus of whom Sophocles wrote, the man who blinded himself with a needle after realizing that he had unconsciously killed his father Laius and married his own mother Jocasta, thus fulfilling the foretold prophecy. The blind man of the second line might be the aforementioned King Lear’s Earl of Gloucester. The rich man with a golden bed and the choked skeleton probably refer to the Phrygian King Midas. In the last verse Sting goes back to natural motifs, as well as to the image of the sun blocked by a dark speckle. The red fox was torn by hunting dogs— the image is not as clean as in the case of the butterfly in the spider’s web, or the frozen salmon. Even the arrangement turns quite rock-and-roll towards the end of the song. Then, there is the black-winged seagull with a broken spine, an allusion to Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, who shot the albatross that had been following his ship with a crossbow (Coleridge 1798). All these allusions are easy to miss if the lyrics are not foregrounded. In that respect, Alanis Morissette’s 1999 warm acoustic cover recorded for her MTV Unplugged album does greater credit to the lyrics than does the original. There is a difference between the pain caused by nature and the one caused by man. People seem to be much more severe in this affair. An individual can often be cruel in causing pain, but society performs this in a more systematic and subtle, and therefore perfidious manner. This is Sting’s point in the world hit “Englishman in New York” (Sting 1987b). With its captivating tune, the reggae beat keyboard, modest and elegant drum and soprano saxophone soloing in response to the singing, the song immediately captured audiences worldwide. Even though Sting

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plays the role of the alienated Englishman in the music video, the song is in fact dedicated to Quentin Crisp, British actor and writer, a declared homosexual, who became well known for his eccentric antics. Sting himself claims that the alien in New York is partly himself, partly Crisp. The song is primarily about marginalized gay people; however, its lyrics are much more comprehensive and have the air of loneliness because of cultural and various other differences. The poetic subject expresses his dissatisfaction with the United States starting from banal things like breakfast and dietary habits. Other stereotypical signs of Englishness are mentioned, like the carrying of a walking stick as a fashion accessory, the refined accent, and respect of etiquette. After the opening verses which sketch an individual who does not belong to New York society, the last three verses are a bitter philosophical debate on loneliness and rejection by the less enlightened, vulgar people, led by primitive impulses and aggression. Rude, uneducated, lascivious and violent, they can only mock and provoke somebody who is used to behaving and dressing with style and being true to himself, at the cost of feeling lonesome. Society folk, as the song portrays them, are always ready to gossip and create one’s disgrace. The creation of disgrace is a suitable term, as the surroundings are the parameter for measuring the feelings of shame and embarrassment. “I’m So Happy I Can’t Stop Crying” (Sting 1996) is a cynical reply, an oxymoron that shows embitterment, anger, sorrow, pain and despair through which the poetic subject is going, being a man left by his wife. An exceptionally moving song, it faithfully depicts the process of suffering after such a stressful event as a divorce. Sting himself was divorced, and he has two children with his first wife; however, he was the one who decided to leave. It seems as if this song has more biographical elements from his father’s life. Describing the day when his father showed up in front of the school where he was teaching at the time, having found the letters which his wife and her lover exchanged, Sting writes: As I walk through the school gates I notice an unfamiliar car in the car park and a dishevelled-looking man smoking and fidgeting

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nervously at the door of the school as if he’s afraid to enter. It’s my father. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days, or if he has, it’s been under a hedge or the back of his car… There’s a half hour before class starts and I quickly usher him upstairs into my room, where he takes one of the small classroom chairs and lights up another cigarette. His eyes are red and he looks pitiably sad. He wants me to put him up for a while, until he can “sort himself out.” It is clear that the detente between him and my mother has broken down, and that he is seriously thinking of seeking a divorce (Sting 2003, 175).

In contrast with the pathetic woes about which Sting had written twenty years earlier, this state of shock and utter loneliness was not hyperbolized, and it was so convincing that it had to strike the audience as extremely poignant. The song reflects the wife’s coldbloodedness and hypocrisy, the absurdity of his acquaintances’ questions, the battle with himself, the gradual coming to terms with the situation and the assuming of the new role of a “Sunday father” (Sting 1996) who would try to make up for his absence from the lives of his children with ice-cream and playing in the park. The lyrics suggest that the poetic subject has accepted the divorce and forgiven his ex-wife, and even wishes all the best to her. Nevertheless, the chorus somehow does not lose any of its cynicism towards the end of the song. Still, the listener may well miss the whole beauty of this instance of Sting’s lyricism, as Sting paired the words with a sprightly good-for-the-road American country melody spiced with the tambourine, and only occasionally diving into recognizable Police harmony on the odd keyboards. Like Romantic poet Percy Shelley, Sting found inspiration in the East, among the mystic and seductive accounts set in heat, sand and rare fragrances. Among the various topics found in Sting’s lyrics, Northern Africa holds a special place. Sting first became interested in this region in 1983, when he recorded “Tea in the Sahara” (The Police 1983e). Lacking knowledge of the basis for this song, it would be difficult to decipher Sting’s verses.2

2

Sting follows the plot of a legend mentioned in Paul Bowles’ 1949 novel The Sheltering Sky, about three sisters who lost their lives in the Sahara desert while looking for love, wealth and a better life.

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The Oriental story collection Arabian Nights seem to have been a great literary influence. On his Brand New Day album, Sting has not one, but two songs with an Arabian air. In both “Desert Rose” and “After the Rain Has Fallen” the raindrops symbolize deliverance, renewal, fulfilment of wishes and the quelling of thirst. Sting’s and The Police’s early songs feature a poetic subject in the cold and grim English rain. On the other hand, the rain in the Sahara is the only sign that confirms that life is still possible. “After the Rain Has Fallen” (Sting 1999a) begins with the meeting of the most notorious marauder in all Sahara and the lovely princess, who has been engaged to a noble man, and grew up in luxurious quarters, watched over by palace guards. The marauder creeps up to her quarters, like the famous Aladdin, having fooled the sleeping guards. Even though he appears only to be interested in her money and jewels, the burglar turns into a lover “as gentle as the night wind”, who then reveals the world to the princess and wakes up the rebel in her. The weather is parallel to the emotional crescendo: while the grey clouds on the horizon threaten with rain, he is but approaching the palace. When he reaches the palace, the tempest is looming over the mountaintops. The storm and the “speech of the thunder” 3 represent the climax of their encounter. After they have made love, the rain will cathartically wash her tearful eyes. Then, symbolically, the engagement ring will slip off her finger and only then will she be able to realize what she wants in life. She pleads that the marauder she fell in love with save her from her dull life led by the restrictions imposed by her father, her dynasty and her faith. “Desert Rose” (Sting 1999b) treats the theme of longing and lust in the barren landscape of a desert4 in a totally different manner. Unlike the previous song, which shows no connection to the lyrical setting, and features a synthesized funky sound, “Desert Rose” employs the oriental atmosphere musically as well. Cheb Mami’s haunting vocal part in Algerian Arabic, with its long vowels and eastern intervals serves the arrangement wonderfully, accompanied

3 4

This is another reference to Eliot’s Wasteland. The scenery recalls The Wasteland (Eliot, 331-359).

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by the bubbly keyboards, the grinding drum, and even a string orchestra. Undoubtedly, the song is about the search for true love, the failure to find one, and about the merciless fleetingness of time. Throughout the song the poetic subject retells his dreams, and it is never certain whether they are reserved for the night exclusively, or they continue to haunt him in reality. Water and fire are the two elements that suffuse his reverie: he hopes for water, and he burns in the fire. He refers to the mysterious woman dancing among the flames as a desert rose, thereby emphasizing her preciousness and uniqueness. She bears an uncanny resemblance to Salome, the New Testament dancer, who performed the erotic dance with the seven veils in order to enchant King Herod Antipas, her stepfather, and consequently have John the Baptist’s head brought to her on a tray. Great artists like Oscar Wilde, Richard Strauss and Gustave Flaubert all dealt with this seductive character. The poetic subject is drawn to her by her perfume, the veils that she casts off, one by one, are in fact his guesses and her unuttered promises. Yet, it looks as if the poetic subject wakes up only with the break of dawn, and being so possessed by his lust, he never stops feeling lonely and without a purpose in his life. Sting even introduces Platonist aesthetics presented in Phaedrus into this song, “the memory of that heavenly place where the soul used to dwell looking upon the gods” (Grubor 2010, 106), and sings about the “memory of Eden that haunts as all” (Sting 1999b).5 The following passage appears to explain several of Sting’s songs (“Wrapped around Your Finger,” “Towers Tumbled,” and “Desert Rose”): As a child I could spend all day gazing at a fire. I still can, lost in visions of crumbling towers, ancient glowing kingdoms, and cavernous cathedrals, indeed whole continents of imagining in its embers. My mother taught me this magic and it is still with me. She also taught me how to iron a shirt, fry an egg, vacuum the floor, all in the spirit of ritual and good order, but it was music and fires that retained an air of secret and arcane knowledge, which bound me to 5

Citation from Grubor has been translated from Serbian.

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her like a sorcerer’s apprentice. My mother was the first mistress of my imagination (Sting 2003, 19).

My analysis of Sting’s lyricism focuses on Sting’s talent as a songwriter. Some might say that under no circumstances should his lyrics be compared to poetry, since singing in concerts is one thing and writing collections of poetry is something completely different. For laymen, the collocation which goes with poetry is “bookish”; poetry is something written in a language which often is incomprehensible to the average reader, whereas pop music is generally liked, light and well known (Zapruder 2012). Sting proves that it is possible to join these two notions, creating songs that are deep and popular at the same time. Less well-read fans of Sting’s work may enjoy the melodies and the beautiful form of his music, or pay attention to the timbre of his voice and the instrumental sections. Be that as it may, Sting’s lyrics are worth analyzing and interpreting. Sting cannot hide his dexterity and versatility either in his lifestyle or in his creative work. This is a man who names his albums after Shakespearean sonnets, novels by Italian greats, or after English classics. The title and the structure of the album Ten Summoner’s Tales (1993) echo “The Summoner’s Tale,” one of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Moreover, it contains a pun on Sting’s last name, Sumner. This is the reason why Paul du Noyer concluded that “one must still imagine him, at home, as a man with a bookstand attached to his Nautilus weights machine (with, perhaps, a mirror or three around it)” and added that “it’s not a sin to be literate, even in rock’n’roll” (Sting 2014). After all, as he sings in “Englishman in New York” (Sting 1987b), it can be said that “it takes a man to suffer ignorance and smile—be yourself, no matter what they say.”

Discography The Police 1978a. “Can’t Stand Losing You.” from Outlandos d’ Amour. A&M. —. 1980a. “De Do Do Do De Da Da Da.” from Zenyatta Mondatta. A&M.

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—. 1980b. “Don’t Stand So Close to Me.” from Zenyatta Mondatta. A&M. —. 1983a. “Every Breath You Take.” from Synchronicity. A&M. Vinyl record. —. 1981. “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic.” from Ghost in the Machine. A&M. —. 1983b. “King of Pain.” from Synchronicity. A&M. —. 1979. “Message in a Bottle.” from Regatta de Blanc. A&M. —. 1983c. “Murder by Numbers.” from Synchronicity. A&M. —. 1983d. “O My God.” from Synchronicity. A&M. —. 1978b. “Roxanne.” from Outlandos d’ Amour. A&M. —. 1978c. “So Lonely.” from Outlandos d’ Amour. A&M. —. 1983e. “Tea in the Sahara.” from Synchronicity. A&M. —. 2014. “The Police Biography.” Accessed September 14. http://www.thepolice.com/biography. —. 1983f. “Wrapped Around Your Finger.” from Synchronicity. A&M. The Rolling Stones. 1968. “Sympathy for the Devil.” from Beggars Banquet. Decca. Sting. 1999a. “After the Rain Has Fallen.” from Brand New Day. A&M. —. 1987a. “Be Still My Beating Heart.” from ...Nothing Like the Sun. A&M. —. 2003. Broken Music. New York: Random House Publishing Group. —. 1981. “Demolition Man.” by Grace Jones. from Nightclubbing. Island Records. —. 1999b. “Desert Rose.” from Brand New Day. A&M. —. “Englishman in New York” from ...Nothing Like the Sun 1987b, A&M. —. 1996. “I’m so Happy I Can’t Stop Crying.” from Mercury Falling. A&M. —. 1985. “Moon over Bourbon Street.” from The Dream of the Blue Turtles. A&M. —. 1993. “Seven Days.” from Ten Summoner’s Tales. A&M. —. 1977. “Towers Tumbled.” by Strontium 90, from Police Academy. Ark 21 Records.

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References Atkins, Douglas. 2013. T.S. Eliot and the Failure to Connect: Satire on Modern Misunderstandings. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Bowles, Paul. 1949. The Sheltering Sky. London: John Lehmann Ltd. Christie, Agatha. 1936. The A.B.C. Murders. London: Collins Crime Club. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 1798. “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” In Lyrical Ballads. Eliot, Thomas Stearns. 1922. The Wasteland. New York: Horace Liveright. Garbarini, Vic. 2000. “I Think If We Came Back…” Revolver. Spring. Goethe, Johan Wolfgang. 2008. Faust. Translated by Walter Arndt, New York: W.W. Norton. Grubor, Nikola. 2010. “Platonova estetika lepog.” Arhe 7, no. 13: 95-115. Gurdjieff, George. 1969. Meetings with Remarkable Men. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co. Koestler, Arthur. 1967. The Ghost in the Machine. London: Hutchinson. Nabokov, Vladimir. 1955. Lolita. Paris: Olympia Press. “The Police Biography.” 2014. Accessed September 14. http://www.thepolice.com/biography Rice, Anne. 1976. Interview with the Vampire. New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Songfacts, 2014. “De Do Do Do, De Da Da Da.” accessed September 14, http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=1465. —. 2014. “Every Breath You Take.” accessed September 14, http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=548. —. 2014. “Murder by Numbers.” accessed September 14, http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=569. Sting, 2014. “Ten Summoner’s Tales.” accessed September 14, http://sting.com/discography/index/ablum/albumId/16/tagName/ Albums. Zapruder, Matthew. 2012. “The Difference Between Poetry and Song Lyrics.” Boston Review December 6.

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https://bostonreview.net/forum/poetry-brink/difference-betweenpoetry-and-song-lyrics.

CHAPTER ELEVEN “HAD I A SONG”: IVOR GURNEY’S WAR POETRY WOJCIECH KLEPUSZEWSKI

Ivor Gurney was a composer and a poet, wounded during the Battle of Passchendaele in 1917 and later confined to a private mental hospital, where he died in 1937. Writing about Gurney’s poetry, Piers Gray observes that “Gurney is attempting the impossible: to find the words that recreate the experience of noise” (Gray 1991, 69). This chapter focuses on the intersection of music and poetry, as expressed in Gurney’s talent within the context of the Great War. Ivor Gurney (1890-1937) was born in Gloucester, and his talent won him a scholarship to the Royal College of Music. During the Great War he served in the Gloucester Regiment and, after being shot in the arm in the Battle of Arras on 7th April 1917, was hospitalised in Rouen. Only a few months later, on 22nd August, he was a victim of a gas attack in the Battle of Passchendaele and was sent to Scotland to recover. After the war, he returned to the Royal College of Music to continue his studies. However, in 1922 Gurney’s mental disturbance intensified and he was considered insane. He spent the next fifteen years of his life in the City of London Mental Hospital, where he continued writing poetry and composing music, at least for a period of time. Aged forty-seven, he died of tuberculosis and was buried in Gloucestershire, much cherished for his poetry.1 These are, as Jacqueline Banerjee puts it, 1

This affection is particularly emphasised in a letter to Marion Scott dated 25 and 26 February 1919: “Gloucestershire’s beautiful, beautiful”

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the “salient facts about Gurney’s life” (1989, 117), but beyond these facts there is a composer and a poet of a great potential in both dimensions, whose life and creative output were shattered by the war and mental illness.2 The fact that Gurney was both a composer and a poet is not always obvious to music lovers who know him from his songs, orchestral and choral works. At the same time, quite the reverse is true of poetry lovers who attach little or no importance to his music, and for whom Gurney is first and foremost the author of poems published in two volumes, Severn and Somme (1917) and War’s Embers (1919). This chapter focuses on Gurney as a poet, and presents a certain fusion of poetry and music discernible in his poems. Gurney was a promising composer, and the extent of his talent was certainly appreciated by his teachers, who “likened him to a young Schubert” (Hart 2009, 89). Robert Thornton emphasises Gurney’s talent and reputation as “a writer of song-settings,” adding later, however, that “the balance has been adjusting in favour of the poetry…” (1997, 13). Admittedly, critical appreciation of Gurney’s poetry has grown in recent years, in contrast to the reception of his two volumes of poetry at the time they were published. As Banerjee observes, “although Severn and Somme was well received and ran to two editions, it did not really seem to put Gurney into the pantheon of important war poets” (1989, 119), while War’s Embers “was more coolly received, and in the year of its appearance, his publishers rejected a new typescript of poems” (1989, 120).3 What has to be remembered, though, is that there still remain many unpublished poems. As John Press observes, “it is hard to estimate (Thornton 1991, 472). An in-depth study on the subject can be found in Eleanor M. Rawling’s Ivor Gurney’s Gloucestershire: Exploring Poetry and Place. Stroud: The History Press, 2011. 2 An extensive work covering this aspect of Gurney’s life is Pamela Blevins’ Ivor Gurney and Marion Scott: Song of Pain and Beauty. Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 2008. 3 The opinion expressed by John Lucas, who defines Severn & Somme as “an innocent response to the war” (2001, 7), adding that War’s Embers is “intellectually more complex” (15) may actually explain Banerjee’s observation.

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the value of Gurney’s poetry because lots of his poetry remains unpublished in the Gurney archive in Gloucester public library” (1983, 36). According to Hold, between 1913-1926 Gurney wrote about 900 poems (2005, 267), so the number published in the two volumes mentioned above is only a fraction of Gurney’s poetic legacy. Literary critics have varying opinions on Gurney’s poetry. Tim Kendall hails his poems as “memorial” (2006, 87); Gray, in contrast, limits Gurney’s poetry to “historical reference” (1991, 38).4 Michael Hurd seems to find a consensus here by pointing out that Gurney “is a minor master of very considerable accomplishment” (1978, 204-205), while Rosanna Warren concludes that Gurney was “one of the most original English poets of the first half of the twentieth century” (2006, 497). Finally, from a more personal dimension, Frederick William Harvey, a poet and a friend of Gurney’s, said of War Embers that “though there may be a dozen or so bad lines, there is not a bad poem in the book” (Thornton 1997, 15). Although these opinions on Gurney’s poetry may be valid, one would probably not do an injustice to Gurney by claiming that en masse his poems cannot be assessed as uniquely memorable, though at the same time there are a number of poems that prove the exact opposite, and cannot be excluded from the canon of war poetry. A case in point here is “The Target,” a simple, though extremely touching poem, very much like Wilfred Owen’s “Strange Meeting” or Thomas Hardy’s “The Man He Killed,” both of which deal with matters concerning simple soldiers on the British and German sides of the conflict: I shot him, and it had to be One of us ‘Twas him or me. ‘Couldn’t be helped’ and none can blame Me, for you would do the same (Thornton 1997, 79)

4

Which should not surprise, considering the fact that the quoted book is entitled Marginal Men.

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“The Target” strips the war of its official glorification, limiting it to and defining it, to use Bernard Bergonzi’s expression, as an “incomprehensible muddle” (1996, 86). This muddle is clearly expressed in Gurney’s poem, which ends with what one might regard as the epitome of war: “All’s a tangle” (79). However, in general, Gurney’s bitterness is marginal, unlike that of, for example, Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est” or “Disabled.” Neither does he expatiate on his war experience to the extent many other war poets do. In fact, Gurney’s war poems, except for a few examples, are not like Owen’s or Sassoon’s, where the reader is often subjected to a barrage of images rendering war’s brutality, in a reportage-like type of poetry. There is hardly any such depiction in Gurney’s poems. Gurney’s are rather like Edward Thomas’s poems, full of melancholy and evoking his beloved English countryside, and not without a reason, for Gurney admired Thomas’s poetry, as he says in a letter to Marion Scott (29 November, 1917), in which he defines Thomas’s poetry as “intangibly beautiful” (Thornton 1991, 375). 5 This admiration is directly mirrored in Gurney’s poetry; one could even say that there is a striking resemblance in some of Gurney’s poems to the poems of Thomas, particularly the atmosphere recreated by the imagery of wind or rain.6 Lines from “The Wind”: “All night the fierce wind blew” (Walter 1996, 98), or “Midnight”: “There is no sound within the cottage now, But my pen and the sound of long rain” (Walter 1996, 40) are to an extent derivative, though more in terms of an inspiration than an imitative manner. More to the point, Gurney’s war context is inseparable from his beloved Gloucestershire, much as the English countryside is celebrated in Thomas’s poems. As Bergonzi puts it, “Nature, for Gurney, remained part of another era and another poetic, a refuge 5

In a letter of 16 January 1919 to John W. Haines, Gurney devotes much space to Thomas’s poems, enumerating a whole list (Thornton 1991, 471472); in a letter of 11 February 1918 to Marion Scott, he hails Thomas as not just talented poet, but a genius (Thornton 1991, 403). 6 See Klepuszewski, Wojciech. 2012. “Lights Out”: Edward Thomas on the Way to War. Revue Lisa / Lisa E-Journal. Caen.

