The Pop Palimpsest: Intertextuality in Recorded Popular Music

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Foreword The Intertextual Network J. Peter Burkholder AS LONG AS PEOPLE have been making music, people have been remaking music: taking a musical idea someone already made and reworking it in some way to make something new. That musical idea can be anything from a rhythm to a whole piece of music, and the new creation can be anything from a lullaby to a symphony. The resulting interrelationships between pieces, all covered by the umbrella term intertextuality in music, vary widely and carry meanings that range from obvious to subtle and from trivial to profound, making them a wonderful subject of study. We can observe this process of borrowing and reworking throughout the history of Western music, happening in many different ways. The liturgical songs of the Catholic Church, known as Gregorian chant, often share bits of melody, from general melodic outlines to specific gestures and formulas, showing that the singer-composers who devised these songs shared ideas and freely borrowed from each other in a tradition that stretches back centuries before musical notation was invented and continued well into the Renaissance. From the Middle Ages on, musicians have adapted these chants in various ways: by troping, lengthening the melody or interpolating new words and music; through polyphony, adding one or more melodies that accompany the chant and harmonize with it; and in genres of music based on borrowed segments of chant melody, from motets to polyphonic masses. Outside the church, poet-singers beginning with the troubadours and trouvГЁres of France and the Minnesingers of Germany often borrowed each other’s tunes for new poems and in some cases responded to each other by quoting fragments Page viii →of text, music, or both. Since the Renaissance, composers have created new settings for popular songs or hymns, imitated other composers’ works in their own, composed variations on existing tunes or bass lines, or arranged a piece for a new group of instruments or with a new accompaniment or added figuration. Since sometime between the fourteenth and the seventeenth centuries, musicians have alluded to musical styles with particular associations to convey meanings. More recent composers have used folk songs as themes for instrumental music, have evoked older kinds of music in modern styles, or have quoted other pieces in attention-grabbing references, again conveying meanings through associations. Such interrelationships between pieces, from the overt to the covert and from the general to the specific, are a fundamental part of what makes a musical tradition a tradition: part of what inspires artists to create and of what listeners who are familiar with that tradition listen for. Developments in recording technologies over the past 130 years have resulted in new possibilities, many of them addressed in this very welcome collection of studies on intertextuality in recorded popular music. As a scholar of borrowing and reworking in notated music, I am struck by how often what is happening in recorded popular music parallels earlier musics. It is not that finding parallels somehow validates these effects in popular music, for they need no such validation; rather, without any apparent direct influence from past practices, similar ways of reworking existing music into new forms appear in the new media of recording. By offering new methodologies and exemplary case studies, the essays in this volume contribute to our understanding of the many kinds of intertextuality in recorded popular music and thus by extension to our sense of the intertextual network of music in the whole Western tradition. Such a pursuit first requires a methodology that maps the territory, making necessary distinctions and offering a useful terminology. In the opening essay, “Toward a Model of Transphonography,” Serge Lacasse proposes a framework for describing the intertextual relations between recordings of popular music. Drawing on the work of literary critic GГ©rard Genette, Lacasse identifies eight categories of interrelationship that operate within three conceptual areas. In the broadest area, “generic relations,” fall the relationships between recordings created by their holding something in common, such as belonging to the same genre, sharing a style, or being produced by the same artist (archiphonography). Under “phonographic practices,” he groups various

ways song recordings can be directly related: through an act of transformation, as when one recording is a cover, remix, editing, parody, or reworking of another entirePage ix → recording (hyperphonography); by appearing together in a compilation, such as an album or playlist (polyphonography); by quoting, alluding to, or sampling another recording (interphonography); or by sharing fictional elements such as characters or locations (transfictionality). Finally, Lacasse describes three categories of “extraphonographic practices,” relations between recordings and nonphonographic materials: the methods of access that surround and mediate recordings, such as the album cover and liner notes that come with a CD, or the media players and software that convey the sound (paraphonography); material in any medium that is coupled with a song, such as a music video (cophonography); and critical commentary on a recording, such as a CD review, scholarly study, or comment on a website (metaphonography). All of these interrelationships affect how we perceive, understand, and interpret individual songs as part of an intertextual network. Any of these categories may function at the level of the composition—the structural aspects of the song itself, which could be notated on paper—and thus can be applied to any works within the Western tradition. But they also apply to aspects that are unique to recordings: at the level of the particular performance fixed on the recording (such as how a performer bends pitch, shapes timbre, or manipulates rhythm) and at the level of recording and editing effects such as sound levels, reverberation, or overdubbing. Any or all of these perspectives may play a role in a particular interpretation of how two or more recordings interrelate and what meanings their relationships convey, as Lacasse demonstrates through a final example, an article by Jon Finson on two versions of Barry Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic.” And all of these eight categories resonate in the essays that follow. Roger Castonguay’s essay, “Genettean Hypertextuality as Applied to the Music of Genesis: Intertextual and Intratextual Approaches,” analyzes an example that bridges Lacasse’s categories of interphonography, hyperphonography, and polyphonography. “Los Endos,” the last track on the album A Trick of the Tail by the progressive rock group Genesis, includes reminiscences of themes and passages from earlier tracks, creating a relationship between tracks that parallels cyclic form in nineteenth-century instrumental music and leitmotives in Wagnerian opera. In every case, the material is transformed in significant ways, often in two or more dimensions simultaneously. Such a transformation reflects the multidimensional character of music, which involves not only linear elements such as melody, rhythm, meter, and form but also vertical elements such as harmony, timbre, volume, and style. Castonguay shows how hypertextualPage x → theory, Genette’s approach to the transformation of existing material, may be applied not only between pieces (intertextually) but also within a piece (intratextually); here, relationships that are intertextual when songs are considered separate works become intratextual when the album is conceived as a whole, with individual tracks functioning like movements in a symphony or numbers in an opera. Castonguay’s ultimate point is that Genette’s notion of hypertextuality (Lacasse’s hyperphonography, when the object under study is a recording), because it focuses on the manner of transformation, can be applied within a text as well as between texts. From this perspective, the development or variation of a theme within a piece, one of the traditional concerns of musical analysis, is part of the same musical universe as the variation of an idea taken from a track that appears earlier on the same recording or from another work entirely. The relations between parts within a text thus can be analyzed in the same ways as the relations between texts. This blurring of intratextuality and intertextuality makes great sense, and it applies both to recorded pop music and to earlier notated music. It can be just as eye-opening to compare one variation to another within a variation set as to compare pieces by different composers based on the same source, such as two Renaissance masses based on the same chanson or two settings of the same chorale tune. Experienced listeners are just as likely to draw connections to that source and to other pieces that transform it as they are to recall earlier statements or variations of a theme in the piece they are hearing, using comparable strategies of listening both for similarities and for transformations. In “The Bitter Taste of Praise: Singing вЂHallelujah,’” Allan Moore uses Lacasse’s category of metaphonography (commentary on a recording) to examine issues related to the category of hyperphonography (transformation)—in this case, covers of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” by John Cale, Rufus Wainwright, Jeff Buckley, and others. Each cover recording suggests different emotional resonances or meanings

for the song because of changes in various parameters from lyrics to vocal tone. Moore explores these various meanings through his own interpretations of what effects matter in each recording. He then widens his analysis to incorporate comments by students in classes he has taught and by Internet commentators who argue the merits of one recording against another. By examining these reactions, he shows the varieties of discourse and of expectations surrounding commentary on the song. The result is an illuminating example of how performances can alter or influencePage xi → the emotions or other meanings conveyed by a recording and how the same gestures can be perceived quite differently by different listeners with diverse tastes, as when Buckley’s high, light tone is heard as “angelic” by some and “semi-whiney” by another. Such changes of meaning have parallels in the notated tradition as well, not only in different performances that may assert contrasting moods but also in arrangements and transcriptions that create new perspectives. Examples include Leopold Stokowski’s highly Romantic orchestration of Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, which changes the virtuosic display and stylized affect of a Baroque organ work into a symphonic drama, and Igor Stravinsky’s recomposition of eighteenth-century works into his ballet score for Pulcinella, which replaces the direct emotions of the original with modern detachment by overlaying the borrowed music with distinctive markers of Stravinsky’s own dry, dissonant, modernist style. In “The Electric Light Orchestra and the Anxiety of the Beatles’ Influence,” Mark Spicer takes up Harold Bloom’s notion of the anxiety of influence as an approach to interphonography, the intertextual relations between particular tracks. Bloom sees influence not as a benign flowing of ideas from one artist to another but as a struggle to create space for one’s own work by reframing the work of a predecessor. After noting numerous Beatles recordings that were influenced by other artists—borrowing a bass riff, chord progression, or vocal gesture—Spicer examines songs by the Electric Light Orchestra and its creative leader, Jeff Lynne, that draw on specific Beatles songs in a wide variety of ways and often in several ways at once. Usually there is a twist, created by mixing direct borrowings with deliberately contrasting gestures, as in “Mister Kingdom,” which evokes “Across the Universe” through similar melodies and vocal timbre and a shared fragment of lyrics yet uses very different harmonies that echo unorthodox chord progressions from other John Lennon tunes. By simultaneously evoking a specific model and diverging from it, in accord with Bloom’s theory, ELO both establishes its lineage and asserts its independence. As Spicer observes, this is exactly the stance musicians in earlier traditions took toward their strongest predecessors, as in the myriad ways nineteenth-century composers of symphonies reflected and overcame the influence of Beethoven. Walter Everett’s “вЂIf You’re Gonna Have a Hit’: Intratextual Mixes and Edits of Pop Recordings” uses the term intratextuality for the relations between different mixes or edits traceable to a single source recording, a subcategory of hyperphonography (compare Castonguay’s usage). Page xii →Everett focuses primarily on different versions of a song released during the vinyl era, including album, single, and promotional versions, as well as later reissues. He identifies ten types of intratextuality between such versions, then describes examples of two: differing mixes of the same edit released at the same time (such as stereo and mono versions), and contrasting edits aimed at different markets (such as LPs and 45 rpm singles). Mono versions and promotional singles often featured louder vocals, a compressed dynamic range, and boosted midrange so they would sound better on AM broadcast and pocket or car radios, while stereo mixes could play with panning and other effects. Muting and remixing could highlight or suppress different elements, such as the alternate guitar solos on the single and album versions of the Beatles’ “Let It Be.” Edits for 45 rpm singles were often shorter than the LP versions, limited by space on the record and by radio programming conventions; cuts to the coda and intro were most common, followed by interior instrumental passages. Some trimming was badly done, but done well cuts could result in fully satisfactory alternate versions reflecting artistic choices as well as commercial constraints. These variants parallel earlier reworkings created in part for marketing reasons, such as the multiple published adaptations of sixteenth-century polyphonic songs for different numbers of voices or for solo voice and lute; differing but equally authentic published versions of pieces by nineteenth-century composers such as Chopin, who preserved his copyright across national borders by issuing each new publication on the same day in four different countries, often with variant readings; and early pieces by Stravinsky, who revised his music (sometimes in

inaudible ways, such as moving the bar lines) to reassert control of works that had fallen out of copyright. William Echard’s “Someone and Someone: Dialogic Intertextuality and Neil Young” broadens the scope of intertextuality beyond relationships between recordings themselves to look at styles, genres, and an artist’s persona as “intertexts” that interact with each other and with individual recordings. Over the course of a half-century career, Neil Young has engaged a great variety of styles and genres, from rock and pop to various kinds of country music, rockabilly, electro-pop, punk, and grunge. Critics have varied in their responses to such diversity, with most framing him as an authentic and strong artist for taking risks and blurring boundaries, although others find him erratic and incoherent. Considering both Young’s genre-bending and stylereferencing practices and the diverse reactions to them from an intertextual perspective helps Page xiii →us understand his work in new ways, drawing on the associations each style or genre carries and how they echo in listeners’ lives. At the same time, the case of Young highlights extensions of intertextuality that encompass and bring into dialogue Lacasse’s categories of archiphonography and metaphonography. Young’s invocation of various styles and genres has strong parallels in earlier music. Since the beginnings of opera in the early seventeenth century, composers have used contrasting styles to depict characters, as in Mozart’s association of different dance rhythms and gestures with various levels of society in his operas The Marriage of Figaro and Don Giovanni. Many composers mix styles within instrumental music as well: for example, FranГ§ois Couperin blends French and Italian styles in Les Nations; Haydn alternates elegant minuets with rustic trios in his quartets and symphonies; Mozart often delineates sections of the musical form by juxtaposing styles from singing style to fanfares and from learned contrapuntal textures to dramatic stormy passages; and Brahms’s variation sets typically include individual variations that strongly contrast in style with each other. Mixing genres is also common, as when Bach combines elements from chorale, motet, concerto, and operatic aria and recitative in his cantata Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, or Aaron Copland includes variations on a Shaker hymn in his ballet Appalachian Spring. As in Young’s music, each genre and style carries particular associations, and placing them in juxtaposition can create meanings from humorous to profound. In the context of a collection of essays on popular music recordings, Mary S. Woodside’s study of “Intertextuality in the Nineteenth-Century French Vaudeville” highlights deep connections between the ways popular music recycled existing musical material in the eras before and since the advent of recording technology. One of the most popular genres in nineteenth-century France was the vaudeville, a spoken comedy with musical numbers featuring borrowed melodies given new texts. Traditional musical scholarship, focused on art music and on original compositions, has paid scant attention to the vaudeville. But viewed through the lens of intertextuality, vaudevilles are complex works, combining music, prose, and poetry in a polyphony of meanings. The borrowed music reminds listeners of its original text, creating humorous and satirical juxtapositions with the new words and situation, as when the melody of a song about a man who is worthy of a portrait is sung by a character consumed by self-importance, making him seem ridiculous to an audience familiar with the tune, or when a conflict-laden ensemble from a Rossini opera Page xiv →is adapted and retexted for a comparatively trivial situation. The variety of borrowings in the music, from popular songs to operatic scenes, blended high and low culture and gave vaudevilles an appeal to all layers of French society. The ways the music carried meaning in vaudevilles, from invoking specific texts to general associations with genres, are echoed in recorded popular music of recent generations, and so is the intertextual network at work in vaudevilles. Moreover, the cultural work vaudevilles performed—bringing together the whole range of French society through references that were widely recognized—is paralleled in the ways modern recorded popular genres unite listeners, whether a specific age, ethnic, or interest group or the wide spectrum captured by occasional superstars such as the Beatles. Thus, Woodside’s essay offers a powerful reminder of the continuity from music that survives only in notation to the recorded music that is the primary subject of this book. In “Rap Gods and Monsters: Words, Music, and Images in the Hip-Hop Intertexts of Eminem, Jay-Z, and Kanye West,” Lori Burns and Alyssa Woods show how three stars of hip-hop use intertextual references to other rappers and popular media in their lyrics, music, and video images to establish identities as powerful figures who occupy central positions in hip-hop history and to confront issues of fame and race linked to hip-hop. In

“Rap God,” Eminem invokes his own past works, cites other rappers, emulates a variety of rapping styles to demonstrate his virtuosic command of the medium, and appropriates references to cultural icons and religious texts and symbols to position himself as the master of hip hop. Jay Z’s “Holy Grail” highlights his struggle with fame and the allure of celebrity through images of power and decay and invocations of figures such as Mike Tyson and Kurt Cobain who met both spectacular success and dramatic downfalls. In “Black Skinhead,” Kanye West uses references to King Kong and Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People” along with images of the Ku Klux Klan and of his own body in various representations, confronting American racial and religious politics by juxtaposing the stereotypes of the persecuted black man whose race is a threat and the rap warrior whose power is an attraction. All three tracks use intertextual play from samples and borrowings to stylistic evocations and multimedia imagery to create a mythic persona. In pulling together the variety of references and critical reactions, Burns and Woods embrace multiple categories of relations, from archiphonography to hyperphonography, interphonography, cophonography, and metaphonography. The ways these artists use intertextual references to construct their Page xv →identities within the hip-hop tradition is reminiscent of earlier composers using such references to create their own identities and negotiate their place in respect to historical precedent. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, for example, symphony composers such as the Russian Piotr Tchaikovsky, the Austro-Hungarian Gustav Mahler, and the American Charles Ives combined references to earlier symphonies with references to the folk, popular, and urban music of their native regions. These composers used not only direct quotations but also more subtle paraphrases and stylistic allusions to reflect their national identities and create individual personas within the international symphonic tradition. Similarly, in the decades after World War I, composers such as Arnold Schoenberg and Igor Stravinsky sought to claim a place alongside the great masters in the classical tradition by invoking forms, gestures, textures, and individual pieces from the Baroque and Classical eras while using highly distinctive personal modernist styles that asserted unique identities. The tradition of classical music relies as much on prestige as does hip-hop culture, and these composers were as attentively constructing their own mythic personas as were Eminem, Jay Z, and Kanye West. Stan Hawkins’s “Performative Strategies and Musical Markers in the Eurythmics’ Album Savage” focuses on aural and visual intertextuality in the video for the Eurythmics’ “I Need a Man.” The song itself engages interphonographically with previous songs about needing a man by Janis Joplin and others, but Annie Lennox’s performance suggests parody, transgressing categories of identity and gender. In the music and the video, Lennox plays simultaneously on the image of the blonde bombshell, with visual and aural allusions to Marilyn Monroe and Marlene Dietrich, and on over-the-top performers from drag queens to male rock stars such as Mick Jagger, mixing gender references and thereby calling into question conventional women’s roles from housewife to torch singer. At the same time, Dave Stewart’s guitar engages in gradually intensifying dialogue with Lennox, suggesting a male persona whom she ultimately rejects. The interplay of archiphonographic references to genres and performing styles in the music with visual display that adds cophonographic references to film, stage, and musical performers creates a complex spectacle that is simultaneously subversive and entertaining. Such interactions between the aural and the visual and the transgressive parody of references to familiar icons and styles are reminiscent of comic operas from Giovanni Battista Pergolesi’s in the early eighteenth century to Gilbert and Sullivan’s in the late nineteenth century, which frequently invoke styles and gestures of serious opera in comic ways, Page xvi →through exaggeration, incongruity, and other twists on the original. Incongruous mismatch between music and image is also a powerful element of film scoring that can be tragic as well as comic, as when battle scenes in Oliver Stone’s Platoon and in Akira Kurosawa’s Ran are underscored with intensely mournful music, combining intertextual references in visual and aural media that have contradictory associations. In “Timbre as Text: The Cognitive Roots of Intertextuality,” Simon Zagorski-Thomas looks at electronic music as a kind of intertext that we understand in relation to acoustic sounds. Using a theory of cognition as fundamentally metaphorical, he proposes that we understand everything we encounter through our own previous experiences, often blending previously unconnected experiences to explain something that transcends categories.

In this sense, the new experience is like a metaphor or a text that relates intertextually to our previous experiences. Electronic sounds operate in this way, so that we hear and interpret them as similar to one or more acoustic sounds even while recognizing their electronic origin. In Autechre’s “Fleur,” for example, low-frequency thumps suggest a bass drum, mid-frequency clangs a snare drum, and high metallic clicks a hi-hat, while differences in electronic manipulation suggest they are in different spaces and that at least the hi-hat sound is beyond the capacity of a human drummer to play. In J. Dilla’s “Detroit Madness,” electronic sounds again imitate acoustic instruments, yet their consistency makes them sound artificial, while unevenness in rhythm and articulation suggest a human performer shaping gestures and phrases. Sohn’s “Ransom Notes” applies reverberation to some sounds and not others to create a sense of floating in an artificial space in which electronic sounds contrast with elements that sound human-generated. Such interplay between evocations of the human and the mechanical or artificial is part of the meaning of electroacoustic music. Indeed, Zagorski-Thomas suggests, perhaps all music can be understood through how it relates to our previous experience with music, from melody and rhythm to formal structure. (I agree; I made precisely that argument in a 2006 article on associative meaning in music.) Zagorski-Thomas’s model for electronic music as metaphorical is an extension of metaphorical practices in earlier music, such as the imitation of birdsong in pieces such as ClГ©ment Janequin’s sixteenth-century polyphonic chanson “The Song of the Birds,” Beethoven’s early-nineteenth-century Pastoral Symphony, and Olivier Messiaen’s mid-twentieth-century chamber and orchestral music. When Mahler has the flute play the cuckoo’s song near the beginning of his First Symphony, Page xvii →we know it is not a real bird singing, but we immediately understand that a bird is being represented, and it joins with the references Mahler is making to hunting calls and other outdoor music to create a sense of being out in nature. On a more abstract level, undulating instrumental lines can represent gurgling streams or gentle breezes, as in Antonio Vivaldi’s concerto “Spring” from The Four Seasons, and rising and falling chromatic scales in the wind instruments and arpeggiated chords in the strings suggest the blowing wind and rocking waves of the sea in the finale of Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade. In the same way, electronic music evokes familiar sounds, thereby inviting us into its technologically created space even while reminding us of its artificiality. Justin A. Williams begins his chapter, “Intertextuality and Lineage in The Game’s вЂWe Ain’t’ and Kendrick Lamar’s вЂm.A.A.d. City,’” with the observation that hip-hop artists tend to cite their influences more directly than do artists in other genres of popular music and that they do so through many forms of intertextuality: not just sampling but also alluding to a rapper’s or producer’s style, reperforming segments of earlier recordings, quoting lyrics, and other types of reference. One significant purpose for all this citation is to construct a lineage, linking oneself to older artists. In “We Ain’t,” The Game places himself in the tradition of West Coast gangsta rap—specifically the lineage of N.W.A., Dr. Dre, 2Pac, Eminem, and 50 Cent—through the signature sound of Eminem (who produced the track), featuring Eminem as guest rapper, imitating Eminem’s rap style, singing part of the chorus as Eminem and 50 Cent sometimes do, sampling tracks by all of these artists, and references in the lyrics. Lamar cites the same lineage in a different way, featuring a high-pitched synthesizer as a stylistic allusion to previous songs by Dr. Dre, Snoop Doggy Dogg, and The Game but using it to critique rather than celebrate the gangsta lifestyle. The assertion of a place in a tradition is intrinsically an archiphonographic relationship between recordings, but the many quotations, allusions, and samples relate to specific recordings and are thus interphonographic. By including fans’ interpretations in the study, Williams encompasses metaphonographic relations as well, illuminating the interactions between all three categories of reference. As Williams points out, such construction of a lineage is found not only in hip-hop but in earlier music as well as in other popular traditions from jazz to blues to country. Beethoven placed himself in the tradition of Haydn and Mozart by seeking personal contact, emulating their music, learning their approach to the genres for which they were most famous, and attempting to best them at their own game. For a century afterPage xviii → Beethoven, hundreds of composers from Schubert, Schumann, and Mendelssohn through Wagner, Brahms, and Schoenberg tried to place themselves in the same lineage, using various strategies to do so. Going back further in history, Renaissance composers deliberately linked themselves to their most distinguished older colleagues, and the debate

songs of the troubadours and trouvГЁres in medieval France, who often quoted another’s words or grafted a new text onto a borrowed melody as a way to comment or engage in dialogue, respond to each other in ways very similar to rap songs of the past thirty-five years. In traditions where lineage matters, it should be no surprise that the intertextual methods for signaling lineage have such deep similarities. In the final chapter, “Mix Tapes, Memory, and Nostalgia: An Introduction to Phonographic Anthologies,” Serge Lacasse and Andy Bennett look at the polyphonographic relationships listeners construct by placing individual songs in a particular sequence on a mix tape, a personal anthology of song recordings by a variety of artists. Through their selection and ordering of the songs, often accompanied by their own paraphonographic commentary, compilers convey messages, expressing a set of feelings or emotions (as in a mix tape intended for a lover or friend) or conveying something of their reception and interpretation of the songs. There are communities of compilers who share their mix tapes or lists with each other, including through Facebook and on websites, and earn cultural capital within the group through their mixes and the (metaphonographic) reactions they elicit. Here, consumption and composition come together, as those who listen to music become also those who artfully arrange pieces in an order that creates new relationships and new meanings. Once again, strong parallels exist in earlier written traditions. Throughout the Middle Ages and Renaissance, scribes prepared manuscript collections of songs and dance music, from the Cantigas de Santa Maria compiled around 1270–90 under the supervision of King Alfonso the Wise of Castile and LГ©on, through the many chansonniers with songs by troubadours and trouvГЁres, to the richly decorated collections of polyphonic songs put together in the fifteenth century as gifts to nobility. With the dawn of music printing in 1501, early printers such as Ottaviano Petrucci and Pierre Attaingnant assembled collections of songs by many authors for several voices or for voice and lute, making the anthology the most popular early form of published music. When the printing of individual pieces became common and a mass market for sheet music developed in the nineteenth century, amateur performers put together Page xix →their own albums of piano pieces, songs, or other genres, arranged in a specific order, and had them bound for their own use, in a close parallel to the mix tape that often carried similarly personal meanings. Lacasse and Bennett point out that mix tape communities on the Internet regard the compilation of mixes as an art that brings diverse elements into a new and meaningful configuration, and scholars of past musical traditions are increasingly coming to view collecting scores and compiling anthologies as interesting arts in themselves. All these comparisons with older traditions do not suggest that there is nothing new under the sun, for musicians, producers, and consumers of recorded popular music have shown endless creativity in inventing new effects, pushing technology to new uses, and devising new combinations of sounds and textures drawn from the music around them. The comparisons made here—and the many more that could be made if I had endless space and you had endless patience—show that the same creativity has been present throughout history. In many cases, such parallels are the result of rediscovering an idea from the past through new means; both hip-hop songs and medieval motets may take bass lines from previous music, but there is no evidence that the inventors of hip-hop knew or drew on medieval music. Instead, artists in all eras have used a similar repertoire of ways to recycle and remake existing music into new music, probably because the nature of sound itself and the ways humans think have opened up particular possibilities. At the same time, there is continuity between the music of the present and the music of the previous generation, and the same is true for each generation before us. Some of the ways of reusing existing music—such as varying a tune, arranging a new accompaniment for a melodic line, adding new words to an existing melody, making new music over a bass line or chord progression, taking a melodic or rhythmic idea in a new direction, or putting borrowed material in a new context, all of which are mentioned in this collection—have been practiced continuously since they were first devised long ago. Some of the tunes we sing have been around for centuries and have been reworked and reshaped by countless musicians over time. We in the present owe a debt to every era of past music, from the scales inherited from ancient Greece to the notation system originally devised for chant, the notions of romantic love and the pains of unrequited love that were themes of the troubadours, the sweet harmonies and counterpoint of Renaissance composers, the chords and progressions worked out in the seventeenth century and theorized in the eighteenth, the instruments created and refined from the sixteenth Page xx →through

the nineteenth centuries, the diverse textures invented for music over the past several centuries, the complex chords and chromaticism introduced in the nineteenth century, and the rethinking of what music should sound like and do that emerged in the twentieth. All these aspects and many others play a role in recorded popular music and in all the music of our day. The intertextual network reaches farther back in time than we can trace and in endlessly complex ways. The essays in this volume demonstrate again and again how fascinating it is to trace what one song draws from another and how each person—artist or producer, musician or consumer—uses old threads to weave new meanings.

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Introduction Lori Burns and Serge Lacasse POPULAR MUSIC IS undoubtedly a multilayered palimpsest: we find not only innumerable versions of preexisting songs reborn in different styles but also entire genres based on borrowing or hybridization (e.g., hiphop, mash-ups). Beyond obvious legal issues surrounding the use of “borrowed texts” that are often dealt with in writings about musical intertextuality, this behavior has other implications on both musical and sociocultural levels: for example, it can serve as a means for affirming stylistic lineage, parodying another artist, or critiquing sociopolitical events. This collection of essays provides a unique vision for intertextuality in recorded popular music covering a wide range of musical styles and artists from deejaying to French chanson and from the Electric Light Orchestra to Kanye West. Musical intertextuality has emerged as a provocative area of research over the past twenty years, offering musicologists an analytic lens for examining relationships between a variety of both musical and nonmusical texts. Influential studies in the field of classical musicology include Michael Klein’s Intertextuality in Western Art Music (2005); J. Peter Burkholder’s website, “Musical Borrowing: An Annotated Bibliography”;1 David Metzer’s Quotation and Cultural Meaning in Twentieth-Century Music (2003), which considers musical quotation as an intertextual practice in a variety of musical traditions, including classical, popular, jazz, and electroacoustic; and Jacques Julien’s Parodie-Chanson: L’Air du Singe (1995), which explores the specific practice of parody in French chanson. Though several studies of intertextuality have appeared in the field of popular music studies (e.g., Monson 1996; Lacasse 2000, 2007; Page 2 →Middleton 2000; Butler 2003; Nicholson 2006; Spicer 2009; Williams 2013; Burns, Woods, and Lafrance 2015), this is the first essay collection dedicated to a range of intertextual relationships in the tradition of recorded popular music. George Plasketes’s edited collection, Play It Again: Cover Songs in Popular Music (2010), arguably comes closest in scope to this project as the only collection to consider intertextual relations specifically in recorded popular music. However, Plasketes’s focus on the intertextual practice of cover songs was not intended to consider the range of intertextual relationships emerging within the intertextual network of popular music. Consequently, this collection complements Plasketes’s volume.2 Finally, Jeremy Beadle’s Will Pop Eat Itself (1993) is a nonacademic book dealing with the practice of sampling. Although aimed at a popular/commercial audience, Beadle offers insights into the relationships between popular music and technology.3 This collection fills a gap in popular music scholarship, not only considering a broader range of intertextual relationships in popular music but doing so from a series of perspectives: production strategies, gender issues, analytic methodologies, consumer appropriations, and others. Our general theoretical orientation is a rather neostructuralist vision of intertextuality (in the lineage of GГ©rard Genette’s epistemological stance)—that is, aware of postmodernist developments while acknowledging the necessity of close-reading analysis for a deeper understanding of musical phenomena. Consequently, while some chapters offer theoretical perspectives on popular music intertextuality, others focus on intertextual analyses of specific songs or processes. The first section of the book, “Transtextualities,” comprises two chapters that feature Genette’s influential work on intertextuality. Serge Lacasse’s foundational “Toward a Model of Transphonography” thoroughly reviews Genette’s framework for intertextuality as published in Palimpsests (1982/1997). This rigorous examination of Genette’s work and its application to the field of music emerged from seminars that Lacasse taught in the early 2000s at both Western University (London, Ontario) and UniversitГ© Laval (Quebec City). Lacasse’s chapter thus offers a comprehensive model for intertextual analysis that builds on and expands Genette’s work to account for the relations that arise in popular music recordings. In chapter 2, Roger Castonguay applies Genette’s model to the analysis of a specific popular music song, Genesis’s “Los Endos,” uncovering how the song astutely integrates material from other songs on A Trick of the Tail (1976) as well as from other Genesis recordings,Page 3 → thus proposing an intratextual reading of the famous progressive rock band’s music.

Section II, “Intertextual Analyses,” offers a diverse collection of analytic essays using alternative models that illustrate the range of intertextual practices in the domain of popular music. In chapter 3, Allan Moore explores a web of intertextual connections in several cover versions of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” including consideration of the fan responses to the different performances. Mark Spicer’s chapter 4 tells the extraordinary tale—through the lens of Harold Bloom’s “anxiety of influence”—of the Beatles’ musical impact on the Electric Light Orchestra, digging into Jeff Lynne’s songwriting to illustrate the references to John Lennon and Paul McCartney’s work. Chapter 5, a reprint of Walter Everett’s 2010 article for Popular Music, analyzes singles for which alternate mixes and edited versions were produced for different markets, covering a range of examples across popular music history. Relying on the work of Julia Kristeva and Mikhail Bakhtin, William Echard’s chapter 6 proposes a dialogic reading of Neil Young’s music by extending the analysis to the rock genre and Young’s artistic persona. The section ends with Mary Woodside’s intertextual reading of the French vaudeville of the early nineteenth century, illustrating how this bourgeois popular music form, filled with musical and textual references, contributed to the social discourse of the time. The chapters in Section III, “Intermedial Subjectivities,” focus on issues of performative identities and subjectivities as they emerge in multimedia modes of expression. Here, we offer two studies that demonstrate how intertextual references can be developed to establish and confront issues of gender, sexuality, race, and class in popular music texts. In chapter 8, Lori Burns and Alyssa Woods analyze hip-hop intertextual practices in music videos by Jay-Z, Eminem, and Kanye West that invoke mythmaking strategies to represent the artists as deified rap figures. Stan Hawkins’s chapter 9 considers the notion of idiolect, examining Annie Lennox’s signifying practices in a Eurythmics video and detailing the intertextual material and cultural influences that position Lennox within the genre of mainstream pop. The final section, “Intertextual Productions,” considers how intertextuality might manifest itself in the creative processes of music production: songwriting, production, deejaying, mixing, and the creation of playlists. This section features three essays that open up issues of intertextual practices in record production. In chapter 10 “Timbre as Text: The Cognitive Page 4 →Roots of Intertextuality,” Simon Zagorski-Thomas shows how record production—particularly regarding the treatment of timbre—creates a space of intertextual interaction between musical sounds and the sounds we experience in the “real” world. In chapter 11, Justin Williams builds on his 2013 monograph on hip-hop intertextuality with a detailed analysis of hip-hop lineage in The Game’s “We Ain’t” (2005). Finally, Serge Lacasse and Andy Bennett study the practice of playlisting, as observed on The Art of the Mix website in the early 2000s. Applying Bourdieu’s concept of cultural capital, they propose a sociological interpretation of the ways members of this virtual community interact. As The Pop Palimpsest demonstrates, musical intertextuality is not just a creative practice or a process but rather a network of songs, styles, artists, and consumers influenced, directly or indirectly, by the music and artists that came before: by this definition, popular music is intertextual.

Notes We thank Jada Watson for her invaluable work and Michaël Garancher for his help. This book was made possible by financial support from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. 1. For Burkholder’s website, see http://www.chmtl.indiana.edu/borrowing/index.html 2. Play It Again seems to constitute an extension of Popular Music and Society 28 (2) (2005), which deals mostly with the practice of covering and opens with an article by Plasketes. 3. A number of authors have approached popular music from an intertextual angle without doing so explicitly. See, for example, Gendron 1986; Negus 1996; Keightley 2011.

References Beadle, Jeremy. 1993. Will Pop Eat Itself? London: Faber and Faber. Butler, Mark. 2003. “Taking It Seriously: Intertextuality and Authenticity in Two Covers by the Pet Shop

Boys.” Popular Music 22 (1): 1–19. Gendron, Bernard. 1986. “Theodor Adorno Meets the Cadillacs.” In Studies in Entertainment, edited by Tania Modleski, 18–38. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Genette, GГ©rard. 1982/1997. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Translated by Channa Newman and Claude Doubinsky. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Julien, Jacques. 1995. Parodie-chansonВ : L’air du singe. Montreal: Triptyque. Keightley, Keir. 2011. “Un Voyage via BarquinhoВ .В .В .В : Global Circulation, Musical Page 5 →Hybridization, and Adult Modernity, 1961–69.” In Migrating Music, edited by Jason Toynbee and Byron Dueck, 112–26. London: Routledge. Klein, Michael, 2005. Intertextuality in Western Art Music. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lacasse, Serge. 2000/2007. “Intertextuality and Hypertextuality in Recorded Popular Music.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by Michael Talbot, 35–58. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Reprinted in Critical Essays in Popular Musicology, edited by Allan Moore, 147–70. Aldershot: Ashgate. Metzer, David. 2003. Quotation and Cultural Meaning in Twentieth-Century Music. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Middleton, Richard. 2000. “Work-in(g)-Practice: Configurations of the Popular Music Intertext.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by Michael Talbot, 59–88. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Monson, Ingrid. 1996. “Intermusicality.” In Saying Something: Jazz Improvisation and Interaction, 97–132. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Negus, Keith. 1996. “Histories.” In Popular Music in Theory: An Introduction, 136–63. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Nicholson, Sara Warburton. 2006. Beyond Quotation: Intertextuality in Popular Music Studies. PhD diss., University of Rochester. Plasketes, George, ed. 2010. Play It Again: Cover Songs in Popular Music. Aldershot: Ashgate. Spicer, Mark. 2009. “Strategic Intertextuality in Three of John Lennon’s Late Beatles Songs.” Gamut 2 (1): 347–76. Williams, Justin A. 2013. Rhymin’ and Stealin’: Musical Borrowing in Hip-Hop. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Section I Transtextualities

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One. Toward a Model of Transphonography Serge Lacasse One who really loves texts must wish from time to time to love (at least) two together. —GГ©rard Genette (1997a, 399) Even if the inspiration is implicit or unacknowledged, songs are heard alongside and in relation to other songs (by songwriter and listener alike). This is integral to how they narrate the world to us. —Keith Negus (2012, 370) IN HIS REVIEW of Goldmember (Roach 2002), the third movie of a trilogy featuring Austin Powers (played by Mike Myers), John Walsh (2002, 1) writes, Allusions, nods, echoes, hommages—Austin Powers has them all. Movies today are all about yesterday’s movies.В .В .В . We seem to have entered a filmic Echoland, in which virtually every major new movie is, or contains, a parody or pastiche or spoof or remake of another film or several others. After an enumeration of many examples of these practices as found in Goldmember and other movies, Walsh (2002, 2) then attempts to describe this “Echoland” from a more theoretical perspective: You could say this is all postmodernism run riot, but there is a better name for it than that. Many people misunderstand or confuse “parody” and “pastiche,” and think they both mean satirical mockery.Page 10 → Parody is defined as a satirical imitation for purposes of mockery. Pastiche means a jumble, a pot-pourri, a hash of ingredientsВ .В .В . in a stew of different bits and pieces. It’s a composition “made up of bits of other works or imitations of another’s style,” which seems the perfect definition of modern cinema. Of course, this could apply just as well to popular music: Perhaps more than ever before, popular songs are related to each other in various degrees, sharing and borrowing all sorts of features. For example, not only do we find innumerable (serious or parodic) cover versions of existing songs, but the advent of digital recording has now made sampling one of the most prominent features of today’s popular music. As illustrated by Walsh’s review, it is always helpful to agree on a set of terms before engaging in a discussion. Although I do not adopt Walsh’s definitions of parody and pastiche, the aim of this chapter is quite similar: to propose a theoretical framework for describing and categorizing the kinds of relations that might link pop recordings to others. This is a task I have set about doing in earlier writings,1 but my goal here is to present a general model of what I call transphonography—a set of eight intertextual perspectives for recorded popular music. I provide a series of terms and definitions that enrich the analysis of pre-

and coexisting elements in popular music with the aim of helping us to better understand our relationship with the music. As a theoretical starting point, I begin with a model developed by literary theorist GГ©rard Genette in his Palimpsests, which still constitutes one of the landmarks of literary theory more than thirty-five years after its initial publication.2 In the book’s introduction, Genette (1997a, 1) defines transtextuality as “all that sets the text in a relationship, whether obvious or concealed, with other texts.” This very broad conception of textual transcendence is virtually synonymous with intertextuality, a term widely in use in academia today.3 However, in my opinion, the most interesting aspect of Genette’s model is the way in which he divides transtextuality into “five types of transtextual relationships” (1). • Genette first restricts the definition of intertextuality to “a relationship of copresence between two texts or among several texts: that is to say, eidetically and typically as the actual presence of one text within another” (1–2). He then mentions quoting as the most explicit form of this “restricted” form of intertextuality.4 • Genette’s second type of transtextuality is paratextuality, which Page 11 →comprises “those liminal devices and conventions, both within the book (peritext) and outside it (epitext), that mediate the book to the reader” (Macksey 1997, xviii), such as the book title, illustrations, footnotes (peritext), or promotional material and interviews with the author (epitext).5 • On a third level, Genette (1997a, 4) defines metatextuality as any form of commentary: “It unites a given text to another, of which it speaks without necessarily citing it (without summoning it), in fact sometimes even without naming it.” Elsewhere he adds, “All literary critics, for centuries, have been producing metatexts without knowing it” (Genette 1992, 82). • Genette defines his fourth type of transtextual relationship, hypertextuality (1997a, 5), as “any relationship uniting a text B [the hypertext] to an earlier text A [the hypotext], upon which it is grafted in a manner that is not that of commentary.” Apparently not happy with such a negative definition and perhaps in response to some critics of his work, Genette (2005, 10) later proposed a simpler alternative: a “hypertext is a text that derives from another by a formal and/or thematic process of transformation.”6 • Finally, Genette’s fifth type of transtextuality, architextuality, constitutes “the most abstract and implicit of the transcendent categories, the relationship of inclusion linking each text to the various kinds of discourse of which it is a representative” (Mackey 1997, xix). Among other things, it studies the generic appurtenance of texts that is “known to guide and determine to a considerable degree the readers’ expectations, and thus their reception of the work” (Genette 1997a, 5). In this chapter, I adapt Genette’s transtextuality to popular music. However, as the term transphonography implies, I restrict my model almost exclusively to popular music recordings (phonograms).7 Without getting into a deep metaphysical argument about what constitutes a popular musical text,8 suffice it to say that while experiencing a recording, listeners can arguably focus on one or more of three sets of parameters: first, listeners can attend to the structural aspects of the recorded song (that is, the abstract parameters constituting the composition and the arrangement—melodic line, harmonic progression, form, and so forth). In that listening mode, music is approached as an allographic object whose constitutive elements (pitches, durations, form, and so on) are rather easy to notate on paper.9 Second, listeners can concentrate Page 12 →on aspects of performance (performatory parameters) that are now “fixed” by the recording, such as “nonstandard pitch and non-discrete pitch movement; irregular, irrational rhythmsВ .В .В .В ; nuances of ornamentation, accent, articulationВ .В .В . and performance idiolect; specificities (as opposed to abstractions) of certain timbre”(Middleton 1990, 105). While in this mode of listening a recording might be considered contingent to the ideal (allographic) song—as one of many possible manifestations of the song—it might also be approached as constitutive of a unique and ephemeral event: a performance. Such a performance has occurred at one particular moment and place and will never be exactly replicable (even by the same

performer).10 Third, recorded performances are mediated to listeners through what I have called elsewhere phonographic staging (Lacasse 2000c, 2002, 2010b), resulting from the manipulation and combination of technological parameters: sound levels, spatial effects (reverberation, panning, and so on), timbre alterations (phasing, distortion, equalization, and so forth), and other editing effects such as overdubbing. In this mode, not only can a recording (in principle) be infinitely duplicated (multiple autographic objects), but what is heard follows a long process involving many decisions and operations (repeated takes, editing, montage, mixing, and so forth), giving rise to a different kind of musical object altogether. In short, a phonogram fixes and stages a set of combined performances of a given ideal composition. When studying relations between and among popular music recordings, one has to take into account these three ontological levels that are characteristic of the phonogram.11 On the level of the ideal song (composition), one can study relations between lyrics and music or between melody and harmony. For example, in “Smells Like Nirvana,” a parodic version of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” Weird Al Yankovic has kept the basic melody, harmonic progression, and arrangements while substantially altering the lyrics. On the performance level, one could focus on the specific elements that make Yankovic’s vocal performance “similar” to Kurt Cobain’s. This would lead the analyst to observe that although Yankovic has changed the lyrics, he has attempted to imitate (and exaggerate) certain features of Cobain’s performance. Finally, on the phonographic level, this “corrupted” version of Nirvana’s recording is quite different from one that might have arisen from a digital sample of the song, since a “digital sample of an autographic musical work has a very different ontological status than a вЂreproduction’ or performance of an allographic work like a song” (Gracyk 1996, 96).12 Consequently, I take into account relations between abstract parameters (melody, harmony,Page 13 → lyrics, and so forth) characteristic of the allographic regime (composition, arrangement) as well as more concrete parameters (“fixed” performances and staging effects) characteristic of a recording’s autographic regime.13 And all of these elements interact in a dynamic transphonographic system.

From Transtextuality to Transphonography Towards the end of Palimpsests, Genette invites other scholars to explore the possibility of adapting his model to other artistic practices, but such a project would not seek to extrapolate to all the arts the results of his own exploration. Rather, he says, “I envision a series of specific inquiries concerning each type of art, where possible parallelisms and convergences should in no case be postulated beforehand but observed after the fact” (1997a, 392).14 Here I offer a starting point for the adaptation of transtextuality to recorded popular music. As a first step in the adaptation process, I simply replace the suffix -textuality by -phonography for each of Genette’s five types of transtextuality. This yields five important terms for the study of recordings: interphonography, paraphonography, metaphonography, hyperphonography, and archiphonography. To these five types of transphonographic practices, I add three other types put forward by other authors for which no corresponding types exist in Genette’s model: polytextuality (polyphonography), cotextuality (cophonography) and transfictionality.15 Each of these eight transphonographic categories offers a particular way of linking together phonograms as well as some nonphonographic texts. Consequently, transphonography is anything but a fixed concept: it is, rather, a malleable tool that can help us to establish different kinds of relations between existing recordings and their related texts. For example, one could wish to discuss the presence of a given sample from an existing recording A in a “host” recording B: this would constitute a case of interphonography. However, perhaps that same “host” recording B is known as a parody of a third recording C. At that level, and independent of the fact that recording B contains a sample from A, a characterization of the parodic relationship between B and C would typically be hyperphonographic. The study of recording C’s liner notes and the analysis of its reviews in newspapers would respectively belong to the realms of para- and metaphonography. In addition, perhaps recordings A and C share stylistic features,

the analysis of which would be a matter for archiphonography. Imagine that all three recordings appear on a same CD compilation: the study of the criteria Page 14 →that led to their grouping in that particular sequence would belong to the domain of polyphonography. Similarly, the video to recording B might display an image of a poem whose interaction with the recorded song may give rise to additional cophonographic meanings. Finally, recordings A, B, and C might share common characters inhabiting a common (trans)fictional world. Put another way, each of these categories constitutes a particular perspective that has the potential to reveal aspects of an object of inquiry, and together the categories form a complex and multidimensional framework for the interpretation of interrelationships between and among recordings. As a second step in this adaptation and expansion of Genette’s model, I propose a graphic representation of transphonographic practices and some of their possible modes of interaction (figure 1.1). This figure presents two ways of considering transphonographic practices. First, elements are grouped in three “conceptual areas,” indicated by the circles. In that mode of distribution, categories are grouped according to the types of texts with which phonograms mostly interact. For example, meta-, co-, and paraphonography are grouped together because most of their associated texts are not recordings but are written, verbal, or visual texts (liner notes, reviews, videos, and so forth), hence the label “Extraphonographic Practices.” Conversely, transfictionality as well as hyper-, inter-, and polyphonography all involve relations occurring mostly among actual recordings, hence the label “Phonographic Practices.” A hyperphonogram, such as a parodic song, derives from an existing recording; an interphonogram, such as a sample, is taken from another recording; a polyphonogram, such as a mix tape, is made out of many isolated recordings; a transfictional phonogram participates to the same fictional world as other recordings. Finally, archiphonography refers not to actual recordings—or to any other type of texts, for that matter—but to sets of abstract criteria, be they stylistic, generic, or other, that link recordings to others, hence its own dedicated conceptual area. In addition to those conceptual areas, the figure distributes the transphonographic categories vertically (as indicated by the dotted lines) based on their degree of complexity.16 Accordingly, archiphonography, the most abstract category, is located at the highest level, while inter-, poly-, and paraphonography occupy the lowest level. Indeed, archiphonography refers to sets of abstract criteria according to which recordings can be classified and goes beyond the recordings themselves. As Genette (1997a, 4) puts it, “In all cases, the text itself is not supposed to know, and consequently not meant to declare, its generic quality.” On the contrary, Page 15 →to “produce” an interphonogram, one has “simply” to quote an excerpt of an existing song (or phonogram). Similarly, paraphonography basically comprises an ensemble of first-generation material as opposed to metaphonographic material (for example, a review) that follows an additional process of critical thinking. The same is true for polyphonography, which usually involves only the ordering of existing phonograms, such as in a playlist. While these interpretive practices (inter-, para-, and metaphonography) are relatively basic, the higher-level practices arranged in the middle layer of the figure are the result of more complex processes: the creation of an entirely new phonogram following the transformation of preexisting material (in the case of hyperphonography); the design of an encompassing fictional world (in the case of transfictionality); or the interaction between phonograms and other media to create complementary meanings (in the case of cophonography).17 Figure 1.1. Transphonographic Practices The figure also features a number of arrows and intersections of conceptual areas to illustrate how categories might interact or overlap. Indeed, one must not view the eight types of transphonography “as separate and absolute categories without any reciprocal contact or overlapping. On the contrary, their relationships to one another are numerous and often crucial” (Genette 1997a, 7).18 Accordingly, the bidirectional arrows linking transphonographic practices and the intersections of overlapping circles indicate that it is possible to approach one category from Page 16 →the perspective of another.19 Still referring to our previous example of

recordings A, B, and C, the archiphonographic (generic) “appurtenance” of recordings A and C can be announced by way of paraphonographic clues (Genette 1997a, 8), as illustrated by the intersection between archiphonography and the “Extraphonographic Practices” area. Conversely, the intersection also signals the possibility of approaching paraphonographic practices from an archiphonographic point of view.20 A second example of transphonography’s “porosity” would involve studying a parody of an existing recording (hyperphonography) as a kind of critical commentary on that recording (metaphonography). Transphonographic categories might often complement each other as well, depending on the analyst’s will. Take the case of young popular musicians who, according to Lucy Green’s (2001) invaluable study, tend to learn from imitating what is heard on their favorite recordings.21 One could imagine that later in their career, the same musicians might form a band and record their own CD in a style influenced by those “pedagogical” recordings, a process that might be approached from an archiphonographic perspective (belonging to a given stylistic “tradition”) and a hyperphonographic one (process of imitation). In my opinion, all of these potential interactions only make the transphonographic figure more powerful. Of course, the arrows and intersections in the chart suggest only a few of the potential interactions; readers may find many others.

Transphonographic Practices Having demonstrated how to work with the three conceptual areas of the transphonographic map, as well as the hierarchical layers of complexity, I turn to adapting Genette’s theory for recording practices. I discuss and illustrate the eight transphonographic types to reveal the specificities of each category using examples taken primarily from existing literature. Practices are presented according to the map’s three conceptual areas, beginning with archiphonography. Archiphonography The model’s first conceptual area includes a single item, archiphonography, that is concerned with relationships occurring at the highest, most abstract level. Paraphrasing Genette (1997a, 1), it comprises “the entire set of general or transcendent categories—types of discourse, Page 17 →[performing styles], [musical] genres—from which emerges each singular” phonogram. A possible metaphor for representing archiphonography could be a skewer, with which one would pierce a given set of recordings according to an ensemble of ad hoc criteria. For example, one could decide to group together all albums whose title begins with an S or to study a set of CDs according to their artist’s geographic or ethnic origins (Brackett 2015, 196–99). Of course, there are an infinite number of possible criteria, although some will be more interesting or revealing than others. Another way of looking at archiphonography would be through the lens of tradition and thus musical genres and styles: When we practice or listen to music, we do so in accordance with rules and conventions associated with one or many genres that have constituted themselves over time. Consciously or not, we respond to these conventions in different ways: by playing in specific ways, by evaluating the music we hear, by moving our bodies (more or less in accordance with a parallel set of rules). Of course, these traditions are always in the process of becoming, and creativity—on the part of both producers and listeners—plays a crucial role in this process of negotiation among tastes, expectations, social functions, and cultural backgrounds.22 Thus, archiphonography is always in movement and can become, for example, the theoretical locus for the study of intergeneric practices. In this regard, David Brackett (2002, 67), invoking Derrida, writes, GenresВ .В .В . overlap, and are constituted differently in different contexts.В .В .В . Due to this phenomenon, a given musical text may belong to more than one genre simultaneously.В .В .В . While close enough inspection of any text will throw into doubt that it belongs simply to a single genre, so is it

also impossible to imagine a genre-less text.23

In his chapter in this volume, William Echard offers a way to circumvent this potential theoretical problem when he proposes approaching genre as a kind of text, thereby opening the way to a form of generic intertextuality: “Styles are textual insofar as they are sites in which particular configurations and structures are dynamically mobilized for the creation of meaning in particular contexts” (174). In fact, such a dynamic mobilization of various stylistic “configurations and structures” characterizes the sound of much of today’s popular music.24 Explicitly taking up the issue of stylistic mobility, Mark Spicer (2010, 124) writes, “For many artistsВ .В .В . it is impossible to categorize them Page 18 →within the boundaries of one particular style; indeed, stylistic eclecticism becomes the defining feature of their music.” Spicer addresses the challenge of stylistic hybridization by drawing on Kofi Agawu’s (1991) notion of “Universe of Topics.” In his analysis, Spicer (2010, 126) depicts the Police’s “Universe of Style”: “At the center of this universe we find planet Reggae and its neighboring planet Punk, the two musical worlds where, at least initially, the Police most often resided.В .В .В . [S]ometimes the Police chose to leave these planets behind in order to visit neighboring musical worlds such as jazz, prog, and synth pop.” Of importance for our discussion, Spicer invokes Agawu’s notion of topic to act as a stylistic synecdoche: for Spicer (2010, 127), “a style as a musical worldВ .В .В . is defined by a family of specific musical devices; in other words, a style can be thought of as a collection of topics.25 This is an important distinction, because sometimes just one little topic can be enough to evoke the essence of a style as a whole.” Accordingly, Spicer proposes an analysis of a few Police recordings that display particular features such as guitar riffs, rhythm patterns, and keyboard sounds, each functioning as a synecdoche for the style of which it is a representative. By combining this synecdochic material with other elements more specific to the music of the Police, such as melodies, recording techniques, or Sting’s voice, the Police’s own style starts to emerge.26 Archiphonography clearly leads us to the vast shores of genre studies, which probably constitute one of the most important aspects of transphonography and of popular music studies in general, for that matter. However, archiphonography is not concerned only with the questions of genre and style but rather points to an even wider horizon that still needs to be mapped.27 For now, let us turn to categories belonging to the map’s second conceptual area, which constitutes the most common and meaningful intertextual practices found in recorded popular music, such as covering, sampling, and the creation of compilations. Hyperphonography: Transformations Phonographic Relations

Hyperphonography includes a large number of practices whose main characteristic is the transformation of existing songs and recordings. More precisely, to paraphrase Genette, a hyperphonogram is a phonogram that derives from a previous phonogram (hypophonogram) following a process of formal and/or thematic transformation. Remixes, Page 19 →parodies, pastiches,28 and cover versions all fall into this category, as do many other more specific practices, such as transmetrification (e.g., playing a song in a 3/4 waltz rhythm instead of its original 4/4), transexuation (e.g., having a female artist performing a piece originally recorded by a male artist), or editing (reducing or lengthening a given recording). This section explores examples of typical transformational practices in the popular music repertoire. Before embarking on this voyage, however, it is important first to agree on a number of principles derived from Genette’s work. First, as Genette (1997a, 9) makes clear, hypertextuality is concerned with works taken in their entirety: “an entire work B deriving from an entire work A.”

Accordingly, hyperphonographic relations should generally be considered at the level of a whole phonogram: Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” taken as a whole, is the hypophonogram of Yankovic’s “Smells Like Nirvana,” taken as a whole. Second, the derivation process might occur on different levels (composition, performance, and/or phonography): changing the lyrics of a song and reperforming it—which is basically what Yankovic does—is different from a remix, which involves the reorganization of previously recorded elements. The former acts on the level of the (allographic) composition, while the latter also transforms the (autographic) hyperphonogram. Moreover, many (if not all) forms of autographic transformation will have a direct impact on the allographic structure as well: for example, if, in the remix in question, the engineer chooses to cut the voice during a whole verse, the change will affect the form of the (allographic) song. Third, hyperphonography and hypertextuality in general are not directly concerned with commentary. All hyperphonograms contain some form of criticism: there is no way to avoid the fact that Yankovic’s parody is “criticizing” Nirvana’s song, the group Nirvana, or possibly the grunge genre in general by making fun of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”29 With these principles in mind, I briefly discuss a few hyperphonographic practices. Covering constitutes one of the most common forms of hyperphonography found in popular music.30 However, the term cover itself may refer to a wide range of different practices; George Plasketes (1992, 2005, 2010) has undertaken the task of describing them. Plasketes (2005, 150) observes that the transformations underlying the practice of covering “span a broad spectrum, from literal readings or clones to loose translations to shape shifters to mutations remote from the original.” Indeed, some covers involve much more important transformations not only of the song itself but also of the singer’s persona. Page 20 →In an interesting example of this phenomenon, Wendy Nixon (2003) illustrates how tribute bands re-create as perfectly as possible the original bands’ performances—the music, lyrics, performing styles, staging effects, and even personas—a practice that seems closer to copying than to covering.31 By contrast, however, a cover performance can dramatically shift the parameters of the original song’s persona. For example, Johnny Cash’s famous and powerful version (2002) of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” (1994) shifts the song’s meaning with the singer’s persona: while “вЂHurt’ was written by [Trent] Reznor as a description of the pain caused by heroin addiction,” the aging Cash’s version shows “nothing more than a ghost trying to anoint the pain and grief felt by those around him” (JimmyO 2003). Further along this path, when Mike Flowers covers Oasis’s “Wonderwall” in a kind of 1960s cocktail musical style, not only Oasis’s style but also the singer’s persona are profoundly altered: in this form of travesty, Flowers’s invented persona performs the song, transferring it into a completely different generic context.32 Persona, then, plays a central role in the process of covering performance and thus is also the topic of much scholarly consideration. According to Simon Frith (1996, 186, 212), popular music singers may embody three levels of personality at once. Philip Auslander (2004, 6) systematizes and expands Frith’s proposal, referring to the three layers as “the real person (the performer as human being), the performance persona (which corresponds to Frith’s star personality or image) and the character (Frith’s song personality).” All three layers, Auslander continues, “may be active simultaneously in a given performance.” For example, in “’97 Bonnie & Clyde,” we hear at once Slim Shady (character), personified by the artist named Eminem (performance persona), whose real name is Marshall Mathers (real person).33 Any description of covers should then take this prominent modifiable parameter into account.34 In addition to these considerations of persona and performance, there are, of course, additional implications for the practice of covering: “These rerecordings represent artefacts which embody artistic, social, cultural, historical, commercial, biographical, and novel meanings” (Plasketes 1992, 2). For example, Dai Griffiths (2002, 61) analyzes covers resulting from linguistic, racial, geographical, or sociopolitical transformations, concluding that “cover versions can supply case studies for the textual illustration and mounting of discussion around questions of identity and political power.”

Beyond the very prominent example of covering, hyperphonography comprises many other practices. Genette’s list of transformations Page 21 →includes tens if not hundreds of practices classified in a number of different categories and subcategories. However, he does not suggest that we take these operations in isolation. Rather, most hyperphonograms (including covers) that result from a transformational process “depend upon several of these operations at once and cannot be reduced to any one of them except in terms of dominant characteristics, or for the purpose of accommodating the requirements of analysis and convenient presentation” (Genette 1997a, 213). Accordingly, Genette’s listing should not be considered a classification of transformational practices “but rather an inventory of their basic procedures, which each work combines in its own way.” When applied to music, this list gets even longer: In music, the range of transformational possibilities isВ .В .В . broader than in literatureВ .В .В .В , given the complexity of musical discourse, which, unlike literary text, is unhampered by the strict “linearity” of the verbal signifier. Even a single and isolated sound is defined by four parameters at least (pitch, intensity, duration, timbre), each of which can be modified separately by means of transposition, dynamic reinforcement or weakening, a lengthening or abridgement of the sound production, a change of timbre. A melody, or linear succession of single sounds, can be subjected to as many elementary alterations in its entirety or in each of its constituent parts. In addition, it lends itself to more complex transformations: inversions of intervals, retrogressive movements, combinations of the two, changes of rhythm and/or tempo, and all the potential combinations of those various options. The harmonic or contrapuntal superimposition of several melodic lines multiplies this already considerable array of possibilities. Finally, song may append to the musical discourse an additional track—“words”—that brings along its own transformational potential: different words on the same tune, a different tune for the same words, etc. This mind-boggling transformational capacity is the very soul of musical composition, and not merely in its “classical” state, since the same principles are known to operate in jazz, for instance.В .В .В . What in literature still passes for a somewhat marginal diversion is almost universally considered as the basic principle of the musical “development”: i.e., of musical discourse. (Genette 1997a, 386–87) Although Genette acknowledges many of the ways in which a piece of music can be transformed through the manipulation of abstract and performatory parameters, he does not mention technological parameters. Page 22 →Many hyperphonographic practices in popular music involve transformations affecting the recordings themselves, as is the case with editing or remixing. I refer to the practice of technological manipulation under the general heading of quantitative transformations. As the name indicates, Genette’s quantitative transformations affect the dimension of the hyperphonogram. Excision involves amputating a whole section of the hypotext or pruning it down by removing smaller elements here and there from the original text (Genette 1977a, 229–35). In music’s allographic regime, such a procedure is relatively common. For example, in “Smells Like Nirvana,” Yankovic shortens the pre-chorus simply by removing repetitions. But we observe similar forms of excision in the autographic regime as well, the most obvious case being edited versions of preexisting phonograms. Indeed, to get more airplay, record companies often have to send versions to radio stations that are shorter than the corresponding album track. Production of such edited versions might involve as much pruning as amputating. In addition to these forms of horizontal excisions we find what we could call “vertical” excisions. For example, there are numerous cases of “instrumental versions,” where the lead vocal track has been (partly or completely) removed without altering the rest of the track. Concision is a little more complex to find a direct parallel in music. In concision, “a text is abridged without the suppression of any of its significant thematic parts, but is rewritten in a more concise style” (Genette 1997a, 235). In music, examples in the allographic regime might be versions of piano pieces for children, in which many (if not all) parameters have been simplified to create an accessible performance: melodic line without ornamentation, simplified harmony, basic rhythmic figures, and so forth.35 In the autographic regime, one could imagine a remix in which staging effects (such as reverb or echo) have been lowered or entirely removed.

In opposition to these forms of reduction, we find at least two types of augmentation: extension and expansion (Genette 1997a, 254–62). In the autographic regime, “extended” versions literally constitute examples of horizontal extension and involve the addition of segments within the linearity of the hypophonogram. For example, the soundtrack album of Strange Days (1997) includes two versions of Deep Forest and Peter Gabriel’s “While the Earth Sleeps”: the first one, “While the Earth Sleeps (album version),” lasts 3:50, while the second one, “While the Earth Sleeps (long version),” has a duration of 6:22. Typical of these forms of remixes, extensions are produced mostly through repetition of certain Page 23 →sections, especially “instrumental” sections such as the introduction or the bridge, and usually have specific functions: for example, to provide a longer version of a hit that is played in a dance club. Most of these repetitions are the result of some kind of copy-and-paste procedure typical of phonography’s multiple autographic regime. The vertical counterpart of extension can be illustrated by the famous DNA remix (1990)36 of Suzanne Vega’s “Tom’s Diner,” originally sung a cappella by Vega on her second album, Solitude Standing (1987): “All the Bristol based production team DNA have done is put aВ .В .В . drum and bass loop beneath the track” and added some synth sounds.37 This example of superimposition not only reflects music’s verticality but also illustrates phonography’s peculiarity: the hyperphonogram’s vocal track has been literally “copied and pasted” from Vega’s hypophonogram. Consequently, the two vocal tracks are (virtually) identical,38 and it would have been impossible to re-create Vega’s performance—even by herself—on the DNA version. In fact, precisely this (autosonic) identity between the two vocal tracks provides such a “value” to DNA’s remix, and listeners are, of course, able to perceive this identity.39 According to Genette (1997a, 260), concision’s counterpart, expansion, “proceedsВ .В .В . through a kind of stylistic dilation. In grossly oversimplified terms, the procedure consists in doubling or tripling the length of each sentence in the hypotext.” As with concision, many examples of textural expansion can be observed through the addition of some staging effects—echo, reverb, or other kinds of signal processing. In such cases, the original track can still be heard, but it is “dressed up” with sound effects. It would be quite rare to find examples of recordings for which we would uncover only one of the operations we just reviewed. Most typically, remixes and covers display many of these operations at once. It is not uncommon to find recordings that combine, for example, reduction and augmentation or operations within both the auto- and allographic regimes through the addition of newly performed tracks. In 1997, for example, BjГ¶rk released Telegram, an album consisting of remixes and new versions of most of the songs appearing on her previous album, Post (1995). Not content with this revisiting of her work, she later launched An Army of Me: Remixes and Covers, an album of twenty remixes and versions by other (mostly unknown) artists of one song, “An Army of Me.”40 The song is dressed in different styles and sounds: heavy metal (Interzone, Hemp), country (the Messengers of God), electro (Grisbi, Atoi), classical/avant-garde (Mikhail Karikis), instrumentalPage 24 → (accordion, harp), and others. This album illustrates the richness of hyperphonographic practices as found in the popular music repertoire. Furthermore, it acts as a compilation, a practice that is at the heart of the next category, polyphonography. Polyphonography: Compilation The term polyphonography, derived from Bruno Monfort’s concept of polytextualitГ© (1992), refers to a category not included in Genette’s original model.41 Generally speaking, polyphonography includes any practice whose main purpose is the construction of large phonographic structures through the assemblage of smaller, self-contained recordings. Three interrelated notions are at the core of this assembling process: (1) the selection of recordings, which could be compared to rhetoric’s inventio; (2) the sequencing of these phonograms (dispositio), which should result in a kind of meaningful musical discourse, according to (3) the polyphonogram’s function, be it personal, commercial, or aesthetic.42 In concrete terms, polyphonography includes practices such as CD compilations,

albums, mix tapes, digital playlists, and to a certain extent deejaying and radio or concert programming—that is, practices that involve selection and sequencing of a number of phonograms to fulfill a given function.43 Perhaps the most obvious example of polyphonography is the album, which groups an ensemble of specific recorded songs into a larger structure. The term album originated in the practice of compiling a number of singles (78s and later 45s) within a bound set of cardboard sleeves. As early as 1920, listeners could decide in which sequence to play their records: Album sets of popular music usually combined four or six double-sided singles, thus featuring eight or twelve songs.В .В .В . To help unifying the experience of listening to these pieces of music, as well as providing the public with a chance to make their own musical sequences, the auto-changer was developed. Using this device, the user would stack a set of records at the top of a record player’s spindle. The auto-changer would then drop each disc onto the turntable in turn, playing through the sides in pre-selected order. The first of these devices was built by HMV in 1920. (Osborne 2012, 89) From the start, then, the album was conceived as a means to play recordings in the listener’s favorite sequence. However, with the advent Page 25 →of LPs (long-playing records) in the 1950s, the record labels began presenting listeners with songs arranged in a specific order.44 At some point, musicians started to exploit the artistic potential of this preordering, which led to the advent of concept albums in the second half of the 1960s. David Montgomery (2002, 33–34) defines rock concept albums in relation to some paratextual elements: The term concept album describes a style of presentation, or format, applied in the creation, marketing and distribution of vinyl long-playing records.В .В .В . An LP considered conceptual was unified: i.e. it made a totality of linked songs through compositional (musical and literary) and marketing (graphic and promotional) strategies that were both thematically explicit and undefined. Defining considerations, therefore, are both musical and non-musical, as well as material and aesthetic. However, the concept album was neither limited to rock music nor exclusive to the 1970s: “The format was pervasive by 1970, intrinsically and historically linked to developments in record production, marketing and distribution. Concept albums pre-dating the rock period were released by many performers, including Frank Sinatra, Ray Charles, and Harry Belafonte” (34).45 Commercial compilation CDs, such as greatest hits compilations, constitute another kind of polyphonogram. Some of these commercial compilations, like Martha Stewart’s Summer Entertaining: Songs for Sunny Days and Starry Nights (2001), have very precise functions.46 The existence of many kinds of cover compilations illustrates transphonography’s porosity. Lee Cooper (2005) presents a ten-page table listing different types of cover and tribute compilations dedicated to a specific artist. Cooper identifies more than sixty-five categories of such compilations, among them different forms of covers, parodies, and acoustic versions. Other practices such as deejaying and mix tapes also fall under the heading of polyphonography. Whatever the format, the individual recordings that constitute a given polyphonogram are mostly chosen and sequenced according to archiphonographic criteria, such as musical genre, year of release, or simply the music’s tempo. In any event, most polyphonographic practices involve a knowledge of a given genre, style, or tradition, a characteristic shared by practitioners of another

transphonographic practice, interphonography. Page 26 → Interphonography: Quotation Genette’s (1997a, 1) definition of intertextuality is rather restrictive, limiting it to a “relationship of copresence between two texts or among several texts” with primary manifestations that include quoting, plagiarism, and allusion. Accordingly, and contrary to hyperphonography’s more general perspective, “the intertextual вЂtrace’ .В .В . is therefore more akinВ .В .В . to the limited figure (to the pictorial detail) than to the work considered as a structural whole” (2–3). In other words, Genette’s intertextuality looks at relationships between excerpts of texts. A quotation is a piece of a source text that has been pasted into a host text; an allusion is an excerpt of a text that refers to a source text more or less explicitly. According to Graham Allen (2000, 101), “Genette’s redescription [of intertextuality] gives us a very pragmatic and determinable intertextual relationship between specific elements of individual texts.” Contrary to polyphonography, then, interphonography studies the sharing between recordings of microstructures such as samples or other forms of quoting. Polyphonography can be represented by the linear combination of self-contained recordings into a larger structure. In the case of interphonography, a small unit of a given phonogram becomes a part of another phonogram. This kind of relation usually leads to forms of allusion to earlier recordings so typical of musical genres such as hip-hop. But the relationship can also be reversed: someone not knowing the source recording might just discover it through the host recording.47 This retrospective reading of the source recording will thus be inevitably influenced by the host recording, a consideration that is also valid for most hyperphonographic practices.48 Here I focus on a specific kind of interphonography, quotation occurring in the autographic regime. Indeed, the conception of recorded music proposed earlier, which integrates abstract parameters, performatory parameters, and staging effects, accepts at least two different kinds of phonographic quotation. A quotation might be allosonic when what is shared between the quoted excerpt and the source recording is an ideal structure, such as a melody (Lacasse 2000a, 38). Conversely, a quotation is autosonic when “what is common to both recordings is of a physical nature” (Lacasse 2000a, 38–39), such as a sample.49 Richard Shusterman (1992, 203), compares the two forms of quoting: “In contrast to jazz, hip hop did not take mere melodies or musical phrases—that is, abstract musical patterns exemplifiable in different performances and thus bearing the ontological status of вЂtype entities.’ Instead, it lifted concrete sound Page 27 →events, prerecorded token performances of such musical patterns.” Similarly, according to Kevin Holm-Hudson (1996, 19), “While quoting has been a longtime tradition in popular music (and in art music as well), the sampler has made possible not merely melodic quotation, but timbral quotation as well.В .В .В . As a result, .В .В .В timbre has become the immediately recognizable feature.”50 Indeed, in some popular music genres, this autosonic quality is meant to be heard by the listener: most hip-hop samples, for example, sound like samples.51 Claire McLeish (2013, 89–90) suggests the term interpolation to designate the allosonic practice of “re-recording a sample in the studio,” aiming to produce sound excerpts as close as possible to the original sample so hip-hop artists can get around the limitations of copyright. However, interpolation “will have neither the same aural effects, nor the musical and personal significance of [autosonic] sampling.” In its materiality, a sample already carries with it the information that it does come from somewhere else, contrary to an allographic quote (or interpolation), which does not, precisely because of its ideal nature.52 This is an important distinction: an autosonic quotation is an actual, material, and physical intertextual trace, a fragment whose nonoriginal status is recognized, acting as a kind of aural quotation marks and thus informing the listener that he or she is now hearing a chunk of something else:

Usually the style of the quoted material is drastically out of context with the work in which it is imbedded. Even when it is most skillfully executed, the quotation sticks out more or less like a sore thumb. However fleeting it is, the quotation calls attention to itself, and in doing so it triggers a special kind of thought process in the minds of the audience. (Wierzbicki 1991)53 Samples, however, are very rarely found unaltered when migrating from one recording to another. Instead, they are often manipulated in all sorts of ways: they can be looped, slowed down, stretched, reversed, flanged, and so on. Except in extreme cases, however, they are usually still more or less recognizable, even if only by a certain “elite” within a given phonographic culture. For example, as comments on discussion lists and websites illustrate, many Beatles fans hear that the guitar solo in “Tomorrow Never Knows” (1966) is in fact the guitar solo from “Taxman” (1966), reversed and slowed down to match the key and meter of “Tomorrow Never Knows.”54 Once again, frontiers between transphonographic practices are ratherPage 28 → permeable. While the analysis of the narrative interaction of samples is considered an example of interphonography, the generic grouping of recordings that adhere to this aesthetic approach is typically archiphonographic. Similarly, the vertical or horizontal juxtaposition of many samples within a recorded song might be approached polyphonographically or cophonographically. Finally, the transformation of samples could alternatively be examined through a hyperphonographic lens. In addition to the very concrete forms of transphonographic relations, recordings might be related through more abstract criteria such as fiction. Transfictionality: Fictional Relations Relationships uniting texts might involve fictional elements. For example, two songs appearing on two different albums by the same artist might share common characters. In literature, Richard Saint-Gelais (2005, 612; 2011) has proposed studying such relations under the model of transfictionality: Two (or more) texts exhibit a transfictional relation when they share elements such as characters, imaginary locations, or fictional worlds. Transfictionality may be considered as a branch of intertextuality [or transphonography], but it usually conceals this intertextual link because it neither quotes nor acknowledges its sources. Instead, it uses the source text’s setting and/or inhabitants as if they existed independently. This is what most fans experience when listening to Eminem’s “Stan” (2000) and “Bad Guy” (2015), both of which feature the Matthew character. In fact, these songs are part of a much larger transfictional network of Eminem songs. Here I present a brief transfictional analysis of four Eminem songs: “Kim” (2000), “’97 Bonnie & Clyde” (1999), “Stan” (2000), and “Bad Guy” (2013). All of these songs share a common set of characters: Eminem, Slim Shady, Kim, Hailie, Matthew, and a few others. To make things a little more complicated, most characters featured in this transfictional network of songs are directly inspired by Eminem’s (or Marshall Mathers’s) real life, as their onomastic structure suggests. First, of course, there is Eminem, the rapper, whose name is derived from Mathers’s initials: M&M. Then there is Slim Shady, the violent killer (the “darker side” of Eminem), whose name is apparently completely fictional. We also find Page 29 →Slim Shady’s ex-wife, Kim (whose name is borrowed from Kimberley Ann Scott, Mathers’s real ex-wife), and Hailie, their daughter (inspired by Hailie Jade Scott-Mathers, Kimberley’s and Marshall’s real daughter). Within this (auto)fictional world, Kim, who has recently left Slim Shady, now lives with her new husband and her stepson. Two other characters emerge within this transfictional network: Stan, a fan of Slim Shady, and his younger brother, Matthew, both (probably) entirely fictional. These characters interact in these four songs.