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and a touchstone” (1987, 127). This comment can certainly be extended to Thomas, but also to many other poets of the Great War for whom the juxtaposition of the “English memories and French actualities” (Bergonzi 1996, 83) was an apt poetic device to demonstrate the horror of war. In this manner, the bucolic spell of the English countryside, set beside the trench trauma, is well expounded in Gurney’s poems. As John Lehmann observes, Gurney was: Another soldier poet who was deeply rooted in his rural homeland, and was conscious (as the title of his first book of poems Severn and Somme indicates) all through his war service of the contrast between the peaceful country scenes of the Severn valley and the stark, war-torn landscape of Flanders. (1980, 87)

This contrast is pronounced in lines depicting what for a composer must have been particularly terrifying: “when mere noise numbs the sense of being,” as Gurney writes in “To the Poet Before Battle” (Thornton 1997, 23). This “numbing” effect is a recurrent mental image in many of Gurney’s poems, other examples being “Laventie”: “guns… thumping and grinding” (Walter 1996, 53), “Pain”: “Men broken, shrieking even to hear a gun” (5), or “On Somme”: “the noise and the dread alone was battle to us” (45). Such images can be found not only in odd lines, but entire stanzas and poems in which Gurney attempts “to find the words that recreate the experience of noise” (Gray 1991, 69), as in his muchanthologized “Strange Hells”: Their first bombardment, when in combined black shout Of fury, guns aligned, they ducked lower their headsAnd sang with diaphragms fixed beyond all dreads, That tin and stretched-wire tinkle, that blither of tune; ‘Apres la guerre fini’ till Hell all had come down. 12 inch—6 inch and 18 pounders hammering Hell’s Thunders. (Walter 1996, 60)

However, in Gurney’s poems, the sounds of the battlefield take on a new dimension, for there is an additional musical context, so natural and expected from a composer who, by definition, is

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particularly sensitive to sound. More importantly, Gurney’s perception of sound, a composer’s perception to be precise, is based on harmonious concord, not the “cacophony” of the battlefield. In this respect, again, there are abundant examples in Gurney’s poems, as in “The Silent One,” where the frontline auditory experience remains in direct juxtaposition with the reminiscences of musical harmony: Hearing bullets whizzing— And thought of music (89)

Similarly, in “First Time In,” the tunes hummed by soldiers in the trenches are set beside the terrifying battlefield background: ‘David of the White Rock’, the ‘Slumber Song’ so soft, and that Beautiful tune to which roguish words by Welsh pit boys Are sung—but never more beautiful than here under the guns’ noise. (58)

It is the noise of the battle that is foregrounded in Gurney’s poems, while, to invoke a line from “Winter Beauty,” in the background, the “beauty of song remembered” (Thornton 1997, 41) belongs to the realm of memories and reminiscences. What transpires from Gurney’s poetry is that apart from the “loving engagement with the Cotswold countryside, its weathers, places and inhabitants” (Underhill 2007, 4), which remains at the core of his poems, what permeates much of Gurney’s poetry is music, as dear to him as the Gloucestershire landscape. In fact, one can occasionally find a discernible fusion of nature and music in Gurney’s poems. In “West Country,” the spring sounds of nature are reminiscent of music (Thornton 1997, 33); in “The Change” the seasonal mood blends with the corresponding musical tone, “Changed the season chord too, F major or minor…” (Walter 1996, 16). The importance of music for Gurney the soldier can not only be inferred from his poems, as at times it becomes virtually declarative, as in “Turmut-hoeing,” where Gurney concludes— “Only of music had I need” (Walter 1996, 10). This need is

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expressed in a variety of ways in Gurney’s poetry, often indicated in the very titles of the poems: “Thoughts on Beethoven” (Walter 1996, 71), “Requiem” (Thornton 1997, 48-49), “After Music” (78), or “Upstairs Piano” (83-85). It seems that in Gurney’s poems there is a certain “feeling of presence in absence” (Brinton 2013, 6), as if the constant references to music substituted for Gurney’s musical talent that was in an obvious way halted at the front. This can be observed in “Serenade”: It was after the Somme, our line was quieter, Wires mended, neither side daring attacker Or aggressor be—the guns equal, the wires a thick hedge, Where there sounded, (O past days for ever confounded!) The tune of Schubert which belonged to days mathematical, Effort of spirit bearing fruit worthy, actual. The gramophone for an hour was my quiet’s mocker, Until I cried, ‘Give us Heldenleben,’ ‘Heldenleben,’ The Gloucesters cried out ‘Strauss is our favourite wir haben Sich geliebt.’ (Walter 1996, 78)

In these lines, the reality of the front line is mingled with musical references in a ratio in which music remains at the very forefront of the poem. Such examples reveal Gurney’s emotional attachment to music and composing, but also reflect how the war experience interfered with his artistic sensibility. This is particularly apparent in “The Songs I Had”: The songs I had are withered Or vanished clean (Walter 1996, 16)

As a composer, Gurney was facing what one might call a musichostile environment, and this poem reflects one of his darker moods in this context. A similar poem that touches upon the influence of war experience on musical creativity is “Bach and the Sentry” 7 (Walter 1996, 4):

7

The mood of the poem is very similar to that of “Dead Musicians” by Siegfried Sassoon, in which Sassoon sarcastically frames his pre-war

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When I return, and to real music-making, And play that Prelude, how will it happen then? Shall I feel as I felt, a sentry hardly waking, With a dull sense of No Man’s Land again? (Thornton 1997, 29)

This poem reflects Gurney’s dual talent and the priorities he himself tried to establish. As Hugh Underhill observes, Gurney “draws parallels” (2007, 5), which set music beside poetry in the realm of craftsmanship. In this context, the poem mirrors Gurney’s yearning to return from the war and focus solely on music. This sense of artistic attachment to music is not only discernible in Gurney’s poetry, but also in his letters. He states it clearly in a letter to John W. Haines (4 September 1918): “Still, Music is my real game, and sooner or later I shall chuck verse altogether” (Thornton 1991, 449). There can be no doubt that Ivor Gurney is a figure whose work is particularly worth being salvaged from oblivion. He was not the only British composer entangled in the war machine, for there were others such as Arthur Bliss, who was wounded and gassed, but survived the war; Patrick Hadley, who had part of his leg amputated, George Butterworth, killed in 1916; Cecil Coles, a Scottish composer killed in 1918; Ernest Farrar, also killed in 1918; admiration for German and Austrian composers within the context of his war experience: From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, The substance of my dreams took fire. You built cathedrals in my heart, And lit my pinnacled desire. Against the change of feelings You have no part with lads who fought And laughed and suffered at my side. Your fugues and symphonies have brought No memory of my friends who died. (Hart-Davis 1983, 113)

Gurney uses a similar point of reference, though in a more subdued manner. His preoccupation is less to do with Sassoon’s misgivings about the acceptance of the enemy’s cultural heritage, and more with musical sensibility overshadowed by the war.

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and William Denis Browne, killed in action during the Gallipoli Campaign in 1915. Gurney was more than a composer, however; he was a poet whose war poetry won him a place among the sixteen British poets commemorated on a memorial stone in Westminster Abbey. Even though Gurney rendered his war experience predominantly in poetry, it was music that he believed was the ultimate means of conveying his feelings. He reveals this in a letter to Marion Scott dated 9 December 1916: Someday all this experience may be crystallized and glorified in me; and men shall learn by chance fragments in a string quartett (original spelling 8 ) or a symphony, what thoughts haunted the minds of men who watched the darkness grimly in desolate places. (Thornton 1991, 171)

Gurney’s prediction proved correct, for in 1919-1920 he composed two magnificent pieces, The Gloucestershire Rhapsody and War Elegy, described by Roderic Dunnett as Gurney’s “three years of phenomenal creativity.” 9 Roderic Dunnett quotes the baritone, Roderick Williams, who emphasises one more aspect of Gurney’s musical talent: The thing that hits you hardest … is the ‘might have been’ factor. Gurney survived, but in a pretty parlous state. Maybe the war didn’t cause his suicidal lows, perhaps he was always doomed to suffer from mental illness. But it’s what else he might have written that’s so tantalising.

Sadly, this has to remain a matter of speculation, for much as the war propelled Gurney’s poetic sensibility, it was not a particularly productive period for him as a composer. As Hilda Spear observes, “whilst looking away from the war,” Gurney “showed an intense awareness of war-time experience” (1979, 5), but, admittedly, this 8

Gurney’s original spelling which appears in his letters and poems. The same with quintett. 9 Dunnett, Roderic. 2006. “Ivor Gurney: Song of the Soldier.” The Independent, 7 February.

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awareness found its outlet in poetry, rather than music. Fred Crawford views Gurney as a particularly tragic figure because in his case “the war never ended” (1988, 73). This remark refers to Gurney’s mental disturbance and his post-war confinement, but it also reminds one about his artistic entanglement, for his poetry, regardless of the general appreciation and critical value attached to it, was merely a substitute for his ultimate passion—music. A direct assertion of this preference is made in “Had I a Song,” a poem which seems to be the most appropriate closing of the analysis undertaken in this chapter: Had I a song I would sing it here Four lined square shaped Utterance dear But since I have none, Well, regret in verse Before the power’s gone Might be worse, might be worse. (Walter 1996, 20)

References Banerjee, Jacqueline. 1989. “Ivor Gurney’s ‘Dark March’—Is it Really Over?” English Studies 70, no. 2: 115-131. Bergonzi, Bernard. 1996. Heroes’ Twilight: A Study of the Literature of the Great War. Manchester: Carcanet. Brinton, Ian. 2013. “Ivor Gurney.” English Association First World War Bookmarks No. 4. Leicester. Crawford, Fred D. 1988. British Poets of the Great War. Selinsgrove: Susquehanna University Press; London and Toronto: Associated University Press. Gray, Piers. 1991. Marginal Men: Edward Thomas; Ivor Gurney; J. R. Ackerley. Basingstoke and London: Macmillan. Gurney, Ivor, and Robert Kelsey Roucht Thornton, ed. 1991. Ivor Gurney: Collected Letters. Manchester: Carcanet. Gurney, Ivor, and Robert Kelsey Roucht Thornton, ed. 1997. Gurney, Ivor: Severn and Somme and War Embers. Manchester: Mid Northumberland Arts Group.

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Hart-Davis, Rupert. 1983. Siegfried Sassoon: The War Poems. London: Faber and Faber. Hold, Trevor. 2005. Parry to Finzi: Twenty English SongComposers. Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Hurd, Michael. 1978. The Ordeal of Ivor Gurney. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kendall, Tim. 2006. Modern English War Poets. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lehmann, John, 1980. Rupert Brooke: His Life and Legend. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson. Lucas, John. 2001. Ivor Gurney. Tavistock: Northcote House. Mid Northumberland Arts Group and Carcanet Press. Press, John. 1983. Poets of World War I. Windsor: Profile Books. Spear, Hilda D. 1979. Remembering, We Forget: A Background Study to The Poetry of the First World War. London: DavisPoynter. Underhill, Hugh. 2007. “Ivor Gurney.” English Association Bookmarks No. 51. Leicester. Walter, George, ed. 1996. Ivor Gurney. London: Everyman. Warren, Rosanna. 2006. “Ivor Gurney: 1890-1937.” Poetry 187, no. 6: 497-498.

CHAPTER TWELVE IMPLIED AND UNSPOKEN WORDS IN INSTRUMENTAL SURF MUSIC VICTOR KENNEDY

This chapter will explore the relationship between words and music in the instrumental surf music of the 1960s and the surf revival that began three decades later. At first glance this may seem paradoxical, since there are no lyrics in instrumental music, but surf music, like any other art form, has a paratext that frames and influences its understanding and reception. As Hugo Keiper shows in his analysis of the aesthetics of pop songs, there is an interplay between the words and the music of a song at a deeper level than a traditional analysis of lyrics can uncover; Keiper briefly examines song structure and its importance to the way a song creates its effect, but his discussion focuses mainly on the verbal dimensions of the song lyrics. This chapter will discuss these topics, as well as the metaphoric structure of music and the role of intertextuality in popular music and culture, from another perspective. Surf music is just one genre in which one can see the interaction of paratext and the sound envelope to create a sort of cultural synaesthesia. To the musicians who play it, surf music, including the firstgeneration music of the early 1960s, second-wave surf of the 1990s, and contemporary surf music, is instrumental. Aficionados of the genre deny that the vocal surf pop of early sixties California bands, such as The Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, and Ronny and The Daytonas, is real surf music; to them, surf is the instrumental variety played by Dick Dale and His Del-Tones, The Ventures and The Shadows. The Beach Boys’ “surf pop” (Rorabaugh 2004, 78), (May 2002, 113), (Gioia 2005, 16), lacks the musical elements (tremolo picking, glissandos, tremolo arm pitch bending and heavy

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reverb) that define the genre. Of The Beach Boys, Kirse Granat May writes, “Rather than trying to recreate the feel of surfing through rolling guitar lines and reverberation, the group captured the surfing lifestyle for their listeners through their lyrics” (May 2002). While The Beach Boys recorded a few instrumental tracks of their own, even these songs lack the techniques and sonic tropes of instrumental surf music. Surf musicians distinguish their genre from other variants of popular music and rock and roll primarily by its emphasis on melody, most often played on electric guitar, but occasionally on organ, saxophone, or trumpet. As Dave Wronski of the band Slacktone says, melody is primary: “Play, and stick to the theme, relentlessly, repeatedly. Dig in, and don’t go on a futile, ‘free-form jazz exploration,’” (Wronski 2011).1 In this chapter, I will discuss these aspects of surf music, from the core instrumentals that “create, sonically, the sounds and feeling of surfing the waves” (Wronski 2011), to the vocal bands and their songs that include and build on the paradigms of the genre that developed from the early California beach music, to trace how, over the years, “surf” came to signify more than just surfing. The first wave of surf music was a short-lived phenomenon. It began in 1960 and ended by 1966 (Blair 2015, 7). During this short time, however, the sounds it developed had become part of the popular American musical lexicon, and its powerful associations with an American “Golden Age” in the minds of the “Baby Boomers,” its original audience, made it ripe for a revival. After the “Rockabilly Revival” of the late 1970s and early 1980s capitalized on nostalgia for the era of 50s diners, hot rods and pompadour hairstyles, the time was right for the second wave of surf, the surf revival, which began in the 1980s and continued through the 90s.2 It 1

With the notable exception of Martin Cilia, guitarist for the Australian band The Atlantics. Carl Wilson’s “Surf Jam” (1963) is an instrumental, but the verses are made up mainly of Chuck Berry-style riffing similar to his solos in such songs as “Surfin’ USA” (1963). 2 The original 1950s Rockabilly music of Carl Perkins, Bill Haley and Elvis Presley was the model for the “Rockabilly revival” led by Dave Edmunds and Nick Lowe, Robert Gordon and The Stray Cats.

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featured instrumental bands such as Los Straitjackets, The Space Cossacks, The Supertones, Man or Astro-Man?, Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet, Laika and the Cosmonauts and The Mermen, who recreated the twangy, reverb-drenched sound of ‘60s surf music, and took it a step further. Some used the sound to create a mysterious atmosphere, and many surf revival bands parodied ‘50s and early-‘60s pop culture by playing theme songs from sci-fi, horror, spy, detective, and Western films and television shows. Christian Thorne singles out surf music in his essay on the appeal of “retro” (Thorne 2003, 102). “Retro” depends on nostalgia, the longing for a simpler, better, earlier time, and the satisfaction of that longing with trappings and associations from that time, sometimes adapted to or combined with contemporary styles. The punk band Agent Orange (1979-present), for example, brought a hard, distorted sound and a punk beat to the classic Dick Dale hit “Misirlou” in 1981. 3 Punk was a reaction to the self-indulgent complexity of the bombastic progressive rock of the 1970s, so by combining punk style with the simple surf songs of the 60s, Agent Orange was “metapunk.” The surf revival received a huge boost with the inclusion in the soundtrack of Pulp Fiction (Tarantino 1994) of original 60s surf songs, including “Misirlou” (1962), The Tornadoes “Bustin’ Surfboards” (1962), The Lively Ones’ “Surf Rider” (1963), The Centurions’ “Bullwinkle Part II (1962) and The Revels’ “Comanche” (1961). Pulp Fiction “was so successful, in fact, that its five surf-rock offerings renewed interest in the genre, prompting surf label Del-Fi to put out a comp[ilation] called Pulp Surfin’ the next year…” (Grow 2014). Even before Pulp Fiction repopularized surf music, however, second wave surf bands such as Los Straitjackets (1988—present) and The Supertones (1988— present) had begun adapting old surf tunes to a new updated style, incorporating new elements into the style, and inspiring other surf bands to compose new instrumental compositions. In a sense, the titles of Pulp Fiction and Pulp Surfin’ show that both “pulp” and 3

A postmodern mashup—in contrast to the grungy sound of punk, first wave surf used squeaky clean Fender guitars and amplifiers, and the only effect added was the “wet” sound of the newly invented Fender reverb unit.

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“surf” have become cultural memes.4 Tarantino’s film had little to do with the “pulp” in pulp fiction, which consisted of disposable detective thriller stories printed in cheap newsprint magazines, except for its hyperstylized and exaggerated plot and theme; the “pulp” in Pulp Surfin’ has even less to do with it, the only connection being the word in the title. The meme’s signification has become detached from its original signifier.

The Birth of Surf Surf music grew out of the surf culture of 1960s Southern California. Kirse Granat May’s Golden State, Golden Youth: the California Image in Popular Culture 1955-1966 recounts how in postwar America, California was widely marketed by the state government, the tourist industry, and, perhaps most effectively, by the Walt Disney Company, with the construction of Disney World and the glowing coverage devoted to it, not only by Disney’s own television show, Walt Disney Presents, but also by the news programs on the major networks. California was packaged as a modern Eden, its white suburban lifestyle marketed by ad agencies, sold through the media, and emulated throughout the country and the world (May 2002). Surfing, a popular pastime among young Californians with plenty of spare time and money, came to the attention of mainstream American culture through the novel Gidget (Kohner 1957) and became a symbol of clean-cut American youth in its film adaptation (Wendkos 1959). Later films like Beach Blanket Bingo (Asher 1965) and lyrics of The Beach Boys’ songs such as “California Girls” (1965) and Jan and Dean’s “Surf City” (written by Jan Berry and Brian Wilson) with the chorus line “two girls for every boy” (1963) reinforced these stereotypes. By 1965, The Beach Boys were providing soundtracks for movies such as 4

“The word ‘meme’ was, of course, coined by Richard Dawkins at the end of his book The Selfish Gene, (1977). Originally used to describe those world-changing scientific ideas, or resonant metaphors through which scientists try to clarify complex ideas for non-scientists, ‘meme’ has come to represent any configuration of information in a culture that shows both variation and coherent transmission” (Gadpaille 2004).

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The Monkey’s Uncle (Stevenson 1965) and The Girls on the Beach (Witney 1965). The definitive surf movie is Bruce Brown’s documentary The Endless Summer (Brown 1966), with a soundtrack by John Blakeley and The Sandals. 5 Although the surfing lifestyle and its images of carefree leisure did have a broad appeal, surfing itself had limited appeal outside the young, white, middle-class; it was also limited to those with “a great deal of wealth and leisure” (Marsh 1985, 121). Instrumental surf music created a soundtrack for the visual images of well-off kids partying (innocently) in the sun, and the sounds took on significance by association with them (Kennedy 2013, 91, 102). Soon after it began, however, surf music moved from the beach to the highway, to the desert, to the realm of cloak and dagger and spies, and eventually into outer space. The media supported the “surf craze” and its wholesome images of clean-cut, athletic young people, but record producers, with an eye on the bottom line, believed that surfing was a passing fad, and insisted that the B-sides of Beach Boys singles feature odes to the automobile, like the jazz and rockabilly tunes of the 1940s and 50s, “(Get Your Kicks) on Route 66” (1946) and “Hot Rod Lincoln” (1955) (Reum 1980). The car was part of California culture as much as or even more than surfing (everybody drove, to and from and even on the beach), and was more accessible to other middleclass kids across the country. Other surf pop groups followed the pattern with “409” (1962), “Little Deuce Coupe” (1963), “Little GTO” (1964), “Shut Down” (1963), “Fun, Fun, Fun” (1964) and “I Get Around” (1964), many of which included recorded motor and tyre sound effects.6 Surfing could only be done on the west coast and Hawaii, but the surf image in the form of surfer clothing and accessories was marketed nationwide.

5

The sequel, The Endless Summer II (Brown 1994) was released at the height of the surf revival. 6 A few years later, with the development and acceptance of more distorted sounds, guitarists such as Jimi Hendrix and Ronnie Montrose would be using their instruments to mimic the sounds of engines revving and tyres squealing.

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The success of surf music, boosted by its exposure in a series of “B” movies, led to its being imitated by mainstream acts. Chubby Checker, a black rhythm and blues artist from South Carolina, who in 1960 became famous for “The Twist,” released an album entitled Beach Party (1963) featuring standard rock and roll arrangements with lyrics about surfing in songs entitled “Surf Party” and “Let’s Surf Again” (a play on the title of his earlier hit, “Let’s Twist Again” (1961)); Pat Boone covered “Little Honda” and “Beach Girl” in 1962; and Henry Mancini released an album entitled Banzai Pipeline (1963). 7 Mississippi blues man Bo Diddley’s Surfing with Bo Diddley (1963) featured Diddley’s heavy, distorted blues guitar tone from his Gretsch guitar, note bending and pentatonic minor blues riffs. 8 His album cover did feature a photograph of a surfer riding a big wave, however. There were also satirical digs at the genre by other artists, such as Jimi Hendrix’s “Up From the Skies” (1967), in which the lyrics are spoken by an alien who threatens to destroy the Earth and promises that “you’ll never hear surf music again.” The sonic tropes that came to define surf music were also used in songs and soundtracks from another genre of American culture, the Western. Richard Aquila traces how themes and images from the popular conception of the American West were reflected in rock and roll music, and notes how images of the California coast and “the theme of the mythic West as a Garden of Eden” were incorporated into the songs of The Beach Boys (Aquila 1980, 419). Reverberation, the sound effect that connotes open space in surf music, had been used in cowboy songs as early as 1947 in Roy 7

The only thing connected to surf music about this one is the title, but Mancini was also the composer of film and television themes such as The Pink Panther and Peter Gunn that became staples of the surf revival repertoire. 8 Unlike the style of the California surf bands, who used clean, undistorted tones from their Fender guitars, and melodies derived from major and minor arpeggios. The style of note bending used by blues guitar players is created by stretching one of the strings with the left hand, making the note go sharp; the tremolo arm used by surf players is a mechanical device operated with the right hand that loosens the string tension, making the note go flat.

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Rogers and The Sons of the Pioneers’ recording of “Blue Shadows on the Trail.” Western film and television themes, like many surf guitarists, borrowed a sound pioneered by 50s instrumental rock and roller Duane Eddy, who played the melody of his songs on the bass strings of an electric guitar.9 By the early sixties, many surf bands were playing songs that combined the beach-oriented themes of surfing and the cowboy images of the Wild West. Ennio Morricone’s compositions for the soundtracks and theme music of Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns, A Fistful of Dollars (Leone 1964), For a Few Dollars More (Leone 1965) and The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (Leone 1967) use all these effects, and have become staples in the repertoires of surf bands, as have theme songs from 1950s and 60s TV westerns such as Rawhide,10 Have Gun Will Travel, and Bonanza. Second wave surf bands released cover versions of the orchestral themes from westerns, such as Los Straitjackets’ “Theme from the Magnificent Seven” (Bernstein 1960), and Duane Eddy and The Supertones’ “The Ballad of Paladin” (Western, Boone, and Rolfe 1962). Other TV show themes, such as the theme from Hawaii 5-O, have a more obvious surf connection; the connection is enhanced when the theme song is played to accompany opening and closing credits of the show, with footage of surfers riding enormous waves. In addition to Western soundtracks, the sounds and styles of surf music showed up in spy movies, most famously, the deep, twangy, ominous sounding “James Bond Theme,” first heard in the film Dr. No (Young 1962). David Arnold describes the theme as “bebopswing vibe coupled with that vicious, dark, distorted electric guitar, definitely an instrument of rock ‘n’ roll... it represented everything about the character you would want: it was cocky, swaggering, confident, dark, dangerous, suggestive, sexy, unstoppable. And he 9

Eddy and his producer Lee Hazelwood are credited with the invention of artificial reverberation when they put Eddy’s amplifier into one end of an old water tank behind the recording studio and a microphone into the other. To this day, electronic reverberation devices are still sometimes referred to as “tanks.” 10 Famously covered by The Blues Brothers in John Landis's film of the same name.

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[composer Monty Norman] did it in two minutes” (Burlingame 2008). The theme of freedom from rules and restrictions at the heart of surfing, owning a car in postwar America, and the Wild West, is also embodied in the spy with a licence to kill. “The James Bond Theme” has been played by many surf bands, including The Shadows, and parodied in other detective and spy films and television series, such as The Pink Panther and Get Smart, whose theme songs have in turn been covered by other surf bands. Surf’s outward movement culminated in space rock in the surf revival and the third generation. First-wave surf bands never really got onto the Space Age bandwagon. The earliest space rock song, Joe Meek’s “Telstar” (1962), was inspired by the first communications satellite, and featured an electronic keyboard, rather than guitar, as the lead instrument. In the late 60s many bands produced instrumental songs inspired by the space race, such as The Beatles’ “Flying” (1967), Jimi Hendrix’s “Third Stone From the Sun” (1967), Pink Floyd’s “Astronomy Domine” and “Interstellar Overdrive” (1967), and many other rock songs with lyrics about astronauts and aliens.11 Although the genre started after the first generation of surf bands in the 60s, 12 second and third generation surf bands have incorporated it into their repertoires with surf-styled covers of science fiction film and television show theme songs and original space-titled songs.

Sound Effects in Surf Music The sonic imagery, tropes and metaphors that give surf music its distinctive sound and signification were made possible by technical developments in electric musical instruments in the 1950s. Studio recording techniques also allowed the addition of pre-recorded sound effects. The Ventures’ recording of “The Lonely Sea” from their album Surfing (1963) opens with a recording of the surf, as

11

See Strange Brew (Kennedy 2013, 91-110). Except for the name of the band The Astronauts, whose songs, however, followed the usual titling and sound conventions.

12

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does The Tornadoes’ “Bustin’ Surfboards” 13 (1962) and the Surf Kings’ “Black Sea” (2004).14 The opening of “Harbor Patrol” (The Supertones 1994) uses recorded sound of bells to elicit the image of a buoy. In The Surfaris’ “Wipe Out” (1963), “one of the band members suggested that a gimmick sound indicating a wipe out off a surfboard be emulated. The suggestion was made that during the introduction before the music starts, a cracking sound, imitating a breaking surfboard, should be made” (Wikipedia accessed November 30, 2014). Most surf songs use musical metaphors, however, rather than recorded sound effects. The Surf Kings’ “Island Dreams” (2004) uses cymbals to mimic the sound of the sea. Similarly, one of the primary auditory metaphors of surf music, and the related genre of western instrumental music, is artificial reverberation used to create an impression of open space. “The key ingredient of early surf music was the instrumental guitar, stylistically played to recreate the feeling of riding the waves” (May 2002, Chapter 5). “Guitar manufacturer Leo Fender gave [Dick] Dale an electronic reverb that echoed his guitar, creating a ‘wet’ sound like the pounding of the waves” (May 2002).

Conceptual Metaphor in Music One of the connections between words, literature and poetry in particular, and music, especially songs, is that both use sound effects and auditory metaphor. Many of the tropes often considered to be in the domain of literature, such as metaphor, symbol and imagery, however, also have a large role in music (Johnson and Larson 2003) (Kennedy 2013). Lakoff, Johnson and Turner set out the basis of conceptual metaphor in a series of studies (Lakoff and Johnson 1980, Lakoff 13

A collection of Chuck Berry riffs, with a bit of whammy bar dive thrown in. 14 The Beach Boys did a version of “The Lonely Sea” with lead vocals by Brian Wilson on Surfin’ USA (1963). Five of the twelve tracks on Surfin’ USA were surf instrumentals. The Beach Boys’ first album was entitled Surfin’ Safari (1962).

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1987, Lakoff and Turner 1989) outlining a mechanism that allows the application of metaphor theory to other genres besides literature. Music theorists have long used metaphoric concepts of space to describe music. For example, pianist and conductor Daniel Barenboim uses spatial concepts to discuss the music of Beethoven: Beethoven, in my view, was able to achieve a perfect balance in his music between vertical pressure—pressure from the composer’s mastery of musical form—and horizontal flow: he always combines vertical factors such as harmony, pitch, accents, or tempo, all of which relate to a sense of rigor, with a great sense of freedom and fluidity (Barenboim 2013, 30).

Musicians and non-musicians alike might intuit a general impression of the connections Barenboim is drawing here, but the system of spatial metaphors created by Lakoff and his colleagues allows for a more rigorous analysis: to a musician or music lover, vertical can represent higher pitch and increased volume, while horizontal movement can connote time (Lakoff 1992). In Barenboim’s description, “rigor” represents strict adherence to the tempo of a piece, while “freedom and fluidity” describe the performer’s choice to speed up or slow down the tempo for emphasis; some musicians may prefer to adhere strictly to the markings in the score indicating volume and tempo, while others may regard them as simply guidelines. Barenboim continues to analyze Beethoven’s music with a combination of kinesthetic, spatial and colour metaphors: “[Fidelio] contains a constant movement between polar opposites—from light to darkness, the negative to positive, between events that occur above, on the surface, and those that take place underground” (Barenboim 2013, 30). How can a piece of music be light or dark, negative or positive, above, on, or below ground? Like non-compositional idioms, these tropes depend on familiarity with the concepts expressed and involve a transference between the domains of sound, light, electromagnetism and space. Sound effects in surf music are created in two ways, the first by the use of technology, the second by the player’s technique.

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Technical effects include reverberation and tremolo, a variation in amplitude associated with movement.15 Both of these effects were developed by studio musicians and producers in the 1950s, and by the 1960s they had been incorporated into mass-produced musical instrument amplifiers. Guitarists’ playing techniques include tremolo arm (sometimes referred to as “whammy bar”) bends, in which the rising and falling pitch of a note emulates the sensation of waves by mimicking the Doppler effect associated with speed and changing frames of reference.16 Tremolo picking, in which the guitarist plays rapidly picked notes, denotes speed.17 A variant of tremolo picking is the glissando, in which the right hand rapidly picks a string while the left hand slides up or down the fretboard; the effect of speed is associated with surfing down the face of a large wave. Richard Aquila mentions Jorgen Ingmann’s 1961 recording of “Apache” as “us[ing] guitar riffs to imitate the sound of arrows whizzing through the air. The sound trick worked, and thousands of Americans purchased the record, which capitalized on the exotic image of the Indian” (Aquila 1980, 419). The second section of the melody in “Apache” borrows its eighth note-quarter note rhythm from the finale of Rossini’s “William Tell Overture” (1829) (figure 6):

Figure 6: Finale of Rossini’s “William Tell Overture”

15

Vibrato is periodic modulation in the pitch of a note, while tremolo is a periodic modulation in volume. 16 The first mechanical vibrato device designed for guitar was the Kaufman Vibrola (1935), followed by the Bigsby Vibrato Tailpiece (1952) and the Fender Synchronized Tremolo (1954). 17 Surf guitar tremolo picking emulates the Spanish/Flamenco musical styles, associated with Mexico and the southern California part of California culture, although the Spanish style is played by alternately picking notes with the fingers and thumb of the right hand, rather than the pick used by electric guitarists.

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This overture was borrowed for the theme music of The Lone Ranger television series (1949-1957), and the rhythmic figure was adapted by the composer of the theme music for the television series Bonanza (1959-1973). The effect has become associated in popular culture with the sound of galloping horses. Other sound metaphors can be created by the drums: for example, on The Shadows’ version of “Apache,” the “Indian war drums” were inspired by the 1954 Western Apache. Cliff Richard played tam tam drums to create the effect, familiar to moviegoing audiences from the soundtracks of many 30s and 40s Westerns. The association is clearly explained by drummer Mickey Hart: “we use drums and percussion of all kinds to manipulate and experience these rhythms; to communicate, play, work, as well as express cultural connections to death, war, and spirituality” (Hart). Here the drums are associated with the mise-en-scène of the open plains familiar to American moviegoers. The Revels’ “Comanche” uses a similar drum beat. These are both examples of a sound effect becoming a meme: the exotic sound of “Indian war drums” would have been familiar to movie goers of the 1960s, but the sense of danger and threat conveyed by the movie sound effect, by the time it appears in surf music, has been modified to convey a sense of the exotic, or the other.18 Surf music metaphors have become memes in popular culture. The surf sound and its imagery became so familiar and associated 18

Pop culture representations of Native Americans tends to alternate between two extremes of danger and romanticization. The latter can be seen in the Broadway musical song “Indian Love Call” and in J.P Richardson’s “Running Bear and Little White Dove” (1959); Richardson’s lyrics tell the story of a tragic love relationship between a young Native American couple. A later song shows how Native American sound symbolism, particularly the “war drum” beat, became a meme; according to producer Tom Dowd: ‘Where all the other songs that they [Cream] played were prepared, [but] this one song [“Sunshine of Your Love” (1967)], they never found a pocket, they were never comfortable ... I said, “You know, have you ever seen any American Westerns [films that have] the Indian beat, where the downbeat is the beat?” ... And when he [drummer Ginger Baker] started playing it that way, all of the parts came together and right away they were elated’ (Moorman 2003).

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with the freewheeling lifestyle of the sixties that people listen to it, as Quentin Tarantino used it in Pulp Fiction, without thinking about what it originally signified: In 1994, Tarantino emphasized that “Bullwinkle Part II” [The Centurians (1962)] was score music, as opposed to something Travolta’s character would be listening to on the radio. “The reason I did that was [because] I always really dug surf music a lot,” he said. “But the thing was I never understood what the hell it had to do with surfing. I don’t see the connection between this music and surfing—to me, it sounded like rock & roll spaghetti western music. What I don't want to do is, and I see it happen in a lot of movies, [is] just turn up the soundtrack to create a false energy.” (Grow 2014)19

The power of association is a metaphoric effect (Vervaeke and Kennedy 1996, 2004, Kennedy 2013, 27). Tarantino’s statement illustrates Gerard Genette’s concept of hypertextuality; his use of an earlier text, “Bullwinkle Part II,” extends and modifies the song, discarding its original meaning and putting it to a different use.

Intertextuality, Paratextuality and Surf Music Surf music has become part of the background of American culture. Taken out of its original context, it is used to create mood and theme in other genres. Genette’s concept of intertextuality provides a useful schema for understanding how different genres interact with each other, and how various components of a text work together. Paratextuality, a subcategory of intertextuality (Genette 1991, 1997), deals with elements that surround and become part of the text, such as titles, headings, reviews, and interviews. Genette considers paratext to be primarily textual but includes iconic (visual) and factual materials as well (265). Genette’s analytical framework can be useful in studying other forms of art besides literature. For example, Robert Stam applies the concept to film (Stam and Raengo 2004): texts associated with 19

Bullwinkle was a cartoon moose in The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show (Ward, Anderson and Scott 1959-1964).

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the primary text, whether literature or film, include book covers, titles, section headings, and interviews with authors, actors and directors. All of these peripheral texts have a strong effect on the reader’s, viewer’s, or listener’s appreciation of the primary work of art, to the point that they can be considered a part of the experience associated with the main text. In music, paratextual items can include band names, album names, graphics on album covers, song names, interviews, film and animated sections in videos, and more recently, Facebook pages and websites.20 Genette also considers a work’s positioning in time as part of its paratext (Genette 1991, 264), as well as its “context” (266). In surf music, paratextual elements contribute to the expression of a single major theme in five distinct, but related settings: the pursuit of freedom in surf, cars, the Wild West, spies and space.21 From the beginning of the genre, surf music was associated with the sunny image of California beaches in the early 1960s. Many record albums marketed as surf music in the 1960s were packaged in album covers featuring photographs of surfers riding giant waves, or in the case of The Beach Boys, of the members of the band frolicking on the beach in the company of bikini-clad girls. The labelling not only marked the genre, it affected the way the music was heard and developed. Song titles that contain imagery associated with the sea and surf include The Atlantics’ “Reef Break,” 22 the Supertones’ “Harbor Patrol” and “The Last Ride” (1994), The Ventures’ “Surf Rider,” the Astronauts’ “Banzai Pipeline,” Los Straitjackets’ “Pacifica” and The Shadows’ “Atlantis.” The signification of some of these titles is obvious to non-surfers, but a few are noncompositional idioms, “Pipeline,” for example. “The tune, originally called ‘Liberty’s 20

Much classical program music is affected by extra-musical elements including performance notes and titles, so that it is heard as more than absolute music (Robinson 2013, 5; Latham 2002, 1004-1006). 21 Surf music is associated with beaches and bikinis in film, album cover photography, and concert posters. Many of these images have been collected in John Blair’s Images of America: Southern California Surf Music, 1960-1966 (Blair 2015). 22 Ironically, The Atlantics are Australian.

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Whip,’ was renamed after the band members saw a surfing movie showing scenes of the Banzai Pipeline in Hawaii.” The Banzai Pipeline, or simply “Pipeline” or “Pipe,” is a surf reef break located in Hawaii, off Sunset Beach Park in Pupukea on Oahu’s North Shore. A reef break is an area in the ocean where waves start to break once they reach the shallows of a reef. Band names often include figures of speech related to surfing and the sea: The Beach Boys is an example of metonymy: the beach is associated with surf; the boys on the beach are surfers. 23 The Mermen is another. The word surf often appears in the name, as in The Surf Coasters, The Surf Raiders, The Surf Kings and Surflamingo. There are only so many ways to use sea and sand imagery, but many bands from the Golden Age of Surf used related imagery in their names. Other surf bands had imagery in the name, not associated with the sea or the beach, such as British band The Tornados and the American The Tornadoes, which nevertheless conveyed kinetic imagery. As surf music adopted the sonic images and tropes of Westerns and spy films, surf bands began playing themes from soundtracks to 1950s and 60s TV and movie westerns such as The Magnificent Seven (Sturges 1960), 1960s spy films such as Goldfinger (Hamilton 1964) and The Pink Panther (Edwards 1963), as well as Pulp Fiction (Tarantino 1994). The title of The Crazy Aces’ Surfadelic Spy-A-Go-Go album (2014) neatly sums up the combination of memes. Like the imagery of Southern California’s beaches and Pacific vista, Space Age band and song names evoke a mental picture of open space and the implied feeling of freedom in Space Age song names such as “Telstar,” recorded by The Tornados in 1962. The trope was continued in the names of surf revival bands such as Laika and the Cosmonauts, The Space Rangers and the Space Cossacks. Interestingly, although surf music was originally an American genre, the surf revival is an international phenomenon: Laika and the Cosmonauts were from Finland, The Space Rangers are from Ulm, Germany, and The Space Cossacks, although an American band, was formed by Croatian guitarist Ivan Pongraþiü. 23

Actually, only drummer Dennis Wilson was a surfer.

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Laika and the Cosmonauts and the Space Cossacks belatedly acknowledge the Russian side of the space race. The Spanish surf group Surflamingo continues the tradition with their song “Door to Hyperspace” (2013). Another recent example is The Nebulas’ “Falling Out of Orbit” (2003), in which the band (whose web page features a photo of the band playing a concert in Star Trek uniforms) adapt the main theme from the 4th movement of Antonín DvoĜák’s Symphony No. 9 in E minor, From the New World, which DvoĜák said was inspired by the “wide open spaces” of the American West that he visited on a tour of the country (Sullivan 1999, ix). This expansion and combination of genres is an illustration of another of Genette’s concepts, hypertextuality, which encompasses texts and here, music, in situations such as the use of songs as soundtracks in films and television series. For example, many songs from surf movies and westerns have been covered by surf bands, such as Los Straitjackets’ 2004 adaptation of Elmer Bernstein’s “Theme from the Magnificent Seven” (Sturges 1960).

Conclusion Surf music was the soundtrack for a particular time and place in America. May notes the connection between the “general affinity for Westerns in television’s early years” and “California… the new frontier” (May 2002). The connection between Western movie themes and surf music is that California is the culmination of the Wild West. What the West was to the nineteenth century, the promised land, a new Eden, California was to the twentieth. Throughout its history, America was advertised as a land of hope and freedom to Europeans, and its art, literature and music reflect this theme. The auditory images and metaphors of surf and cowboy music represent open space (reverb and delay), adventure (the “Indian” beat of the drums), speed and movement (glissandos). For Americans in the 60s, the Wild West was the past, cars and the beach were the present, and Space was the future. Space Age themes extend this metaphor to “The Final Frontier.”24

24

For example, The Rubinoos’ “Surf Trek” (1998).

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While surf music presented the sunny side of the California myth (May 2002), after the Berkeley student protests of 1964 and the 1965 Watts riots in poor black communities hit the news and became part of the national political discourse, Americans were forced to deal with a darker side. Criticism of inequality and injustice previously hidden by upbeat media coverage incorporated influences from the Beat poets and led to the hippie movement, anti-Vietnam war protests and psychedelic music that spread out from San Francisco in the late 1960s, as American songwriters wrote about the negative side of society. British Invasion groups began to replace bands like The Beach Boys on the charts, but the duality of the image of the California Dream continued. In 1967 the Woodstock Festival promoted the Summer of Love, followed shortly by the deaths at the Altamont Speedway concert. Just a few years later, nostalgia for the good old days was rekindled by films like American Graffiti (Lucas 1973). Today, instrumental surf music continues to be played and written, but the genre has developed and expanded from its beginnings, reflecting both sunny good times, and darker, sometimes melancholy, sometimes ominous themes. Mention surf music to most people today, and they will think of The Beach Boys; instrumental surf music may seem to be a forgotten genre, or at least, one that has gone underground. However, it has had a profound effect on musicians, American and international, and it has been incorporated into popular, mainstream music.25 Like other American cultural products, the sound of surf music has spread around the world, and its sonic tropes have become part of the lexicon of musicians, filmmakers and television producers. Like Tarantino, many listeners may not even realize that they are listening to surf music, or what the music represents, but 25

The 1996 album Twang! A Tribute to Hank Marvin and the Shadows featured performances by Ritchie Blackmore (Deep Purple), Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, Peter Frampton, Peter Green (Fleetwood Mac), Tony Iommi (Black Sabbath), Mark Knopfler (Dire Straits), Brian May (Queen), Steve Stevens (Billy Idol), Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland (The Police), Neil Young and Randy Bachman (The Guess Who, Bachman Turner Overdrive).

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most will recognize the music and make some sort of association with it.

Discography Amis, Danny, Eddie Angel, Jimmy Lester and Pete Curry. 1996. “Pacifica.” ¡Viva! Los Straitjackets. Los Straitjackets. Upstart Records. Barrett, Syd. 1967. “Astronomy Domine.” The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. EMI Columbia. Barrett, Syd, Roger Waters, Richard Wright and Nick Mason. 1967. “Interstellar Overdrive.” The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. EMI Columbia. Bates, Ellas Otha (Bo Diddley). 1963. Surfing with Bo Diddley. Checker Records. Bernstein, Elmer. 2004. “Theme from the Magnificent Seven.” Play Favorites. Los Straitjackets. Yep Roc Records. Berry, Jan, and Brian Wilson. 1963. “Surf City.” Jan and Dean. Liberty Records. Berryhill, Bob, Pat Connolly, Jim Fuller and Ron Wilson. 1963. “Wipe Out.” The Surfaris. Dot. Bogle, Bob, Don Wilson and Nokie Edwards. 1963. “Surf Rider.” The Ventures. Crescendo. Carman, Brian, and Bob Spickard. 1963. “Pipeline.” The Chantays. Downey Records. Checker, Chubby. 1962. Beach Party. Parkway. Cilia, Martin. 1999. “Reef Break.” Flight of the Surf Guitar. The Atlantics. Atlantics Music. Dale, Dick (arr.). 1962, “Misirlou.” Dick Dale and His Del-Tones. Surfer’s Choice. Deltone. —. 1961. “Let’s Go Trippin’.” Dick Dale and His Del-Tones. Rendezvous Records. Friml, Rudolf, Otto Harbach and Oscar Hammerstein II. 1924. “Indian Love Call.” HARMS, Inc. Lange, Johnny and Eliot Daniel. 1948. “Blue Shadows on the Trail.” RCA Victor. Hafner, Robert. 1961. “Comanche.” The Revels. Downey Records.