The song “Kim” (Track 16 of The Marshall Mathers LP, 2000) begins in Kim’s home, where she was living with her new husband, her four-year-old stepson, and two-year-old Hailie until Slim Shady killed the new husband and stepson. The song opens with Slim trying to put Hailie to sleep because he doesn’t want her to see what he is about to do—murder Kim. He takes both the child and Kim with him in his car. After a long ride and painful conversation, Slim stops the car and cuts Kim’s throat. The song ends with the sound of Slim Shady dragging the corpse into the car trunk. The story continues in “’97 Bonnie & Clyde” (Track 7 of The Slim Shady LP, 1999), which begins with the exact same sound of Kim’s body being dragged into the trunk. Slim starts driving with Hailie at his side and begins a dialogue of sorts in which he attempts to reassure his now motherless daughter. Finally, Slim stops the car and throws Kim’s body into the water as Hailie watches. Released a year after “’97 Bonnie & Clyde,” “Kim” constitutes a clear case of what we generally call a prequel—that is, a narrative that tells a story that has happened before the original narrative. Saint-Gelais (2011, 78; translation by author) reminds us that “prequelsВ .В .В . carry out a rather strange operation that goes against the narrative’s current, but not just in terms of chronology. The very idea of a вЂcontinuation going upstream’ is somewhat uncanny, as if it was less something forbidden than something unthinkable that was thus called into question.” In this case of transfictionality, Eminem asks his listeners in 2000 to revisit the “unthinkable” tale of Kim’s murder by contextualizing the relationships and elaborating on the fictional network. The next song that enters the transfictional relationship is “Stan” (Track 3 on The Marshall Mathers LP, 2000), whose story creates yet another transfictional layer. “Stan” recounts the tragic story of an admirer of Slim Shady who has become pathologically fanatical, believing that Eminem is Slim Shady and identifying with him. Stan writes many letters to Slim Shady, and “the real” Eminem plans to reply but does so too late. Because it takes so long for Slim Shady to reply, Stan is convinced Page 30 →that Shady does not care about him and, as a revenge, commits a crime inspired by Shady’s handling of Kim’s body in “’97 Bonnie & Clyde”: Stan locks his pregnant wife alive in his car trunk, and, while crossing a bridge, drives the car into the water. Stan records the whole sequence on his Dictaphone, which is eventually recovered by the authorities. In his letters to Slim Shady, Stan accuses Slim of not being nice to Stan’s younger brother, Matthew, who waited in the “blistering cold” after a concert to see Slim. At the end of the song, Eminem replies to Stan’s letter, but it is too late: Stan is already dead. From a transfictional perspective, the relationship that the song “Stan” entertains with “Kim” and “’97 Bonnie & Clyde” corresponds to what Saint-Gelais (2011, 232; translation by author) calls a capture—that is, when “the original diegesis [fictional world] is retrospectively incorporated within an encompassing diegesis, within which it only appears as a narrative.” This process contributes in a very specific way to the expansion of the transfictional world to which these songs belong. First, the “Stan” narrative seems to incorporate the songs “Kim” and “’97 Bonnie & Clyde,” just as if “Stan” were sharing our reality or our own diegetic level or, paraphrasing Saint-Gelais (2005, 612), as if the characters existed independently from the songs. Second, Eminem appears, in this wider fictional world, as the performer of the two original tracks (“Kim” and “’97 Bonnie & Clyde”) but not the performer of the “Stan” track, even though we hear him clearly as “Eminem” in the track. About thirteen years later (both in the fictional story and in real-time chronology), Stan’s younger brother, Matthew, now approaching his twenties, decides to kill Slim Shady (Eminem) to avenge his older brother’s death. This story of revenge is presented in the song “Bad Guy” (Track 1 from The Marshall Mathers LP 2, 2013). Here, the song appears to constitute a sequel to “Stan”; however, the transfictional situation is more complex. First, at the beginning of “Bad Guy,” Matthew refers to a song on the radio that keeps reminding him of what happened to Stan. Of course, this song must be “Stan.” So again, we are faced with another form of capture that further expands the transfictional world, since the song “Stan” gets caught within the diegesis of “Bad Guy.” In the third verse, the transfiction widens even more when Matthew refers to having listened to nine hours and forty-five minutes of music in his car—not

coincidentally, the total amount of recorded music Eminem has released so far. Moreover, in the next verse, Matthew refers to the current song, “Bad Guy,” as the sequel to the original Marshall Mathers LP (2000). Finally, once Eminem is dead (in the trunk of a car being driven off Page 31 →a bridge), the song enters into a new and final section, as if Matthew has actually appropriated the conscience of Eminem. In short, within this single song, the narrative gradually and transfictionally moves from specific contexts of other Eminem songs to a wider psychological representation of Eminem’s encompassing and somewhat extradiegetic mind. Transfictionality is thus a fruitful way of looking at relations between recordings, and not only those by Eminem. For example, transfictionality could be used to study some of the fictional continuities in the songs and albums of Dream Theater. Indeed, characters such as the Miracle and the Sleeper, originally appearing in Dream Theater’s “Metropolis Part 1: The Miracle and the Sleeper” (Images and Words, 1992), resurface seven years later on the album Metropolis Part 2: Scenes from a Memory (1999) under new names, Edward and Julian (Shaffer 2002, 22–25, 34–50).55 These and other characters interact in a complex spatiotemporal plot of parallel events occurring in 1928 and 1999. It is also possible to find sequels of existing songs performed by different artists. This is the case of Sandy Kerr’s “(I’m) Billie Jean” (1984), which recounts the story told in Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean” (track 6 from Thriller, 1983) from the point of view of the Billie Jean character to reestablish the truth. For Saint-Gelais (2011, 152; translation by author), such reinterpretations emerge “when the new point of view changes the evaluation, the motivations, the signification, etc.” of the original fiction.56 Saint-Gelais’s model is not limited to prequels, sequels, and captures but includes other transfictional practices (such as montages made by fans, who develop even wider, often contradictory, fictional networks). There is thus much space for future research. So far, I have examined hyper-, inter-, and polyphonographic as well as transfictional relations primarily in recordings. I now turn to relations uniting phonograms to other forms of texts.

Extraphonographic Practices I have grouped meta-, para-, and cophonography in the category of “extraphonographic practices” since they mostly involve relations between recordings and nonphonographic texts such as cover illustrations, album reviews, liner notes, videos, and other materials that are “extra” to the recording itself. Despite their mostly nonphonographic nature, extraphonographic elements play a crucial role in the relationship we maintain with recordings. Indeed, textual and graphic elements appearing in parallel with a recorded song (cophonography) as well as surrounding Page 32 →it (the paraphonographic material that mediates the recordings, such as CD players or software interfaces), in addition to opinions expressed by musical critics (metaphonography), have a very important influence on our reception, appreciation, and understanding of the music. While most extraphonographic practices are visual or tactile, some might still operate in the realm of sound. For example, a recorded interview with an artist about his or her new album will still be considered meta- or paraphonographic (depending on the analyst’s perspective).57 Cracks and pops heard while listening to a vinyl recording also constitute paraphonographic elements. I therefore suggest we distinguish between intramodal elements (of the same medium—in this case, sound) and extramodal elements (of a different medium). Accordingly, a recorded interview would be intramodal when heard on the radio or on Spotify but extramodal when transcribed and published in a magazine. Paraphonography: Mediation Genette’s (1997b, 1) presentation of the paratext provides a valuable starting point:

A text is rarely presented in an unadorned state, unreinforced and unaccompanied by a certain number of verbal and other productions, such as an author’s name, a title, a preface, illustrations. And although we do not always know whether these productions are to be regarded as belonging to the text, in any case they surround it and extend it, precisely in order to present it, in the usual sense of this verb but also in the strongest sense: to make present, to ensure the text’s presence in the world.В .В .В . These accompanying productions, which vary in extent and appearance, constituteВ .В .В . the work’s paratext. Paratextual elements thus play a crucial role in the mediation of the work to the public: More than a boundary or a sealed border, the paratext is, rather, a threshold.В .В .В . It is an “undefined zone” between the inside and the outsideВ .В .В . a zone not only of transition but also of transaction: a privileged place of a pragmatics and a strategy, of an influence on the public, an influence that—whether well or poorly understood and achieved—is at the service of a better reception for the text and a more pertinent reading of it. (1–2)58 Page 33 →Genette further distinguishes between paratextual elements that cling to or are located within the text (title, table of contents, footnotes, and so on— what he calls the peritext) and other more “distanced elementsВ .В .В . located outside the book, generally with the help of the media (interviews, conversations) or under cover of private communications (letters, diaries, and others)” (4–5)—what he calls the epitext. Accordingly, in addition to the intramodal/extramodal dichotomy described earlier, this spatial criteria distinguishes between periphonographic elements (those immediately surrounding a phonogram) and epiphonographic elements (spatially remote and conceptually detached from the recording). Here, we must transfer the concepts from literature to music. With a book, the frontier between what is peri- and epitextual is rather clear. With recordings, however, demarcations are less obvious. What should be considered a phonogram? In the context of this chapter, I do not refer to recordings (phonograms) as material objects, such as CDs or vinyl records. Rather, the term phonogram designates the sound information itself, regardless of the way it was encoded or played back (analog or digital; mono, stereo, or surround), the carrier on which it has been registered (magnetic tape, vinyl discs, digital memory, and so forth), or the formats of these carriers (cassettes, CDs, 78s, minidiscs, MP3s). Accordingly, the same recording (or phonogram) might be embodied in multiple combinations of these elements. When someone asks, “Have you heard the latest BjГ¶rk CD?,” they are of course referring to the sounds, to the recording, not to the actual aluminum disc. I concentrate here on some periphonographic surroundings, leaving epiphonography for later research.59 Periphonographic music recordings are constituted by a number of layers, beginning with the carrier itself and the kind of information it holds. The format in which a given recording is accessed will, of course, influence listening habits and strategies. For example, listening traditions differ considerably depending on whether we listen to an album such as Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon as a vinyl disc (A and B sides), as a CD, or as a sequence of MP3 files. Similarly, playback systems, whether they are monophonic, stereophonic, or multiphonic (for example, surround 5.1), and even the way the music has been encoded (analog or digital, compressed or not) will also have important consequences for our listening experience.60 In a similar vein, the visual attributes of a carrier format may also have significant implications for the listener, sometimes pointing to ideological positions. Philip Auslander (2001) explores some of the effectsPage 34 → of looking at a record’s grooves or a CD’s mirroring surface before listening to the recording. Reconsidering Guy Debord’s Society of the Spectacle (1967),61 Auslander suggests “a limitation to Debord’s totalizing condemnation of the visual as the central tool of commodity capitalism by proposing that the visual may prove to be a site of resistance in cases where cultural commodities primarily engage other

senses” (78). One such sense, for example, is the perception of time, which might even constitute a site for resistance: The grooves on the surface of a vinyl record constitute a visual representation of time. Vinyl records reify time in that they make time tangible: in handling a record, one is handling a chunk of time, in a sense.В .В .В . Looked at from another angle, however, vinyl records also offer a resistant reading of spectacular time. It is significant that there is no consistent relationship between the visual representation of time on a vinyl record and the actual use-time of the music. Side six of George Harrison’s album The Concert for Bangla Desh (1972), for example, contains only two songs totalizing just over seven minutes of music, yet it looks the same as other discs containing up to four times as much music, or more.В .В .В . In other words, the grooves on the surface of a vinyl record do not constitute a rational representation of use-time: on the surface of an LP, seven minutes of usetime can look identical to 25 minutes of use-time.В .В .В . Understood this way, the surface of a vinyl record makes visible the means by which the spectacle induces false consciousness of time through images of time purveyed by commodities. (81–82) Auslander also reflects on our physical and sensorial handling of a CD: When we look at the shiny side of a CD, we see ourselves looking back, mirrored by the commodity. Looking at a CD, we both contemplate the commodity and see ourselves contemplating the commodity.В .В .В . The way this musical commodity reflects our contemplative gaze back upon us offers the possibility of self-consciousness concerning that gaze and its implications. Again, this effect is possible because to look into a CD is to use the object in a perverse way that invokes a sensory modality other than the one for which it was produced. (82) In addition to the carrier itself, we might consider the elements immediately attached to the carrier as periphonographic material—for Page 35 →example, the record labels, CD engravings, even MP3 information that is displayed by an iPod or by any other electronic playback interface. Moving a little further away, we are still, in my opinion, within the limits of periphonography—although more tenuously—when considering items such as an album cover or CD liner notes.62 When discussing album covers, Antoine Hennion, Sophie Maisonneuve, and Г‰milie Gomart (2000, 103; translation by author) note that, “The album cover offers some grip to one’s anticipated understanding of a given record and acts as a visual hook. Through an analogical shift the cover becomes the music’s proxy and might alone lead a music lover to buy the record.”63 At home, the listener might find his or her listening experience enhanced by the CD cover and liner notes, which often interact with the audio content (in some specific contexts, of course). Other important paraphonographic elements also participate in this experience; however, deciding whether they are peri- or epiphonographic can become problematic: for example, even though a CD player is spatially remote from a CD, one cannot hear the sounds without it (or, for that matter, with any other kind of playback material). Similarly, the room’s acoustics and the ambient sounds also directly interact with the recording and could thus be considered periphonographic material as well. Although we find no direct analogies in literature, one could perhaps draw a parallel between these elements and, say, the tactile quality—and even the scent—of a book’s paper. All these paraphonographic factors contribute to a process of mediation that draws attention to our conception of a “musical work” and its interaction with the act of listening: Music lovers can adapt to listening positions, beginning with their own physical disposition. This often leads to a very personal and inventive way of musical behaviour and of expressing oneself in music. Concentrating on the listening factor is therefore to reintroduce the invincible heterogeneity of a real event, full of nips and tucks. It is not merely a question of a work and a listener: there are bodies, dispositions and designs, the duration, an elusive object, an instant that passes, emerging musical states. After all, outside laboratories and schools, what else is music? (Hennion 2004, 110)

The nature of paraphonography becomes even more complex and fuzzy when we actually listen to recordings. Indeed, we find many examples of recorded songs that include what could be considered (intramodal)Page 36 → paraphonographic discourse. For example, when producer Rodney “Darkchild” Jerkins inserts his own comments—usually in the form of a sonic signature of the type “This recording was produced by Darkchild”—he is in fact converting paraphonographic information that is usually visual (for example, included in the CD liner notes) into actual sonic information.64 The fact that these comments are integrated to the phonogram as opposed to other intramodal elements (cracks, ambient sounds, room acoustics, and so forth), might make it difficult to consider them “truly” paraphonographic. Since it is not possible to “extract” the comments from the recording (as it is the case with the other intramodal elements), should we consider them conceptually remote and thus paraphonographic? Or are they “really” part of the song? Again, this becomes a methodological choice on the part of the analyst. Cophonography Coming from the discipline of sociocriticism, the notion of cotextuality aims to express the idea that each text is always surrounded and thus influenced not only by other texts (writings, images, videos, and so on) but also by other social practices and ideas: “The [literary] work can only be read, can only take shape, can only be written through mental habits, cultural traditions and linguistic differentiated practices that are the conditions of reading” (Duchet 1971, 8; translation by author). Adopting a more restrictive approach to cotextuality, literary theorists Jean Michel Adam and Ute Heidmann (2009, 21; translation by author) define cotextuality as “the ensemble of relations that a given text entertains with other texts, copresent within a common scriptural area (collection of tales, novels or poems; the overall space of a newspaper or magazine).”65 In other words, apart from sharing a common space, these texts are relatively independent from each other (in that they simply cohabit a given scriptural space) and may be of different kinds (written text, illustrations, photographs, and so forth). Cophonography, then, designates the copresence of intramodal or extramodal texts sharing a common encompassing space. It is possible to consider some intramodal popular music practices from a cophonographic perspective, such as the now widespread practice of mash-ups, which basically consists of the superposition of two or more recordings. According to Ragnhild BrГёvig-Hanssen and Paul Harkins (2012, 87), “The aesthetics of musical mash-ups lie in a particularPage 37 → kind of technical virtuosity and set of listening skills, rather than in the creation of something entirely new or original. The art is to succeed in finding two [or more] tracks that fit together musically, resulting in successful songs in their own right.” Focusing on how the selection of source recordings might lead to humorous effects, the authors propose a musical analysis of a few mash-ups and argue that “the combination of contextual incongruity and musical congruityВ .В .В . characterises a successful mash-up” (97). Cophonographic practices have the potential to develop meanings at a level that a single phonographic text could not convey. For example, when a recorded song is coupled with a video, meanings emerging from the interaction between the visual and sonic narratives might differ from the ones conveyed by the sound recording alone. Moreover, because of its often multimedia nature, cophonographic practices might involve more than one text. For example, imagine a music video not only recounting a parallel narrative to the one told in the song but also displaying another video. Lori Burns, Tamar Dubuc, and Marc Lafrance (2010) have conducted this sort of cophonographic analysis of American singer-songwriter Mandy Moore’s 2007 cover version of “Umbrella,” originally recorded by Rihanna the same year. Moore’s cover was featured in the Cover Art show: “In 2005, Pepsi and Yahoo! Music partnered to launch Pepsi Smash on Yahoo! Music, a web initiative conceived as a new Internet-based performance and promotional forum for charttopping popular music artists” (Burns, Dubuc, and Lafrance 2010, 261 n. 1). As the authors explain: “The Cover Art video presents Moore and her band in a traditional live-stage format performing in front of four background screens arranged in a pattern of two by two (stage left and right) on which a manipulated version

of the вЂUmbrella’ video featuring Rihanna is broadcast” (234). The viewer was thus seeing and hearing Moore and her musicians performing their version of the song, while in the background plays an edited version of the Rihanna video (with no sound) that has been more or less synchronized with Moore’s performance, giving the impression that Rihanna is lip-synching Moore’s performance. Burns, Dubuc, and Lafrance contrast the two visual performances and offer a very detailed analysis of the effects this visual synchronization might have on the viewers, approaching Moore’s rendition as a commentary on Rihanna’s original song. This now brings us to our final transphonographic practice: metaphonography. Page 38 → Metaphonography: Evaluation As with paraphonographic practices, metaphonographic discourses may be either intra- or extramodal. Intramodal practices might include a critique heard on the radio as well as another music recording. As mentioned earlier, Yankovic’s parodic version of Nirvana’s song can be analyzed from a metaphonographic perspective, regardless of its hyperphonographic parodic function. And again, any cover may be approached metaphonographically. Certain metaphonographic practices, however, are particularly common. Perhaps the metaphonographic production par excellence would be the CD review, but by extension we could include reviews of concerts or even of music videos, since both either derive from or include music recordings. These reviews are most often found in the journalistic discourse; however, more and more recorded music reviews are published in academic journals. For example, Notes, which is exclusively devoted to reviews of music-related productions (books, digital media, printed music, and so forth), dedicates an important portion of the journal to reviews of sound recordings. One such CD review, by author Louis Niebur (2007), is twelve pages long. Similarly, Ethnomusicology has a “Recording Reviews” section where recent releases of recordings are discussed in relation to ethnomusicologists’ interests. By nature, such academic reviews lie at the crossroads of para- and metaphonography. Indeed, somehow as a trope of the genre, a review consists as much of tentative objective descriptions as more subjective critical comments. Moreover, since CDs feature not only music but also many periphonographic productions, reviewers are usually obliged to account for all of these items. Academic writing about music very often entails metaphonographic discourse: most peer-reviewed articles, theses and dissertations, books, and conference papers deal with aspects of recorded music. As aptly illustrated by its title pun, On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word (1990), Simon Frith and Andrew Goodwin’s famous collection of essays seems first and foremost to be concentrating on (written) critical comments about recorded music. Even though, according to the editors, “the academic study of pop and rock music is rootedВ .В .В . in two non-musical concerns: the meaning of вЂmass culture’ and the empirical study of youth (and delinquency)” (1), the vast majority of the essays address aspects of recorded music. Whether the authors deal with apparently “non-musical” topics such as the music industry, music consumption or production, standardization, and so forth, recordings—and our relationshipPage 39 → with them—keep entering the discussion. For example, even though Donald Horton’s 1957 essay “is intended as a discussion of the socialpsychological functions of language as found in popular song lyrics” (14–15), he finds that “it may be the function of the popular singer, in dramatizing these songs, to show the appropriate gestures, tone of voice, emotional expressionВ .В .В . for transforming mere verse into personal expression” (25). In other words, through performances—most often recorded performances—young listeners develop some aspects of their identity. In the same vein, Stuart Hall and Paddy Whannel (1964, 32) note, Because of its high emotional content, teenage culture is essentially nonverbal.В .В .В . Though there is more to learn from the lyrics of pop songs, there

is more in the beat (loud, simple, insistent), the backing (strong, guitar dominated), the presentation (larger than life, mechanically etherealised), the inflection of voice (sometimes the self-pitying, plaintive cry, and later the yeah-saying, affirmative shouting), or the intonations (at one stage midAtlantic in speech and pronunciation, but more recently rebelliously northern and provincial).

Meaning is thus received as emerging through recorded performances.66 Especially in the case of popular music, the interpretation of music appears to be tied to an active engagement with recordings. This chapter consequently turns next to a transphonographic analysis.

“Could It Be Magic”: Analysis of an Analysis I end this journey into transphonography with a metatextual comment about Jon Finson’s 1979 article, “Music and Medium: Two Versions of Manilow’s вЂCould It Be Magic.’” In my view, Finson’s article constitutes a proto-transphonographic analysis in which the author (unknowingly) considers most of the eight categories we have explored here. Moreover, Finson takes great care to distinguish among abstract, technological, and performatory parameters, although he uses slightly different terminology. For example, when discussing the song’s overall dynamic contour, he writes, “The continual buildup of the dynamic levelВ .В .В . is a striking effect accomplished by orchestration (adding instruments progressively), production (electronic manipulation of balance, overdubbing, and reverberation), and performance (steady accretion of ornaments)” (269). A quick review of Finson’s analysis serves as a summary of this chapter, Page 40 →allowing me to illustrate the transphonography model’s applicability and usefulness by discussing further implications of Finson’s findings. Barry Manilow released two versions of “Could It Be Magic”: the original LP version in 1973, followed by the single version in 1975.67 Finson’s main objective is to illustrate the crucial role of radio (and media in general) in the production and reception of popular music, using Manilow’s versions as examples. More specifically, according to Finson (1979, 277), “composers and producers (in this case, Manilow) fit their compositions to the formats of specific media with careful attention to their limitations and conventions; intermediates—with all their commercial and technical necessities—affect art in ways which can be tangibly traced through analysis on various levels.” Finson supports his point with a series of observations that I revisit through the lens of transphonographic categories. First, to study two different versions of the same song is primarily hyperphonographic. In this case, although Finson does not explicitly use the term, Manilow’s single version is clearly an edited version of the LP track, not a reinterpretation or cover of it. Accordingly, we are in the autographic regime. In Finson’s (1979, 276) terms, the single version “is not simply a corrupt descendant of the album composition. Instead, both share a common ancestor, a master tape which has been manipulated to fulfill various needs.” The single version is significantly shorter (4:08) than the LP version (6:48), accomplished by a number of amputations and excisions. For example, “the bridge is cut by one half,” and “the first half of the second verse is deleted.” More important, “the final chorus is repeated only three times” in the single rather than five times as in the LP version (272). However, according to Finson, the single version does not simply consist of an edited version derived from the LP, for its production may have involved other types of manipulations: “The lead singer is much more prominent.В .В .В . The lower frequencies are very heavily emphasized.В .В .В . AndВ .В .В . less reverberation has been added to the whole.В .В .В . All these acoustic changes have been worked to make вЂCould It Be Magic’ more effective for presentation in a particular medium” (1979, 275)—that is, AM radio. Although Finson discusses the acoustic limitations of AM radio—limited frequency spectrum and lower bass response—he omits what I see as a crucial aspect of the medium when compared to FM broadcasting: monophony. Listening to the single and LP

versions in stereo, I did not hear the transformations described by Finson apart from the edits.68 However, in mono, both versions clearly give the impressionPage 41 → of a prominent voice, less reverb, and more bass relative to the stereo mixes.69 Whatever the process (remixing or mono listening), the effect is the same: the balance between the voice and the other elements is significantly altered. This new voice/accompaniment configuration not only corresponds to AM radio sound and conventions but also points again to the important role played by the voice in popular music. According to Finson (1979, 275), in the single version, “the instruments are relegated more to the background in order to ensure that the text is clearly heard.”70 Consequently, the voice itself is foregrounded, establishing a heightened dualism between the voice and the accompaniment and suggesting even more intimacy between the song character and the (subject) listener.71 In that context, such manipulations contribute to an effect that Genette (1997a, 343) calls transvaluation, which designates “any operation of an axiological nature bearing on the value that is implicitly or explicitly assigned toВ .В .В . the sequence of actions, attitudes, and feelings that constitutes a вЂcharacter.’” One of these operations, primary valuation, consists of heightening in the hypertext the hero’s “merit” or “symbolic value” (350). In the single version of “Could It Be Magic,” staging effects (or mono listening) valuate(s) the song character by forwarding Manilow’s voice in the mix. According to Finson (1979, 266), the song’s lyrics (by Manilow and Adrienne Anderson), “like many of the texts to Manilow’s other songs, [are] sentimental, but it also contains strong sexual overtones, including mention of a sexual act and its attendant sensations.” To a certain extent, the song character valuation and the corresponding forwarding of the suggestive lyrics might provide some ammunition to Finson’s interpretation of Manilow’s song, an interpretation that is supported by metaphonographical comments: “The symbol of a stallion вЂmeeting the sun’ and in fact the whole chorus are suggestive of interpretations which have not eluded reviewers, who applied the adjectives вЂgushy’ and вЂthrobbing’ to the song when it was first released” (266–67).72 “Could It Be Magic” is also a matter of interphonography, since it includes allosonic references to Chopin’s Prelude, Opus 28, No. 20. The LP version “begins with eight measures of the Prelude quoted verbatim on piano, and the music for the chorus takes its harmony from measures 5 and 6 of Chopin’s piece” (Finson 1979, 267). Moreover, the song ends with the return of the Prelude. This quoted material itself is also subject to autosonic transformations: the eight-measure excerpt heard on the LP version has been edited so that only the first and final measures Page 42 →remain on the single version (272). This manipulation corresponds to forms of “mechanical” reduction that Genette (1997a, 45) relates to the practice of haiku poems. For example, “one could keep nothing but the poem’s вЂborders’ or frame: first and last lines, first and last words in each line,” which seems to apply to our case. As Genette notes, “The lingering effect of such operations is to suggest that the preserved elements suffice unto themselves and produce a satisfying meaning, one often little removed from the overall meaning of the original” (45). Indeed, when listening to the edited version, we still get the sense of Chopin’s prelude, as if it were condensed in these two measures. This reference to the classical music repertoire has archiphonographic and cophonographic resonances as well. Finson (1979, 267) first considers that this particular piece by Chopin shares some characteristics with the song’s harmonic language, since “the composers seem to be fascinated with the links between parallel minor, major, and relative minor which lend both compositions an ambiguous modal quality.” Second, Finson associates this use of Chopin with 1970s progressive rock bands’ tendency to integrate classical music in their pieces. For Finson, “this intermingling of styles reflects the mass distribution of вЂclassical’ music” (267). Furthermore, the act of producing an edited version of the song is archiphonographic in that it follows conventions established by the recording industry, the central argument of Finson’s article. One of these conventions is the practice of fade-out, “which grew out of the habit of

interrupting the end of a piece for a commercial or some other form of chatter.В .В .В . Manilow has put this clichГ© to artistic use in the LP version.В .В .В . At the same time, he has provided a finish which can be employedВ .В .В . in AM format” (271). This convention has a polyphonographic aspect since it facilitates the passage from one recording to another, therefore contributing to the musical flow of the radio station. And “Could It Be Magic” indeed contributed substantially to this flow: “In one day, the composition could be heard at least twelve different times on as many stations, all playing the same list of about twenty songs” (278). Finally, the fade-out convention leads Finson to discuss paraphonographic matters as well. According to Finson, while the single version lasts 4:08, “the timing from the label of the AM вЂCould It Be Magic’ is 3:37.” In fact, these two discrepancies can be explained, for they are related. If you play the AM “Could It Be Magic” and time out 3:37, you stop Page 43 →right at the point where the chorus fades out and the piano prelude takes over. The coproducers (Manilow and [Ron] Dante), who ostensibly timed the single and caused the timing to be printed on the label to inform radio station programmers about the length of the selection, considered the Chopin ending superfluous. (274) Other paraphonographic clues lead to more important consequences. For example, when arguing for the single version as “an advertisement” for the LP recording, Finson (1979, 277) notes that when the single version of the song “made the charts, a label was affixed to the cover of the LPВ .В .В . in spite of the fact that a different version was offered.” While we know that the single version was created much later than the album, many listeners would still have heard the two versions in the reverse order. Indeed, Barry Manilow I was Manilow’s first album, but it was not the one that led him to success. Rather, Barry Manilow II (1975) made the singer “one of the most popular entertainers in the country for the next several years” (Huey 2005b). Therefore, “although it appeared on Manilow’s first album, вЂCould It Be Magic’ didn’t become a hit until it was re-released (in an edited version) in late 1975 following the breakthrough success of Barry Manilow II and вЂMandy’” (Huey 2005a). Thus, most listeners would first have heard the single version on AM radio, which would have led those who did not have the album to buy it, and only later heard the LP version in stereo in the cozy environment of home. Consequently, and in a kind of reversed process Г la Borges, it could have been revealing to analyze hyperphonographic transformations from the perspective of these listeners—that is, by making the LP version sound like an extended version of the single rather than the other way around. This would have led to an interpretation very different from Finson’s.

Conclusion My choice of the term transphonography was intended to mark a limitation: relations between recordings on the one hand (phonographic relations) and between phonograms and their surrounding material on the other (extraphonographic relations). There are, of course, many other possible modes of interaction. From a strictly transphonographic point of view (perhaps especially from a cophonographic perspective), other forms of popular music expression such as videos and concerts are considered peripheral elements. This is simply a matter of methodological Page 44 →choice and should not be understood as a bias. Popular music manifests itself through many media, and to pretend otherwise would be misleading. One could imagine, of course, a much larger ensemble of practices relating different kinds of texts, whether phonographic, visual, tactile, or whatever, comprising the territory of what some call intermediality—a term I prefer to replace with transmediality.73 Broadly speaking, the term intermediality refers to the interaction between different media and the result of this interaction. For example, in a film, images and music

interact in a specific way—what Michel Chion (2002) calls audio-vision—feeding each other. More precisely, the concept of intermediality operates at three different levels. First, it can designate relationships between different media (even between different artistic practices associated with individual media, since such relationships may become apparent in a film, a book, or even in the same event that is the subject of a televised report, a film, a photograph or an installation in a museum)—in this sense, intermediality is a consequence of media. At the same time, the concept also designates the media “melting-pot” out of which clearly defined new forms of media emerge and become institutionalized—in this sense, intermediality is also a precursor of media. Lastly, intermediality embraces the environment in which media acquire shape and meaning in the sense that any media practice is inherently permeated with intermediality. (Center for Research on Intermediality 2003) From this perspective, practices such as music videos or rock concerts would benefit from intermedial inquiries. Studied through a transphonographic lens, a video might be considered a paraphonographic element (material surrounding the recording), a cophonographic practice (material interacting with the recording), a hyperphonographic one (material derived from the recording), or an interphonographic one (material including the recording). Intermediality allows us to focus not on the separate recording and images but on the ways in which they interact as an integrated multimedia object. But music, images, and sounds do not just interact but do so within a network of interacting individuals. Thus, transphonography can be understood to help us better understand our own relationship with the music and with others. Simon Frith (1996, 273) writes, “In responding to a song, to a sound, we are drawnВ .В .В . into affective and emotional alliances.В .В .В . Music, we could say, provides us with an intensely subjective sense Page 45 →of being sociable.” From the point of view of the sociable individual, music provides us with a way of imagining an ideal representation of our own identity. Further still, for Frith, “music gives us a real experience of what the ideal could be” (274). From this perspective, I understand music to act as a kind of intertextual anchor. Songs and sounds act as anchors. They fix, for a moment, space and time.74 And as a result, we suddenly become able to look at both past events and remote locations. For a moment, we are able to let flow a train of resurgences that constitute aspects of our ideal identity. From this song, from this sound, emerges a web of intertextual memories whose common ground is a representation of our own identity. Transphonography, then, provides us with an additional tool for understanding better how, as transfictional characters of our own life, we continuously construct ourselves.

Notes 1. See Brauer, Lacasse, and Villemaire 1996; Lacasse 2000a, b, 2003, 2008, 2009, 2010a; Lacasse and Mimnagh 2005. 2. The book was first published in French in 1982 and then translated into English in 1997. I use the English edition (Genette 1997a) as a reference for this chapter. For a preliminary discussion of the topic, see Genette 1979 (translated into English as Genette 1992). Others have of course also been interested in applying Genette’s model to music, starting with Escale (1996), who was specifically interested in paratextuality. For a more recent exploration of Genette’s transtextuality in music (seemingly unaware, however, of any previous work on the subject), see De Castro 2015; for an analytical application of Genette’s model to a study of the influence of jazz on French classical music of the early 1900s, see Guerpin 2012, 60–69. The model has also been used for the study of other cultural practices: for a systematic application of Genette’s transtextuality to text/image relations, see Louvel 1998 (I thank Lori Burns for this reference); Ruffino 2012 (video games).

3. For general introductions to intertextuality, see, among others, Bruce 1995; PiГ©gay-Gros 1996; Allen 2000; Rabau 2002. 4. Compagnon (1979) has studied this particular form of literary practice in detail. Compagnon’s book is a reworked version of his doctoral dissertation, which was supervised by Julia Kristeva, who coined the term intertextuality (Kristeva 1967; see also the introduction to this volume), and for which Genette acted as examiner. And Genette’s doctoral dissertation was supervised by Roland Barthes, another important theoretician of intertextuality: small world indeed! 5. For a detailed study of paratexuality, see Genette 1997b (originally published in French as Genette 1987). 6. Originally published in French in Genette 1999. 7. I say almost exclusively because the model also accounts for some other Page 46 →kinds of texts circulating in close connection with recordings, such as CD covers, liner notes, album reviews, and to a certain extent videos and live performances. Of course, one could extend the notion of text to a much larger set of phenomena. For example, it would also have been possible to build a similar model by choosing performances or videos as central objects: recordings would then have been considered peripheral. But since we have to begin somewhere, I thought the best place to start would be the recording, which still constitutes the main medium in most genres of popular music. In his alternative model, Sibilla (2003, 2004) includes videos within a general semiotic system. 8. For a more detailed discussion, see Gracyk 1996; Lacasse 2006a. 9. I am here referring to Goodman’s (1976) classic distinction between allographic and autographic works. Genette summarizes the distinction: “It so happens that in certain arts such as painting, the production of fakes or forgeries—that is, passing off a faithful copyВ .В .В . of a work as the original—is a really existing practice, one which is as a general rule profitable, and, sometimes, punishable and actually punished by law, because this activity is meaningful. It is likewise the case that in other arts, such as literatureВ .В .В .В , forgery is not practiced, because a correct copy of a textВ .В .В . is simply a new copy of that textВ .В .В .В , neither more nor less validВ .В .В . than the original. In other words, in certain arts, the notion of authenticity is meaningful, and is defined by a work’s history of production [autographic arts], while it is meaningless in others, in which all correct copies of a work constitute so many valid instances of” allographic arts (1997c, 15–16). Genette notes further that Goodman’s nominalist distinction “in fact coincides with one which counterposesВ .В .В . works of physical immanence (material objects or perceptible events) to works of ideal immanence—that is, works consisting in a type common to several correct occurrences.” 10. For an interesting reflection on performances versus ideal musical works, see Davies 2001. 11. This conception also reflects our social understanding of music, as illustrated, for example, by the legal distinctions made between a composition (copyright of an ideal piece of music, paradoxically managed by performing rights societies, such as ASCAP or BMI in the United States or by SOCAN in Canada), a performance (which is now acknowledged in many countries as a separate form of copyright—neighboring rights—managed by societies such as the Neighbouring Rights Collective of Canada), and a phonogram (whose rights are typically owned by the entity that has paid for its production). For an alternative and updated vision of copyright in popular music, see Joe Bennett 2012. 12. For a more detailed discussion of Yankovic’s parody, see Lacasse 2000a, 41–42. For more on parody, pastiche, and travesty in francophone popular music, see Julien 1995. 13. For a list of possible elements to discuss in transphonographic relations occurring mostly within the allographic regime, see Burkholder 2001, especially “Types of Borrowing.” Burkholder’s concept of borrowing is very useful, although it specifically deals with music conceived as an allographic practice. Consequently, the typology he proposes is not easily applicable to all aspects of recorded music. Moreover, his model does not take into account aspects of paratextuality and metatextuality and takes only a few architextual aspects into accountPage 47 → on the level of stylistic borrowing. Burkholder’s model is mostly concerned with intertextual and hypertextual relations between allographic musical works, primarily within the repertoire of Western art music. Despite these shortcomings, Burkholder’s model is certainly the most exhaustive one found in music. For an extensive annotated

bibliography on (mostly classical) musical borrowing, see Burkholder, Giger, and Birchler 2003. 14. Genette is referring specifically to hypertextuality, but I chose to extend his thought to the whole of transtextuality, without altering too much, I think, his idea. 15. In the case of transfictionality, I have decided to keep the original suffix, -fictionality, first because changing it would result in transphonography, which has another meaning, but more important because the suffix -fictionality tells us the kind of relationship involved—that is, a relationship occurring at the level of fiction uniting recordings to others. 16. This hierarchy loosely follows Genette’s classification. Genette (1997a, 1) lists the practices “more or less in the order of increasing abstraction, implication, and comprehensiveness”: intertextuality, paratextuality, metatextuality, hypertextuality, and architextuality. 17. The figure should not be considered exhaustive and fixed: it is certainly possible to imagine a complex polyphonogram that would entail more “conceptual work” than a cover of a well-known song (hyperphonography). 18. Moreover, such categories are ideal concepts and do not refer to actual “things.” While discussing the “slipperiness” of paratextual typology, Genette (1997b, 343) reminds us that “we must not forget that the very notion of paratext, like many other notions, has more to do with a decision about method than with a truly established fact. вЂThe paratext’ [or any other transtext, for that matter], properly speaking, does not exist; rather, one chooses to account in these terms for a certain number of practices or effects, for reasons of method and effectiveness or, if you will, of profitability.” Accordingly, not only are frontiers between categories fluctuating, porous, and even interacting, but more practices could certainly be added. However, this chapter discusses only these eight categories. 19. To prevent the map from being covered with arrows pointing in all directions, I have chosen to limit the arrows within each area; the overlapping of areas, however, means that all practices within one area might interact with another practice from the other area. 20. For example, the (paraphonographic) practice of writing liner notes is already tacitly acknowledged as a genre by organizations such as the American Recording Academy, which lists the Grammy Awards nominees for best liner notes writers in the “Notes” category. As a matter of fact, any of the other categories can be approached from an archiphonographic angle as well. For example, the (polyphonographic) act of song compilation could be approached as a genre, as could music reviewing (metaphonography). Hyperphonographic practices, such as parodies or covers, are considered whole genres. In the case of interphonography, the use of samples, for example, could be seen as a stylistic feature of a given musical genre, such as hip-hop, and so on. 21. “By far the overriding learning practice for the beginner popular musician, as is already well known, is to copy recordings by ear.В .В .В . It seems an extraordinaryPage 48 → fact that many thousands of young musicians across the world adopted this approach to learning over a relatively short space of time—covering a maximum of eighty years since sound recording and reproduction technology began to be widespread—outside of any formal networks, usually at early stages of learning, in isolation from each other, without adult guidance and with very little explicit recognition of the ubiquity of the practice across the world. All this, despite the fact that it is a historically unique way of learning music, unknown to humankind prior to the invention and spread of sound recording and reproduction technology” (Green 2001, 60–61). For more on this topic, see H. Stith Bennett 1980. 22. For more on this approach, see Echard 2005. See also Brackett 2015, 192–94 (discussing at length Fabbri’s [1982a, b] ideas). 23. Chandler (2002, 158) similarly observes, “Genres overlap and text often exhibits the conventions of more than one genre. It is seldom hard to find texts which are exceptions to any given definition of a particular genre. Furthermore, the structuralist concern with synchronic analysis ignores the way in which genres are involved in a constant process of change.” 24. See, for example, Leydon 2010. 25. According to Tagg (1999, 26–27), “A musical synecdoche isВ .В .В . any set of musical structures inside a given musical style that refer to another (different, вЂforeign,’ вЂalien’) musical style by citing one or two elements supposed to be typical of that вЂother’ style when heard in the

context of the style into which those вЂforeign’ elements are imported. By citing part of the other style, the citation then alludes not only to that other style in its entirety but also potentially refers to the complete genre of which that other musical style is a subset.” 26. Genres are also studied diachronically, as illustrated by Davis 2006, which traces the “etymophony of funk music.” In my opinion, this kind of research is of primary importance in the field of popular music studies. For other intergeneric approaches, see Fledderus 2002; Waksman 2004. 27. For examples of such possible new horizons, see Burns 2015, 2016. 28. According to Genette, a pastiche is an imitative practice rather than a transformational one. The main difference between hypertextual transformation and imitation is that the former deals with hypertexts that derive from a given (or sometimes many) specific hypotexts, while imitative practices are not concerned with a specific hypotext. Rather, as I paraphrased Genette elsewhere, “an author of a pastiche identifies and assimilates a particular set of stylistic features in order to create an entirely new text displaying the stylistic configuration in question. This means, then, that the hypertext has no precise hypotext.В .В .В . It is possible, for example, to imagine a band that would record a new song in the style of (say) the Beatles with such success that some listeners who were not very familiar with the Beatles’ Е“uvre believed that they were actually listening to a new Beatles song” (Lacasse 2000a, 43–44). See also Genette 1997a, 73–212. 29. Yankovic’s parody raises an important issue in the distinction between hyperphonography and metaphonography. The main difference between metaand hyperphonography is that the former is mostly nonfictional and aims at criticizing the original recording, while hyperphonograms (and most songs, for Page 49 →that matter) are mostly (arguably always) fictional (Genette 1997a, 397). The privileged perspective is a matter of choice for the analyst: one could decide to look at Yankovic’s version through the lens of either hyperphonography or metaphonography or both. 30. Many studies have explored covering, including the May 2005 issue of Popular Music and Society, which is almost entirely devoted to the practice. For an illuminating discussion of covering, authenticity, and appropriation of musical genres by the gay culture, see Butler 2003. For cross-cultural issues of covering, see Dent 2005; Yano 2005. Mosser 2008 proposes an interesting typology of covers (as well as a critique of the term itself) based on the work of Wittgenstein. For ironic cover albums, see Bailey 2003; see also Covach 1991. Schneider 2001 proposes an exhaustive study of the practice of covering blues songs (1955–95). Brunner 2006 analyzes the impact on listeners of heavy metal cover versions of pop/rock songs. For an examination of covering using Genette’s model, see Sanden, this volume. For comparative studies of multiple performances of a same song, see Brackett 1995/2000; Bowman 2003. For an illuminating discussion of Beatles cover versions, see Brocken 1996. For other interesting analyses of cover versions, see Burns 1997; Daley 1998; Newman 1998; Weinstein 1998; Burns and Woods 2004; Hess 2005; Lacasse and Mimnagh 2005. Finally, for some discographies, lists, and databases of cover versions, see Plasketes 1995, Rypens 2000 (and its website, www.originals.be). 31. The documentary Tribute: A Rockumentary (2001, dir. Kris Curry and Rich Fox) presents many examples of such tribute bands, whose members sometimes appear to take their impersonation rather seriously. For example, one imitator (Andy) of Kiss’s Gene Simmons (from Kiss) goes so far as to set his own house on fire. See www.tributethemovie.com. 32. For more on travesty and Flowers, see Lacasse 2000a, 42–43. 33. As Lacasse and Mimnagh 2005 point out, one important aspect of Eminem’s controversy lies precisely in the way he manages to blur the distinctions between these different layers. See also Lacasse 2006b. 34. For a fascinating analysis of Bang on a Can’s 1998 “cover” of Brian Eno’s Ambient I: Music for Airports (1978), see Sun 2007. 35. The most obvious illustration of this kind of practice in popular music can be seen in Rockabye Baby’s many Lullaby Renditions of popular music artists (e.g., AC/DC, Elton John, Elvis Presley, Radiohead): http://www.rockabyebabymusic.com/ 36. DNA’s version was released for a few days under the title “Oh Suzanne” before becoming “Tom’s Diner [DNA featuring Suzanne Vega].”

37. “On the DNA Remix,” http://www.vega.net/dnaint.htm; originally published as “Tomorrow’s Music Today,” Record Mirror, 4 August 1990. In 1999, Vega released Tom’s Album, which includes thirteen different versions/adaptations of “Tom’s Diner.” Except for DNA’s version, however, none of these versions include elements of the original recording. 38. In fact, Vega’s vocal track has been slightly manipulated so it could be synchronized to the added rhythm track. 39. We are here wandering in the limits of hyper- and interphonography, for Page 50 →it could be argued that DNA’s version is “quoting” the whole of Vega’s vocal performance. Again, the choice of transphonographic perspective is simply a matter of the analyst’s needs and objectives. 40. “An Army of Me” originally appeared on Post and was thus already remixed on Telegram. 41. I thank RenГ© Audet for suggesting Monfort’s reference. 42. For a more detailed description of these notions, see Lacasse 2003, 317–20. 43. Strictly speaking, deejaying and radio/concert programming do not necessarily result in the production of an actual final phonogram, as is the case with albums or compilations. However, because popular music concerts are often recorded and distributed, I consider the practice partly polyphonographic. Similarly, although deejaying and radio programming give rise to performances rather than recordings, phonograms still constitute the practices’ raw material. Interestingly, many radio stations broadcast series of mixes prerecorded by deejays. 44. To make their own sequences—the first “mix tapes”—consumers had to use reel-to-reel tape recorders, which started to be widely commercialized in the early 1950s (Engel 1999, 70; Gooch 1999, 76–79), and later tape cassettes, which began to appear on the market in the mid-1960s (Clark 1999, 96–107). 45. When discussing Frank Zappa’s One Size Fits All (1975) and the Alan Parsons Project’s I Robot (1977), Montgomery (2002, 201) notes that “in each case a musical unity can be demonstrated, as well as structural markers corresponding to the limitations of the format.” For example, both albums begin with similar opening statements suggesting a kind of overture, thus preparing the listener to approach the album as a whole. On the other hand, while both albums’ cohesion is more or less “a matter of concept theme” (213), the Zappa album presents “greater moments of integration between theme and music” (220). Montgomery thoroughly analyzes these unifying musical elements, providing by the same token a polyphonographic key to the albums’ cohesion, reinforced by an equally coherent paratextual apparatus. 46. For more on Stewart’s compilation, see Lacasse 2003, 318–20. 47. For similar experiences in the hip-hop scene using Borges 1964/1997, see Kistner 2006, 103–6. 48. My colleague, Sophie StГ©vance (born in 1977), and I were recently discussing a disco song, “I Love to Love,” originally released in 1976 by British singer Tina Charles. StГ©vance, however, had in mind the 1987 re-release of the song, which features additional sampled parts as well as other rhythmic tracks. StГ©vance thus perceived the 1987 version as the hypophonogram and the 1976 version as the hyperphonogram. 49. This does not mean that autosonic quotations do not share abstract parameters as well. To the contrary, autosonic quotations include by default, so to speak, abstract structures. For example, a sample of a vocal line registers not only the singer’s timbre and specific performance but also the melodic line. 50. For a similar discussion, see Holm-Hudson 1997, 20. 51. Frith (1996, 303 n. 31) writes that “rap thus self-consciously draws attention to the act of quotation itself.” There are, of course, many exceptions to this. See also Auslander 1992; Kistner 2006; BrГёvig-Hanssen and Danielsen 2016, 81–99. Page 51 →52. For an enlightening typology of sampling in hip-hop music, see Sewell 2013. 53. See also Frith 1996, 242–43. 54. See, for example, Zep Fan’s comment on “вЂTaxman’ by the Beatles: An Analysis,” 8 April 2005, http://www.youthink.com/forums.asp? page_num=1&action=read&lp=0&ct=7&q_id=1190353&ss. Frank Zappa systematically developed this practice, naming it xenochrony (see Carr 2014).

55. I thank Sebastien Champagne for this reference. 56. This example points again to the porosity of transphonographic practices: “(I’m) Billie Jean” is also partly a cover of “Billie Jean” that transforms the original through different processes: it is basically the same music with different words and with a different (female) character/singer. 57. See, for example, James Blake’s “Commentary Version” of his album Overgrown (2013) available on Spotify. 58. For an application of Genette’s paratextuality to video game music, see Kamp 2016. 59. James Blake’s “Commentary Version” of his album Overgrown (2013), available on Spotify, constitutes a case of intramodal epiphonography. For a paratextual perspective on popular artists’ autobiographies, see Sutton 2015. 60. I do not even mention different remasterings of a same recording here, on the border dividing para- and hyperphonography. 61. Auslander is referring to the English translation (Debord 1995). 62. As suggested earlier, considered as an archiphonographic practice, the writing of liner notes has given rise to scholarly work. See, for example, Piazza 1996. 63. See also Lethurgez 1993. 64. For a thorough discussion of sonic signatures, particularly Jerkins’s, see Gillespie 2006. 65. I thank Johanne MelanГ§on for these references. 66. For more on this topic, see Lacasse 2010b, c, d, 2014). 67. I refer to the two versions as “Could It Be Magic” (LP) and “Could It Be Magic” (single), respectively. 68. In fact, Finson’s description (1979, 276) seems to demonstrate some misunderstanding about the production process: “If there is ever a need for a third version of вЂCould It Be Magic,’ the master tape, with one instrument to a channel, can be remixed, overdubbed, and respliced to produce still another unique complex of pitch-syntax and acoustic ambiance to fill the bill.” Here, Finson clearly refers to the multitrack master tape (“with one instrument to a channel”), which probably consisted of a two-inch magnetic tape with twenty-four tracks. However, while it is true that a multitrack master tape can be “remixed” and “overdubbed,” I don’t see how a sound engineer would dare resplice it (unless, of course, the multitrack master had first been copied, something that may technically be possible but that I never heard of during my experience in recording studios). Again, my impression is that the stereo final master tape has been copied and edited (not remixed) to produce the single version. 69. This phenomenon simply results from phase cancellation between the two stereo signals when merged in mono. As a consequence, everything that was Page 52 →panned center in the stereo mix (such as the voice) will usually stand out in the mono mix, while stereo-panned elements will often seem farther away. 70. Or as Heibutzki (2005) puts it, “The song glistens from an arrangement that keeps the backing band well in check, where other producers might have let them step all over it.” 71. For Tagg (2003, 628), “The dualism between melody and accompaniment is one of the most common basic devices of musical structuration.В .В .В . [A]ccompaniment (including its aspects of texture, reverberation and so on) can be visualized, in general terms, as the acoustic background or environment against which melody stands out in relief as an individual foreground figure.” 72. Finson refers to Edwards’s 1974 review of the song. Huey (2005a) proposes a similar interpretation, noting that Manilow’s song “was a glowing love letter underpinned by hints of spiritual transcendence and physical sensuality.” 73. For an application of intermediality to popular music, see Sibilla 2004. 74. See Lacasse 2010d, 152–55.

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Lacasse, Serge. 2006b. “StratГ©gies narratives dans вЂStan’ d’Eminem: Le rГґle de la voix et de la technologie dans l’articulation du rГ©cit phonographique.” ProtГ©e 34 (2–3): 11–26. Lacasse, Serge. 2008. “La musique pop incestueuse: Une introduction Г la transphonographie.” Circuit: Musiques contemporaines 18 (2): 11–26. Lacasse, Serge. 2009. “ItinГ©raire transphonographique d’une chanson: Le cas вЂAlouette.’” In Г‰couter la chanson, edited by Lucie Joubert, 53–86. Montreal: Fides. Lacasse, Serge. 2010a. “Une introduction Г la transphonographie.” Copyright Volume! 7 (2): 31–55. Lacasse, Serge. 2010b. “The Introspectionist: The Phonographic Staging of Voice in Peter Gabriel’s вЂBlood of Eden’ and вЂDigging in the Dirt.’” In Peter Gabriel, from Genesis to Growing Up, edited by Michael Drewett, Sarah Hill, and Kimi KГ¤rki, 211–24. Aldershot: Ashgate. Lacasse, Serge. 2010c. “The Phonographic Voice: Paralinguistic Features and Phonographic Staging in Popular Music Singing.” In Recorded Music: Society, Technology, and Performance, edited by Amanda Bayley, 225–51. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lacasse, Serge. 2010d. “Slave to the Supradiegetic Rhythm: A Micro-Rhythmic Analysis of Creaky Voice in Sia’s вЂBreath Me.’” In Musical Rhythm in the Age of Digital Reproduction, edited by Anne Danielsen, 141–55. Aldershot: Ashgate. Lacasse, Serge. 2014. “вЂLe corps dans la voix qui chante’: Une relecture phonostylistique de barthes.” In Quand la musique prend corps, edited by Monique Desroches, Sophie StГ©vance, and Serge Lacasse, 107–17. Montreal: Presses de l’UniversitГ© de MontrГ©al. Lacasse, Serge, and Tara Mimnagh. 2005. “Quand Amos se fait Eminem: FГ©minisation, intertextualitГ© et mise en scГЁne phonographique.” In Le fГ©minin, le masculin, et la musique aujourd’hui: Actes de la journГ©e du 4 Mars 2003, edited by CГ©cile PrГ©vost-Thomas, Hyacinthe Ravet, and Catherine Rudent, 109–17. Paris: Observatoire Musical FranГ§ais. Lethurgez, Florence. 1993. “Fonctions et usages des mГ©diations paratextuelles des oeuvres musicales: Le cas des pochettes de disques.” PhD diss., Г‰cole des hautes Г©tudes en sciences sociales, Paris. Leydon, Rebecca. 2010. “Recombinant Musical Topics: The Past and Future of Sampling.” In Sounding Out Pop: Analytical Essays in Popular Music, edited by Mark Spicer and John Covach, 193–213. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Louvel, Liliane. 1998. “IconotextualitГ© et transpicturalitГ©: Essai de typologie des diffГ©rentes maniГЁres d’introduire l’image dans le texte.” In L’Œil du texte: Texte et image dans la littГ©rature de langue anglaise, 141–61. Toulouse: Presses Universitaires du Mirail. Translated by Laurence Petit as “Narrative Figures Page 58 →of the Pictorial Image,” in Poetics of the Iconotext, edited by Karen Jacobs, 55–71. Farnham: Ashgate, 2011. Macksey, Richard. 1997. Foreword to Paratexts: Threshold of Interpretation, by GГ©rard Genette, xi–xxii. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McLeish, Claire E. 2013. “вЂThe Future Is Medieval’: Orality and Musical Borrowing in the Middle Ages and Online Remix Culture.” Master’s

thesis, University of Western Ontario. Middleton, Richard. 1990. Studying Popular Music. Milton Keynes: Open University Press. Monfort, Bruno. 1992. “La nouvelle et son mode de publication: Le cas amГ©ricain.” PoГ©tique 90 (April): 153–71. Montgomery, David O. 2002. “The Rock Concept Album: Context and Analysis.” PhD diss., University of Toronto. Mosser, Kurt. 2008. “вЂCover Songs’: Ambiguity, Multivalence, Polysemy.” Popular Musicology Online 2. http://www.popular-musicology-online.com /issues/02/mosser.html Negus, Keith. 2012. “Narrative, Interpretation, and Popular Song.” Musical Quarterly 95 (2–3): 368–95. Newman, Michael. 1998. “The Cover Story.” JAMtv. http://www.smallproblem.com/jamtv/coverstory/index.html Niebur, Louis. 2007. Review of The BBC Radiophonic Workshop: Recent Reissues of British Electronic Music from 1955–1996. Notes 63 (4): 912–23. Nixon, Wendy. 2003. “Even Better Than the Real Thing.” Paper presented at the Conference of the International Association for the Study of Popular Music, Montreal, 3–7 July. Osborne, Richard. 2012. Vinyl: A History of the Analogue Record. Farnham: Ashgate. Piazza, Tom, ed. 1996. Setting the Tempo: 50 Years of Great Jazz Liner Notes. New York: Anchor. PiГ©gay-Gros, Nathalie. 1996. Introduction Г l’IntertextualitГ©. Paris: Dunod. Plasketes, George. 1992. “Like a Version: Cover Songs and the Tribute Trend in Popular Music.” Studies in Popular Culture 15 (1): 1–18. Plasketes, George. 1995. “Look What They’ve Done to My Song: Covers and Tributes, an Annotated Discography, 1980–1995.” Popular Music and Society 19 (1): 79–106. Plasketes, George. 2005. “Re-Flections on the Cover Age: A Collage of Continuous Coverage in Popular Music.” Popular Music and Society 28 (2): 137–61. Plasketes, George, ed. 2010. Play It Again: Cover Songs in Popular Music. Farnham: Ashgate. Rabau, Sophie. 2002. L’IntertextualitГ©. Paris: Flammarion. Roach, Jay (director). 2002. Goldmember. 35 mm, 94 min. Los Angeles: New Line Cinema/Warner Bros.

Ruffino, Paolo. 2012. “A Theory of Non-Existent Video Games: Semiotic and Video Game Theory.” In Computer Games and New Media Cultures: A Handbook of Digital Games Studies, edited by Johannes Frome and Alexander Unger, 107–24. Dordrecht: Springer. Rypens, Arnold. 2000. The Originals: De Herkomst van de Hits. Lier: Vox. Page 59 →Saint-Gelais, Richard. 2005. “Transfictionality.” In Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory, edited by David Herman, Manfred Jahn, and Marie-Laure Ryan, 612–13. London: Routledge. Saint-Gelais, Richard. 2011. Fictions transfuges: La transfictionnalitГ© et ses enjeux. Paris: Seuil. Schneider, Thomas A. 2001. “Blues Cover Songs: The Intersection of Blues and Rock on the Popular Music Charts (1955–1995).” PhD diss., University of Memphis. Sewell, Amanda. 2013. “A Typology of Sampling in Hip Hop.” Ph.D. diss., Indiana University. Shaffer, Kris P. 2002. “Transcending Rock Tradition: Form, Text, and Integration in the Music of Dream Theater.” Undergraduate honors thesis, Lawrence University Conservatory of Music. Shusterman, Richard. 1992. “The Fine Art of Rap.” In Pragmatist Aesthetics: Living Beauty, Rethinking Art, 201–35. Oxford: Blackwell. Sibilla, Gianni. 2003. I Linguaggi della Musica Pop. Milan: Bompiani. Sibilla, Gianni. 2004. “So Empty without Me: Intermediality, Intertextuality, and Non-Musical Factors in the Evaluation of Pop Music: The (Not So) Strange Case of MTV and Eminem.” Copyright Volume! 3 (2): 123–41. Spicer, Mark. 2010. “вЂReggatta de Blanc’: Analyzing Style in the Music of the Police.” In Sounding Out Pop: Analytical Essays in Popular Music, edited by Mark Spicer and John Covach, 124–53. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Sun, Cecilia. 2007. “Resisting the Airport: Bang on a Can Performs Brian Eno.” Musicology Australia 29 (1): 135–59. Sutton, Matthew. 2015. “Amplifying the Text: Paratext in Popular Musicians’ Autobiographies.” Popular Music and Society 38 (2): 208–23. Tagg, Philip. 1999. “Introductory Notes to the Semiotics of Music.” www.tagg.org Tagg, Philip. 2003. “Accompaniment.” In Continuum Encyclopedia of Popular Music of the World, vol. 2, Performance and Production, edited by John Shepperd et al., 628–30. London: Continuum. Toynbee, Jason. 2000. Making Popular Music: Musicians, Creativity, and Institutions. London: Arnold.

Wagner, Thomas. 2005. “What Is a Cover Version?” http://www.coverinfo.de/main.php?page=lang Waksman, Steve. 2004. “Metal, Punk, and MotГ¶rhead: Generic Crossover in the Heart of the Punk Explosion.” Echo: A Music-Centered Journal 6 (2). http://www.echo.ucla.edu/volume6-issue2/waksman/waksman1.html Walsh, John. 2002. “Is Pastiche Better Than the Real Thing?: Yeah Baby!” Review of Goldmember (Warner Bros. movie). The Independent on Sunday, 21 July, LifeEtc. section, 1–2. Weinstein, Deena. 1998. “The History of Rock’s Pasts through Rock’s Covers.” In Mapping the Beat: Popular Music and Contemporary Theory, edited by Thomas Swiss, John Sloop, and Andrew Herman, 137–51. London: Blackwell. Wierzbicki, James. 1991. “Borrowing: Sampling and Quotation (1).” St. Louis Post-Dispatch, 28 April. http://pages.sbcglobal.net/jameswierzbicki /borrowing.htm Page 60 →Yano, Christine R. 2005. “Covering Disclosures: Practices of Intimacy, Hierarchy, and Authenticity in a Japanese Popular Music Genre.” Popular Music and Society 28 (2): 193–205.

Discography Cash, Johnny. 2002. “Hurt.” American IV: The Man Comes Around, track 2. Universal/American Recordings 063 339-2. Charles, Tina. 1976. “I Love to Love (But My Baby Loves to Dance).” I Love to Love, track 1. CBS 81290. Charles, Tina. 1986. “I Love to Love.” DMC DECK 121. Deep Forest and Peter Gabriel. 1995. “While the Earth Sleeps” (album version). While the Earth Sleeps: From the Motion Picture Strange Days, track 1. Columbia COL 66281-2. Deep Forest and Peter Gabriel. 1995. “While the Earth Sleeps” (long version). While the Earth Sleeps: From the Motion Picture Strange Days, track 3. Columbia COL 66281-2. Nine Inch Nails. 1994. “Hurt.” The Downward Spiral, track 14. Interscope 6544-92346-2. Stewart, Martha, comp. 2001. Summer Entertaining: Songs for Sunny Days and Starry Nights. Martha Stewart Living/Rhino R2 74328.