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Harrison, George, John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Richard Starkey. 1967. “Flying.” Magical Mystery Tour. Parlophone. Hendrix, Jimi. 1967. “Up from the Skies.” The Jimi Hendrix Experience. Axis: Bold as Love. Reprise. Johnson, Bruce, and Terry Melcher. 1964. “Beach Girl.” Sung by Pat Boone. Dot Records. Livingston, Jay, and Ray Evans. 1959. “Theme from Bonanza.” NBC. Lordan, Jerry. 1960. “Apache.” The Shadows. Columbia. —. 1963. “Atlantis.” The Shadows. Columbia. Mancini, Henry. 1963. “Banzai Pipeline.” RCA. Meek, Joe. 1962. “Telstar.” The Tornadoes. Decca/London. Norman, Monty. 1962. “James Bond Theme.” Richardson, Jiles Perry. 1959. “Running Bear and Little White Dove.” Mercury. Rose, Dennis, and Ernest Furrow. 1964. “Bullwinkle Part 2.” The Centurions. Del Fi Records. Rossini, Gioachino. 1829. “William Tell Overture.” Rubin, Jon, Tommy Dunbar, Al Chan and Donn Spindt. 1998. “Surf Trek.” Paleophonic, Pynotic. Ryan, Charlie. 1955. “Hot Rod Lincoln.” Souvenir. Sanders, Norman, and Leonard Delaney. 1962. “Bustin’ Surfboards.” The Tornadoes. Aertaun Records. Sicilia, Pablo. 2014. “Door to Hyperspace.” Creatures from the Deep. Surflamingo. Stanton, Tom. 2004. “Black Sea.” The Surf Kings. Coming Up for Air. —. 2004. “Island Dreams.” The Surf Kings. Coming Up for Air. Sullivan, Tim, Mike Mandina, Marc Lipscher and Mike Arcidiacono. 1996 “Harbor Patrol.” The Supertones. The Wet Set. Green Room Technologies. Sullivan, Tim, Mike Mandina, Marc Lipscher and Mike Arcidiacono. 1996 “The Last Ride.” The Supertones. The Wet Set. Green Room Technologies. Tomson, George. 1960. “Bulldog.” The Fireballs. Rank Records of America. Troup, Bobby. 1946. “(Get Your Kicks) on Route 66.” Recorded by The King Cole Trio. Capitol.

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Ware, Daniel, Mike Domingue, Eric Grammer and Jim Nichols. 2003. “Falling Out of Orbit.” The Nebulas. It’s Go! Time. Tivertone Records. Western, Johnny, Richard Boone and Sam Rolfe. 1962. “The Ballad of Paladin.” Duane Eddy, The Supertones. RCA Records. Wilkin, John W. 1964. “Little GTO.” Ronny and the Daytonas. G.T.O. Mala. Wilson, Brian, and Gary Usher. 1963. “The Lonely Sea.” The Beach Boys, Surfin’ USA. Capitol. Wilson, Brian, and Mike Love. 1965. “California Girls.” The Beach Boys. Summer Days (and Summer Nights!!). Capitol. Wilson, Brian, and Mike Love. 1964. “Fun, Fun, Fun.” The Beach Boys. Capitol. Wilson, Brian, and Mike Love. 1964. “Little Honda.” The Beach Boys. All Summer Long. Capitol. Wilson, Brian, and Murray Wilson. 1963. “Little Deuce Coupe.” The Beach Boys. Little Deuce Coupe. Capitol. Wilson, Brian, Mike Love and Gary Usher. 1962. “409.” The Beach Boys. Capitol Wilson, Brian, Roger Christian and Mike Love. 1963. “Shut Down.” The Beach Boys. Little Deuce Coupe. Capitol. Wilson, Brian, and Mike Love. 1964. “I Get Around.” The Beach Boys. Capitol. Wilson, Carl. 1963. “Surf Jam.” Surfin’ USA. The Beach Boys. Capitol. —. 1963. “Surfin’ USA.” Surfin’ USA. The Beach Boys. Capitol.

References Aquila, Richard. 1980. “Images of the American West in Rock Music.” The Western Historical Quarterly 11, no. 4: 415-432. Asher, William. 1965. Beach Blanket Bingo. United States: American International. Barenboim, Daniel. 2013. “Beethoven and the Quality of Courage.” The New York Review of Books LX, no. 6: 30. Blair, John. 2015. Images of America: Southern California Surf Music, 1960-1966. Mount Pleasant, South Carolina: Arcadia Publishing.

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Brown, Bruce. 1966. The Endless Summer. USA: Cinema V/Monterey Media. —. 1994. The Endless Summer II. USA: New Line Cinema. Burlingame, Jon. 2008. “Bond Scores Establish Superspy Template.” Daily Variety (3 November). Edwards, Blake. 1963. The Pink Panther. Hollywood, U.S.A.: MGM. Gadpaille, Michelle. 2004. “Metaphor, Meme and MacLennan’s Two Solitudes.” Paper read at Individual and Community: Canada in the 20th Century, at Brno: Masaryk University. Genette, Gerard. 1991. “Introduction to the Paratext.” New Literary History 22, no. 2: 261-272. Genette, Gerard. 1997. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Original edition, 1987. Gioia, Ted. 2005. “Later: Smile by Brian Wilson.” The Threepenny Review 101 (Spring):16-17. Grow, Kory. 2014. “Surf Music and Seventies Soul: The Songs of Pulp Fiction.” Rolling Stone, http://www.rollingstone.com/movies/pictures/surf-music-andseventies-soul-the-songs-of-pulp-fiction-20140521. Hamilton, Guy. 1964. Goldfinger. United Kingdom: United Artists. Hart, Mickey. Accessed March 11, 2016. Drum Sounds and Their Meanings. http://www.folkways.si.edu/drum-sounds-theirmeanings/world/music/article/smithsonian. Johnson, Mark L., and Steve Larson. 2003. “‘Something in the Way She Moves’—Metaphors of Musical Motion.” Metaphor and Symbol 18, no. 2: 63-84. Kennedy, Victor. 2013. Strange Brew: Metaphors of Magic and Science in Rock Music. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Kohner, Frederick. 1957. Gidget. New York: Putnam. Lakoff, George. 1987. Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal About the Mind. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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—. 1992. “The Contemporary Theory of Metaphor.” In Metaphor and Thought, edited by Andrew Ortony, 202-251. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. 1980. Metaphors We Live By. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lakoff, George, and Mark Turner. 1989. More Than Cool Reason: A Field Guide to Poetic Metaphor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Latham, Alison. 2002. The Oxford Companion to Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Leone, Sergio. 1964. A Fistful of Dollars. Italy: Unidis. —. 1965. For a Few Dollars More. Italy: Produzioni Europee Associati. —. 1967. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. Italy: Produzioni Europee Associati. Lucas, George. 1973. American Grafitti. United States: Universal Pictures. Marsh, Dave. 1985. Fortunate Son: Criticism and Journalism by America's Best-known Rock Writer. 1st edition. New York: Random House. May, Kirse Granat. 2002. Golden State, Golden Youth: The California Image in Popular Culture, 1955-1966. Chapel Hill, North Carolina: University of North Carolina Press. Reprint, Kindle AZW file. Moorman, Mark. 2003. Tom Dowd and the Language of Music. USA: Palm Pictures / Umvd. Reum, Peter. 1980. “The Beach Boys: The Capitol Years Boxed Set Liner Notes.” United Kingdom: World Records. Robinson, Simon. 2013. “What Can Music Say that Words Cannot?” In Words and Music, edited by Victor Kennedy and Michelle Gadpaille, 2-8. Cambridge, England: Cambridge Scholars Press. Rorabaugh, W. J. 2004. “Golden State, Golden Youth by Kirse Granat May; Imagine Nation by Peter Braunstein; Michael William Doyle.” California History 82, no. 1: 77-78. Stam, Robert, and Alessandra Raengo, eds. 2004. Literature and Film: A Guide to the Theory and Practice of Film Adaptation. Malden, MA.: Blackwell Publishing Ltd.

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Stevenson, Robert. 1965. The Monkey’s Uncle. Hollywood, U.S.A.: Walt Disney Productions/Buena Vista Distribution. Sturges, John. 1960. The Magnificent Seven. Hollywood, U.S.A.: United Artists. Sullivan, Jack. 1999. New World Symphonies: How American Culture Changed European Music: Yale University Press. Tarantino, Quentin. 1994. Pulp Fiction. United States: Miramax Films. Thorne, Christian. 2003. “The Revolutionary Energy of the Outmoded.” October 104 (Spring): 97-114. Vervaeke, John, and John M. Kennedy. 1996. “Metaphors in Language and Thought: Falsification and Multiple Meanings.” Metaphor and Symbolic Activity 11, no. 4: 273-284. Vervaeke, John, and John M. Kennedy. 2004. “Conceptual Metaphor and Abstract Thought.” Metaphor and Symbol 19, no. 3: 213-231. Ward, Jay, Alex Anderson and Bill Scott. 1959-1964. The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. U.S.A. Wendkos, Paul. 1959. Gidget. United States: Columbia Pictures. Witney, William N. 1965. The Girls on the Beach. Hollywood, U.S.A.: Paramount Pictures. Wronski, Dave. 2011. “Deep Water: How to Get the Classic Surf Guitar Sound.” Guitar World, http://www.guitarworld.com/deep-water-how-get-classic-surfguitar-sound. Young, Terence. 1962. Dr. No. United Kingdom: United Artists.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN CORRELATIONS IN STRUCTURAL PROCESSING OF MUSIC NOTE AND SPEECH SOUND SEQUENCES IN POPULAR MUSIC WRITING KLEMENTINA JURANýIý PETEK

Introduction In this chapter I will explore the natural (sound symbolic) connection between the tones of the music and the sounds of the lyrics in the process of writing popular music songs. I will compare English and Slovene songs in order to establish whether a correspondence exists between the direction of pitch movement in music and the sound symbolic meaning “height” in vowels across syllables in the more prominent parts of the lyrics. The existence of such a correspondence could also show that authors use it intuitively and naturally. I will refer to Aniruddh D. Patel’s shared syntactic integration resource hypothesis, which assumes at least a partial overlapping in the structural processing of language and the structural processing of music, which at the representational level are frequently considered separate (modular) processes.

Shared and non-shared components of language and music Language and music share many similarities at the sound level, the structural level and in terms of properties related to general domains (Fedorenko et al. 2009, Patel 2008). Both language and music involve sequences of sounds taking turn in temporal appearance, and exhibiting specific rhythmic and melodic structures

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(Patel 2008). Both are rule-based systems in which basic linguistic elements (sounds, words) can be combined to form an infinite number of higher order linguistic structures—sentences—and basic musical elements (single tones) can be combined to form an infinite number of higher order musical structures or harmonic sequences (Lerdahl and Jackendoff 1983, quoted in Fedorenko et al. 2009, 1). Linguistic and musical knowledge systems can, however, also be considered independent of each other because of the separate modes of human expression that characterise them (the acts of speaking and of singing). They serve different communicative purposes: we do not consider ourselves singing while we are speaking and vice versa. However, as McDermott and Hauser (2005) put it, one cannot ignore the fact that language and music seem to be universal human cognitive abilities, unique to our species, an observation that thus seems to encourage the assumption that they share common cognitive resources. Some studies in neuropsychology and psycholinguistics, especially those examining the effects of brain damage, support a domain-specific approach that posits the functional separation or independence of language and music. It has been shown that when the language part of the brain is damaged, musical abilities still remain operative (Patel et al. 2008), and when the part of the brain responsible for musical abilities is injured, this does not affect language abilities (Peretz 1993; Peretz and Coltheart 2003). Other studies, however, especially those using event-related potentials (ERPs), magneto-encephalography (MEG), and functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) (Patel et al. 1998; Janata 1995), seem to support the sharing of mechanisms between the two domains. Since neither of the two approaches sufficiently answers the question of the relationship between language and music, Patel (2003) draws attention to another important distinction, that between long-term structural knowledge, roughly corresponding to the notion of long-term memory, and the actualization of the representational system of procedural knowledge, roughly corresponding to the notion of short-term or working memory. In the latter, elements, in our case musical and linguistic ones, are integrated with one another in the course of online processing (Fedorenko et al. 2009, 2). This approach could successfully

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incorporate the domain-specific elements prepared for use in the independent areas for music and language in long-term memory, and online structural integration shared between language and music, in our case the act of songwriting. Patel (2003) argues that online structural integration may be shared between language and music at the structural level (the Shared Syntactic Integration Resource Hypothesis, SSIRH) but not at the sound level. The reason for the latter may lie in the fact that when he compares music and language at the phonetic level, speech sounds are discussed from the point of view of their acoustic features rather than structurally as linguistically meaningful units. Also, in relation to phonetics in language, Patel focuses on instrumental rather than vocal music. This renders his comparison devoid of any semantic component and thus not a truly linguisticmusical interface. I will focus primarily on vocal music in relation to speech sounds while not ignoring other levels of language. For this reason and to avoid discussing sounds solely at a purely acoustic level, phonemes, like higher-level structural units, will be to a limited extent treated as meaningful linguistic units. I maintain that online structural integration may be shared between language and music not only at the structural level relating to syntactic processes, but also at the sound level, relating to lower level processes. I also maintain that there is a natural connection between the structural characteristics of music, such as pitch, and the structural characteristics of speech sounds as linguistic units, such as frequencies of resonance in vowels facilitating the symbolic meaning of height. These are at work as the song-writer/musiccomposer struggles to match the lyrics of songs with the music score. Fedorenko et al. (2009) examined the interaction between linguistic and musical complexity by seeking correlations between subject- and object-extracted relative clause conditions and out-ofkey and in-key and auditory-anomaly conditions. We can do the same by observing the correlations between the rising and falling movement of pitch across music tones and its correspondence with sequences of sound symbolically high and low vowels, indicating rising or falling direction across syllables in the lines of the lyrics. In both cases the subjects (in our case song writers) are not aware of

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the secondary task at hand. In Fedorenko et al.’s study, the respondents subconsciously responded to the type of relative clause observed, because they were paying attention to the most obvious elements of music and language, melody and the meaning of words. In this study, authors of the music and lyrics of songs paid special attention to the meaning and sound of the words, and how they matched the music. No special attention was paid to the correspondence between pitch movement and vowel height, which is why these were left more or less to chance. My aim is to test the following hypotheses: 1. Song writing involves the intentional combining of melodic sequences in the music with linguistic features in the lyrics. However, an unintentional process may also be at work here, in which rising and falling pitch movement in the melody is matched with the sound symbolic meaning height in vowels across neighbouring syllables in the lyrics, such as a low vowel—high vowel sequence matching a rising pitch movement between two tones, and a high vowel—low vowel sequence matching a falling pitch movement of the melody. Naturally, the relationship can also be that of contrast; for example, a low vowel—high vowel sequence can be matched to a falling pitch movement between two tones. When the two match, or have the same direction, the result is a pleasing effect. When they conflict and go in opposite directions, the result can be a less pleasing effect. If results for matching were higher than those for conflict, this could support the unintentional underlying (natural) process in song writing, and thus possibly the overlapping of the structural processing of music with the structural processing of language. 2. A comparative analysis of English and Slovene popular music songs will show that quality songwriters naturally use the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels of the lyrics to support the direction of pitch movement wherever limitations of the lexical meaning of the lyrics allow. This appears in a higher number of correspondences between direction indicated by vowel height change across two

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syllables and direction of pitch movement rather than conflicts.

Semantics of the Speech Sound In order to justify structural linguistic processing at the level of speech sound, the sound should be treated as a meaningful unit. This is possible only if it is associated with its sound symbolic meaning. Most frequently, language is associated with lexical meaning, and the smallest linguistic units containing meaning are naturally higher-level morphemes. Lower level phonemes, unlike morphological and syntactic units, do not seem to contain meaning in the narrowest sense of the word, lexical meaning. However, another type of meaning exists, contained at all three linguistic levels (phonological, morphological and syntactic), metaphorical meaning. While lexical or metaphorical meaning at higher levels remains unquestioned, it seems that meaning at the phonetic/phonological level still warrants justification, since phonemes are considered to contain none. This has little or nothing to do with the difference between denotation and connotation, as such. However, it is this meaning that defies the popular belief that language is entirely arbitrary and that there is no natural connection between linguistic form and the meaning it represents. Many linguists, including Edward Sapir, Madison Bentley, Stanley Newman and John Ohala, have attempted to show that phonetic elements, as well as functioning as linguistic units, contain certain symbolic connotations. The vowels o and a are, for example, considered heavier, gloomier and more ponderous than i and e (Newman 1933). Some early experiments examined the effect of obvious symbolism, such as large vs. small, light vs. dark (Sapir, Bentley, Newman), while later ones added notions such as angularity, softness, rapidity, sharpness and weight (Hinton, Nichols and Ohala 1994; Klink 2000). On a more systematic level and including one or more phonemes, the concept of sound symbolism is divided into categories based upon the degree of linkage between sound and meaning. Hinton et al. (1994) distinguish four categories:

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corporeal sound symbolism (use of sounds to express emotional and physical states of the speaker such as hiccoughing, coughing and interjections); imitative sound symbolism (onomatopoeic words and phrases representing sounds from the environment such as “bang,” “splash” and imitation of animal sounds like “meow”); synesthetic sound symbolism (use of vowels and consonants to represent visual and tactile properties of objects, such as size, shape, brightness and speed) and conventional sound symbolism (the analogical association of certain phonemes and clusters with certain meanings, such as the “gl” of glitter, glisten, glow and glimmer, or the “fl” of fly, flat and float). For my purposes, I am interested primarily in the synesthetic type of sound symbolism, that is, the study of individual speech sounds (particularly vowels) in relation to some of the most obvious symbolisms such as “magnitude,” “brilliance” and “height” (Newman 1933). Kinaesthetic factors such as positioning of the tongue and size of the oral cavity, and acoustic factors such as transition from high acoustic frequencies of vowel resonance to lower ones were considered in the earlier studies in order to establish the source of influence. The results showed that reactions related to the symbolism of magnitude depended primarily on physiological factors, such as the front to back inclination of tongue movement and high to low positioning of the tongue in the oral cavity. The sequence was thus i, e, ѓ, æ, ъ, u, o, э on the continuum small to big, i containing meaning of the smallest and э containing meaning of the largest. Unlike “magnitude,” light vs. dark (“brilliance”) symbolism in the perception of the interviewees merely followed the acoustic factors, the decreasing frequencies of the acoustically measured vocalic resonance. The resulting sequence for the continuum light to dark was i, e, ѓ, æ, ъ, э, o, u; i containing meaning of the lightest and u containing meaning of the darkest (Newman 1933). The “brilliance” symbolism (light vs. dark) thus corresponds exactly to the decreasing frequencies of vowel resonance from high frequency for the light extreme on the continuum and low frequency for the dark extreme on the continuum. Interestingly, the previously discussed “magnitude” does not follow the same frequency related pattern. In terms of frequencies of resonance, the

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decreasing sequence characteristic c c for “magnnitude” seem ms to be interruptedd by sequenciing the back vowels in thhe reverse orrder, as a sudden increase (such as u, o, э insstead of э, o, u), which is i in line with the tongue movvement in the oral caavity (physiiological criterion). The acooustic makeuup of vowell sounds reliies primarily y on the first (F1) aand second (F2) ( formantt frequenciess. When maatched to these acousstic features, the symboliic patterning for “brillian nce” with its uninterrruptedness would w seem to conform to the F2 of o vowel frequenciess, while thee interrupted nature off the sequeence for “magnitudee” would beetter pair with w F1. Thee latter patttern also correspondds to the movement of the ttongue during the pronunciatiion of vowells (see Fig. 1).

Figure 7: Foormant frequenncies (F1—bo ottom sequencce of frequenccies, F2— top sequencee of frequenciies) for vowels (adapted froom Rogers 200 00, 154).

On the bbasis of the symbolisms evoked by tthe inherent acoustic frequenciess of vowels, Ohala (1984 4) proposed the Frequen ncy Code hypothesis associating the symbolic meaning oof height witth the F2 formant off vowel freqquency. Acco ording to thhis hypothesiis, highfrequency sounds suchh as /i:/ and /ܼ/ are typiccally associaated with small size, rapid movem ment, sharpn ness and phyysically high h objects, while low frequency soounds like /u u/ and /a/ tennd to stand for f large size, slow movement, softness and d physicallyy low objectss (Ohala 2006).

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Wrembel’s study (2010) testing synesthetic symbolism on a number of respondents confirmed Ohala’s (2006) Frequency Code predictions. Physically high objects are associated with front vowels and physically low objects with back and open vowels. Moreover, it indicated that “vowels with high F2 tend to be perceived as ‘high’ and those with low F2 are assigned to the ‘low’ category” (Wrembel 2010, 182-183). The symbolic meaning of “height,” necessary for the purpose of this study, thus produces the sequence i, e, ѓ, æ, ъ, э, o, u on the continuum of symbolic meanings high to low, matching the acoustic nature of the F2 sequence. It deviates from the F1 sequence of vowel resonance frequencies that corresponds to physiological aspects (tongue position in the oral cavity) of vowel production.