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Two. Genettean Hypertextuality as Applied to the Music of Genesis Intertextual and Intratextual Approaches Roger Castonguay SINCE ITS ORIGINAL publication in 1982, GГ©rard Genette’s Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree has become a cornerstone in the field of intertextuality. Julia Kristeva (1980, 66) coined the term in 1966 to describe the many interrelationships between literary works, observing that “any text is constructed as a mosaic of quotations; any text is the absorption and transformation of another.” Such procedures in literature may be compared to musical borrowing, and indeed, Kristeva’s term has been used to identify those procedures in music since the 1980s (Hatten 1985; Korsyn 1991). Genette focuses mainly on the actual transformation of an intertext; the result is a vast and exhaustive catalog of literary intertextual transformations. Although Palimpsests deals mostly with works of literature, it does offer a glimpse as to how a similar wealth of transformational possibilities may be observed in other artistic practices such as painting and music. This invitation to apply Genette’s ideas to music analysis has proven quite enticing. Most notably, Serge Lacasse (2000a, b; see also his chapter in this volume) was greatly inspired by Genette when proposing a typology of interrelations in recorded popular music. Genette’s approach differs from Kristeva’s in one important aspect: he distinguishes between the actual occurrence of one text within another and the transformation to which that text may be subjected. The Page 62 →former bears the newly defined label intertextuality, while the latter is identified as hypertextuality. Both practices are classified as subcategories of transtextuality, described as “all that sets the text in a relationship, whether obvious or concealed, with other texts” (Genette 1997, 1). For Genette, transtextuality becomes the all-encompassing terminological umbrella that displaces Kristeva’s term intertextuality.1 This distinction between intertextuality and hypertextuality raises an interesting question: Could Genettean hypertextuality be applied in a nonintertextual setting? In exploring the hypertextual potential of music, Genette (1997, 387) states, This mind-boggling transformational capacity is the very soul of musical composition.В .В .В . What in literature still passes for a somewhat marginal diversion is almost universally considered as the basic principle of the musical “development”: i.e., of musical discourse. As development in music is usually understood to be the transformation of material previously heard within a single work, it follows that these transformations, as observed with Genette’s hypertextual taxonomy, should be found in an intratextual setting. Different authors have used the term intratextuality independently of one another, mostly since the 1990s, as a natural complement to that of intertextuality (Sharrock 2000, 4). Andrew Laird (2000, 145) describes it as involving “the principles on which any individual text might be organized, and thus recognized: structure, segmentation, and the relations between parts and the whole.” Intratextuality is generally understood as the study of interrelations within a single work rather than between separate works.2 Genette’s theoretical framework has proven highly exportable. While it was conceived as a literary analytical device, his transformational categories have been shown to be very much applicable in a musical context. Although Genette limits his study to texts that are massively hypertextual, where the entire work derives from another, his theoretical rigor makes it possible to identify hypertextual transformations to text excerpts that are not as massive, such as intertextual occurrences within another text—hypertextual intertextuality, so to speak. How readily can Genettean hypertextuality be applied in an intratextual setting? How do intertextual and intratextual approaches compare? Genesis’s A Trick of the Tail (1976) provides an interesting case study in this regard. The band makes

extensive use of intertextual musical borrowing among its different tracks, most notably in the closing instrumentalPage 63 → piece, “Los Endos,” a jazz-fusion inspired number that reprises some of themes previously heard on the album. This type of interrelationship between tracks may be viewed as a prolongation of the band’s penchant for larger-scale development, which can be traced through the ever-growing song lengths found on Trespass (1970), Nursery Cryme (1971) and Foxtrot (1972). The musical reprise first appeared on Selling England by the Pound (1973) and reappeared on almost all of the band’s studio output until the end of the decade, by which time such album-wide thematic recurrence had become a regular feature in the progressive rock repertoire. This was especially true for albums with an underlying programmatic thread—for example, concept albums such as Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon (1973) or rock operas such as The Who’s Tommy (1969). However, no such programmatic thread seems to underlie A Trick of the Tail, certainly not in comparison to Genesis’s previous opus, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (1974), the band’s sole bona fide concept album.3 In light of that comparison, should the newer album be defined as a single entity or as a collection of independent pieces? One could hardly dismiss thematic recurrences within an album as a unifying feature; their mere presence makes a strong argument for the former definition. Conversely, very little of The Lamb’s double-album’s worth of material has enjoyed repeated live performances: for the few songs that eventually did become live favorites, such as “In the Cage” and “The Carpet Crawlers,” the idea of performing them out of their original context was not embraced immediately (Banks et al. 2007, 208), and certain modifications were deemed necessary (Holm-Hudson 2008, 79). In contrast, such concerns seem not to have affected the choice of excerpts from A Trick of the Tail for live performance, as all eight tracks stand up on their own—all but one has been either played live or released as a single—which would cause one to lean toward the latter definition. These two definitions appear to mark the opposite ends of a spectrum along which an album such as A Trick of the Tail might be positioned.4 This makes it an excellent case study for comparing intertextual and intratextual approaches to applying Genettean hypertextuality to music analysis. The following, then, provides an inventory of the different thematic recurrences throughout the album, with a focus on “Los Endos,” where most of these themes are found, and classifies some of their most prominent transformations, drawing from Palimpsests’ catalog. As has been pointed out, transformational possibilities abound in music, “given the complexity of musical discourse, which, unlike the literary text, is unhamperedPage 64 → by the strict вЂlinearity’ of the verbal signifier” (Genette 1997, 386). Consequently, the multidimensionality of musical discourse, as opposed to the inherent linearity of literal works, often calls for the adaptation of certain hypertextual classifications, as distinctions are drawn between transformations in literature and in music. In keeping with Genette’s practice of observing hypertextual transformations, interrelations between the tracks will first be regarded as intertextual. The examination of a possible intratextual approach and its relation to thematic analysis will follow. Prior to the musical analysis is a brief primer on Genette’s theory as well as some clarifications needed to apply it to music.

Genette’s Theory of Hypertextuality Genette (1997, 5) describes hypertextuality as “any relationship uniting a text B (which I shall call the hypertext) to an earlier text A (I shall, of course, call it the hypotext).”Properly applying Genette’s theory thus requires ascertaining the status of two hypertextually linked texts by determining which is the hypertext and which is the hypotext. This is usually achieved by establishing the chronological order in which they were created. However, in the case of a pop album, where the different “texts” are released simultaneously, such a chronological order of creation is not always readily found. Quite often, as was the case for a large part of A Trick of the Tail, pieces on an album are composed in the same short period of time, almost concurrently. Conversely, Genette (1997, 271) does recognize the possibility of considering hypertextually related texts from the viewpoint of “their reception (the reader)” instead of “their genesis (the author).” This alternative way of distinguishing the hypertext from the hypotext lends itself well to a pop album, since the order in which the pieces are heard is meant to be the same from one listener to the next.5 Although practical when dealing exclusively with the pieces from within a single album, the reception viewpoint

might prove problematic in establishing the status of texts originating from different sources, as is the case for the first intertextual occurrence in “Los Endos.” The opening section of the piece (0:00–0:46) is a quote from an instrumental interlude in “It’s Yourself” (2:31–3:16), a track that does not appear on A Trick of the Tail but was released as a B-side in 1977.6 This interrelation assumes that the latter was auditioned prior to the former, giving “It’s Yourself” a hypotext status. Otherwise, from a reception viewpoint, the roles of “quoter” and “quoted” are reversed.7 This last scenario may reasonably be considered more likely, given that “It’s Yourself” was released Page 65 →after A Trick of the Tail and that its availability has always been comparatively limited, as is typical of nonalbum B-sides. However, a historical account from keyboardist Tony Banks (Banks et al. 2007, 169) helps determine the chronological order in which some of the tracks from the A Trick of the Tail recording session were composed, including “Los Endos,” thus clearly establishing its status as hypertext from an undisputable genesis viewpoint. “Los Endos,” which was a development of “Squonk” and all the other pieces, was an idea which came more from [drummer] Phil [Collins] because he was very into jazz/rock, this idea of using all the melodies we had throughout the album and placing them into a slightly different feel to produce a song on its own. Consequently, all hypertextual relations to be enumerated in this analysis consider “Los Endos” to be the hypertext.

Hypertextual Analysis of “Los Endos” Table 2.1 lists the main formal sections of “Los Endos” discussed in this analysis. The timing indications for both the hypertext (“Los Endos”) and the different hypotexts from which each section is derived are also included. Only Section X introduces a new motif that does not seem to derive from any immediately apparent hypotext.8 Section A: Introduction (From “It’s Yourself,” Interlude) The opening section of “Los Endos” (0:00–0:46) is a quote from “It’s Yourself” (example 2.1). More specifically, it seems to be an autosonic quote (i.e., taken from the actual recording of “It’s Yourself” [2:31–3:16])9 as opposed to an allosonic quote (i.e., a reinterpretation of the excerpt).10 Although at first glance, the quote would seem to be strictly intertextual, since there are no technical modifications,11 there is still an operating hypertextual transformation, based on the intertext’s position in both pieces, similar to that of transvaluation, described by Genette (1997, 343) as “any operation of an axiological nature bearing on the value that is implicitly or explicitly assigned to an action or group of actions.” As what is part of an interlude in the hypotext constitutes the introduction of the hypertext, one would assume that different values are assigned to each of the intertexts. Example 2.1. “It’s Yourself,” interlude, opening four-note motif (2:41–2:48) Page 66 →Furthermore, this specific type of transvaluation may be considered a revaluation. In literature a revaluation “consists of investing [a character]—by way of pragmatic or psychological transformation—with a more significant and/or more вЂattractive’ role in the value system of the hypertext than was the case in the hypotext” (Genette 1997, 343), if one chooses to claim that the introduction of a piece plays a more significant role than an interlude. Such a judgment call is rather subjective at this point, but stronger arguments for the revaluation case appear later in the piece. Section B: Principal Theme (From “It’s Yourself,” Interlude, Four-Note Motif) As the jazz-fusion part of “Los Endos” begins (starting from 0:46; example 2.2), there are many recurrences of the first four-note motif, each one developed to varying degrees. These recurrences create a new

theme Page 67 →that will be repeated twice, in varying forms (section B′, 2:30–2:45; section B″, 2:57–3:31), thereby occupying the bulk of the piece. It becomes clear that the motif plays a much stronger role as the basis of a principal theme in “Los Endos” than as part of an interlude in “It’s Yourself,” thus reaffirming the case for a hypertextual revaluation. We limit our observation of the jazz-fusion version of the motif to its first four occurrences, as illustrated in example 2.2. Table 2.1 Main Formal Sections in “Los Endos” Hypertext (“Los Endos”) Hypotexts Section Description Timing Derived from Excerpt A Introduction 0:00–0:46 “It’s Yourself” Interlude B Principal theme 0:46–1:47 “It’s Yourself” Interlude, 1st motif C B′ X B″ D C′ E

Timing 1:59–3:20 2:41–2:48

Interlude I 1:47–2:30 “Dance on a Volcano” Ritornello theme 0:45–1:00 Principal theme 2:30–2:45 “It’s Yourself” Interlude, 1st motif 2:41–2:48 New motif 2:45–2:57 No apparent hypotext — — Principal theme 2:57–3:31 “It’s Yourself” Interlude, 1st motif 2:41–2:48 Interlude II 3:31–4:06 “Dance on a Volcano” Introduction 0:00–0:37 Interlude I, reprise 4:06–4:30 “Dance on a Volcano” Ritornello theme 0:45–1:00 Ending 4:30–end “Squonk” Introduction and verse 0:00–1:42

Example 2.2. “Los Endos,” principal theme (0:46–1:28) One of the most noticeable changes is in the music’s style, which has gone from a rubato quasi-pastoral setting to a very lively and rhythmic jazz-fusion-influenced one. The equivalent term in Genette’s (1997, 226) theory is transstylization, described as “a stylistic rewriting, a transposition whose sole function is a change of style.” Another transformation in the hypertext is the change of timbre. Page 68 →Although the main melody in both hypotext and hypertext is heard on guitar, the instrument’s sound on the hypertext is subject to slight alterations, most notably a greater presence of attack (compare 0:51–0:56 to 0:11–0:18). Analogous to a change of timbre would be a “shift in the narrative voice” (Genette 1997, 289), or transvocalization. However, an additional element that also largely contributes to the change of timbre is the superimposition of a synthesizer line that mostly harmonizes the main melody. This transformation results in a “shift in the narrative voice,” much like the modification of the guitar sound, yet it also operates on a different level or in a different dimension. Harmonization operates in what is often referred to as the vertical dimension, reflecting the way pitch is represented on a music staff, as opposed to the horizontal dimension, referring to the melodic and rhythmical elements that unfold in time. Timbre is another dimension altogether. The synthesizer part might therefore be considered a transvocalization operating in both the vertical and timbral dimensions by virtue of the transformation of both the harmonization and the overall sound, respectively. This multidimensionality is one of the fundamental differences between music and literature, and as such, the cross-application of theoretical approaches from one discipline to the other needs to take this difference into account. In this case, although transvocalization is the result of both the modification of the guitar sound and the synthesizer harmonization, the distinction between the two needs to be preserved to reflect the different dimensions in which hypertextual transformations operate. A simple solution would be to consider both harmonization and timbre modification as subcategories of transvocalization.12 Genette (1997, 229) identifies two other musical dimensions that are absent from the literary text: A difference of status is to be noted here already between the literary and the musical text: tempo and dynamic nuance are as much a part of the musical text as rhythm or melody, and are generally prescribed by the score; this constraint is nonexistent in the literary text, whose ideality is in this regard more radical than that of music.В .В .В .

Both the dynamics and tempo of the hypotext are transformed. Since both these transformations operate in dimensions that, as Genette has noted, are nonexistent in literature, there are no analogous literal hypertextual practices to be found. Here lies a case where additional hypertextualPage 69 → transformation categories would be valuable to fully adapt Genette’s theory to music analysis.13 In the last three occurrences of the four-note motif in the jazz-fusion part of “Los Endos” as displayed in example 2.2 (guitar, measures 17–29 in the example; 1:15–1:28), some quantitative transformations begin to take place. In all three instances, the last note of the motif is missing; this consists of a “suppression pure and simple, or excision, with no other form of intervention” (Genette 1997, 229). To be more specific, this particular type of excision is a “reduction by amputation (a single massive excision)” (229) as opposed to trimming or pruning, which consist of “multiple excisions disseminated throughout the text” (230). In this case, the massiveness of the amputation is not so much in the single missing note as in the fact that a full quarter of the motif has been excised. In addition to their amputation, these intertexts have been subjected to a hypertextual transformation that is the exact opposite: “augmentation by massive addition” (254) or extension. The extensions appear after the three original notes of the motif, where the excised fourth note would have been. This combination of amputation and extension results in a substitution, as illustrated by Genette’s formula “addition + suppression = substitution” (269). In fact, the new melodic material that has been appended to each motif is simply replacing the missing last note. Finally, the addition of a synthesizer harmonization to the guitar melody might also be considered a form of quantitative transformation, operating in different—both vertical and timbral—dimensions; this once again illustrates the usefulness of further subcategorizing some of Genette’s hypertextual transformations. Section C: Interlude I (From “Dance on a Volcano,” Ritornello Theme) The next intertextual relation to be found in “Los Endos” is with “Dance on a Volcano,” the first piece on A Trick of the Tail. The opening track includes a short recurring theme on guitar (0:45–0:49) that appears in the instrumental introduction and returns at the end of each verse, much like a Baroque ritornello (example 2.3). The first occurrence of this theme in “Los Endos” (1:55–2:02; example 2.4) is subject to a number of different hypertextual transformations, some of which have been previously discussed. The appearance of the theme as an incidental episode rather than a recurring principal theme Page 70 →as in “Dance on a Volcano” shows a certain degree of devaluation—the exact opposite of revaluation (Genette 1997, 354). On a rhythmic level, there is a different time signature: 4/4 instead of 7/8. This transformation corresponds to transmetrification in poetry, described as “the transposition of a poem from one meter to another” (225). Moreover, the change of instrument from guitar to synthesizer is an example of transvocalization operating in the dimension of timbre.14 Example 2.3. “Dance on a Volcano,” ritornello theme (0:45–0:49) Example 2.4. “Los Endos,” interlude I (1:55–2:02) Particularly noteworthy is the difference between the underlying harmonic progression in both hypotext and hypertext. This progression does not alter the theme itself but does alter the listener’s perception of it by playing a big part in establishing the structural and ornamental tones of the melody. For example, the first note of the second measure in the hypotext, Eв™-, corresponds to the fundamental of the underlying chord, Eв™- major, whereas in the hypertext, the same note corresponds to the seventh of an F minor seventh chord. The result is an important difference in stability between the two occurrences of the same note. Given the inherent multidimensionality of music, transformations in which one dimension alters our perception of another—for example, a harmonic progression altering our perception of a melody—can be quite common. Consequently, it might be useful to create a new category for those “interdimensional” hypertextual transformations. A slightly different interdimensional transformation operates on the same theme’s occurrence in the bridge of “Squonk” (5:22–5:32; example 2.5). In this hypertext,15 the establishment of a new tonal center in Page 71 →relation to the theme alters the status of the structural and ornamental tones. For example, the

hypertext’s tonal center corresponds to the third note of the theme (B), as the excerpt is in the Mixolydian mode of B. Conversely, the hypotext’s tonal center corresponds to the first note of the theme, Bв™-, with the excerpt in the key of Bв™- major (example 2.3). The key difference between this interdimensional transformation and the previous one is that the modification of a harmonic accompaniment operates in the vertical dimension, whereas the establishment of a tonal center operates in time, in the horizontal dimension, by way of degree repetition or resolution of harmonic tension, among other means.16 An additional hypertextual transformation is the transposition of the theme a triton lower. As this transformation operates solely in the vertical dimension, no corresponding literary transformation appears to exist. Transposition could perhaps be considered yet another subcategory of transvocalization, as the “narrative voice” shifts from higher to lower. Among the other transformations operating on this hypertext are that of transmetrification (from 7/8 to 4/4); transvocalization (by way of sound effects added to the guitar sound); and devaluation (since the theme is a countermelody to the lead vocal line but is at the forefront in the hypotext). Section C′: Interlude I, Reprise (From “Dance on a Volcano,” Ritornello Theme) The “Dance on a Volcano” ritornello theme appears one last time in “Los Endos” (4:06–4:11; example 2.6). The previously discussed transformations in this hypertext include transvocalization by way of instrument change from guitar to synthesizer and transposition two full tones lower. Some of the more remarkable changes in this hypertext are the result of interdimensional transformations. The harmonic progression, which consists solely of parallel augmented chords, effectively reduces the sense of any tonal center, giving this passage an almost atonal quality that in turn drastically alters the listener’s perception of the theme. Another interdimensional transformation operating on the hypertext involves rhythm. Although the theme keeps its initial 7/8 time signature, the pulsating kick drum accentuates each quarter note to the point of transforming every two 7/8 measures into one 7/4 measure. This alters the perception of the theme in relation to the beat. For example, in the hypotext (example 2.3), Eв™- falls on a strong beat, situated as it is at thePage 72 →beginning of a 7/8 measure. However, the corresponding note in the hypertext (B; example 2.6) falls between two kick drum beats—in the middle of the 7/4 measure—creating an impression of syncopation. Example 2.5. “Squonk,” bridge (5:22–5:32) Example 2.6. “Los Endos,” interlude I, reprise (4:06–4:11) Section D: Interlude II (From “Dance on a Volcano,” Introduction) The first notes heard in “Dance on a Volcano” are those of an open-fifth D chord motif, with a chromatic lower neighbor tone, played on a softly picked guitar. Shortly thereafter, the now-established D tonal center is further emphasized by its multiple-octave appearance in a distinctive melodic motif on the lead guitar as the rest of the band joins in (0:00–0:06; example 2.7). This rather unique opening is hard to miss when it is heard back again toward the end of the album, during the closing section of “Los Endos” (3:32–3:42; example 2.8). Page 73 →As a testament to music’s multiple layers, the same transformation operates differently on separate elements of this hypertext. Whereas the guitar-picking riff is transposed up a minor third, the lead guitar motif is transposed down a perfect fourth. This in turn leads to an interdimensional transformation that alters the relation between the two parts. In a similar manner to the opening open-fifth D chord in the hypotext, the open-fifth F chord places an emphasis on F as a (temporary) tonal center. However, as the two guitar parts have not been transposed evenly, the opening notes of the lead guitar motif consist of the third of the underlying chord instead of the fundamental.17 Section E: Ending (From “Squonk,” Introduction and Verse) The final intertext relating to another track on A Trick of the Tail is the instrumental version of “Squonk” that acts as a coda to “Los Endos” (4:30–end). The absence of the lead vocal part reflects different hypertextual transformations. First, the vocal part could be considered to have been amputated in both the vertical

and timbral dimensions. Second, the absence of vocals brings the synthesizer’s countermelody to the forefront, transforming it into the principal line—a perfect example of revaluation. And third, this final intertext is itself augmented with an ultimate intertext in the closing seconds of “Los Endos” (4:57–5:02, 5:32–5:40): an allosonic quote from a previous Genesis track, “Supper’s Ready” (1972, 21:22–21:34)—“There’s an angel standing in the sun / Freed to get back home.” A Trick of the Tail was Genesis’s first album with Collins replacing Peter Gabriel as lead singer, and this quote has the band “waving a fond goodbye to Peter and the past” (Bowler and Dray 1993, 121).

Intratextuality Had it not been for the subsequent release of “It’s Yourself” or even the knowledge of its existence, how would our analysis of “Los Endos” differed? The opening four-note motif in “Los Endos” would simply be considered an original part of the piece rather than an intertextual borrowing. Nevertheless, many of the observed hypertextual transformations of this principal motif in the subsequent jazz-fusion section, such as transstylization or transvocalization, would remain; the only difference would be that the hypotext would have been found within the text. However, contextual transformations such as transvaluation would have to be reassessed, given that the hypotext would now be an opening statement rather than an interlude. Example 2.7. “Dance on a Volcano,” introduction (0:00–0:06) Example 2.8. “Los Endos,” interlude II (3:32–3:42) Page 74 →Similarly, many of the transformations affecting other hypertexts in “Los Endos”—those derived from “Dance on a Volcano” and “Squonk”—remain the same whether their hypotexts are considered separate songs or parts of a single work. Exceptions would again include transformations dependent on contextual considerations. For example, it would be plausible to find different degrees of transvaluation relating to the opening of “Los Endos” whether it is viewed as the main introductory material of an independent piece or merely the beginning of a final section of A Trick of the Tail considered as a single work. This gives a glance at the possible usage of Genette’s theoretical framework as a tool for thematic analysis—that is, an examination of the recurrence and transformation of thematic material within the same work. The transformation of a musical idea within a given piece is indeed often regarded as fundamental to its development. Of course, the degree to which this development is pursued varies greatly. Arnold Schoenberg (1975, 102–3) has famously compared his own highly developed music with the numerous simple motivic repetitions found in Johann Strauss II’s “On the Beautiful Blue Danube” waltz. Richard Middleton (1990, 269) distinguishes between musematic18 and discursive repetition, defined as the repetition of short and long units, respectively; while the latter tends to result in “developmental structures,” the former is “more Page 75 →likely to be prolonged and unvaried” while being “combined with a вЂsurface’ characterized by complex, minutely inflectedВ .В .В . variation.” The recurrence of musical ideas in either varied and developed form or in exact repetition with but minute variations is usually understood to play an important part in ensuring a sense of musical coherence. It is a very common phenomenon regardless of the genre or period in which the piece was composed. The study of interrelations between themes in music, or thematicism, has taken a wide variety of flavors that fall into two broad categories based in large part on what is considered a valid interrelationship: strict constructionism and organicism (Webster 1991, 194). The first category is restricted to readily identifiable and audible resemblances (e.g., Leonard B. Meyer’s [1973, 44–59] conformant relationships and Nicolas Ruwet’s [1987, 11–36] paradigmatic analysis), whereas the second includes approaches that seek to uncover underlying relationships between passages that may seem disparate (e.g., Schoenberg’s developing variation [Dudeque 2005, 132–72] and Rudolph Reti’s [1951] thematic process). Organicist approaches are often said to help uncover the hidden unity within the diversity of the musical surface. While our analysis has adopted a strict-constructionist approach, Genette’s hypertextual taxonomy has made it possible to turn the organicists’ goal on its head by uncovering a hidden diversity within the unity of the

musical surface. The exhaustive catalog of transformations found in Palimpsests leads one to notice many subtle variations that may otherwise remain overlooked. Of course, some of these transformations can already be observed by more conventional means. For example, equivalent operations to quantitative transformations such as excisions, extensions, or substitutions are readily found in music analysis. However, some other transformations, particularly those where contextual change plays a large part, are not so commonly acknowledged and offer potentially new insights. While the quote from “It’s Yourself” that opens “Los Endos” might simply be labeled an exact repetition in conventional music analysis, Genette’s approach leads one to consider the context in which the material is quoted and notice a transvaluation—or, more specifically, a revaluation of the theme in the hypertext. Similarly, a metrical or harmonic change underlying an otherwise exact repetition of a theme gives rise to what we have called an interdimensional transformation, where transformations to the surrounding context rather than to the theme itself mostly alter our perception of it. Perception seems to be the operative difference between an intratextualPage 76 → and a conventional analysis of a work. To further explore this point, we turn to the study of literature, where intratextuality originated. In describing the term, Laird (2000, 145–46) addresses the issue of a possible redundancy: The term “intratextuality” designates something which no word has specifically designated before, namely the realm of possibility for whatever apparently “internal” principles or organization, structure or division in a text are there to be constituted by its readers.В .В .В . Words like “design,” “division,” “order,” “architecture,” and “shape” customarily convey certain phenomenal aspects of texts. Unfortunately, such words can also carry the implication that these phenomenal aspects are the result of authorial artifice. The term “intratext” has no such excess baggage. In other words, conventional means of structural analysis tend to highlight what is usually assumed to be the author’s intention or at least an objectively perceivable or “evident” structure—presumably for both author and reader. Conversely, intratextuality, while encompassing the previously mentioned authorial constructs, also includes interrelations that rely solely on the reader’s perception. A strong parallel with intertextuality exists here. Whereas quotation or allusion is usually understood as a deliberate action on the part of the author, intertextuality also includes those interrelations such as influence or stylistic conventions that may not be so deliberate but can still be noticed by readers. Both intra- and intertextuality may thus be understood as an assessment of a reader’s perception of various possible interrelations between various intra- or intertexts, respectively, whether or not those perceptions correspond to an author’s intentions. Monica R. Gale (2001, 109) views this as a way to give greater importance to the interpretative aspect of literary analysis: One effect of this shift of emphasis is to open up the text to a variety of different readings: if we no longer look on the structure of a work as a given, something put there by the author and only waiting to be established with certainty by the critic, then it becomes easier to argue that any work may reveal different structuring principles to different readers or groups of readers, or even to the same reader at different times. Page 77 →For the better part of the past fifty or sixty years, music analysts, especially in the United States, have largely favored objective and impartial approaches to their work. Methods that require a certain amount of interpretation, such as thematic analysis, have been slower to gain widespread acceptance. Although the terrain has started to shift in the past few decades with the rise of “New Musicology”19 and with prominent musicologists such as Nicholas Cook (1987, 1–4) and Allan F. Moore (2003, 6) adopting the position of music analysis as an interpretive act, Marion Guck (2006, 193; italics added) has still recently felt the need to “reframe analysis as interpretation.” The application of a concept such as intratextuality in music analysis, with a shift in emphasis from a composer’s intention to a listener’s perception, might be of great value in that respect.

Concluding Remarks

This chapter illustrates Genettean hypertextuality’s usefulness as a tool for thematic analysis by demonstrating its application to readily identifiable interrelations in the music of Genesis and by comparing both intertextual and intratextual approaches. It obviously is by no means comprehensive either as a theoretical framework or as a study of A Trick of the Tail, and it leaves many questions unanswered. For example, from an intertextual perspective, what are some of the interrelations between this first Collins-era album and the preceding Gabriel era, other than the “Supper’s Ready” quote? What are some external influences, either from contemporary artists or as a result of the band members’ other projects (e.g., Collins’s involvement with jazz band Brand X or guitarist Steve Hackett’s bourgeoning solo career)? From an intratextual perspective, what are some of the less readily identifiable interrelations that tie together the album’s tracks? Can Genette’s theory help in identifying some of those more subjective interrelationships? And from a theoretical perspective, how concealed can a hypertextual transformation be before it ceases to be considered valid, notwithstanding Genette’s (1997, 9) claim that in a sense, “all works are hypertextual”? How should one distinguish between different types of musical hypertextuality, such as thematic transformation and musical arrangement? Genette’s rigor in defining his hypertextual transformations makes their application to music analysis a relatively straightforward process requiring but a few fundamental adaptations. Chief among them is the necessity of recognizing the different dimensions inherent in a musical Page 78 →work. This may often be achieved either by creating new hypertextual transformation categories or by further dividing certain hypertextual practices into subcategories that reflect particular musical dimensions. By discerning between the simple presence of a text within another and its actual transformation, Genette has allowed his hypertextual taxonomy to be separated rather seamlessly from its intertextual origins and applied in an intratextual setting. Genesis’s A Trick of the Tail proves quite useful for demonstrating this point, straddled as the album is between a single musical work and a collection of independent pieces. Even without the unifying storyline of a conventional concept album such as The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, thematic recurrences between tracks, culminating with “Los Endos” as a musical recapitulation, invite the listener to perceive the album as a unit. However, the pieces do remain independent works and do stand on their own—Genesis has never shied away from excerpting pieces from the album during their live sets. While these differing points of view determine whether the musical borrowing between the pieces of an album should be considered intertextual or intratextual, the actual transformation of each thematic recurrence often remains the same, with the exception of instances where context plays a large part in perceptions of a given transformation. This in turn demonstrates how hypertextual theory may be applied in an intratextual setting and by extension to thematic analysis. This may be exactly what Genette had in mind when he mused about transformation as the “basic principle” of musical development.

Notes 1. Genette lists three other types of transtextual relationships, none of them mutually exclusive: paratextuality, which refers to titles, forewords, illustrations, book covers, or any other secondary elements surrounding the text proper (1997, 3); metatextuality, the relationship that “unites a given text to another, of which it speaks without necessarily citing it” (4); and architextuality, the “general or transcendent categories—types of discourse, modes of enunciation, literary genres—from which emerges each singular text” (1). All three of these transtextual relationships as well as transtextuality itself were introduced in Genette 1992, although paratextuality’s description is akin to that of hypertextuality in Palimpsests. From this point on, this chapter adopts Genette’s definition of intertextuality. 2. However, Walter Everett (2010, 231) describes intratextuality as “a network of differing sonic products”—for example, remixes, alternate edits, mash-ups, and other adaptations commonly associated with popular music recordings “traceable to a single source recording.” Page 79 →3. Of course, thematic recurrence has long been in common use for theatrical music, from opera and ballet to the more modern musicals and film scores. “Los Endos,” with its substantial use of recurring themes, shares some important similarities with the medley overture, a longtime staple in

musicals, while the heavy transformations to which many of its themes are subjected relates the piece to thematic transformations mostly found in nineteenth-century concert music from Berlioz’s idГ©e fixe to Franck’s cyclic form. 4. Lacasse (this volume) uses the terms polytextuality and polyphonography to designate collections of texts or recordings that are assembled within a larger common frame (anthologies, albums, and the like). 5. This is notwithstanding any track reordering. 6. This song was recorded during the same session as A Trick of the Tail, explaining the intertextual relationship. Furthermore, its ending reprises the opening motif of “Mad Man Moon,” also on A Trick of the Tail. Its release on CD (2000, 2007) has an earlier fade-out that removes the “Mad Man Moon” intertext. In this chapter, timing indications for “It’s Yourself” refer to both Genesis 1977 and 2000; Genesis 2007 includes another verse that adds roughly fifty seconds to the track. 7. This intertextual reversing effect has previously been discussed both in literature (Borges 1964) and in music (Cone 1987; Kistner 2006). 8. This is notwithstanding Kristeva’s (1980, 66) view that any work—and presumably, by extension, any excerpt—is “the absorption and transformation of another.” 9. A distinct guitar string squeak, present in both “It’s Yourself” and “Los Endos” (2:48 and 0:18, respectively) is one of the more noticeable signs of an autosonic quote. I thank Serge Lacasse for bringing to my attention an audible punch-in on both tracks (3:05 and 0:35, respectively). 10. The terms autosonic and allosonic, inspired by Nelson Goodman’s (1976, 113) distinction between autographic and allographic art, were first introduced by Lacasse 2000a, 38. 11. This is notwithstanding any possible sonic differences brought about by remastering or remixing. A Trick of the Tail was remastered in 1994 and remixed for the 5.1 surround sound format in 2007. These sonic enhancements have introduced a number of new hypertextual transformations that might raise the possibility of different degrees of “autosonicity.” For a further discussion of interrelations between such sonic variations of a recorded work, see Everett 2010. 12. Here, the category of transvocalization operating in a timbral dimension might be further subdivided by virtue of whether the timbre transformation is the result of an instrumental sound modification, as with the guitar part, or of a different orchestration, as with the addition of a synthesizer part. 13. In the realm of recorded music, a myriad of sonic manipulations that are absent from literature (e.g., equalization, compression, and panning) become potential hypertextual transformations. 14. The third note of the theme, F, is repeated in the hypotext but not in the hypertext. This small transformation could be analogous to the minimal lexical transformations that characterize the parody as literal figure, “an incidental ornamentPage 80 → of discourse” (Genette 1997, 8). However, such transformations usually seek to completely alter the meaning of a literary text but have rather more of an ornamental nature in music. 15. From the viewpoint of their reception, “Dance on a Volcano,” the opening track of A Trick of the Tail, is the hypotext and “Squonk” is the hypertext. 16. By hearing a single note with an underlying chord, it is possible to immediately determine whether it is consonant or dissonant in relation to the chord, thus establishing its structural or ornamental status; the same musical information is not sufficient to determine a tonal center, as the horizontal temporal unfolding is missing. 17. The other hypertextual transformations include a small extension of the guitar-picking part as well as another interdimensional transformation where the final note of the lead guitar motif consists of the fundamental of a major chord instead of a minor chord. 18. Musematic is derived from Philip Tagg’s museme, meaning a “basic unit of musical expression” (1979, 71), analogous to morpheme in linguistics. 19. Kerman (1985) is often credited with having largely defined the New Musicology movement.

References Banks, Tony, Phil Collins, Peter Gabriel, Steve Hackett, and Mike Rutherford. 2007. Genesis: Chapter and Verse. New York: St. Martin’s Griffin.

Borges, Jorge Luis. 1964. “Kafka and His Precursors.” In Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings, 199–201. New York: New Directions. Bowler, Dave, and Bryan Dray. 1993. Genesis: A Biography. London: Sidgwick and Jackson. Brauer, Vincent, Serge Lacasse, and RenГ©e Villemaire. 1996. “Analyse d’Une Е’uvre Hypertextuelle: Las Meninas, Vingt et Une Variations Transformelles sur les Kinderszenen de Robert Schumann, de John Rea.” Les Cahiers de l’ARMuQ 17 (May): 35–44. Cone, Edward T. 1987. “On Derivation: Syntax and Rhetoric.” Music Analysis 6 (3): 237–55. Cook, Nicholas. 1987. A Guide to Musical Analysis. New York: Norton. Dudeque, Norton. 2005. Music Theory and Analysis in the Writings of Arnold Schoenberg (1874–1951). Aldershot: Ashgate. Everett, Walter. 2010. “вЂIf You’re Gonna Have a Hit’: Intratextual Mixes and Edits of Pop Recordings.” Popular Music 29 (2): 229–50. Gale, Monica R. 2001. Review of Intratextuality: Greek and Roman Textual Relations, edited by Alison Sharrock and Helen Morales. Hermathena 171 (Winter): 97–101. Genette, GГ©rard. 1992. The Architext: An Introduction. Translated by Jane E. Lewin. Berkeley: University of California Press. Genette, GГ©rard. 1997. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Translated by Channa Newman and Claude Doubinsky. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Goodman, Nelson. 1976. Languages of Art: An Approach to a Theory of Symbols. 2nd ed. Indianapolis: Hackett. Page 81 →Guck, Marion. 2006. “Analysis as Interpretation: Interaction, Intentionality, Invention.” Music Theory Spectrum 28 (2): 191–209. Hatten, Robert S. 1985. “The Place of Intertextuality in Music Studies.” American Journal of Semiotics 3 (4): 69–82. Holm-Hudson, Kevin. 2008. Genesis and The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. Aldershot: Ashgate. Kerman, Joseph. 1985. Contemplating Music: Challenges to Musicology. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Kistner, Gavin. 2006. “Hip-Hop Sampling and Twentieth Century African-American Music: An Analysis of Nas’ вЂGet Down’ (2003).” Master’s thesis, UniversitГ© Laval. Korsyn, Kevin. 1991. “Towards a New Poetics of Musical Influence.” Music Analysis 10 (1–2): 3–72. Kristeva, Julia. 1980. “Word, Dialogue, and Novel.” In Desire in Language: A Semiotic Approach to Literature and Art, edited by Leon S. Roudiez, 64–91. Translated by Thomas Gora, Alice Jardine, and Leon S. Roudiez. New York: Columbia University Press. Lacasse, Serge. 2000a. “Intertextuality and Hypertextuality in Recorded Popular Music.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by Michael Talbot, 35–58. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Lacasse, Serge. 2000b. “Le Rock au Second DegrГ©: IntertextualitГ© et HypertextualitГ© en Musique Populaire EnregistrГ©e.” Cahiers de la SociГ©tГ© QuГ©bГ©coise de Recherche en Musique 4 (2): 49–58. Laird, Andrew. 2000. “Design and Designation in Virgil’s Aeneid, Tacitus’ Annals, and

Michelangelo’s Conversion of Saint Paul.” In Intratextuality: Greek and Roman Textual Relations, edited by Alison Sharrock and Helen Morales, 143–70. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Meyer, Leonard B. 1973. Explaining Music: Essays and Explorations. Berkeley: University of California Press. Middleton, Richard. 1990. Studying Popular Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Moore, Allan F. 2003. Introduction to Analyzing Popular Music, edited by Allan F. Moore, 1–15. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reti, Rudolph. 1951. The Thematic Process in Music. New York: Macmillan. Ruwet, Nicolas. 1987. “Methods of Analysis in Musicology.” Translated and introduction by Mark Everist. Music Analysis 6 (1–2): 3–9, 11–36. Schoenberg, Arnold. 1975. Style and Idea. Edited by Leonard Stein. Berkeley: University of California Press. Sharrock, Alison. 2000. “Intratextuality: Texts, Parts, and (W)holes in Theory.” In Intratextuality: Greek and Roman Textual Relations, edited by Alison Sharrock and Helen Morales, 1–39. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tagg, Philip. 1979. Kojak, 50 Seconds of Television Music: Towards the Analysis of Affect in Popular Music. GГ¶teborg: Musikvetenskapliga Institutionen. Webster, James. 1991. Haydn’s “Farewell” Symphony and the Idea of Classical Style: ThroughComposition and Cyclic Integration in His Instrumental Music. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Page 82 →

Discography Genesis. 1970. Trespass. MCA MCABD 1653. Genesis. 1971. Nursery Cryme (Definitive Edition Remaster). Atlantic CD 82673. Genesis. 1972. Foxtrot (Definitive Edition Remaster). Atlantic 82674-2. Genesis. 1973. Selling England by the Pound (Definitive Edition Remaster). Atlantic 82675-2. Genesis. 1974. The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway (Definitive Edition Remaster). Atlantic 82677-2. Genesis. 1976. A Trick of the Tail (Definitive Edition Remaster). Atlantic A2 82688. Genesis. 1977. Your Own Special Way/It’s Yourself. UK Charisma CB 300. Genesis. 2000. Genesis Archives #2 1976–1992 Box Set. Atlantic B0000508TB. Genesis. 2007. Genesis 1976–1982 Box Set. Rhino Records B000P46P82. Pink Floyd. 1973. The Dark Side of the Moon. EMI B000002U82. The Who. 1969. Tommy. MCA MCAD-10005.

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Section II Intertextual Analyses

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Three. The Bitter Taste of Praise Singing “Hallelujah” Allan Moore

Prologue Sitting in Waterloo’s Fishcotheque cafe last Thursday (don’t askВ .В .В .), I listened to the piped-in music—yet another parade of young singers with minimal accompaniment singing doleful covers of 1960s pop hits. In the midst of which, with no change of pace or texture, I realized I was listening to the standardized verses of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” I set to wondering what this surprisingly diminutive figure, dead little more than a week, would have made of being just another float in the carnival of past glories that passes for so much pop music these days (beautifully arranged plastic flowers atop a flatbed that can’t get out of first gear). Unlike, of course, other recently departed (David Bowie, Prince), whose work is so much harder to cover, Leonard Cohen’s offerings lack distinctiveness as artifacts: Does that make them easy fodder for young musicians who can’t themselves write? Or do Cohen’s songs possess a signifying richness that inspires so many young musicians to buy into them? What follows was originally written rather more than a decade before Cohen’s 2016 death (which explains the dated references) for a collection that unfortunately never saw the light of day.1 At the time, only a limited number of covers of “Hallelujah” were available, Daniel Levitin (2008) had yet to declare its mastery, and knowledge of its byways was limited to “real” fans. The chapter maps a problematic (and probably failed) attempt to enter such hallowed fandom but asks what I hope are questions that remain pertinent to this day. Page 86 →

I It has become common currency among musicologists of popular music to worry about maintaining the twin positions of fan and scholar. One starting point for this investigation was to try to observe my own becoming a fan, with respect to one particular example. The second was an abiding interest in the application of sacred imagery to secular contexts within popular culture. I explore these in tandem in this chapter. The “bard of bedsits” (Clarke 1989, 256), Leonard Cohen was an acquired taste in the late 1960s. Writer of gloom-laden songs about failed relationships, he found a ready audience particularly among members of a growing student community who wanted their songs thoughtful rather than simply entertaining. The bleakness of his view was ably captured by the liner photography of albums such as Songs from a Room (1969) and by the sparse textures (voice and nylon-strung guitar, with occasional tasteful string chords and wordless female vocals), unemotional delivery, and enigmatic lyrics of a song such as “Suzanne” (1968). The song’s structure is outlined in example 3.1, where its simplicity is self-evident. Example 3.1. Structure of Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne” (1968) Again and again, we move through the same lazy pattern of consecutive fifths between bass and monotonal voice, each melody note decorated by its upper neighbor, these decorations attracting their own bass parallelism later in each verse. And the lyrics, in their introversion, remind us of “Suzanne,” with whom we “want to travel blind,” searching for her love, in which we “will lean . . . forever,” only to find that she merely “holds the mirror” (Goldstein 1969, 82–83). By 1974, things had moved on. Cohen had lost his audience—pop music had become complicated and self-congratulatory in its sophistication.

II

Released in 2001, the state-of-the-art animated film Shrek featured a soundtrack of previously released songs in a range of styles, with some Page 87 →of the songs (loosely) related to the action on the screen at that particular time—a practice that has now become standard for mass-circulation films. Toward the end of the film, the two main characters (if that’s the right word) part acrimoniously, a moment underpinned by a cleverly edited version of John Cale singing Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”2 In comparison to the remainder of the soundtrack, this song is texturally sparse and rhythmically plain. It is, however, emotionally taut and seems to mark an attempt on the part of the production team to suggest how someone in Shrek’s position would be feeling at the time. The song’s imagery makes any literal interpretation rather absurd but is crucial in trying to evaluate how successful the song is. Cale has recorded the song at least twice (1991, 1992). My discussion here refers to the 1992 live recording, considered by fans to be the definitive version.3 The lyrics appear in a number of places on the web (although no two sites offer exactly the same transcription).4 Example 3.2 provides a structural outline of the melodic and bass motions, repeated for each of the five verses. Example 3.2. Melodic and bass motions in John Cale’s “Hallelujah” (1992) After spending the first half verse around G/A, the melody line rises by step to E (each step structurally harmonized), falling back to C (via a passing note) and then back to A and finally to the lower tonic, the lowestPage 88 → note of the line. Only in the appoggiatural rise to A (the beginning of the refrain) is the entirely linear motion of the line broken—a clear structural break. Harmonically, the song plays frequently with vi. In the first half verse, this subsides through IV and V to I, but in the second half, it is both reinforced by iii and appears underpinning the melodic apex. The refrain then alternates IV and vi before coming to rest on I via V. Every harmony is in root position, a normal situation in popular music. As far as texture is concerned, Cale accompanies himself on the piano and articulates each chord simply through a regular quaver arpeggiated pattern, doubling the bass in octaves and providing the occasional bass passing note on the bar’s final quaver (for example, between the initial C and A). The power of the song, then, lies less in its music than in the combination of the lyrics and the way they are vocally articulated. It begins with biblical imagery and with the calming effect of David’s harp playing on Saul. The writer takes license here, emphasizing the mysterious power of music (1 Sam. 16:23). Even with such a bold start, uncertainty is hinted at, not only in that the chord may not be known but that it may not exist (it is only hearsay). Bearing in mind the genre we are dealing with, the you who doesn’t really care for music may be assumed to be a lover. So what might we have? A love song to someone who doesn’t like music? Bizarre indeed! Some lover, though, as is made clear in the rather offhand “do ya,” where speech overtakes sung words. So, the singer goes on to explain. A special moment this. Popular music discourse is not known for its aesthetic content, which normally consists of little more than the assertion of taste. Here, however, we get a glimpse of a more thoroughgoing understanding. The line rises, through IV and V to vi, as the lyric explains that it “goes like this.” The vi is identified as “the minor fall,” and the IV as “the major lift.” But fall coincides with a steadily rising line, and lift with a wonderfully lightening upper neighbor note. So fall and lift are here emotional terms, although they come at the point at which the interval between melody and bass switches from “bare” fifths and octaves toward the more emotionally filled thirds and (with the upper neighbor) sixths. After this momentary explanation (to the lover), we switch back to the “baffled King,” who must be David. Here, the implication is that the chord was secret not because it was hidden but because it symbolizes the power of music, which is baffling, even to the one composing—and to the one who is singing, for Cale clearly has to push from the diaphragm to reach this top E. The force is audible. What is he composing? The word Hallelujah (equally baffling), which, repeated four times, forms the refrain. It is the point at which the Page 89 →melody line falls and proceeds via that childlike, gapped segment of the melodic scale. The emotion is not childlike, however—far from the simple praise implied by the lyric, the final syllable of the verse’s “hallelujah” approaches a sneer, as the sound issues from the side of Cale’s mouth. We move smartly into the second verse but immediately lose control of who you is. Originally the (presumably female) lover, it is now David, and we recall the biblical narrative in which he is intoxicated by Bathsheba (2 Sam. 11:2–3). The contrast between the first verse’s “do ya” and this verse’s “overthrew you,

” with the second word enunciated very roundly, suggests at least respect for the one who falls under the spell of such an intoxicating woman. The tying to a kitchen chair introduces a strong sense of domesticity (although sitting in front of a piano and explaining the workings of a phrase to an individual sitting close by is hardly less domestic), but we continue with a switch of images to Samson, defeated as his hair was cut. The defeat here is marked by an amazing image, as hallelujah is drawn—almost conjured—by Bathsheba from the lips of David. He is surely unwilling (the word has to be “drawn” out) but powerless to prevent his helpless infatuation. No respite—on to the third verse. David and Bathsheba vanish, and we are back in the kitchen as the singer argues that love is not something in which one succeeds but rather a “cold and broken hallelujah.” After the expressive subtleties of the first two verses, we now seem left to allow the words to speak for themselves, and the final imagery probably strikes home for most listeners, as the hallelujah moves from the second verse’s joy to this verse’s pain. In the fourth verse, however, we return to uncertainty. The singer complains about being kept in the dark by “you.” (Again, the “do ya” is hardly respectful in the singer’s loss of tone.) But who is this? Is he singing to his lover? Is David singing to Bathsheba? To his Lord (God, as opposed to Saul)? And where is down below? In the first instance, it is surely his lover’s genitalia. In the last, it is presumably the earth, viewed from a heavenly perspective. In the second half of the verse, however, the first of these interpretations surely governs, and hallelujah refers again to intense, undoubtedly orgasmic joy, represented by the “holy dove,” as the “moving” is wonderfully actualized by the rising bass. In the final verse, though, we are back to the present, to the failed relationship, its inevitability, and the bitterness this calls forth (“all I ever learned”). The rising line simply treads the same ground as before, with the new images (complaint, pilgrim) only reinforcing the earlier ones (the victory march). Indeed, we even return to the “cold and broken” hallelujah—this word’s eightfold repetition during the final refrain, to Page 90 →a rising and then falling minor third, seems to symbolize the impossibility of moving forward. So, this song seems to explore a single present, that of a bitter failure, overlain as it is with the possibility of something greater, but a possibility not actualized. Why, then, does it have such a strange title? Although the Shrek soundtrack CD includes the song “Hallelujah,” it is not Cale’s version. On the soundtrack CD, it is sung by Rufus Wainwright (2001), son of 1960s folksinger Loudon Wainwright III. This simple substitution has caused much confusion among fans of the film, who cannot reconcile their memory with Wainwright’s voice. When the soundtrack was released, Wainwright was a comparatively new singer who recorded for a label run by DreamWorks, the company that produced the film. Four differences between Wainwright’s and Cale’s versions are immediately obvious. Aside from the much lighter tone of Wainwright’s voice, there is no sense of effort at the higher pitches—no sense of world-weariness. There is no doubled bass (perhaps the performance’s faster pace has something to do with this), and the final vi–V–I becomes replaced by a I–V–I—the difficulty identified by the vi in Cale’s version is here not so present. Wainwright’s basic piano figuration is subtly less interesting (the right-hand portion of the opening of the verse is transcribed in example 3.3). Both Cale and Wainwright subtly emphasize the top point of the arpeggio, but for Cale this is the second quaver of every second beat (example 3.3a); for Wainwright it is the “more normal” first (example 3.3b). Example 3.3. John Cale, “Hallelujah” (1992), top, piano (right hand figuration); bottom, Rufus Wainwright, “Hallelujah” (2001), piano (right hand figuration) Perhaps Wainwright misheard Cale’s subtlety here. There are subtleties in diction, too. Although most versions of the lyrics posted on the Internet give “Baby I’ve,” in the third verse, Wainwright clearly sings “maybe I’ve.” And “holy dove” becomes “holy dark.” He is, of course, openly gay, which may have affected his choice of word. Moreover, the Page 91 →disdain in Cale’s “do ya” is missing—Wainwright’s vowels are more open throughout. Neither interpretation seems invalid, although Wainwright’s is very clearly modeled on Cale’s. Neither, however, gives many clues regarding the strange title. It is a word one would not necessarily expect to find in the

world of secular popular song. It entered, presumably, via gospel, where it is of course common. Thus, Judy Collins’s (1962) singing of Mike Settle’s “Sing Hallelujah” (Example 3.4). It also appears in other religiously inspired contexts, such as George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” (1970) (example 3.5) and Shania Twain’s “God Bless the Child” (1995) (example 3.6). Example 3.4. Judy Collins, “Sing Hallelujah” (1962), excerpt Example 3.5. George Harrison, “My Sweet Lord” (1970), excerpt Example 3.6. Shania Twain, “God Bless the Child” (1995), excerpt In a secularized context, the same joyous take can be found in ZZ Top’s “Chevrolet” (1972), in U2’s “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?” (1991) (example 3.7) and in various versions of the song “Hallelujah, I Love Her So” (Charles 1957; Belafonte 1958; example 3.8). Example 3.7. U2, “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?” (1991), excerpt Example 3.8. Ray Charles, top, “Hallelujah, I Love Her So” (1957), excerpt; bottom, Harry Belafonte, “Hallelujah, I Love Her So” (1958), excerpt Page 92 →It is remarkable that all but one of these examples set the word hallelujah to the interval of a major third (both Belafonte and Charles shorten it to a blue third for stylistic reasons). For Collins, however, the falling minor third carries connotations of strength in spite of appearances. The word hallelujah also can also be found in contexts where it appears ironically. Richard Thompson’s “We Sing Hallelujah” (1974) presents a set of verses likening “a man” to a series of things that fail—the tone is one of inevitable inability to transcend, although the upbeat lyric and harmonies belie this. It is underpinned by the presence of the rough-and-ready crumhorn. In the chorus, “we sing hallelujah,” presumably in ironic praise, for this failure, and there is a falling fourth (with a prominent minor third; see example 3.9). Example 3.9. Richard Thompson, “We Sing Hallelujah” (1974), excerpt A similar tone is present in Nick Cave’s “Hallelujah” (2001).5 Here, the song plays over an almost incessant Dorian i–VII (a-G) and is characterized by a rather dark-timbred violin (lacking treble frequencies) that begins the song with a rising octave scale whose reach to the tonic A never manages to extend the interposing G to a G#. The song is “about” the safety secured by refusing to take a risk in moving from an unsatisfactory situation to one that might represent an improvement. There is a notable similarity with Cale—on the repeat of the word hallelujah, the line shifts from 2̂–1М‚ to 3М‚, with a growing roughness (through exertion) of tone, parallel to that in Cale’s singing. The phrase transcribed Page 93 →in example 3.10 is repeated at every appearance of the word. The minor third is emphasized; the first phrase is doubled a diatonic third higher by backing singers, and the second a third lower, in each case suggesting major thirds. Example 3.10. Nick Cave, “Hallelujah” (2001), excerpt The term hallelujah appears in two distinct senses. In the first, it is an exultation of praise, as we might expect. In the second, it represents either the desire for or the recognition of the impossibility of such praise. And there is an equivalence between minor and major third settings (irrespective of a song’s key), as to which of these senses is employed. Yet the term is still used. There is surely a willfulness here, a refusal to bow to the inevitable. And even with Wainwright’s purity of tone, the song from Shrek falls into the second category.

III But neither Cale nor Wainwright wrote the song, and Cohen’s original recording of it is a very different animal. It includes only four verses: the first two as sung by both Cale and Wainwright, and two totally different verses.6 In the early 1990s, when Cale issued his first version, fans assumed that his third, fourth, and fifth verses were his own and labeled them “pale” by comparison.7 However, according to Cale,

After I saw [Cohen] perform at the Beacon I asked if I could have the lyrics to “Hallelujah.” When I got home one night there were fax paper rolls everywhere because Leonard had insisted on supplying all 15 verses. Nobody recognises my version but I always save that song until the end of the set. (Walsh 2001, 13) Cohen’s original is much slower than Cale’s version—4:30 for four verses as opposed to 4:00 for five. In addition, Cohen has a deep and comparatively inexpressive voice. Cohen’s accompaniment is sparse: bass, minimal kit, arpeggiating synthesizer, an occasional guitar, and gospel choir—humming softly in the verses but breaking out into harmonizedPage 94 → hallelujahs in the choruses. The final line before the chorus replaces Cale’s iii–vi with V/vi–vi, a strategy also employed by Wainwright (who may have borrowed this from yet another version, discussed later in the chapter). The playout consists of multiply repeated, almost selfindulgent, hallelujahs. As Cohen clarified in a 1995 interview with Robert Hilburn, I wanted to write something in the tradition of the hallelujah choruses but from a different point of view.В .В .В . It’s the notion that there is no perfection—that this is a broken world and we live with broken hearts and broken lives but still that is no alibi for anything. On the contrary, you have to stand up and say hallelujah under those circumstances.8 As a practicing Buddhist, Cohen’s acceptance of this state of affairs seems palpable in this song—his voice bears little apparent emotion, with the exception of the last verse, where he admits to culpability in the failure of the relationship. Here, with nothing left to do but stand before “the Lord of Song” with hallelujah on his lips, song fails him, and he merely speaks it. After seeing Shrek and becoming intoxicated by the song, I decided to teach it in late 2001 as part of an undergraduate module focusing on the changing nature of the addressed subject of the song through a comparison of Cale’s, Wainwright’s, and Cohen’s versions. My students were astonished that I hadn’t included discussion of Jeff Buckley’s 1994 recording of “Hallelujah.” These nineteen- and twentyyear-olds apparently found that version special and somehow defining in a way that the others were not. I began to ask whether this response ought to be considered normative, making assumptions about who comprises Buckley’s committed audience. At that time, all I knew about Buckley was that he was now dead, that he had released only one album, and that he was son of the late Tim Buckley, doyen of 1960s coffeehouses. For, if the discourse surrounding “Hallelujah” assumed this knowledge, I was behaving ignorantly. Had I, indeed, entered it at an inappropriate point? How does Buckley’s interpretation differ from that of Cale or Wainwright? Dai Griffiths (2000, 176) hears Buckley “performing the Cale cover rather than the Cohen original,” but in so hearing, he perhaps ignores Buckley’s harmonies. Buckley accompanies himself on electric guitar, but with no distortion. (It has a fairly resonant echo, reminiscent of the early style of Billy Bragg.) The guitar is capped at the fifth fret, depriving it of any real bass; although Buckley adopts an arpeggiation pattern as per his model, he approachesPage 95 → vi from V/vi immediately before the refrain (as did Cohen and Wainwright)—his voice is light and high in register, matching the guitar. Buckley sings the same lyrics as do Cale and Wainwright but incorporates a solo guitar passage before the final verse. This passage conveys no sense of craft—indeed, there are points where he seems to be waiting for inspiration. This almost conversational nature is matched by his approach to the lyrics. He is sometimes slightly late, conveying the impression that he is working out just the right way to express himself prior to doing so. This quality is intensified when, within what is a generally considered enunciatory style, he reverts to a glottal stop on the end of the word let and inserts placeholders such as “you know” before “I used to live alone” (although, unlike Cale, Buckley carefully pronounces the “you” in “do you”). Perhaps the best single word to describe his performance is ecstatic, suggested by a number of factors: the register; his apparent inability to finish the song (the inordinately long holding of what sounds as if it is going to be the final syllable u but turns out not to be); the somewhat wild repeats of the word hallelujah; and the tone when he sings of “mov[ing] in you,” with its obvious sexual reference. These are amplified, I think, by the evident compassion coming from his gentle tone in singing of moonlight, a tone that becomes heavier through the verse until he acknowledges that she “drew the hallelujah” from “you.” This ecstasy is clearly intended. Buckley does not attempt to bring out the “rapturously bleak” (Walsh 2001, 15) qualities of the song,

insisting that “Whoever listens carefully to вЂHallelujah’ will discover that it is a song about sex, about love, about life on earth. The hallelujah is not a homage to a worshipped person, idol or god, but the hallelujah of the orgasm. It’s an ode to life and love” (Fuller 1998).

IV We have, then, four different interpretations of the song, with two of them (Cale’s and Cohen’s) appearing in more than one location. To answer the question of how listeners respond to these varying interpretations, I turned to the wealth of interpretive material available on the Internet, which has addressed both the song’s appearance on the Shrek soundtrack and the song on its own terms. Listeners are clearly interested in the identity of the interpreter: A: In year’s-worst-film Shrek there’s a bit where John Cale’s cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” suddenly starts playing. It is excruciating. Page 96 →B: Not John Cale, its Rufus Wainwright and it is sweet and much lovlier then the song entitles. The worst does however come from Shrek . Samshmouth doing daudream beliver. A: Are you SURE it’s Rufus Wainwright? If so his version is really really close to Cale’s. B: Yes. I own the Soundtrack . I have not heard Cales though. A: Ahh, but one of the Amazon.com reviews sez that for another of the songs they use a different version to the one in the film. So maybe that happened here. B: I OWN THE SOUNDTRACK. THE SOUNDTRACK LISTING SAYS RUFUS. RUFUS HAS SAID HE HAS DONE IT. IT IS BY MOTHERFUCKING RUFUS WAINWRIGHT ! sorry oon occasion I have to be right. A:В .В .В . I know it is Rufus on the soundtrack but IS IT RUFUS ON THE FILM??? “In a pivotal scene, when Shrek and his true love are separated, their feelings of despair and isolation are played out against John Cale’s version of Leonard Cohen’s crestfallen anthem вЂHallelujah.’” [www.salon.com/ent/movies/review/2001/05/18/shrek] “Rufus Wainwright’s cover of Leonard Cohen’s вЂHallelujah’ (not heard in the film, where it was sung by John Cale, but Wainwright is part of the DreamWorks family and he has an album coming out a few weeks after the release of Shrek)” [music.barnesandnoble.com/search/product.asp?ean=600445030527] A: I WIN! I WIN! B: Sorry ;) A: The more I think about Shrek the more awful it seems.9 Robert Walser (2003, 33–37) has discussed at some length the vehemence with which participants in Internet exchanges often express their views. And the identity of the singer is not a trivial matter: critical judgment, here, appears to rest on the aesthetic qualities of the voice involved. C:В .В .В . I’m both a Rufus Wainwright and a Leonard Cohen fan, and I truly find Wainwright’s version of Cohen’s Hallelujah to be an excellent adaptation of the original. Wainwright’s tendency towardPage 97 → operatic swooning somehow worksВ .В .В . in a completely opposite way from Cohen’s croakingly effective gruffness. Please tell me why you disagree.

D: Because Rufus Wainwright deserves to be beaten with sticks for existing. Good deal Jeff Buckley’s dead, imagine a duet between those two bastards. The distinction adopted here focuses very much on vocal approach (“swooning”/“gruffness”). Participants in a discussion list focused on Wainwright also made a number of attempts to compare these versions:10 E:В .В .В . keep in mind that I, too, think rufus has the midas touch. ButВ .В .В . jeff buckley’s cover of “hallelujah” is better than rufus wainwright’s version. here’s my stance: I was hardly disappointed with rufus’ take on the song (just downloaded it), but I noticed that he doesn’t really indulge in the song as much as jeff’s cover does. That is not to say that rufus’ version isn’t beautiful or that it’s anticlimactic, because rufus does a wonderful job with it. I just don’t connect with his soul as I did with jeff buckley’s version—which I fell in love with before he died. Of course, since his death it has made me cry like a baby. F: I like both, but ultimately Buckley’s takes the cake. It’s just those subtle touches; it’s a much more painstaking version and the climactic parts are hit with such power and grace by Jeff&crew that I can’t help but find it overall preferable to the sweet, well-delivered meat and potatoes version Rufus offers us. Plus Jeff rhymes “do ya” and “-ujah” in the way it was intended. Which I likeВ .В .В . The key points here are Buckley’s “indulgence” and “grace” (actually the title of Buckley’s album on which “Hallelujah” appears). The song is not, however, performed by “Jeff&crew,” since Buckley’s is a solo version, with him playing guitar. G: I like both versions, though Jeff’s does have more emotion to it. Rufus does do a lovely job with the song, but Jeff just seemed to be more into it. H: I know I’m in the minority, but I cannot get into Jeff Buckley’s Page 98 →version or Jeff Buckley at all. I find his high, “I’m singing like an angel” voice to be really annoying. Being “into” it seems an alternative way of talking about “indulgence,” although the latter post hears this more as “self-indulgence” because of the implied self-awareness on Buckley’s part. The difference comes down to probably no more than a matter of taste. I: I first bought Jeff Buckley because of someone’s comment on this message board (I don’t remember who): “His voice sounds like what I imagine an angel sounds likeВ .В .В .” I bought a JB cd, and that is how I now describe JB: HIS VOICE SOUNDS LIKE WHAT I IMAGINE AN ANGEL SOUNDS LIKE. J: I’m gonna say that Jeff’s is the most amazing thing ever. I adore RufusВ .В .В . you all know this. But when you compare the coversВ .В .В . Jeff’s has SO much emotion packed into it and you can feel and see the music. That’s the most amazing thing about it I think. Similar terms here: angelic yet again, and an excess of emotion. K: You guys all need to keep in mind that Rufus could not sore and fly like an eagle when the song was recorded as background music on a movie. My guess is that he was constricted by the requirements of the movie maker. Im sure if Rufus had wanted to, his song could have dominated and been the subject of these accolades instead of blending perfectly with the scene and the movie. A soundtrack is meant to compliment the movie not overpower it.

Only here in this conversation do we find a post that tries to conceptualize the recordings, to concern itself less with simply how the recordings sound and more with why they might sound that way. It contains an error, though, in that Wainwright recorded for the CD soundtrack, not for the movie itself.11 J: What I’m saying is thisВ .В .В . Rufus’s version is completely gorgeousВ .В .В . gorgeous and beautiful. Buckley’s is likeВ .В .В . BOOM. It hits you. I’m not saying Rufus can’t do that. I’m just sayingВ .В .В . this time he didn’t. But even he himself was a bit stunned by Buckley’s coverВ .В .В . so I dunnoВ .В .В . Page 99 →L: Jeff Buckley was a bright light that comes around once in a generation, if we’re lucky. It’s not only his vocal prowess & songwriting talent, but his uncanny ability to get inside other peoples’ songs & make them truly his own. God, I miss him. For the first time, we find recognition that what is expressed is a matter of interpretation, that this is not simply authentic expression but putting something from another point of view. This is, of course, a fundamental feature of the song as Cohen originally wrote it, since it takes a variety of authorial voices. M: Honestly and I will I draw ire over this one. I like Buckleys version the least. Which ranks the song behind the versions done by cale (I am a hardcore VU supporter), rufus and the origional by leonard cohen. Buckley just annoys me. The way its been done makes it seems like anyone with a semi whiney voice should cover the song For “angelic,” then (or perhaps “self-indulgent”), read “semi-whiney.” This implies a nasal tone, which Buckley does not appear to have—the “angelic” sense is perhaps due to his very openthroatedness. N: I actually think I like Rufus’s version better. I heard from so many ppl that Jeff’s was incredible, but I was expecting it to be betterВ .В .В . O: Let me just say that Rufus’ version of “Hallelujah” is simply divine. I love it. However, nothing can match the sheer, heart-felt emotion of Jeff Buckley’s version. Not even Leonard Cohen (whom I am a big fan of, as well). I regard Jeff Buckley’s version of that song to be one of the most perfect few minutes ever put on record. You can hear everything the man is feeling; he is pouring his heart out to you through the words of a master lyricist. Rufus’ version is moving, sweet, romantic and earthly. Jeff’s version is like a kiss from an angel and a hug from god. Nothing can compare. So, even the divine is lower than the angels, especially when they are rooted to the earth. Graceful, angelic, and emotional seem to be the qualities that make Buckley’s version stand out—listeners who do not enjoy these qualities appear to dislike Buckley’s version. When I first attempted to use the song in teaching, an avid fan of Page 100 →Buckley’s commented that his version was “less religious than Cale’s.” There is not, then, a uniform taste operating here or even a reason for holding that taste, although the evidence is clearly limited. One post clearly argues why Cale’s version is interpretatively “correct”: I believe the kitchen chair is an allusion to a woman’s attempt to domesticate a man, to get him to commit, to become part of her home, like the furniture, children, and appliances. She ties him to her kitchen chair: she holds him with her domestic hospitality, her nurturing love. But then she cuts his hair—takes away the strength he feels he has as a strong, independent man. But he says “hallelujah” because he loves her. Seems to be a religious bifurcation here between those who see the “cold and broken

hallelujah” and those who see the song as paen to the ultimate triumph of love. The key would be the last lines:

And even though it all went wrong I’ll stand before the lord of song With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah Seems you could have it both ways, but I think it means that John Cale’s interpretation is right: it’s a cold and lonely hallelujah. The sight of Bathsheba on the roof compells you to love, arouses the desire and unquenchable longing, but “love is not a victory march”—there is no final consummation that endures, but in the unquenchable longing is spiritual beauty, the ability of a human to cry out “hallelujah” no matter how broken his circumstances. In a sense, is this a hymn to Cohen’s life as a rambling gypsy womanizer who never settled down?12 For the author of this considered interpretation, because Cohen is the songwriter, the temptation to read the song as autobiographical, even with the emphasis on Cale, is irresistible. The intentional fallacy dies hard. Because I did not use Buckley, my students perceived me as outside the discourse surrounding “Hallelujah.” Part of what I am documenting here is just the process of entering that discourse. People perceive some difference in conceptualization of the intentions behind these different versions. There is a sense in which one cannot really prefer Wainwright’s type of approach to Cale’s without also comparing Wainwright’s approachPage 101 → to Buckley’s, and there is less of a sense of having to compare Cale with Cohen—possibly because as author, Cohen is permitted to rise above such comparisons. However, there is not just one discourse. We can see that participants in the Wainwright group assume familiarity with Buckley’s version and apologize when they have only just encountered it. On the independent site, however, familiarity with Cale is much more strongly assumed (a circumstance that may reflect the age of the group members). There is, then, no required knowledge to enable one to speak about “Hallelujah,” particularly when there are very few references to one additional track.

V No less than Bob Dylan has performed “Hallelujah” twice—in Hollywood and Montreal in the summer of 1988.13 These performances are unfussy in style (accompanied only by electric guitar, bass, and kit) and represent a crude combination of the versions already discussed—Cohen’s lyrics, a vehement vocal approach that recalls Cale’s, and a highly conversational approach (the rhythm is extremely flexible and Dylan often ignores the melody in favor of intoning stretches of lyric) that is closer to Buckley’s. In 2004, Kathryn Williams recorded a typically understated version of the song, underpinning her gently arpeggiated guitar with a tenor cello line and subtle stand-up bass. Although her version is perhaps based most directly on Cohen’s (she sings the musically accurate “minor chord” for the more poetic “minor fall”), her final hallelujahs appear to have learned most from Buckley. The gender of her addressee is left ambiguous. Most important, however, Bono, the lead singer of U2, recorded the song on a 1995 tribute album to Cohen. This version is particularly significant in this context because the word hallelujah is very much a part of Bono’s lexicon. Bono chooses a different course through Cohen’s lyrics, eschewing Bathsheba and holy dove in favor of an altogether more down-to-earth version and striving for the transcendent in a different way. The texture is even sparser than that of either Cale or Wainwright—all we have is a thudding dance groove (no treble frequencies on the drums and no cymbals); various filtered atmospherics that tend toward the deep, as if underwater; and a sporadic free jazz trumpet line that drifts in and out of the texture. Bono speaks his five verses

in a somewhat melodic but typically rather gruff voice, singing only the hallelujahs. There is no harmonic component to the song, but under hallelujah, the original bass Page 102 →is hinted at. However, since these are the only suggestions of harmony, rather than the original Ionian IV–vi, we are left with an Aeolian VI–i—a far more negative context. Verse 1 moves straight through to verse 2, with no refrain. The refrain appears after verse 2, as the drum filter reverses to produce a very trebly sound, with the entry of the rudimentary bass. The groove drops out for the beginning of verse 3 before returning, and the verse is followed by a short refrain. Verses 4 and 5 have the refrain, but on each appearance, it is extended, so that the song’s opening (spoken, rather negative lyrics) is reversed at its ending, dominated as it is by Bono’s constant reiteration of hallelujah, albeit still in an Aeolian context. Listeners might arguably supply the unspoken major resolution that they would have been able to hear from Cohen, Cale, and Buckley (and purchasers of this particular album would almost certainly have had a wide knowledge of Cohen performances and performers). Bono’s rendition is thus qualitatively different from all the others we have encountered. Rather than remaining mired in the situation and recognizing that brokenness “is no alibi for anything” (Cohen) or remaining in ecstatic utterance, in which it is just another “ode to life and love” (Buckley), Bono demonstrates transcendence. U2 has adopted this strategy elsewhere in the group’s music, subverting the subversions of secular postmodernity (see Moore 2002). This is not the only location for Bono’s endless hallelujahs. On U2’s 2002 Elevation tour, the regular closer was “Walk On,” which Bono finished with a few choruses of “Hallelujah” (see example 3.11), singing the word to a rising major third. The effect of this on audiences was clear: Example 3.11. U2, “Walk On” (n.d.), excerpt Two heart-stopping moments occurred: Bono smashed up against the pulsing screen as the guitar screams of “The Fly” died away, and during the encore, his quotes of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” at the end of “Walk On.” That’s elevation, all right. But don’t try to stick a label on it.14 Page 103 →

VI I began thinking about the issues surrounding this song out of my concern that I had been negligent in my ignorance of Jeff Buckley’s recording, in the face of my forthright students. It seems to me, though, that there is no “right” point to enter a discourse except the point at which one actually does enter it. I share E. H. Carr’s (1987, 35–36; emphasis added) view on the historian’s entry into discourse: We sometimes speak of the course of history as a “moving procession.” The metaphor is fair enough provided it does not tempt the historian to think of himself as an eagle surveying the scene from a lofty crag. . . . The historian is just another dim figure trudging along in another part of the procession. And as the procession winds along, swerving now to the right and now to the left, and sometimes doubling back on itself, the relative positions of different parts of the procession are constantly changing. My point of entry is with the strange Hebrew word hallelujah. The repertoire employs ironic appropriations of the word (Cohen, Cale, Thompson) and, even with the translation to the secular realm, “authentic” usages (Collins, Charles, Twain). However, it also comprises tracks that in different ways move from the former position (the appropriation of Cohen’s song itself) to the latter. This transcendence matters to listeners to Buckley—and to me as I listen to Bono.

Notes 1. It was later published in Italy (Moore 2007), and a version has circulated on the web. 2. This is the same version as the one found on Cale 1991, except for one verse that has been cut, obviously

for synchronization purposes. See http://www.xs4all.nl/~werksman/cale/movies/shrek.html 3. This chapter relies extensively on fan discourse, which takes up so much web space. The main sites from which I drew are no longer available, but they are http://www.chromehorse.net/rants/rants01/hallelujah.htm; http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetch-msg.tcl?msg_id=005Uc5; http://home.comcast.net/~g_m /LC-ng-90–95/; http://www.dreamworksrecords.com/rufus/ubb/Forum1/HTML/002693.html 4. I encountered the lyrics first at http://members.aol.com/mjhinton/poems/hallelujah.htm. They are currently available at http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/SongUnid /60D1D06648D73CF54825696A00157F11 Page 104 →5. Fans of coincidence should note that folksinger Kate McGarrigle, who appears as backing singer on this track, is Rufus Wainwright’s mother. 6. These lyrics appear on Cohen’s official website, http://www.leonardcohen.com/lc09_05.html 7. See, for example, http://home.comcast.net/~g_m/LC-ng-90–95/1036.htm 8. The quotation comes from http://www.serve.com/cpage/LCohen/hilburn.html, which is no longer available. However, Cohen repeatedly returned to this theme (see Zollo 1997, 334). 9. Exchanges dated 13 August 2001, 10 January 2002, http://www.greenspun.com/bboard/q-and-a-fetchmsg.tcl?msg_id=005Uc5 (no longer available). Here and throughout the chapter, all spellings and punctuation are reproduced from the original posts. 10. Posts dated 30 December 2001–1 January 2002, http://www.dreamworksrecords.com/rufus/ubb /Forum1/HTML/002693.html (no longer available). 11. At least, that is my assumption. It is possible that Wainwright recorded the song for the movie but that Cale’s version was subsequently swapped for it. I have been unable to ascertain whether this was the case. 12. Post dated http://www.chromehorse.net/rants/rants01/hallelujah.htm (no longer available). 13. I thank Dai Griffiths and Lee Marshall for enabling me to hear these performances. 14. http://www.vh1.com/thewire/reviews/u2.jhtml (no longer available). Audio of the Calgary performance is available at http://www.albaclick.com/Users/U2/sanjose.htm

References Carr, Edward H. 1987. What Is History? 2nd ed. London: Penguin. Clarke, Donald, ed. 1989. Penguin Encyclopedia of Popular Music. London: Penguin. Cohen, Leonard. 1993. Stranger Music: Selected Poems and Songs. London: Cape. Fuller, Russ. 1998. “Grace.” Jeff Buckley. http://www.jeffbuckley.com/rfuller/buckley/faq/13grace.html Goldstein, Richard, comp. 1969. The Poetry of Rock. New York: Bantam. Griffiths, Dai. 2000. “Home Is Living Like a Man on the Run: John Cale’s Welsh Atlantic.” Welsh Music History 4: 159–85. Levitin, Daniel. The World in Six Songs: How the Musical Brain Created Human Nature. New York: Dutton Penguin, 2008. Moore, Allan F. 2002. “Looking for the Kingdom Come: Questioning Spirituality in U2.” Popular Musicology Online, http://www.popular-musicology-online.com/papers/2002/moore.html Moore, Allan F. 2007. “Hallelujah: Il Gusto Amaro del Cantar Lode.” Rivista di Analisi e Teoria Musicale 13 (2): 45–65. Walser, Robert. 2003. “Popular Music Analysis: Ten Apothegms and Four Instances.”Page 105 → In Analysing Popular Music, edited by Allan F. Moore, 16–38. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Walsh, Nick Paton. 2001. “Interview: Leonard Cohen.” Observer Magazine, October 14, 11–15. Zollo, Paul. 1997. Songwriters on Songwriting. New York: Da Capo.

Discography Belafonte, Harry. 1958. “Hallelujah, I Love Her So.” Belafonte Sings the Blues. RCA Victor. Bono. 1995. “Hallelujah.” Tower of Song: The Songs of Leonard Cohen. Various artists. A&M Records. Buckley, Jeff. 1994. “Hallelujah.” Grace. Columbia. Cale, John. 1991. “Hallelujah.” I’m Your Fan (Tribute to Leonard Cohen). Various artists. Atlantic. Cale, John. 1992. “Hallelujah.” Fragments of a Rainy Season. Hannibal. Cale, John. 2001. “Hallelujah.” 15. “Wedding Preparation.” Shrek. DVD. Directed by Andrew Adamson and Vicky Jenson. DreamWorks/Pacific Data Image. Edited version of Cale 1991. Cave, Nick. 2001. “Hallelujah.” No More Shall We Part. Mute. Charles, Ray. 1957. “Hallelujah, I Love Her So.” Ray Charles. Atlantic. Cohen, Leonard. 1968. “Suzanne.” Songs of Leonard Cohen. Columbia. Cohen, Leonard. 1969. Songs from a Room. Columbia. Cohen, Leonard. 1984. “Hallelujah.” Various Positions. Columbia. Collins, Judy. 1962. “Sing Hallelujah.” Golden Apples of the Sun. Elektra. Harrison, George. 1970. “My Sweet Lord.” All Things Must Pass. EMI. Thompson, Richard, and Linda Thompson. 1974. “We Sing Hallelujah.” I Want to See the Bright Lights Tonight. Island. Twain, Shania. 1995. “God Bless the Child.” The Woman in Me. PolyGram. U2. 1991. “Whose Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?” Achtung Baby. BMG. Wainwright, Rufus. 2001. “Hallelujah.” Shrek. Movie soundtrack. DreamWorks. Williams, Kathryn. 2004. “Hallelujah.” Relations. Warner. ZZ Top. 1972. “Chevrolet.” Rio Grande Mud. Warner Bros. Records.

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Four. The Electric Light Orchestra and the Anxiety of the Beatles’ Influence Mark Spicer MUSICAL INFLUENCE—how the recordings of one artist or group influenced those of another—is central to the history of pop and rock music, and there is probably no influence story more famous than that of the creative rivalry between the Beach Boys and the Beatles in the mid-1960s. The first installment in this tale of musical oneupmanship figures prominently in Love and Mercy, the excellent 2014 biopic about the Beach Boys’ Brian Wilson. In a scene from around fifteen minutes into the film, the twenty-three-year-old Brian (played by Paul Dano) and his brothers, Carl and Dennis, discuss the brand-new Beatles album, Rubber Soul, in late 1965: “You hear the new Beatles? It’s amazing. I mean, it works like a whole.В .В .В . Everything fits together, no fatВ .В .В . like an album of folk songs, but the sounds are really far out, lots of overdubbing.” Brian pleads with his brothers, “We can’t let them get ahead of us. I can take us furtherВ .В .В . if you let me stay home in the studio. It’s what I need to do. And I promise, when you come back, I will have stuff for you that will blow your minds.”1 The rest of the story, well known to rock historians, sounds a bit like a game of musical table tennis. Inspired by Rubber Soul, Brian Wilson began writing and recording the songs for what would become Pet Sounds, an extraordinary album, which upon its release in May 1966 immediately caught the attention of the Beatles, especially Paul McCartney, as they were working on the songs for their next album, Revolver. McCartney has confirmed that his song “Here, There, and Everywhere,” in particular, Page 107 →was influenced by “God Only Knows,” which McCartney still declares his favorite pop song of all time.2 Revolver, of course, blew everyone’s minds when it was released in August 1966, but the Beach Boys followed just two months later with their landmark single, “Good Vibrations” (described by band publicist Derek Taylor as a “pocket symphony”).3 In turn, the Beatles, having decided to abandon performing live (the group’s final concert was at Candlestick Park, San Francisco, on 29 August 1966), could now, like Wilson, concentrate on writing and recording new music in the studio. The first fruit of that effort was the remarkable “Penny Lane /Strawberry Fields Forever” single, released in February 1967. Legend has it that hearing John Lennon’s “Strawberry Fields Forever”—with its swirl of Mellotron, “backward” taped effects, cellos and trumpets (arranged by George Martin), oddball harmonies, and other sounds previously unheard in pop and rock recordings—so profoundly affected the emotionally fragile and drug-addled Wilson that he gave up working on Smile, the Beach Boys’ highly anticipated follow-up album to Pet Sounds, thinking that the Beatles had already achieved with “Strawberry Fields” everything that a pop record could be (Gaines 1986/1995, 77).4 The June 1967 release of the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band only deepened Wilson’s anxiety. It would be no exaggeration to say that the Beatles, particularly in their work from Revolver onward, are to AngloAmerican pop and rock music what Beethoven was to nineteenth-century symphonic music: the Beatles’ sheer fluency and innovation as songwriters and performers, along with their constant pushing of the boundaries of what could be achieved technically in the recording studio, set the bar so high that all subsequent pop and rock musicians striving for originality have had to navigate the huge creative space they carved within the landscape of recorded popular music. In making such a grandiose statement about the Beatles, I am invoking literary critic Harold Bloom’s famous theory of the “anxiety of influence.” Some purists may well question its applicability to popular (as opposed to “art”) music, so before going any further, I briefly explain Bloom’s theory and why I think it works as a conceptual lens through which we can better view the music of the Electric Light Orchestra (the focus of this chapter) and so many other pop and rock groups that emerged in the Beatles’ wake.5 Bloom’s The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry (1973) rests on the notion that the true subject matter of post-Enlightenment poetry is poetry itself—in other words, poems are always somehow “about” other

poems, and every new poem is seen as a “misreading” or “misprision” Page 108 →of a precursor poem or poems. Bloom divides poets into two categories, “strong” and “weak,” distinguishing them by their ability to confront their anxiety of influence. Drawing heavily on Freudian psychoanalysis, Bloom casts this as a kind of Oedipal struggle between sons and fathers, where strong poets successfully wrestle with their great poetic forefathers to achieve originality. Bloom then expands on his theory by positing a series of six “revisionary ratios” to gauge what he sees as varying levels of influence, ranging from clinamen (an initial “swerve” away from the precursor) to apophrades (a “return of the dead,” in which the poetic son (ephebe) so thoroughly assimilates the voice and style of his poetic forefather that he paradoxically even seems like the true author of the precursor’s poems). Several musicologists and music theorists have adopted Bloom’s ideas and applied them fruitfully to music history as a means of understanding the obstacles that young composers inevitably face when writing new works in the shadow of their great precursors—from Brahms’s struggle to compose his first symphony while wrestling with Beethoven to early modernists such as Schoenberg and Stravinsky who confronted the past by rejecting conventional notions of tonality and meter in their music (Straus 1990, 1991; Korsyn 1991; Bonds 1996; Klein 2005). Not all music historians have been persuaded by the Bloomian model, however. In a 1994 article for the Journal of Musicology, for example, Lloyd Whitesell expresses a legitimate concern with this widespread application of the “Anxiety of Influence” theory to art music, arguing that by choosing to frame the musical past in such terms, we only perpetuate the idea that Western music history revolves around a particular and limited canon of masterworks by dead white men. A similar criticism could be leveled against the widely accepted notion (perpetuated by the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and mainstream publications such as Rolling Stone and Mojo) of a canon of “classic rock” songs from the 1960s and 1970s that serves as the cornerstone of most accounts of the history of rock. Yet it nevertheless remains the case that the overwhelming majority of rock’s practitioners—certainly during rock’s formative decades in the United States and United Kingdom—have also been white males.6 The Beatles quickly achieved an iconic and almost godlike status among rock critics and fans alike, and more scholarly writing has been devoted to the Beatles than all other artists combined from rock’s sixty-year history. (Indeed, it is telling that Wilfred Mellers called his watershed 1973 musicological study of the Beatles Twilight of the Gods).7 As a huge Beatles fan, I am well aware of the dangers of deification (what John Covach Page 109 →[2009, 6] calls the “fan mentality”), and we should all be wary of Beatles scholarship that borders on hagiography. Yet as scholars of this music, we cannot ignore the fact that the Beatles have also elicited—and continue to elicit—a profound sense of reverence and awe among their fellow pop and rock musicians, of whom none has been more awestruck than the Electric Light Orchestra’s creative leader, Jeff Lynne. To set the context for discussing the Beatles’ influence on the Electric Light Orchestra (ELO), I begin with a quotation from John Lennon himself. Appearing as a guest DJ on the New York City radio station WNEW on 28 September 1974, Lennon said, We’re gonna play Electric Light Orchestra from last year [1973], “Showdown,” which I thought was a great record.В .В .В . And it’s a nice group—I call them “Son of Beatles” although they’re doing things that we never did, obviously. But I remember a statement they made when they first formed was to carry on from where the Beatles left off with “[I Am the] Walrus,” and they certainly did. And for those people who like to know where licks and things come from, which I do, ’cause I’m always nicking little things myself, this is a beautiful combination of “I Heard It through the Grapevine” by Marvin Gaye and “Lightning Strikes Again” [by] Lou Christie, and it’s a beautiful job with a little “Walrus” underneath.8 As something of an anomaly among ELO’s output, with its funky R&B groove, “Showdown” is perhaps not the best representative of the group’s signature sound. But Lennon’s comments underscore that any discussion of influence in recorded popular music must focus first and foremost on the intertextual relationships between particular tracks—that is, on how the distinctive sound and style of one recording inspires other groups to try to mimic that sound and style in subsequent recordings. This is precisely what the Beatles did during their fledgling period as songwriters in the early 1960s, seeking to emulate the records that they most

admired—“nicking little things”—primarily from American artists such as Chuck Berry (e.g., McCartney’s bass riff that undergirds “I Saw Her Standing There”), the Everly Brothers (e.g., the “clothesline harmony” of Lennon and McCartney’s vocal duet on the word please leading into the refrain of “Love Me Do”), and Roy Orbison (e.g., Lennon’s octave leap into his high falsetto on the second please in the refrain to “Please Please Me”), to name but a few representative examples from the Beatles’ debut U.K. album, Please Please Me.9 Playing the role Page 110 →of armchair sonic historiographer, Lennon astutely observed the striking resemblance between the melodic, rhythmic, and harmonic design of the verses of “Showdown” and Gaye’s 1967 version of “I Heard It through the Grapevine,” while the chorus of “Showdown” echoes the falsetto chorus melody of Lou Christie’s 1966 U.S. No. 1 hit, “Lightnin’ Strikes,” a connection made all the more overt by the parallel location and identical melodic/rhythmic setting of the lyrics “raining” and “lightning” (in repeated half notes) at the onset of each chorus—and all this “with a little вЂWalrus’ underneath.” (And of course, Lennon’s christening the Electric Light Orchestra “Son of Beatles” invokes very directly Bloom’s notion of oedipality.) The Electric Light Orchestra formed in the summer of 1970—just months after the Beatles had announced their official breakup—as a side project of Roy Wood and Jeff Lynne, the primary songwriters and creative leaders of a Birmingham-based group, the Move. In February 1969, before Lynne officially joined the band, the Move scored their first and only U.K. No. 1 hit single, “Blackberry Way,” a song inspired by a certain Beatles track, as evidenced not only by the “berry” in its title but also by its sleepy psychedelic shuffle and Mellotron-soaked passages.10 Table 4.1 shows the U.K. Top Ten singles for the lone week that “Blackberry Way” occupied the No. 1 spot.11 The Beatles themselves had no singles in the Top Ten that week, but a faithful cover of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” (Paul McCartney’s proto-reggae song from the “White Album”) by the Scottish group Marmalade was in the No. 10 position, falling down the charts after having occupied the No. 1 spot for three weeks earlier in January. Motown songs still rated highly on the U.K. singles charts in early 1969, with songs from Diana Ross and the Supremes and the Temptations, Martha Reeves and the Vandellas, and Stevie Wonder all in the Top Ten that week.12 Yet most interesting with respect to the topic of musical influence is the single at No. 2, Fleetwood Mac’s “Albatross,” which had been at No. 1 the previous week until “Blackberry Way” displaced it. “Albatross” is really not a song at all but a guitar instrumental (composed by the group’s founding guitarist, Peter Green)—a very slow shuffle groove, soaked in reverb, with a tapestry of blues-tinged electric and slide guitar lines set entirely over a I–ii7 shuttle in E (an ever-repeating eight-bar chord pattern of E major for four bars, then Fв™Ї minor seventh for two bars, back to E major for two bars).13 The eclectic style and sound of Fleetwood Mac’s record quite obviously caught the ears of the Beatles, particularly Lennon, who “nicked” this exact chord progression as the harmonic basis for “Don’t Let Me Down,” recorded Page 111 →on 28 January 1969 and released in April as the B-side to the Beatles’ transatlantic No. 1 single, “Get Back.” (Lennon’s “Sun King,” from the medley on side 2 of Abbey Road [released in September 1969], is also said to have been inspired by “Albatross.”) Even late in their career, the Beatles thus were still being influenced by the records they heard and most admired, eclectically assimilating the new sounds and styles emerging around them into their own music as much as they were influencing other artists.14 Whereas Brian Wilson was reportedly paralyzed by his anxiety of influence, Wood and Lynne saw the high bar set by the Beatles as a challenge, inspiring them to new creative heights as songwriters and in the recording studio. Taking such experimental—one might say “symphonic”—late Beatles tracks as “Strawberry Fields Forever,” “A Day in the Life,” “I Am the Walrus,” and “Glass Onion” as a point of departure, ELO’s distinctive sound was forged by bringing orchestral instruments into the mix not merely as sweeteners but as full-fledged members of the rock ensemble. Wood elaborates, In the early Move days I was a big fan of the Beatles, especially things like “I Am the Walrus” and “Strawberry Fields” and things like that, with the George Martin string sound on them.В .В .В . And I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great if you could represent this on stage properly?” With your own band—like instead of having a guitarist, have a cello player or a

French horn player, and not have to use sessionmen. (Cromelin 1974, 12)15

Lynne and Wood’s vision ultimately came to reality with the Electric Light Orchestra’s debut single, “10538 Overture,” recorded over various Page 112 →sessions from July 1970 to June 1971 but not released as a single until the summer of 1972. It peaked at No. 9 in the United Kingdom that August, although it did not chart in the United States.16 The song’s accumulative beginning features an arpeggiated guitar riff and fanfare-like rising French horn melody layered into the texture above a stock descending bass pattern (1̂–в™-7̂–6̂–в™-6М‚), all of which sounds decidedly Beatlesque (the harmonic profile of the introduction to “10538 Overture” reminds me mostly of Lennon’s “Dear Prudence,” the introduction of which is also built around an arpeggiated guitar figure set to the same descending bass pattern).17 The final layer of this texturally stratified introduction to enter is a tumbling flurry of cellos, all played by Wood and built up through multitracking to sound like a full cello section. As the song unfolds we can hear the cellos rocking out on jabbing repeated-note figures (recalling not only “Walrus” but also the aggressive, pulsing repeated quarter notes of Martin’s close-miked string octet arrangement for McCartney’s Revolver song “Eleanor Rigby”) and minor-pentatonic blues licks that would ordinarily be given to the electric guitars.18 Table 4.1. U.K. Top Ten, Week of 5 February 1969 10 “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” Marmalade 9 “Mrs. Robinson [EP],” Simon and Garfunkel 8 “Please Don’t Go,” Donald Peers 7 “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me,” Diana Ross and the Supremes and the Temptations 6 “You Got Soul,” Johnny Nash 5 “To Love Somebody,” Nina Simone 4 “Dancing in the Street [1969],” Martha Reeves and the Vandellas 3 “For Once in My Life,” Stevie Wonder 2 “Albatross,” Fleetwood Mac 1 “Blackberry Way,” The Move Wood parted ways with the Electric Light Orchestra soon after the release of “10538 Overture” to form his own glam rock outfit, Wizzard (with former Move bassist Rick Price), leaving Lynne as ELO’s sole composer and producer.19 Under Lynne’s leadership, ELO went on to achieve international superstardom in the later 1970s, especially in America, where their elaborate live shows—complete with lasers and a flyingsaucer-shaped stage built on hydraulic lifts—could only be realized properly in sports stadiums and arenas. Table 4.2 shows the chronology of Electric Light Orchestra studio albums (excluding live albums and greatest hits compilations), from their eponymous debut (titled No Answer in the United States)20 through the astonishing 2015 comeback album Alone in the Universe (released under the moniker of Jeff Lynne’s ELO).21 The table confirms that ELO’s commercial zenith occurred in 1976–80, with all four of the group’s LPs during that period reaching the Top Ten on both sides of the Atlantic. Yet it is also intriguing to see that the three ELO albums from 1973 to 1975 (On the Third Day, Eldorado, and Face the Music) failed to chart in the group’s native United Kingdom, no doubt because during those three years ELO were devoting most of their time and energy (between recording new albums) to touring relentlessly in the United States, where pundits nicknamed them “the English guys with the big fiddles” and they quickly gained a reputation for their exciting and virtuosic live performances.22 This period in ELO’s stylistic development was also arguably its most experimental with respect to the Page 113 →band’s fusion of classical and rock elements in their songs (a clinamen-like swerve away from their anxiety-inducing precursors, surpassing anything the Beatles had achieved in this regard), as represented most obviously in their cover of Chuck Berry’s “Roll Over Beethoven,” which was released as a single in early 1973 and reached No. 6 in the United Kingdom and No. 42 in the United States. The Beatles had recorded their own take on “Roll Over Beethoven” in July 1963 for their second U.K. album, With the Beatles. While the Beatles’ version, like all the cover songs on their early albums, is an

“homage cover”—that is, essentially copying the style and sound of Berry’s original—ELO’s version is a bona fide attempt to fuse Berry with Beethoven. The track begins with the immediately recognizable opening bars from the first movement of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, played in a scaled-down arrangement by the violin and two cellos, and then quickly morphs into Berry’s signature opening guitar riff (played more or less note-for-note by Lynne). As the track unfolds, the sung verses of Berry’s original are alternated with what might be called “developmental” instrumental sections that cleverly weave motives from Beethoven’s Fifth into the churning rock-and-roll groove.23 We could devote a whole book to systematically teasing out the myriad intertextual references to the Beatles in ELO songs (in fact, a carefully curated fan website is already dedicated to doing exactly that),24 but since space is limited, I will look closely now at a few selected tracks from ELO’s 1970s heyday in which the intertextual connections to the Beatles are especially potent, starting with “Mister Kingdom,” a song Page 114 →from the 1974 concept album, Eldorado.25 This album represented an important turning point for ELO in that it was the group’s first to utilize a full orchestra in the recording studio as well as the first of four albums to feature what fans generally consider to be the “classic” ELO lineup of Jeff Lynne (guitar, lead vocals), Bev Bevan (drums), Richard Tandy (keyboards), Kelly Groucutt (bass, vocals), Mik Kaminski (violin), Hugh McDowell (cello), and Mike Edwards (cello).26 Several fans and critics have noted the striking similarity of the opening vocal melody in “Mister Kingdom” to the verse melody in Lennon’s “Across the Universe” (from Let It Be [1970]) (see example 4.1). To my knowledge, Lynne has never claimed publicly to have modeled “Mister Kingdom” on “Across the Universe,” yet the melodic similarities are obvious. (Statistically, there would likely be enough matches among the pitches and rhythms of these two melodies for any forensic musicologist to prove a plagiarism case, but Lennon would never have leveled such charges against his musical “son”!) There is also a strategic intertextual reference to “Across the Universe” in Lynne’s lyrics to “Mister Kingdom,” with the words “they pass away” echoing Lennon’s “they pass they slip away” (although these lyrics are situated at different locations in the two melodies, as the notated example shows). Not captured in the notation but also strikingly similar is the muffled and slightly fuzzed timbre of Lynne’s vocal, which sounds nearly identical to Lennon’s. Table 4.2. Chronology of ELO Studio Albums Album Title Release Date Peak Chart Position The Electric Light Orchestra [No Answer] December 1971 U.K. No. 32 Electric Light Orchestra II February 1973 U.K. No. 35, U.S. No. 62 On the Third Day December 1973 U.S. No. 52 Eldorado October 1974 U.S. No. 16 Face the Music October 1975 U.S. No. 8 A New World Record November 1976 U.K. No. 6, U.S. No. 5 Out of the Blue Discovery Xanadu (film soundtrack) Time Secret Messages Balance of Power Zoom Alone in the Universe

November 1977 U.K. No. 4, U.S. No. 4 June 1979 U.K. No. 1, U.S. No. 5 July 1980 U.K. No. 2, U.S. No. 4 August 1981 U.K. No. 1, U.S. No. 16 June 1983 U.K. No. 4, U.S. No. 36 March 1986 U.K. No. 9, U.S. No. 49 June 2001 U.K. No. 34, U.S. No. 94 November 2015 U.K. No. 4, U.S. No. 23

Example 4.1. top, The Beatles, “Across the Universe” (from Let It Be, 1970), opening bars of John Lennon’s vocal melody; bottom, Electric Light Orchestra, “Mister Kingdom” (from Eldorado, 1974), opening bars of Jeff Lynne’s vocal melody (transposed from C major to D major) Yet despite these obvious matches between the melody, lyrics, and vocal timbre, Lynne has chosen not to adopt

wholesale John Lennon’s harmonies. The “Across the Universe” melody (example 4.1, top) is set to a series of diatonic chords (D–Bm–Fв™Їm–Em7–A7, or, in functional Roman numerals, I–vi–iii–ii7–V7) that all fit squarely within the key of D major. In contrast, the “Mister Kingdom” melody (example 4.1, bottom) is set to Page 115 →a chord progression that features two chromatic harmonies, Am (v) and Cm (в™-vii)—strange minor chords that lie outside of the key. Lennon was known for making such unorthodox harmonic moves in his late Beatles songs, and here I am reminded especially of the chord progression at the opening of the verses to “Strawberry Fields Forever,” where the tonic chord Bв™major moves unexpectedly to an F minor dominant chord (I–v)—exactly the same oddball progression we hear at the opening of “Mister Kingdom.” In paraphrasing “Across the Universe,” Lynne has effectively—and paradoxically—made the overall melodic and harmonic setting of “Mister Kingdom” sound more like Lennon than Lennon’s original. Example 4.2. Electric Light Orchestra, “Evil Woman” (from Face the Music, 1975), top, signature piano groove; middle, blues riffs played by the strings during the second verse; bottom, “Stravinskian burst” (2:40–2:44) The Electric Light Orchestra’s next LP, 1975’s Face the Music, again failed to chart in the United Kingdom, but the first single from this album, “Evil Woman” (which reached No. 10 on both the U.K. and U.S. charts), returned ELO to the Top Ten in the band’s homeland. Like the earlier single “Showdown, ” “Evil Woman” is something of a stylistic anomaly among ELO’s output with its strong indebtedness to American rhythm and blues.27 “Evil Woman” begins with a short introduction, during which Lynne sings a recitative-like melody (“You made a fool of meВ .В .В .”) over a series of four unmetered tremolo string chords in C major:Page 116 → Iв™-7–IVв™-7–viio7/V–I, with the initial tonic and subdominant chords inflected with their bluesy flatted sevenths and the secondary viio7 of V bypassing the dominant and resolving directly (and melodramatically) to the goal tonic as a common-tone diminished-seventh chord.28 Example 4.2, top shows Tandy’s signature piano riff, which emerges following this introduction: a four-chord Aeolian loop—Am–Em7–Dm7–Em7, or i–v7–iv7–v7 in the relative key of A minor—that cycles relentlessly throughout the verses and choruses as the song’s primary groove.29 During the second verse, the strings begin interjecting the minor-pentatonic blues licks shown in example 4.2, middle, in counterpoint with Lynne’s vocal melody (the pitch content of Lynne’s melody, not shown in the example, remains true to the minor-pentatonic scale, with frequent bluesy inflections on the flatted fifth scale degree, Eв™-, also featured prominently in the second of these two string riffs). So far, all of these musical elements in “Evil Woman”—particularly the song’s harmonic language—have pointed to the style of blues-based rock more generally and do not specifically call to mind the Beatles’ influence. Yet the strange, two-bar passage occurring only once toward the end of the song—what I call the “Stravinskian burst” (example 4.2, bottom)—does sound like something the Beatles might have attempted on their later recordings. 30 This passage emerges suddenly and unexpectedly right at the climax of Tandy’s piano solo, serving within the song’s overall form as a kind of miniature bridge (a “middle two,” if you will) and providing temporary relief from the repetitive chord loop before the final fadeaway chorus.31 The bass pitches anchoring these two bars—D and E,

4М‚ and 5М‚ in A minor—suggest a two-chord progression of iv–v, which fits within the song’s overall harmonic scheme and sets up the reentrance of the tonic at the onset of the final chorus; however, the pitch content of the descending string melody above—with its prominent use of Fв™Ї, в™Ї6̂—evokes the Dorian mode and sounds alien within its otherwise blues-based and minor-pentatonic surroundings. Lynne has since revealed that this bizarre moment in “Evil Woman” (one of my favorite moments in all of ELO’s output) was lifted quite literally from another song on Face the Music: it is the rising string break from “Nightrider” (3:16–3:19), spliced from the multitrack master and fed backward into the tape machine—and doused with effects—to fill up the two-bar space in the new recording. The use of such “backward” taped passages to create exotic and unfamiliar sounds was a trick Lynne the producer learned from the Beatles and Martin (as well as the Beatles’ maverick sound engineer, Geoff Emerick), pointing especially to experimental Revolver-era songs such as “Rain” (1966) and “I’m Only Sleeping” (1966).32 Page 117 →ELO’s 1977 double album, Out of the Blue, is generally considered the group’s masterpiece,

and it includes what is no doubt the band’s most famous song, “Mr. Blue Sky.” In the early summer of 1977, a decade after Sgt. Pepper and just at the time punk, led by the Sex Pistols, was enjoying its commercial peak in the United Kingdom—Lynne rented a chalet in the Swiss alps overlooking Lake Geneva, where he intended to sequester himself for a month to write songs. As he recalled, I went to Switzerland to write all this album called Out of the BlueВ .В .В . and I was sitting in this little chalet with me little tape recorder and meВ .В .В . electric piano, and bass, and guitar, trying to make these tunes up and nothing had come for like two weeks and it was all overcast and grim. And one day the sun came out to shine and it was fantastic. I could see all these beautiful mansions and snow-capped peaks and everything and that inspired me to writeВ .В .В . “Mr. Blue Sky.”33 The song would eventually become the finale to the four-movement “Concerto for a Rainy Day” that occupies the entirety of side 3 of the double album; in a burst of creative activity, the rest of the songs for Out of the Blue soon followed. “Mr. Blue Sky” is peppered (pardon the pun) with sonic references to Beatles songs, yet foregrounded most obviously are those bouncy repeated piano chords in quarter notes—complete with panting on the phrase “running down the avenue” at the onset of the second verse—that immediately recall the sound and groove of McCartney’s “woke up, got out of bed” middle section of “A Day in the Life.” Example 4.3 provides an abbreviated transcription (showing just the piano chords and vocal melody) of the opening bars of the middle section of “A Day in the Life” (example 4.3, top) along with the corresponding opening bars of “Mr. Blue Sky” (example 4.3, bottom). Both passages begin with a piano vamp on the I chord and a vocal melody that hovers around 5М‚, but rather than moving to в™-VII after three bars, “Mr. Blue Sky” borrows the same eclectic opening chord sequence—an initial vamp on the tonic F major, followed by a temporary swerve to the relative key of D minor (Em7–A7–Dm, functioning as ii7–V7–i of vi), in the same key—from Paul McCartney’s 1965 U.S. No. 1 hit, “Yesterday.”34 (The “soul dominants”—close position IV triads over scale degree 5 in the bass—in repeated quarter notes that punctuate the end of each verse in “Mr. Blue Sky” are another of McCartney’s favorite chords, reminding me, for example, of the hip, soul-tinged sections in his multisong from the “White Album,” “Martha My Dear.”) The song “Yesterday,” of course, forms the subject of Page 118 →the most famous “woke up, got out of bed” story in rock’s history, since McCartney claims to have woken up one morning in late 1963 having dreamed the melody and sang it to himself as he made breakfast (hence his temporary lyric, “scrambled eggs”).35 Example 4.3. top, The Beatles, “A Day in the Life” (from Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, 1967), opening bars of Paul McCartney’s middle section (transposed from E major to F major); bottom, Electric Light Orchestra, “Mr. Blue Sky” (from Out of the Blue, 1977), opening bars “Mr. Blue Sky” is so loaded with references to McCartney’s Beatles songs that he might be expected to have been rather annoyed when he first heard it, and yet the opposite is true, McCartney has declared that “Mr. Blue Sky” is his favorite ELO song: Everyone was borrowing from the people they admired. And so, you know, when I heard ELO it was very [much] what we’d been doing on Sgt. PepperВ .В .В . cellosВ .В .В . mathematical strings. And so the first thing was, “I know where he got that from.” But then you can’t resist it. It’s just so good. You go, “It’s a bloody good song, I wish we’d done that one.” .В .В . I’m a sucker forВ .В .В . the hits, and so “Mr. Blue Sky” is a pretty special song. It’s probably the one that everyone would choose, so it’s a bit boring to choose it, but it’s great, it just works, and if you’re in the car and it’s a nice day, it really works. (Mr. Blue Sky 2012) The Beatles’ influence also resonates poignantly in another epic multisong from the Out of the Blue album, “Wild West Hero,” which peaked at No. 6 on the U.K. singles chart in August 1978 but was not released as

a single in the United States. During the climactic final section of the track (3:33–4:42), the harmonies underlying the song’s chorus are cleverly rewritten to feature a series of deceptive moves that deflects the authentic cadence three times, creating a looping four-bar structure (V65/vi–vi | V65–I | V65/IV–IV | V65 /V–V) and giving the aural impression of an ever-ascending infinite gyre, much like the coda of “I Am the Walrus.”36 The Page 119 →mounting excitement of this hold-on-to-your-horses ending is heightened further by the spectacular wavelike string runs, which echo the famous rising orchestral crescendo passage from “A Day in the Life.” After this shattering climax, the song has nowhere else to go and ends the same way it begins, with a wistful reprise of the introductory refrain, “Wish I was a Wild West hero.”37 Out of the Blue was Lynne’s Sgt. Pepper. The next three ELO LPs—1979’s Discovery (or “Disco? Very!” as Tandy nicknamed it, making fun of Lynne’s embrace of the prevalent style, much to fans’ dismay, in songs such as “Shine a Little Love” and “Last Train to London”);38 1980’s Xanadu film soundtrack (the title track, sung by the movie’s star, Olivia Newton-John, became ELO’s only single to reach No. 1 in the United Kingdom); and 1981’s Time (on which Lynne largely jettisoned ELO’s trademark strings in favor of synthesizers)—were hugely successful commercially but simply did not measure up to Out of the Blue in terms of harmonic and formal complexity. The Electric Light Orchestra would record and release two more albums, Secret Messages (1983) and Balance of Power (1986), before Lynne decided to disband the group as its popularity was clearly waning, especially in the United States. Symphonic rock groups such as ELO apparently had no place within the slick, synth-driven pop landscape of the later 1980s.39 Table 4.3 lists the U.K. Top Twenty for the week of 19 July 1980, the second of the two weeks that “Xanadu” occupied the No. 1 position. This palette of hit songs exemplifies just how stylistically eclectic the U.K. singles charts had become by the end of the post-Beatles decade. Though on its way out, disco remained the prevalent style in the summer of 1980, with Lipps Inc.’s classic “Funky Town” at No. 12 (after having peaked at No. 2 for two weeks earlier in June) and disco hits by Stacy Lattisaw and Odyssey rounding out the top three along with the disco-tinged “Xanadu.” (Even the Rolling Stones embraced the disco style with “Emotional Rescue” at No. 19, as they had also done two summers earlier with “Miss You” [U.K. No. 3, June 1978].) Reggae had long since outgrown its novelty status, as represented by Bob Marley and the Wailers enjoying their biggest U.K. hit to date with “Could You Be Loved” at No. 5, and Birmingham reggae group UB40’s “My Way of Thinking/I Think It’s Going to Rain” at No. 6.40 Punk as a style was well past its 1976–78 zenith but still flickered in postpunk anthems such as Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apart” at No. 17. American soul music (distinct from disco) also fared well on the U.K. charts that summer, with songs by the Spinners and Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway making Page 120 →the Top Twenty alongside Birmingham’s own “new wave soul” group, Dexy’s Midnight Runners. Even heavy metal was represented in the Twenty by Saxon’s “747 (Strangers in the Night)” at No. 13, while Kate Bush’s “Babooshka” (a song that defies stylistic labeling) was at No. 7, having introduced U.K. listeners to the kinds of wonderful new sounds made possible with the advent of digital sampling technology. (The song’s “broken glass” effect was a digital sample created on a Fairlight CMI.) There was also room for nostalgia songs, such as doo-wop revival group Darts’ cover of the Four Seasons’ 1965 hit “Let’s Hang On!” at No. 16, and one-off novelty songs such as Splodgenessabounds’ “Simon Templar/Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps Please” (the kind of song that could only have charted in the United Kingdom) at No. 15. McCartney himself had his post-Wings ballad “Waterfalls” at No. 9. With respect to the topic of musical influence, however, I am most interested in the single at No. 8, Don McLean’s homage cover of Roy Orbison’s 1961 U.S. No. 2 hit, “Crying,” which had occupied the No. 1 spot for three weeks earlier that summer. Orbison had been an enormous influence on the early Beatles, with Lennon claiming to have modeled “Please Please Me” on Orbison’s 1960 U.K. No. 1 hit, “Only the Lonely” (heard most obviously in the dramatic “Orbison moment” in the song’s refrain when Lennon leaps into his high falsetto). Lynne, too, has acknowledged his Page 121 →profound admiration for Orbison, who may in fact rank second only to the Beatles among the influences on Lynne as a songwriter and vocalist.41 The dual influence of the Beatles and Orbison can be heard in the first ELO single from the Xanadu soundtrack, “I’m Alive” (U.K. No. 20, June 1980): the double-plagal punches in quarter notes (on beats 3, 4, and 1) that accompany the song’s titular refrain (“.В .В .В I’m [в™-VII] A- [IV] | live

[I] . . .”) recall the same trifold chordal hook heard throughout the Beatles’ “Get Back” (the kind of surface strategic intertextual reference to the Beatles that we have by now come to expect of ELO), yet Lynne’s lead vocal bears such an uncanny resemblance to the distinctive timbre of Orbison’s soaring tenor that one might guess Orbison himself was singing.42 Table 4.3. U.K. Top Twenty, Week of 19 July 1980 20 “There, There My Dear,” Dexy’s Midnight Runners 19 “Emotional Rescue,” The Rolling Stones 18 “Back Together Again,” Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway 17 “Love Will Tear Us Apart,” Joy Division 16 “Let’s Hang On,” Darts 15 “Simon Templar/Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps Please,” Splodgenessabounds 14 “Everybody’s Got to Learn Sometime,” The Korgis 13 “747 (Strangers in the Night),” Saxon 12 “Funkytown,” Lipps Inc. 11 “To Be or Not to Be,” B. A. Robertson 10 “More Than I Can Say,” Leo Sayer 9 “Waterfalls,” Paul McCartney 8 “Crying,” Don McLean 7 “Babooshka,” Kate Bush 6 “My Way of Thinking/I Think It’s Going to Rain,” UB40 5 “Could You Be Loved,” Bob Marley and the Wailers 4 “Cupid/I’ve Loved You For a Long Time,” [Detroit] Spinners 3 “Jump to the Beat,” Stacy Lattisaw 2 “Use It Up and Wear It Out,” Odyssey 1 “Xanadu,” Olivia Newton-John and Electric Light Orchestra Soon after dissolving ELO in 1986, Lynne joined two of his idols, George Harrison and Roy Orbison, along with Bob Dylan and Tom Petty, in a supergroup, the Traveling Wilburys.43 He has subsequently become a highly sought-after producer, ultimately collaborating not only with Harrison on his 1987 comeback album, Cloud Nine, and on his posthumous 2002 album, Brainwashed, but also on solo records by Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr. In addition, Lynne was the technical brainchild behind the two “new” Beatles songs, “Free as a Bird” and “Real Love,” produced for the mid-1990s Anthology project (Cromer 1997). For Lynne, a musician who has always struggled with his anxiety of influence toward the Beatles, to be invited into the group’s inner circle as a producer and creative equal—essentially fulfilling the role of the “fifth Beatle,” like George Martin decades earlier—must have been a life-changing and career-capping experience. Lynne reconstituted the Electric Light Orchestra briefly in the early 2000s, releasing one album Zoom (2001) on which both Harrison and Starr appeared as guest musicians.44 Ever the perfectionist, Lynne spent much of the later 2000s in his home studio in Los Angeles, Bungalow Palace, re-recording twelve classic ELO songs—including “10538 Overture,” “Showdown,” “Evil Woman,” and “Mr. Blue Sky”—singing and playing all of the instruments himself in an attempt to improve on what he felt was lacking in the sound and production of the original versions.45 If the Beatles are to pop and rock music what Beethoven was to nineteenth-century symphonic music, then one might say that Lynne is pop and rock’s Brahms. Throughout ELO’s heyday in the 1970s, rock critics constantly compared the group to the Beatles, with the general consensus being that ELO’s music was too derivative and simply did not measure up to that Page 122

→of its great precursors. This prevailing sentiment is evident in John Swenson’s (1977, 92) Rolling Stone review of the group’s 11 February 1977 performance at New York’s Madison Square Garden: ELO has gotten incredible mileage out of its adaption of rhythm cellos to a basic rock vocabulary, a technique made famous in George Martin’s orchestrations for the Beatles. But this ersatz classical music places them more in the Moody Blues tradition. Guitarist Jeff Lynne has shown masterful pop sense by expanding this formula through a multiplicity of cops: on “Nightrider,” one is reminded of the Rimsky-Korsakov of Scheherazade; “Showdown” is plastic soul music, derivative of “I Heard It Through the Grapevine.” In concert, the band’s banal use of solo space for extended cello doodlings and a violin solo that climaxes with a Mantovanian “Hava Nagila” adds up to nothing more than froth, technically adept and clinically presented. ELO is a band with no musical identity of its own. (Swenson 1977) Yet a funny thing about rock history is that it often takes decades for critics to realize just how important a band was, as seems to be the case with ELO. In October 2008, for example, The Guardian published “ELO: The Band the Beatles Could Have Been,” which begins, “Critics called them вЂdull’ and laughed at the spaceships. Did they not realize Jeff Lynne was a songwriter to rival Lennon and McCartney?” (McGee 2008). This critical reassessment has only intensified, especially in the United Kingdom, since the October 2012 airing of the BBC documentary and release of the compilation album of Lynne’s careful remakes of ELO’s greatest hits (which debuted at No. 8 on the U.K. album chart). On 12 November 2013, Lynne reunited with Richard Tandy, backed by the BBC Concert Orchestra, as Jeff Lynne and Friends to perform two classic ELO songs, “Livin’ Thing” and “Mr. Blue Sky,” for the televised Children in Need Rocks charity concert at London’s Hammersmith Apollo. On 7 March 2014, Lynne was the featured guest on Chris Evans’s BBC Radio 2 Breakfast Show, during which Evans—a longtime ELO fan—challenged Lynne to bring back ELO for a full-length concert. The response from Evans’s radio audience was so enthusiastic (listeners sent in thousands of texts and tweets within minutes) that Lynne could hardly refuse. On 14 September, Lynne and Tandy took the stage in London’s Hyde Park in front of an audience of fifty thousand fans, again backed by the BBC Concert Orchestra and billed now as Jeff Lynne’s ELO, to play a triumphant ninetyminute set Page 123 →for Radio 2’s Festival in a Day live broadcast. Lynne treated his fans to all the classic ELO hits (executed flawlessly) and even paid homage to his late Traveling Wilburys bandmates with a performance of the Wilburys’ 1988 hit “Handle with Care,” as images of George Harrison and Roy Orbison loomed on the big screen behind the band. Lynne was extremely nervous at the idea of performing for such a large audience after being absent from the concert stage for almost three decades, but the nerves quickly dissipated as he launched into the opening number, “All Over the World” (1980, U.K. No. 11, U.S. No. 13): “I felt such relief that all these people were there, screaming and clapping to every song.В .В .В . I was just knocked out, just the most wonderful crowd I’ve ever seen. I had so much fun doing it, I decided to come back and do a new album” (Greene 2015). Alone in the Universe, Lynne’s first album of new ELO songs in fourteen years, was released on 13 November 2015 and received generally positive reviews.46 The Beatles’ influence once again pervades this album, yet today’s critics, unlike their 1970s counterparts, no longer seem to view Lynne’s channeling his inner Beatle as a sign of derivativeness or weakness. As John Lewis (2015) writes, The idea of ELO as a continuity Fab Four has never been stronger than it is on Alone in the Universe. Although recorded in Jeff Lynne’s home studio in Beverly Hills, every track seems to be sprinkled with a touch of Abbey Road fairydust. Opener “When I Was A Boy,” in particular, is a wonderfully dreamy piece of ’60s nostalgia from the perspective of an adolescent Lynne. “Don’t wanna job cos it drives me crazy / Just wanna scream, вЂDo you love me baby? ’” he croons, over Lennon-style piano vamping, McCartneyesque plagal cadences, swooping “Walrus” cello effects and the finest guitar solo that George Harrison never played. What’s particularly astonishing is that Lynne is doing absolutely everything here—vocals, harmonies, piano, bass, guitars, drums, programming—like John, Paul, George, Ringo, and George Martin melded into one hairy Omnibeatle.47

Example 4.4 provides an abbreviated transcription of the closing section of “When I Was a Boy,” showing just the bass line and chords and Lynne’s guitar solo (the “finest solo that George Harrison never played”). As Lynne’s vocal enters over the soft, pulsing C major piano chords in quarter notes at the opening of the song (singing “When I was a boy I had a dreamВ .В .В .”), it is not difficult to imagine that Lennon is singing, recalling Page 124 →in particular the dreamy sound world of Lennon’s beloved postBeatles song “Imagine.” In fact, from the standpoint of a Bloomian anxiety of influence, so closely has Lynne assimilated the plaintive vocal style of his great precursor that we might be convinced that Lennon himself has returned from the dead, an exemplar of the sixth and final of Bloom’s revisionary ratios, apophrades. At the song’s chorus (where Lynne sings “And radio waves kept me companyВ .В .В .”), a sparkling descant enters triumphantly in harmony with the lead vocal, sounding as if McCartney has joined in with Lennon (although Lynne is actually singing a duet with himself). “When I Was a Boy” has the Beatles running through its veins, as we have come to expect of an ELO song, yet its harmonic design—fittingly for a song in which Lynne is conjuring images from his adolescence—makes a pointed strategic intertextual reference to a non-Beatles song that nevertheless is just as emblematic of 1967’s Summer of Love as Sgt. Pepper: Procol Harum’s iconic U.K. No. 1 hit, “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” The verses of “When I Was a Boy” are set to the same series of chords in the same key, grounded by a descending bass line that traverses the entire C major scale from 8М‚ down to 1М‚.48 During the choruses (which follow the chord progression shown under the guitar solo in example 4.4), the all-white-key diatonic chords of the “Whiter Shade of Pale” pattern are adjusted: 3М‚ (E) is reharmonized with a secondary V7 of ii, and the descending C major scale in the bass breaks off after 2М‚, replaced by a sudden interjection of octave-doubled punches on в™-6̂–5М‚ (Aв™-–G). Widening the orbit of strategic intertextual references to 1967 pop songs, these в™-6̂–5М‚ punches—with the flatted sixth degree borrowed from the parallel key of C minor—reminded me immediately of the Beatles’ 1967 U.K. Christmas No. 1 single, “Hello, Goodbye,” in which McCartney similarly abbreviates the “Whiter Shade of Pale” chord changes for the chorus but instead interjects a borrowed iv6 chord (containing the flatted sixth scale degree).49 The Harrisonesque guitar solo that arises over the chord changes of the chorus (as the climactic final section of “When I Was a Boy”) is a perfect example of tasteful restraint at the expense of virtuosity: Lynne plays a simple yet elegant ascending sequential pattern in rhythmic tandem with the bass, creating another seemingly infinite wedge-shaped outer-voice structure Г la “Walrus” (see Everett 1999). The chorus—and the song as a whole—ends with the eclectic cadential progression transcribed in the last two bars of example 4.4 (a rhythmic reduction of the upper voices, in whole notes, is shown in parentheses). Plenty of pop and rock songs end with a в™-VII–I triadic cadential progression, but extendingPage 125 →the в™-VII chord to include its flatted seventh and ninth (here, the ninth C is sung by Lynne in his Orbisonian high falsetto, leaping up to the note on the final word of the refrain, “when I was a boy”) is much rarer. When I first heard “When I Was a Boy,” my mind was awash with the swirl of sonic historiographical references to the Beatles and others, but hearing that final chord progression—peppered as it is with a little descending string flourish (not shown in the example)—reminded me of no one else but ELO. Sure enough, this progression is also used toward the end of the extended coda to “Mr. Blue Sky,” as if Lynne is deliberately referring here to ELO’s most famous and beloved song.50 Although he performed and produced this remarkable comeback album largely by himself, Jeff Lynne the ephebe is far from alone in his intertextual universe—it sounds like he is having a party with his musical forefathers, and he now sits firmly at the head of the table. Example 4.4. Jeff Lynne’s ELO, “When I Was a Boy” (from Alone in the Universe, 2015), guitar solo to the end (2:34–3:13)

Notes An earlier version of this essay was presented at a special session on the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band organized by Gordon Thompson for the joint annual meeting of the American Musicological Society, Society for Music Theory, and Society for Ethnomusicology in New Orleans, November 2012. I am most grateful to Gordon and the other panelists, Walter Everett and Albin Zak, for their valuable feedback on that earlier version and to Gordon Turnbull for his editorial suggestions, which

proved especially helpful during my final stages of revision. 1. The story of the creative rivalry between these two groups usually begins with Rubber Soul but really should be extended back a couple of years: in 1963, the Beach Boys were the top-selling pop artists in the United States according to Billboard, but the Beatles conquered America the following year. 2. For insightful analyses of “God Only Knows” and the Beach Boys’ other experimental music, see Harrison 1997; Lambert 2007. 3. As Albin Zak (2008, 346) rightly notes in his essay on epic rock songs of the 1970s, “Good Vibrations” set an important precedent and was “one of the Page 126 →first Top-Forty rock hits to employ a complex, unconventional song structure.” The Beatles soon followed with songs “A Day in the Life” (1967), “Happiness Is a Warm Gun” (1968), and other epic tracks in which the multiple shifts of groove and affect sound as if two or more songs have been stitched together (which was actually true of “A Day in the Life”)—“multisongs,” as I call them. John Covach (2006) has discussed the Beatles’ apparent shift in 1965 from favoring the old-fashioned AABA song form (which the Beatles had inherited from the grand earlier twentieth-century tradition of Tin Pan Alley) to exploring more unconventional song forms. 4. In a live Q&A session with fans on 27 January 2014, Brian Wilson was asked about hearing “Strawberry Fields Forever” for the first time and (rather defensively) denied that he had been “weakened” by it: “No, that’s not true. It was a very weird record, but yeah, I liked it.” In the same Q&A session, Wilson confirmed that McCartney was his favorite songwriting Beatle (transcript of the Q&A session available at www.brianwilson.com). 5. As Beatles scholar Tim Riley (2002, 389–90) aptly puts it, “The arc that went from 1963’s Please Please Me to 1969’s Abbey Road and 1970’s Let It Be had enough thoughtful curves to exert anxiety of influence over generations of bands to come” (see also Reynolds 2011, 177–78). A short list of such groups might include 10cc, Queen (see Braae 2015), Squeeze, XTC, and Tears for Fears, all of whom arose on the U.K. popular music scene during the decade or so following the Beatles’ breakup in 1970 and whose music demonstrates an anxiety of influence toward the Beatles in various telling ways. Mastropolo (2014) offers a list of the “Top 11 Musicians Influenced by the Beatles”—a rather skewed list, since all the musicians he identifies, save for the Bee Gees, are American (in no ranked order): Dave Grohl (of Nirvana and the Foo Fighters), Joe Walsh (of the Eagles), Brian Wilson, Nancy Wilson (of Heart), Billy Joel, Michelle Phillips (of the Mamas and the Papas), Gene Simmons (of Kiss), Joni Mitchell, Roger McGuinn (of the Byrds), and Bruce Springsteen. In truth, however, the list of musicians influenced by the Beatles is infinite. 6. Jones (2008) admirably tackles the thorny topic of the “rock canon.” 7. Mellers’s title reminds me of the godlike status Bloom ascribes to William Shakespeare in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human (1998; see also Schneider 2008, which posits the Beatles as the culmination of a grand tradition of Anglo-American poetry dating back to William Blake and the Romantic revolution of the 1790s). To be fair, though, not all popular music historians share such a reverence for the Beatles (see Wald 2009). 8. An audio file of Lennon’s comments from this 1974 radio broadcast can be found at youtube.com by searching for “John Lennon” and “Electric Light Orchestra.” 9. Everett (2001, 119–59) has thoroughly studied the myriad musical borrowings on the Beatles’ first EMI recordings (September 1962–March 1963). Curtis (1987) was perhaps the first rock critic to invoke Bloom by suggesting that the Beatles themselves displayed a certain anxiety of influence toward the music of their idols in their early songs. 10. The Move was formed by music impresario Tony Secunda in October 1965 as a “Brum Beat” supergroup, drawing its members—Roy Wood (guitar, vocals), Page 127 →Carl Wayne (vocals), Trevor Burton (guitar, vocals), Chris “Ace” Kefford (bass, vocals), and Bev Bevan (drums)—from among three rival groups in Birmingham’s burgeoning beat scene. Before “Blackberry Way” topped the charts in early 1969, the Move had enjoyed a string of U.K. Top Five hits in 1967–68—“Night of Fear” (U.K. No. 2), “I Can Hear the Grass Grow” (U.K. No. 5), “Flowers in the Rain” (U.K. No. 2), and “Fire Brigade” (U.K. No. 3). But despite Secunda’s best efforts and an extensive 1969 U.S. tour , chart success on the other side of the Atlantic eluded the Move as the popularity of British Invasion groups waned in America. For a more detailed account of the Move’s history, see

Paytress 2008. Before joining the Move in 1970, Jeff Lynne had been a member of another Birmingham group, the Idle Race (formerly Mike Sheridan and the Nightriders), which released a number of singles in 1967–69, including the Lynne composition “Imposters of Life’s Magazine” (erroneously credited on the record’s label as by “G. Lynn,” much to Lynne’s dismay). All of them failed to make much of a dent on the U.K. singles charts. In 1968, while still a member of the Idle Race, an awestruck young Lynne was invited to observe the Beatles in action at Abbey Road studios as they were recording songs for the “White Album,” a story he has often recounted in interviews: “The engineer for the Idle RaceВ .В .В . was a friend of an engineer at Abbey Road, who called one night and invited us to a Beatles session. I was so scared I couldn’t catch my breath. When we get there this engineer bloke pulls us into his room, and there’s John Lennon and George Harrison sitting there, and George Martin conducting the orchestra. They were doing this song called вЂGlass Onion’” (Gilmore 1978, 11). 11. All U.K. chart information for this chapter was confirmed at www.officialcharts.com. All U.S. chart information refers to Billboard’s Hot 100 (in the case of singles) or the Billboard 200 (in the case of albums). Although Lynne was not yet officially a member of the Move (and he does not perform on the finished single), the demo for “Blackberry Way” was recorded by Lynne and Wood (using Lynne’s trusty Beocord 2000 De Luxe stereo reel-to-reel tape recorder) in the living room of the Lynne family home in Birmingham. The song’s title and dark psychedelic style are clearly a nod to “Strawberry Fields Forever,” yet Wood’s vocal riff on the title lyric also bears a striking melodic resemblance (with its ascending-scalar pitches and shuffle eighth notes) to McCartney’s vocal riff that similarly sets the title lyric throughout “Penny Lane.” (I do not provide a notated example here, but the connection should be obvious to listeners by comparing Wood’s sung melody on the syllables “.В .В .В ber-ry Way” with McCartney’s on “Pen-ny Lane” at the opening of each song.) “Blackberry Way” thus cleverly makes a two-pronged strategic intertextual reference to both songs from the Beatles’ double-A-sided single. On the distinction between stylistic and strategic intertextuality, see Spicer 2009. 12. The Beatles had been great admirers of Motown songs since the early 1960s, and their cover versions of three early Motown hits (Barrett Strong’s “Money” [U.S. No. 23, 1960], the Marvelettes’ “Please Mister Postman” [U.S. No. 1, 1961], and the Miracles’ “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me” [U.S. No. 8, 1963]) were released on the Beatles’ second U.K. LP, With the Beatles (November 1963). Everett (2002) offers a comprehensive account of the influence of Motown (or “Tamla Motown,” as the label and style was known in British popular culture; Page 128 →see Flory 2014)—and the influence of American soul music from Detroit and Memphis more generally—on the Beatles, as heard especially in songs from their middle period (e.g., “Day Tripper” [1965] and “Got to Get You into My Life” [1966]). 13. Philip Tagg has introduced the term shuttle to refer to a one-chord vamp or an oscillating progression involving just two chords (as opposed to a loop, which refers to a circular progression involving three chords or more). According to Tagg (2014, 371), “The duration of a two-chord shuttle, from one chord to the other and back, is, like that of a single-chord shuttle, always containable within the extended present.” 14. The U.K. pop singles charts have always been more stylistically eclectic than the U.S. singles charts, and it is therefore no surprise that “Albatross” failed to crack the Billboard Hot 100 in the United States (though it did reach No. 4 on Billboard’s “Bubbling Under” chart). 15. Cromelin 1974 was the first feature article on the Electric Light Orchestra (other than a record or concert review) to appear in Rolling Stone. 16. “10538 Overture” was released in the United Kingdom in late June, right as the final Move single, “California Man” (released in May), was peaking at No. 7. Lynne is credited as the sole writer of “10538 Overture,” with Wood listed as producer. Recorded on eight-track equipment, the song is

about an escaped prisoner (according to Lynne) and takes its title from a serial number (1053) Lynne saw on the mixing console. Wood added 8 to better fit the lyric of the last verse (“Did you catch his face—was it 1-0-5-3-8?”) and the word overture to make it clear that the group was no longer the Move and was now the Electric Light Orchestra. “10538 Overture” has recently enjoyed a resurgence in popularity after being featured prominently on the trailer and soundtrack to the 2013 dark comedy American Hustle, where it aptly underscores the film’s depiction of crime and political corruption in 1970s New Jersey. 17. For more on accumulative beginnings in pop and rock songs, see Spicer 2004. 18. According to Wood, “The backing track to вЂ10538 Overture’ was playing and I was playing all these Jimi Hendrix riffs on the cello, I went and did like fifteen of them and that’s how ELO was born really” (“The Birmingham Beat” [episode], Rock Family Trees, first aired on BBC Four, 23 January 2008). 19. Wizzard was an instant success in the United Kingdom, with a string of Top Ten hits in 1972–74, among them “See My Baby Jive” and “Angel Fingers” (both of which reached No. 1), and the 1973 Christmas single “I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day” (U.K. No. 4, kept out of the top spot by Slade’s “Merry Xmas Everybody”). But like the Move, Wizzard was unable to achieve any real success in the United States, and by late 1975 Wood had dissolved the group. 20. The first Electric Light Orchestra album was released on the Harvest label (a division of EMI) in the United Kingdom and by United Artists in the United States, where it received its title, No Answer, after a UA executive called ELO’s management to ask about the album’s title, received no response, and jotted “no answer” in his notes. 21. This chronology includes the soundtrack to the 1980 film Xanadu (which I consider part of the canon of ELO studio albums, even though ELO songs Page 129 →occupy only one side of the LP) but does not include the two Jeff Lynne solo albums (Armchair Theatre [1990] and Long Wave [2012]) or any releases by the spin-off group Electric Light Orchestra Part II, formed by ELO’s drummer and cofounder Bev Bevan in 1989 after Lynne had officially disbanded the original group. Bevan himself left ELO Part II in 1999 and sold his half of the rights to the Electric Light Orchestra name back to Lynne, while the remaining members of the spin-off group have continued performing (with various lineup changes) under the moniker the Orchestra. I think most fans would agree with me, however, that without Lynne, it is really not the Electric Light Orchestra. 22. The albums’ failure to chart in the United Kingdom also resulted partly from the fact that Harvest dropped ELO following the release of Electric Light Orchestra II; their subsequent U.K. label, Warner, did very little to promote their 1973–74 releases. Don Arden, who managed both ELO and Wizzard, created his own record label, Jet, in late 1974 to release and better promote his artists’ recordings. The first ELO album released under the Jet imprint was Face the Music (1975), which also spawned ELO’s first transatlantic Top Ten single, “Evil Woman.” 23. Other ELO tracks from this period that similarly attempt classical-rock fusion include the instrumental “Daybreaker” and a “rock version” of Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King” (both from On the Third Day), much of the Eldorado album (which includes an “Overture” that borrows an extended excerpt from Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor and another song with the decidedly classical-sounding title of “Illusions in G Major”), and the multisectioned avant-garde instrumental “Fire on High” (from Face the Music). Also, a staple of the band’s live concerts during these years was an experimental cover of the Beatles’ “Day Tripper,” which ELO transformed into a full-blown multisong by adding a newly composed string introduction (conspicuously reminiscent of the string coda to the Beatles’ “Glass Onion”) and interspersing snippets from another of classical music’s greatest hits, the first movement of Mozart’s Piano Sonata in C Major, K. 545. 24. See “Is It Me or Did ELO Music Have Beatles All over It?” (discussion thread, started on 30 July 2009, http://forums.stevehoffman.tv/threads/is-it-me-or-did-elo-music-have-beatles-all-over-it.189803). 25. Prog Sphere recently ranked Eldorado No. 25 among the Top 30 Progressive Rock Concept Albums: “The plot of ELO’s 1974 full-length follows aВ Walter Mitty–like character who journeys into fantasy worlds via dreams, to escape the disillusionment of his mundane reality. Jeff Lynne began to write the album in response to criticisms from his father, a classical music lover, who said that Electric Light Orchestra’s repertoire вЂhad no tune’” (SaviД‡ 2014). The album contained ELO’s first

U.S. Top Ten hit, the Lennonesque ballad “Can’t Get It Out of My Head” (peaking at No. 9 on the Hot 100 in March 1975; the single did not chart in the United Kingdom). 26. Melvyn Gale replaced Edwards in 1975. Like all four Beatles (and many other pop and rock musicians past and present), Lynne never learned how to read and write music, preferring instead to use the recording studio as his canvas. He hired young arranger Louis Clark (classically trained at the Leeds College of Music) to assist with the extended string and choir arrangements for Eldorado. Page 130 →Clark has continued to work intermittently with various incarnations of the band (he currently plays keyboards with the ELO spin-off group, the Orchestra, alongside the one other remaining member from the “classic” ELO lineup, Kaminski) but is probably best known as the producer of the hugely popular Hooked on Classics records of the 1980s and 1990s. 27. Although the R&B-inspired groove of “Evil Woman” was somewhat unusual for ELO at the time (perhaps Lynne’s three years of relentlessly touring the United States and listening to American radio had rubbed off on him?), Lynne, like the Beatles, has always been one of rock’s most prolific songwriting chameleons, freely (and nostalgically) drawing on earlier styles from rock’s past and deftly changing styles from song to song and even within a song, all in the service of crafting a catchy hit (the “doo-wop” chorus of “Telephone Line” [1977, U.K. No. 8, U.S. No. 7] and the rockabilly throwback “Hold On Tight” [1981, U.K. No. 4, U.S. No. 10] are but two further examples). While stylistically the Electric Light Orchestra was conveniently labeled “symphonic rock,” Lynne has always insisted that ELO was first and foremost a pop group: “To me, pop is the best genreВ .В .В . because it’s got everything—Elvis, the BeatlesВ .В .В . all these different, millions of styles” (Mr. Blue Sky 2012). For more on the Beatles’ rampant stylistic eclecticism, especially among their later recordings (as represented most obviously by the “White Album,” the consummate “postmodern album” of the rock era), see Whitley 2000. 28. Outside of the blues inflections in Lynne’s vocal melody, this introductory chord sequence might sound right at home in a Golden Age Broadway musical. 29. Despite the C major introduction, A minor should be considered the song’s primary key (though brief tonicizations of C major recur at the end of each verse and leading into the chorus). Since the same chord changes are used for both the verses and choruses, “Evil Woman” is an example of what Covach (2005) would call simple verse-chorus form (as opposed to contrasting verse-chorus form). This repeating chord pattern (i–v–iv–v) could be thought of as a minor-mode and “upside-down” version of the iconic “Louie Louie” riff (I–IV–V [or v]–IV; see Doll 2011). 30. I have dubbed this passage the “Stravinskian burst” because its specific pitch content (C–B–GВ .В .В .В , with a tumbling flurry of pitches following a long-held initial high C) reminds me very much of the solo bassoon melody that opens Stravinsky’s The Rite of Spring (1913). 31. There is, however, another strategic intertextual reference to a Beatles song in the lyrics to “Evil Woman.” In first verse, Lynne sings, “There’s a hole in my head where the rain comes in,” an obvious riff on the opening line from McCartney’s Sgt. Pepper song “Fixing a Hole.” 32. By importing a portion of the actual recorded sound of another song from the same album into “Evil Woman,” Lynne is making what Lacasse (2000; this volume) would call an intraalbum autosonic reference. Listeners might recognize the Stravinskian burst in “Evil Woman” from its use in a very different and more recent context: the Pussycat Dolls’ 2006 hit single “Beep” (U.K. No. 2, U.S. No. 13), for which producer will.i.am used a digital sample of this two-bar passage as the song’s primary hook. (Unlike “Evil Woman,” where the Stravinskian burst appears only once, in “Beep” we hear it at the tail end of every chorus.) In keeping Page 131 →with the usual practice for songs built prominently around samples from older recordings, Lynne received cosongwriting credit for “Beep” along with will.i.am and Kara DioGuardi. 33. “Electric Light Orchestra” [episode], Storytellers, first aired on VH1, 20 April 2001. Lynne’s account brings to mind two other prior Beatles songs, John Lennon’s “Good Morning, Good Morning” (1967) and George Harrison’s “Here Comes the Sun” (1969). 34. The neighboring I–в™-VII–I progression at the opening of the middle section of “A Day in the Life” is just one of several stock modal harmonic formulas—such as the “double-plagal” Mixolydian в™-VII–IV–I, associated most notably with the extended coda of “Hey Jude” and also heard during the coda of “Mr. Blue Sky”—that the Beatles were largely responsible for

introducing into the lexicon of rock harmony in the 1960s. (For more on the double-plagal and other stock modal triadic progressions in rock, see Everett 2009; Biamonte 2010.) Yet this particular four-chord progression within the Beatles’ output is unique to “Yesterday.” McCartney was convinced he had heard this chord progression before, and yes, such secondary ii–V–I tonicizations are legion within Tin Pin Alley songs and jazz standards, but I can think of no Tin Pan Alley song that opens with this exact progression. The fact that Lynne borrows this progression in the same key as “Yesterday” only solidifies the strategic intertextual reference. The only other 1970s song I can think of that uses this same progression is the Stylistics’ 1972 soul hit “Betcha by Golly Wow” (U.K. No. 13, U.S. No. 3), where this four-chord sequence occurs at the onset of the chorus, transposed to Eв™- major: Eв™-–Dm7–G7–Cm. 35. “Yesterday” was not released as a single in the United Kingdom (it appeared on side 2 of the U.K. Help! album), but a cover version by Matt Monro reached No. 10 in the United Kingdom in October 1965, right as the Beatles’ original topped the Hot 100 in the United States. “Yesterday” was released as a Beatles song, yet as is well known, none of the other three Beatles actually played on the recording: McCartney sings and accompanies himself on acoustic guitar, supported by Martin’s beautiful string quartet arrangement. “Yesterday” holds the distinction of being the most covered song of the rock era (according to Guinness World Records), with more than three thousand versions recorded to date. 36. Everett (1999, 133–38) offers a detailed harmonic and voice-leading analysis of “I Am the Walrus,” including its oddball all-major harmonies and the seemingly infinite wedge-shaped outer voice design of its coda (with the bass ever descending against a melody that is ever ascending). 37. According to Lynne, when he was a child, his parents took him to see a 1954 John Wayne film, The High and the Mighty, and he was blown away by the orchestral music of the film’s title theme: “Oh, what a tune that is! But I can understand where my taste in chords and things come from, and it comes from way, way backВ .В .В . being a tiny kid” (Mr. Blue Sky 2012). The lasting influence of The High and the Mighty’s music on Lynne is heard throughout ELO’s output, but especially in this climactic final section of “Wild West Hero.” 38. Discovery spawned ELO’s highest-charting single in the United States, the pounding disco-rock anthem “Don’t Bring Me Down” (U.K. No. 3, U.S. No. 4). Page 132 →Yet the standout on this album for me (and I think most diehard ELO fans) is “The Diary of Horace Wimp” (U.K. No. 6, not released as a single in the United States)—essentially a stylistic retake on “Mr. Blue Sky” that again evokes the bouncy quarter-note groove of McCartney’s middle section of “A Day in the Life.” (Tandy’s vocoder—the “robot voice” spotlighted during a later verse of “Mr. Blue Sky” and one of that song’s most memorable sonic features—also makes a triumphant return here.) The obvious intertextual connection to “A Day in the Life” notwithstanding, “The Diary of Horace Wimp” is also decidedly McCartneyesque in that Lynne adopts one of McCartney’s favorite narrative schemes in his late Beatles songs, that of telling the story of a particular fictional character (Г la “Eleanor Rigby”)—in this case, another very “lonely person,” Horace Wimp. Unlike the sad ending of “Eleanor Rigby,” however (the title character’s funeral, attended only by the equally lonely Father McKenzie), “The Diary of Horace Wimp“ ends joyfully with the title character’s wedding. 39. In the lyrics to “Beatles Forever,” an unreleased ELO track from the Secret Messages sessions, Lynne laid bare his anxiety of influence toward the Beatles: “There’s something about a Beatles song that lives forever more / The beauty of the harmonies, the sound of the Fab Four / I try to write a good song, a song with feel and care / I think it’s quite a good song, ’til I hear one of theirs” (bootleg version available on YouTube). 40. For more on the reception history of Jamaican reggae in the United Kingdom, see Spicer 2010, 125, nn. 3–5. 41. Orbison’s influence on Lynne’s visual persona is evidenced by the fact that like Orbison, Lynne since the mid-1970s has rarely appeared in public without his trademark sunglasses. 42. For a detailed analysis of Orbison’s development of his signature “sweet West Texas style” in his late 1950s and early 1960s recordings, see Zak 2010. Orbison had not had a hit record in the United Kingdom or United States since the mid-1960s. The huge success of McLean’s cover of “Crying,

” in addition perhaps to Lynne’s newfound penchant for emulating the Orbison vocal sound on ELO recordings (e.g., “Midnight Blue” from Discovery), sparked a resurgence of interest in Orbison’s music and ultimately led to his collaborations with Lynne later in the decade. 43. According to Petty, Lynne’s “three biggest influences [are]В Del Shannon, Roy Orbison, and the Beatles.” Petty, too, selected “Mr. Blue Sky” as his favorite ELO song, insisting, “it’s not derivative. It’s not really coming from anybody but Jeff. Nobody could do it quite like that” (Mr. Blue Sky 2012). Lynne also produced Petty’s 1989 solo album, Full Moon Fever (U.K. No. 8, U.S. No. 3), and Orbison’s 1989 album, Mystery Girl (U.K. No. 2, U.S. No. 5), which includes the transatlantic Top Ten single, “You Got It.” (Mystery Girl was released after Orbison’s sudden death from a heart attack on 6 December 1988.) 44. This iteration of ELO made a few 2001 television appearances (including on VH1’s Storytellers), yet a concert tour in support of Zoom was canceled because of low ticket sales. 45. As Lynne says, “I knew I could make them better because I had all these years of experience working with George, and Paul, and Roy Orbison, and Tom Page 133 →Petty, and all these fantastic people.В .В .В . I’ve learnt so much working with them, you know, I’m hoping they learnt a bit working with me too” (Mr. Blue Sky 2012). The resulting album, Mr. Blue Sky: The Very Best of Electric Light Orchestra, was released in October 2012 to coincide with the premiere of the BBC documentary. 46. Alone in the Universe debuted at No. 4 on the U.K. album chart and was certified platinum in the United Kingdom, but the album cracked the Billboard 200 for only one week (No. 23 for the week of 5 December 2015) before immediately falling off the chart. Lynne and ELO have come to be recognized as something of a national treasure in their native United Kingdom but have not retained such mainstream popularity in the United States. Jeff Lynne’s ELO played a surprise concert at London’s Portchester Hall on 9 November 2015, quickly followed by a short set for the 2015 Royal Variety Performance at the Royal Albert Hall on 13 November and two intimate U.S. album-release shows, at New York’s Irving Plaza on 20 November and Los Angeles’s Fonda Theatre on 24 November, prefaced respectively with appearances on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon (18 November) and Jimmy Kimmel Live (23 November). In 2016, ELO undertook a successful eighteen-date tour of the United Kingdom and Europe (April–June) that featured a seventy-five-minute set for an exuberant crowd at the Glastonbury Festival on 26 June (in the festival’s traditional Sunday-afternoon “legends” slot). The band capped off the summer with three sold-out shows at the Hollywood Bowl (a fitting venue for a group with such profound Beatles influences) on 9–11 September and two more at New York’s Radio City Music Hall on 16 and 18 September. Most recently, Jeff Lynne’s ELO performed four shows in the United Kingdom in June–July 2017, including a 24 June concert at London’s (new) Wembley Arena that marked the group’s return to the site of its most celebrated arena performances from the late 1970s (see Out of the Blue 1980, filmed on the opening night of ELO’s remarkable eight-night run at the old Wembley Empire Pool during 1978’s Out of the Blue tour). Perhaps the ultimate critical vindication occurred when ELO was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as part of the Class of 2017. 47. Space does not permit me to offer a close analysis of all ten songs on Alone in the Universe, but suffice it to say that Lynne once again shows his mastery of the “millions of styles” in the pop universe, ranging from the funky R&B of “Love and Rain” (essentially, “Showdown” redux) to the Orbison tribute “I’m Leaving You” and the synth-drenched anthemic title track (with a melodic and harmonic design that bears a more than coincidental resemblance to ELO’s 1975 U.S. hit, “Can’t Get It Out of My Head”). In “One Step at a Time,” Lynne most closely revisits the signature sound and idiolect of ELO’s classic 1970s hits, yet ironically, since Lynne is singing and playing all the instruments himself (it has always been Jeff Lynne’s ELO, after all), no actual strings were used in the recording of the album. 48. The consummate “Baroque pop” song (inspired by McCartney’s own attempts at “Bach meets pop” in his 1966–67 Beatles songs such as “Eleanor Rigby,” “For No One,” and “Penny Lane”), Procol Harum’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale” occupied the No. 1 spot on the U.K. singles chart for seven weeks in June–July 1967, right as Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band topped the album chart. Page 134 →Appropriately, “A Whiter Shade of Pale” was displaced from the top spot by the Beatles’ Summer of Love anthem, “All You Need Is Love.” For a close intertextual analysis of “All You Need Is Love,” see Spicer 2009, 354–59.