Analysis of English and Slovene Sung Music Pieces My analysis is a non-experimental causal one based on a computational approach to investigating representational aspects of perceiving the relationship between musical processing and linguistic processing in the process of combining lyrics with musical scores. My aim is to establish if there is a natural connection between the internal characteristics of linguistic (speech) sounds in the lyrics and the choice of the songwriter to use a sequence of sound symbolically low-high or high-low sequences of vowels across syllables in rising or falling sequences of tones. The perfect match is the correspondence between sound symbolically low-high sequences of vowels and rising sequences of tones, and between sound symbolically high-low sequences of vowels and falling sequences of tones. If such cases formed the majority of cases observed in the analysis of English and Slovene popular songs, this could prove the existence of the songwriters’ unintentional joint musical and linguistic processing in short-term memory. The English and Slovene songs chosen for the analysis in this study are 15 English songs by the popular Swedish group ABBA from the 1970s and 5 songs by the popular Slovene group Bele Vrane from the 1960s and 1970s. The songs were chosen from on-

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line lists on the World Wide Web to account for the parameter of popularity ensuring the appealing effect. The latter should also result from the direction of pitch movement in the melody corresponding to the direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels of two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics rather than conflicting it. Each song was analysed in terms of correspondence in pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in vowels) in the last two syllables of each line in the lyrics. The choice of the last two syllables in each line was made to unify research conditions: in this way, the two syllables were always the part where the tones were normally prolonged and thus appeared more salient. Another approach would be to analyse the entire songs from tone to tone and syllable to syllable, but this would exceed the scope of this chapter and demand defining new criteria. Also, the poetic figure of rhyme needs conscious attention in linguistic terms, as it plays an important role in song lyrics and usually occupies the final syllable(s) in the line. The two final syllables in the line were considered when they carried a change in pitch. When a level tone dominated in the last two syllables, a wider context was considered in order to determine the general direction of pitch in this segment. This way at least partial correspondence with shifting towards higher frequency vowels or lower frequency vowels can be determined. The change in pitch from the penultimate to the final syllable is part of the music aspect of the syllables in question, while the change in vowel quality (or sound symbolic meaning “height”) across syllables—with either lower or higher frequency—is representative of speech. If the pitch changes from lower to higher tones, and the change in vowels involves a low frequency vowel in the penultimate and a higher frequency vowel in the last syllable, this is considered a correspondence shift up(wards) (CU). If the pitch transition takes place from higher to lower tones, while a high frequency vowel precedes the low frequency vowel across neighbouring syllables, this is considered a correspondence shift down(wards) (CD). If the melody remains level in the two syllables in question and both syllables contain the same vowel, the

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correspondence is considered level (CL). The term “no correspondence” (NC) is employed only for speech sound (vowel) movement, while the direction of pitch movement is in these cases marked simply by U (up) or D (down) without the C for correspondence, since there is none. The criteria for determining sequences of vowel height are based on the sound symbolic meaning of “height” corresponding to the acoustic features of the F2 of vowel sounds (Newman, Ohala, Wrembel) on a scale from high to low. In the resulting sequence i, e, ѓ, æ, ъ, э, o, u, i is thus considered higher than e, e higher than ѓ and so on. In acoustic terms, the schwa /‫ۑ‬/ is placed between /‫ܭ‬/ and /æ/. English long and short pure vowels are treated equally, since the point of interest is quality rather than quantity. English diphthongs, which inherently carry a change in quality, are considered according to the starting point of the glide, since most of the weight is on this element, the second element normally not being entirely reached in falling diphthongs. Data for English verses and English choruses of songs are treated separately, and so are the Slovene verses and Slovene choruses of the popular songs. Assuming that the verses require more attention regarding the linguistic (meaningful) part of the merger of words and music, there should be more correspondence between direction of pitch movement and direction indicated by vowel frequency (and thus sound symbolic meaning “height) in choruses than in verses. Verses require that the lyrics/words preserve semantic coherence. Finally, I compared the songs in English and the songs in Slovene to establish which language exhibits a larger amount of correspondence between pitch change and vowel change, and in which segments they differ. Table 3 demonstrates the correspondence (and noncorrespondence) between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in vowels of two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics) separately for verse and chorus in the English song “I Have a Dream.”

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V-VOWELS ‫ݜ‬/‫ ۑ‬- ܼ ա ܼ/‫ ۑ‬- ܼ ա ܼ - eܼ ա ‫ ݜ‬- eܼ ա

‫ۑ‬-ܼա ܼ/‫ ۑ‬- ܼ ա ‫ ۑ‬- aܼ բ ‫ ۑ‬- aܼ բ

V-PITCH ա ա բ բ

ա ա բ բ

I HAVE A DREAM I have a dream, a song to sing To help me cope with anything If you see the wonder of a fairy tale You can take the future even if you fail I believe in angels Something good in everything I see I believe in angels When I know the time is right for me I’ll cross the stream—I have a dream

I have a dream, a fantasy To help me through reality And my destination makes it worth a while Pushing through the darkness still another mile I believe in angels Something good in everything I see I believe in angels When I know the time is right for me I’ll cross the stream—I have a dream

eܼ - ‫ ۑ‬բ aܼ - i: ա eܼ - ‫ ۑ‬բ ‫ܧ‬: - i: ա ‫ ۑ‬- i: ա

eܼ - ‫ ۑ‬բ aܼ - i: ա eܼ - ‫ ۑ‬բ ‫ܧ‬: - i: ա ‫ ۑ‬- i: ա

բ ա բ ա ա

բ ա բ ա ա

CH-VOWELS

CH-PITCH

Table 2: Presentation of the direction of pitch movement in the two final syllables of the lines in the verse (V-PITCH) and chorus (CH-PITCH) and in the sequence of nuclear vowels in the same syllables according to sound symbolic impression of height in verse (V-VOWEL) and chorus (CH-VOWEL) in the song “I Have a Dream” by ABBA.

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Prav smešni so, ko nam pravijo: saj življenje ni, kakor se vam zdi, oþala naj vsem nakupijo, morda skoznje svet pameten bo spet.

բ բ բ բ բ

i–oբ a–iա i–oբ ‫ܭ‬-eա o-eա

a–aĺ i–aբ i–aբ e–aբ

բ բ բ բ

Življenje je blazno resna stvar, kaže ti roge, nam pa to ni mar. Vsak naj živi kakor ve in zna, to ga izuþi, v tem je þar sveta.

Saj vþasih res morda neslani smo, ker ne vemo, kaj bi s soljo, a vendar naj nam ne zamerijo, þe maþka v žaklju mi ne sprejmemo.

V-VOWELS u–eա ‫–ۑ‬eա ‫–ۑ‬iա ‫–ۑ‬iա

V-PITCH բ բ բ բ

MAýEK V ŽAKLJU Ej to pa to, zmeraj nas uþe, a pri tem tako kislo se drže. ýe pa vesel in pogumen si, boš mladost živel daleþ od skrbi.

բ բ բ բ

CH-PITCH

i–oբ ‫ܧ‬-oբ i–oբ e–oբ

CH-VOWELS

Table 3: The direction of pitch movement in the two final syllables of the lines in the verse (V-PITCH) and chorus (CH-PITCH) and in the sequence of nuclear vowels in the same syllables according to sound symbolic impression of height in verse (V-VOWEL) and chorus.

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Saj vþasih res morda neslani smo, ker ne vemo, kaj bi s soljo, a vendar naj nam ne zamerijo, þe maþka v žaklju mi ne sprejmemo.

Življenje gre svojo veþno pot, polno je laži, polno raznih zmot. Ker pa nekoþ mladi so bili, naj nam dovole, da sedaj smo mi.

Saj vþasih res morda neslani smo, ker ne vemo, kaj bi s soljo, a vendar naj nam ne zamerijo, þe maþka v žaklju mi ne sprejmemo.

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բ բ բ բ բ

‫ܧ‬-oբ i–oբ i–iĺ o-eա o-iա

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բ բ բ բ

բ բ բ բ

i–oբ ‫ܧ‬-oբ i–oբ e–oբ

i–oբ ‫ܧ‬-oբ i–oբ e–oբ

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Table 4 demonstrates the correspondence (and noncorrespondence) between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels of two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics) separately for verse and chorus in the Slovene song “Maþek v žaklju.”

Interpretation of Results Tables 5-8 show results for correspondence between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels) across two final syllables in the lines of English and Slovene popular music songs. The 15 songs in English are “Fernando,” “Dancing Queen,” “Take a Chance on Me,” “Mamma Mia,” “Honey, Honey,” “I Have a Dream,” “Chiquitita,” “SOS,” “Waterloo,” “Thank You for the Music,” “Knowing Me, Knowing You,” “Voulez Vous,” “Money, Money, Money,” “Super Trouper” and “The Winner Takes It All,” sung by ABBA, and the 5 Slovene songs are “Mini maxi,” “Kam si namenjen,” “Preseneþenja,” “Mala terasa” and “Maþek v žaklju,” sung by Bele Vrane. Results in Table 3 show that in cumulative percentage (69.9%) the correspondence between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels of two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics) downwards (CD) or upwards (CU) is much higher than the remaining 30.1% of noncorrespondence. There is, however, less correspondence in the verse than in the chorus (Table 4). The percentage is still higher here than in the case of Slovene verse (60.0%) (Table 5) and almost the same as in the Slovene chorus (68.8%) (Table 6).

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Table 4: Frequency presentation of correspondence between pitch movement and vowel change across two final syllables in lines of English songs (verse).

PITCH CHANGE/VOWEL CHANGE_EN_VERSE

Valid

CD CL CU D L U Total

Frequency

Percent

Valid Percent

Cumulative Percent

68 7 71 28 1 34 209

32.5 3.3 34.0 13.4 0.5 16.3 100.0

32.5 3.3 34.0 13.4 0.5 16.3 100.0

32.5 35.9 69.9 83.3 83.7 100.0

Results in Table 5 show that the highest amount of cumulative percentage (74.0%) of correspondence between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels of two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics) downwards (CD) or upwards (CU) occurs in the English chorus. This confirms the assumption that the chorus can sacrifice semantic linguistic coherence to accommodate this type of harmony. Table 5: Frequency presentation of correspondence between pitch movement and vowel change across two final syllables in lines of English songs (chorus).

PITCH CHANGE/VOWEL CHANGE_EN_CHORUS Valid

CD CL CU D L U Total

Frequency

Percent

Valid Percent

Cumulative Percent

60 7 47 16 12 12 154

39.0 4.5 30.5 10.4 7.8 7.8 100.0

39.0 4.5 30.5 10.4 7.8 7.8 100.0

39.0 43.5 74.0 84.4 92.2 100.0

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The results in Table 6 show the correspondence between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels of two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics) downwards (CD) or upwards (CU). It is more pronounced in English than in Slovene. Table 6: Frequency presentation of correspondence between pitch movement and vowel change across two final syllables in lines of Slovene songs (verse).

PITCH CHANGE/VOWEL CHANGE_SLO_VERSE Valid CD CU D L U Total

Frequency

Percent

Valid Percent

33 15 25 1 6 80

41.3 18.8 31.3 1.3 7.5 100.0

41.3 18.8 31.3 1.3 7.5 100.0

Cumulative Percent 41.3 60.0 91.3 92.5 100.0

The results in Table 7 show the correspondence between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in the vowels of two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics) downwards (CD) or upwards (CU). It is more pronounced in English than in Slovene, even in the chorus. However, it is again the chorus that has a higher percentage of such correspondence (68.8%). It is interesting to note that correspondence in the downward direction is significantly higher in Slovene verse (41.3%) and chorus (56.3%) compared to upward movement (18.8%, 12.5%), whereas in the English verse and chorus they are almost evenly distributed.

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Table 7: Frequency presentation of correspondence between pitch movement and vowel change across two final syllables in lines of Slovene songs (chorus).

PITCH CHANGE/VOWEL CHANGE_SLO_CHORUS Valid

CD CU D U Total

Frequency

Percent

Valid Percent

Cumulative Percent

18 4 4 6 32

56.3 12.5 12.5 18.8 100.0

56.3 12.5 12.5 18.8 100.0

56.3 68.8 81.3 100.0

Conclusions Music-language relations are normally studied by observing semantic aspects of both music and language. However, the same relations can also be illustrated via linguistic and musical sound systems. The latter two domains may seem significantly different, because music uses pitch in ways that speech does not, and speech organizes timbre/sound quality to a degree seldom seen in music. Although the domains of music and language may seem to differ in the primary acoustic features they employ in sound formation (but not in the general ones), there is reason to believe there is considerable overlap in the mechanisms creating and maintaining learned sound categories (Patel 2008). I have examined the correlations between seemingly separate forms of structural processing which are both present in the production of sung music pieces in English and Slovene. Although the processing of musical structural elements, sequences of notes, and processing of linguistic structural elements, speech sounds, seem to be independent processes in human behaviour and communication, this is so only when observed in connection with long-term structural knowledge or long term memory (Patel 2003). When accessed as procedural knowledge in the course of short-term or working memory, activated in the process of writing popular music songs, both processes (musical and linguistic) are successively involved as the author matches strings of speech with strings of notes. Studies analysing the connections between music

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and language generally observe the semantic aspect of language: the melody of the song should suit the mood or atmosphere conveyed in the meaning of the words in the lyrics, rather than focusing on the structure. Although the semantic aspect is believed to be the primary goal of popular songwriters, we cannot ignore the fact that there might be something more at work as the songwriter unites music with words. It could be something intuitive, like sound symbolism, a kind of natural connection between the linguistic units (sounds) and the musical units (notes) on a structural level a subconscious tendency to choose the appropriate linguistic expressions and notes to harmonize the sound of the music with the sound of the words, or simply to “make the song sound better.” It seems that experienced songwriters strive to achieve better sounding songs through the correspondence between pitch change (direction of pitch movement in the melody) and vowel change (direction indicated by the sound symbolic meaning “height” in vowels in two neighbouring syllables in the lyrics). Fedorenko et al. (2009) have proven the existence of overlapping of musical structural processing and linguistic structural processing at the syntactic level. I propose that a similar overlapping takes place as music writers produce popular songs, especially in the creative process, when working (short-term) memory is employed to the fullest. The analysis of popular English and Slovene songs shows that the correspondence between the direction of pitch change and the direction indicated by cross-syllabic vowel-height change in two neighbouring syllables predominates over non-correspondence (see Tables 3-6). This particular harmony may be one of the factors which, like sound symbolism, contributes to a pleasing melodic effect with which songwriters appeal to their audience. It also supports the theory that there is more at work in song writing than just matching words with music, and confirms the hypothesis that language and music share common cognitive resources.

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References Bentley, Madison, and Edith Varon. 1933. “An Accessory Study of Phonetic Symbolism.” The American Journal of Psychology 45: 76-86. Fedorenko, Evelina, Aniruddh D. Patel, Daniel Casasanto, Jonathan Winawer and Edward Gibson. 2009. “Structural Integration in Language and Music: Evidence for a Shared System.” Memory & Cognition 37, no. 1: 1-9. Hinton, Leane, Johanna Nichols and John Ohala, eds. 1994. Sound Symbolism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Janata, Petr. 1995. “ERP Measures Assay the Degree of Expectancy Violation of Harmonic Contexts in Music.” Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience 7: 153-164. Klink, Richard. 2000. “Creating Brand Names with Meaning: The Use of Sound Symbolism.” Marketing Letters 11, no.1: 5–20. Lerdahl, Fred, and Ray Jackendoff. 1983. A Generative Theory of Tonal Music. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. McDermott, Josh, and Marc Hauser. 2005. “The Origins of Music: Innateness, Uniqueness, and Evolution.” Music Perception 23: 29-59. Newman, Stanley. 1933. “Further Experiments in Phonetic Symbolism.” The American Journal of Psychology 45: 53–75. Ohala, John. 1984. “An Ethological Perspective on Common Crosslanguage Utilization of F0 in Voice.” Phonetica 41: 1-16. —. 2006. “The Frequency Code Underlies the Sound-symbolic Use of Voice Pitch.” In Sound Symbolism, edited by Leane Hinton, Johanna Nichols and John Ohala, 325-347. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Patel, Aniruddh D. 2003. “Language, Music, Syntax, and the Brain.” Nature Neuroscience 6: 674-681. —. 2008. Music, Language, and the Brain. New York: Oxford University Press. Patel, Aniruddh D., John Iversen, Marlies Wassenaar and Peter Hagoort. 2008. “Musical Syntactic Processing in Agrammatic Broca’s Aphasia.” Aphasiology 22: 776-789. Patel, Aniruddh D., Edward Gibson, Jennifer Ratner, Mireille Besson and Phillip Holcomb. 1998. “Processing Syntactic

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Relations in Language and Music: An Event-related Potential Study.” Journal of Cognitive Neuroscience 10: 717-733. Peretz, Isabelle. 1993. Auditory Atonalia for Melodies. Cognitive Neuropsychology 10: 21-56. Peretz, Isabelle, and Max Coltheart. 2003. “Modularity of Music Processing.” Nature Neuroscience 6: 688-691. Rofers, Henry. 2000. The Sounds of Language. An Introduction to Phonetics. Pearson Education Limited. Sapir, Edward. 1929. “A Study in Phonetic Symbolism.” Journal of Experimental Psychology 12: 225–239. Wrembel, Magdalena, 2010. “Sound Symbolism in Foreign Language Phonological Acquisition.” Research and Language 8: 175-188.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN TRACING ORALITY IN CONTEMPORARY INDIGENOUS POETRY IN AUSTRALIA DANICA ýERýE

As recently as the early 1970s, indigenous Australian artists were a marginalized voice in Australian literary studies and mainstream Australian culture. With the exception of some critically-acclaimed works such as those by writers David Unaipon and Sally Morgan, poets Oodgeroo Noonuccal and Lionel Fogarty, playwrights Kevin Gilbert and Jack Davis, and musicians Jimmy Little and the members of Yothu Yindi, there were very few “celebrated” Aboriginals (Wheeler 2013, 1). Although their success attained in the face of colonial pressure motivated other indigenous Australians to share their thoughts and feelings, it was not until the 1988 Australian bicentennial celebration that the wider Australian public showed interest in Aboriginal culture and literature. This resulted in a veritable outburst of indigenous Australians’ expression in various genres, including autobiography, fiction, poetry, film, drama and music. Poetry has attracted more indigenous Australians than any other mode of creative expression and provided an important impetus for their cultural and political expression. Poets like Oodgeroo Noonuccal, Lionel Fogarty, Kevin Gilbert, Mudrooroo Narodin, Jack Davis, Romaine Moreton, Alf Taylor, Lisa Bellear and Jeanine Leane have used this medium to forge new means for conveying their political thought. Whereas these poets are gaining increased attention in Australia, their position within Western critical discourse remains somewhat awkward. According to Stuart Cooke, this is because literary critics have failed to acknowledge a critical aspect of contemporary Aboriginal poetry: its close connection to

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the oral tradition (2013, 89). Instead, musicologists and anthropologists have been left to research Aboriginal oral poetics, claims Cooke, “within an empirical framework that generally denudes the songpoems of their poetic qualities” (89). 1 As a consequence, there exists a huge gap in Australian literary studies about the relationship between contemporary indigenous poetry and traditional forms of songpoetry, connected with a larger ignorance of the relationship between the voice of the poet and the written words (Cooke 90). Similarly, Igor Maver has pointed out that to separate these two modalities, to acknowledge the division into old Aboriginal verse (oral) and new poetry (written), would reflect a Eurocentric critical view that neglects the Aboriginal oral tradition as an “indispensable part of the newly created contemporary Aboriginal verse” (2000, 13). Instead, Maver observes, “we can perhaps speak about a sort of assimilation or ‘appropriation’ of European literary forms in Black Australian writing” (13). By discussing the work of Romaine Moreton as exemplary of the type of Australian indigenous poetry that overtly undertakes political and social thought, and examining how it functions rhetorically and performatively on its audience, this essay aims to provide additional evidence that Aboriginal oral poetic tradition has not been made “obsolete,” but “continues to acquire new realizations” in today’s Aboriginal poetry (Hodge and Mishra 1990, 76). Since the category of orality is often used reductively, it is important to emphasize that by “oral” culture we mean, with Bob Hodge and Vijay Mishra, “a complex semiotic system which is by no means exclusively oral; various forms of art and performance play crucial roles in the totality of cultural production and reproduction. In such a system, the oral mode will consist of a set of genres which will not all correspond exactly to any equivalent in English” (76).

Traditional Forms In order to trace the links between the poetics of contemporary Aboriginal poets like Moreton and traditional forms of songpoetry, 1

The terms songpoem and songpoetry stress the oral element.

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let us briefly highlight some of the most striking characteristics of the latter. T. G. H. Strehlow emphasizes that, rather than a sequence of actions with a clear conclusion, many Aboriginal songpoems depict open-ended situations by frequently using verbs of ongoing states and the progressive present instead of the past tense (1971, 420). Instead of describing objects or places in detail, traditional songpoems keep flowing, with objects and places being emphasized by repetition or by returning to them periodically (420). Another feature of Aboriginal songpoetry is a tendency towards the reduction of the parts of speech to mainly verbal and substantival elements. Because of the absence of adjectives, the language of song is deprived of much of its denotative power so that its evocative potential can be enhanced in rhythmic and sound patterns (Rosenfeld 2005, 180). Furthermore, a songpoem is not only a spoken text but also a “musical assemblage of various actors” (Cooke 2013, 92). If there is a chorus, it follows the main singer and repeats his/her verses, rising in song after the singer’s voice has faded, and fading when the singer’s voice rises again. In this way, the focus on an individual’s voice is dispersed across the ensemble, and the emphasis on any particular subjectivity recedes amid multiple subjectivities. In other words, Aboriginal songpoems are “almost always part of a larger situation,” and they have the dimension of performance (Rothenberg 1981, 96). Only by discarding the European notion of “poem” as a purely text-based object, claims Rothenberg, can we begin to appreciate the truly multimedia complex (or media convergence) of the songpoem (96). Without due consideration of these idiosyncrasies of Aboriginal oral tradition, including “an absence of closure, generic fluidity, the dimension of performance and a specific attitude to the potency of a spoken word,” as defined by Hodge and Mishra, it is impossible to reconcile contemporary Aboriginal writing with its extensive indigenous cultural heritage (75).