49. I am reminded here also of Tears for Fears’ 1989 hit, “Sowing the Seeds of Love” (U.K. No. 5, U.S. No. 2), another song loaded with Beatles references and with a chorus that uses the same chord progression and irregular hypermeter as the “Hello, Goodbye” chorus. The Beatles’ influence on Tears for Fears will have to be the subject of another essay. 50. Listen to the Out of the Blue album version of “Mr. Blue Sky” at 4:33–4:41. The extended coda to “Mr. Blue Sky” also serves as the coda to the “Concerto for a Rainy Day” as a whole.

References Biamonte, Nicole. 2010. “Triadic Modal and Pentatonic Patterns in Rock Music.” Music Theory Spectrum 32 (2): 95–110. Bloom, Harold. 1973. The Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry. New York: Oxford University Press. Bloom, Harold. 1975. A Map of Misreading. New York: Oxford University Press. Bloom, Harold. 1998. Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human. New York: Putnam. Bonds, Mark Evan. 1996. After Beethoven: Imperatives of Originality in the Symphony. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Braae, Nick. 2015. “Sonic Patterns and Compositional Strategies in Queen’s вЂBohemian Rhapsody.’” Twentieth-Century Music 12 (2): 173–96. Covach, John. 2005. “Form in Rock Music: A Primer.” In Engaging Music: Essays in Music Analysis, edited by Deborah Stein, 65–76. New York: Oxford University Press. Covach, John. 2006. “From вЂCraft’ to вЂArt’: Formal Structure in the Music of the Beatles.” In Reading the Beatles: Cultural Studies, Literary Criticism, and the Fab Four, edited by Kenneth Womack and Todd F. Davis, 37–53. Albany: State University of New York Press. Covach, John. 2009. What’s That Sound?: An Introduction to Rock and Its History. 2nd ed. New York: Norton. Cromelin, Richard. 1974. “The Electric Light Orchestra: Roll over Chuck Berry and Tell Beethoven the News.” Rolling Stone, 19 December, 12. Cromer, Ben. 1997. “From ELO to the Wilburys, Lynne Mixes Producing, Performing, and Songwriting.” Billboard, 22 March, 49. Curtis, James M. 1987. “Anxious Beatles.” In Rock Eras: Interpretations of Music and Society, 1954–1984, 195–201. Bowling Green, OH: Bowling Green State University Popular Press. Doll, Christopher. 2011. “A Tale of Two Louies: Interpreting an вЂArchetypal American Musical Icon.’” Indiana Theory Review 29 (2): 71–103. Everett, Walter. 1999. The Beatles as Musicians: Revolver through the Anthology. New York: Oxford University Press. Everett, Walter. 2001. The Beatles as Musicians: The Quarry Men through Rubber Soul. New York: Oxford University Press. Page 135 →Everett, Walter. 2002. “Detroit and Memphis: The Soul of Revolver.” In “Every Sound There Is”: The Beatles’ Revolver and the Transformation of Rock and Roll, edited by Russell Reising, 25–57. Burlington, VT: Ashgate.

Everett, Walter. 2009. The Foundations of Rock: From “Blue Suede Shoes” to “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” New York: Oxford University Press. Flory, Andrew. 2014. “Tamla Motown in the UK: Transatlantic Reception of American Rhythm and Blues.” In Sounds and the City: Popular Music, Place, and Globalization, edited by Brett Lashua, Karl Spracklen, and Stephen Wagg, 113–27. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Gaines, Steven. 1986/1995. Heroes and Villains: The True Story of the Beach Boys. New York: Da Capo. Gilmore, Mikal. 1978. “ELO: America Sees the Light—Recognizing the Band without a Face.” Rolling Stone, 24 August, 8–12. Greene, Andy. 2015. “Jeff Lynne Explains How Electric Light Orchestra Came Back to Life.” Rolling Stone, 22 October, http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/jeff-lynne-explains-how-electric-light-orchestracame-back-to-life-20151022 Harrison, Daniel. 1997. “After Sundown: The Beach Boys’ Experimental Music.” In Understanding Rock: Essays in Musical Analysis, edited by John Covach and Graeme M. Boone, 33–57. New York: Oxford University Press. Jones, Carys Wyn. 2008. The Rock Canon: Canonical Values in the Reception of Rock Albums. Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Klein, Michael. 2005. Intertextuality in Western Art Music. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Korsyn, Kevin. 1991. “Towards a New Poetics of Musical Influence.” Music Analysis 10 (1–2): 3–72. Lacasse, Serge. 2000. “Intertextuality and Hypertextuality in Recorded Popular Music.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by Michael Talbot, 35–58. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Lambert, Philip. 2007. Inside the Music of Brian Wilson: The Songs, Sounds, and Influences of the Beach Boys’ Founding Genius. New York: Continuum. Lewis, John. 2015. Review of Jeff Lynne’s ELO—Alone in the Universe. Uncut, 7 December, http://www.uncut.co.uk/reviews/album/jeff-lynnes-elo-alone-in-the-universe Love and Mercy. 2014. Screenplay by Michael Alan Lerner and Oren Moverman, directed by Bill Pohlad. Lions Gate Films. Mastropolo, Frank. 2014. “Top 11 Musicians Influenced by the Beatles.” Rockcellar Magazine, 4 February, http://www.rockcellarmagazine.com/2014/02/04/top-11-musicians-influenced-by-the-beatles-50th-anniversary /#sthash.lCeGRsIu.dpbs McGee, Alan. 2008. “ELO: The Band the Beatles Could Have Been.” Guardian music blog, 16 October, http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2008/oct/16/elo-better-than-beatles Mellers, Wilfred. 1973. Twilight of the Gods: The Beatles in Retrospect. London: Faber and Faber. Mr. Blue Sky: The Story of Jeff Lynne and ELO. 2012. Written and directed by Martyn Atkins. BBC. Page 136 →Out of the Blue: Live at Wembley. 1980. Directed by Mike Mansfield. MGM/CBS Home Video. Paytress, Mark. 2008. Liner notes to The Move Anthology, 1966–1972. Salvo Music (SALVOBX406). Reynolds, Simon. 2011. Retromania: Pop Culture’s Addiction to Its Own Past. New York: Faber and Faber.

Riley, Tim. 2002. Tell Me Why—The Beatles: Album by Album, Song by Song, the Sixties and After. Rev. and updated ed. Cambridge, MA: Da Capo. SaviД‡, Nikola. 2014. “Top 30 Progressive Rock Albums.” Prog Sphere, 14 July, http://www.progsphere.com/specials/top-30-progressive-rock-concept-albums-prog-sphere/ Schneider, Matthew. 2008. The Long and Winding Road from Blake to the Beatles. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Spicer, Mark. 2004. “(Ac)cumulative Form in Pop-Rock Music.” Twentieth-Century Music 1 (1): 29–64. Spicer, Mark. 2009. “Strategic Intertextuality in Three of John Lennon’s Late Beatles Songs.” Gamut 2 (1): 347–75. Spicer, Mark. 2010. “вЂReggatta de Blanc’: Analyzing Style in the Music of the Police.” In Sounding Out Pop: Analytical Essays in Popular Music, edited by Mark Spicer and John Covach, 124–53. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Straus, Joseph N. 1990. Remaking the Past: Tradition and Influence in Twentieth-Century Music. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Straus, Joseph N. 1991. “The вЂAnxiety of Influence’ in Twentieth-Century Music.” Journal of Musicology 9 (4): 430–47. Swenson, John. 1977. Review of Electric Light Orchestra/Steve Hillage, Madison Square Garden, New York, 11 February 1977. Rolling Stone, 7 April, 92. Tagg, Philip. 2014. Everyday Tonality: Towards a Tonal Theory of What Most People Hear. 2nd ed. New York: Mass Media Music Scholars’ Press. Wald, Elijah. 2009. How the Beatles Destroyed Rock ’n’ Roll: An Alternative History of American Popular Music. New York: Oxford University Press. Whitesell, Lloyd. 1994. “Men with a Past: Music and the вЂAnxiety of Influence.’” 19th-Century Music 18 (2): 152–67. Whitley, Ed. 2000. “The Postmodern White Album.” In The Beatles, Popular Music, and Society: A Thousand Voices, edited by Ian Inglis, 105–25. London: Macmillan. Wild, David. 2000. “The Story of a Rock and Roll Band Who Dared to Go for Baroque.” Liner notes to Flashback: Electric Light Orchestra. Epic/Legacy (E3K 85123). Zak, Albin. 2008. “Rock and Roll Rhapsody: Pop Epics of the 1970s.” In Expression in Pop-Rock Music: Critical and Analytical Essays, 2nd ed., edited by Walter Everett, 345–60. New York: Routledge. Zak, Albin. 2010. “вЂOnly the Lonely’: Roy Orbison’s Sweet West Texas Style.” In Sounding Out Pop: Analytical Essays in Popular Music, edited by Mark Spicer and John Covach, 18–41. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press.

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Five. “If You’re Gonna Have a Hit” Intratextual Mixes and Edits of Pop Recordings Walter Everett I am the Entertainer, I come to do my show. Heard my latest record spin on the radio? Aw, it took me years to write it; they were the best years of my life! It was a beautiful song but it ran too long; If you’re gonna have a hit, you gotta make it fit, So they cut it down to 3:05. THUS PROCLAIMS THE fifth stanza of Billy Joel’s “The Entertainer,” a song from his second Columbia album, Streetlife Serenade (1974). Verse by verse, the song presents a litany of the commercial pressures faced by an artist struggling to make his mark in the record industry as his work is commodified and otherwise compromised. “The Entertainer” was a first-person follow-up to the ostensibly autobiographical “Piano Man,” the title track of his previous album and a song that had enjoyed national airplay. Columbia hoped to use this new tune in promoting Streetlife, releasing “The Entertainer” as a single for the widest possible exposure and to build on the narrative of Joel’s self-portrayal. One problem: the third stanza included the rock star’s boasts, “I played all kinds of palaces, I laid all kinds of girls,” not appropriate for airplay in the necessary markets. So, as if in fulfillment of the composition’s prophecy, the offending verse was removed, thereby abridging the recording’s duration from its album length of 3:39 to 3:05—exactly as Joel predicted in his lyrics (see figure 5.1).1 Page 138 → Figure 5.1. Selected vinyl pressings of “The Entertainer”: a, LP label; b, mono promo; c, stereo stock copy. The matrix number for stereo single pressings is ZSS 159589; the mono mix appeared only on the promo (thus the P in the matrix prefix). Page 139 →Many pop-rock recordings have had similar fates, if never so ironically, for many reasons. Others have enjoyed the benefits that come with alternate mixes, whether produced concurrently for different markets or as the result of the revisitation of a classic track decades after its initial appearance. Both competing interests and reflective insights are at work in the sometimes-friendly, sometimes-forced collaborations among composing and performing artists, record producers, company management, and radio programmers that may bring a pop recording from the studio to the marketplace in numerous simultaneous versions. This chapter reviews alternate mixes and edited versions produced for various purposes over the past halfcentury—stock singles, promotional singles, albums, and reissues—all evidence of a negotiated form of intertextuality that is uniquely central to the record industry but that music scholars have not previously reported on systematically. The chapter also supports a more informed perspective on the question of “definitive versions”Page 140 → and “authoritative text” that have interested researchers of popular music over recent decades. Intertextuality as a scholarly endeavor is “Julia Kristeva’s attempt to combine Sausseurean and Bakhtinian theories of language and literature[, which] produced the first articulation of intertextual theory, in the late 1960s” (Allen 2000, 3). For Kristeva and her followers, every text is a largely unintended composite of references to prior discourses. Whereas the types of intertextuality to be explored in this essay involve forms of authorial intention not presupposed in the classic sense of intertextual relations, my

dependence on this body of work is supported by—and to a degree suggested by—an interesting and highly relevant essay by Serge Lacasse (2007).2 Although I refer here to the entire history of rock, most of my examples are taken from vinyl sources. In an age of viral music making in which a recording artist can have any number of unknown freelance mash-up collaborators (often by design), at a time when a consumer’s search for a simple song download results in point-of-sale offers of numerous quasi-documented and undifferentiated versions of a targeted recording (easily resulting in the inadvertent purchase of an unintended item), and with opportunities growing as unauthorized releases are available to scholars as never before, it is a propitious time to review the practices of past decades—generally but not exclusively those given to vinyl pressings—to see how we arrived at this point. This chapter takes steps in that direction. The creation of different mixes or edits of a recording for simultaneous exposure in different markets, as in the case of “The Entertainer,” is but one type of a condition that might be called intratextuality, whereby a network of differing sonic products is traceable to a single source recording. Table 5.1 outlines the ten major types of intratextuality that can lead to this condition. This essay focuses on Type 4 and Type 5, which includes the Joel track. To contextualize these techniques, one might consider them alongside broader forms of pop-music intertextuality, including very closely related sorts such as complete remakes required by lost master tapes or various contractual issues (as with Little Richard’s Vee Jay remakes of Specialty originals), hits remade after an artist joins a new band (the Great Society’s “White Rabbit” redone by Jefferson Airplane), live versus concert and acoustic versus electric versions of performances (Bruce Springsteen’s “Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out” and Bob Dylan’s “George Jackson,” respectively), songs enjoying completely new conceptions years after their initial reception (Ani DeFranco’s Canon), medleys (Spyder Turner’s “Stand by Me”), and overdubs added to tracks originallyPage 142 → created by deceased “ghost” superstars (Natalie Cole’s overdubs onto Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable”). Also related are more distantly derivative sorts such as radical recompositions under new titles, cover versions, musical quotations and plagiarism, stylistic borrowing and (attributed or suspected) model composition, sampling from one recording into another, and homage forms such as break-in, parody, follow-up, sequel, and answer songs.3 (Of course, more ephemeral forms of multisong reference exist, as in a listener’s linking one song with another that appeared adjacent to it in an obsolete album sequence or holding even more personal associations extrinsic to others’ experiences.) Page 141 → Table 5.1. Ten Types of Intratextuality in Recorded Popular Music, Classified as to Original Sources and the Alterations They Undergo 1. Discarded preliminary mixes (such as those test pressings found on production acetates now commanding a premium on the collector’s market) as compared to final, officially released, mixes. Examples would include rejected mixes such as that of “Revolution 9” appearing on the bootleg CD Revolution, The Beatles (Yellow Dog). 2. Advance singles rushed into the market sometimes months before an album has been fully prepared and thus often missing overdubs found on later releases or containing parts later mixed out of standard releases. A representative example would be the differing guitar solos in the stereo mixes for the single (charting 21 March 1970) and album (30 May 1970) releases of the Beatles’ “Let It Be.” 3. Long album tracks divided into two parts (one for each side of a single). There is a long history of “Part I”/“Part II” singles from Ray Charles’s “I Got a Woman” (1955) through many of James Brown’s hits in the 1960s and ’70s to a number of Top Five disco singles in the 1970s. At 8:47 (marked 8:40), Guns N’ Roses’ “November Rain” (1992) is likely the seven-inch single of longest uninterrupted duration to enter Billboard’s charts. 4. Contrasting stereo versus mono, demo versus stock copy, and other concurrent releases of differing mixes of the same edit.

5. Differing edits (sometimes clever and useful, at other times unfortunate) of the same recording, including expurgated versions aimed at contrasting markets. 6. Ultra-“transparent” mixes as in quadraphonic and 5.1 surround-sound formats and unauthorized releases of individual tracks from premaster multitrack tapes. Quad mixes sometimes end up as bonus tracks on compactdisc reissues, as with “Wind Up” appearing on Jethro Tull’s Aqualung. Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend” is given in 5.1 sound in the “30th Anniversary Collector’s Edition” of A Night at the Opera. The four individual multitracks for each of four songs from the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band appear separately in the 2007 Phony Chick bootleg, Magical Mystery Year, Vol. 2. 7. Contemporaneous remakes for release (such as instrumental backing tracks receiving new sets of lyrics) and multiple-format dance mixes and dubs of various structures. Examples of the first subtype include the many regional lyrics given Tommy Facenda’s 1959 hit, “High School U.S.A.,” additions of foreignlanguage vocals to the same backing tracks in hits by the Beatles (“Komm, Gib Mir Deine Hand”) and Mary Hopkin (“Le Temps des Fleurs,” “Quelli Erano Giorni”), and Cream’s reuse of the instrumental tracks recorded for “Lawdy Mama” with new lyrics in “Strange Brew.” Dance dubs of the 1980s would be marketed in many simultaneous versions as remixed by Phil Kelsey, Jellybean Benitez, Arthur Baker, Ben Grosse, Shep Pettibone, and others. 8. After-the-fact remakes by original artists. These would include such approaches as Frank Zappa’s recut bass lines for many CD releases of early Mothers albums and Mark Ronson’s 2007 “Re-Version” of “Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I’ll Go Mine),” which puts a completely new instrumental accompaniment to Bob Dylan’s original vocal recording. 9. Recordings as adapted for promotional video and as appropriated by others for exploitative quotation in television commercials, political campaigns, and the like. This category does not include the “soundalike” recordings made in attempts to circumvent licensing restrictions but does include such adaptations as oftenspasmodic truncations of original recordings. 10. Collaborative mash-ups, authorized or not. Danger Mouse’s Grey Album (which adds the vocals of JayZ’s Black Album to instrumental samples from the Beatles’ White Album) opened the floodgates in 2004, leading to the current practice of some artists’ releasing individual tracks for consumers’ recombinations with other sources through audio editing software such as Cubase or Logic Pro.

Type 4: Differing Mixes of the Same Edit Before I continue with the particulars of the simultaneous appearances of varied mixes, it is useful to define the different sorts of single 45 rpm pressings. Stock singles are manufactured for both jukebox play and home consumption and are warehoused and retailed either through mass shipments to dedicated record stores or distributed by rack-jobbers to general outlets such as department stores.4 In some cases, stock copies would be rush-released with a provisional label (see figure 5.2), but not to my knowledge carrying any recording other than the one on the eventual hit-bound pressing. The label and dead wax would often carry the matrix number, which identified the master take documented as such on the studio log and tape box and given to the lathe operator so the proper recording would be mass-produced.5 Sometimes, the stock single would be distributed to radio-station program directors for airplay, but more often, broadcasters would be given specially marked promotional discs known as promos, demos (demonstration discs), or DJ copies. Promos are sometimes referred to as white label copies (misleading in that their labels were not always white), leading to confusion with the plain appearance of many rush copies. Some variation of “Not for sale” would be printed or stamped on these DJ copies to make it clear that no gifts of value had been exchanged for programming promises, a response to the late-1950s “payola” scandal in which certain U.S. record companies were found to have made undisclosed payments to radio program directors and on-air personalities for plugging products. These promotional discs frequently contained mixes and edits varying significantly from those on stock releases, which would often, in turn, differ from album mixes of the same recording. One major reason for the difference was the fact that singles almost always contained mono Page 144 →mixes rather than the stereo mixes heard on most LPs until early 1968, when the Rascals’ “A Beautiful Morning” and the Doors’ “Hello, I Love You” blazed the trail of stereo 45s. (AM radio, the

primary outlet for Top Forty promotion, could broadcast only monophonically.) At times, stereo and mono mixes would differ only in terms of relatively minor qualities such as compression and balance, whereas in other cases the mix would differ substantially. Also of interest to collectors and researchers is the fact that poor-selling singles are sometimes very hard to find in their stock format, even though DJ copies (normally with far fewer copies pressed) are occasionally not. This is the situation with such recordings as the Paul Winter Consort’s “Icarus,” an instrumental number played unannounced by many radio stations as a bumper between program segments but a record that failed to break Billboard’s weekly Hot 100 chart (see figure 5.3). Another such instance is Ringo Starr’s “Drowning in the Sea of Love,” a nonhit released by Atlantic in 1978. In this case, the company tried valiantly to promote the record, so DJ copies are fairly abundant, but consumers were uninterested, so the few stock copies that made it to the marketplace were returned and melted down, thereby becoming one of the scarcest pieces of Beatle vinyl offered for general release. Similarly, one can find DJ copies of the Mothers of Invention’s 1966 single, “Who Are the Brain Police?,” for a price, but the stock copy eludes the most persistent collector. Usually, DJ discs would pair the same A- and B-sides as on the stock copies (occasionally allowing the radio industry to overturn record-company decisions regarding which side was intended for broadcast, as occurred with Steam’s inadvertent 1969 hit, “Na Na Hey Hey Kiss Him Goodbye”). But as the same hits came to be played on both AM and FM stations by the late 1960s, promo discs tended to pair mono and stereo mixes or short and long versions of the same song. Page 143 → Figure 5.2. Vinyl single releases of “Dark Horse”: a, rush copy; b, stock copy. The photo of the stock copy, printed in very light blue, has been enhanced for both contrast and brightness. In addition to stock, rush, and DJ copies, the reissue format is widely available. Once a hit dropped off the charts, it would become a candidate for re-release, often in a back-to-back-hit arrangement that would pair two reissues (almost always by the same artist) for the price of one. These reissues were usually re-pressings of the hit-single mixes but could establish thereafter the album version as the uniformly marketed mix. Once a hit faded into memory, the dedicated promotional mix was almost never heard again. Oldies were also heavily sold through the 1970s as stock cutouts, signified by holes measuring .4 centimeters in diameter drilled through the label, which identified the discs as having been marked down as bargains and nonreturnable to the manufacturer. The original record company, whether an indie or a major, would retain ownershipPage 145 → of the masters until they were sold but would often lease them to outside parties, an arrangement particularly prevalent after vinyl pressings were scaled back in the 1990s. Third-party reissues were usually based on hit-single masters until late into the 1980s, when mono recordings all but disappeared from even the seven-inch format (except in cases where the mono master was the only one available). In at least one case, a new edit was created for a reissue: the Doors’ “Light My Fire” (1967) was a huge hit on both FM and AM radio, with the AM outlets playing the mono version (2:52), which eliminated the organ and guitar solos heard on the FM-broadcasted album version (6:50). When the track was reissued as an “oldies” single in Elektra’s “Spun Gold” series in 1971, two new stereo edits (one at 3:02 for the American reissue, the other at 3:04 for Canadian release) were pressed into service, both deleting most of the solo break and thus simulating a stereo version of the original hit. The emergence of disco in the mid-1970s brought the arrival of the twelve-inch single, which allowed for extended mixes and even multiple versions on the same disc. Figure 5.3. Demo disc of “Icarus” Page 146 →Mono-vs.-stereo mixes. Sometimes, a single’s mono mix would be balanced differently than would be the stereo album. In the Moody Blues’ “Another Morning” (the 1968 B-side of “Tuesday Afternoon”), for example, the lead vocal is much louder in relation to the band for the 45 than it is for the LP. As a similarly minor adjustment, promotional records would tend to feature mixes whose dynamic range was highly compressed and whose signal was boosted in midrange frequencies for more satisfactory AM broadcast, particularly in consideration of low-quality reproduction and listening environments such as found with handheld and car radios. For this reason, the promo mix of Simon and Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” (1968) has a louder and punchier bass drum than is heard in the stereo album mix, and the single pressing of Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” (1970) is far more compressed and fills a narrower EQ band than the version heard on the full-range album.

Somewhat more interesting are differences that distinguish mono from stereo mixes of the same edit. Some producers—most notably Phil Spector and Brian Wilson—preferred a monophonic product because they could exercise no control over the balance of two stereo channels when reproduced from disc. In addition, portions of a stereo program can be altered, sometimes to catastrophic effect, when a centered image is partly or fully canceled as a result of waveform phasing that results when a listener is much closer to one loudspeaker than to the other, particularly in large spaces. But stereo did not become an industry standard until the late 1960s; George Martin often said that the Beatles were not even present for stereo mixing sessions through most of their career. The group’s first album, Please Please Me, was recorded live on two tracks to enable balancing of vocals against most of the instruments for the mono release, resulting in an unsatisfying “stereo mix” for a limited pressing that totally separated the two working tracks. The 1987 compact-disc releases of Help! and Rubber Soul received new digital mixes to replace substandard stereo mixes originally done in 1965. When their recordings were first prepared for American release, not only were Beatle albums compiled with different songs than found on their U.K. counterparts, and not only were they given a great deal of added reverb (to satisfy Americans’ different tastes), but Dave Dexter, EMI’s Hollywood producer, created “duophonic” stereo mixes by artificially separating new channels from monophonic sources by frequency band, making for a high channel and a low channel. This abysmal presentation was characteristic of most of the Beatles’ early “stereo” albums on Capitol (see Spizer 2000, 245–54). Page 147 →Aside from earlier effects such as motorcycles crossing the soundstage, stereo experimentation began in 1966 with Tom Dowd’s work for Atlantic with the Young Rascals, notably in the “One! Two! Three! ” count-in to “Good Lovin’,” which crisscrossed the two-channel divide in rapid fire motion.6 This sort of stereo effect emerged just in time to encourage all sorts of trippy psychedelic effects (including phasing, Leslie speakers, exotic filtering, and tremolo) for headphone-inspiring artists such as Jimi Hendrix, the Moody Blues, and Led Zeppelin. Panning quickly became a hallmark of drum-set mixing; by 1969, multiple microphones were required to best capture a drummer’s work (see the Beatles’ “The End” and Blood, Sweat, and Tears’ “And When I Die”), and the resulting individual sonorities would be bussed (routed through the mixing board) to different placements in the stereo image. This approach to drums became an industry standard, so that even tracks like Boney M’s “Ma Baker” (1977) feature highly panned drums on the “Remix I” CD but not at all on the original stereo 45. Digital remixes of older products often feature newly panned elements. This takes advantage of the fact that automated mixing need not be done in real time; all elements of the mix can be programmed in any order following lots of experimentation, whereas the final mix made in analog mastering would have to be performed live, with all hands working the pots, faders, and switches as the tape spooled by, a process that often required many rehearsal takes to get a complex mix just right. Digital remastering thus features far more varied approaches to the stereo image than did earlier mixes, whether the program is as conservative as the Carpenters’ “We’ve Only Just Begun” (1970; the 1991 revision features newly sparkling high-register piano work, louder bass, a gradual fading-down of the piano, and altered clarinet and piano staging) or as radical as Megadeth’s “Remixed and Remastered” series (2002+, with wonderful critical notes by Dave Mustaine). All-new transparency is bestowed on old recordings by 5.1 surround sound, as with the 1999 Yellow Submarine Songtrack mixes made for a wide array of Beatles songs. Muting and other remixing effects. Of still potentially greater interest are variants in muting. In the final composition of a four-, eight-, or sixteen-track working tape that may have been built up with layer upon layer of overdubs by any number of performers, many scattered components may be excluded from released mixes. This is done not by erasing the passages from the working tape but by preventing their transfer to the final mix by zeroing the fader for that given track at the desired moment during the reduction of the working tape to the one- or twochannel Page 148 →master. This process produced two different guitar solos in the two different stereo mixes of the Beatles’ “Let It Be”: one for the 45 (currently part of Past Masters) and the other for the album (Let It Be). The eight-track working tape of “Let It Be” contains alternate solos from both George Harrison (colored by his Leslie cabinet) and John Lennon; only the former was mixed into the single, and only the latter appeared on the album.

The edited mono 45 mix (3:13) of the Grateful Dead’s “Truckin’” (1970) has completely different lead guitar work by Jerry Garcia from that heard in the same take’s appearance (5:09) a year later on American Beauty; this is more likely the result of the muting of different tracks in a mix than of a later recording replacing an earlier one. In the Beatles’ “I’m Only Sleeping” (1966), the mono and stereo mixes feature different portions of the working-tape track devoted to backward guitar, because different passages were muted out for each mix. The mono mix of the Rolling Stones’ “Time Is on My Side” (1964) features a bent-string guitar intro by Brian Jones that is muted out of the stereo intro. Alternative guitar solos can be heard in Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” (1973), as elements of the sixteen-track working tape are laid bare in Roger Glover’s 1998 remastering of Machine Head.7 The single version of the Moody Blues’ “Question” (1970) opens with solo diminished-seventh chords on an acoustic twelve-string, all obscured by Mellotron and other band parts that spell the chords differently on the album mix. Muting allows for a massive edit in the case of the 45, “Total Mass Retain,” the advance single (charting August 1972, with a timing of 3:16) for Yes’s Close to the Edge LP (October 1972, taken from a side-long suite at 18:50). The single mix jumps from the album’s opening “rainforest” effects to the line “I get up” through a transitional use of the phrase “Seasons will pass you by,” a phrase that lacks the vocals heard on the album. The album’s vocal parts are muted out of the transition, allowing the single something of a fresh start. Muting can cover a multitude of sins: the original mono mix of the Buckinghams’ “Kind of a Drag” (1966) was not marred by the rhythmically flabby and intonationally sharp trumpet solo that engineers neglected to mute out of the stereo mix. Early expurgated censorings would simply mute out offending words, such as the Goddamn that does not appear in the stock single of the Dead’s “Uncle John’s Band” (1970), whereas radio stations had to take it upon themselves to bleep out the hook-carrying Christ! in the Beatles’ “The Ballad of John and Yoko” (1969). The Steve Miller Band’s “Jet Airliner” (1977) was an early and quaintly mild examplePage 149 → of a band producing tacit “clean” and “explicit” versions of the same take: where the album version sang of “funky shit goin’ down in the city,” the hit single was a bit more incongruous (and laughable) in celebrating “funky kicks goin’ down in the city.” Sometimes muting produces other sorts of minor variants, as when Janis Joplin’s vocal is heard doubletracked on the 45 but sole-voiced in stereo in Big Brother and the Holding Co.’s “Down on Me” (1968). Those familiar with the stereo stock-single version of the Doors’ “Touch Me” (1969) or its mono promo as played on the radio were surprised to hear Ajax cleanser’s advertising catchphrase “Stronger Than Dirt” intoned at the end of the stereo mix for The Soft Parade, as these words had been muted from the well-known hit mixes. In some cases, wholesale remixes produced muting variations among a host of other differences. The Grateful Dead’s albums Anthem of the Sun (1968) and Aoxomoxoa (1969) were highly experimental blends of unconventional studio and live concert recordings; the simultaneous use of two full drum sets was small potatoes among the challenges faced. Only years after the records’ initial release did band members and engineers have a strong sense of a desired texture, so both albums were remixed in 1971, reducing the status of the previous stereo mixes to that of archival artifacts. Nilsson’s 1971 album, Aerial Pandemonium Ballet, reworked the mixes of selections from his first two albums, Pandemonium Shadow Show and Aerial Ballet. It became fashionable in the 1980s to mark singles as containing mixes not heard elsewhere; borrowing from the dance-mix tradition, mainstream artists such as Billy Joel (“Keeping the Faith [Special Mix],” 1985, and “All about Soul [Remix],” 1993) frequently released singles with instrumental parts not heard in the better-known album versions. And later mixes could also satisfy a scholarly curiosity, as when the vocal parts of the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” (on a 1996 three-selection EP from Sub Pop) or the Beatles’ “Because” (Anthology 3, 1996) appeared without the distractions of the muted instrumental backing, a technique predictive of such future made-for-remixing a cappella productions as Jay-Z’s Black Album (2003).

Type 5: Differing Edits of the Same Recording Whereas varying mixes of the same recording can lead to strong intratextual contrasts, greater variations are provided by differing edits, particularly those pressed on tightly constrained singles as opposed to more forgiving albums. Passages ranging in length from isolated sonorities to Page 150 →multiple formal sections could be

excised. Many cuts were made to tame an album-length song for the radio-friendly confines of three minutes or less or to mark improvisatory instrumental passages as extraneous; the scalpel might effectively reduce excess or inflict real damage.8 And the need to adapt programming to physical limitations vexed early record producers, beginning with attempts to capture symphonic works on multiple sides of 78s (the binding together of multiple discs in a unified package led to the designation “album”). These issues—the limitations of both physical and marketing formats—came together in at least one 1954 release, the Listener’s Digest of condensed classical recordings in a ten-EP set that presented edited versions of Beethoven, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky for listeners who did not need development sections.9 Edits to the coda. Portions of a composition may be excised or altered, a subject I discuss by beginning with more “exterior” passages, the coda and the intro, before moving to more essential parts of songs. Many codas involve a refrain that may be repeated nine times or more. If one mix fades earlier than the other, the shorter version usually belongs to the single, the longer one to the album. This is true of such songs as Bob Dylan’s “Like a Rolling Stone” (1965; the single is marked 6:00 but is actually about 5:55), the Association’s “Never My Love” (1967), the Who’s “I Can See for Miles” (1967), and the Small Faces’ “Itchycoo Park” (1967). But the Supremes’ “You Can’t Hurry Love” (1966) and Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman” (1968) reverse this norm, with longer single fades than heard on albums. At least one such variation was produced many years after the fact: although the Beatles’ “Hey Jude” (1968) appeared at 7:11 in both original mono single and stereo album mixes, this song’s mantralike coda was shaved down by more than two minutes to fit the Beatles’ biggest hit, now 5:05, onto the 1982 compilation, 20 Greatest Hits. For Santana’s “Evil Ways” (1970), Columbia’s engineers fade out halfway through the album’s song-ending guitar solo, paring 3:17 down to the single’s 2:35. Some coda cuts were done for promo versions; the Moog conclusion to Emerson, Lake, and Palmer’s “Lucky Man” (1971) is cut completely from the DJ copy (marked “short version”; see figure 5.4), appearing as 4:36 on the mono stock single and 3:33 on the promo. The single version of ELP’s “Nutrocker” (1972) could have been reduced any number of ways from the album’s edit, which threads together three blues choruses, a half-minute drum solo, and other repeated passages but it is intact except for the removal of forty seconds of crowd roaring from the ending. Oddly, the single mix (3:58) of Steely Dan’s “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” (1974) fades the outro just a few Page 151 →seconds prior to the LP’s cold ending (at 4:07). Was this to give the radio announcer a heads-up and the bed for a voice-over? These very commonly differing versions are produced not with hard edits (butt splices) but with differently timed manipulations of pan pots or sliding faders on the mixing board. But some singles did require edits for different endings. For example, the Rolling Stones’ “Dandelion” (1967) fades out, only to be followed by a snippet of the single’s B-side, “We Love You,” that briefly fades in and out. When the record is flipped, the conclusion of “We Love You” is answered by a fading in and out of a moment of “Dandelion.” (These mixes are responses to the fading out-in-out a few months earlier at the end of the Beatles’ “Strawberry Fields Forever.”) The Rascals’ “It’s Wonderful” (1967) single omits a forty-second free-for-all of sound effects, party horns, and kazoos that appears on the album, Once upon a Dream.10 Whereas Fleetwood Mac single versions of “Over My Head” (1975), “Rhiannon (Will You Ever Win)” (1976), and “Say You Love Me” (1976) all fade more quickly than do the album mixes, “Rhiannon” excises only the beginning of the outro to preserve Stevie Nicks’s vocal improv at the end. Similarly creative splicing reduces the ending of Boston’s “Peace of Mind” (1977), taking 4:55 down to 3:38, but the single of Kansas’s “Carry on Wayward Son” (1976) is hurt by the removal of the coda’s guitar solo (as well as parts of the intro, the interlude between the first chorus and second verse, half of the distorted guitar/organ-solo break, and half of the main riff), as the track is cut from 5:13 to 3:26. No lyrics were harmed during the making of this single, however. The crossfade. More difficult for an engineer to adjust is the pair of tracks joined by an album’s crossfade when one of the pair is chosen for a single. Thus, the acoustic-guitar intro to the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” was trimmed for a 1978 single release because the recording was taken from the stereo master for Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (on which source the song enters via crossfade from the reprise of the title

track), rather than having been remixed from the four-track working tape, which procedure was performed for the 2006 Love remix. Similarly, the crossfaded tracks in the Moody Blues’ Days of Future Passed (1968) led to issues when “Nights in White Satin,” “Tuesday Afternoon (Forever Afternoon),” and “Another Morning” were selected as singles. Each new mix abruptly avoids orchestral transitions that were mastered with crossfades for the album. “Tuesday” fares particularly badly, fading out prematurely on the chorus’s half cadence. Oddly, the single mix of the Who’s “Overture to Tommy” (1969) fades out about ten seconds Page 153 →into the album’s acoustic-guitar preparation for “Captain Walker,” instead of ending cold, which could have been easily achieved by remastering from the original working tape. The single version of Yes’s “Long Distance Runaround” (1972) is edited with a new cold ending, whereas the album, Fragile, has this song crossfade into “The Fish (Schindleria Praematurus).” In each of these cases (all of which date from long before the dawn of digital mixing), it was likely thought that the hard-won stereo album mix could not be satisfactorily simulated with a new attempt, so there was no desire to return to the working tapes simply to avoid crossfades that could be trimmed away, even if this approach left the single edit with an awkward beginning or ending. Page 152 → Figure 5.4. Single releases of “Lucky Man”: a, mono side of promo (white); b, stereo side of promo (light blue); c, longer stock copy (note the relatively early matrix number as compared to promos). Cuts to the intro and interior passages. The beginning of an album’s mix often had to be trimmed for the single; much more rare were occasions when the single outlasted the album edit. Table 5.2 indicates the wide variety of approaches taken in such cases. Excisions of interior material Page 154 →could occur in the case of removals of words and phrases or of whole sections—verses, choruses, bridges, or instrumental solos—as in “The Entertainer.” A most bizarre instance of the removal of two words exists in a 1970s Brazilian reissue of the Beatles’ “Penny Lane.” Only this pressing excises the phrase “in summer” by splicing directly from “four of fish and finger pies” to “meanwhile back .В .В .В .” The blip might have resulted from a tape defect or been caused by local EMI executives’ decision to remove “finger pies” (a vulgarism) but a tape operator mistakenly removing “in summer” instead (see figure 5.5).11 Other anomalous Beatle edits include “She’s Leaving Home” (1967), all releases of which omit a single bar of solo cello originally performed just before each returning verse, a recurring edit revealed by the bootleg release of the recording’s working tracks in Magical Mystery Year Vol. 2.12 Two different mono edits of “I’ll Cry Instead” (1964) were released (1:43 on the American mono release of Something New and 2:04 on the British mono version of A Hard Day’s Night), each cobbled together from beginnings and endings of different takes. The two versions’ splices occur at different structural points in the song, with the fourth verse (a repeat of the first) variously present or absent. Later examples of excised song sections include Chic’s “Le Freak” (1978, a 5:28 version including choruses not heard in the 3:30 Page 155 →edit), David Bowie’s “China Girl” (1983, the 5:32 album version containing a last verse/chorus combination and a second guitar solo cut from the 4:14 hit), and the Rolling Stones’ “Saint of Me” (1998, the 4:08 single edit bypassing a second bridge included in the 5:14 album cut as well as fading a full minute earlier). When different edits of simultaneously released versions omit one section or another, the first verse seems to be sacrosanct, later parts expendable. Table 5.2. Various Approaches to Trimming a Recording’s Introduction Bobby Lewis, “Tossin’ and Turnin’” (1961): stereo edit has a slow, unmeasured intro, “Baby, baby, you did something to me,” excised from the mono single mix Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, “The Lonely Bull (El Solo Torro)” (1962): album’s opening bullring effects are trimmed away for the single The Rolling Stones, “She’s a Rainbow” (1967): album mix opens with 1:08 of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” played on two oscillators, followed by a spoken szena, all cut from the single The Amboy Dukes, “Journey to the Center of Your Mind” (1968): introductory rhythm guitar figuration is cut from thirteen seconds to four, then the lead guitar’s repeated gesture is cut to a single iteration, for an economical edit

Big Brother and the Holding Company, “Piece of My Heart” (1968): single splices out bars 4–5 of the intro, rewriting the introductory gesture The Guess Who, “American Woman” (1970): single omits the album’s opening acoustic-guitar boogie on “American Woman, gonna mess your mind”; album version sounds like an artificial joining of an early acoustic demo to the final master Emerson, Lake, and Palmer, “From the Beginning” (1972): single cuts the album’s opening acoustic guitar’s tastar de corde even though it retains the later expansive electric-guitar and Moog solos B. T. Express, “Express” (1975): single cuts an entire early section from the album version, reducing 5:00 to 3:25 Dire Straits, “Money for Nothing” (1985): single cuts 1:01 from the intro by fading into the last of the album edit’s four hearings of “I want my MTV” Excised instrumental passages. When different edits are marketed to different audiences, instrumental-only passages are by far the interior sections that drop most often to the cutting room floor. Perhaps out of fear of boredom, perhaps simply as a time-conscious expedient, or perhaps in recognition of the fantasia quality that parenthesizes the sometimes lofty achievements of an improvisatory soloist, this apparently “optional” passage is frequently the major difference between commercial-radio and consumer-album edits. Just as some fans prefer the risky spontaneity of a live performance over the safe and clinical sheen of a studio production, fans and critics alike typically deride the excision of any instrumental improvisation, whether exquisite or vapid, particularly because for many in the album-buying market, the song itself (lyrics, verses, choruses) is often little more than a vehicle for a transfigurative solo. Table 5.3 provides a representative sampling of recordings in which instrumental sections may or may not appear in intratextual edits. Recordings featuring multiple edits. A substantial proportion of records was released with versions containing or omitting combinations of these approaches (see table 5.4). However, Jimi Hendrix was not among the artists who released such variant versions. Hendrix’s singles (including “Purple Haze,” “Foxey Lady,” “Up from the Skies,” “All along the Watchtower,” “Crosstown Traffic,” “Freedom,” and “Dolly Dagger”) were produced with the hit market in mind and added unchanged to albums that also included more expansive tracks. Led Zeppelin singles (“Living Loving Maid,” “Black Dog,” and “Rock and Roll” among them) were also typically identical to album edits. Conversely, David Bowie (“Young Americans,” “TVC-15,” “Let’s Dance,” and “Modern Love”) often released singles that lacked multiple sections that appeared on albums. Some of the listed edits are straightforward: “House of the Rising Sun” cuts one verse and the beginning and ending of the organ solo (exhibiting rather poor splicing); in addition, as if desperate to clock in under three minutes, the organ fades out just seconds before the now more familiar cold ending on the ninth chord. “Just Like a Woman” excises the verse referring to “her fog, her amphetamine, and her pearls,” Page 158 →but “Truckin’” keeps a verse that includes the line, “living on reds, vitamin C, and cocaine,” cutting instead two other verses, two choruses, and a bridge. In “White Room,” Eric Clapton’s mercuric solo is cut by half a minute, adding insult to the loss of the third verse (“At the partyВ .В .В .”), the following chorus (“I’ll sleep in this placeВ .В .В .”), and the ensuing 5/4 tattoo of violas, guitars and timpani.13 In “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” the single omits the opening boys’ choir, among other sections. Jim Gordon’s name as cosongwriter is retained on the original “Layla” Page 159 →single even though his contribution, the instrumental coda, does not appear on that disc; it was reinstated for the 1972 single re-release. The 1971 single, featuring only Clapton’s portion of the composition, stalled at No. 51 on the Billboard charts, whereas the full, epiphanic Clapton-Gordon edit rose to No. 10 fourteen months later. Dramatic vignettes based on wrongful street arrests are cut from both “Living for the City” and “The Message,” lending these singles the quality of pale reminiscences of the significant corresponding album versions. Page 156 → Page 157 → Figure 5.5. Single releases of “Penny Lane”: a, Brazilian reissue (late 1970s?); b, original Peruvian stock copy; c, U.S. promo disc (note 3:00 timing); d, U.S. stock copy (truncated timing reflects lack of trumpet tag).

Table 5.3. Selected Recordings Released in Forms Both with and without Instrumental Passages Donovan, “Sunshine Superman” (1966): an early blues-rock guitar solo by Jimmy Page is reduced from twenty-nine seconds to eleven in original album and single releases (3:15) but restored for a 1968 reissue (4:31) that also retains a once-lost repeated verse The Doors, “Light My Fire” (1967) The Buckinghams, “Susan” (1967): DJ copy removes appropriated snippets of VarГЁse heard on stock single and album Tommy James and the Shondells, “Crimson and Clover” (1968): single includes bass passage not heard on LP but omits the pedal steel solo and what one friend would refer to as the “goat gland” guitar solo, so named for its heavy wah] Led Zeppelin, “Whole Lotta Love” (1969): promo issued with “Short Version” (3:12) and “Long Version” (5:33), the pick-scraping guitar solo being the main difference Chicago, “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is” (1970): single omits album’s piano solo Santana, “Oye Como Va” (1971): single (2:59) cuts three of the album’s (4:17) contiguous interior instrumental sections, including a wild Hammond solo, but keeps Carlos Santana’s work intact Deodato, “Also Sprach Zarathustra” (1973): single (5:06) cuts all of Clarke’s bass solo and most of Deodato’s Wurlitzer and Tropea’s guitar solos heard on the album (9:01) The Grateful Dead, “Sugar Magnolia” (1973): single is an edited version of the May 1972 Olympia Theatre performance, greatly shortening Jerry Garcia’s lead solo preserved on Europe ’72 Pink Floyd, “Money” (1973): cuts first and third guitar solos as well as the album’s spoken conversational loops The Trammps, “That’s Where the Happy People Go” (1976): stock single features both short (3:14) and long (4:56) versions, omitting the first three electric piano breaks and the first violin-section break on the Aside Steely Dan, “Deacon Blues” (1978): both stock and promo discs (6:40) cut the first ten bars of the tenor sax solo and the first sixteen bars of the instrumental coda as heard on the LP (7:33) Donna Summer, “Last Dance” (1978): single cuts two different instrumental breaks The Knack, “My Sharona” (1979): Collectables reissue 45 pairs original single edit (3:58) with the album mix (4:52); short version keeps entire twenty-three-second minor-pentatonic guitar solo but cuts fifty-three seconds from the later 1:34 major-mode guitar solo Herbie Hancock, “Rockit” (1983): Instant Classics reissue 45 pairs 3:54 single mix with 5:22 album version, the latter containing two successive instrumental choruses of the main tune not heard on the single More problematic are records that feature structural recompositions Page 160 →of long suite-like songs. On Days of Future Passed, “Tuesday Afternoon” is essentially two songs (the second of which might be called “Evening Time to Get Away”) bridged by an orchestral transition. The single fades out before the first section is completed. The single edit of “Make Me Smile” bypasses five of the album’s seven continuous suite parts, one of which, “Colour My World,” is extracted for the hit’s B-side. “See Me Feel Me” (a song title given on the 45 but not on the Tommy LP or CD) is further described on the seveninch label as “Excerpt from the Tommy Finale We’re Not Gonna Take It.” The single skips all of the “Welcome to the Camp” and “Hey you getting drunk” verses, the following chorus, the “Now you can’t hear me” verse, and another chorus, completely transforming the finale’s identity by eliminating much of the tension between Tommy and his followers. Donna Summer’s cover of “MacArthur Park” has a majestic, slow-build-to-big-finish character in its radio version but loses all but a few chords of its intro, two lines of the first verse (“between the parted pages and were pressed” vanishes!), most of a fantasia and the second subject to which it had led, and a chorus. In all of these cases, the differing edits can be considered not only as conforming to different market expectations but as radical rewrites. Table 5.4. Selected Recordings with Multiple Edits

The Animals, “House of the Rising Sun” (1964): original mono single and reprocessed “stereo” LP both 2:58; reissue MGM Gold single 4:29, not 4:18 as marked on Best Of LP Bob Dylan, “Just Like a Woman” (1966): 2:56 on stock single, 4:39 on first compact-disc release of Blonde on Blonde, 4:54 on Greatest Hits CD Cream, “Sunshine of Your Love” (1968): 3:03 on single, 4:08 on LP The Moody Blues, “Tuesday Afternoon (Forever Afternoon)” (1968): 2:16 on single, 8:25 on LP The Chambers Brothers, “Time Has Come Today” (1968): 4:45 on single, 11:06 on LP Iron Butterfly, “In-a-Gadda-Da-Vida” (1968): 2:52 on single, 17:05 on LP Cream, “White Room” (1968): 3:04 on single, 4:56 on LP The Rolling Stones, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” (1969): 5:00 on single, 7:28 on LP Crosby, Stills, and Nash, “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” (1969): 4:35 on single, 7:22 on LP Chicago, “Make Me Smile” (1970): 2:58 on single, 3:32 on LP The Who, “See Me Feel Me” (1970): 3:22 on single, 7:09 on LP Derek and the Dominoes, “Layla” (1971): 2:43 on 1971 single, 2:52 on “Radio Version” Crossroads EP, 7:10 on original LP and 1972 re-released single, At His Best LP marked 7:01 but same mix as on previous album The Who, “Won’t Get Fooled Again” (1971): 3:37 on single, 8:31 on LP The Grateful Dead, “Truckin’” (1971): 3:13 on single, 5:09 on LP Yes, “Roundabout” (1972): 3:27 on single, 8:29 on LP The Allman Brothers, “One Way Out” (1972): 3:40 on single, 4:58 on LP Deep Purple, “Smoke on the Water” (1973): “edited version” and B-side of single are actually different recordings of same song Aerosmith, “Dream On” (1973): 3:25 on original single, 4:28 on 1976 re-released single Stevie Wonder, “Living for the City” (1973): 3:12 on single, 7:20 on LP David Bowie, “Rebel Rebel” (1974): 2:58 on single, LP marked 4:21 but actually 4:28 Gloria Gaynor, “Never Can Say Goodbye” (1974): 2:55 on single, 6:28 on LP, 5:00 on 12ʺ David Bowie, “Young Americans” (1975): 3:11 on single, 5:10 on LP 10 cc, “I’m Not in Love” (1975): 3:46 on single, 6:01 on LP Boston, “More Than a Feeling” (1976): 3:25 on single, 4:44 on LP Eric Clapton, “Wonderful Tonight” (1978): 3:13 on single, 3:41 on LP Bob Dylan, “Baby Stop Crying” (1978): 4:17 and 5:17 edits on promo Donna Summer, “MacArthur Park” (1978): 3:59 stock single, 6:25 promo [!] Fleetwood Mac, “Sara” (1979): 4:37 on single, 6:26 on LP Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, “The Message” (1982): 4:30 on single, 7:02 and 6:35 edits on 12ʺ, 4:33 and 3:15 on French pressing, 7:12 on CD “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” comprising a multisection form at 7:22 on the album, retains its basic structure in a 4:35 single that remains wide-ranging and is surprisingly acceptable despite its five isolated excisions: second verse (“Remember what we’ve said . . .”) and its refrain, all of the third verse (“Something inside . . .”), the second B section (“I’ve got an answer . . .”), the second half of the modal guitar solo, and the “Lacy lilting lady” section, splicing directly from “How can you catch the sparrow? ” into the guitar duet that ushers in the Spanish coda. The 45 is a listenable recording (because entire sections rather than parts of phrases are cut) but loses much of the brilliance of Stephen Stills’s emotional exposure. Less successful is the single version of “Sunshine of Your Love,” a violent butchering that saves only just over a minute in duration. The engineers here are intent on chopping each guitar/bass lick in half through the intro and following each of the three verses, grounding the proportions that just soar on the album cut. Most of the guitar solo is discarded, as is the riff introducing the third verse (“I’m with you, my love . . .”). It

also fades a few seconds early, but few would notice this loss. The single version of Yes’s “Roundabout” skips Howe’s unmeasured forty-second harmonic-laden nylon-string tastar de corde opening and one of the two hearings of the funky intro and then cuts from the end of the second subject (“In and around the lakeВ .В .В .”) to the end Page 161 →of the Hammond solo (fully bypassing the third verse [“I will remember youВ .В .В .”], the repeated second subject, the Moog fantasia, the bass theme [“along the drifting cloudsВ .В .В .”], a repeated organ passage and “go closer hold the land,” the reprise of the first verse with its fermata, the return of the nylon-string intro with Moog, the Mellotron-backed second subject, and most of the Hammond solo with Howe guitars), and then the remainder is presented uncut. The song’s monumental interior, including unique presentations of strong passages, is eviscerated, yet the edit works surprisingly well as a single as a consequence of the original track’s astounding variety of tunes, rhythms, and colors. There are four projects in which editors have created a large number of versions from a single source. First, although Jethro Tull’s A Passion Play (1973) was as an indivisible, free-form, full-length magnum opus (as was its predecessor, Thick as a Brick), Tull’s management and record executives sought to have segments become known as parts of the larger whole. After all, the album, with uninterrupted sides running 23:07 and 22:04, was not radio-friendly; even the side-flip broke continuity. So the album was promoted with two singles. The lead single featured “A Passion Play (Edit #8)” (3:04) backed with “A Passion Play (Edit #9)” (3:29). “[Edit #10]” was released as a follow-up four months later; neither single sold well (“#8” peaked at No. 80, “#10” only bubbled under the Hot 100), but Chrysalis Records mounted a strong effort in another unusual way to have bits of the work recognized as excerpts. As the singles’ numbering indicated, these edits were not the only ones to appear: Chrysalis manufactured a unique twelve-inch promo LP featuring ten different excerpts from the album, ranging in length from 2:15 to 4:58 (see figure 5.6). Some of the edits are allinstrumental, some include vocals. Some are oddly conceived: “Edit #3” opens abruptly and “#2” fades out just before an obvious cadence. Strangely, the album’s lead single (the “Colours like noneВ .В .В .” section from the LP’s second side) appears on M.U.—The Best of Jethro Tull with a timing of 3:29, meaning that there are two extant edits of “Edit #8”; the second version includes a synth solo abridged on the single.14 Radio programmers and singles buyers paid little attention to this material, but the album sold remarkably well—in the United States, Thick as a Brick and A Passion Play were Tull’s only two albums to top Billboard’s Top LP chart. Second, Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells (1974), initially well known as the source of the instrumental film theme from The Exorcist, appeared in numerous guises. A heavy layering of overdubs that put multitrack tape through tougher paces than would even Walter Carlos or Tomita, Bells was Page 163 →sold through a stock single of 3:18 (the static, minimalist “Georgetown” theme based on a fifteen-beat pattern in A Aeolian), the edit also appearing on the soundtrack LP, and through Oldfield’s unified-composition Tubular Bells album (whose side 1 finale announces the entry of each layer: “grand pianoВ .В .В . reed and pipe organВ .В .В . glockenspielВ .В .В . bass guitarВ .В .В . double-speed guitarВ .В .В . two slightly distorted guitarsВ .В .В . mandolinВ .В .В . Spanish guitar and introducing acoustic guitarВ .В .В . plus, tubular bells,” a passage taken for the single’s 4:39 B-side). The original promo comprises two other excerpts: “Long Version” (7:30) and “Short Version” (4:39), both taken from the side 1 finale section. Although Oldfield has produced other memorable music, Tubular Bells has grown from a multiple-edit franchise recording into a highly derivative cottage industry: we have highly similar approaches in Oldfield’s The Orchestral Tubular Bells (1975, recapping the original tunes and adding new material), Tubular Bells 2 (1992), Tubular Bells III (1998), and a live DVD (2006). Page 162 → Figure 5.6. Selected vinyl releases of A Passion Play: a, side 1 of LP; b, A-side of stock copy of lead single; c, side 2 of DJ album. Meat Loaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” (1978) was essentiallyPage 164 → an oratorio based on the story of seventeen-year-olds making out in a parked car, arranged in three sections—“Paradise,” “Let Me Sleep on It” and “Praying for the End of Time”—that formed a dramatic highlight on the Todd Rundgren–produced album, Bat Out of Hell. The LP version ran 8:28, judged to be a bit too long for a

single, so a 7:55 version was created that fades out early in the boy-girl “End of Time” duet. But radio stations also received a twelve-inch promo disc providing three edits of the song: the 7:55 hit and two different versions running 6:58 each. The first of the shorter versions removes the initial “Let Me Sleep on It” duet, fading out a few lines before the 7:55 edit does; and the other cuts Phil Rizzuto’s risquГ© play-by-play as well as most of the composition’s climax. Really, there is no useful purpose to any of these edits—just play the 8:28 version! Finally, Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” (1979), an alternation of unrelated raps ranging from braggadocio to snide anecdotes from Wonder Mike, Big Hank, and Master вЂG’, each of whom takes several turns. A 15:00 version appearing on a twelve-inch single might be considered the master, as each artist appears three times in turn; from that we have a stock single at 4:55, a French 45 coupling a “Short Version” (3:59) with a “Long Version” (6:33), and a second “Short Version” (6:30) backing the 15:00 “master.” The edits present different combinations of sections and parts of sections, occasionally reordered. This track is very appropriately drawn and quartered in different ways, as its material comes across as a random sequence of unrelated events. This survey of the various methods behind the mixes and edits of pop and rock recordings just scratches the surface of a topic that promises to yield productive results when the work of particular artists, producers, engineers, songwriters, record companies, studios, distribution media, styles, and decades is considered from these perspectives. In addition, the wide range of types of intratextuality and intertextuality types could be pursued along these lines to provide a fuller understanding of the ways in which individual instances and bodies of pop and rock music might be appreciated as multiply interrelated members and subgroups of a larger community, all tying economic and other cultural expectations and needs to specific musical characteristics. The separate miracles of the entertainer writing a song, the bureaucratic exec dictating just the right limits of a marketing tool, a record spinning on the radio, and a major hit transfixing the nation all come together in the star-making machinery of a beautiful and well-produced record. Page 165 →

Notes 1. The impetus for Joel’s snide observation on edits for the hit-singles market was likely Columbia’s early 1974 marketing of “Piano Man,” which had been cut from its album length of 5:37 to 4:30 for the single release, creating a recording that dominated AM-radio and 45-rpm markets but that has not likely ever been released by Columbia on a compact disc other than Sony BMG Europe 5099751901822. I am unaware of any CD release of the “Entertainer” single edit. “The Entertainer” was Joel’s fourth Columbia single, first charting on the Billboard Hot 100 on 30 November 1974 and peaking at No. 34. 2. Lacasse (2007, 160–63) touches on edits and remixes in an exploration of hyper-, para-, meta-, and architextuality but not intratextuality. His typography is comparable to that presented in table 5.1. Edits and mixes are also of interest in chapters 2 and 3 of Gracyk 1996. For more general treatments of multitrack recording and postproduction work, see Clarke 1983; Middleton 1990, 84–93; Julien 1999; Théberge 2001; Zak 2001; Moorefield 2005; Moylan 2007. 3. Of all these sorts of pop intertextuality, cover versions seem to be of greatest interest to pop-rock scholars, as evidenced by studies such as Headlam 1995; Butler 2003; Zak 2004; by the Popular Music Interest Group’s online bibliography (http://www.unc.edu/music/pop-analysis/bib.html); and by Popular Music and Society 28 (3) (May 2005). 4. On rare occasions, singles were marked as dedicated for jukebox play. These designations may have been most common in the 1990s, after a steep decline in the sales of stock vinyl. 5. The matrix number should not be confused with the label’s obligatory catalog number (the same on both sides of a single), which was typically uniform for all stock/promo formats and used to identify product in retail ordering. 6. The count-in, either shouted by a band member or clicked by the drummer, precedes most pop recordings

but is almost always trimmed away in the editing process. 7. The 30th Anniversary Edition of the Zombies’ Odessey & Oracle (1998) contains an “alternate mix” of “Time of the Season” that reveals an instrumental backing for the refrain that had been muted out of all originally heard releases for a stunning stop-time effect, providing a staggering improvement to the already complex beauty of the song. 8. Zak (2008) addresses epic album-length pop recordings of the 1970s, some of which found their way to abridged singles. 9. Those desirous of locating edited versions should be aware that notated timings are often unreliable. As an example, Chicago’s “Questions 67 & 68” (1969) claims 3:07 on one Japanese-issued label (Sony CBSA 82013) and 3:25 on the accompanying sleeve, even though the actual duration is 4:36 (the long-sustaining final chord cuts off twenty-two seconds earlier than occurs on the LP, which—following Columbia’s then-usual practice—does not list a timing at all). 10. The “It’s Wonderful” single also opens with a galloping of horses’ hooves not heard in any other source. 11. I have not been able to examine an original 1967 Brazilian release of Page 166 →“Penny Lane,” but the 1967 Peruvian stock copy shown in fig. 5.5 features an intact mono mix, likely the same one issued worldwide. 12. This lackluster cello part may be what led George Martin (1979, 208) to cast aspersions on Mike Leander’s string score for “She’s Leaving Home.” For the variations between the mono and stereo edits of “I Am the Walrus” (1967), see Everett 1999, 104 n. 177. 13. I have coined tattoo for a standalone instrumental motto that occurs at least twice in a song; other examples include the opening of the American Breed’s “Bend Me, Shape Me.” For a fuller explanation and other examples, see Everett 2008, 151. 14. Tull’s early “Chateau d’Isaster” compositional drafts contained on the Nightcap collection suggest that a number of the promo edits for A Passion Play may have been conceived from the start as self-contained presentations. “Edit #1” (2:15) corresponds roughly with the “Tiger Toon” demo (1:35, fading early). “Edit #5” (4:38), however, is related to the first part (“Lover of the black and whiteВ .В .В .”) of the demo, “Critique Oblique” (9:03), which continues with material later excised as the second half of “Edit #3” (4:18). I am indebted to an anonymous reviewer for bringing these demos to my attention.