Contemporary Poetry: Romaine Moreton Perhaps nowhere better than in Moreton’s work can we see that contemporary works by Australian indigenous authors can be traced

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to their roots in historic songpoetry. Moreton articulates the violence of colonial imposition in “ritual, ceremonial and scripted behaviours,” in which sound is crucial (Parker and Kosofsky Sedgwick, 1995). Her poetry draws heavily on performative and oral rhetoric, creating an audience/readership that is challenged to listen to her interrogative voice either through self-recognition or as witness. The rhythm of her verse, created by various poetic devices such as rhyme, alliteration, assonance and polysyllabic words, elaborates the sense of movement. The sounds, rhythms and song patterns of Moreton’s performances often draw their inspiration from Goenpul traditions and lore, with the indigenous spiritual belief in the simultaneous existence of past, present and future (as opposed to the Western “technologically-driven” representation of time) at the centre of her performative practices (Russo 2009, 87). True to Adam Shoemaker’s opinion that “most indigenous poets reject the art for art’s sake argument and feel that their work has at least some social utility,” Moreton sees black life in Australia as inherently political (1989, 180). In the “Working Note,” she writes: “To create works that do not deal with the morbid and mortal effects of racism for one, and the beauty of indigenous culture for another, would be for me personally, to produce works that are farcical” (1). Moreton has manifested her objection to the social and political marginalization of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, and her Goenpul nation in particular, by writing poetry, performing her verse and making films.2 Although she is among the most experimental contemporary poets in Australia and despite the compelling nature of her work, her poetry is not yet widely known in the field of indigenous literary studies. Perhaps this is because her output has been comparatively slight (Brewster 2009, 109). Moreton’s poems are collected in two books, The Callused Stick of Wanting (1995) and Post Me to the Prime Minister (2004), the 2

Two of her films were sent to fringe festivals in Cannes. Cherish (1997) was included in a package of student work from all over Australia, while her 1988 film Redreaming the Dark was screened at film festivals in Cannes and New York. Her third film, A Walk with Words (2000), based on her poetry and experience, won the award for the best international short film at the World of Women Film Festival.

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latter containing a compact disk of performance poetry from this collection.3 They are included in several anthologies of Australian indigenous writing, such as Rimfire: Poetry from Aboriginal Australia (2000) and Untreated: Poems by Black Writers (2001). She has performed as a spoken word artist at several venues, including the Sydney Opera House and the Yeperenya Festival, which marked Indigenous Federation. Her performance poetry (or spoken word poetry) has been included in two compilations of Indigenous music, Fresh Salt (2002) and Sending a Message (2002). Because of its overt political message, Moreton’s verse has often been discussed dismissively and patronizingly. Critics generally concur with John Beston’s 1977 assessment that a failure to achieve a high level of standard English, symptomatic of much indigenous writing, must be attributed to the limited formal education of these authors and their lack of confidence when entering a field that had previously been monopolized by the white elite. Another aspect is political. For Moreton (she has a Ph.D. in philosophy from the University of Western Sydney) and for many other indigenous Australian authors, the English language is still synonymous with colonial authority, so they are reluctant to purify it of tribal and colloquial speech patterns.4 Although the canonical ground rules of formalism do not always apply to Moreton’s writing, this is not to deny the power of her expression, nor to diminish the significance of her achievements. Rather than surrendering to the prevailing standards of Western poetics, Moreton has created a written poetic that is sometimes confusing, but also intensely lyrical, with a combination of elements befitting the freely moving, ambiguous and multifaceted song languages of her ancestors. 3

For more information on Moreton’s first collection, see my articles in Elope and Antipodes, published in 2010 and 2012, respectively. 4 For more information on the “imperialism of English,” see Adam Shoemaker's Black Words, White Pages: Aboriginal Literature 1929-1988. See also Igor Maver’s “Contemporary ‘New’ Aboriginal Poetry in English” and Katherine E. Russo’s “Post Me to the Prime Minister: Property, Language and Indigenous/Non Indigenous Relations in the Australian Nation.”

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Drawing on Michael Lipsky’s definition of protest activity as a “mode of political action oriented towards objection to one or more policies or conditions, characterized by showmanship or display […] and undertaken to obtain rewards from political and economic systems” (1968, 1145), Anne Brewster describes Moreton’s protest poetry as a “performative expression of political will,” with the voice and/or body becoming an instrument of critique (2008, 71). Despite writing for both non-indigenous and indigenous audiences, her indigenous public is “primary,” Moreton explains in the “Working Note” (1). The visibility or audibility of her expression (either bodily or through technological reproduction) is closely connected to her understanding of performance as a specific tool for “communicating poetry” to an indigenous audience, for whom book culture has had less impact (Ford 2003, 9-10). “The whole purpose of even performing poetry in the beginning was to lift it from the page, and deliver it directly to my primary audience which is Indigenous people,” Moreton explains in an interview with Andrew Ford on Radio National (9-10). “Having grown up in an Indigenous community, the likelihood of having fellow community members embrace books, which is where ultimately poetry would end up, was low so I wanted to take it out of that space and re-present it within the oral tradition, to regain that state of communication that pre-dates the written word, that many Indigenous cultures around the world were entrenched in, orality” (9-10). Expressing the grievance and concern felt collectively by the entire indigenous community suffering racial discrimination, marginalization, dislocation, institutionalization, poverty and abuse, Moreton’s poetry is perhaps among the most penetrating fictional indictment of colonization in Australia. Her angle of vision, coupled with the anger and generative urgency, make her work sought after by a huge participatory audience. Moreton has ensured the maximum affective impact of her verse by employing living linguistic structures, such as rhetorical questions, direct address to the reader, satirical antitheses and repetition, all of which invite the reader’s active participation through emotional identification, together with individual and communal conversion. As Brewster puts it, Moreton’s verse engages white and other non-indigenous publics in “a reassessment of history, an enquiry into contemporary

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cultural and economic inequality, and a scrutiny of white privilege, entitlement and denial” (2008, 68). “The first sin,” one of many poems in the first collection defamiliarize whiteness by pointing to its political, institutional and cultural reproduction on the one hand, and the invisibility of indigenous people on the other, begins thus: He was guilty of the first sin— Being Black He was sentenced very early in life— At birth and only substances appeased his pangs of guilt. (1995, 3)

In the same vein and aroused by both her anger and resentment at those inflicting injustice on other people, and her affection for those experiencing the inhumanity of racial subordination, Moreton reflects in “Genocide is never justified.” Proceeding in true Moreton fashion with an insistent interrogative pattern that provides for the theatricality of expression and involves the reader in an imaginary conversation with the indigenous speaker, the poem resembles a dialogic concert, with voices overlapping, complementing or opposing each other. Characterized by a directness of style, which gains poignancy by the ironic subtlety of her statements, it exposes key social injustices, including oppression and abuse, arrogance, power, poverty, and the wilful destruction of indigenous peoples who lived in Australia for thousands of years before the white settlement. The first part reads: And the past was open to gross misinterpretation. Why do the sons and daughters of the raped and murdered deserve any more or any less than those who have prospered from the atrocities of heritage? And why do the sons and daughters refuse to reap what was sown from bloodied soil? And why does history ignore their existence? (1995, 31-32)

A startling effect is achieved by finally pointing to the indigenous peoples’ spiritual and emotional depth. This inherent quality not only helps them survive in a hostile, morally decayed

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and emotionally sterile white environment, but also distinguishes them from it: “Why are you so rich, by secular standards / and we now so poor, by secular standards / the remnants of a culture though, / still / rich / in / spirit / and / soul”? (1995, 32). Several other poems also humanize indigenous Australians and attack the atrocities performed in the name of “civilizing the uncivilized,” as Moreton ironically refers to the inhumane practices of those who have “elect[ed] themselves as the / supremacist race” in the poem “What kind of people” (1995, 45). “What kind of people would kick the heads off babies / or rip at the stomach of the impregnated, / as would a ravaged wolf,” she continues in her disdainful address to the implied apathetic readers, who repudiate any suggestion that their ancestors were capable of “such murderous feats” (45). “Are you beautiful today,” a poem included in Moreton’s second collection (2004), mobilizes the rhetorical strategies of argument and critique, on the one hand, and poetic effects on the other. It opens Are you beautiful today? Are your children safe and well? Brother, mother, sister too? I merely ask so you can tell. (2004, 29)

It is through such a conversational tone and a direct address to a reader (“you”) that Moreton reveals the tensions underlying the relationships between white and black Australians. While in some poems Moreton invokes an indigenous addressee, in this one she provides for a textual illusion of discourse between the indigenous speaker and the non-indigenous reader, thus dramatizing the interracial encounter. Through a series of satirical antitheses that elaborate a contrastive picture of the speaker’s family, affected by the struggle to cope with difficult circumstances, and that of the addressee (a white woman), with an apparent position of privilege and economic comfort, Moreton provides an insight into the asymmetry of racial relationships.

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I laugh with my sisters and brothers at things that others wouldn’t get while talkin’ ‘bout jail while talkin’ ‘bout death. (2004, 29)

By reiterating a one-sided enquiry into the addressee’s wellbeing, the poem foregrounds the absence of a response, pointing to the “absence of responsiveness” in contemporary Australian culture and politics to the ongoing material deprivation and suffering of indigenous Australians (Brewster 2008, 66). It should be borne in mind that it was not until February 2008 that Prime Minister Kevin Rudd opened a new chapter in Australia’s relations with its indigenous peoples by apologizing to them for past policies.5 The indigenous response to the failure of multiculturalism’s proclaimed mutual understanding is crying-laughter, established by the oscillation between the tonality of despair, anger and hilarity. Numerous forceful contrasts (complacency/poverty, health/death, beauty/misery, peace/distress) provide for a sense of farce. True to Ford’s observation that Moreton’s poetry “packs a punch” (6), this can be found at the end of the poem, where the repetition of the catch phrase takes an unexpected turn: Are you beautiful today? your brother, mother, sister, too? are you well clothed and well fed? and are they alive and well not dead? (2004, 29)

As Brewster observes, the slowing down of the pace in the short lines, along with the blunt antithesis that closes the poem makes the greeting (“are they alive and well / not dead”) forcefully ironic, reminding that it is indeed a privilege to assume that one’s family will remain “alive” from day to day (2008, 69). While the primary textual device that destabilizes white hegemony in this poem is crying-laughter, “I shall surprise you by 5

See Tim Johnston's “Australia Says ‘Sorry’ to Aborigines for Mistreatment.”

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my will” achieves its unsettling effect through surprise. Although it is pervaded by a sense of despair, it is an optimistic poem, anticipating persistence and change. A sense of future change with the possibility of hope for indigenous Australians is conveyed by means of verb tenses (the verb surprise is coupled with the auxiliary verbs will and shall). When performed, the change is indicated through bodily gestures (from sitting and waiting to the actions of rising, turning and twisting). The poem lists an array of sites of racial domination, from alleys, clubs, parliaments, courts of law, cars and buses, to education, reform institutions and policies, where indigenous rights are “pass[ed] by.” However, these are at the same time sites of “indigenous occupation and challenge,” as Brewster refers to indigenous intervention, resistance, survival and will, where the “inhumanity of racialized subordination is named and held accountable” (2008, 70). In the alleys, in the clubs, in the parliaments in courts of law, parking cars, driving buses, and generally watching you watching me as you pass me by I shall wait cross-legged wait to surprise you by my will for I shall stumble from houses of education and I shall stumble from institutions of reform I shall stumble over rocks, over men, over women, over children and surprise you by my will. (2004, 137)

Like Moreton’s poetry in general, “I shall surprise you by my will” uncovers the reproduction of white privilege and entitlement, and the accompanying invisibility of indigenous peoples. In this poem, Moreton’s protest relies on an element of surprise—the indigenous speaker turns the invisibility to her advantage: “we will rise from this place where you expect to keep us down.” If indigenous people are perceived as invisible, this condition is merely a disguise, because they “will rise” from invisibility and silence, from within the “familiar” hegemony of the English

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language and the white nation. Formally, the poem displays Moreton’s recurring rhetorical devices and in particular, her insistent pattern of interrogation. Her experimentation with rhyme, alliteration, assonance and polysyllabic words creates a marked sense of rhythm. Pace, pause and reiteration are intensified with percussive effects in the performed version of the poem on the compact disk that is included inside the cover of her second collection. Owing her fame and recognition more to the fact that her verse embodies the shape of her faith and devotional posture than to the technical perfection of her expression, Moreton can be placed in the league of poets who have considered verse as a “verbal discourse in which message is dominant and the aesthetic function is subordinate,” as Narodin Mudrooroo defines indigenous poetry (1990, 35). Conveyed through a range of media (print, spoken word performance, radio broadcasting, CD recordings and the internet), Moreton’s work interpolates white readers’ assumptions about the authority and entitlement of their race, and contributes to what George Levine describes as “a disruption of the exercise of power” (2000, 384). Although her writing is often referred to as “confronting and challenging,” Moreton “tries to make the anger beautiful,” as she confesses in her recent interview with Brewster (in print). In the same interview, Moreton says, “The most important thing is the rhythm. Because even if you don’t hear the words, you’ll hear … your body will feel the rhythm, and later on you might start singing the poem. […] The real thing is the rhythm, and if you can sing any of these pieces and your body accepts them […] then something will start happening within your body about these things, and that’s the part where I have no control over. The words are landmarks … and … hopefully that’s all they are intended to be, not a thorough, not a complete breakdown of an issue–it’s not an issue now because it’s a song […] (Brewster). Indeed, Moreton’s creative work, defined by Henry Jenkins as “transmedia storytelling,” or “storytelling across multiple forms of media” (Russo 80), such as live spoken word performances, print, radio broadcasting, CD recordings and the internet, exemplifies the continued evolution of an oral poetics and its merging with written

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literatures. Critics who approach Moreton’s creative work in search of a pre-modern voice find it considerably different from their standards of authenticity, which require the Indigenous poet to “carry the ‘burden of representation’ of remoteness and nostalgia beyond contemporary politics” (Russo 86). For Moreton, the auditory becomes a site for the communication of events that unfold in the present and interrupt the remote temporality of tradition (Russo). While the sounds, rhythms and song patterns of her performances often draw their inspiration from Goenpul traditions and lore, they are also a space of deconstruction grounded in the artist’s involvement in Indigenous, feminist and radical movements. Like the work of several other contemporary Aboriginal poets, inhabiting and constantly crossing the liminal space of creative media, Moreton’s work reveals the connections between contemporary avant-garde Aboriginal poetry and its musical, oral heritage.

Conclusion Australian indigenous oral traditions (such as songs, music and spoken word performances) have not disappeared either with the colonial imposition of the English language or with the advent of the press, broadcasting media and digital recording technology. On the contrary, rather than being disregarded or absorbed by new media, they have converged with these and participated in the growth of Australian literature, in recording output, and in radio and television broadcasting. This is apparent in Moreton’s work, which can be regarded as a “nexus of oral and written literatures: a place where Aboriginal oral poetics merge with modernist typography” (Cooke 90). Like traditional songpoems that are not only spoken texts but also an “assemblage of various actors” (Cooke 92), and “almost always part of a larger situation” (Rothenberg 96), Moreton’s creative work is characterized by a strongly performative dimension, with the “spoken word acquiring an undeniable potency and the marked proximity to the written text” (Cooke 104). The rhetoric of her poetry enacts a political and social imperative and engages the reader in quite specific ways. The main function of the performativity of her poetry is to destabilize white supremacy. By using various textual dynamics and her

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interrogative voice in particular, Moreton dramatizes the crossracial encounter, rhetorically indicting governmental bodies and their failure to deal with various indicators of indigenous disadvantage.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank Prof. Anne Brewster for her useful suggestions and assistance in gathering the material.

References Beston, John. 1977. “The Aboriginal Poets in English: Kath Walker, Jack Davis, and Kevin Gilbert.” Meanjin 36, no.1: 446462. Brewster, Anne. 2008. “Engaging the Public Intimacy of Whiteness: the Indigenous Protest Poetry of Romaine Moreton.” JASAL, Special Issue: The Colonial Present 56: 56-76. —. 2009. “Indigenous Sovereignty in the Poetry of Romaine Moreton.” Australian Literary Studies 24, no. 3-4: 109-121. —. 2015. “Our Body Is the First Sovereignty: Anne Brewster Interviews Romaine Moreton.” Aboriginal Australians and Other ‘Others,’ edited by Joëlle Bonnevin, David Waterman and Sue Ryan-Fazilleau, 225-238. Paris: Les Indes Savantes. ýerþe, Danica. 2010. “Generating Alternative Worlds: The Indigenous Protest Poetry of Romaine Moreton.” ELOPE 7, no. 1: 49-60. —. 2012. “Social Protest and Beyond in Australian Indigenous Poetry: Romaine Moreton, Alf Taylor and Michael J. Smith.” Antipodes 26, no. 2: 143-49. Cooke, Stuart. 2013. “Tracing a Trajectory from Songpoetry to Contemporary Aboriginal Poetry.” In A Companion to Australian Aboriginal Literature, edited by Belinda Wheeler, 89-106. Rochester, New York: Camden House. Ford, Andrew. 2003. “Kerriane Cox, Romaine Moreton.” Transcript of an Interview with Cox and Moreton on The Music Show, Radio National 25 January. http://www.abc.net.au/rn/music/mshow/s751864.htm

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(accessed 15 March 2011). Hodge, Bob and Vijay Mishra. 1990. Dark Side of the Dream: Australian Literature and the Postcolonial Mind. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Jenkins, Henry. 2003. “Transmedia Storytelling.” Technology Review, 15 January. Johnston, Tim. 2008. “Australia Says ‘Sorry’ to Aborigines for Mistreatment.” The New York Times, 13 February. Levine, George. 2000. “Reclaiming the Aesthetic.” In Falling into Theory: Conflicting Views on Reading Literatures, edited by David H. Richter, 378-391. Boston, New York: Bedford, St. Martin’s. Lipsky, Michael. 1968. “Protest as a Political Resource.” The American Political Science Review 62, no. 4: 1144-1158. Maver Igor. 2000. “Contemporary ‘New’ Aboriginal Poetry in English.” Essays on Australian and Canadian Literature, edited by Mirko Jurak and Igor Maver, 13-20. Ljubljana: Znanstveni inštitut Filozofske fakultete. Moreton, Romaine. 1995. The Callused Stick of Wanting. Rozelle, Sydney: Breakout Design. —. 2004. Post Me to the Prime Minister. Alice Springs: Jukurrpa Books. —. 2001. “Working Note.” How 1, no. 5: 14. Moreton, Romaine, Alf Taylor and Michael J. Smith. 2000. Rimfire: Poetry from Aboriginal Australia. Broome: Magabala Books. Mudrooroo, Narodin. 1990. Writing from the Fringe: A Study of Modern Aboriginal Literature. South Yarra, Victoria: Hyland House. Parker, Andrew and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick. 1995. Performativity and Performance. New York, London: Routledge. Rosenfeld, Andrée. 2005. “Structural Convergence in Arrernte Art and Song.” In Many Exchanges: Archaeology, History, Community and the Work of Isabel McBryde, edited by Ingereth Macfarlane, Mary-Jane Mountain and Robert Paton, 171-184. Canberra, ACT: Aboriginal History Inc. Rothenberg, Jerome. 1981. Pre-Faces and Other Writings. New York: New Directions.

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Russo, Katherine. 2009. “On Indigenous Post-nostalgia: Transmedia Storytelling in the Work of Romaine Moreton.” Anglistica 13, no. 1: 73-87. —. 2005. “Post Me to the Prime Minister: Property, Language and Indigenous / Non Indigenous Relations in the Australian Nation.” Anglistica 9, no. 2: 103-125. Shoemaker, Adam. 1989. Black Words, White Pages: Aboriginal Literature 1929-1988. St. Lucia: Queensland University Press. Wheeler, Belinda. 2013. “Introduction: The Emerging Canon.” In A Companion to Australian Aboriginal Literature, edited by Belinda Wheeler, 1-13. Rochester, New York: Camden House.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN MUSIC AND EARLY LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT ESTER VIDOVIû

Music and rhythm are universal and omnipresent. Guy Cook suggests that children experience rhythm in their mothers’ womb by listening to her heartbeat (Cook 2000, 22). Similarly, recent studies by Brewster, Ellis and Girard point out that children familiarise themselves with some aspects of their future L1 before they are born, and after birth are capable of imitating their parents’ use of intonation and stress (Brewster, Ellis and Girard 2004, 14). A child continues to experience rhythm while suckling and rocking in mother’s lap; later on, rhythm acquires a social character in dance, individual or group song, poetry and other activities (Cook 2000, 22). Rhyme, another component of music and recited poetry, is equally important because it helps a child to memorise words and to predict the lyrics even if he or she has not managed to learn them yet. Claire Selby suggests that the rhythm and melody of a language can be emphasised by the rhythm and melody of a song (Selby 2010, 22). Rhymes can also accompany balanced rhythms to link words and meanings, while rhyming sounds usually make words more memorable (Selby 2010, 22). Nursery rhymes, traditional songs or poems for children in Britain and other English-speaking countries contain a special kind of rhyme. Andreja Siliü’s research indicates that music, rhymes and songs influence the subsequent linguistic development of children (Siliü 2007, 61). In most cultures, children are sung to from early childhood. Children engage in these activities with pleasure and are keen to not only sing various songs in their mother tongue, but also to explore, create and produce different sounds, tunes and rhymes.