References Allen, Graham. 2000. Intertextuality. London: Routledge. Butler, Mark. 2003. “Taking It Seriously: Intertextuality and Authenticity in Two Covers by the Pet Shop Boys.” Popular Music 22 (1): 1–19. Clark, Paul. 1983. “вЂA Magic Science’: Rock Music as a Recording Art.” Popular Music 3: 195–213. Everett, Walter. 1999. The Beatles as Musicians: Revolver through the Anthology. New York: Oxford University Press. Everett, Walter. 2008. The Foundations of Rock. New York: Oxford University Press. Gracyk, Theodore. Rhythm and Noise. Durham: Duke University Press. Headlam, Dave. 1995. “Does the Song Remain the Same? Questions of Authorship and Identification in the Music of Led Zeppelin.” In Concert Music, Rock, and Jazz since 1945, edited by Elizabeth West Marvin and Richard Hermann, 313–63. Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press. Julien, Oliver. 1999. “The Diverting of Musical Technology by Rock Musicians: The Example of DoubleTracking.” Popular Music 18 (3): 357–65.

Lacasse, Serge. 2007. “Intertextuality and Hypertextuality in Recorded Popular Music.” In Critical Essays in Popular Musicology, edited by Allan F. Moore, 147–70. Aldershot: Ashgate. Martin, George. 1979. All You Need Is Ears. New York: St. Martin’s. Middleton, Richard. 1990. Studying Popular Music. Philadelphia: Open University Press. Moorefield, Virgil. 2005. The Producer as Composer: Shaping the Sounds of Popular Music. Cambridge: MIT Press. Moylan, William. 2007. Understanding and Crafting the Mix: The Art of Recording. 2nd ed. Amsterdam: Focal. Spizer, Bruce. 2000. The Beatles’ Story on Capitol Records. Vol. 2. New Orleans: 498 Productions. Page 167 →ThГ©berge, Paul. 2001. “вЂPlugged In’: Technology and Popular Music.” In The Cambridge Companion to Pop and Rock, edited by Simon Frith, Will Straw, and John Street, 3–25. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zak, Albin J. 2001. The Poetics of Rock: Cutting Tracks, Making Records. Berkeley: University of California Press. Zak, Albin J. 2004. “Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix: Juxtaposition and Transformation, вЂAll along the Watchtower.’” Journal of the American Musicological Association 57 (3): 599–644. Zak, Albin J. 2004. “Rock and Roll Rhapsody: Pop Epics of the 1970s.” In Expression in Pop Rock Music: Critical and Analytical Essays, 2nd ed., edited by W. Everett, 345–60. New York: Routledge.

Discography (U.S. releases unless noted otherwise) The Beatles. “I’ll Cry Instead.” A Hard Day’s Night (mono). Parlophone PMC 1230 (U.K., 1964). A Hard Day’s Night (stereo). Parlophone PCS 3058 (U.K., 1964). Something New (mono). Capitol T-2108 (1964). The Beatles. “Let It Be.” Apple R 5833 (U.K., 1970). Let It Be. Apple PXS 1 (U.K., 1970). The Beatles. “Penny Lane” (matrix 7XCE 18416). Parlophone R 5570 (U.K., 1967). Promotion Record (matrix 45-X45871). Capitol P 5810 (1967). Stock 45 (matrix 7 XLE 18416). Odeon 9827 (Peru, 1967). Reissue 45 (matrix 7XCE 18416). EMI 04475 (Brazil, 1970s). The Beatles. “She’s Leaving Home.” Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (mono). Parlophone PMC 7027 (U.K., 1967). Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (mono). Capitol SMAS 2653 (1967). Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (stereo). Parlophone PCS 7027 (U.K., 1967). Magical Mystery Year Vol. 2 (exploded four-track). Phony Chick PC 131-2 (2007).

Cream. “Sunshine of Your Love.” Atco 45-6544 (1968). Disraeli Gears. Atco 33-232 (1967). Crosby, Stills, and Nash. “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.” Atlantic 45-2676 (1969). Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Atlantic SD 8229 (1969). Derek and the Dominoes. “Layla.” Layla and Other Assorted Love Songs. Atco SD 2-704 (1970). Promotional 45 (matrix ST-71-C-21302 SP). Atco 45-6809 (1971). Stock 45 (matrix 2001-11214). Polydor 2001 172 (Canada, 1971). Stock 45 (matrix 72C-20289-PL). Atco 45-6809 (1972). Crossroads EP: Radio version. Polydor 887 754-7 (Holland, 1978). The Doors. “Light My Fire.” Elektra EK-45615 (1967). The Doors. Elektra EKS-74007 (1967). Spun Gold reissue (matrix ESR 71377T?). Elektra E-45051 (1971). Spun Gold reissue (matrix ESR). Elektra EKS-45051 (1970s). Reissue (matrix 1A-4-X). Elektra E 45051-1 (Canada, 1970s). Page 168 →The Grateful Dead. Anthem for the Sun (matrix S39369/39370). Warner Bros.–Seven Arts WS 1749 (1968). Remix (matrix WS-1-1749-Re1-SR1/WS-2-1749-SR1). Warner Bros.–Seven Arts WS 1749 (1971). Jethro Tull. A Passion Play. Chrysalis CHR 1040 (1973). Edited Version for DJ Use Only. Chrysalis CHR 1040 (1973). “A Passion Play (Edit #8)”/“A Passion Play (Edit #9).” Chrysalis 2012 (1973). “A Passion Play (Edit #10).” Chrysalis 2017 (1973). M.U.—The Best of Jethro Tull. Chrysalis 1078 (1976). Nightcap: The Unreleased Masters, 1973–1991. Capitol CD B000007177 (2000). Joel, Billy. “The Entertainer.” Columbia 3-10064 (1974). Streetlife Serenade. Columbia PC 33146 (1974). Meat Loaf. “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” Cleveland International/Epic 8-50588 (1978). 12Кє Demonstration disc. Cleveland International / Epic AS 477 (1978). Bat out of Hell. Cleveland International / Epic PE 34974 (1977). The Moody Blues. “Tuesday Afternoon (Forever Afternoon).” Deram 45-DEM-85028 (1968). Days of Future Passed. Deram DES 18012 (1968).

Oldfield, Mike. “Tubular Bells.” Demo (Long Version [7:30] matrix ST-PR-199A SP/Short Version [4:39] matrix ST-PR-199B-SP). Virgin E.P.-PR-199 (1974). Stock 45 (“Exorcist” Theme [3:18] matrix ST-VR-28231-PL/[4:39] matrix ST-VR-28232-PL). Virgin VR55100 (1974). Tubular Bells. Virgin VR 13-105 (1973). Music Excerpts from The Exorcist (soundtrack LP). Warner Bros. WS 2774. (1974). The Orchestral Tubular Bells. Virgin CD 0777 7 86049 2 1 (1975). Tubular Bells 2. Reprise CD 9 45041-2 (1992). Tubular Bells III. Warner Music CD 398423492 (U.K., 1998). The Rascals. “It’s Wonderful.” [Music 2:30/Effects 0:50]. Atlantic 45-2463 (1967). Once upon a Dream [Sound effect 0:10/Music 2:40]. Atlantic SD 8169 (1968). Time Peace: The Rascals’ Greatest Hits [2:40]. Atlantic SD 8190 (1968). Time Peace: The Rascals’ Greatest Hits [2:18]. Atlantic CD A2 8190 (1968). The Rolling Stones. “Dandelion.” London 45-905 (1967). Through the Past, Darkly (Big Hits Vol. 2). London NPS-3 (1969). Sugarhill Gang. “Rapper’s Delight” (matrix VID 7-526 BW) [4:55]. Sugar Hill SH-755 (1980). 12Кє (Long Version [15:00] matrix VID-152RE/Short Version [6:30] matrix VID-153RE). Sugar Hill SH-542 (1979). European mix (Short Version [3:59]/Long Version [6:33]). Vogue 101260 (France, 1979). The Who. “See Me, Feel Me (Excerpt from the Tommy Finale).” Decca 32729 (1970). Tommy. Decca 7205 (1969). Yes. Close to the Edge. Atlantic SD (1972). Yes. “Roundabout.” Atlantic 45-2854 (1972). Fragile. Atlantic SD 7211 (1972). Yes. “Total Mass Retain (From вЂClose to the Edge’).” Atlantic 45-2899 (1972).

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Six. Someone and Someone Dialogic Intertextuality and Neil Young William Echard UNPREDICTABILITY AND SURPRISE, stylistic diversity, and genre play are all concepts that frequently arise in the discourse surrounding Neil Young.1 Since the late 1960s, Young has been one of the central figures in rock music. His work has been both commercially successful and widely influential on other musicians. His longevity and noteworthiness stem from a number of factors, among which two of the most important are that he has frequently managed to surprise listeners and that his work is especially rich in stylistic cross-references. Such devices are common in all art forms, and perhaps especially in popular cultures of the twentieth century. However, certain traditions and taste communities, including rock music of the 1960s and 1970s, construct ideologies of authenticity and authorial presence antithetical to intertextuality and dialogism. There is a sense in which rock music of that era derives energy from the tension existing between its myths of individualism and of artistic innovation, on the one hand, and the inevitable forces of collective identity and textual recycling that exist in all communicative practices, on the other. Young has explored these tensions in depth, and this chapter, in turn, explores how Young and the texts associated with him have been positioned within the stylistic universe of rock music then uses that commentary to expand and question certain aspects of the theories of intertextuality, dialogism, and persona. The lived subjectivity of social actors and the virtual subjectivity of texts exist along a continuum of which intertextualPage 170 → relationships are a crucial structural element. Young provides an exemplary case study because his authorial persona and stylistic identity make full use of such intertextuality.

Text, Intertext, Context: Is There a Problem? Julia Kristeva’s (1986) original concept of intertextuality fuses socially engaged critique with a kind of traditional formalism. Kristeva’s perspective neither dissolves the text into pure act nor grants too much power to its formal moment. For some commentators, this balance between a textual and a practice-theoretic emphasis amounts not to a genuine dialectical process but rather to incoherence, and it is sometimes blamed for a subsequent history of divergence in intertextual theory. Peter-Hans Mai (1991, 51), for example, has argued that two contradictory definitions of intertextuality are prevalent and at war with each other. A poststructural approach uses the concept as a springboard for associative speculations about semiotic and cultural matters in general. On the other hand, traditional literary studies have seized upon the term to integrate their investigative interests in structures and interrelations of literary textsВ .В .В . These divergent interpretative interests cannot be reconciled theoretically. Doubtless it would be wise to bear this in mind before discussing intertextuality, because otherwise we would miss much of its internal dynamic. However, without negating Mai’s point altogether, I would still suggest that these divergent strands already achieved a theoretical rapprochement (if not unity) in the work of Kristeva and Mikhail Bakhtin, whose philosophical and analytical orientations are more adept than many at accounting for productive dialectical tensions. As Barbara Godard (1993, 568) has noted, the idea of intertextuality is, in part, the idea that we can approach texts as moments in which semiotic systems and cultural networks of meaning achieve a kind of materialization in particular contexts. Intertextuality is an inherently double-voiced concept, speaking at once for the particularity of the text and for the global systems of which the text forms a part.2 Whatever the merits of Kristeva’s original formulation, the subsequent disagreement and confusion over the term suggest that room for retooling exists. Speaking from the perspective of popular music studies, two of the most important open questions are: (1) To what extent Page 171 →should entities such as styles and genres be

considered intertexts? and (2) How can we further build on the relationship between intertextuality and persona? It is often unclear where to draw the line between texts and contexts and likewise between various related actors and categories: textuality in a formal sense; the kinds of virtual persona often associated with textuality; and the personas of human social actors. The concept of intertextuality was an important addition to critical theory precisely because it required an exploration and recasting of such boundaries. And yet, as Godard (1993, 571) notes, the difficulty of such work has meant that some theorists eventually abandoned the concept, substituting for it the concept of discourse (in the Foucauldian sense of “an ontologically impure mix of textual structures, practices, institutional sites, and rules of application”). Theodore Gracyk (2001, 58–59) has also raised the question of levels and distinctions, distinguishing between general intertextuality (reference to general codes) and specific intertextuality (reference to a more specific other text or to a particular piece of information). Elsewhere, Gracyk (2013) approaches the same issue with respect to questions of semantic holism, suggesting that certain theories of intertextuality demonstrate a form of global holism that is too radical. Gracyk endorses instead local holism, arguing that meanings are made in ways contingent on the particularities of differing contexts. As a result, not all factors influencing the resultant meanings have equal importance and, by implication, theories of intertextuality must be kept within certain pragmatic bounds when deciding which intertextual relationships are worth elaborating in any given analysis (Gracyk 2013). In sum, considerable complexity and disagreement persist regarding the proper scope and ontological status of texts, intertexts, and the larger formations intertwined with them. I suggest that we respond with a newly enriched view of intertextuality rather than by retreating from the concept altogether. By examining certain aspects of Young’s relationship to generic expectation and, in turn, how those aspects relate to his persona as constructed by listeners, I provide one example of how such an expanded theory of intertextuality can operate.

Neil Young, Boundaries, Surprise Neil Young is often portrayed as an unpredictable authorial presence: a persona simultaneously unstable and stable whose work remains within the category of “rock music” while at the same time being received as Page 172 →“diverse” and even “surprising.” According to a 1994 Rolling Stone collection, Throughout his long, near thirty-year career, Young has defied categorization; his songwriting has ricocheted from the personal to the political, from the straightforward to the obtuse. Dipping into almost every musical genre (rock, pop, soul, country, folk, jazz, blues, rockabilly, punk, technopop, grunge), rather than merely “do” a certain kind of music, Young has grabbed it, shaken it upside down and turned it into his own unique style—sometimes with uneven results. Throughout, Young has committed himself to stretching limits, taking risks. The result: Unlike any other artist, Young has traveled the often treacherous road from the Sixties to the Nineties without ramming into a dead end, arriving battle-scarred but vibrant, with a compelling body of work. (George-Warren 1994, 4) This is a fine summary of the way fans and critics often assess Young’s relationship to stylistic boundaries. The relationship is a double one. It includes a tendency to veer between extremes but also the retrospective judgment that this approach has, on the whole, constituted an artistic strength. The same tendencies, however, can lead critics to opposite conclusions. As Dave Marsh (1994) wrote, Spend a couple of weeks really saturated in Young’s work up to Rust Never Sleeps, and you’ll come to the same conclusion: he’s less diverse than erratic, his stylistic charms the result of lack of commitment rather than successful eclecticism.В .В .В . In the end, reconciling Young’s rock’n’roll with his spineless country-pop proved impossible—and not only for me, since the man himself has never been able to combine the two into anything convincing.В .В .В . Young lacks the coherent, consistent world view that marks the greatest artists, in rock or anywhere else.

Young’s unusual career trajectory is well known.3 In the mid-1960s, he was ambitious but ambivalent, both courting and rejecting stardom. In the late 1960s and into the 1970s, he achieved commercial success on a number of fronts: with the garage rock of Crazy Horse, with the country rock of the Stray Gators, and with Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young. The mid-1970s brought the notorious dark period, in which he abandoned Page 173 →his commercially viable country rock style and for a number of years presented only abrasive, pessimistic work, both on record and in concert. By the late 1970s, assisted by a return to more accessible styles, his place in the emerging rock canon was very nearly a matter of consensus among critics and fans. Young’s high status at this time is exemplified in an influential feature article written by John Rockwell (1977, 1) for the New York Times: Along with Bob Dylan, Neil Young is probably the most important rock composer and performer North America has produced.В [Decade] is a compilation far removed from the commercial cynicism behind most “greatest hits” packages. It’s really a carefully chosen retrospective, designed to stake Mr. Young’s claim as one of the most moving and important artists in the history of rock. That claim is well worth staking. Immediately after this stunning consolidation came the 1980s style experiments, taxing the patience and good faith of nearly all fans and critics. Young not only presented wildly differing musical styles in rapid succession—for example, electropop on Trans (1983), rockabilly on Everybody’s Rockin’ (1983), and country on Old Ways (1985)—but also performed through the mediation of a number of clearly fictitious personas. And then, after his acceptance among fans and critics had perhaps reached a career low, another period of consolidation occurred from the 1990s into the early 2000s, with a significant shift in Young’s personal image. While since the 1960s he had often been described as a loner, vulnerable and sensitive, in the 1990s he was more frequently portrayed as a figure of control and powerful self-determination. Noted Eric Weisbard (1995, 52), “It’s getting harder and harder to remember that, for much of his career, Neil Young has been regarded—if loved—as a self-destructive oddball.”

Style and Genre as Intertext Young touched on an impressive range of styles and genres during this journey: singer-songwriter, old-time music, several kinds of country music, psychedelic garage rock, adult contemporary, symphonic rock, and some other styles in smaller doses, including blues, electropop, rockabilly, electroacoustic composition, and punk. This combination of a mercurial career path and an exceptionally wide range of stylistic experimentsPage 174 → has led to the kind of critical disagreement evident between Holly George-Warren (1994) and Dave Marsh (1994). If we read this sort of stylistic play as a case of intertextuality, Young’s distinctive career profile reveals interesting things about the nature and place of intertextuality in rock music more generally. To foster that discussion, I treat two particular sorts of entity as intertexts: first, the styles and genres mobilized through (and in relation to) Young’s work, and second, the various authorial personas attributed to Young. Such a strategy needs to be flagged in light of the fact that even in fairly progressive works such as those of GГ©rard Genette (1997a), intertextuality is often treated primarily within the context of material features discernable in individual texts. Nonetheless, the precedents for treating larger social formations as texts are well established, as are the reasons and methods for treating material texts as sites of practice. It is not only in the context of Neil Young that analysis benefits from treating styles and genres as texts, in order to speak of generic and stylistic intertextuality. Susan Fast (2001, 19–20), for example, argues that mingling of styles has always been a central element of rock music in general and that intertextuality is a reasonable paradigm to apply to this stylistic hybridization. Fast’s work on Led Zeppelin (20–21) shows how fans identify such mingling as key to their interest in that band and how fans sometimes interpret this kind of willingness to reference or inhabit different styles as a source of musical “depth” and admire it as a source of “risk taking” (a form of commitment and seriousness). My comments about Young (Echard 2002, 2005) hinge on exactly the same sort of attitude toward stylistic intertextuality. Young’s stylistic intertextuality produces two contradictory but equally powerful effects: it destabilizes his authorial persona at particular key junctures, but critics and fans also see it as a token of authorial integrity.

That said, it can at times remain useful to maintain a distinction between texts in the narrow material sense and the sorts of textuality we are highlighting on the level of style. Styles are textual insofar as they are sites in which particular configurations and structures are dynamically mobilized for the creation of meaning in particular contexts. However, texts are not identical to their styles and genres, and one crucial feature of a style or genre is precisely that it is comparatively more amorphous than any given text. Styles and genres resemble what Gracyk (2001, 69) has called a paradigm—an intermediate structure more general than those involved in specific intertextualities but specific enough to allow real distinctions and unique identities to be constructed: Page 175 →A paradigm is an exemplary case or body of work around which a community organizes its practices and beliefs. When this happens—and it may take some time for a community to agree that something is foundational for further practice—exemplars have a normative function within a community.В .В .В . A paradigm is neither a theory nor a set of beliefs nor an interpretive strategy. Rules and abstractions are gradually abstracted from a paradigm as it continues to guide practices even across a range of new circumstances, until adherence to the resulting rules comes to seem fundamentally valuable. This is the sort of conceptual framework within which we can treat styles and genres as textual and therefore as intertextual without necessarily suggesting that they are ontologically identical with texts in the narrower sense. A key theoretical question for the rest of this chapter is the manner in which styles and genres become voices in dialogical meaning-making. Exploring this process requires recognizing both their text-like aspects (their moments of structural consistency) and their textuality (their acts of complicity in fluid practices of meaningmaking). To get at the point from another direction, we can consider the manner in which Robert Walser (1993) has developed the concept of genre as a horizon of expectations brought by interpreters to a text. The phrase is most closely associated with Jauss, for whom it refers to the ontologically mixed network of expectations (literary, institutional, and so forth) against which new works gain their meaning. Walser’s application of the concept differs somewhat, since he emphasizes the manner in which expectations are applied by individual listeners, whereas for Jauss the horizon was more closely associated with broader institutional and social expectations. Under Walser’s formulation, Bakhtinian in spirit, one could go so far as to think about personal horizons of interpretation that would be mobile and specific to individual interpreters but still defined partly in terms of how they represent a version or inflection of collective, transpersonal discursive categories. This formulation takes into account both the structured, shared nature of genres and their mode of existence as a mobile frame of reference (Walser 1993, 27). I retain the insights of this approach but add to them another layer: the quasi-subjectivity exerted by styles and genres themselves and the manner in which that form of textual identity exists on a continuum and in a relationship of mutual dependence with the identities of human social actors. In other words, identity is relevant not only because styles and genres are the locus of Page 176 →so much social and emotional investment but also because styles and genres themselves have identities and social lives. They have histories and personalities and almost seem to exert a form of agency in the way they constrain and guide social actors.4

Inclusion as Exclusion, Closeness as Distance Theories of dialogism and intertextuality can be used to emphasize the togetherness of disparate voices. However, any kind of subject formation process involves both inclusions and exclusions, attractions and repulsions. Dialogism and intertextuality involve the inclusion of multiple texts or voices in another text or situation, but at the same time, the act of inclusion can be an act of distancing and Othering. Judith Still and Michael Worton (1990, 11) have emphasized how any intertextual reference is “inevitably a fragment and displacement” and how “every quotation distorts and redefines the вЂprimary’ utterance by relocating it within another linguistic and cultural context.” The other voice or other text is included but at the same time alienated from its previous life and constituted as Other. And as Ross Chambers (1990, 143) has noted, a text stands in such a relation not just to other texts but also to the systems on which it is (sometimes secretly) dependent. In his view, two mutually implicating “alter ego” relationships are set up. The text defines itself by defining an intertext as that which it is not; and the text defines itself as “text,” in a similarly

negative fashion, against its own “discourse,” with which it should not be identified.

The pertinence of this idea to Neil Young’s position in rock and related traditions should be immediately clear. One of Young’s characteristic strategies involves using established stylistic clichГ©s to simultaneously assert his place in a broader tradition and his autonomy from that tradition. Each of his stylistic references simultaneously includes the other style and holds it at a distance, underscoring an essential double-voicedness common to all utterances. Linking the theoretical discussion in this way to a mass-media figure such as Young also raises another crucial point sometimes overlooked in literary theory: the text does not place itself. Instead, the text is placed by listeners (readers), who are often vitally concerned with establishing exactly the kinds of group membership and stable inclusions against which Chambers argues. More than just the theoretical position of Chambers and other thinkers opposes listeners’ Page 177 →frequent desire for coherence and closure: Young has through the years spoken and acted in a manner that shows his deep concern with keeping the ball in play and evading any form of typecasting or finalized identity.

Dialogism and Persona: Clusters of Voices, Pieces of Voices To this point, I have used notions of textual voice and identity informally, linking them to the voices and identities of readers and artists. I now make the nature of these connections a little more explicit. Some recent research on intertextuality in the mass media offers useful models. For example, John Oddo (2014, 18) notes that intertextuality is a key component through which the personal ethos associated with politicians and other public figures is constructed, and, he argues, “Taking an intertextual perspective allows us to see how a politician’s ethos and argument develop across a number of mass-mediated texts, as different voices in the news anticipate and re-represent that politician’s discourse” (74). Oddo defines intertextual ethos as “the diversity of voices that struggle to establish a person’s character within and across news texts.В .В .В . Since there is a diversity of opinions about a person at any given moment, no one’s ethos is ever fully unified.” I start with this nonmusical and fairly literal view of persona/ethos because it can provide a buffer against nineteenth-century views of musical subjectivity, which have the merit of recognizing the virtual subjectivities associated with music but also the considerable disadvantage of fetishizing these subjectivities in a way that obscures their social and material foundations. My semiotic model of intertextual subjectivity overlaps with these subjectivities insofar as it seeks to explain similar experiences of musical agency (the perception of music itself as agential and as an agency in negotiation with human agents) but is allied much more closely with a pragmatic, materialist, and social view of where such impressions originate. The personality of any given style or genre comes in part from its prior associations with people, histories, places, institutions, and ideas. This is true not just of styles and genres but of any recognizable feature in a piece of music. Even novel features have strong connotations. As a result, each element in a piece of music carries its own cluster of voices—a kind of autonomous persona—and the piece of music as a whole becomes a dialogue between these voices. Thus, any musical utterance is in fact intermusical. Ingrid Monson (1996, 97) develops Page 178 →the idea of intermusicalityВ .В .В . as a way to begin thinking about the particular ways in which music and, more generally, sound itself can refer to the past and offer social commentary. In so doing, I am interested in how music functions in a relational or discursive rather than an absolute manner.В .В .В . The topic of interest here is the musical quotation or allusion, which embodies the conflict between innovation and tradition in jazz performance as well as the larger question of how instrumental music conveys cultural meaning. She acknowledges that intermusicality is an extension of Kristeva’s concept of intertextuality. While Monson does not discuss Kristeva’s work to any extent, an important link exists between the manner in which Monson uses the concept and Kristeva’s original formulation. A crucial passage in Kristeva’s (1986, 111) work is seldom cited in full:

As we know, Freud specifies two fundamental “processes” in the work of the unconscious: displacement and condensation.В .В .В . To these we must add a third “process”—the passage from one sign-system to another. To be sure, this process comes about through a combination of displacement and condensation, but this does not account for its total operation. It also involves an altering of the thetic position—the destruction of the old position and the formation of a new one.В .В .В . The term intertextuality denotes this transposition of one (or several) sign-system(s) into another; but since this term has often been understood in the banal sense of “study of sources,” we prefer the term transposition because it specifies that the passage from one signifying system to another demands a new articulation of the thetic—of enunciative and denotative positionality. If one grants that every signifying practice is a field of transpositions of various signifying systems (an intertextuality), one then understands that its “place” of enunciation and its denoted “object” are never single, complete, and identical to themselves. Kristeva not only erases the crucial word almost immediately upon its appearance but problematizes the location of subjectivity. By treating intertextuality as a primary psychological process, Kristeva simultaneously textualizes the psyche and turns the text into a kind of subject. She dramatizes the fact that neither can be identical with itself because each is partly defined by the other. For this reason, intertextuality has a strong effect on the formation of subjects and identities and is involved Page 179 →in the formation of both the agency of styles and genres and the agency of musicians and listeners. Monson does not develop this psychoanalytic perspective in depth but achieves a similar effect by linking the idea of intertextuality with Bakhtin’s concept of centripetal and centrifugal forces, thereby helping to address the dynamism and feeling of agency that can be mobilized through textual means. In both Kristeva’s psychoanalytic version of the theory and Monson/Bakhtin’s concept of forces, the voices identified as active under the dialogic viewpoint are not just stylistic references but are also political and social actors of a sort. I mean not only that they are traces of the activity of human subjects but also that in themselves they demonstrate a kind of dynamism and quasi-agency. An advantage of the dialogic perspective is that it does not require us to separate or choose between the formal structure of a text and its social life but rather highlights the manner in which formal features of a text embody social histories and interactions. In a general sense, this can underwrite the interesting conflation of textual identities and “real” identities crucial to the authorial persona of a mass-media figure such as Neil Young. It is not just a metaphor to say that Young struggles or negotiates with styles and genres. He also does so in a literal sense. Further, saying that Young’s identity is dialogic not only suggests that it intersects with already-formed associations of texts but also highlights the fact that the energies and resources that allow for and nourish such an identity cut across and are immanent to “Neil Young” and the “other” texts simultaneously. For example, in 1987, when Young first dressed in a fedora and sunglasses to perform stage-band blues with the Bluenotes, he was activating a complex of voices and references from the past and from other stylistic identities both in the sense of making reference to other musical traditions and in the sense of reconfiguring and reforming elements of his own personality. In this case, a tension exists between the seeming irony and even campiness of the mobilization of familiar signifiers and Young’s complex, previously existing relationship to the blues. On the one hand, some commentators suggest that Young’s relative lack of connection to the blues and to African American musical styles in general has been a distinguishing feature of his persona (see, e.g., Downing 1995, 51–52).Young’s earlier catalog certainly does not include many outright blues forms, and those that do exist tend to be fairly obscure (e.g., “Vampire Blues”). There is another sense, though, in which Young has been tangentially connected to the blues throughout his career. In a review of a Bluenotes concert, David Fricke (1988, 20) makes the connection explicitPage 180 → by suggesting that the Bluenotes’ music was “blues in the great Young tradition—songs of tortured self-examination and love gone all wrong emphasized by his poignant vocals and brilliant ice-pick guitar.” The suggestion here is that while the bulk of Young’s work is far distant from the blues in terms of formal textual features, an affective alliance is at play. The same interpretive move has been made at various other points in Young’s career—for example, when a reviewer of Harvest suggested that the more repetitive elements of Young’s country-rock style may be his own “equivalent of the 12-bar blues” (Knobler 1972, 14) or when Young himself noted that both Mike

Bloomfield and Paul Butterfield said that Young would be a “natural” at playing and singing the blues (Rowland 1988, 65). The suggestion may be strengthened by noting Young’s occasional use of the word blues in the titles of songs that are formally not blues, as in “Ambulance Blues” and “Revolution Blues” (both from On the Beach, which also features “Vampire Blues”). As Young said of This Note’s for You, “I don’t really think it’s blues. It’s blue.В .В .В . Three of the songs have a late-night, torch song kind of thing. You know, the club’s empty kind of feeling” (Einarson 1988, 51–52). Surprisingly, commentators have said little about the political implications of this sort of stylistic play. To what degree does “not blues” translate as “not black”? In other words, should we read Young’s “nonblues” blues moves as a kind of affective alliance or as a sort of appropriation? To what degree does Young’s reduction of “blues” to basically two moods—either up-tempo swing numbers or downtempo “empty bar” music—reduce a complex musical form to a series of stereotypes and in turn help to obscure the racial and political stakes of the tradition? Of course by the late 1980s the blackness of blues music was much less of an issue than it had been in the late 1960s. However, perhaps that is in itself a social fact that requires explanation. We could ask whether Young’s work was complicit in the same depoliticization of the blues that now seems to provide a justification for that work. The issue is complicated, and I do not seek to provide a conclusion or definitive judgment. But I do wish to highlight the fact that Young’s seemingly simple use of “blues” signifiers helps to create texts that are dialogic in a political as well as a formal capacity, creating a situation that is intermusical in the sense described by Monson (1996, 97): When jazz musicians learn traditional repertory, quote a particular musician’s solo, play a tune with a particular groove, or imitate a Page 181 →particular player’s sound, they reveal themselves to be very aware of musical history. It is important to note that the sonic features that allude to prior musical performances include dimensions beyond harmony, rhythm, and melody. The use of a plunger mute by a trumpet player, for example, can invoke the legacy of Cootie Williams and Bubber Miley. Monson is writing about a tradition in which such references are often deliberate and in which audience members sometimes exert a high level of sensitivity and knowledge in finding them. This is the paradigmatic case of intermusicality, where the players and listeners are very aware of the process. But intermusicality can also function below the level of direct awareness. This is especially true if intertextual references in some ways keep the other texts and even their own stylistic origins at a distance. In other words, references to other texts, styles, and personas can be present as Other, even to the degree of being present under erasure. In assessing Young’s complex relationship to stylistic and generic boundaries, it is important to discuss the possibility that the alterity set up by unexpected stylistic voices may not always be recognized as such. To return briefly to our blues example: Is the blues as strongly present (although under erasure) for Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere as it is for This Note’s for You? Listeners familiar with guitar heroes of the Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page variety might well notice, if sometimes subconsciously, that Young stood out partly because he followed the trend of long, emotional guitar solos but did so without overt blues references. In such a case, an intertextual relationship to blues is relevant, but it is a tacit relationship. In other words, intermusicality may exist on a continuum, with deliberate and clearly recognized cases at one extreme and more unconscious or deliberately masked instances at the other. While the former kind of intermusicality is obviously important in some phases of Young’s career—during all the times in which he was flagrantly indulging in stylistic play and during which fans and critics tended to question the authenticity of his persona—the latter kind is also crucial because it can help explain why Young can be perceived as somewhat unstable or edgy even when he is not obviously playing with boundaries. Although Monson (1996, 98–99) does not develop the idea of textual subjectivity with respect to a detailed psychological model, she achieves a similar result by developing the link between intermusicality and Bakhtin’s model of centripetal and centrifugal forces:

Page 182 →The diversity of language styles [Bakhtin] called heteroglossia, and the tensions between an overarching category (music, in our case) and the particularity of social styles (jazz, R&B, classical, rock and roll) he called respectively centripetal and centrifugal forces of language. On the centripetal side are forces of centralization, unification, authoritativeness (hegemony), and standardization; on the centrifugal are those of decentralization, disunity, and competition among multiple social voices. Bakhtin sees these forces intersecting in any particular speech utterance, which has aspects that affirm the general category and those that are highly particular to the moment. The only thing I would change about this formulation is to emphasize the nested nature of the hierarchy. In the case of Young, it makes more sense to cast rock as the overarching category, exerting a centripetal pull on its various subtraditions, and to cast the subtraditions—for example, punk, rockabilly, country, and blues—as the particular, destabilizing forces. In general, any given stylistic voice is not inherently centripetal or centrifugal. It will function in one way or the other depending on context, and the ability of any given tradition to exert either a centripetal or centrifugal force (or both at the same time) is a key element in Young’s unique approach to style and persona. No style, genre, authorial persona, or piece of music can exist without reanimating all of the voices implicit in its raw material and in turn activating the play of centripetal and centrifugal forces implicit in those voices. This viewpoint can be extended to include the personas of the musician, which are also plural. In such a situation there are no completely stable or fully defined styles, genres, or authorial personas, but there is often the desire for stability and identity. And there are social interests and forces that work to construct these styles, genres, and personas. Taking this view, one way of characterizing Young’s stance toward tradition would be to say that he frequently thematizes the intermusicality inherent in all traditions, genres, and styles (and hence in every utterance). Not every utterance draws attention to its own intermusicality. To create the impression of a strong authorial presence, the inherent multivocality of the utterance is sometimes obscured. The centrifugal potential of multivocality can be damaging to the impression of a strong authorial persona, which requires that everything point back to itself centripetally. In much of Young’s work, however, attention is drawn to the play of voices within the work and to the centrifugal potential implicit in every utterance. The impression of a single, coherentPage 183 → author is allowed to weaken, as we can see in the many instances where unexpected stylistic changes were met with the complaint that this was not the “real” Neil Young or that he had lost his way or was burying his “true” self under constructed personas and stylistic experiments. From a dialogic point of view, there is no charade or lack or loss of direction here; rather, there is a clear presentation of the multiplicity that is always lurking under the surface of every utterance.

Authorship: Gone/Back That might not be quite the right way to say it, though. Putting it that way almost makes Young sound postmodern, whereas I would prefer to say that he is an archmodernist in a sense typical of 1960s rock. In 1983, when Young suddenly dressed and sang like a rockabilly artist, for example, previous assumptions about his persona were shaken by the force of this other voice. Yet this moment occurred as part of an utterance made by Young himself, so a play of alterity and assimilation was set up. When we look at Young’s reception in the long term, we see that very often this kind of surprise is reabsorbed into a newly stabilized persona. After a while, intermusicality was no longer a destabilizing factor but became a fixed part of Young. He was expected to surprise, and his stylistic diversity was taken as a mark of authorial integrity. I have elsewhere explored the links between critical perspectives on the “death of rock” and the question of Young’s authorial integrity (Echard 2002). This chapter takes a different tack, examining the notion of authorship and where it stands in a theory of dialogic intertextuality. Seen from the perspective of intertextual ethos, “Neil Young” should be regarded as an authorial persona discursively constructed by those who use particular texts. Such a perspective remains agnostic about how the “real” Neil Young may or may not align with these media- and fan-generated discursive constructs. This orientation is not so different from what is proposed by now-classic “death of the author” arguments. However, I have made a conscious decision to speak of authorial persona rather than authorial function to indicate the other side of the situation. By this, I mean

that in a sense the author is guaranteed survival (as a persona) because the elements of authorial identity are distributed in the virtual agency of the texts themselves and therefore are preserved in the ongoing activity of textuality. An author emerges from the textual universe as much as he or she dissolves into it, and both processes are at play in most cases. In one sense we could say that Neil Young is invented for Page 184 →the benefit of the texts, given that it is necessary to believe in Neil Young if we are to gather together and think collectively about the various texts said to be products of his agency. Conversely, texts exist for the benefit of the authorial persona insofar as listeners approach a text specifically to augment or explore their “knowledge” of Neil Young or their relationship to him. There is little to be gained through attempts to explain away one side or the other of this relationship. Both text and author require the other for motivation and completion in practice. This is one reason why, when we examine the long history of “surprises” in Young’s reception, a consistent pattern emerges. Generally, a period in which Young behaves erratically and thereby temporarily loses some degree of critical and fan support is followed by a period in which critics and fans retrospectively reevaluate the behavior to create a newly stabilized Neil Young persona that can explain how all of Young’s behavior was actually coherent and even indicative of his creative agency. For example, in this instance, the abrasive, pessimistic, and unpolished aspects of Young’s mid-1970s work were reinterpreted as a form of heroism: Tonight’s the Night finds Neil Young on his knees at the top of the heap, struggling to get back to his feet.В .В .В . .В .В . The music has a feeling of offhand, first-take crudity matched recently only by Blood on the Tracks, almost as though Young wanted us to miss the album’s ultimate majesty in order to emphasize its ragged edge of desolation.В .В .В . If the songs here aren’t pretty, they are tough and powerful, with a metallic guitar sound more akin to the abrasiveness of the Rolling Stones than the placid harmonies of CSNY. The melodies haven’t disappeared (as they seemed to on On the Beach), but they are only sketched in, hints of what they could be. There is no sense of retreat, no apology, no excuses offered and no quarter given. If anything, these are the old ideas with a new sense of aggressiveness. The jitteriness of the music, its sloppy, unarranged (but decidedly structured) feeling is clearly calculated. The music draws us inВ .В .В . and here is where it is new—it also spits us back out again, makes us look at the ugliness on the surface and beneath it.В .В .В . Crying over the death of his real and imagined friends, Neil Young seems at once heroic and mock heroic, brave and absurd. He leaves us as he found us, ravaged but rocking. (Marsh 1975, 135–37) Page 185 →Rock critics were almost unanimous in agreeing with this point of view. There were, however, a few dissenting voices: Last summer I was amazed at some of my friends, who stood in wonderment at the “tremendous courage” Young displayed in “confronting the abyss” in Tonight’s The Night. It was another stupid stumble-bummer, rendered particularly ridiculous by lyrics that were sloppy and idiotic beyond the call of duty (early in the morning ’bout the break of day/He used to sleep until the afternoon—I mean, what a harrowing lifestyle) and pure stretches of professional patheticness so ostentatious it became its own brand of creepy narcissism. (Bangs 1976, 61) One critic chooses to recast the disruptive event as a strength and in effect to restabilize Young as a figure of authorial integrity, while another emphasizes the continuing destabilizing effects of intermusicality and plurality of personas. As a rule, the former strategy was more common and has been seen at other points in Young’s career—for example, in the reception of Trans, and Old Ways, in which clearly intermusical and personadestabilizing stylistic decisions were often interpreted as just another facet of Young’s rock auteurship:

“Well, Mr. Weird is at it again” was one of the first reactions I heard to the synthesized sounds and Vocoderized vocals that typify [Trans]. With Young, one learns to expect the unexpected, but this record is as drastic a break from career form as David Bowie’s kiss-off to his Thin White Duke persona with Low. And twice as surprising, too, because Young, despite his penchant for shifting gears from record to record, has always sunk his roots deep into the good earth, the fertile loam, of the American singer/songwriter tradition. [But on Trans], it’s as if by abstracting human intelligence from the emotional biases that often misdirect it, we can attain a truer ideal of perfection—electronically. [The] incongruity between old and new modes on Trans is striking—sort of like seeing a satellite dish sitting outside a log cabin.В .В .В . It’s the world in transition (hence the title?), a unique moment in human history in which old technologies are yielding to new ones—and where human values struggle to maintain an equilibrium with the accelerated change.В .В .В . Neil Young is really still a sweep-hand clock in a digital world, a solitary quester after truth. (Puterbaugh 1983, 214–16) Page 186 →Conventions exist only for Neil Young to destroy them.В .В .В . For all its surface charm and eternal country swing, [Old Ways] is a bitterly ironic, violently hilarious record, full of scathing sarcasm.В .В .В . It’s amazing, really: after all these years, after all these traumas and fearsВ .В .В . Neil Young is still ferociously in command. (Jones 1985, 29) Reactions of this sort nicely display the fine balance between centripetal and centrifugal forces in Young’s work and the manner in which critics have tended to emphasize and reinscribe the centripetal ones. The trend in Young’s reception seems to be that intermusicality has broken out strongly at certain points, disrupting established views about who Young was and what he would do. But listeners and critics also usually made an effort to somehow assimilate these events into the locus of their pre-formed understanding of Young. The attempt to make sense of these events is in such cases equivalent to a reimposition of the monologic perspective, a deepening or elaboration of the preexisting Neil Young persona rather than its dissolution.

Closing Thoughts Intertextuality and dialogism as theoretical moments have been strongly associated with the questioning of centralized and ossified power systems as well as with the introduction of a more process-oriented brand of cultural theory. However, intertextuality and dialogism can be forces for coherence as well as for disjunction. Plett (1991, 5) has suggested that intertextuality can in some respects be a force for textual coherence or stability, pointing out that intertexts have “a twofold coherence: an intratextual one which guarantees the immanent integrity of the text, and an intertextual one which creates structural relations between itself and other texts.” And intertextuality can be a force for social cohesion as well. Gracyk (2001, 56), for example, notes that common knowledge of a body of texts can be the basis for creating a kind of loose community even if participants do not actually have the same experience or reading of those texts. Intertextuality and dialogism have both centripetal and centrifugal tendencies, and for this reason, an artist like Neil Young, who seems concerned with constructing a persona that is both mobile and rooted in rock tradition, benefits from his thorough exploration of these underlying textual forces. In contrast to Mai’s claim that there can be no theoretical reconciliation between practice-oriented and textoriented approaches to intertextuality,Page 187 → the case of Neil Young demonstrates a practical balancing of these forces. Further, it is possible to construct a theoretical account that explains this sort of practice as a manifestation of certain basic features of dialogic intertextuality. In response to an imposed either/or choice between text and subject, it remains a theoretical option to insist that subjectivity is an emergent entity—or to use Genette’s (1997b, 161–62) language, a kind of work with multiple objects of immanence (some of them textual). This can lead to a view in which text, textuality, and actor cannot be separated. The forces that make up subjectivity are simultaneously active in texts and human actors so that the two literally emerge from one another.

Notes

1. This chapter relies on many generalizations about trends and themes in Young reception based on research reported in detail elsewhere (Echard 2005). 2. Bauman (2004) developed similar ideas in anthropology, treating intertextuality as a mode of speech and performance in a community context. 3. The details of Young’s career have been well-documented in numerous other sources. For an excellent history of his early career, see Einarson 1992. McDonough 2002 provides the most comprehensive overview of Young’s entire career prior to the early twenty-first century. For fairly reliable and undeniably extensive information about discography, tour dates, and other such material, see www.hyperrust.org 4. In using the term social life in this way—to refer to the sort of agency demonstrated by a social construct such as genre or style—I am influenced by Appadurai (1986) and by the manner in which works of art are often cast as “a peculiar kind of subject” in European aesthetic theory since the eighteenth century (Eagleton 1990, 4). Further insight into the issue is also provided throughout Cumming 2001, which explores the construction of subjectivity in and through sonic gestures.

References Appadurai, Arjun. 1986. “Introduction: Commodities and the Politics of Value.” In The Social Life of Things: Commodities in Cultural Perspective, edited by Arjun Appadurai, 3–63. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bangs, Lester. 1976. “Neil Young: Zuma.” Album review. Creem, March, 61. Bauman, Richard. 2004. A World of Others’ Words: Cross-Cultural Perspectives on Intertextuality. Oxford: Blackwell. Chambers, Ross. 1990. “Alter Ego: Intertextuality, Irony, and the Politics of Reading.” In Intertextuality: Theories and Practice, edited by Michael Worton and Judith Still, 143–58. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Page 188 →Cumming, Naomi. 2001. The Sonic Self: Musical Subjectivity and Signification. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Downing, David. 1995. A Dreamer of Pictures. New York: Da Capo. Eagleton, Terry. 1990. The Ideology of the Aesthetic. Oxford: Blackwell. Echard, William. 2002. “Expecting Surprise Again: Neil Young and the Dialogic Theory of Genre.” Canadian University Music Review 22 (2): 30–47. Echard, William. 2005. Neil Young and the Poetics of Energy. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Einarson, John. 1988. “Neil Young: The Dawn of Power Swing.” Interview with Neil Young. Canadian Musician, August, 50–54. Einarson, John. 1992. Don’t Be Denied. Kingston, Ont.: Quarry. Fast, Susan. 2001. In The Houses of the Holy: Led Zeppelin and the Power of Rock Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fricke, David. 1988. “Neil Young and the Bluenotes.” Concert review. Melody Maker, 30 April, 20. Genette, GГ©rard. 1997a. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Translated by Channa Newman and Claude Doubinsky. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press.

Genette, GГ©rard. 1997b. The Work of Art: Immanence and Transcendence. Translated by G. M. Goshgarian. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. George-Warren, Holly. 1994. Introduction to Neil Young: The Rolling Stone Files, edited by the editors of Rolling Stone, 3–22. New York: Hyperion. Godard, Barbara. 1993. “Intertextuality.” In Encyclopedia of Contemporary Literary Theory, edited by Irene R. Makaryk, 568–72. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Gracyk, Theodore. 2001. I Wanna Be Me: Rock Music and the Politics of Identity. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Gracyk, Theodore. 2013. “вЂГ‰couter avec les Yeux’: Sur Quelques ProblГЁmes de l’IntertextualitГ© Radicale.” Volume! 10 (1): 23–44. Jones, Allan. 1985. “Home on the Range.” Review of Neil Young’s Old Ways. Melody Maker, 31 August, 29. Knobler, Peter. 1972. “Harvest.” Album review. Crawdaddy, 30 April, 14. Kristeva, Julia. 1986. “Revolution in Poetic Language.” In The Kristeva Reader, edited by Toril Moi, 89–136. New York: Columbia University Press. Mai, Hans-Peter. 1991. “Bypassing Intertextuality: Hermeneutics, Textual Practice, Hypertext.” In Intertextuality, edited by Heinrich F. Plett, 30–59. Berlin: de Gruyter. Marsh, Dave. 1975. “Album Review: Tonight’s the Night.” In Neil Young: The Rolling Stone Files, edited by the editors of Rolling Stone, 135–37. New York: Hyperion, 1994. Marsh, Dave. 1994. “A Heretic Writes.” Mojo, September, 83. McDonough, Jimmy. 2002. Shakey: Neil Young’s Biography. Toronto: Random House Canada. Monson, Ingrid. 1996. Saying Something: Jazz Improvisation and Interaction. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Oddo, John. 2014. Intertextuality and the 24-Hour News Cycle: A Day in the Rhetorical Life of Colin Powell’s U.N. Address. East Lansing: Michigan State University Press. Page 189 →Plett, Heinrich F. 1991. “Intertextualities.” In Intertextuality, edited by Heinrich F. Plett, 3–29. Berlin: de Gruyter. Puterbaugh, Parke. 1983. “Album Review: Trans.” In Neil Young: The Rolling Stone Files, edited by the editors of Rolling Stone, 214–16. New York: Hyperion, 1994. Rockwell, John. 1977. “Will Neil Young Join Dylan in Rock’s Pantheon?” New York Times, 27 November, sec.В 2, pp.В 1, 13. Rowland, Mark. 1988. “Cruise Control: Neil Young’s Lonesome Drive.” Interview with Neil Young. Musician, June, 63–74. Still, Judith, and Michael Worton. 1990. Introduction to Intertextuality: Theories and Practice, edited by Michael Worton and Judith Still, 1–44. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Walser, Robert. 1993. Running with the Devil: Power, Gender, and Madness in Heavy Metal Music. Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press.

Weisbard, Eric. 1995. “Not Fade Away.” Interview with Neil Young. Spin, September, 52–54.

Chronological Discography Neil Young’s discography is extensive. This list includes only recordings mentioned in this chapter. All catalog numbers and dates are for original U.S. releases. 1969. Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere. Reprise RS 6349. May. 1970. After the Gold Rush. Reprise RS 6383. September. 1972. Harvest. Reprise MS 2032. February. 1974. On the Beach. Reprise R 2180. July. 1975. Tonight’s the Night. Reprise MS 2221. June. 1977. Decade. Reprise 3RS 2257. November. 1979. Rust Never Sleeps. Reprise 2295. July. 1983. Trans. Geffen 2018. January. 1983. Everybody’s Rockin’. Geffen 4013. August. 1985. Old Ways. Geffen 24068. August. 1988. This Note’s for You. Reprise 25719. April.

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Seven. Intertextuality in the Nineteenth-Century French Vaudeville Mary S. Woodside THIS CHAPTER ILLUMINATES one area of popular music from the early nineteenth century, the type of musical theater known generically as the vaudeville. True to the generalization that most music scholars have never considered “popular” works of past centuries very important, only a few isolated orchestral scores for these compositions have been published, even though hundreds if not thousands of them were performed in their home city, Paris, and exported to the rest of France and Europe. This study takes advantage of orchestral parts for several nineteenth-century vaudevilles preserved in the BibliothГЁque Municipale in Avignon, France. Adding these musical accompaniments to published collections of tunes and printed librettos makes it possible to discuss orchestration, musical borrowing, relationship of text and music, and social significance of the early nineteenth century vaudeville in a much more complete way than was previously possible. Interest in vaudevilles has been growing in recent years, although it is more common to find discussions of the librettos than the music (Terni 2006). In general, too, the attention has been on vaudevilles of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries rather than the nineteenth. After a brief historical introduction to vaudeville, this chapter treats three areas. First, taking into consideration the significant differences between the structure of society then and there and here and now, to what extent can we correctly call this a “popular” mode of presenting music to a wide public? Second, more technically, what new elements are brought Page 191 →into play now that we can see a more complete picture of this genre? Here we will see that the image of the vaudeville is changed from that of a mechanism for recycling previously composed tunes (itself not a totally accurate perception) to a more sophisticated undertaking with a more comprehensive field of interest. And finally, moving beyond social positioning and techniques of borrowing, what cultural work is accomplished by this genre? Here we will suggest that the nineteenth-century French vaudeville, long neglected by music scholars, was an important force for societal cohesion and communication.

The Context and History of Vaudeville A vaudeville, in the original sense of the term, was a monophonic French song descended from two separate but oft-confused song types, the fifteenth-century popular vau de vire and the sixteenth-century courtly voix de ville, and incorporating some of their characteristics: texts involving popular and topical satire, strophic forms often with refrains, frequent use of dance rhythms. By the time of Louis XIV (r. 1643–1715), the word vaudeville had come to mean “topical songs in which political and court events were satirized” (Barnes 2001,341). The tunes to which these songs were sung were known to all and hence could be used and reused for new sets of words, a practice called contrafactum that began in the Middle Ages. The tunes themselves were known by a label called a timbre, which was usually some part of the text of their original version. The art of improvising a new text to an existing tune was cultivated during the eighteenth century by Parisian singing societies modeled on the prototypical Le Caveau, founded in 1733, which mixed the art of song with those of drinking and dining. The most famous collection of the airs used by these societies was Pierre Capelle’s La ClГ© de Caveau Г l’Usage de Chansonniers, eventually published in four editions (1810, 1816, 1827, and 1847), and containing a total of 2,350 tunes. At the same time, the inclusion of vaudevilles in spoken comedies performed in the Paris foires (fairs) led to a new definition for the term vaudeville: a spoken comedy interspersed with vaudevilles. The most striking image here is of spoken comedies whose songs were sung by the crowd to popular tunes, with the new text held up for them on posters. This approach represented a way of contravening the monopoly on musical theater held by the AcadГ©mie Royale de Musique, usually known as the OpГ©ra. Some of the tunes used in this way originated as early as the sixteenth century, were passed down Page 192 →for the most part by oral tradition, and remained well-known in the nineteenth century. Because of the vaudeville’s role in the development of the opГ©ra comique (Barnes 2001,342), it is easy to

presume that the vaudeville disappeared as the more elaborate and musically original form of opera evolved during the latter half of the eighteenth century. In fact the vaudeville, at various times also called comédie en vaudeville or comédie vaudeville, lived on as an extremely popular form of theatrical entertainment well into the nineteenth century. Thousands of vaudevilles were produced for the Paris stage, with the most popular subsequently “exported” to the French provinces as well as translated for other European countries, particularly England, Germany, and Russia. The first French theater devoted to this genre opened in 1792—the Théâtre du Vaudeville on Paris’s Boulevard du Temple. Reorganization of the theaters in 1807 saw this and some ten other houses strictly regulated according to what repertoire they could offer (Wild 1989, 13–14; Everist 2002, 29–33). Some were allowed only spoken drama (the Théâtre-Français), some only through-composed opera in French (the Opéra); others could perform a mixture of “lesser” genres but never the first two genres. A theater might be restricted to presenting plays with music based on preexisting tunes (the Théâtre du Vaudeville) or excerpts of more musically elaborate works and even some newly-composed music (the Gymnase Dramatique). The idea was to avoid competition over the same repertoire, although some overlap did occur. At the Gymnase Dramatique (known for a few years in the 1820s as the Théâtre de Madame), celebrated dramatist and librettist Eugène Scribe (1791–1861) collaborated with various lesser-known authors (many of them habitués of the singing societies mentioned earlier) to produce comedies vaudevilles of enormous popularity, using a range of musical possibilities: some long-familiar tunes, some excerpts from recently composed operas and opéra comiques, and some specially composed melodies by the resident music director.

Re-Creating a Genre beneath the Radar:The Text/The Music It is not difficult to find published texts for vaudevilles and related “light” genres of musical theater called by such names as folies vaudevilles, comГ©dies vaudevilles, and comГ©dies mГЄlГ©es de couplets. Some are available singly in rare books collections, while many more may be found in compilations such as La France Dramatique au Dix-NeuviГЁme SiГЁcle, Choix des Page 193 →Meilleures PiГЁces (1838). Most of these plays are in one or two acts, rather more rarely in three. The livret (little book or libretto) is, in turn, the key to finding the music for the individual songs or couplets (so-called because they are often in strophic form with the poetic text in pairs of rhyming lines). Above each set of couplets, which stand out from the prose dialogue of the comedy, is the name of the air or tune to which the poetry should be sung (see figure 7.1). In some cases, the air would be a very old one, but in others it would be borrowed either from a previously played vaudeville or from a more or less contemporary piece of musical theater, an opГ©ra comique, or even a fullblown opera. Were it not for the anthology of timbres or text tags(short texts retained from some part of the original tune, by which that tune is known) and airs published by Capelle, there would be little chance of finding the actual melody for this song. As it is, La ClГ© du Caveau (which features a multiplicity of indexes and a cumbersome separation of the names of the timbres from the music to which they refer) includes most of the tunes. As example 7.1 shows, the listing for “Un Homme pour Faire un Tableau” in one of the Clé’s several alphabetical indexes provides the number for that tune in a separate volume. This tune, No. 584, can then be used to sing the song shown in figure 7.1. The ClГ©, then, in some ways resembles a modern fakebook, although it provides no additional information such as text or chord symbols. The next question to address in re-creating the performance of a vaudeville is what kind of accompaniment was provided for the airs. We know that the Paris theaters at which vaudevilles were performed maintained orchestras of varying sizes and instruments. That there were also at least some contemporaneous musical sources for the orchestral parts is indicated inside the cover of some printed livrets, which indicate that the music for the piece is to be had at one or another location, generally a bookstore or the theater office. These orchestral parts were apparently made available to provide materials for this vaudeville to be performed at theaters in cities less theatrically fortunate than Paris. The result is that music archives in cities such as Bordeaux, Lyon, and Marseilles have provided the best information to date about the performance of these pieces. This is not to say that their performance materials are necessarily the same as those for Paris, but at least they reflect performance practice during the same time period. The orchestral parts for Scribe and Poirson’s Une Visite Г Bedlam, for example,

are available in the BibliothГЁque Municipale of Avignon, repository for the Ancien Théâtre (burned down in 1875). The extant materials include instrumental parts Page 194 →for an overture and sixteen vocal numbers. The overture involves parts for clarinet in Bв™-, bassoon, horn in F, violins, violas and “Basso” (usually indicating both cello and double bass during this time period); for the sung numbers, including the final vaudeville,1 there are string accompaniments only (see example 7.2). This archive, then, offers a wealth of information about performance practice for vaudevilles, comГ©dies vaudevilles, and other “minor” theatrical works. Figure 7.1. Page from the livret of Une Visite Г Bedlam, a one-act vaudeville by EugГЁne Scribe and CharlesGaspard Delestre-Poirson first performed at the Théâtre du Vaudeville on 24 April 1818.The name of the air, “Un Homme pour Faire un Tableau,” appears above the text of the song “Sur les Beaux-Arts et les Talents.” Taken from a compilation of Scribe’s complete theatrical works SablГ© Collection, St. Michael’s College Library, University of Toronto. Example 7.1. Page from Pierre Capelle’s La ClГ© du Caveau Г l’Usage de Chansonniers. 3rd ed. Paris: Janet et Cotelle. Robarts Library, University of Toronto. No. 584 presents the air, “Un Homme pour Faire un Tableau,” to which the song “Sur les Beaux-Artset les Talents”(figure 7.1) should be sung. Page 195 →

Popular Music? The music for early nineteenth-century vaudevilles seems to be analogous to what we call popular music today, although the differences between French society of that time and North American society today are great. Given that difference, we have to ask what qualifies this music as popular: the social class of the composer, the performer, the audience, Page 196 →or the style of the music itself? Most writers center their discussions on the audiences of a particular theater or group of theaters, and all express their frustration at describing this term very precisely.2 In general, Paris theaters were designated for a particular social class: If the “grands théâtres” were for the most part the preserve of the wealthier and more cultured sections of the community, there did exist other theatrical entertainments in the Théâtres de la Foire and, later in the century, in the Théâtres des Boulevards, for the delectation of the masses. (Lough 1965, 207) But, to the despair of some of the more aristocratically inclined writers of the day, the presence of the lower and middle ranks of society did not prevent the aristocracy from “swelling the crowds which frequented”these theaters(207).3 In short, during the eighteenth century, the audience at theaters that specialized in vaudevilles and related genres was a broad one, including the upper working class. Another attempt at defining audience structure closer to the period discussed here is Mark Everist’s meticulously researched study of the Théâtre-Royal de l’OdГ©on, which was a little more upscale than the Théâtre du Vaudeville and company. According to Everist (2002, 17), “Audiences at the theaters and entertainments on the boulevard du Temple were mostly domiciled within easy walking distance in the area between the faubourg du Temple and the river.”4 Only the wealthy could afford to travel by private vehicle or even by horseback, so at least until 1828, when improvements occurred in public transportation,most people lived their daily lives and made their choices of entertainment within the area easily traversed on foot (Everist 2002, 14–21). The theaters stretching east from the intersection of the Boulevard des Italiens and the Boulevard Montmartre—that is, along the Boulevards Montmartre, de Bonne Nouvelles, St-Martin and du Temple—were all set at an increasingly “comfortable” distance from the socially exclusive royal theaters and the fashionable cafГ©s of the Ninth Arrondissement. They would attract a crowd that included either the “carriage trade” (able to travel by coach and horses) or local residents, and this area was not that of le tout Paris, as fashionable society was called (Everist 2002, 21–22). Thus, Everist, like Lough, concludes that the Boulevard theaters probably played to a mixed audience, socially

speaking. Although the Théâtre du Gymnase Dramatique, situated on the Boulevard de Bonne Nouvelle, enjoyed the aristocratic patronage of Madame la Duchesse de Page 197 →Berri from 1824 until 1830, it opened in 1820 explicitly to bring excerpts of the works normally performed at the royal theaters (as long as they had fallen into the public domain) to tout le monde.5 Those aristocrats who attended the Théâtre du Gymnase Dramatique and its sister theaters could be considered to be slumming. The social class of the performers, however, is not in any doubt. Historically, French actors had been a socially marginal group, in part because of the disapproval of the Catholic Church, which grouped them with such undesirables as usurers, prostitutes, and robbers. In addition, their lifestyle made them itinerants, grouped into families that passed on their profession from one generation to the next, rarely settling in one place (MongrГ©dien 1980, 159). Brazier’s contemporary account indicates that the social status of vaudeville performers had not changed in the nineteenth century. For example, DГ©saugiers, a comedien, author, and even orchestra director of many successful vaudevilles, traveled through southern France between sojourns in Paris, initially at the Théâtres des Jeunes Artistes, and at one time had barely enough money to buy a loaf of bread (Brazier 1969, 123). The social class of the tunes used in vaudevilles presents a mixed profile. Some of the songs in the ClГ© are popular in the sense that they come from the “people”—that is, they are so old that no one knows who composed them. They have been passed down by oral tradition until being anthologized in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and while they are simple, they display enough character to elicit the memorywork of generations of people. Some such tunes exist in multiple variants but with remarkably stable meanings over time; others maintain their melodic characteristics while undergoing multiple changes in association. An example of both aspects of recollection is “Malborouck s’en Va-t-en Guerre,” the melody of which North Americans now use when singing “The Bear Went over the Mountain”or “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”In 1815, however, the tune was known to people of every class and in all corners of Europe as Napoleon’s favorite song and an emblem of his military exploits (whether seen favorably or not). An even earlier generation of Frenchmen sang the song in derision for their archenemy John Spencer, the first Duke of Marlborough, who defeated the forces of Louis XIV at Blenheim in 1704. The text of two of the many stanzas refers to the death and interment of “Malbrough,” an example of wishful thinking, since the English hero lived until 1722. So well-known was this association that Daniel Steibelt (1765–1823), living in St. Petersburg from 1810 until the end of his life, wrote a “Battle piece” evoking Napoleon’s Page 198 →invasion of Moscow with the tune “Mal’bruk Na Voinu Edet” (Malbruk Goes to War) (Keldysh 1986, 242). Beaumarchais used the tune in a dramatic work, “Cherubin’s Romance,” sung to the Countess and Suzanna in Act II, scene 4 of Le Mariage de Figaro, which was written in 1781 but not performed until three years later (Brown 1986, 261). Apparently incongruous at first, it proves to be a foreshadowing of Cherubin’s intended fate at the hands of the jealous Count, who sends him off to a regiment, much to Figaro’s merriment. Perhaps because Beaumarchais did some advance advertising for his play by unveiling “Cherubin’s Romance” as early as 1782, the song enjoyed a period of Marlboroughmanie: “Chapeaux, chignons, cannes, mouchoirs, gants, Г©ventails, la mode est tout Г la Marlborough. Les théâtres des boulevards reprГ©sentent en son honneur des farces burlesques et grivoises [Hats, chignons, handkerchiefs, gloves, fans, fashion was all about Marlborough. In his honor, the boulevard theaters performed farces, burlesques, and saucy jokes]” (von Proschwitz 1956, 313).6 The military association with “Malborouck,” then, was consistent for at least a century in Europe and is still learned today by French schoolchildren. For Anglo-Americans, however, the allusion is long gone. A tune that can now be found under the heading of “folk song” or “popular tune” in CD listings was already the property of all social classes and had a distinct and unified profile in the minds of serious composers, aristocratic patrons, middle- and lower-class singers and/or audiences (Brazier 1969, 189–231).7 The way Beaumarchais used “Malborouck” exemplifies vaudeville treatments of preexisting melodies. The associations that came from the borrowed tunes, whether humorous or ironic, were an essential part of the meaning of the song and the play. Not all the tunes were of ancient ancestry, however, and vaudeville librettos are

full of references to the melodies of current or recent works intended for all levels of society. Table 7.1 presents examples of several works, among them the three vaudevilles discussed here, from the period of the French Bourbon restoration (1815–30) and the works from which they borrow their texts or musical material. All three of the vaudevilles, Une Visite Г Bedlam, Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie, and Le Diplomate, involve livrets by Scribe and a less famous collaborator; all three were performed at Paris boulevard theaters; all three were subsequently performed, among other venues, at the Ancien Théâtre in Avignon as well as at the prestigious Bolshoi Theatre in St. Petersburg, Russia.8 Some couplets in these vaudevilles were set to newly composed tunes, Page 200 →which might then be reused in a later vaudeville, now labeled, for example, “Air de Une Visite Г Bedlam.” Among the borrowings, however, are not only popular melodies but also tunes from Weber’s Der FreischГјtz (1821), a German romantic opera; BoГЇeldieu’s Le Calife de Bagdad (1800), an opГ©ra comique; Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia (1816, commedia per musica) and MoГЇse (1827, opera), along with others from less famous works. Examples of this latter type of melody could not be described as folk or popular, and their composers were certainly not as destitute as the performers described earlier. No matter how the composers are ascribed to a particular class, the melodies by Weber, BoГЇeldieu, and Rossini were written or rewritten for Paris’s royal theaters, the OpГ©ra, the OpГ©ra-Comique, and the OdГ©on. The presence of such melodies in vaudevilles along with tunes of lower origin can only be seen as a sign of the genre’s melting-pot character. Page 199 → Table 7.1. Dates and Performance Venues of Works City, Theater, Librettists, Title and Date of (Genre as Printed on Avignon First First Libretto) Performance performance Published Borrows From Scribe and Varner, Plus New Paris, music not Rossini, Il Barbiere di Siviglia, Beau Jour de la arrangement Théâtre du published “Quartet”; Weber, Robin des Bois, Vie—(“ComГ©die of timbres Gymnase French arrangement of Der FreischГјtz; Vaudeville en deux from ClГ©, Dramatique, 22 BoГЇeldieu, Le Calife de Bagdad actes”) excerpts from February 1825 Rossini and Weber by Conyardi Scribe and Poirson, Une Set of parts Théâtre du music not No excerpts from operas; uses melodies Visite Г Bedlam apparently Vaudeville, 24 published from ClГ©, two newly composed melodies, (“ComГ©die en un with music as April 1818 one each by MГ©lesvilles and Doche* acte, mГЄlГ©e de received from vaudevilles”) Paris Scribe and Delavigne, One set of Paris, music not Auber/Scribe and Delavigne, La Neige; ou, Le Diplomate parts from Théâtre du published Le Nouvel Г‰ginard; Rossini, MoГЇse [et (ComГ©die Vaudeville Paris, second Gymnase Pharaon, Le Passage de la Mer Rouge] en deux actes) set of parts Dramatique,23 copied for October 1827 this venue Auber/Scribe and Paris, Paris, 1823 Vocal writing influenced by Rossini Delavigne, La Neige; Théâtre de ou, Le Nouvel l’OpГ©raГ‰ginard Comique, 8 (“OpГ©ra October 1823 Comique”)

Rossini/Sterbini after Beaumarchais, Il Barbiere di Siviglia (“Commedia per musica”) Rossini/Balocchi and de Jouy, Moïse [et Pharaon, Le Passage de la Mer Rouge] (“Grand Opera”) Castil-Blaze/CastilBlaze and Thomas (translation and arrangement of Weber’s Der Freischútz), Robin des Bois(“Sauvage Romantic Opera”)

Rome, Teatro Paris, Argentina, 20 1820–21; February 1816 full score, Rome, 1827. Paris, Opéra, Full and 26 March 1827 vocal scores, Paris, 1827

Libretto for Paisiello/Petrosellini, Il Barbiere di Siviglia (1782)

Revision of Rossini/Tottola, MosГЁ in Egitto, Teatro San Carlo, Naples, March 1818

Paris, Vocal score Translation and arrangement of Weber, Der Théâtre of Der Freischütz, Berlin, 18 June 1821 Royale de Freischútz, l’Odéon, Berlin, 1822 7 December 1824

*Used, in turn, in the comédie vaudeville, “Est-Ce un Rêve?” by M. de Rougement, first performed at the Théâtre du Palais-Royal, 4 July 1835, Scene 7, La France Dramatique (1838), 1:78 (each vaudeville paginated separately). Finally, there is the style of the melodies themselves. Is there a class distinction to be found between tunes of folk origin and those by composers for the Opéra or Opéra-Comique? The first reaction of most observers to this question is that the lower the origin of the tune, the more apt it is to be plain, repetitive, easily sung as a consequence of small intervals and simple rhythms—in short, “ordinary.” However, as Ralph Locke (2004, 25–30) argues, some “art” music and “folk” music melodies were very similar in every way during the nineteenth century, and operatic and popular songs were distinguished from each other by the bel canto treatment afforded the basic melodies. A way to test this out would be to do a double-blind test on the melodies of the Clé to see if music aficionados with various educational backgrounds could distinguish between tunes of popular and operatic origin. No doubt there is a continuum here: no one would ever label Berlioz’s “Idée Fixe” from the Symphonie Fantastiqueas a folk or folk-inspired melody (overlooking the fact that it is an instrumental rather than vocal melody), nor would anyone claim “Frère Jacques” as high art, even when it appears in Mahler’s First Symphony.