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These first musical and linguistic experiences are beneficial for widening the child's range of vocabulary later in their lives (Siliü 2000, 61). Siliü further argues that monolingual people have been raised to believe that the “mother tongue” is natural and understandable and thus superior to other languages in its “uniqueness and correctness.” In this way, she asserts, we perceive other languages to be less understandable, logical and correct (Siliü 2007, 61). There is no reason, however, that children cannot engage in pleasurable activities while learning songs and rhymes in a foreign language. Teachers involved in instructing a foreign language at an early age can utilise the creative ability that all children possess while teaching them songs and rhymes in a foreign language. Children find pleasure in participating in activities that require movement, while enjoying the rhythm, rhyme and melody of songs. Including movement in teaching a foreign language at an early age is a useful element of one of the teaching methods that foreign language teachers can use while teaching young learners, the Total Physical Response (TPR) Method. This method is based on the theory that the process mechanisms of acquiring a foreign language are very much like those of acquiring a mother tongue. In fact, one of the main objectives of this method is to “design experiences through which children learn a second language in much the same way as they learn their first language” (Tough 1995, 213). The principles of TPR are similar to those applied within the framework of the Direct Method and the Natural Approach Method (Larsen and Freeman 2000, 107), which focus on the development of communicative competence, or a speaker’s ability to, depending on the social stimulation, “select from several language systems the one which best suits the speaker and the situation” (Vrhovac 2000, 15). These methods emphasise the importance of developing the listening and speaking skills of young learners, which makes them appropriate for teaching foreign languages to preschool children and children of junior grades of primary school. TPR takes into consideration the fact that movement is a crucial component of foreign language acquisition at this age and thus advocates the principle of “learning through doing.” Amy Kennedy canvasses exhaustive research into the role of creative movement in children’s

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learning (Kuhlman & Lutz 2000; Purcel 1994; Bergmann 1995)). Studies of creative movement indicate that it is beneficial not only for the cognitive, but also for the psychomotor and emotional and social development of children (Kennedy, A. 2014, 4). As a method of teaching, creative movement, which most scholars perceive as a way of getting to know yourself and the world around you, has numerous benefits when applied to teaching English to young learners, increasing motivation, creativity and confidence. Another basic principle of the TPR method is to utilise three channels through which children learn, hearing, seeing and doing. According to Selby, children are able to learn through many channels as they develop various life skills; adults, on the other hand, remember most of what they see but much less of what they hear (Selby 2010, 19). For these reasons, TPR is considered by many experts in the field to be one of the most appropriate methods for teaching children between the ages of four and twelve. It makes use of the tendency of children in this age group to be naturally active and disinclined to sit in one place for a long time and focus on a single activity. To provide variety in their lesson structure, songs and rhymes are an ideal choice for freshening up the routine of teaching a foreign language in playrooms and classrooms. In this way, language instruction is modernised and supplements more traditional methods (Kennedy, V. 2015, 296), while monotony in playrooms and classrooms is avoided. Movement and music are a winning combination for teaching a foreign language at an early age. Children link their movements with lexical and grammatical categories they acquire via a song, and music facilitates their acquisition of stress, pronunciation, vocabulary and grammar with rhythm, melody, repetition and rhyme. There are some other elements that are equally important in the process of foreign language acquisition at an early age. The principles of the TPR method are explained in Selby’s SPIRAL theory. Selby claims that this approach “replicates the natural path” (Selby 2010, 20) of language acquisition and envisages six mutually interlinked elements: Sounds, Pictures, Interest, Repetition, Actions, Links. Each element in the spiral represents a “natural way to reach and teach children” (Selby 2010, 21). Songs

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and rhymes are two audio formats that can help children learn in fun ways, along with stories, conversations and word games (Selby 2010, 22). Songs are particularly beneficial and effective if they contain modern and correct lyrics and tunes that match the correct stresses in English words. Children also benefit from rhymes, since they link words and meanings via their rhythm (Siliü 2010, 22). When introducing songs in a language class, there are several things a foreign language teacher should bear in mind. S. A. Ward lists the criteria that might influence the selection of songs to be introduced to young learners (Ward 1995, quoted in Siliü 2007, 62): 1. 2. 3. 4.

Appropriateness according to the content and the pupils’ age Acceptance on the part of the pupils Simplicity of music structure and appropriateness of vocabulary Appropriateness of tonalities for the development of children’s vocal apparatus 5. Possibility of using mimicry, acting and other suitable activities

Other elements of SPIRAL relevant to teaching songs and rhymes include interest, repetition, actions and links. Interest can be further subdivided into themes, emotions and humour. In order for children to respond well to the songs introduced in class, it is very important that the language teacher chooses appropriate themes. These have to be acceptable and interesting to the age group for each age level, thereby it is necessary to change the themes used in order to involve children as they reach various ages. Emotions are equally important, since themes are more effective in the sense of capturing and holding children’s attention if they utilise an emotional link. Selby points out that we all remember emotional songs or films, and she further outlines the importance of utilising emotions in songs in order to keep children’s interest and attention (Selby 2010, 25). Moreover, by adding humour in the form of songs and rhymes, we encourage children to participate in classroom activities. In this manner, they become motivated to learn a foreign language. Jayne Moon asserts that motivation plays a big role in creating a positive attitude towards a foreign language amongst young children. According to Moon, motivation is, together with other

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factors such as an enjoyable learning environment, the teacher's personality and interesting and appropriate learning materials, crucial in helping young learners develop a positive attitude to learning a foreign language at an early age (Moon 2005, 25). Furthermore, according to Charles Dethier, music not only motivates children, it helps them establish rapport with their teacher and their colleagues, since it aids in socialisation (Dethier 1991, 7273). Jean Brewster argues that a teacher’s job is much easier if she is working with a group of motivated children who enjoy what they are doing (Brewster 1995, 158). Repetition is another important element in the context of teaching songs and rhymes to children. Songs and rhymes introduce new vocabulary and help children revise vocabulary. When songs are sung repeatedly, children are reminded of the words they have acquired, thereby storing them in memory for a long period of time. Repeating words is most effective if linked with actions. Selby argues that children’s memory path is closely linked with their intellectual path. She goes on to assert that children learn easily through physical means since, in their younger years, they are still acquiring physical skills that they will use later in life. As a proponent of the TPR method, Selby claims that children’s speaking skills develop more effectively when combined with a physical activity, and not only with listening. Thus, she argues, if a child physically experiences a ball by bouncing it, throwing or catching it, he or she is likely to remember the word “ball“ faster than just by seeing it on a flashcard or by hearing it (Selby 2010, 28). Finally, words with a common theme presented in collective groups with associated meaning help children link them together. Selby claims that children learn more efficiently when the newly introduced words are added to their existing knowledge. Thus, expanding children’s vocabulary by adding words to be learnt through songs and rhymes are an effective method of vocabulary acquisition (Selby 2010, 28). I will provide examples of several songs and rhymes to show how vocabulary from everyday life (parts of the body, daily routines, the left and the right sides) can be expanded in an efficient way.

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The benefits of learning rhymes and songs at an early age are numerous and include linguistic benefits such as widening vocabulary, the acquisition of correct intonation and pronunciation, the acquisition of grammatical and syntactical structures and many more as well as social benefits. Children are additionally motivated to learn songs if they are taught traditional songs they are already familiar with (Siliü 2007, 62). For example, in Croatian schools, English versions of Christmas songs can be a valuable source of teaching materials, since pupils are already familiar with their Croatian versions. These include “Jingle Bells” (Zvonþiüi), “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” (Mi želimo sretan Božiü) and “White Christmas” (Bijeli Božiü). Nevertheless, original songs are also useful because they are tailored to introduce new linguistic and thematic contents. A foreign language can be learnt at different linguistic levels with examples of several songs and rhymes, such as “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” “This Old Man,” “Head and Shoulders,” “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush” and “I Say ‘Tomato,’ You Say ‘Tomato’.” The proposed linguistic levels include the acquisition of stress and rhythm, intonation and rhyme, vocabulary, grammar and syntax. “Mary Had a Little Lamb” is one of many nursery rhymes that “tell a story.” Its origins date back to 19th century USA, referring to a girl named Mary Sawyer who in fact did have a pet lamb, which she took to school on one occasion. This rhyme is a convenient means of teaching stress and rhythm, since accented and unaccented syllables alternate in a regular fashion (big circles represent the accented syllables, while the small ones represent the unaccented syllables). Following are the first two lines of the rhyme, with lines to follow maintaining the same rhythm pattern: Mary had a 'little lamb, 'little lamb, 'little lamb Oo O o O o O Oo O Oo O His fleece was white as snow oOoOoO

Another example of a rhyme with a regular rhythm is “Old McDonald Had a Farm,” a traditional nursery rhyme, slightly

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“younger” than “Mary Had a Little Lamb” (it dates from 1917). The regularity of the rhythm is a characteristic that is prominent throughout the whole rhyme: Old MacDonald had a farm OoOoOoO EIEIO OoOoO

“Old MacDonald” is also a good source of new vocabulary, since it introduces the names of farm animals such as pigs, cows and horses. Children also become familiarised with the regular pattern of forming plural nouns in the English language: pig—pigs, cow—cows, horse—horses, etc. Many English songs introduce vocabulary related to body parts. Some include “Head and Shoulders,” “Hokey Pokey” and “This Old Man.” The vocabulary introduced includes following words for the body such as the nouns head, shoulders, knees, toes, eyes, ears, mouth, nose (“Head and Shoulders”), and adjectives (left) foot, (right) foot, (left)) hand, (right) hand (“Hokey Pokey”); thumb, knee (“This Old Man”): You put your left foot/right foot/left hand/right hand in, You put your left foot/right foot/ left hand/right hand out, You put your left foot/right foot/left hand/right hand in, And you shake it all about…

Some songs teach words in sets, like the rhyme “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush,” which introduces phrases related to daily routines, including sweep the floor, wash our clothes, mend our clothes and others. One version of the rhyme introduces the names of the days of the week (Monday…Sunday): This is the way we wash our clothes, Wash our clothes, wash our clothes, This is the way we wash our clothes, So early Monday morning.

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The rhymes “Hokey Pokey,” “Head and Shoulders,” and “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush” provide an opportunity to accompany actions with movement. Thus, while singing “Hokey Pokey” and “Head and Shoulders,” children can use parts of their bodies (by putting their left/right hand/foot towards the centre of a formed circle) or point at the respective parts of their bodies (head, shoulders, knees, toes). Children can also imitate certain daily actions such as washing floors or scrubbing floors while singing “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush.” The TPR method envisages several stages in performing these activities in class. At the initial stage, the teacher sings the song and accompanies it with movement, while the children listen and watch. In the next stage, the children sing and move alongside their teacher, and in the last stage they are able to perform the action by themselves, without the teacher’s help (in some cases there is a penultimate stage in which one pupil adopts the role of the teacher and demonstrates the activity to his peers, who perform the action with him). Such activities enhance children’s motivation and encourage creativity. Moreover, learning is more effective since children explore all three learning channels, hearing, seeing and doing. Similarly, Christmas songs introduce word sets related to expressing good wishes for Christmas. In this way the song “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” introduces sets including …Wish You a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Popular songs act as a rich source of vocabulary. Thus the song “I Say ‘Tomato,’ You Say ‘Tomato’,” apart from teaching new words, introduces two main variants of the English standard language, British English and American English. By listening to this song, the most famous version of which is probably the one performed by Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, children can familiarise themselves with diverse ways of pronouncing some frequent words, such as potato and tomato. Songs are also a valuable source of grammatical structures. These include various categories such as singular and plural or tenses. The singular and plural of nouns is introduced, for example, in the song “Head and Shoulders” (nouns in singular: head, mouth, nose; nouns in plural: shoulders, knees, toes, eyes, ears). Pupils are able to recognise the regular pattern of formation of nouns in plural (ear–ears, eye–eyes, shoulder–shoulder, etc.).

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The most common tense occurring in songs for children is the present simple. “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush” tells us about different actions that we repeat on a daily basis. This song is appropriate for teaching in junior grades of primary school, since the National Curriculum for the subject of English as a foreign language envisages the introduction and, subsequently, the revision of this tense throughout the first four forms of primary school. “Mary Had a Little Lamb” includes examples of the past simple tense, primarily the verb had (Mary had a Little Lamb). Despite the fact that, in Croatian primary schools, simple past is taught in the fifth form, pupils should not have a problem in handling this tense earlier in their education. The examples of the simple past tense of the verb have (had) occur in appropriate contexts and are introduced alongside other grammatical and/or lexical categories. In this manner, children acquire examples of different past verbs unconsciously, while enjoying English songs, which helps them tackle this tense later in their education, usually in a more formal context. Through songs and rhymes, children familiarise themselves with the basics of English syntax. Thus “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” provide examples of the typical word order in an English sentence, subject + verb + (adjective) + object: S V Adj. O Mary had a little lamb …; SVO Old MacDonald had a farm…

“Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush,” on the other hand, encompasses examples of time adverbials. Young learners can in this manner learn that time adverbials are placed at the end of a sentence: “This is the way we wash our clothes/So early Monday morning.”

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Songs and rhymes might appear to be a casual way of learning a foreign language; however, they act as a worthy source of linguistic material. Since children are accustomed to learning songs and rhymes in their first language practically from birth, they usually find learning them in a foreign language equally pleasurable. Some children experience an initial fright of a foreign language, which can be overcome to a large extent with the help of songs and rhymes. They loosen up and enjoy reciting rhymes or singing songs about things familiar to them. Understanding what they are singing about gives them additional pleasure and makes them proud of their own achievements. Moreover, songs help children bond and aid in socialisation. It is important to note that singing in a group has many benefits. According to Siliü, when children sing alongside their peers, they do not experience a fear of performing alone in front of a number of people: even if they use a wrong word in a song, it remains unnoticed amongst so many other voices (Siliü 2007, 61). They are proud of their collaborative product, a song sung together with their classmates or playmates. Movement plays a similar role in class cohesion, since it helps children bond and contributes to establishing an affirmative mood in the study group, thereby aiding the acquisition of a foreign language (Kennedy, A. 2014, 4). This is in agreement with the principles of the Total Physical Method, which emphasises the importance of the absence of fear of learning a foreign language amongst young learners. Children should voluntarily engage in all of the activities offered and should not be forced to participate. Happy children can more easily and effectively learn a foreign language to the satisfaction of themselves, their parents and their teachers. The best thing about learning songs and rhymes is that children learn a foreign language at different linguistic levels: phonetic, syntactic, lexical and grammatical, without even being aware of it. Contemporary teaching methods, the TPR method in particular, support the idea that young children should acquire foreign languages naturally and advocate the principle of “learning through doing” in the context of learning a foreign language at an early age. Music and physical movement help children utilise the three channels (hearing, seeing and doing) through which they learn. The rhythmic character of music and language makes songs easier for

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children to remember. Through songs, children acquire correct pronunciation and stress and the correct order of words in an English sentence, as well as expanding their vocabulary and improving their grammar. Adding movement helps children express their creativity and aids in developing motivation and selfconfidence. Through music accompanied by movement, children can develop their linguistic skills in a fun and less formal manner than the traditional language class usually offers.

References Brewster, Jean, Gail Ellis and Dennis Girard. 2004. The Primary English Teacher’s Guide. Harlow: Pearson Education Limited. Cook, Guy. 2000. Language Play, Language Learning. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. Dethier, Charles Brock. 1991. “Using Music as a Second Language.” The English Journal 80: 72 -76. Kennedy, Amy Anne. 2014. Ustvarjalni gib v angleški uþilnici. Diplomsko delo. Ljubljana: Akademija za ples. Kennedy, Victor. 2015. “Critical, Cultural and Multimodal Approaches to Using Song as Literature in Language Learning.” Libri et Liberi 3, no. 2: 295-311. Larsen-Freeman, Diane. 2000. Techniques and Principles in Language Learning. Hong Kong: Oxford University Press. Moon, Jayne. 2005. Children Learning English. Thailand: Macmillan. Selby, Claire. 2010. How to Help Your Child Learn English. Oxford: Open Minds Creativity Limited. Siliü, Andreja. 2007. Prirodno uþenje stranog (engleskog) jezika djece predškolske dobi. Zagreb: Mali profesor d.o.o. Tough, Joan. 1995. “Young Children Learning Languages.” In Teaching English to Children: From Practice to Principle, edited by Christopher Brumfit, Jayne Moon and Ray Tongue, 213-227. Harlow: Pearson Education Limited. Vrhovac, Yvonne. 2001. Govorna komunikacija i interakcija na satu stranoga jezika. Zagreb: Naklada Ljevak.

CONTRIBUTORS

Lisa Burnett is a musicologist who studies the aesthetics of largescale stage works across cultures. She is the author of “Let Morning Shine Pyongyang: The Future-Oriented Nationalism of North Korea’s Arirang Mass Games,” and “Savage Gardens, Original Sins: An Anarcho-Primitivist Reading of Wagner’s Parsifal.” She received her Ph.D. from Stanford University. Danica ýerþe is an Associate Professor of Literatures in English, teaching at the Faculty of Economics, University of Ljubljana. Her field of research includes American and Australian literature, and Translation Studies. She is the author of Pripovedna proza Johna Steinbecka and Reading Steinbeck in Eastern Europe, several book chapters and articles in various academic journals in Slovenia and abroad. She is on the editorial board of Coolabah and Steinbeck Review and is a Vice President of the International Society of Steinbeck Scholars. Carla Fusco currently teaches British Civilization at the University of Macerata (Italy) as an adjunct professor. She has published several critical essays on British travel writers, A.S. Byatt, Peter Redgrove, Kazuo Ishiguro, James Joyce, William Shakespeare, George Gissing, Charlotte Brönte, Geoffrey Hill, Carol Ann Duffy, Christina Rossetti, Doris Lessing, Iris Murdoch, Evelyn Waugh, Anthony Trollope, Muriel Spark and Elizabeth Gaskell. She is the author of a forthcoming book on Kazuo Ishiguro. Mariusz Gradowski studied anthropology of culture and culture studies at the Institute of Polish Culture and musicology at the Faculty of History of the University of Warsaw. His Ph.D. dissertation was entitled Styles and Genres of Polish Rock and Roll Music (1957-1973) (2015). He is currently an Assistant Professor at The Division of Systematic Musicology at the Institute of

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Musicology, the University of Warsaw. His research interests include reception of rock and roll styles and genres in Polish musical culture, history of rock, history of Polish jazz, theory of film music and anthropology of music. He is also a radio journalist (Polish Radio Channel 2, shows on film music and history of jazz standards). Katarina Habe earned her Ph.D. in psychology from the University of Ljubljana and is currently an assistant professor in the Academy of Music in Ljubljana. Her research focuses on the area of the development strategies of successful appearances (motivation, self-esteem, stress management, attention and memory), with an emphasis on managing stage fright, the development of creative thinking and on exploring the influence of music on cognitive function. She has also been a professional musician for over 20 years, and is the founder, lead singer, and songwriter of the vocal group Katrinas. Kirsten Hempkin set off from Fife in Scotland in 1996 to teach in Slovenia on a one-year contract. Twenty years later, she is still working as an English language lector at the Faculty of Arts, University of Maribor. Her main research interests are intercultural awareness and material preparation, and she has published several articles in national and international publications on these topics. Klementina Juranþiþ Petek is an Assistant Professor in the Department of English and American Studies at the University of Maribor where she teaches linguistics. Her recent publications include “Research Strategies in L2 Phonological Fieldwork Investigation and Significance and/or Reliability of Results,” in Exploring English Phonetics (2012) and “The ‘Magnet Effect’–A Powerful Source of L1 Dialect Interference in the Pronunciation of English as a Foreign Language,” ELOPE (2014). She is also the author of The Pronunciation of English in Slovenia, Zora (2007). Natalia Kaloh Vid is an Associate Professor at the Department of Translation Studies, Faculty of Arts, University of Maribor, Slovenia. Her first Ph.D., in English Literature and Translation

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Contributors

studies, focuses on the influence of ideology on literary and translation production. Her second Ph.D. degree is in Contemporary Russian Literature. She is the author of the books Ideological Translations of Robert Burns’s Poetry in Russia and in the Soviet Union (2011), Rol’ apokaliptiþeskogo otkrovenija v tvorþestve Mihaila Bulgakova (The Role of Revelation in Mikhail Bulgakov’s Prose) (2012), and Sovietisms in English Translation of Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita (2015). She is also co-editor of a book of translations of Mikhail Leromontov’s poetry and prose entitled M. J. Lermontov. Sanje: izbrano delo (M. J. Lermontov. Dreams: Selected Works) (2015) as well as the editor of Ɍɜɨɪɱɟɫɬɜɨ Ɇ. ɘ. Ʌɟɪɦɨɧɬɨɜɚ: Ɇɨɬɢɜɵ, ɬɟɦɵ, ɩɟɪɟɜɨɞɵ (The Work of M. J. Lermontov: Motifs, Themes, Translations) published in 2015. Her publications include articles on different aspects of literary translations, above all on the influence of ideology on literary translations, translating culturally specific elements and retranslations. Jan Kaznowski is a Ph.D. candidate at the Faculty of Modern Languages, Institute for French Studies, University of Warsaw, where he is currently preparing a doctoral thesis on Balzac. His publications include “L’art et l’artiste dans les Discours de Suède d’Albert Camus,” Acta Philologica, 2014. Hugo Keiper is an Associate Professor of English Literature and Head of the Section “Drama and English Literature before 1700” at the English Studies Department of Karl-Franzens-Universität Graz. He has written books and articles on early modern and late medieval English literature, especially on Marlowe, Shakespeare, and Chaucer, and co-edited several collections of essays. Further special fields of interest are the theory of drama, particularly aspects of literary space and the representation of dramatic space in Elizabethan and Jacobean plays, as well as general literary theory and aesthetics (specifically “literary nominalism,” on which he has written several articles and co-edited a pioneering collection of essays, Nominalism and Literary Discourse, 1997). For the last few years he has been the co-convener of an international, interdisciplinary workshop on theatre and space, cooperating with the Department of Classical Studies of Graz University. His more

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recent work includes a comprehensively annotated edition, commentary, and German translation of Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus B, the first half of which is available as a Habilitationsschrift, as well as a book/exhibition catalogue on Marlowe’s dramatic use of contemporary maps (Christopher Marlowe und die Kartographie der Frühen Neuzeit). Over the last decade, he has taken an increasing interest in poetry and versification, song lyrics in particular, and has written several articles on various aspects of the reception and aesthetic of pop/rock songs and lyrics as intermedial works of art. Victor Kennedy received his M.Sc. in Astronomy from James Cook University (Queensland) and his J.D. from York University (Toronto) and practiced entertainment law with the firm of Shuber Gluckstein, where his clients included Bob Marley. His recent publications include “The Relationship Between Doctors, Patients and the Law in North American and British Literature,” Law, Medicine & Society, (April 2016). He currently teaches English literature at the University of Maribor and is the author of Strange Brew: Metaphors of Magic and Science in Rock Music (2013) and editor, with Michelle Gadpaille, of Words and Music (2013). He is also lead guitarist of the Slovenian surf band Strici iz ozadja. Wojciech Klepuszewski obtained his Ph.D. in literary studies from Gdansk University. He teaches at the Faculty of Humanities, Koszalin University of Technology, Poland. His latest publications are All the Vs of Life—Conflicts and Controversies in Tony Harrison’s Poetry (2013, co-author Stephen Butler, Ulster University), Academic Fiction Revisited: Selected Essays (2014, coeditor Dieter Fuchs, Vienna University) and Recalling War: Representations of the Two World Wars in British Literature and Culture (2014, editor). He also teaches courses in lexicology and has published three books on vocabulary, word formation and phraseology. Monika Konert-Panek is Assistant Professor at the Institute of Specialised and Intercultural Communication at the University of Warsaw. She received her MA degree in English phonology from

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Contributors

the University of Warsaw, the Institute of English Studies. In 2007, she obtained her Ph.D. in linguistics on the basis of the dissertation entitled From Mentalism to Optimality Theory: Notion of the Basic Phonological Segment from the Perspective of European and American Phonological Theories. Her current research interests cover the areas such as phonology, sociophonetics, stylistics and Polish-English contrastive grammar. Tomaž Oniþ is Assistant Professor of English and American Studies at the Faculty of Arts, University of Maribor, Slovenia. His primary research is in the field of contemporary British drama, particularly its stylistic and translation aspects. He has studied the works of the Nobel Prize winning British author Harold Pinter, and translations of his plays into Slovene, and has published extensively on these and related topics. He has edited several monographs and journal editions in drama and Pinter studies, the most recent being Harold Pinter on International Stages, Peter Lang, 2014. He has also published on stylistic aspects of Germont’s aria from La Traviata in three languages in Words and Music (2013), and an article about the music in a Slovene production of A Streetcar Named Desire. Andrea Stojilkov is a Ph.D. student of Cultural Studies at Belgrade University’s Faculty of Philology. Her dissertation investigates the cultural transfer in the English translations of post-Yugoslav prose. She has published various essays dealing with her other areas of interest, including the interrelation between high art and popular culture, and the transfer of culture-specific items in English-Serbian and Serbian-English literary translations. Ester Vidoviü is a senior lecturer at the Faculty of Teacher Education in Rijeka, Croatia, where she teaches English based subjects. Her doctoral dissertation, entitled Conceptualization of Time and Space in Fairy Tales Written during the Victorian Period (2012), focuses upon human conception of metaphors of time and space (based on Turner and Fauconnier’s theory of conceptual integration), which she studies from the cognitivist perspective. She

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has published several journal articles on children’s literature in English, methodologies of teaching EFL/ESP, and cultural studies.