Paradigms of Borrowing This brings us to the topic at the very center of the art of the vaudeville: the deliberate, even institutionalized, art of borrowing. According to the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, “Many musical compositions incorporate material from one or more earlier works. [The] use of existing music as a basis for new music is pervasive in all periods and traditions,Page 201 → parallel to and yet different from the practices of borrowing, reworking and allusion that contribute to the formation of traditions and the creation of meaning in literature, architecture, painting and sculpture” (Burkholder 2001, 5). In musical scholarship, the image of the vaudeville involves the expectation of use and reuse of simple popular tunes in more or less exact form and involves contrafactum and simple accompaniment, if any. The genre itself is, then, antithetical to the intense concerns of nineteenth- and twentieth-century musicians, audiences, and scholars with originality and creativity alongside the development of the concept of “the composer’s creation as an inviolable entity” (Boyd 2001, 69). Not only does the vaudeville quote existing material in its melodies, but even the accompaniments (which previously were not even published) are made for purely practical purposes and hardly require any creativity on the part of the arranger. It is not surprising, then, that the vaudeville has received little attention from music scholars. As always in music history, it is important to address examples from a particular time and place, since distance in

either of these parameters creates the possibility of misconception. Terms such as opГ©ra comique change meaning over time, for example, and must be defined carefully, down to the decade. The same observation applies to the vaudevilles, a reminder that the details of performance practice in Avignon cannot necessarily be generalized to other times and places. We have already mentioned the usual use of borrowed material: the tunes often found in the ClГ©. Examples 7.2a and 7.2b show how a single tune was used in two different vaudevilles, illustrating the small difference between one arrangement and another. The example from Une Visite Г Bedlam was probably provided with music by the Paris copyists, whereas the arrangement found in Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie is signed “Conyardi,” the second in command of music at the Ancien Théâtre, using the tune as found in the ClГ©. The example shows a contrafactum in the vocal line and the simplicity of the accompaniment used for the Avignon performances. In bothUne Visite Г Bedlam and Le Diplomate, the timbre, “Un Homme pour Faire un Tableau” is selected to point to the self-importance of the character himself rather than the words he sings. In Bedlam he is a ridiculously pompous “composer” always bursting into song, constantly calling attention to his latest grand opus. In Diplomate he is an equally self-important character, singing about his own pursuit of pleasure and laughable inadequacy for his post. Example 7.2a. Une Visite Г Bedlam, No. 1, mm. 1–9, Avignon, BibliothГЁque Municipale, Ms. M. 396 [Parties] Page 202 →Examples 7.3a and 7.3b show another pair of couplets based on the same tune: No. 6 in Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie and No. 5 in Le Diplomate. The timbre, “Air des Scythes et des Amazons” (not found in the ClГ©, 2nd ed.), is from a plot involving a battle between two notoriously fierce warrior tribes, one male and the other female, where the latter use their feminine wiles to turn the tables and conquer the hopelessly outclassed (from the point of view of sophistication) males. The timbre is an apt one for a diplomat who is ready to fight and even exterminate the enemy on paper but who also vacillates between thinking without fighting and fighting without thinking. In Plus Beau, the idea is used to defend fickleness in love. This is an example of word-painting, which refers to the relationship between the text of the couplets of Plus Beau and the tune to which it is Page 203 →sung: at the word girouettes, meaning both “turncoat” and “weathervane” and thus inviting literary puns on matters military and amorous, the melody makes a pirouette that expresses exactly the denotation of the word.9 In this case, both the origin of the tune and its musical characteristics carry the meaning of the new text. Example 7.2b. Le Diplomate, No. 7, mm. 1–9, Avignon, BibliothГЁque Municipale, Ms. M. 242 [Parties] Example 7.4 shows a very different type of number: the finale to Act I of Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie (No.14) by Scribe and Antoine FranГ§ois Page 204 →Varner, first performed at the Gymnase Dramatique in 1825. Here we have an example of borrowing at a greater magnitude: after a recitative (a borrowing of the style of speechsong used for the dialogue portions in full-blown opera in places where the lesser forms of opГ©ra comique and vaudeville would normally use spoken dialogue), we have an ensemble for several singers and chorus, the whole bearing a strong resemblance to a portion of one of the most successful operas of the day, Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia. This extensive borrowing does, however, agree with the license for the Gymnase, which allowed for the performance of “works that had fallen into the public domain but in fragments only” (Everist 2002, 31). Example 7.3a. Conyardi arr., Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie, No. 6, mm. 11–21, Avignon, BibliothГЁque Municipale, Ms. M. 122 [Parties] This again is an arrangement of existing music with the text replaced Page 205 →to fit the new plot. The technique goes well beyond the use of either contrafactum seen in the previous examples to the arrangement of the whole body of an existing operatic number. To appreciate this borrowing, we need to know that the complex plot of the Barber reduces to the need to trick Dr. Bartolo, the guardian of young Rosina, into letting her marry young

“Lindoro,” who is actually Count Almaviva. The courtship and eventual marriage are facilitated by the Count’s clever valet/barber/factotum, Figaro. In Act III, Bartolo has managed to overhear the Count Page 206 →mentioning one of his tricks to gain access to the guardian’s house and now threatens violence if they do not “get out of here quickly” (Rossini 1962, 251). Since Bartolo himself intends to marry Rosina, not a very palatable fate for the eighteen-year-old, the conflict is a serious one, even if treated comically. Example 7.3b. Conyardi arr., Le Diplomate, No. 5, mm. 13–22, Avignon, BibliothГЁque Municipale, Ms. M. 242 [Parties] Example 7.4. Conyardi arr., Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie, No. 14, mm. 1–8, Avignon, BibliothГЁque Municipale, Ms. M. 122 [Parties] Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie, in contrast, is a lighthearted comedy about mistaken identity concerning the fiancГ©s of two sisters. It is far less intricate than Il Barbiere but has a high point of confusion wherein the bride, Antonine, becomes distraught about whether to wear the traditional orange blossoms in her hair. The material of Rossini’s quartet is borrowed Page 207 →for this tempest in a teapot, aided by some similar words in the two librettos. The humor involves the powerful conflict/confusion music written by Rossini being applied to a trivial matter. The relationship between the music of Plus Beau, No. 14, and its Rossini model is more complex than our previous examples, since the borrowed material involves the adaptation of several solo vocal parts, chorus, and orchestral accompaniment rather than a single melodic line. The vaudeville uses roughly 130 bars of the original 150 measures of Rossini’s Quartet for Rosina, Count Almaviva, Figaro and Bartolo, “La testa vigira.” (Rossini, 1962, No.15) The quotation is transposed down to D major, accommodation is made in the orchestration—the original five string parts are reduced to three first violins, two seconds, and one cello—and some sections are similar in manner without actually quoting Rossini. For example, at the section corresponding to Bartolo’s “Bricconi! Birbanti!” (Rossini 1962, 251) Conyardi’s music recalls Rossini’s move from broken vocal exclamations in which the accompaniment is instructed to follow the voice to more regular four-bar phrases. Most striking, starting in Plus Beau, m. 35, the vaudeville adheres very closely to Rossini’s music from Bartolo’s “Su fuori, furfanti” (Rossini 1962, pp. 253–55) to the end of the section, including several soloists, a choral interjection, and the orchestral accompaniment. Two stylistic features of Plus Beau No. 14 stand out. First, the inclusion of an actual excerpt from a current opera into a genre that more usually quoted only melodies suggests that a vaudeville or comГ©die vaudeville in two acts stands as a separate subgenre that we could call a “pasticcio en vaudeville.”10 Second, the use of recitative in a vaudeville in place of spoken dialogue changes the feel of the piece, raising it to what generally seems to be a higher level of musical expression. At the same time, we see in parts of this borrowing an exact quotation of musical material (discounting the change in orchestration) and in others a less exact imitation of style. Finally and most obviously, there is the replacement of the original text and plot with another language and story. To this point, I have described the use of existing melodies and operatic numbers in a typical vaudeville in standard musicological terms. Looked at in the wider context of what literary scholars call intertextuality, this terminology seems somewhat mechanical. As Philip Tagg has expressed, Most of the terms describing musical structure have to do with its construction, with how as a musician or a composer you put the sounds Page 208 →together. Every description, every word that describe a chord, for example, does not tell you how the chord feels [to the listener] or how you perceive the chord, but how you construct it. (Pedneault 2003, 6) The result is that the significance of the borrowing is not explained, only its mechanics. Individual scholars must overcome this scheme, offering insights on a case-by-case basis. I therefore add a few observations adapted from the literary theory of GГ©rard Genette (1997), as explained in Palimpsests.11 Palimpsest: 1 a piece of writing material or manuscript on which the original writing has been effaced to make room for other writing. 2 a monumental brass turned and re-engraved on the reverse side. [L

palimpsestus f. Gk palimpsД“stos f. palin again + psД“stos rubbed smooth].(Pearsall, 1996, 1048)

Transtextuality is Genette’s (1997, 1) term for what we now call “intertextuality”; it is “all that sets a text in a relationship, whether obvious or concealed, with other texts.” Intertextuality (pace Kristeva and Riffaterre) is “a relationship of copresence between two texts or among several textsВ .В .В . typically as the actual presence of one text within another” (2). Both direct quotation and plagiarism fall into this category of relationship between texts. Hypertextuality refers to “any relationship uniting a text B (which [Genette calls] the hypertext) to an earlier text A (.В .В .В the hypotext)” (5). And finally, archtextuality “involves a relationship that is completely silent, [and] of a purely taxonomic nature” (4). The attempt to apply Genette’s concepts to the vaudeville helps to counter that genre’s prevailing image of simplicity with an appreciation for the built-in complexity of any work that involves two arts—in this case, music and literature (both prose and poetry). Not only does each partner have its own relationship with other musical or literary artifacts, but the combination, the polyphony of meanings also interacts to create a yet more intricate fabric. The relationship between hypertext (the vaudeville) and hypotext (melody from the ClГ© or complete number from an opera) then involves a number of Genette’s categories of borrowing as well as the main concept of his theory. The replacement of sung text is like the palimpsest of his book title and of the dictionary definition: a meaning that lingers somehow from a now-erased inscription. This evocative image helps us to imagine both the connotations and the feelings aroused in the audiencePage 209 → by this recombination of text and music, with the timbre (text tag) or the Rossini plot and dialogue, although unstated, no doubt hanging in the back of the listener’s mind. Or we could view it as an indirect transformation—for example, where the idea of the man worthy of a portrait is applied to a man clearly unworthy. In both cases, the tune’s previous connotation sends up the real-life composer and diplomat through the portrayal of the ridiculous one onstage. The memory or shadow of the hypotext forms part of the expressive power of the hypertext. The direct quotation of melodies from the ClГ© would also fit the term intertextuality, the “actual presence of one text within another,” while the arrangement of the music from Rossini’s quartet to produce No. 14 of the vaudeville fits Genette’s definition of hypertextuality. Most interesting here is the imitation of Rossini’s way of proceeding from disconnected vocal phrases toward a more regular four-bar structure without actually quoting the musical material. Here, the composer of the vaudeville music is imitating style and genre without reproducing the action (or in this case, the details of the music). The idea of imitating and adapting genre, Genette’s pastiche, distinguishes the vaudevilles in one act from those in two acts. The one-act Bedlam uses preexisting melodies, conceivably from operas, but Diplomate and Plus Beau, both in two acts, take a leap into pastiche with the borrowing of stylistic features (melody, harmony, performing forces, accompaniment) from any and all operatic subgenres: opera buffa, opГ©ra comique, grand opera, and singspiel (see table 7.1). Comic and serious, Italian, French, and German—all can be adapted, arranged, and incorporated into the two-act vaudeville. And behind the vaudeville’s force is the unmentioned shadow of first-echelon composers from all over Europe.

Cultural Work The vaudevilles investigated here were, in their time, very popular entertainments. They not only played in Paris and the French provinces but were exported to other European countries. The best example of this is the tremendous vogue for boulevard-style musical theater in St. Petersburg, Russia, between the 1820s and 1840s. The three vaudevilles discussed here all played in the imperial theaters, performed not only by a French troupe (presumably presenting the original) but also in Russian translation by a Russian troupe with newly composed music by the Russian counterparts of Conyardi. For the Russian audience, the vaudeville was one of the strongest expressions of French culture. Page 210 →The same sort of communication work went on in France itself. Hearing the repetition of commonly

held melodies, some of them of popular origin, audiences were constantly reminded of a cultural heritage that they shared with all layers of French society. Working in the opposite direction, the excerpts from opera, opГ©ra comique, and opera buffa would acquaint middle-class or upper-working-class audiences with more elaborate musico dramatic genres generally performed in the royal theaters. The vaudevilles served as a melting pot of high and low culture, uniting the French population in a way that we hardly see in our own country today.

Notes 1. Confusingly,Vaudeville refers not only to a melody and to a genre (as discussed previously) but also to the final musical number of the performance, in which each character in the play sings at least one stanza of a strophic form, with the last one generally directed to the audience asking their continued attendance at the theater or stating the moral of the story. 2. The preface to Lough (1965, v) provides an example: “This book does not claim to provide the impossible, a precise and detailed picture of the changing theatre audiences of seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury Paris.” 3. For a full discussion of social class and audience in the period immediately before the one discussed here, see Lough 1965, chapter 3, “From Marivaux to Beaumarchais.” 4. Everist (2002, 21) mentions this area, the Marais, as one of four districts inhabited by le tout Paris–that is, all of Paris that mattered. The aristocracy had lived in this area up until the revolution, but a visit to Paris today will find it is now the district dedicated to the rag trade, jewelers, and goldsmiths. The change took place in the late eighteenth century, when the nobility began moving west. According to a modern tourist guide: “After the taking of the Bastille, the quarter was virtually abandoned” [by the nobility]” (Michelin Paris, 220). 5. That is, tout le monde who could pay the price of entry—members of the prosperous working class as well as the bourgeoisie and aristocracy. See Brazier 1969, 79. 6. “I thank Dr. Neal Johnson for calling my attention to this description. 7. For a good contemporaneous discussion of singing societies, social class, and the changes of meaning attributed to a particular chanson, see Brazier 1969, chapter on “Les Societies Chantantes.” 8. Not to be confused with the Moscow Bolshoi Theatre, the St. Petersburg Bolshoi burned down later in the nineteenth century and was replaced by the Mariinsky Theatre, which remains in use today. 9. Word-painting or madrigalism refers to the description in music of the meaning of a word of text in a vocal work. The most obvious examples might be the use of a descending musical line for a text expressing a descent (very often into Hades or hell). Page 211 →10. More than half of Scribe’s vaudevilles in two acts include excerpts from current operas. 11. Talbot 2000 explains Genette’s terminology as applied to twentieth- and twenty-first-century popular music. See especially Lacasse 2000, this volume; Middleton 2000; Sanden, this volume; Castonguay, this volume.

References Barnes, Clifford. 2001. “Vaudeville.” In The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., edited by Stanley Sadie. Vol 26, pp. 340–46. New York: Grove. Boyd, Malcolm. 2001. “Arrangement.” In The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., edited by Stanley Sadie. Vol. 2, pp. 65–71. New York: Grove. Burkholder, J.Peter. 2001. “Borrowing.” In the New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2nd ed., edited by Stanley Sadie. Vol.4, pp. 5–41.New York: Grove. Brazier, Nicolas. 1838/1969. Histoire des Petits Théâtres de Paris depuis Leur Origine. New York: Franklin. Brown, Bruce Alan. 1986. “Beaumarchais, Mozart, and the Vaudeville: Two Examples from вЂThe Marriage of Figaro.’” Musical Times, May, 261–65.

Capelle, Pierre Adolphe. 1827. La ClГ© du Caveau, Г l’Usage de Tous les Chansonniers FranГ§ais, des Amateurs, Auteurs, Acteurs du Vaudeville, et de Tous les Amis de la Chanson. 3rd ed. Paris: Janet et Cotelle. Everist, Mark. 2002. Music Drama at the Paris OdГ©on, 1824–1828. Berkeley: University of California Press. La France Dramatique au Dix-NeuviГЁme SiГЁcle, Choix des Meilleures Pieces. 1838. Paris: Barba. Genette, GГ©rard. 1997. Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree. Translated by Channa Newman and Claude Doubinsky. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Giraud, Yves, ed. 1980. La Vie Théâtrale dans les Provinces du Midi: Actes du Colloque de Grasse, 1976. TГјbingen: Narr; Paris: Place. Keldysh, Iurii, ed. 1986. Istoriia Russkoi Muzyki [History of Russian Music]. Vol. 4, 1800–1825. Moscow: Muzyka. Lacasse, Serge. 2000. “Hypertextuality and Intertextuality in Recorded Popular Music.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by Michael Talbot, 35–58. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Leterrier, Sophie-Anne. 1999. “Musique Populaire et Musique Savante au XIX SiГЁcle: Du вЂPeuple’ au вЂPublic.’” Revue d’Histoire du XIXe siГЁcle 19: 89–103. Locke, Ralph. 2004. “Nineteenth-Century Music: Quantity, Quality, Qualities.” Journal of NineteenthCentury Music 1 (1): 3–41. Lough, John. 1957/1965. Paris Theatre Audiences in the Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries. London: Oxford University Press. Michelin Paris. N.d. Watford: n.p. Middleton, Richard. 2000. “Work-in-(g) Practice: Configuration of the Popular Music Intertext.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by Michael Talbot, 59–87. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. MongrГ©dien, Georges. 1980. “Familles de ComГ©diens au XVIIe SiГЁcle.” In La Vie Page 212 →Théâtrale dans les Provinces du Midi: Actes du Colloque de Grasse, 1976, edited by Yves Giraud, 159–63. TГјbingen: Narr; Paris: Place. Pearsall, Judy, and Bill Trumble, eds. 1996. The Oxford English Reference Dictionary. 2nd ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pedneault, Julie, interviewer. 2003. “Colloquy/DГ©bat: On Popular Music/Г Propos de Musique Populaire: Philip Tagg, William Straw.” Canadian University Music Review/Revue de Musique des UniversitГ©s Canadiennes 23 (1–2): 1–9. Rossini, Gioacchino. 1962. The Barber of Seville (Il Barbiere di Siviglia). New York: Schirmer. Schneider, Herbert, ed. 1996. Das Vaudeville: Funktionen Eines MultimedialenPhГ¤nomens. Hildesheim: Olms. Schneider, Herbert, ed. 1999. Timbre und Vaudeville: Zur Geschichte und Problematik einer populГ¤ren Gattung im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert., Hildesheim: Olms. Scribe, EugГЁne, and Casimir Delavigne. 1838. Le Diplomate. Paris: Barba. Scribe, EugГЁne, and Charles-Gaspard Delestre-Poirson. 1838. Une Visite Г Bedlam. Paris: Barba. Scribe, EugГЁne, and Antoine FranГ§ois Varner. 1838. Le Plus Beau Jour de la Vie. Paris: Barba.

Talbot, Michael, ed. 2000. The Musical Work: Reality or Invention? Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Terni, Jennifer. 2006. “A Genre of Early Mass Culture: French Vaudeville and the City, 1830–1848.” Theatre Journal 58 (2): 221–38. von Proschwitz, Gunnar. 1956. Introduction à l’Étude du Vocabulaire de Beaumarchais. Stockholm: Almqvist Wiksell. Wild, Nicole. 1989. Dictionnaire des Théâtres Parisiens au XIX Siècle: Les Théâtres et la Musique. Paris: Amateurs des Livres.

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Section III Intermedial Subjectivities

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Eight. Rap Gods and Monsters Words, Music, and Images in the Hip-Hop Intertexts of Eminem, JayZ, and Kanye West Lori Burns and Alyssa Woods HIP-HOP INTERTEXTUAL practices extend beyond sampling to include extensive lyrical, musical, and visual references to the work of other rappers as well as to a broad range of popular culture and media texts. As Justin A. Williams (2013, 1) has suggested, “The fundamental element of hip-hop culture and aesthetics is the overt use of preexisting material to new ends.”1 In this chapter, we are concerned with how artists build their intertexts to claim power and authority within the genre, to address the challenges of fame and celebrity status, and to negotiate representations of gender, race, and class within the industry. More specifically, we focus on a selection of songs and videos that confront these cultural issues in and through allusions to powerful figures of mythic proportions—gods—that become a central organizing force in the shaping of the intertextual expression. We expose the ways in which the artists deploy and manipulate these figures to negotiate status in the hip-hop industry. Furthermore, as we interpret these intertextual strategies, we understand the artists to be engaged in the act of mythmaking, insofar as they act on their identities, both individually and collectively, as authoritative figures within the frame of the hip-hop genre. The year 2013 saw the release of albums from three of the leading male artists in mainstream rap: Kanye West’s sixth studio album, Yeezus (18 June), Jay-Z’s twelfth, Magna Carta Holy Grail (4 July), and Eminem’s eighth, The Marshall Mathers LP 2 (5 November).2 All three albums debutedPage 216 → at No. 1 on the Billboard 200 chart, all are concept albums, and all reveal the artists to be reflecting critically on their artistic careers and celebrity status. West’s album was acclaimed for its innovative minimalist sonic landscape, featuring raw vocals backed by an edgy bass-heavy instrumentation that reveals the influences of industrial rock and post-punk.3 We focus here on “Black Skinhead” (track 2), which offers a harsh statement about racism, fame, and the role of the rapper in the hip-hop industry. Jay-Z’s album had mixed reviews, with compliments to Timbaland’s beats and production but criticism for the invocation of pop strategies and the rapper’s lack of aggression and urgency.4 “Holy Grail” (track 1, featuring Justin Timberlake), offers brooding reflections on Jay-Z’s ambivalence toward celebrity status in the context of his earlier financial struggles and life conditions.5 Eminem’s album, with its title reference to his critically acclaimed third studio album, was noted for his nostalgic references to previous songs as well as his rap virtuosity, as evident in the diversity of his flows and aggressive delivery.6 “Rap God” (track 9) is saturated with references to other rappers and rap styles as well as to his own place in the rap industry. In these musical texts, West, Jay-Z and Eminem craft meanings and messages through references to other works and cultural signifiers. Each tells a story about his position and lineage within the competitive hip-hop industry by developing intertextual references that point to issues of fame and status, race and class, wealth and power as well as religion. These references emerge not only in the song lyrics and music but also in the images of the music videos that were released to promote the songs. Our analysis of these mainstream hip-hop tracks explores how the artists use particular materials and strategies to shape a cultural commentary, and we consider how these materials and strategies intersect as hip-hop intertexts. More specifically, we determine what references are chosen in the lyrical, musical, and visual domains and analyze how these references are knitted into the multidimensional expression of the rapper’s work. Recognizing the significance of rivalry and the practice of braggadocio in the rhetoric of rap, we interrogate how these rappers use other texts to develop meanings and to assert a stance in relation to those texts. To that end, we ask what their commentaries tell us about the workings of power and ideology in mainstream hip-hop. Our approach to intertextuality is grounded in an a priori concern for the cultural and historical contexts of the

borrowings, an approach that is adopted by John Frow (1990, 46): Page 217 →What is relevant to textual interpretation is not, in itself, the identification of a particular intertextual source but the more general discursive structure (genre, discursive formation, ideology) to which it belongs. This has implications for the kind of knowledge we should expect to be relevant to the reading of texts. It suggests that detailed scholarly information is less important than the ability to reconstruct the cultural codes which are realized and contested in texts. In keeping with Frow’s assertion, we not only name the references in the works we examine but also unearth the cultural and historical significance of those references and seek to understand why and how they are integrated into new musical contexts.7 Our objective is to understand how these artists shape their messages and forge their mythic identities by positioning themselves in relation to a complex gathering of cultural and historical references. In this regard, we agree with Frow’s (1990, 45) conception of texts as “traces and tracings of otherness” that are “shaped by the repetition and the transformation of other textual structures.” In the case of the song and video texts examined here, multiple references coexist and interact within a multidimensional structure in which the individual domains of sound, word, and image are important sites for artistic expression. In the sonic domain, musical references can be samples—that is, actual mechanical reproductions of other works. They might also be more appropriately identified as borrowings—that is, performances that are based on earlier works but that are re-created for the given track. Yet another hip-hop musical strategy is the imitation of a particular style or mode of delivery—for example, the adoption of a particular rap flow that signals an artist known for that expressive style. In his classification of intertextual strategies, Mark Spicer (2009, 354) would understand samples or specific borrowings to be strategic intertextuality (references to a specific work), while he would identify the style imitation as stylistic intertextuality (connections without specific work references). In the interest of expanding on Spicer’s intertextual model, our approach extends his strategic and stylistic categories to the domains of lyrics and images. In the domain of lyrics, strategic references might include the names of specific rappers, celebrities, and musical works as well as popular figures or materials, while stylistic references might be a more general exploration of common themes or concepts. In the visual field as in the musical domain, strategic references would be specific borrowing of iconic images and materials, while stylistic references might Page 218 →invoke the aesthetics or style features of another work. In our analysis of the chosen intertexts, we distinguish strategic and stylistic intertextuality within the individual domains. Ultimately, our analysis not only distinguishes the layers but also illustrates how they intersect to create a complex multidimensional artistic expression.

Mythmaking Our approach to intertextuality is enhanced by the theoretical concept of mythmaking. One of the overarching challenges with this concept is that it is associated with multiple meanings and applications. The common usage of the term mythmaking is generally critical, implying that anything labeled as a myth is inherently untrue. The academic understanding of the term, however, is somewhat more complex. In the fields of anthropology and religious studies, mythmaking is understood as a process whereby actors within a group either consciously or unconsciously create group or individual identities (Malinowski 1954; Eliade 1964; Smith 1982; Smart 1996; McCutcheon 2000). These identities are closely related to and reflective of group norms, explanations for historical occurrences, and shifts in group circumstances. The history and circumstances of the group are intrinsic to the identity of the actor within the group.8 As religious studies scholar Burton Mack (1993, 208–9) explains, A myth projects the agreements that have been reached about the proper way to do things and what to value in human relationships. By a marvelous use of metaphor, dislocation, and visual transformation, myth combines these agreements with a people’s memory traditions and recasts its history as a storied world. The world it describes functions to remind a people that they are not the first to have lived where they do and the way they do. Although a myth is the product of a people’s social experience and best judgments, it tells a people that the world they live in is not their creation but has already been inhabited. The codes, arrangements, patterns of authority are already set. Myths

frequently tell about the time when those arrangements first were made.

In essence, then, myths codify beliefs, establish norms, give credence to the efficacy of rituals, and provide moral guidance (Malinkowski 1954). Through their historical contexts, myths also affirm authority, lineage, Page 219 →and social order. Within Western culture, religious mythmaking has often been the consequence of a group attempting to establish credibility amid changing and often threatening political and social contexts (Mack 1993). In such circumstances, group actors ascribe mythic status to a salvific figure. Since there is no all-inclusive definition that will perfectly encapsulate what we are exploring, we operate within the guidelines of a working definition that incorporates certain elements: (1) at their core, myths are concerned with creation (creation of a world, a group, a place, a movement), and (2) these myths lay out the lives and exploits of important figures within the history of the group, including founders, heroes, and even villains, and their impact on the history, development, and current circumstances of the group in question and its members. Myths then, whether religious or secular, offer an explanation for why things happened and why things are as they are. The development of mythic discourse in hip-hop has led to the canonization of certain high-profile figures whose deeds and deaths have given them a form of media-based immortality. The two most prominent of these are the myths that have surrounded the deaths of Biggie Smalls (Christopher George Latore Wallace, aka the Notorious B.I.G.) and Tupac Shakur (aka 2Pac) both of whom were shot to death in the mid-1990s. Justin A. Williams (2013, 103) has discussed the deaths of Shakur and Smalls in relation to what he has termed “the martyr industry.” With respect to Shakur, Williams (2013, 118) notes, His large compositional output (in itself an aspect of mythology: Tupac the workaholic) allows those who study him to identify the messages on which they wish to focus. Some include Tupac the revolutionaryВ .В .В . the saintВ .В .В . the RomanticВ .В .В . the martyrВ .В .В . the suffererВ .В .В . the poetВ .В .В . the genius, and 2Pac the gangsta rapper.В .В .В . His multi-faceted and chameleon-like (some exaggeratedly say schizophrenic) nature allows for political reading, religious reading, academic reading, and a quasi-Romantic reading by journalists, academics, and fans who wish to frame him within particular narratives. The prevalence of his image in films (Juice, Poetic Justice, Above the Rim) and television (on MTV and BET, as well as in interviews and footage of his many court cases) adds to this cultural status. The idea of the mythic narrative has always been important to society and the life and lyrics of Tupac have provided ample material to elevate him to mythic status in the rap music and hip-hop worlds. Page 220 →At times the media commentary on Shakur’s immortality went to an extreme, as, for example, when debates exploded about whether he predicted his own death.9 Thus the notion of mythic status that emerges in this kind of commentary is based on the media reception of the artist’s life and career. Moving beyond the question of media immortality, our approach to the concept of mythic status focuses on the ongoing and active process of mythmaking on the part of the artists themselves.10 Unlike the hip-hop martyrs whose mythic persona is now being shaped in a process of postmortem transmission of history, Jay-Z, Eminem, and Kanye West actively interact with and influence the process through which their mythic personas are shaped and transmitted. Through their music, interactions with the media, and even actions in their private lives (which endure constant media scrutiny), these artists demonstrate their agency in the ongoing process of hip-hop mythmaking. In the context of hip-hop culture, it is important to distinguish mythmaking from the braggadocio practices that proliferate within the genre. Both braggadocio and mythmaking are concerned with social boundaries, which tend to be subjectively drawn, intangible lines that delineate one’s place in the world.11 Within hip-hop braggadocio conventions, rappers attempt to prove their dominance with respect to established norms and in relation to other rappers.12 For example, the themes of wealth, power, and success predominate in rap braggadocio

discourse. Many rappers engage in the tradition of the “battle rap” in which the competitive discourse is an explicit response to another artist’s work.13 We might draw a direct comparison between the type of rhetorical conflict in which rappers engage and the dynamics that are present in a society in which the necessities of life—whether physical or cultural—are understood to exist in a limited capacity. In such a social context, honor might be understood as a limited good or a commodity that not only can be traded in or granted to an individual but also can be taken directly from another individual. As a limited good, a grant of honor to one individual must necessarily affect the relative honor of another individual within the society. Engaging in a battle rap scenario is, then, not only a process by which rappers show their skill but also an opportunity for one rapper to take away some of the honor ascribed to a rival and augment his or her own honor in the process.14 In the case of the “rap gods,” however, the rhetorical strategies extend beyond the conventional patterns of braggadocio in an effort to establish identities of mythic proportions against the backdrop of hip-hopPage 221 → history. Furthermore, the artists in question—Kanye West, Jay-Z and Eminem—use these works to demonstrate their status and influence on the popular cultural hegemon by invoking intertextual references to cultural forms and historical contexts that extend beyond the realm of hip-hop. With this body of work, then, these artists are shaping their identities in a process of autobiographical mythmaking that situates them as the drivers of their own success in the popular music industry, even to the extent that they transcend the subcultural/hegemonic barrier.15 These rap artists do not act alone in developing their mythic identities but rather engage with and respond to media and fan reception, in which their stories are shaped, adapted, and reinforced. The critical reception—the metatext—exposes the cultural concerns that contribute to the interpretation of the artist’s identity and musical expression. As these artists steer their mythic stature in a particular direction by invoking the notion of the rap god, the social media extend the discourse around the rap god figure in directions that might reinforce or even challenge the notion of that artist as a mythic figure. Mythmaking also has a striking impact on subsequent artists, as they take on the construct—by means of intertextual practices—to expand the mythic identity of the rap god to embrace other actors in the group. This chapter offers close readings of the works that emerged as a cluster in 2013, and we contextualize those works by exploring their impact on subsequent artists who build on the identity of the rap god and who often attempt to increase their own status through attempts to undermine or outdo the established artists in question, thereby reclaiming honor.16 Our analyses explore how these three mainstream hip-hop artists invoke the intertext to shape a cultural commentary; how their materials intersect as hip-hop intertexts; what references they choose in the domains of word, music, and image; and how these texts operate as mythmaking narratives for the artists individually and for hip-hop more generally. We consider the intertextual references as stylistic and strategic borrowings from other texts (Spicer 2009).

Eminem: “Rap God” (The Marshall Mathers LP2, November 2013) The album title and cover art (figure 8.1) of Eminem’s eighth studio album, The Marshall Mathers LP2, communicate explicitly that this album is intended to create an intertext with his third album, The Marshall Mathers LP (2000). Many of the tracks show him exploring the earlier representations of his personal life as well as his career trajectory and his Page 222 →position within hip-hop culture. His response to his experience of fame and success is ambivalent, as he extols his own impact on the rap industry (on “Legacy,” “Survival,” “Berzerk,” and “Rap God”),17 while also demonstrating regret for destructive behaviors (on “Asshole,” “Stronger Than I Was,” “The Monster,” and “Headlights”).18 The tracks on this album form a self-reflective network that simultaneously asserts Eminem’s status in the rap sphere and interrogates the “monstrous” side of his public persona. Figure 8.1. Album covers for Eminem: left, The Marshall Mathers LP 2; right, The Marshall Mathers LP For our intertextual analysis, we have chosen “Rap God,” which conveys his experience with fame at the extreme: it is an exaltation of his professional success.19 “Rap God” received critical attention for its

virtuosic rap display, as Eminem delivers more than fifteen hundred words in just over six minutes.20 With this track, Eminem positions himself at the top of the hip-hop industry by cultivating an image of himself—in and through intertextual references—as the “God” of rap. As the “Rap God” lyrics assert Eminem’s power and deified status, the rapper mobilizes a number of themes that are exemplified in the other works selected for this study. More specifically, the thematic topics of fame and iconic status, wealth and power, gender, race, and class as well as technology and ultimately deification are evident throughout these texts. Positioning himself as the mentor to a new generation (“Now I lead a new school full of students”), Eminem identifies his own mentors and influences, including the iconic hip-hop artists Tupac, N.W.A., and Dr. Dre.21 In good braggadocio form, he proclaims his legacy in terms of his financial success (“Got a fat knot from that rap profit”). Showing uneasinessPage 223 → over his racial identity, he acknowledges the role that his whiteness has played in the reception of his work (“but sometimes when you combine / appeal with this skin color of mine / you get too big”). He invokes technology and video games to assert his supercapacity for rapping; he is a “rap-bot,” a “superhuman” rapper. The video images underscore this idea with an intertextual reference to “Rock-Em Sock-Em Robots.” Although these strategies suggest arrogance and aggression, we also see Eminem struggling with his own conscience. His reference to Big Sean’s 2013 album, Hall of Fame, prompts the self-recognition of his own past challenges with substance abuse. His references to God and immortality are tied to his status as a rapper; that is, he invokes the figure of the Rap God to identify himself as the most exalted rapper. When he closes the song with, “Why be a King when you can be a God, ” he makes a connection to Kendrick Lamar, the self-proclaimed “King of New York.”22 Lamar stirred up a great deal of controversy in his verse on Big Sean’s “Control” (released in August 2013), in which he called out eleven other rappers and stated, “I’m Makaveli’s offspring, I’m the king of New York / King of the Coast, one hand, I juggle them both.” Eminem’s closing lines can be read as a response to Lamar, staking his claim as Lamar’s senior and to superiority not only to Lamar but also to the contemporaries Lamar named on “Control.”23 Eminem’s reference to Lamar in this context might be received not only as an assertion of his own superiority over Lamar but also potentially as a gesture of recognition, implying that Lamar has the potential to reach a higher status if he shows the proper respect to his hip-hop heritage.24 In this regard, Eminem acts as an elder statesman of the hip-hop community. Eminem’s “Rap God” is also highly referential at the level of musical content and expression. He changes flow throughout the track, emulating a variety of current styles to illustrate his technical virtuosity and control.25 The imitation of rap flow is an example of stylistic intertextuality. He also illustrates strategic intertextuality when he makes several overt references to specific songs. A notable example of intertextuality in “Rap God” is Eminem’s direct imitation of Hot Stylz’s rhythmic flow from “Lookin’ Boy” in his verse 2 (2:16–2:38). Hot Stylz—a Chicago rap group affiliated with Yung Joc’s Swagg Team Entertainment—had success with this song in 2007.26 The song (featuring Yung Joc) is significant for its reliance on the African American tradition of the dozens, a spoken game of trading insults that is a common feature of hip-hop braggadocio.27 Eminem’s intertext operates on several levels. First, in the lyrics, Eminem uses the strategic repetitionPage 224 → of the label lookin’ boy as he hurls insults at an unnamed target.28 Second, his rhythmic delivery is marked by a change in flow at this point in the song, in a clear stylistic imitation of Hot Stylz: that is, his tone softens and is less aggressive. Third, in the musical texture, for a few seconds at the beginning of the passage, Eminem adopts a southern snap beat very similar (stylistically) to that of the Hot Stylz track.29 In this passage, Eminem takes on a style and genre (snap) that is quite distant from his own style of flow, displaying his skill in manipulating both snap and the tradition of the dozens for his own purposes—to illustrate yet another reason why he is the “Rap God.”30 He makes this conclusion himself when he transitions smoothly from the last line of the “Lookin’ Boy” verse into his chorus declaration that he feels like a “Rap God.” Another important example of strategic intertextuality is Eminem’s direct quotation in his verse 3 of J. J. Fad’s song “Supersonic” (4:26). This is perhaps the most frequently discussed passage of the track as

it is the most virtuosic display of Eminem’s technical mastery.31 “Supersonic” went platinum in 1987 and was important for J. J. Fad’s success as an all-female group. Although Dr. Dre did not initially produce the track, he was involved in the production of the album. Eminem’s quotation here likely serves several purposes: his illustration of rapping at supersonic speed; his connection to old-school hip-hop; his shout-out to a female group; and their common connection to Dr. Dre. Eminem makes his “Supersonic” reference explicit in two ways at the beginning of the passage: after the line “lyrics coming at you with supersonic speed,” the name J. J. Fad is heard as a low background interjection (4:25), and in the video, we see the image of J. J. Fad on a television screen. While the majority of Eminem’s lyrics differ from the original, his opening “summa lumma dooma lumma” is a direct quotation,32 which, paired with his adoption of their flow, clarifies the line for the listener. In this tongue-twisting passage, Eminem once again refers to his superhuman abilities and confronts critical reception by demonstrating that he still has the abilities of his youth. While Eminem gives credit to J. J. Fad, his delivery surpasses the speed and complexity of the original, attesting to his godlike abilities. As he continues from the “summa lumma” quotation (4:26–4:41), he leads into a trope on his superhuman capacity, leading to a claim that he makes “elevating music” that levitates his audiences (4:41–4:42). In the visual domain, Eminem’s “Rap God” video, directed by Rich Lee, is saturated with intertextual references. The video opens with several strategic visual references: a conflation of the omnipotent digital figure Page 225 →Max Headroom33 with Eminem’s appearance, and a sample of Captain America’s voice from a 1973 comic book recording.34 Throughout the video, images of television screens abound, featuring strategic references to historical rap figures and American icons, including Bill Clinton, Tupac Shakur, and Run DMC. Eminem is shown to possess the capacity to gather and store all knowledge (figure 8.2a), which leads him ultimately to his deified status (figure 8.2b, c). As the images unfold, he acquires supernatural and technological powers that are linked to his rap virtuosity and status, leading ultimately to the closing image, in which he walks on water (figure 8.2d). The theme of deification is made explicit through the strategic use of words and images from Milton’s Paradise Lost (Figure 8.2e, f). Eminem’s self-positioning as a “Rap God” thus depends on a number of intertextual references to iconic rappers, to cultural icons, to historical religious texts and symbolism, and to events and materials in his personal and professional life. He integrates technology into his posthuman body to absorb all knowledge, thus rising above ordinary human status. He copes with fame and celebrity status by asserting this dominance and power and by grounding his work within its cultural history. In response to a younger generation of rap competitors, he positions himself as a teacher who has been trained by the masters.

Jay-Z: “Holy Grail” (Magna Carta Holy Grail, July 2013) The title of Jay-Z’s twelfth studio album juxtaposes two significant objects, both of which have become the subject of historical criticism and mythological discourse. The first of these is the Magna Carta, a British document with origins in the thirteenth century that was meant to clarify the rights and responsibilities of the king in relation to the church and his subjects. This is paired with the Holy Grail, the legendary cup of Christ from Arthurian legend that carried special powers, including the ability to satisfy hunger, quench thirst, and even grant immortality.35 Both elements in the title summon forth the notion of a quest for power: the Magna Carta has a complex history, during which many efforts were made to define the terms of authority ascribed to the monarchy, the state, and the church, and the Holy Grail is associated with the concept of a quest for the legendary object possessing mystical capabilities that is ultimately linked to a salvific figure. This imposing title, combined with the album artwork featuring ancient statuary (figure 8.3), reveals Jay-Z to be aligning his album with objects of historical authority. The statuary on Page 227 →which the album art is based features the Greek god Alpheus attempting to rape Artemis’s attendant, Arethusa, whom Artemis subsequently transforms into a flowing stream and ultimately a fountain with the capacity to quench unlimited thirst.36 With this symbolic visual reference, Jay-Z invokes the same concepts that emerge from the album title: a quest for power and the capacity to satisfy an infinite thirst. From the outset, then, Jay-Z’s intertext connotes a struggle for political power that is linked to the concept of thirst or yearning. Page 226 → Figure 8.2. Screenshots from Eminem’s “Rap God”: a, (00:35); b, (4:36); c, (4:30); d,

We analyze the track “Holy Grail,” featuring Justin Timberlake, which received a 2014 Grammy for Best Rap/Sung Collaboration and which exposes the artist’s struggle with the destructive potential of celebrity status.37 This is one of several tracks on the album that shows Jay-Z confronting his own fame and stature.38 His collaboration with Timberlake might be seen as a symbolic representation of the mainstream allure that rappers confront. Jay-Z struggles with the temptation of the spotlight, bemoaning the effects of public attention on his private life but recognizing that this fame has lifted him out of poverty and led to financial success (“this fame hurt, but this chain works”). His reference to an overflowingPage 228 → cup in the song’s hook (“You’re so unfair, sipping from your cup til’ it runneth over”) redresses the meaning of Psalm 23:5: that is, instead of expressing the assurance of God’s grace as an overflowing cup, the fickle fame and paparazzi attention are represented as unfairly consuming the contents of the cup until it spills.39 Figure 8.3. Album cover for Jay-Z’s Magna Carta Holy Grail In the music video, directed by Anthony Mandler, Jay-Z and Timberlake are treated to individual narratives, although within a common setting—a derelict mansion filled with artifacts. Jay-Z is seen to be contemplating a bank of television screens featuring a boxing match with Mike Tyson (figure 8.4a). While he appears to brood over the content, we see his face emerge on the television screens. Timberlake enters the building in glorified staging and lighting (figure 8.4b) and descends Page 229 →the stairs to find an abandoned feast and five female figures in white sheets. There is an air of decay and mystery to the setting for both artists. As with Eminem’s “Rap God” video, Jay-Z’s image in “Holy Grail” is treated in ways that suggest his deification (figure 8.4c), although with a greater sense of struggle and constraint. The pool of water that he enters (figure 8.4d) is enclosed by the walls of the mansion, in contrast to the natural expanse of water that Eminem crosses with ease. The video features many cultural references—most notably the Tyson match on the television screen along with redacted legal text featuring words such as censorship and bankruptcy (figure 8.4e). In addition, the video is sprinkled with images of roman statuary, a serpent snaking through a stack of money, a grainy soft-porn image, and a precarious stack of champagne glasses, all of which point to decadence and the trappings of wealth. A nineteenth-century painting of Icarus flying too close to the sun (by French painter Merry-Joseph Blondel) symbolizes the dangerous attraction of the limelight, while a tipped chalice spilling red wine (or blood) suggests the overflowing cup that has lethal consequences (figure 8.4f). Jay-Z amplifies his personal battle with fame by referring to several popular culture celebrities, specifically recognizing the negative effects of fame on MC Hammer, Mike Tyson, Kurt Cobain, and Michael Jackson. With strategic references to these figures in the lyrical, sonic and visual domains of his music video, he builds his intertext to bear the “traces and tracings of otherness” (Frow 1990, 45). Jay-Z’s reference to Mike Tyson is a nine-second clip from the live television footage of a boxing match during which the sports commentator exclaims, “Mike Tyson down, for the first time in his career” (00:14–00:23). This passage features no musical backdrop, only the sounds from the television footage. The use of the footage very deliberately illustrates the sense of spectacle that surrounds the perceived downfall of celebrities who have achieved seemingly superhuman success in their field. The choice of the fight imagery suggests an air of invincibility as the fighters engage in a dramatic sport. The successful fighter who then loses (even to an equally successful and skilled opponent) is then seen as having fallen and been stripped of the aura that had previously surrounded him. Fight imagery is often employed within the hip-hop sphere as a representation of the rapper’s skill and dominance over other artists in terms of not only prowess but also financial success.40 We can even speculate here that the Tyson clip stands in for the public reception of JayZ’s previous album, which did not meet sales expectations predicated on his previous Page 231 →“victories.” At that point in his career, Jay-Z’s invincible status within the hip-hop and celebrity world was lost.41 Page 230 → Figure 8.4. Screenshots from Jay-Z’s “Holy Grail”: a, (00:54); b, (1:39); c, (00:08); d, (00:07); e, (1:13); f, (2:34)

His strategic references to Kurt Cobain and Nirvana occur at the end of verse 1 (00:55–00:58) and in the subsequent bridge section (00:59–1:12). Commenting on the destructive nature of fame, Jay-Z closes his first verse with the line, “Kurt Cobain, I did it to myself,” thus reflecting on Cobain’s battle with fame and drawing connections to Jay-Z’s personal situation. The bridge, delivered by Timberlake and Jay-Z, stands out for its lyrical and melodic connection to Nirvana’s commercially successful song, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” (1991). In the context of Jay-Z’s lyrical preoccupation with fame, this connection to the Nirvana song points to Cobain’s struggles with his own mainstream success.42 The specific materials that Jay-Z borrows resonate with his commentary on the destructive nature of fame: he transforms Cobain’s lyrical line, “Here we are now, entertain us,” into “And we all just entertainers / And we’re stupid and contagious,” making explicit his critical commentary on the role of the performer in the music industry. Page 232 →Jay-Z’s ambivalence over his status in the hip-hop industry is presented with a dark undertone of irony and self-effacement (“get the hell up off your high horse / You got the shit that niggas die for”), suggesting that he feels self-loathing for his own resistance to the authority he has been ascribed. At the same time that he resists the attributes of fame, however, his expressive intertextual strategies reveal a larger effort to develop his own story in connection with iconic figures, racial authenticity, and religious symbolism. Jay-Z is also heavily influenced by technology, as expressed through his obsession with media representations, which stand as a threat to his well-being. Technology in this video is represented as the vehicle for the spectacular display and consumption of the celebrity figure. Media technology in particular takes on omnipotent power and is represented as both a seductive and destructive influence.43

Kanye West: “Black Skinhead” (Yeezus, June 2013) With the title of his sixth studio album, Kanye West created a play on his well-known nickname and sneaker brand-name (Yeezy), modified to rhyme with the name of an iconic religious figure. The title, especially in combination with the title of the third track, “I Am a God (Feat. God),” led to a flurry of media and social media attention.44 West declared to one interviewer, “I just told you who I thought I was: A God. I just told you. That’s who I think I am. Would it be better if I had a song that said вЂI am a gangster’ or if I had a song that said вЂI am a pimp’? All those colors and patinas fit better on a person like me, right?” (Dodge and Reporter 2013). With this wry response, West did not temper his concern for racial stereotypes and wore his resentment rather boldly. Also bold was his strategy for the album release: one month earlier, the video for “New Slaves” was projected on more than sixty public buildings around the world.45 Two days later, he was featured on Saturday Night Live, performing “New Slaves” and “Black Skinhead.”46 With its specific thematic treatments and intertextual references, the album offers a harsh critique of American racial and religious politics in relation to the hip-hop industry. This is particularly evident on “Black Skinhead” (track 2), “I am a God (Feat. God)” (track 3), “New Slaves” (track 4), and “Blood on the Leaves” (track 7). The intertextual network created with these tracks and the early album promotion made a broad statement about race in America, invoking historical narratives and interrogating current racial politics in relation to consumerism. We focus here on “Black Skinhead,” as it is representative of the intertextual strategies used by West on this album.47 Page 233 →With “Black Skinhead,” West resists the politics of religion and race in American culture by juxtaposing the figure of the persecuted black man with the figure of the powerful rap warrior. To build his intertext, he turns to lyrical references that originate in historical, cultural, and religious concerns with power; to the music of industrial rock, which connotes resistance to norms; and to visual aesthetics that connote the Ku Klux Klan and black male slavery. He mobilizes these references to offer a critique of the hypocrisy of the mainstream audience, as his race is held up as a threat (“At the top floor they gonna come to kill King Kong”) as well as an attraction (“Middle America packed in / Come to see me in my black skin”). By choosing this particular intertextual reference to a monstrous figure that was racialized in the iconic 1933 film King Kong, West provides a context for his rap that places race and media representations at the center of his discourse. The film’s narrative is frequently received as an allegorical account of the lynching of a black man for his attraction to a white woman (see Snead and MacCabe 1994).48 The connotations of the King Kong figure,

with its gigantic stature, threatening physical power, and racialized monstrosity resonate throughout “Black Skinhead.” Words such as possessed, menace, and outta control in the hook and the bridge perpetuate the stereotypical representation of the threatening black male. In verse 3, he criticizes cartoon culture for its portrayal of the black man as an enforcer (“Stop all that coon shit / Early morning cartoon shit / This is that goon shit”). The threatening black male is shown to be at the mercy of a censorship that is grounded in organized religion (“If I don’t get ran out by Catholics / Here come some conservative Baptists”). He fights back with the assertion of his own status and turns religious symbolism on itself: “I’m aware I’m a King, back out of the tomb.” He also resists by taking on the accusation of his own monstrosity, self-identifying as “possessed” (“I’m aware I’m a wolf”) and by invoking the indefatigable power of the Roman army.49 Most significantly, “Black Skinhead” makes a stylistic reference to Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People” (Antichrist Superstar, 1996).50 Manson’s track operates within the genre of industrial goth metal. Manson’s self-declared contrary aesthetics—evident in his claim “I make things glamorous as a revolt to glamour” (“Marilyn Manson” 2005)—and freakish figures challenge the controlled normative definitions of beauty and whiteness. West works with this approach to ironic critique but transfers Manson’s target—representations of beauty—to depictions of black masculinity.50 Page 234 →The track opens in a manner reminiscent of the Manson track, with a highly distorted guitar riff that is answered by the galloping kit phrase. Where Manson layered the riff with the whines of machines, West adds “primitive” yells and rhythmic breathing. Manson featured low-pitched and spoken text in the background, while West features low-pitched delivery of the word black. Whereas the overall aesthetic of Manson’s track is gritty and mechanical, the effect of West’s track is a juxtaposition of mechanical sounds and embodied human utterances. The breathing draws the listener in, creating a sense of intimacy, while the harsh, distorted, and mechanical instrumental sounds create a sense of urgency and anticipation. The video, filmed by Nick Knight, offers a completely different style and aesthetic in comparison with the videos for Eminem’s “Rap God” and Jay-Z’s “Holy Grail.” This black and white video focuses primarily on West as a centered subject, with his body treated to a variety of production and postproduction effects. The video opens with the image of three Ku Klux Klan–inspired hoods, although they are black rather than white (figure 8.5a). As the image zooms in on these hoods, their white background becomes a frame for the ensuing video scenes, creating the effect of teeth around all of the images. Immediately following the three KKK figures, we see the eyes and mouths of three vicious dogs; at times in the video, their mouths are shown in extreme close-up (figure 8.5b). Much of the film centers on West’s torso: a variety of camera angles, perspectives, and fragmentations encourage the viewer to fetishize his body. We see a talc-covered (thus whitened) torso (figure 8.5c) that is treated to a negative/positive inversion (figure 8.5d). The face of this figure is blackened, which transposes to being whitened when the inversion occurs. We also see a computer-modified image of West wearing a heavy gold chain (figure 8.5e) as well as a metallic monster, a possessed figure with glowing eyes, a tribal figure with subdermal implants (figure 8.5f) and a Hulk figure with exaggerated musculature (figure 8.5g). As we examine the displayed bodies from all angles, we discover that the figure with the subdermal implants also bears scars on his back from a whip (figure 8.5h). With these images, West exposes himself and postures himself in a variety of representations, suggesting that if we wish to consume his image, he can be whatever we wish him to be: the hip-hop artist in black leather jeans and heavy gold chain, the faceless yet muscular body, or the tribal body that bears the scars of slavery. During the final section of West’s song (at the repetition of the word God), the camera remains fixed on a faceless head and torso with gold Page 236 →Page 237 →chain. The camera gradually moves in until we see an extreme close-up of his head. Following this sequence, there is a shot of a pair of eyes looking out from the KKK hood, and then a shot of several black hoods with the eyes meeting the spectator’s gaze. In this final shot, there is no white background, so the only light on the screen emanates from the eyes. Page 235 → Figure 8.5. Screenshots from Kanye West’s “Black Skinhead”: a, (00:00); b, (1:28); c, (00:41); d, (00:53); e, (1:32); f, (3:05); g, (3:10); h, (3:06)

These images appear to pose a fundamental contradiction to the lyrical emphasis on the resistance to fame, to scrutiny, and to censorship. Instead of creating images that resist the all-consuming gaze of the spectator, West appears to be presenting himself for consumption. He Page 238 →delivers images that capture the stereotypes and mythologies regarding African American and hip-hop masculinity. And yet the aggression of the images and the resistance of the lyrics combine to make it clear that this video is not meant to pander to the hip-hop mainstream and that West is offering his spectators a challenge. We receive the framing image of the video as an important part of this overall message. By inverting the color relationship for the KKK hoods and by naming his track “Black Skinhead,” he challenges our perspectives on racism. For West, technology is not represented symbolically through the image of a television screen or equipment (as is the case in the Eminem and Jay-Z videos discussed here). West embodies the technology, once again creating a posthuman context as his image is computer-generated and transformed through postproduction effects. The technology creates and shapes the representations that we see. We are made to confront the concern that all representations are artificial and that images are always already mediated. By embodying the stereotypes of black masculinity that are shaped by the media and rap industry, he challenges his audience to question the effects of their own spectacular consumption.

Rap Gods: Mythography in the Hip-Hop Intertext Our analysis of the tracks by Eminem, Jay-Z, and Kanye West reveals a common thematic emphasis on the scrutiny of fame and hip-hop celebrity status as these issues are developed in and through the intertextual content in the domains of lyrics, music, and images. All three artists invoke powerful figures to position themselves in relation to the hip-hop industry, its reception, and its dissemination through technology. These tracks collectively convey a larger cultural message about media and the mainstream hip-hop industry. Through their referential content and their exploration of the broader theme of fame, they offer critical reflections on hip-hop culture and the workings of power. Although the tracks are bound together by a common network of themes, each song offers a unique stance on these concerns and ultimately develops a distinctive message. Eminem appropriates the figure of the God to position himself at the top of his industry and the master of hip-hop technology; Jay-Z works ironically with religious symbolism as he struggles with his own glorified status in a hypermediated culture; and Kanye West resists the politics of religion, race, and American culture by juxtaposing the role of the persecuted black man with the role of the powerful Page 239 →rap warrior and deconstructing the representations of these figures in popular media. This interconnected artistic work did not arise out of nowhere and did not disappear immediately from the popular horizon. Indeed, a larger narrative communicates a story about this network of successful rap artists. In this regard, we return to the concept of mythmaking to consider how Eminem, Jay-Z and West establish identities of mythic proportions against the backdrop of hip-hop history. Much of the rap discourse surrounding kinglike and godlike status is connected to a rapper’s skill and status. It is about one-upmanship, certainly, but there is more going on within the discourse than a simple need to be “better” than another rapper. The one-upmanship that we see is actually one of the ways in which members of the hip-hop community create and build their own reputations, at least in part, by taking honor (“cred”) from those whom they engage and better. All of these individuals are involved in the process of identity formation in relation to hip-hop culture. They build their own narratives about success, wealth, and expertise. While many rappers are known within the hip-hop subculture, very few have transcended the subcultural/hegemonic barrier to exert an overt influence on the dominant expressions of popular culture. There is no strict metric for assessing this type of success beyond relying on the simple question of whether the artist under scrutiny has attained popular recognition outside of the specific subculture within which he or she operates. Even hip-hop martyrs Biggie and 2Pac do not necessarily have the distinction of being known by the majority of a generalized audience of media consumers. The artists that we have discussed have not only become household names (appearing often on the covers of supermarket tabloids) but have endeavored to steer the direction in which their mythic narratives develop.

Eminem’s “supersonic speed” and assertions of godlike status have elicited numerous responses from other rappers, many of whom have subsequently attempted to upstage him and appropriate a measure of his honor with demonstrations of their own skill. For example, Hot Stylz released a scathing answer rap, “Rap Fraud” (2013), Harry Shotta attempted to demonstrate his superior lyrical speed on “Animal” (2015),52and Krayzie Bone (of Bone Thugs-n-Harmony) released a 2013 answer rap/remix, “Clash of the Titans,” that is significant for its reliance on religious images as well as authority claims in the hip-hop sphere.53 Krayzie Bone’s verse relies on a series of conflated biblical quotes associated with prophecyPage 240 → and messianism. By quoting the Gospel of John and the Book of Revelation, Krayzie Bone assigns himself a Christological status whereby he asserts that he is both the earthly “Lyrical messiah” and also the true “Rap God.”54 Much like Eminem’s original, many of the lyrics address Krayzie Bone’s status and skill, even going so far as to accuse other rappers of copying his flow. The latter point is especially interesting given that his allusions to Eminem’s flow are evident.55 Again, Krayzie Bone is a well-known and established figure within the hip-hop community who is attempting to show that he is the equal or better of the “rap god.” His status, however, cannot surmount that of Eminem based on lyrical skill alone, as Krayzie Bone lacks the same recognition as a celebrity within the dominant realm of popular culture. In the realm of rap gods, Kanye West presents an interesting juxtaposition to the works of Jay-Z and Eminem. Whereas Eminem self-deifies based on godlike skill within the rap and media spheres, West goes much farther when he declares outright, “I am a God.” West’s overarching claim comprises an explicit interrogation of his dominion with respect to race, politics, and public spectacle. West, like Jay-Z, offers a critical reflection on his fame but with the ever-present possibility that his fame and work are a longitudinal exhibition of performance art in which the lines between private reality and public persona are constantly blurred. In this sense, West is both God and monster, displaying an almost omnipotent acumen for media manipulation while drawing fire as though his fame is a beast that threatens popular culture. In the aftermath of Yeezus, West has been both vilified and adored. One devotee to Yeezus has even gone so far as to publish a copy of the Book of Genesis under the title The Book of Yeezus: A Bible for the Modern Day in which all mentions of God and Yahweh have been replaced with Yeezus and Kanye.56 Regardless of whether he is being praised or attacked, West seems to be able to capitalize on the attention he receives in the media. His manipulation of the media has furthered his own claims to godlike status and the establishment of his mythic persona. With respect to the overall question of honor and credibility, West has both claimed and been ascribed an elevated status. The media—regardless of how they portray West—has been instrumental in justifying his increased status through the amount of attention that he has received. Given the hegemonic reach that he has achieved, attacks from hip-hop rivals looking to raise their own status should have little effect. The theme of mythmaking and deification becomes somewhat more nuanced in the case of Jay-Z. By titling the album Magna Carta Holy Grail, Page 241 →he is not just making a statement about authority or godliness. While those themes are present, the title uses imagery that upholds a definitive authority. The Magna Carta is understood as the source document for English law, while the Holy Grail is the ultimate connection to God through the holy blood that it caught at the crucifixion. Both objects speak of mythical beginnings—political and religious—that Jay-Z summons to proclaim his significance in hip-hop as both a rapper and producer. Many reviewers have referred to Magna Carta Holy Grail as his “legacy” (Madden 2013)—an album on which he makes a strong statement about his place in hip-hop culture and concretizes his persona. Jay-Z’s anxiety about his position in the industry is reinforced by his references to Tyson and Cobain, who experienced both the height of fame and a dramatic public downfall. In the process of autobiographical mythmaking, these artists have added to the larger historical narrative that continues to be shaped within hip-hop culture. It would be convenient to apply archetypal identities to these figures—for example, to label Eminem a trickster figure who shifted identities throughout his tales or to treat West as the protГ©gГ© (child) of Jay-Z who experienced a liminal period of rejection before ascending to an exalted (and often vilified) level of wealth and fame. Rather than adopting archetypal categories that impose artificial limitations on identity formation, we advocate for a focus on the organic and intertextual interplay between the artists, who retain agency for determining their own mythic persona, and the agents of culture (media,

consumers, fans, detractors), who reflect on this continuing process of mythmaking.