INDEX

A.B.C. Murders, 203 ABBA, 259, 265 Aboriginal songpoems, 274 Academy Award, 28 Achtung Baby, 171, 178, 182, 184 Adorno, Theodor, 1 Affektenlehre, 20 Agent Orange, 231 Aladdin, 212 All Music Guide: The Definitive Guide to Popular Music, 17 Altamont Speedway concert, 245 American Graffiti, 245 Ancient Mariner, 209 Arabian Nights, The, 212 Arlen, Harold, 8, 189 Armstrong, Louis, 294 Astronauts, The, 236, 242 Atlantics, The, 230, 242 avtorskaia pesnia, 6, 158, 160 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 119 Bachman Turner Overdrive, 245 Bachman, Randy, 245 Baez, Joan, 6 bagpipes, 145 Baker, Chet, 188 Baker, Ginger, 240 ballad, 26 Balzac, Honoré, 5, 118, 119, 120, 124, 126, 127, 132, 133 Band Aid, 137 Banzai Pipeline, 243 Barenboim, Daniel, 2, 238

Barret, Syd, 175 Battle of Bannockburn, 138 Battle of Passchendaele, 9, 218 BBC, 197 Beach Blanket Bingo, 232 Beach Boys, The, 229, 230, 232, 233, 234, 237, 242, 243, 245 Beach Party, 234 Beatlemania, 41 Beatles, The, 21, 22, 27, 28, 31, 41, 173, 236 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 60, 118, 119, 121, 122, 126, 131, 132, 238 Bela Fleck and the Flecktones, 245 Bele Vrane, 259, 265 Bellear, Lisa, 272 Belmont University, 22 Bentley, Madison, 256 Bergman, Alan, 19 Bergman, Marilyn, 19, 33 Bergonzi, Bernard, 221 Berklee College of Music, The, 20, 22, 23 Berlin, Irving, 188 Bernhart, Walter, 35, 42 Bernstein, Elmer, 244 Berry, Chuck, 230, 237 Berry, Jan, 232 Big Country, 145, 147 Bigsby Vibrato Tailpiece, 239 Black Sabbath, 245 Blackmore, Ritchie, 245 Blair, John, 242

Symphony and Song: The Intersection of Words and Music

Blakeley, John, 233 Bliss, Arthur, 225 Blues Brothers, The, 235 Bonanza, 235, 240 Bono, 7, 175, 177, 178, 179, 180, 182, 183, 184 Boone, Pat, 234 Bowie, David, 175 Bowles, Paul, 211 Brahms, Johannes, 63 Brand New Day, 212 Braveheart, 145 Brecht, Bertolt, 153 Brexit, 136 Brezhnev, Leonid, 155 British Invasion, 245 Broadway, 188 Brown, Bruce, 233 Browne, William Denis, 226 Bruce, Robert the, 138 Bullwinkle, 241 Burns, Robert, 138, 139, 140, 141, 143, 146 Butterworth, George, 225 Callused Stick of Wanting, The, 275 Cameron, David, 146 Canterbury Tales, The, 202, 214 Capercaillie, 145 Carroll, Lewis, 202 Cave, Nick, 27 Centurians, The, 241 Centurions, The, 231 Changgǎk, 76, 80 Chao, Manu, 42 Chaplin, Charlie, 92 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 202, 214 Checker, Chubby, 234 Cherish, 275 Cherubini, Luigi, 119 Chopin, Frédéric, 119, 132

Chosǂn yesul, 86 Christie, Agatha, 203 Cilia, Martin, 230 Cimarosa, Domenico, 119 Clapton, Eric, 173 Clark, Petula, 28 Cohen, Leonard, 31, 159 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 1, 209 Coles, Cecil, 225 Comédie Francaise, La, 198 Comédie humaine, La, 5, 133 conceptual metaphor, 237 Cooke, Stuart, 10 Copeland, Stewart, 195, 196, 197, 245 Copland, Aaron, 2 Corries, The, 137, 138, 141 Couperin, François, 132 Cousin Pons, 132 Craft and Business of Song Writing, The, 20 Crazy Aces, The, 243 Crime and Punishment, 153 Crisp, Quentin, 210 Cromwell, Oliver, 204 crooners, 7, 190 crooning, 8 Crystal, David, 174 Dadaism, 201 Dale, Dick, 229, 231, 237 Dante, 202 Darwin, Charles, 53 Davis, Jack, 272 Dawkins, Richard, 232 de Bergerac, Cyrano, 198 de Luca, Christine, 137 Deep Purple, 245 Dessay, Natalie, 28 Diamond, Neil, 28 Diddley, Bo, 234

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306

DiFranco, Ani, 31 Dion, Céline, 172 Dire Straits, 245 Direct Method, 288 Disney World, 232 Disney, Walt, 232 Don Giovanni, 125 Don Quixote, 32 Donizetti, Gaetano, 95, 96 Doppler effect, 239 Dowd, Tom, 240 Dowland, John, 35 Dr. No, 235 Dryden, John, 199 Dulcamara, 4, 95, 98, 100, 102, 104, 105, 107, 110, 111, 113, 114, 115, 116 DvoĜák, Antonín, 244 Dylan, Bob, 21, 29, 31, 159 earworm, 16, 40 Eddy, Duane, 235 Edge, The, 180 Edmunds, Dave, 230 Edward II, King, 138, 143, 146 Edward of York, 204 Eliot, Thomas Stearns, 202 Elizabeth II, Queen, 136 Emmy, 196 Endless Summer II, The, 233 Endless Summer, The, 233 Eno, Brian, 182 Esenin, Sergei, 168 Farrar, Ernest, 225 Faulkner, William, 204 Faust, 200 Feliciano, José, 28 Fender Synchronized Tremolo, 239 Fender, Leo, 237 Fidelio, 238 Fistful of Dollars, A, 235

Index

Fitzgerald, Ella, 294 Flack, Roberta, 3, 40 Flaubert, Gustave, 213 Fleetwood Mac, 245 Fogarty, Lionel, 272 For a Few Dollars More, 235 Frampton, Peter, 245 Frequency Code hypothesis, 258 Fresh Salt, 276 Gadpaille, Michelle, 1, 232 Gambara, 5, 119, 131 Gaughan, Dick, 138, 140, 141, 143, 149 Genette, Gerard, 2, 9, 187, 241 Gesamtkunstwerk, 3, 4, 75, 79, 88, 92 Get Smart, 236 Ghost in the Machine, 205 Gibb, Andy, 206 Gidget, 232 Gilbert, Kevin, 272 Gloucestershire Rhapsody, The, 226 Gluck, Christoph Willibald, 125 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 184, 200 Golden Age of Surf, 243 Golden Globe, 196 Golden State, Golden Youth: the California Image in Popular Culture 1955-1966, 232 Goldfinger, 243 Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, The, 235 Gordon, Robert, 230 Grammys, 196 Green, Al, 173 Green, Peter, 245 Gregory’s Girl, 145 Grove Music Online Encyclopaedia, The, 172

Symphony and Song: The Intersection of Words and Music

Guess Who, The, 245 Gulag, 165 Gulags, 161 Gurdjieff, George, 207 Gurney, Ivor, 9, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 227 Guthrie, Woody, 6 Hadley, Patrick, 225 Haines, John W., 221, 225 Haley, Bill, 230 Hamlet, 153 Handel, George Frideric, 119 hard rock, 17 Hardy, Thomas, 220 Harrison, George, 10 Harrison, Noel, 2, 27, 29, 35, 40, 46, 50 Harvey, Frederick William, 220 Have Gun Will Travel, 235 Hawaii 5-O, 235 Haydn, Joseph, 63, 122 Hazelwood, Lee, 235 Henderson, Hamish, 138, 140, 141, 143, 144, 149 Hendrix, Jimi, 233, 234, 236 Hitler, Adolf, 204 Hoffmann, Ernst Theodor Amadeus, 121, 122 Hollywood Walk of Fame, 196 hook, 3, 19, 22, 25, 26, 27, 29, 31, 33, 36, 40, 147 Human Comedy, 120 Hummel, Johann Nepomuk, 119 hypertextuality, 9, 241 Idol, Billy, 245 Ingmann, Jorgen, 239 intertextuality, 241 Interview with the Vampire, 206 Iommi, Tony, 245 Ishiguro, Kazuo, 7, 186 Jamaican reggae, 195

307

James Bond, 235, 236 Jan and Dean, 229, 232 Jazz Age, The, 188 Jewison, Norman, 27 John the Baptist, 213 Johnson, Mark, 10, 237 Jones, Grace, 204 Joy Division, 145 Joyce, James, 202 Juche, 77, 93 Kaczmarski, Jacek, 174 Kaufman Vibrola, 239 Kelman, James, 145 Kennedy, Amy, 288 Khrushchev, Nikita, 158 Kim Il Sung, 77, 85, 86 Kim Jong Il, 3, 4, 75, 76, 77, 84, 86, 89, 92, 93 King Herod, 213 King Lear, 208, 209 King, Ben E., 173 King, Carole, 29 Knopfler, Mark, 245 Koestler, Arthur, 204, 205 Kristeva, Julia, 187 Kristofferson, Kris, 29 L’elisir d’amore, 95, 96 Lacan, Jacques, 187 Laika and the Cosmonauts, 231, 243 Lakoff, George, 2, 10, 237 Landis, John, 235 Larson, Steve, 10 Leane, Jeanine, 272 Lee, Peggy, 188 Legrand, Michel, 2, 19, 27, 28, 40 Lennon, John, 32, 34, 173 Lennox, Annie, 28 Leone, Sergio, 235 Lermontov, Mikhail, 154

308

Levitin, Daniel, 2 Life of Galileo, 153 Lightfoot, Gordon, 29 Lindenberg, Udo, 28 Liszt, Franz, 119, 123, 132 Little Richard, 201 Little, Jimmy, 272 Liubimov, Yuri, 153 Lively Ones, The, 231 Local Hero, 145 Lolita, 205 London, Julie, 188 Lone Ranger, The, 240 Los Straitjackets, 231, 235, 242, 244 Lowe, Nick, 230 Lully, Jean-Baptiste, 119, 132 MacLean, Dougie, 148 Madonna, 31 Magadan, 163 Magnificent Seven, The, 243 Magnitizdat, 156 Major, John, 144 Mami, Cheb, 212 Man or Astro-Man?, 231 Mancini, Henry, 234 Martin, George, 21 Mary I, Queen, 204 Massimilla Doni, 5, 119, 131 May, Brian, 245 Mayakovsky, Vladimir, 157 McLean, Don, 31, 41 Meek, Joe, 236 Melodiya, 156 meme, 232 Mendes, Eva, 28 Mercer, Johnny, 8, 189 Mermen, The, 231, 243 Meyerbeer, Giacomo, 5, 119, 121, 124, 125, 126, 127, 131, 132

Index

Midas, 209 Miller, Frankie, 148 Milli Vanilli, 172 mise-en-scène, 240 Misirlou, 231 Mitchell, Joni, 31 Modeste Mignon, 129 mondegreen, 26, 31, 34, 36 Monk, Thelonious, 187 Montrose, Ronnie, 233 Moreton, Romaine, 10, 272, 273, 275, 283 Morgan, Sally, 272 Morissette, Alanis, 209 Morley, Thomas, 35 Morricone, Ennio, 235 Mosè in Egitto, 127, 129 Mozart Effect, 3, 51, 52, 58, 59, 62, 63, 65, 66 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 3, 27, 51, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 66, 122, 125, 126, 131 Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos in D major, K448, 51, 60, 62, 64, 65, 66 Mudrooroo, Narodin, 282 Muppet Show, The, 29 Music, Language and the Brain, 54 musilanguage, 54 Muzak, 29 Nabokov, Vladimir, 205 Narodin, Mudrooroo, 272 Natural Approach Method, 288 Nebulas, The, 244 New Moon Daughter, 171, 181, 182, 183 New Musical Express, 201 New York Review of Books, the, 143 Newman, Randy, 29

Symphony and Song: The Intersection of Words and Music

Newman, Stanley, 256 Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall, 186 Noonuccal, Oodgeroo, 272 Norman, Monty, 236 nursery rhymes, 287 Oasis, 145 Oblak, Pavle, 98, 100, 101, 102, 103, 105, 106, 107, 111, 112, 114 Odd, Stanley, 146 Oedipus, 180, 209 Ohala, John, 256 Okudzava, Bulat, 161 On the Art of Music, 4, 76 On the Art of Opera, 4, 76, 79, 85, 86, 88 opera buffa, 95 opera, Beijing, 82 opera, European, 4, 81 opera, North Korean, 3, 75, 76 opera, Slovene, 96 operetta, 76 Owen, Wilfred, 220, 221 Oxford Book of Ballads, The, 27 Oxford Dictionary of Music, The, 24 Paganini, Niccolò, 119, 123, 132 paratext, 229 paratextuality, 9, 241 Patel, Aniruddh D., 54, 252, 253, 254 Pergolesi, Giovanni Battista, 119 Perkins, Carl, 230 Perry, Katy, 22 Petelinova, Ruža Lucija, 98, 100, 101, 105, 106, 107, 111, 112, 114 Peter Gunn, 234 Phaedrus, 213

309

Phantom of the Opera, The, 207 Pink Floyd, 236 Pink Panther, The, 234, 236, 243 Plato, 52, 53 Poe, Edgar Allan, 179 Police, The, 9, 195, 196, 208, 245 Pongraþiü, Ivan, 243 Pope John Paul II, 158 Porter, Cole, 188 Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, A, 202 Post Me to the Prime Minister, 275 Presley, Elvis, 172, 230 Proclaimers, The, 145, 147, 148 pronunciation, 175 Pugachev, 153 Pulp Fiction, 231, 241, 243 Pulp Surfin’, 231 punk, 17, 31, 175, 195, 231 Purgatorio, 202 Pushkin, Alexander, 153 Putz, John, 62 Raengo, Alessandra, 7 rap, 17 Rauscher, Frances, 2, 58 Rawhide, 235 Redreaming the Dark, 275 Revels, The, 231, 240 Rice, Anne, 206 Richard III, 204 Richard III, King, 204 Richard, Cliff, 240 Richardson, J.P., 240 Rihanna, 22 Rimfire: Poetry from Aboriginal Australia, 276 Robert le Diable, 121, 124, 125, 126, 127, 131

310

Robert the Bruce, 138 rock, 17 Rockabilly, 230 Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, The, 241 Rodgers, Jimmie, 28 Rodong Shinmun Online, 86 Rogers, Roy, 235 Rolling Stones, The, 21, 28, 31, 204 Romani, Felice, 95, 96 Ronny and The Daytonas, 229 Rossini, Gioachino, 5, 119, 120, 122, 125, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 239 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 53 Roxanne, 199 Roxy Music, 145 Royal College of Music, The, 218 Rubinoos, The, 244 Rudd, Kevin, 280 Runrig, 145 Sacks, Oliver, 2 Sade, 15, 42 Salmond, Alex, 144, 146 Salome, 213 Samizdat, 156 Sandals, The, 233 Sapir, Edward, 256 Sassoon, Siegfried, 221, 224 Schlesinger, Maurice, 120, 121, 127 Schubert, Franz, 172, 219 Scotland’s Future, 143 Scott, Marion, 218, 221, 226 Scottish National Party, 142, 145 Sea of Blood, 4, 75, 84, 85, 86, 92, 93 Seeger, Pete, 6

Index

Sending a Message, 276 Severn and Somme, 219 Shadows, The, 229, 240, 242 Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet, 231 Shakespeare, William, 153, 202, 204, 208 Shared Syntactic Integration Resource Hypothesis, 254 Shazam, 32 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 211 Sheltering Sky, The, 211 Simon, Paul, 29 Simone, Nina, 178 Sinatra, Frank, 7, 186 ska, 208 Slacktone, 230 sonnet, English, 38, 50 sonnet, Italian, 50 sonnet, Petrarchan, 38 Sons of the Pioneers, The, 235 Sophocles, 209 sound symbolism, 257 Space Age, 236, 243, 244 Space Cossacks, The, 231, 243 Space Rangers, The, 243 space rock, 236 spaghetti western, 235, 241 spatial metaphor, 238 Spencer, Herbert, 53 SPIRAL theory, 289 Springfield, Dusty, 28, 29, 40, 46 Springsteen, Bruce, 174 St. Louis Woman, 189 Stalin, Joseph, 157, 158, 160, 163, 164, 204 Stalin’s Great Terror, 163 Stam, Robert, 7, 241 Stendhal, 120, 129 Stevens, Steve, 245

Symphony and Song: The Intersection of Words and Music

Sting, 7, 35, 42, 50, 194, 195, 196, 198, 199, 200, 201, 202, 203, 205, 206, 207, 209, 211 Stone Roses, 145 Strange Brew, 16, 236 Strauss, Richard, 213 Stray Cats, The, 230 Streisand, Barbara, 28 Sturgeon, Nicola, 144 Summer of Love, 245 Summers, Andy, 195, 196, 245 Sumner, Gordon, 194 Supertones, The, 231, 235, 237, 242 Surf Coasters, The, 243 Surf Kings, The, 237, 243 surf music, 229 Surf Raiders, The, 243 surf revival, 229, 230, 231, 233, 234, 236, 243 Surfaris, The, 237 Surflamingo, 243, 244 Sydney Opera House, 276 Symphony No. 9 in E minor, From the New World, 244 T in the Park, 145 Taganka Theatre, the, 6, 153 Talking Heads, 173 Tarantino, Quentin, 232, 241 Taylor, Alf, 272 Te Kanawa, Kiri, 28 Ten Summoner’s Tales, 214 Thatcher, Margaret, 144 Thomas Crown Affair, The, 27 Thomas, Edward, 221 Thornton, Big Mama, 172 Tin Pan Alley, 20, 28, 39 Tiresias, 208 Tomatis, Alfred, 2, 3, 61 Tornadoes, The, 231, 237, 243 Tornados, The, 243

311

Total Physical Response Method, 11, 288 transtextuality, 9 Traviata, La, 5 Turner, Mark, 237 Turner, Tina, 173 Twang! A Tribute to Hank Marvin and the Shadows, 245 U2, 7, 171, 177, 184 Unaipon, David, 272 Untreated: Poems by Black Writers, 276 Vakhtangov Theatre, 153 Vaughan, Sarah, 188, 191 Ventures, The, 229, 236, 242 Verdi, Giuseppe, 132 Vie de Rossini, 120, 129, 132 Vlady, Marina, 157 Voznesenski, Andrey, 168 Vysotsky, Vladimir, 6, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 161, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169, 174 Wagner, Richard, 75, 132 Walk with Words, A, 275 Wallace, Sir William, 138 War Elegy, 226 War’s Embers, 219 Wasteland, The, 202, 212 Webber, Andrew Lloyd, 207 Welsh, Irvine, 145 Wild West, 235, 236, 242, 244 Wilde, Oscar, 213 Williams, Roderick, 226 Williamson, Roy, 137 Wilson, Brian, 232 Wilson, Carl, 230 Wilson, Cassandra, 7, 171, 175, 177, 178, 181, 183, 184 Wilson, Dennis, 243 Woodstock Festival, 245

312

Words and Music, 1 Writing Music for Hit Songs, 22 Wronski, Dave, 230 Yeperenya Festival, 276

Index

Yothu Yindi, 272 Young, Neil, 29, 245 Zupan, Simon, 97 Županþiþ, Oton, 101