Notes The authors thank Dr. Robert Edwards for his suggestions and contributions to the study of mythmaking practices. This research was funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (Lori Burns and Marc Lafrance, Insight Grant, 2013–18). 1. Interested readers are encouraged to explore other writings on hip-hop intertextuality, such as Schloss 2004; Kistner 2006; Androutsopoulos 2009; Justin A. Williams 2015. 2. West’s debut album, The College Dropout, was released in 2004; Jay-Z’s debut album, Reasonable Doubt, was released in 1996; Eminem’s debut, Infinite, was also released in 1996. 3. Dombal (2013) observed that West “trades out smooth soul and anthemic choruses for jarring electro, acid house, and industrial grind.” Dolan (2013a) Page 242 →called the album an “extravagantly abrasive album full of grinding electro, pummeling minimalist hip-hop, drone-y-wooz and industrial geargrind.” 4. Vozick-Levinson (2013) observes, “The production, mostly handled by Timbaland, is woozy and grand—another luxury possession. But Jay often sounds like he’s trying to convince himself that he should still be excited about making music. What’s disappointing is, he doesn’t always seem to be winning that argument.” Vozick-Levinson suggested that Jay-Z’s lyrical presentation is at times bored and distracted. According to Kellman (2015), “The MC indeed can’t help sounding more mechanical than novel.” 5. The track was recognized as best rap/sung collaboration at the fifty-sixth annual Grammy Awards. For discussions of the tensions surrounding the rap nominations and awards, see Kreps 2013; Michaels 2013. 6. Jon Dolan (2013b) observes, “nostalgia is everywhere. Em surrounds himself in allusions to classic hip-hop, like the Beastie Boys samples producer Rick Rubin laces together on вЂBerzerk.’” Craig Jenkins (2013) of Pitchfork refers to Eminem’s “champion technical prowess,” and his “alchemical control of rhyme and diction.” In the words of Christopher Weingarten (2013), of Spin observes: “If rapping were a purely athletic competition, Eminem would be Michael Phelps and Mary Lou Retton combined: pure agility and flexibility, like an unstoppable bullet with only white-hot hate in his wake.” 7. For a more detailed exploration of the genealogical framework that we have developed for intertextual analysis, see Burns, Woods, and Lafrance 2013. 8. For a relatively brief though useful overview of the major theories concerning myths, see “Myth,” in Smith 1995. 9. This is a continuing conspiratorial controversy that has been fueled by unverified reports by people present at the scene that Shakur survived he shooting. Notable among those who have said that Shakur survived the assassination attempt is Suge Knight, the former head of Death Row Records, who was in the car when Shakur was shot (see Fleischer 2014). Most recently, the conspiracy theory has received new life from a former police officer who claims that he was involved in helping to fake Shakur’s death (see Benton-Martin 2015). 10. For further discussion of autobiographical writing in hip-hop, see Balestrini 2015. 11. Malina (2001, 29) notes, “We are all born into systems of lines that mark off nearly all of our experiences. Such lines define the self, others, nature, time, space, and God/gods. It is probable that people continue to bother to make such lines because human beings have an overpowering drive to know where they are. Line-drawing enables us to define our various experiences so as to situate ourselves, others, and everything and everyone that we might come into contact with. Our ancestors passed down to us the set of lines they inherited, and with this we find ourselves in a cultural continuum that reaches back to the sources of our cultural heritage.” 12. Like mythmaking, braggadocio is a concept with an extensive history of scholarship and consequently complex definitional possibilities. We understand braggadocio as a tradition that is prevalent among but not limited to African American males, many of whom strongly associate with the hip-hop community and culture. In this context, braggadocio is, in essence, ritualized bragging Page 243 →that is performed to

increase one’s reputation or honor within the community.В Recent literature has addressed braggadocio and African American culture (Smitherman 1997), in hip-hop (Bradley 2009; Quentin Williams and Stroud 2013), and from MCs’ perspectives (Edwards 2009, 25–30). 13. A battle rap is typically a freestyle exchange where MCs attempt to outdo each other’s lyrical prowess. This tradition dates back to early hip-hop practices and has moved beyond freestyle battles to the recording of answer raps (see Newman 2005; Alim 2006; Lee 2009; Valentine 2011). 14. According to Malina (2001, 30) the concept of honor should be understood as being both personal and societal: “Honor is the value of a person in his or her own eyes (that is, one’s claim to worth) plus that person’s value in the eyes of his or her social group. Honor is a claim to worth along with the social acknowledgment of worth. Members of a society share the sets of meanings and feelings bound up in the symbols of authority, gender status and respect.В .В .В . When you lay claim to a certain status as embodied by your authority and in your gender role, you are claiming honor.” 15. The terminology used here is descriptive of the distance and difference that exist in a very real sense between subcultures and their cues, norms, expressions and the dominant culture that surrounds or subsumes them. We can discuss this as being the cultural equivalent of the glass ceiling. Hip-hop culture—particularly those artists who have been not only financially successful but also culturally successful—can be understood as having broken through this barrier. Hence, Jay-Z, Eminem, and Kanye West become part of the system of noncoercive cultural reproduction within the dominant popular culture. 16. While many artists have attempted to show that they are at least the equal of the artists in question, one of the defining indicators of success is simply to be noticed or referenced by those artists. The argument could be made that being referenced or even acknowledged by the “rap gods” (i.e., when Eminem adopts the flows of other artists) increases the credibility, exposure, and even the honor of those who are being engaged. 17. “Legacy” closes with the lines, “The most high exalting, and I ain’t halting / ’til I die of exhaustion, inhale my exhaust fumes,” extolling his own impact on other rappers. 18. In “Asshole” he apologizes for past behaviors at the same time that he reclaims the role, his ambivalent feelings about the past emerging in lines such as, “So even if I’m half dead, I’m half alive / Poured my half empty glass in a cup so now my cup runneth over” (a reference to JayZ’s use of the same line in “Holy Grail”). 19. While we do catch glimpses of Eminem’s struggles with fame on “Rap God,” it is on “The Monster” (track 12, featuring Rihanna) that we see Eminem at the opposite extreme: complete desolation and mental destruction at the hands of fame. 20. “Rap God” set a Guinness World Record (2015) for most words in a hit single: 1,560 words in a 6:04 song. Excluding the song’s introduction, Eminem actually raps 1,460 words in 5:38, which averages to 4.31 words per second. 21. In verse 2, Eminem individually lists all five members of N.W.A. as influences (Ice Cube, Dr. Dre, MC Ren, Eazy-E, and DJ Yella), in addition to Tupac Page 244 →Shakur, Lakim Shabazz, and Rakim. Eminem suggests that these artists inspired him to be in a position to meet Run DMC and induct them into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, an event that occurred on 4 April 2009 (see Kaufman 2009). Eminem also gives a shout-out to influential 1990s rappers Heavy D and the Boyz in verse 3. 22. In this instance we are exploring Eminem’s lyric in relation to the current context and as a response to Lamar’s claims regarding his status within the hip-hop community. Even so, any reference to kings within the rhetoric of popular culture and popular music in particular consciously or unconsciously evokes a subtextual reference to both Elvis Presley (the King of Rock and Roll) and Michael Jackson (the King of Pop). 23. On “Control,” Lamar called out Jermaine Cole, Big K.R.I.T., Wale, Pusha T, Meek Mill, A$AP Rocky, Drake, Jay Electron’, Tyler, Mac Miller, and even Big Sean, whose track Lamar was a guest artist on. He said: “I got love for you all, but I’m trying to murder you niggas; trying to make sure your core fans never heard of you niggas.” Here, he was referring to his aspirations as a performer. Earlier in the same verse, Lamar asks who is the best MC, referencing a number of the most established performers in the field (Jigga, Eminem, NAS, Andre 3000), all of whom belong to the previous hip-hop generation. Lamar includes himself in this initial list, effectively identifying with the “gods” of hiphop and attempting to show that he is above his contemporaries. He is conveying that he holds no malice

toward the others that he mentions in the verse but that this is business and he will do whatever is necessary to achieve the success earned by these icons. 24. In 2013, Eminem said, “That whole вЂRap God’ record pretty much from top to bottom is tongue in cheek. So I mean, do I want to feel like that? Maybe sometimes. Again, it goes back to everybody who competitive raps and does this for just purely the sport of it wants to be the best. Again, that’s why Kendrick’s verse worked so well because he only said what every rapper’s already thinking, вЂIf you don’t want to be the best, then why are you rapping?’” (Hiatt 2013). 25. Rap scholars have addressed the effects of Eminem’s flow over the course of his career. Kajikawa (2009) brings forward the notion that Eminem sometimes rapped in simplistic ways early in his career to signify on his whiteness, Justin A. Williams (this volume) indicates that Eminem’s flow has tended to be fairly static. In light of such attributes, this track stands out as a striking effort by Eminem to highlight his mastery of a variety of rap strategies. 26.“ Lookin’ Boy” was produced by Nitty—a southern producer. The song peaked at No. 47 on the Billboard Hot 100. 27. Wald (2012, 12–13) has discussed the shifting definitions of the dozens and its relevance to hip-hop. As Wald shows throughout the first chapter of his book, the dozens is not a phenomenon that can easily be defined. This is largely based on the fact that some form of this ritualized verbal sparring is present in most African American communities and is present cross-culturally in various forms (whether verbal or physical) among boys and men. We refer to the dozens as a form of informal though often ritualized verbal play wherein two or more people vie for dominance/honor through the exchange of often graphic insults. 28. Eminem references Waka Flocka Flame in the lines leading up to this passage. Some critics/bloggers have posited that this initial reference is a diss. Page 245 →Waka Flocka, however, has declared that Eminem would not diss him (XXL Staff 2013b). Waka Flocka sometimes uses a snap-oriented beat: after his name is mentioned, we hear this lengthy tirade of insults over a snap beat. 29. Snap is a southern dance-oriented genre of hip-hop that grew out of crunk and succeeded on the Top 100 charts in 2006–7 in the hands of hip-hop artists D4L, Lil Scrappy, Soulja Boy, and T-Pain. The main groove of snap is typically quite slow and features snapping, hi-hat, and sparse 808 drums. 30. Eminem, who has been critiqued as a white rapper participating in a traditionally black genre, now adopts an important African American tradition. For Eminem’s negotiation of racial norms in hip-hop, see Boyd 2002; Calhoun 2005; Grealy 2008; Fraley 2009; Kajikawa 2009. 31. Both Kennedy (2013) and Haglund (2013) have commented on Eminem’s lyrical mastery in this passage and hypothesized that it may be a reaction to Lamar’s verse on “Control.” For a summary of J. J. Fad’s reaction to “Rap God,” see XXL Staff 2013a. 32. In keeping with the terminology for phonographic quotation presented by Lacasse (this volume), Eminem’s performance of the passage “summa lumma” is an example of allosonic quotation (a structural reference) rather than autosonic (a mechanical reproduction). 33. Max Headroom is a character (played by Canadian/American actor Matt Frewer) from the iconic 1980s television series of the same name that portrayed the societal transition to the digital age. 34. Lacasse (this volume) would consider the sample from Captain America an example of autosonic (mechanically reproduced) quotation. 35. The commonly known versions of the legend are most notably influenced by Robert de Boron’s late twelfth-century work, Joseph d’Arimathie. 36. The artwork is based on Battista Di Domenico Lorenzi’s sixteenth-century statue, Alpheus and Arethusa (Silver 2013). 37. The analysis presented here is based on the remixed version of the song that is presented in the music video, in which the form of the song is modified from the original. Whereas the original song begins with Justin Timberlake’s introduction hook, the music video remix begins with Jay-Z’s first verse, followed by J.T.’s intro and hook. 38. A notable example is “Heaven” (track 9), which also features Timberlake and can be seen as continued self-reflection on Jay-Z’s celebrity status. The track conflates existential questions about religion with concerns about hip-hop fame. 39. “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine

enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever” (Psalm 23:4–6, KJV). This quotation is taken from the King James Version because of the prevalence of that translation’s use among African American Protestants. 40. Fight imagery abounds in hip-hop lyrics and videos. Notable examples include LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” (1990), Canibus’s “Second Round K.O.” (1998), and Ludacris’s “Undisputed” (2008). These depictions serve as physical manifestations of the competitive nature of rap and are closely Page 246 →connected to male posturing and hypermasculinity. Perry (2004, 58) has observed that boxing serves as a good metaphor for hip-hop “not only because both foster a diverse group of bragging personalities with aggressive styles, but also because they are strategic competitions.” 41. Jay-Z’s previous solo album, The Blueprint 3 (2009), received mixed reviews, with many critics stating that it lacked the energy, aggression, and creativity of his youth. McBee (2009) called the album complacent, predictable, and lacking hungriness and spirit, while Cohen (2009) referred to it as Jay-Z’s weakest album. 42. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was the lead single from Nirvana’s album Nevermind (1991). Both the track and the album as a whole represent a pivotal moment in the history of grunge music, as its widespread success helped bring grunge beyond its Seattle roots to a mainstream pop audience. This moment represented the breakthrough not only for Nirvana’s career but also more broadly for grunge music and subcultural style such as fashion (see Poneman and Meisel 1992). Cobain, the band’s front man, was reportedly conflicted about fame and suffered from depression and substance abuse that led to his 1994 suicide (see Muto 1995; Kahn 2000). 43. For the topic of celebrity culture, see Couldry 2016. 44. Christian groups, in particular, were outraged by West’s appropriation of religious titles and imagery (see Thomasos 2013). West’s comments about the album only fueled public debate. For example, during a New York City listening party, he declared, “West was my slave name, Yeezus is my God name,” a statement showing a sense of self-deification but also an identification with earlier black activists (McGovern 2013). In particular, he is associating himself with el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz, who famously rejected the slave surname Little to be known simply as Malcolm X. West, who is well known to be Christian, is in this statement appropriating the rhetoric of the Nation of Islam. 45. West took a dramatic approach for the premiere of the “New Slaves” music video. He gave fans advance warning of the premiere, posting times and locations on his website. The video was then projected onto sixty-six buildings across the globe on 17 May 2013 (Markman 2013). 46. West’s 19 May 2013 performance on Saturday Night Live was framed by a video backdrop of rotating vintage price tags/sale signs with language that pointed toward commodification and “selling out,” themes present throughout much of West’s work. The focus was often on a sign saying “Not for Sale,” which again offers commentary on criticisms concerning West “selling out,” but also speaks to West’s lyrics on race in America in both “Black Skinhead” and “New Slaves.” The sale sign images were interspersed with images from the forthcoming “Black Skinheads” music video, as well as the images that had been projected onto buildings the previous evening. For a summary of the performance and its reception, see Coleman 2013. 47.We discuss this track in Burns, Woods, and Lafrance 2016, 166-168. 48. The theme of lynching returns on the album as West makes reference to the song “Strange Fruit,” sampling Nina Simone’s performance in “Blood on the Leaves.” He also uses the lyrical line “blood on the leaves” in juxtaposition with “I know that we the new slaves” in “New Slaves.” Jay-Z also refers to “Strange Fruit” in “Oceans,” featuring Frank Ocean. Page 247 →49. Here West conflates the Romans with the Spartans as portrayed in the film 300. 50. Digital musician Girl Talk developed a mash-up of the two tracks for a live show in Charlotte, North Carolina, successfully merging the two tracks. The similarities have been noted by many bloggers, although West’s extensive CD liner notes do not attribute any credit to Manson. 51. Manson’s video is also meant to critique the master-slave complex, based on Nietzsche. 52. For Hot Stylz’s reaction to “Rap God,” see Emmanuel C.M. (2013); for Shotta’s “Animal,” see Alexis 2015.

53. It is an answer rap in that it responds to Eminem’s “Rap God” but also a remix in that it uses the same backing track. 54. Specifically, he quotes Revelation 1:8, 21:6, and 22:13 (“I am the alpha and the omega”). The idea of being the light and the Creator in a messianic context can be linked to John 1:5, where Jesus is referred to as the light in the darkness, as well as 8:12, where Jesus refers to himself as the light of the world. 55. This is reinforced through lines such as “All them really wanna try to run away with the sound, but they can’t really go a mile,” and “I’m like a magnet, I keep attracting rappers, it’s in need of a master, kind of like a sensei.” Similar to Eminem’s call for respect from younger artists, Krayzie Bone raps, “Tell ’em they better respect it and never forget where they got it from.” 56. There is no author or publication info available for the book in question, although it can be purchased at https://bookofyeezus.com/

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XXL, November 4, http://www.xxlmag.com/news/2013/11/waka-flocka-flame-doesnt-think-eminem-dissed-himon-rap-god/

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Nine. Performative Strategies and Musical Markers in the Eurythmics’ “I Need a Man” Stan Hawkins RELEASED IN MARCH 1988, the video of “I Need a Man” featured Annie Lennox in one of her most spellbinding performances. Reluctant to go on tour when their Savage album came out in 1987, the Eurythmics instead opted for a promotional video trilogy. Directed by Sophie MГјller, the trilogy proved a resounding success. Sandwiched by the songs “Beethoven” and “You Have Placed a Chill in My Heart,” “I Need a Man” positions Lennox firmly within a feminist narrative that is all about fantasy, revolt, and liberation: a bored housewife undergoes a major transformation, turns into a glamorous diva, and vents her feelings on stage in a dimly lit club. Andrew Eaton-Lewis (2013) of The Scotsman enthused that “I Need a Man” is “a raw rock song about female sexual desire.В .В .В . [I]t is brilliantly damning about the roles women find themselves forced into, and the traps set by them.” Most striking of all is her feisty performance as she plays on the character of a touchy and aggressive diva. By exposing the audiovisual details of this video, and providing a genealogical critique1 of the pop artist, this chapter contemplates the creative force of Lennox’s idiolect, something that has captured the attention of millions of fans for more than four decades.2 Encompassing numerous elements of a recorded performance, an idiolect is a powerful identity marker. Allan F. Moore (2012, 166) has defined it as “the individual stylistic fingerprints (perhaps the tone of the voice, perhaps the way the kit and bass interlock, perhaps the particular guitar tone) of a Page 253 →performer or group of performers.” An idiolect comprises the cross-flow of individual texts that produce meaning, mediated by a plethora of signifiers that are energized within spatiotemporal contexts.3 I expand Moore’s concept of idiolect to identify the systematic processes of resignification that ensue when stylistic features are renewed.4 When pop artists turn to a given style and idiom, they must resignify an established order, a process that comprises various strategies involving the manipulation of borrowed elements. Serving as a conduit for resignifying cultural and historical (con)texts, the body conveys an idiolect in all sorts of tantalizing ways that are structured through space and time. For example, in Lennox’s performances she turns to genderplay to transgress identity categories and subvert fixed notions of gender.5 Enticing us into her world, she theatricalizes the body to drive home her message. Perhaps most fascinating is her set of politics, disclosed by her vocal materiality as she “puts on a show.” Lennox, in entering the discursive realm of drag, uncorks the fixed referents of gender, such as “women,” “drag queen,” “transgender,” “gay,” and “man.” Her performance not only symbolizes the plight of the female cabaret singer but also problematizes the conditions that idealize white femininity. This chapter, then, provides an interpretive framework for exploring the ways in which gender is inscribed in musical performance and works out how processes of resignification shape an idiolect. Central to this approach is the task of detailing the intertextual material and cultural influences that position Lennox within a mainstream pop context, where her antics of genderplay operate strategically in mediating notions of Otherness as part of her personal lineage. By interpreting the audiovisual features of the music video, I also reflect on the multilayers of image, musical design, and production techniques that go into a performance. In this sense, my critical reading of a video-text highlights the stylistic attributes of expression in the Eurythmics’ music by considering how a performative act works through hypotextualization.

Context and Self-Expression In the early 1980s, the Eurythmics, a British synth pop duo consisting of Annie Lennox and Dave Stewart, achieved international success. Released in 1981, their debut album, In the Garden, contained quirky tracks that were experimental and adventurous. However, these songs failed to become hits. Only with their second album,

Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This), released in 1983, did the band secure success, with the title Page 254 →track soaring to No. 2 on the U.K. singles charts. Portraying Lennox in many guises, the “Sweet Dreams” video helped turn her into a pop celebrity. Not unlike David Bowie, her androgynous appearance was iconic for its time, resulting in widespread speculation about her sexual orientation. She also made headlines when appearing in drag, impersonating Elvis Presley at the 1984 Grammy Awards. Remarkably, she was the first female mainstream pop artist to imitate and send-up this legendary male star in such a public arena. As Jean Baudrillard (1983) wrote, the 1980s were a period of transvestism. Lennox emerged from this vibrant context, eventually becoming an outspoken advocate of LGBTQ rights and activist in the fight against HIV/AIDS. In 2014 she declared, During a human rights movement, it’s terribly important to have labels and to have platforms that are very identifiable, but ultimately we should just be fine with everybody no matter what our sexual orientation is. (Wong 2014) Throughout her career, her style has been gutsy and rebellious. In the 1980s she wore men’s suits on stage in an attempt to veer away from the push-up tops and miniskirts that she had previously donned as lead singer of the Tourists between 1977 and 1980. In line with British queer artists such as Morrissey, Elton John, Marc Almond, Freddie Mercury, Andy Bell, and Boy George, Lennox was part of an unruly generation whose members excelled in ironic role-playing, consciously detaching themselves from the normative constrictions of gender and sexuality.6 The Eurythmics’ sixth studio album, Savage (1987), proved less commercially successful than their previous two albums, Revenge (1986) and Be Yourself Tonight (1985). Savage took on a more experimental musical approach, not least in terms of the innovative production and the use of new instruments, such as the NED Synclavier digital sampling keyboard (programmed by drummer Olli Romo), all of which gave the music an eerie feel. Against this edgy and experimental sonic palette, the video of “I Need a Man” (track 7) ironically profiles Lennox in the role of an over-the-top diva. Flaunting and pouting, she ridicules gender stereotypes by invoking the double role of insider and outsider. With the aid of simple lighting, a single camera, and a few props, Lennox is framed as a glamorous floozy. Dolled up to the nines, with a large, blond curly wig and clinging, shimmering white dress, she confronts the hetero-male gaze with precisely the character type she parodies, the blond bombshell. However, there is a twist to all this in the conflation of a straight Page 255 →woman playing the role of the camp femme fatale, pandering to an inflated construction of femininity that converges on drag queen and gay culture. Relentlessly, she bellows throughout the song that she needs a man—one who does not wear makeup, style his hair, shave his legs, or paint his fingernails. She is after a “real man,” she tells us, and it makes no difference if he does not want to talk to her or even walk with her. Aspects of prowess and control are further enhanced by a vocal delivery that evokes a sense of resistance through the performative act of resignifying the male cock-rock star. This is discernible in the stylistic gesturing of her sound as much as in the sleazy video performance, where she comes across boastful, crude, and aggressive. Simon Frith and Angela McRobbie (1978) introduced the term cock rock into popular music studies to distinguish male-dominated subcultural styles from mainstream teenybop music. Frith (1981, 227) subsequently insisted that the term could equally apply to female artists. In a multitude of ways, Lennox’s performance in “I Need a Man” verifies this, and her look might be read as a reaction to her former “British Blondie” style when vocalist for the Tourists. Fed up with the label and her platinum blond image, she promptly dyed her hair orange, got a crew cut, and started wearing suits. Paradoxically, her former self would become a staged alter ego in “I Need a Man.” Lennox’s send-up of herself proved a source of much attention, with the song and video initially receiving mixed responses. The media seemed poised for a dramatic coming out (despite their knowledge of her romantic relationship with Stewart).7

Musical Structures of Transgression Lennox’s “I Need a Man” enters into an intertextual dialogue with songs that share similar titles: Janis Joplin’s “I Need a Man to Love” (1968), Grace Jones’s hit “I Need a Man” (1975), “I Don’t Need a Man” (2005) by the Pussycat Dolls, Janiva Magnesses’s “I Need a Man” (2014), and even “I’m Your Man” (1985) by Wham and “I’m Your Man” (1988) by Leonard

Cohen. All of these titles are marked by an earnest expression of desire and situate the subject in a vulnerable position of dependence on someone else. Lennox takes on a slightly different utterance, however, turning it into a parody through emphasizing her need and hence put-on vulnerability. One of the ways in which she achieves this parodic tone is through her vocal performance, with which she conveys a range of mesmeric musical gestures. Lennox’s vocal performance is harnessed by a standard verse-chorus Page 256 →structure, consisting of straightforward chord progressions, simple contrapuntal lines, and rhythmic motifs. A sense of harmonic ambiguity arises from the shift between the tonic chord, C minor, and a C major chord. While grounded in C Dorian (the relative diatonic key is Bb major), occasional slips into C major occur every time the guitar takes over from the vocals, creating a level of uncertainty. Oscillating between a minor mode and a major key, a tension results from Lennox’s lines (defined by minor-flavored, blues-tinted harmony), which stand in stark contrast to Stewart’s solos and riff parts in a major key. The song’s verses center on the tonic chord, C minor, with the cadences at the end of each phrase from subdominant to tonic (F/C–Cm). C Dorian modality is established with the F major chord, but during the choruses the subdominant chord falls out, the emphasis now falling on the tonic and mediant (Cm–Eв™-), with a Cm7 harmonic flavor. In the first guitar bridge (2:11–2:25) the vocals exit as the mood changes color, the C Dorian giving way to the C major. However, this is short-lived as the C minor chords return at the start of the final verse (2:25). Rhythmically, the arrangement is driven by a solid rock-beat, with slight syncopation on the third and fourth beats. Following the final verse, the song culminates in an extended guitar solo with vamped-up vocal interjections—a common device in bluesoriented rock songs. The guitar solo stakes out the final arrival point with a shift to C major. The alternation between C major and F minor chords in the guitar sets up a friction with the C minor and F major harmonies of Lennox’s melodic parts. The effect of this, as I read it, is to distinguish musically between the two performers through a form of banter—the minor-flavor of Lennox’s hook, “I need a man” (on the pitches G, F, Eв™- and G) versus Stewart’s wailing solo over a C major chord (notably destabilized by an E natural in the bass line). With the blues note nuances—the E natural with Eв™- in the performers’ respective parts (a minor third blues note)—signifiers of playfulness and musical intrigue are set in motion. A critical task of the music analyst is the identification of attitude through vocal delivery in a song recording.8 Lennox’s hyperbolic performance certainly draws attention to the song’s meaning, as much as associations with other styles, genres, and performers. Vividly, her Jagger-like vocal inflections complement Stewart’s guitar backing and impassioned solo passages. Authored by a cocky masculinity, her style is a lot more mocking than Jagger’s, with a good dose of comic relief. Reconstituted through a process of resignification, then, the Stones’ hypermasculinity is morphed into her androgynous signature. This lifting of a stylistic Page 257 →hypotext from its original context results in establishing a new hypertext.9 Theorizing hypertextuality in recorded music, Serge Lacasse locates the practices bound up in recording techniques. Singling out the creation of a new text from a previous one is necessary to understand how parody works. Lacasse (2000, 58) insists that to “describe and understand the intricate interactions of music with human beings, along with human activities,” requires working out where a style originates. Lennox’s way of stylistic resignification is part of a performative act that instates her idiolect through hypotextualization. In this sense, through a process of resignifying she forms her own idiolect. A marked alteration in melodic phrasing occurs in the final moments of the song. The clearly articulated lyrics turn into scatting as the word baby is broken down into a series of “ba-ba-ba” snippets juxtaposed with other nonsensical vocables. A prime function of this is to connote release from both the lyrics and the tune. The song’s protagonist literally ba-ba-babbles away while the guitarist flies off on a tangent (his part becoming melodically fussy in the mix). Technically, Lennox is a great exponent of this, as evidenced in many of her songs where she taps into a wealth of emotions to unleash spurts of energy. Such technical proficiency underscores a virtuosity that is a principal trademark of her personal style. In addition to the chord progressions and harmonic flavors, the sparse bass line and jittery guitar phrasing contribute to profiling her idiolect. Steering the groove, the bass punctuates the musical texture, increasing contrapuntal interest in Stewart’s strident guitar phrases. Pop songs are, after all, powerful mediators of culture, blending musical ideas with the spectacle of human agency. Table 9.1 provides an overview of some of the intricate details in the production, arrangement, and visual gestures

of “I Need a Man.”

Subjectivity, Intervention, and Vocal Placement Subjectivity is a central part of any consideration of an artist’s musical idiolect. Notwithstanding postmodern notions of the decentered identity in pop, an artist’s personality is always grasped through distinct impressions of his or her authenticity, a point I have theorized in earlier studies (Hawkins 2002, 1–35). How this is staged through music conjures up ideas of realness, no matter how capricious the act might be. If we accept that an artist’s personal style is always contingent on other songs, artists, and texts, then this has important implications for understanding patterns in reception. Debating this idea in his study of popular music, Page 260 →Moore (2012, 260) has stated that listeners do not make “interpretive judgments without reference to other music” (my emphasis). Equally important are the traces of other performers’ styles as well as their sexual and gendered agency. Given that intertextuality is integral to the shaping of subjectivity, the proximity of the musical text (in this case the pop score) to other texts inscribes meaning. Based on a borrowing and resignifying procedure, then, the intertext has important political and ideological connotations. Page 258 → Section Intro(0:00–0:24)

Table 9.1. “I Need a Man” overview Lyrics Musical Details Visuals Hey! Is this my - sixteenth note - Lennox swaggers on stage, turn! steady percussion faces audience, and talks to (00:06–00:07) figure panned rapidly them. - steady bass drum on - disheveled appearance the first and third - blinding lights beats - snares enter after the shout, Do you wanna me to sing now? Ok!

Verse 1(00:25–00:54)

Chorus 1(00:55–1:09)

- a scream prompts the guitar riff I don’t care - Synth bass enters - facial close-ups after the lines: I’m not that kind - Lennox faces the camera, tilts her head backwards of girl

I need a man

- lead vocals dominate backing guitar, bass (every fourth bar), and drums provide accompaniment - Increase in overall intensity

- body sways to the music

- vocal yelling

- side angle and frontal shots

- close-up shots of open mouth on man

- distorted guitar riff - lighting creates a shadow of Lennox on white backdrop - heavy reverb

Clips

- bass doubles verse figure

- dress strap on right shoulder falls down, revealing black bra

- dynamics increase, especially snares - heavy inflections (glottal, glissando, sforzando) on man Verse 2(1:10–1:40)

Baby baby baby - more aggressive vocal expression - embellishments in backing figures (especially bass and synth) - increase in production effects: reverb, echo, compression.

Page 259 →Chorus 2(1:41–1:55)

I need a man

- long shots of Lennox - gradually walks toward the camera - close-ups of face - signifiers of purple lipstick, platinum blond wig

- verse ends with vocal slide down to a final hollow pitch, I don’t care - hook line belted out - rapid visual shot changes from different angles - heavier reverb on guitar licks - close-ups are messy and blurred - dry crisp snares - blitz-flash lighting - echo on the end of vocal phrases - more menacing look

- guitar responses intense Bridge I don’t need - vocal scatting - close, medium and long shots instrumental(1:56–2:27) a heartbreaker of Lennox in chorus sarcastic and defiant (1:56–1:58) tone - she pouts and mouths silent words in instrumental solo - sustained chordal roots in guitar - contests the camera gaze backing - mainly head and shoulders - extended drum shots groove (no bass) - resolves into guitar riff (2:12) that bridges to final verse

Verse 4(2:28–2:56)

I don’t care - more threatening mood

- camera revolves around Lennox

- bass reenters

- she looks into the camera

- heavy use of echo on Lennox’s phrases

- shifts microphone from left to right hand - pointing gestures

- vocal saturation—backing tracks are highly reverbed

Chorus 4 +Solo/Scat + outro (2:57–4:16)

I need a man

- guitar punctuated and distorted - climax includes two - the two contrasting dubbed dubbed vocal parts vocal lines complement the camera work - Lennox in dialogue with herself: - contrasting long and close (2:57–3:00) shots - cackle at close of - final scene sees Lennox chorus (3:08–3:11) strutting to the instrumental passages - series of frenzied high-pitched wails in - stands with back to wall guitar—a riff in the when scatting tonic major takes - video closes with her back to over camera - new bass part enters (an imitation of the - full length shots as Lennox walks, swaggers, and exits synth bass in Wham’s “I’m Your Man”) - scatting on I’ll take you anytime - verse material returns, ba, ba, ba, ba, with babbling effect leading to Oooo (3:58) - song ends with guitar screeching on an oscillating minor third interval

If an artist’s idiolect alludes directly and indirectly to his or her contemporaries and predecessors, it operates

via historical and cultural referents situated within a multidimensional space. The foregrounding of Lennox’s persona in both the song recording and video draws attention not only to what is being sung (musically, visually, and lyrically) but also to her own construction of gender, ethnicity, and sexuality. Granted, for a song to work, our identification with the artist is necessary: we identify with Lennox through our own reactions to her as much as to the story she tells. Insisting that she needs a man so passionately is, in itself, an intimate yet dubious declaration, where the use of the first-person pronoun makes it a very personal act. Nonetheless Lennox’s use of I entices the listener into her onstage as well as offstage characters. So, despite its ostensibly earnest subject matter, the song’s narrative abounds with parody and intrigue and harks back to a wealth of pop songs with similar titles and themes. The raunchiness of Lennox’s voice primarily discloses all this. Her impudence and waggery are apparent in the hard accents and drawn-out vowels, the excitable diphthongs and biting consonants. She not only connects to a number of white singers who have turned to the blues, among them Patti Smith, Mick Jagger, Elvis Presley, and Joe Strummer, but also pays homage to black female legends such as Nina Simone and Aretha Franklin. This is detectable in the very nuances of vocal articulation and soulful scatting, constituents of her idiolect that mobilize a set of erotics that span genres and draw on powerful points of identification in terms of musical heritage. By captivating vocal signifiers from the past and turning them into something else, the transgressive characteristics of her vocality stylize the video performance. Moreover, her transgressive mode of vocal articulation provides a commentary on the sociocultural conditions of the late 1980s in Britain. Temporality is also an important aspect when attempting to understand idiolects and styles. Given that a song’s meaning alters over time, a back-and-forth quality of reception is always under way. An artist first Page 261 →encountered, say, in 1987 is going to be differently received in 2015. First and foremost, this is due to the technicalities and aesthetics of recording technology that immediately distinguish and even date a track. Lennox’s subject position, as much as the music production, in “I Need a Man” reflects a different place, age, and time, especially in terms of the socially encoded structures of gender, race, and sexuality. The song’s reception is contingent on the temporal conditions of specific listening situations. Because the listener is located in different contexts based on time and place, the recorded voice in this sense is always passive.10 This would imply that the voice is never self-determining, a point Nina Eidsheim (2008) has argued in her study of the material technology of the self in the voice. Eidsheim also points out that the voice becomes a performative relic through racialized timbre. Lennox’s vocality draws us into her own gendered and racialized identity as her idiolect refers to subjectivity in different times, spaces, and places. Lennox’s staged presence is made distinct by her idiolect—the tone of her voice, her distinct timbre, and all the assertive mannerisms bound up in melodic figuration. Activated by extraordinarily precise semantic rectitude, she targets specific words and phrases and extracts to spell out what they stand for. A fitting example of this is found at the beginning of each of three verse statements with the two words “I don’t—I don’t care if you won’t talk to me” (00:25–00:27), “I don’t need a heartbreaker” (1:54–1:56), and again, “I don’t care if you won’t talk to me” (2:25–2:27). The two dominant word cells, “I need” and “I don’t,” capture the contradictory message of the song. Her precise articulation and use of incessant repetition stress the diva’s desire to get exactly what she wants. Explicitly stating what she does not want adds weight to the problem of finding (or indeed wanting to find) Mr. Right: “I don’t want,” “I don’t care,” “I don’t need,” and “I don’t give” are how most of the phrases start. Perhaps the clue to what she really wants is disclosed in the prose of the final verse: “’Cause there’s just one thing that I’m looking for, And he don’t wear a dress” (2:47–2:55). This line is elaborated with a colossal, wailing blues downward flourish on the word dress. Musical subjectivity is about vocal delivery and placement in the mix and the palette of gestures that make up a performance. Fluctuating in mood, form, and narrative content, Lennox’s persona is fashioned on affective states. Right from the start of the song, her blood-curdling scream ushers in a range of sonorities, gestures, and emotions (see table 9.1). The force with which the scream virtually drowns everything else in the mix invites the listener to partake in the protagonist’s own drama. The Page 262 →narrative acquires its logic through all the details of the musical commentary, projected by the strut-like rhythmic motifs, the guitar backing riffs, the wide

variety of melodic articulations, and certainly the trashy Europop feel. During the course of the video Lennox flirts with the male gaze by calculated strategies of confrontation: eye contact with the camera, exaggerated and coquettish mannerisms. Akin to this is her mannerism of smirking, illustrated in the performance of the main hook, “I need a man,” where heavy inflections pound the word man. With regard to the subtle variants of timbre and texture, her tessitura warrants commentary. For example, the repetition of man is seldom the same. Minute variations on the word create high levels of anticipation as Lennox’s exhortations convert into scornful retort. It is in the one-syllable variable repetition of man that she jeers. The word’s snide treatment subverts its semantic content. Such subtleties in inflection upset this loaded gender signifier as Lennox alienates herself hyperbolically. She pursues a strategy of empowerment through poking fun at precisely the persona she is playing out, a point of self-reflexivity. The more I have listened to the hook, “I need a man,” the more I have mulled over the role of recording and production in captivating a special spirit of expression. Lennox’s recorded vocals, occupying a prime position in the mix, define the “sound stage.” This useful term comes from William Moylan’s (2012, 164) theorization of the perceived performance environment (PPE), “the overall place” where the “music recording is heard taking place. It is the environment of the sound stage.” The PPE frames the aesthetic domain in which the vocalist connects with the listener. Vocal imagery not only encompasses but also enhances the details in a performance. As close examination reveals, the control of distance on the sound stage plays a determining role. Moylan (73) argues that “most important in terms of distance is the lead vocal; it establishes a position of the phonographic narrative.” Hence, the seductive character of Lennox’s vocal lines come to life through the spatial dimensions of her unique sound stage. Ironically, much of this is due to Stewart, the male producer, and arguably a controlling force, behind the song. Affording her a dominant position in the mix, he regulates her voice to sustain sufficient levels of interest. As the song progresses, so the use of effects increases, making Lennox’s vocality more soulful. The increase in reverb during the second half of the song literally magnifies aspects of the vocal image, making it sound rapturous. Lennox’s trademark is her energized idiolect, a manifestation of a subjectivity that is deliberately inflated. And it is Page 263 →based on imaginative mimicry and a sense of humor. Something self-deprecating defines her affectation, marked by a parroting of cock-rock. Her in-yer-face stroppiness tropes the masculine world of rock, albeit with tongue- in-cheek. Such invocations of genderplay feed into a sensibility that has references to female icons as much as males. One of the overt intertexts in the video of “I Need a Man” is that of Marilyn Monroe, who is resignified in Lennox’s take on femininity. It is striking how Monroe’s brazen demeanor becomes sensually configured through the sexy allure of a set of erotics—the high-camp meltdown of an angry diva who retaliates by stating exactly who she is and what she desires. Lennox’s androgynous disposition in the video is loaded with drag inferences. Spoofing rock glamour, she comes across as “Satan dressed as Marilyn Monroe in an enormous dirty blonde wig, black false eyelashes and a figurehugging, cleavage-flaunting shiny white dress” (Eaton-Lewis 2013). Lennox’s brand of drag ultimately becomes an offensive for critiquing gender and reflecting on the repetitive structures that perpetuate hegemonic heterosexuality.

Genderplay and Magnified Lineages My final inroad into “I Need a Man” prompts a closer consideration of gendered corporeality. By now it is widely accepted that pop video performances are staged cultural events that communicate what we understand about the gendered body.11 Embodied performances bring forth the primacy of the body, prompting the ways by which we comprehend gender, race, and generation. As a visual hook in pop videos, the body not only informs our experiences of music but also shows how artists portray various narratives surrounding their star personae.12 In my book, Queerness in Pop Music (2016, 2), I argue that “genderplay refers to the specifics of a singer’s persona and musical idiolect often through a good-humored engagement with lyrics and subject matter in recorded form.” Genderplay is transgressive by its nature, impinging on the subversive and allegorizing fantasies about gender. In pop, genderplay concerns “the switching of roles and toying with norms that are intentionally designed to entertain” (28 n. 5). Lennox’s androgynous display in “I Need a Man” is a prime example of genderplay in that she confronts white heteropatriarchy by shaking it loose from its confines. Probing

at the complexities of identity many fans desire to resolve but cannot, she confronts the constructedness of female and male norms in the world around us. The full force of her performance exposes and satirizes the fault lines of Page 264 →gender norms. Recognizing that genderplay amplifies notions of identification by accenting both similarity and difference, Lennox unsettles and releases the structures of gender normativity by severing the link between its subordination and hegemonic masculinity; she gets us to rethink the contingency points of desire. A degree of entanglement always results when an artist responds to her own gender traits self-reflexively. Ample evidence of this is found in the performance of “I Need a Man,” where musical expression is a constitutive force of artistic production as much as personal narrativity. Yet no matter how contrived and artificial the performance is—after all, this is a major part of Lennox’s strategy—the sentiments she exudes feel real in that they flourish in the wake of the reactions they evoke both physiologically and emotionally. Sean Cubitt (2000, 155–56) has addressed this by turning to the role of the voice in relation to amplification and conditions of reception. Because the amplified voice permits us “to partake of emotions that were not available in ordinary life,” its sonic image offers us “an ideal image of ourselves” and therefore “engages a primary narcissistic desire.” More specifically, the communication of melody through the amplified voice “invokes and assuages primary anxieties about relations between self and the world” (156). The idiolect is constructed at the nexus of vocality and musical signification. In an idiolect, we face an aural spectacle whose intertexts are intended to arouse curiosity and magnify lineage. After we experience a convincing performance, the identificatory process often feels realistic. And strategies of genderplay make Lennox feel all the more real. Much of her success results from her resignifying styles, and her vocal agility approximates other performers and styles that include blues, soul, and rock idioms in a pop idiolect that is highly sui generis. One of her accolades is her impact on a new generation of artists, not least the legendary British jazz singer Amy Winehouse. Genderplay in pop is also dialogic, a phenomenon that has numerous implications. The artistic and romantic relationship between Lennox and Stewart becomes a narrative that weaves itself in and around the Eurythmics’ songs and videos. Waywardness in this duo’s video performances, live events, and concerts has crystallized into a signature that epitomizes 1980s synth pop and their highly mediatized relationship. Stewart’s subjectivity in “I Need a Man” is rooted in the guitar parts, a potent signifier of attitudinal expression and friction. The track features a gradual buildup in the guitar fills, with a thickening of texture that results in an unleashing of emotions in the solo passage, where the improvisatory ideas end up in a spate of wails (3:58–4:12). The goal here seems Page 265 →to be to mimic Lennox’s own scream (0:15–0:19), almost in the guise of an echo effect from the introduction. The frenzied guitar solo almost badgers the song’s protagonist and her need of a man. A good dose of humor is injected into the guitar riffs and melodies, enriched by the elation of Lennox’s lines. One possible reading of the guitar part is that of the threatened male yelling back at Lennox: “Well, here I am. Am I not the man you really need?” The stereotype-laden, masturbatory lines of Stewart’s performance seem a mockery of the clichГ©d rock guitarist who lets rip his frustrations in an outburst. In the video, this jizz-like gesture is greeted disparagingly by Lennox, who literally turns her back on his rantings as she exits. Such symbiosis between the overdriven rock guitar gestures and the singer’s strident tone can be understood in terms of diegetic function—the guitar symbolizes the male protagonist who cries out for attention while adding rhetorical weight to the mocking lines of the female subject’s performance. Infused with details from cabaret and the musical tradition, Lennox’s blasГ© disposition is rich with a gaiety that is camp. It is quite common for pop artists to draw on countless genres, and Lennox’s representation as vamp in the video performance of “I Need a Man” has its genealogy in the camped-up performances of German American actress and singer Marlene Dietrich (1901–92). Dietrich’s camp sensibility, palpable in all her films and cabaret performances, has had a long-lasting effect on pop culture.13 Between the early 1950s and mid-1970s, Dietrich was the world’s most renowned cabaret artist, and her live shows on the Las Vegas Strip (at the Sahara Hotel) were notorious not only for their risquГ© content but also for her attire. Designed by Jean Louis, her famous beaded “nude dress” was considered outrageous, and she subsequently appeared at the CafГ© de Paris in London. Though Dietrich was openly bisexual (with ongoing love affairs with Greta Garbo as well as many other women and men), her personal life received little public attention.14 Vehemently rejecting

gender conventions, Dietrich reveled in butch drag. Integrated into the Berlin gay scene of the 1920s, she often attended drag balls with her latest girlfriend on her arm. Even more outrageously, she did “male” things such as taking up boxing at Sabri Mahir’s boxing studio, which had just opened to women. But perhaps what stood out most was Dietrich’s pioneering status as a film star and fashion icon. Her androgynous imagery and queer disposition were a direct result of a bold fetishistic reshaping of female representation. And her campy lead role in Josef von Sternberg’s 1930 film, The Blue Angel, even upstaged the film itself. As young provocative chanteuse at Der Blaue Engel nightclub, Dietrich’s bewitchedPage 266 → caricature of Lola would become ingrained in our social memory as much by her sound as her look: the smoky voice, top hat, silk stockings, and high heels. For the early 1930s, Dietrich’s performance was radical, debauched, and sexually experimental, depicting the decadence of the Weimar Republic (1919–33). This would be recharted decades later in the Broadway musical and film Cabaret, starring Liza Minnelli. In sum, then, Lennox’s visual performance draws on an impressive repertoire of sonic and visual cultural referents—her inflections, timbres, registral agility mapped against her look, attitude, and disposition are firmly implanted in European history. The hard edge to her timbre, her spirit of defiance, and her Dietrich-like intensity create a dramatic sensibility. Her voice, heavily processed and made to sound loud, hollow, coarse, sensual, and even beautiful, is deeply disorienting. There is something disconcerting in the detached quality of her vocal performance that intersects with her predecessors and contemporaries in popular culture. Particularly, the aesthetics of the recording of “I Need a Man” foreground her thrilling posturing: high levels of reverb and various other effects contrast the verses and choruses, and a saturation point is reached with the final utterance of “I need a man,” where her voice is drowned out through an oversaturated and booming sonic image. Perhaps what stands out most in my mind are her two creepy screams—the first in the introduction (00:15–00:19), the second in the final coda section of the song (4:06 onward). As Lennox’s voice merges with Stewart’s guitar wailing, a poignant, symbolic gesture of closure is achieved. A lavish queering of pentup emotions melodramatizes the impersonation of the incorrigible pop diva on a mission.

Conclusion “I Need a Man” superbly encapsulates the Eurythmics’ impact on popular music. Not only a rockinfluenced, New Wave pop duo, they were also “a soul powerhouse” (Bayles 1994, 372) as a consequence of their presence and chemistry: Lennox is no Aretha Franklin, but her partner, Dave Stewart, made her sound very good, backing her up with gospel singers and top-notch musicians, including himself. Unlike Blondie or Roxy Music, the Eurythmics never deadened the music with deadpan performance; rather they hypnotized audiences with their suave but celebratory stage presence. Page 267 →Rife with social politics, the Eurythmics’ songs show how mainstream pop thrives on androgynous subject material.15 Inadvertent or not, this duo got the Butlerian point across that biology is not destiny, as they invited their fans to celebrate notions of self-invention with regard to gender. At the core of Lennox’s performance in “I Need a Man” is a blatant rejection of stereotypes. Through her cleverly crafted idiolect she shows how signifiers can be disrupted in provocative ways. The signifiers referred to in this study include the musical genealogies of cock-rock, glam rock, blues, rock and roll, and 1980s synth pop, coupled with the borrowed visual markers of androgyny, drag, and camp, all in the guise of the female pop diva. Furthermore, the innovative display of aesthetics linked to recording and production practices connects directly to all the cultural and historical references of the period in which the song was conceived. In her lifelong struggle against the prejudice that frames gender normativity, Lennox has pried open the possibilities of resignifying the female pop subject. Efficaciously, her mimesis tackles the imitative structuring role of gender by troubling it (Butler 1999) in a transgressive way that also functions as a major source of entertainment. Her unsentimental take on a woman needing a man brims with innuendoes, with the sutures of the glam visual performance making the song all the more arresting. As a white singer appropriating black blues, soul, and gospel styles as well as white cock-rock, she heaps scorn on emerging tendencies in masculinity during the

1980s. Lennox lampoons the advent of the idealized, narcissistic, New Man of the 1980s by stating in plain terms that she neither wants nor buys into this idea.16 She thus gives prominence to the contradictions of gender by shifting her own position from woman as object to woman as speaker and in doing so with a degree of transparency. Her knowingness, great sense of parody, and resignification of others’ styles means that she joins the company of mainstream LGBTQ stars such as Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger, George Michael, Marc Almond, and Elton John. Through genderplay Lennox turns camp into an audacious proclamation of impertinence and contention. The result is an overwhelming sense of energy that bedazzles to make oblivious the rigidity of human-imposed gender norms. The performative aspects of visual movement and gesture complement musical, lyrical, and stylistic structures in “I Need a Man” as Lennox woos us into a space that we otherwise would not encounter. It is as if she has always recognized that a musical act is a showcase for an idiolect that provides the framework for unique, individual expression. And so, as Page 268 →she leaves the stage in the final moments of the video, we are left with the resonance of the singing voice in our minds, a very special voice immersed in prodigious trajectories of desire.

Notes 1. Specifically, this entails a Foucault-oriented cultural and historical understanding of the influences and processes that constitute Lennox’s style, genre, and idiolect. Genealogical analysis is part and parcel of the task of fathoming out the location of a text in relation to other texts and contexts. For a rich musicological approach that combines intertextuality and genealogy through an analysis of Lady Gaga, see Burns, Woods, and Lafrance 2015. 2. To date she has released more than sixty videos of astonishing variety. 3. This point is debated in more detail in Richardson and Hawkins 2007, which directly builds on the work of Julia Kristeva and her notion that any text implies the incorporation and transformation of another. 4. My exegesis of resignification in this chapter forms part of a methodological approach to performativity that draws on the interrelated social and cultural entities that institute gender. It draws on the concepts of performativity theorized by Butler (1993, 1999). 5. For an astute theorization of “vocal drag” in specific examples of pop music, see Peraino 2006. 6. For examinations of how Lennox destabilized fixed structures of gender and sexuality in a strategy that challenged the male gaze, see Hawkins 1996, 2002, 2016. 7. Lennox later explained her decision to project a tough image by wearing men’s suits and defying gender norms: “I didn’t want to be perceived as a girly girl on stage. It was a kind of slightly subversive statement and what’s even more subversive about it is that I’m so not gay” (Anthony 2010). 8. Clarke (2005) and Moore (2012) have developed theoretical approaches to listening in their analyses of popular music. 9. The term hypotext is derived from Genette’s (1997) theory of transformation, whereby a text (hypertext) has a direct relationship to an earlier text (hypotext) in a manner that is noncommentatory. 10. Cubitt (2000) also emphasizes this point in his in-depth study of Chuck Berry’s song “Maybellene.” 11. This is a main focus in the work of scholars such as Susan McClary, Lori Burns, Marc Lafrance, Alyssa Woods, Susan Fast, Sheila Whiteley, Carol Vernallis, Fred Maus, Susanna VГ¤limГ¤ki, and John Richardson. 12. For an exploration of the concept of visual hooks that focuses on Lennox’s facial expressions, see Hawkins 1996. 13. Dietrich’s strong influence on Madonna, for example, is evident not only in her photo shots and video performances but also in her live performances. Her Girlie Show tour included a blatant reference in her performance of “Deeper and Deeper” to Dietrich’s role in the Blonde Venus (1932) and her infamous “Hot Voodoo” performance. Page 269 →14. In 1928 Dietrich performed a duet with Margot Lion and Oskar Karlweiss, “My Best

Girlfriend” (“Wenn die beste Freundinn”), while donning a corsage of violets, at the time a symbol of lesbianism. 15. Other examples of androgyny are found in Blur’s “Girls & Boys,” The Kinks’ “Lola,” Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side,” David Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel,” and Antony and the Johnsons’ “You Are My Sister.” 16. For a critique of Western masculinity and the demise of humankind, see Simpson 2011. Also, for a range of debates on how pop artists convey, stage, and contest gender in popular music, see Hawkins (2017).

References Anthony, Andrew. 2010. “I Would Have Been Perfect as a Man.” Observer, October 10, 2010, http://www.theguardian.com/music/2010/oct/10/annie-lennox-eurythmics-christmas-cornucopia-universal-child Baudrillard, Jean. 1983. Simulations. New York: Semiotext(e). Bayles, Martha. 1994. Hole in Our Soul: The Loss of Beauty and Meaning in American Popular Music. New York: Free Press. Burns, Lori, Alyssa Woods, and Marc Lafrance. 2015. “The Genealogy of a Song: Lady Gaga’s Musical Intertexts on вЂThe Fame Monster’ (2009).” Twentieth-Century Music 12 (1): 3–35. Butler, Judith. 1993. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits of “Sex.” New York: Routledge. Butler, Judith. 1999. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. 2nd ed. New York: Routledge. Clarke, Eric. 2005. Ways of Listening: An Ecological Approach to the Perception of Musical Meaning. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cubitt, Sean. 2000. “Maybellene: Meaning and the Listening Subject.” In Reading Pop, edited by R. Middleton, 141–59. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eaton-Lewis, Andrew. 2013. “Is Annie Lennox the Scottish David Bowie?” Scotsman, 10 March, http://www.scotsman.com/lifestyle/culture/music/is-annie-lennox-the-scottish-david-bowie-1–2828616 Eidsheim, Nina S. 2008. “Voice as Technology of Selfhood: Towards an Analysis of Racialized Timbre and Vocal Performance.” PhD diss., University of California, San Diego. Frith, Simon. 1981. Sound Effects: Youth, Leisure, and the Politics of Rock ’n’ Roll. New York: Pantheon. Frith, Simon, and Angela McRobbie. 1978. “Rock and Sexuality.” Screen Education 29:3–19. Hawkins, Stan. 1996. “Perspectives in Popular Musicology: Music, Lennox, and Meaning in 1990s Pop.” Popular Music 15 (1): 17–36. Hawkins, Stan. 2002. Settling the Pop Score: Pop Texts and Identity Politics. Burlington: Ashgate. Hawkins, Stan. 2016. Queerness in Pop: Aesthetics, Gender Norms, and Temporality. New York: Routledge. Page 270 →Hawkins, Stan, ed. 2017. The Routledge Research Companion to Popular Music and Gender. New York: Routledge. Lacasse, Serge. 2000. “Intertextuality and Hypertextuality in Recorded Popular Music.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by M. Talbot, 35–58. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press.

Moore, Allan F. 2012. Song Means: Analysing and Interpreting Recorded Popular Song. Farnham: Ashgate. Moylan, William. 2012. “Considering Space in Recorded Sound.” In The Art of Record Production, edited by Simon Frith and Simon Zagorski-Thomas, 163–88. Farnham: Ashgate. Peraino, Judith A. 2006. Listening to the Sirens: Musical Technologies of Queer Identity from Homer to Hedwig. Berkeley: University of California Press. Richardson, John, and Stan Hawkins, eds. 2007. Essays on Sound and Vision. Yliopistopaino: Helsinki University Press. Simpson, Mark. 2011. Metrosexy: A 21st Century Self-Love Story. N.p.: Simpson. Wong, Curtis M. 2014. “Annie Lennox Sounds Off on Being a вЂGender Bender,’ Her Gay Fan Base, and More,” Huffington Post, September 25, http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/09/25/annie-lennox-gayicon-_n_5883626.html

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Section IV Intertextual Productions

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Ten. Timbre as Text The Cognitive Roots of Intertextuality Simon Zagorski-Thomas ARIANA GRANDE’S “One Last Time” (2014) starts with electronic percussion and a monophonic keyboard line that begins with a bell-like tone and gradually thickens by adding raspy synthesizer tones before the harmonizing pad of the chorus fills out this texture further. There are other, perhaps more dramatic, changes, such as the development of the drum parts and the vocal arrangement, that contribute to the sense of increasing energy, but the keyboard line expands continually and gradually rather than developing via more abrupt and modular sectional increments. Why do these changes in keyboard timbre suggest changes in the type and level of energy being expended and changes to the space in which the activity might be occurring? This chapter examines the ways in which the sounds and textures of electronic music suggest interpretations to listeners based on the sonic morphologies of our existing “real world” experience. We hear these electronic sounds as simultaneously similar to acoustic sounds and obviously artificial. The bell-like tone is too pure and does not have quite the right decay properties to be a “real” bell. It also lacks the characteristic sound of space—reverberation. Whether or not we can consciously identify these details, we can usually tell the difference between an acoustic recording and an electronic sound in the same way that we can tell the difference between a filmed scene and a computer-generated animation. In addition, the way that we interpret these electronic sounds is determined by both the similarities to and the differences from some conceptualPage 274 → “realism” that we have learned through experience. Indeed, the additional synthesizer sound that fades in underneath the bell-like tone is a version of a very popular sound used in house music in the early 1990s that is commonly known as the “hoover” sound because of its similarity to the sound of a vacuum cleaner.1 This chapter explores how we can enrich our understanding of both perception/interpretation and intertextuality by considering these experiences of acoustic sounds as texts and of electronic music as texts that not only stand in intertextual relationships with other examples of electronic music but also stand in a perhaps more fundamental intertextual relationship with acoustic sound. As an analytical tool within postmodern theory and poststructuralism, intertextuality removes the focus of discussion from the creation of a work and directs it toward the creation of meaning. This can involve the creation of meaning through an author’s use of previous culture in the creation of new art work or the “use” of previous culture in the “creation” of new authors, but it also, more radically, involves the creation of meaning that occurs in the “user”—the listener, in the case of music. Roland Barthes (1977) situates the production of literature, or at least literary meaning, in language rather than the author. Mikhail Bakhtin (1982), whose notion of heteroglossia was a key precursor to the development of intertextuality, similarly places the construction of meaning through language as the central pillar of his theoretical framework. But how is this construction of meaning to be theorized?

Theoretical Background The cognitive roots of intertextuality are examined through the ecological approach to perception (Gibson 1979; Clarke 2005) and the neural theory of metaphor (Feldman 2008; Lakoff and Johnson 2003). Those roots are also tied into Denis Smalley’s (1997) notion of spectromorphology from the electroacoustic music world. In essence, perception and interpretation involve the matching of perceived activity in the world around us with our own possible bodily actions. On the literal level, if we see someone else’s hand grasp an object, we interpret it by imagining the way we would carry out that activity (Iacoboni et al. 2005). Further, the neural theory of metaphor proposes that every act of interpretation of perceptual stimulus involves the creation of relationships between our previous bodily experience and the activity we are witnessing. I may not be a drummer, but I have experience of hitting things, and I can tell the difference between the sound of something being hit hard and

somethingPage 275 → being hit softly, between something large being hit and something small being hit, between something wooden being hit and something metal being hit. While I may not be able to play the drums, I interpret the sound of drumming through my subconscious imaginative construction of what it might be like to make the sounds that I am hearing. This suggests, then, that every new perceptual experience is understood through the problem-solving activity of trying to relate it to some previous experience and that these prior experiences, in turn, are characterized through their distance from and type of relationship to some bodily activity. Thus, if I see someone hit a hand drum in an energetic manner, I may have experience of hitting things with my hand in an energetic manner, but I may never have hit anything that possesses the same material characteristics as a hand drum. My understanding of the activity will therefore involve a richer representation of the muscular hitting action than of the tactile sensation of what touching that object feels like. My understanding of the tactile sensation will have to be constructed through metaphorical parallels with the objects with which I do have tactile experience. If, however, I see a bulldozer pushing over a brick wall (and assuming that I don’t have experience of operating a bulldozer), I have experience of pushing and I may have experience of pushing against bricks. My understanding of that perceptual stimulus relies on building a connection between the kind of pushing that I can do and the kind of pushing a bulldozer does. It also relies on my experience of pushing against bricks to recognize that the bulldozer is doing something beyond my own capacity. It also may rely on my experience of driving and/or of operating heavy machinery. Fauconnier and Turner (2003) describe this process as conceptual blending—the mapping of concepts from one mental space into another to create metaphorical meaning. In general, my level and type of understanding (and empathy) are determined by how directly I can connect my present perception and my previous experience. Exploring this idea through the lens of the ecological approach to perception requires introducing the concepts of invariant properties and affordances. Gibson (1979) suggests that rather than undertaking a continuous complex scene analysis, our perceptual systems are scanning for evidence of invariant properties that have, in our previous experience, provided particular affordances.2 This idea of seeking out particular characteristics that offer the potential for particular developments or progressions is crucial for building the link with the neural theory of metaphor. If our perceptual system is schematic in this way—that is, it is Page 276 →based on the identification of important and salient features rather than a systematic description or analysis—then its processes are perfectly set up for the kinds of metaphorical comparison required by the neural theory of metaphor. The same salient feature of a type of physical exertion used to propel a heavy object forward (i.e., pushing) is present in my embodied experience of pushing as a person and in my schematic interpretation of the bulldozer knocking down a brick wall. The invariant property of pushing provides the affordance of something moving or falling over. Other salient features (or invariant properties) can be mapped to other experience to create a complex metaphorical connection between certain invariant properties and affordances from a range of previous experiences and my current perception. These connections are therefore creating interpretive meaning by associating different types of activity with each other. By associating the invariant property of pushing as experienced through my body with the perceived activity of a bulldozer, I am also creating a metaphorical connection between my experiences of exertion and a sense of my own bodily strength with the bulldozer’s activity. I create a metaphorical understanding of its strength in relation to my own. The more frequently those connections are reinforced (e.g., by multiple encounters with bulldozers or drummers), the more routine and normalized the metaphorical connection becomes and the more we lose a conscious perception of the connections we are making. Going back to musical examples, these reinforced pathways relate to emotional activity as well as to physical activity. If I hear the sound of a voice singing, I create a mental representation of the type of physical activity that I would undertake to create that sound. If that activity involves various types of low-energy expenditure, my prior experience of engaging in such an activity may have been associated with sadness or tenderness or laziness, but that type of activity will not have been associated with aggression or excitement. This metaphorical association would therefore mean that the music would invoke some or all of these emotional responses and would explain why that emotional response to the music feels less direct (and painful?) than the original experiences being invoked. There may be invariant properties that a large group of people associate with sadness (or perhaps more

accurately with a narrative of sadness, longing, poignancy, and so forth) because (forgetting about lyrics for the moment) the gestural shaping of the vocal performance shares invariant properties with the forms of listless, restless, and forlorn activity in which we engage when brokenhearted, but the specific Page 277 →circumstances associated with those types of activity will be different and unique for each person.3 A strong part of the attraction of virtuosity lies in our appreciation, through the process of neural metaphor (I do not have to be a drummer to make sense of drumming), of the fact that the activity lies beyond our capabilities. Conversely, the attraction of simple musical activity lies in our assessment of the fact that we can or could do it. Indeed, the attraction of communal singing, hand clapping, and dancing is the extension of a direct metaphorical connection with physical activity into the actual performance of that activity. There is, however, a pleasure in the activity of problem solving that is different from pleasure in the activity of participation. The pleasure of problem solving flows from the creation of metaphorical connections, from finding ways to make sense of incoming perceptual information by matching invariant properties from that information with previous experiences and testing whether the suggested affordances are valid. To return to the example of the sound of a musical virtuoso, our embodied experience of what it is possible for fingers to do produces a potential set of affordances for what might happen once we identify a scenario in which a pianist is using his or her fingers to trigger sounds through a keyboard mechanism. If the pianist’s fingers are moving very fast, we will adjust our sense of the potential affordances based on a sense of what fingers can do in theory rather than what ours may have done in the past. At some point, though, a set of sounds may reach us that we believe are beyond the affordances of finger activity, no matter how highly trained, and we may have to change our assessment of the invariant properties of the activity that is causing the sound to something mechanical, something beyond human capabilities (e.g., a Conlon Nancarrow Study for Player Piano or a speeded up MIDI sequence playing piano samples). Although our understanding and interpretation of that mechanical activity will still be based on a metaphorical connection with our embodied experience of finger movement, it will be further colored by the metaphorical connections we have made about machines that can do things faster and more evenly than we can.

Representational Systems A further complication arises when we enter the world of representational art forms such as painting, photography, film, and recorded music: it is possible to create a representation of something that cannot exist. Page 278 →For example, M. C. Escher can draw an impossible “circular” staircase, we can use Photoshop software to put Marilyn Monroe’s head on Elvis Presley’s body, Warner Bros. can use computer-generated graphics to make Superman fly in a movie, and Taylor Swift can sing multiple backing vocals at the same time as she sings the lead vocal on a recording. So how, then, do we understand these representations of impossible things? My answer is that we understand them in exactly the same way. We create whatever connections we can between identified invariant properties in our perceptual information and in our previous experience, and this process of conceptual blending (Fauconnier and Turner 2003) allows us simultaneously to recognize both its impossibility and its similarity to a series of possible events or scenarios. Of course, the key additional element in such cases is our identification of these phenomena as being representations of reality; the “impossibility” is therefore afforded by some invariant property of the medium of representation rather than a change in the laws of physics. It is not so much that “You’ll believe a man can fly”4 but that you’ll believe a man can be made to appear to fly on the movie screen. The basis of this theoretical model is, then, that our understanding of our own physical capabilities and experience are reimagined in the new context of what we are currently experiencing. The similarities to or differences from our previous experience and the way this process connects two normally unconnected activities or experiences through conceptual blending are a form of intertextuality. The existing “texts” being referenced and recontextualized are quite generic in this instance—strings are the text when we hear synth strings, acoustic drums are the text for electronic drums, and so forth. According to this theoretical model, all of our understanding of “abstract” sounds is basically metaphorical in nature. Readers familiar with Smalley’s (1997) use of the term spectromorphology will recognize some parallels

here. He describes the frequency content of a sound changing over time, its spectromorphology, as tied to our perception of the type of energy being expended and the type of materials involved in the production of that sound. As he is concerned with the categorization of electronic and electroacoustic sounds, he then proceeds to distinguish them in terms of levels of surrogacy—their conceptual “distance” from some notional “original” sound. While the notion of a series of categorical levels of surrogacy is useful for Smalley’s purposes, the theoretical model that involves the ecological approach to perception and the neural theory of metaphor explores these relationshipsPage 279 → in a much more complex and nuanced manner. In particular, there is not necessarily a single sound-producing activity from which the sound that is being studied has a specific level of distance. There may be one invariant property of the sound that is very closely connected to one type of activity and another invariant property that is connected to a different type of activity but much less closely. For example, we might hear an electronic sound that bears quite a close sonic resemblance during its first few milliseconds to a plastic drum skin being hit by a stick but that thereafter combines quite schematic or abstract characteristics of glass shattering and water splashing—perhaps the highly electronic sound of white noise might be given some of the volume envelope characteristics of splintering glass and water dispersing. This combination of a more visceral sense of the initial impact combined with a confusing and yet obviously artificial sense of materiality would suggest a rich mixture of metaphorical connections.

Pop Palimpsest While an obvious parallel exists between this construction of new meaning from prior embodied experience and the idea of “the pop palimpsest,” where both the production and reception of new music are understood in terms of existing cultural influences, a couple of issues require a little more explanation. First, what is the nature of text? Should texts be explored as empirical objects that are external to the humans who create and consume them or in terms of the interpretations and understanding that they stimulate or facilitate within humans? While I do not deny the possibility of some external objectivity, my approach here is based on the assumption that our perceptual system filters, distorts, and interprets that external reality and is therefore concerned with the interpretations and understanding that we produce. Indeed, the “texts” that are being identified in my approach are, by definition, internal representations of past bodily experience. They are representations not of the external objects (or sounds) themselves but of our experience, of what we felt like in their presence. Related to this is Barthes’s point about the agency of creation. Should we be examining this from the perspective of the creator of the work or the “user” of the work or from some pseudo-objective perspective such as the way that language shapes us? The second issue is, then, whether we should be studying the text from an individual or a global (or social) perspective and whether these two perspectives are mutually exclusive. As Page 280 →mentioned earlier, there may be invariant properties that a large number of people identify when listening to a piece of music and interpret as “sad,” but the specific circumstances (and affordances) associated with those properties will be unique for each person. Does intertextuality relate to an individual or a social agency of creation? I think the simple answer is, “It depends.” It depends on what a particular study is aiming to illuminate. While I focus here on the individual listener, I do so by using a hypothetical generic listener, meaning that my analysis falls into the category of a pseudo-objective perspective. However, a generic psychology is not the same as sociology. Another study might, for example, look at how a particular composer or artist constructed a particular piece of recorded music through an examination of his or her relationship with and reaction to other music.5 A third type of study might look at the interaction between a set of individuals that resulted in a piece of recorded music.

Examples This section uses a series of examples from electronic and highly processed forms of popular music to explore the nature of these metaphorical connections and their relation to the notion of sonic cartoons (Zagorski-Thomas 2014, 49–69; 2016). I examine these examples from the perspective of the ecological approach to perception: in terms of agency, materiality, activity, and spatial positioning. I seek to identify a series of invariant properties that would facilitate some cognitive cross-referencing in the form of conceptual blending. The source domains, which involve specific characteristics (invariant properties) that can be combined to create a blended metaphorical space,

therefore constitute the texts of our intertextual analysis. While they are described in terms of their notional external existence (e.g., a snare drum sound), this analysis is based on memory—that is, on a cognitive representation of what it has been like to be in the presence of such a sound. Autechre’s “Fleur” The first fifty seconds of Autechre’s “Fleur” (2013) is constructed from electronic sounds that are sequenced and shaped to resemble the sound of a kick, snare, and hi-hat being played. The sounds are emphatically electronic, yet the frequency range that they occupy and their positioning in the patterns force us to hear them in these terms if we have prior Page 281 →experience of drum kit performance (see also Lacasse 2001). Various levels of textual referencing start with the suggestion of materiality that the frequency ranges of the different component sounds occupy—the low-frequency thumps, the mid-frequency “clangs,” and the high-frequency clicks create metaphorical relationships with the kick, snare, and hi-hat based on the materials that they suggest, the size of the objects, and the way they might be hit. The “snare” sounds have the closest relationship to a recognizable materiality in that they resemble something metallic—perhaps a tea tray—being hit in a variety of different ways. They are, however, obviously electronic in nature despite possessing some of the invariant properties of a metallic object being struck. This stems partly from the perceptual consistency of the waveforms. Acoustic sounds are characterized by tiny inconsistencies in waveforms caused by the small imperfections in the material structure of the objects that are made to vibrate. When waves are generated through mathematical calculation and electronic oscillation, they feature a consistency that usually makes them sound electronic or artificial to us. Recent developments in the mathematics of physical modeling synthesis have started to create electronic sounds with these types of inconsistency, but they nevertheless often remain identifiably artificial. In this instance, there is a hint of electrical malfunction, hums, interference, and distortion that is reminiscent of glitch but that gives a sense of being the result of construction rather than destruction. Another factor that provides an invariant property of electronic sound is the envelope shaping. Part of the patterning that makes this “drum” part is a continuous stream of filtered noise that varies in pitch and dynamics by being passed through quite dramatic but discernible envelope shaping. The end result is that alongside the three distinct categories of sound type there is a sense of a continuous stream of energy that swoops downward suddenly to create the kick drum sound and sweeps upward to create the hi-hats. These sweeping energy changes may be fast, but they undermine the sense of discrete objects being struck and instead suggest some of the invariant properties of water or air being forced through an aperture of some kind. The sense of space, conversely, seems to emanate from a series of discrete sounds that have been mixed in with this continuous stream. Several high-frequency sounds that have some of the envelope and frequency characteristics of a metallic squeak are combined into the continuous stream to create fast and repetitive rhythmic patterning. They also seem to have some reverberation added, and the fast repetition of exactly the same sound also creates the impression of an echo. So while Page 282 →the low-frequency thumps that are perceived as kick drum are electronic sounds in a nonspace, with no added ambience, the high-frequency hi-hat sounds provide some of the invariant properties of being situated in a concert-hall-style space, but in the same way that the sounds themselves are obviously synthetic, the ambience is schematic and artificial. The snare sounds either stop abruptly without ambience or pass through a rapid envelope shaping of pitch and volume, but they seem to share some of the spatial characteristics of the hi-hat. Some elements of the snare sound may have added ambience, but because the frequency spectrum of the two sets of sounds overlaps, the ambience added to the hi-hat sounds apparently is also perceived as belonging to the snare sounds. So, while the speed and patterning of the sounds (particularly the off-beat snare hits on the sixth eighth note of the bar) draw on drum and bass as a genre and might, therefore, be described as an intertextual element, the features that I explore are timbral. The three main “texts” that are being referenced as far as my interpretation of this track is concerned are drum kit sounds, the sound of electrical malfunction, and a morphology of continual transition rather than discrete “hits.” The conceptual blending that this enables and the intertextual analysis that consequently flows from it create a sense of fluidity and slippery movement that combines with an otherwise percussive sensibility. In addition, the combination of this rapid, nervous movement with the notion of electrical malfunction gives the piece a slightly disturbing edge that tempers the impression of slightly chaotic virtuosity,

albeit a virtuosity that is recognizably artificial or constructed rather than gestural. This type of constructed virtuosity is a trope that is central to the creation of meaning in most electronic music, particularly electronic dance music (in the broadest sense), and this suggestion of gestural control in machine sounds is balanced by the converse suggestion of “inhuman” machine accuracy applied to the sound of human gestural activity. While this example relates more to the former, the next one relates to the latter. J. Dilla’s “Detroit Madness” In J. Dilla’s “Detroit Madness” (2014) the sounds are more realistic: the kick, snare, and hi-hat are imitative of acoustic instruments, while the slightly muted, plucked sounds that create the pitched elements are also imitative of electric bass and guitar tones. The patterning of the gestures and the spatial processing is where the interest lies. In the drum pattern, while the sounds possess a timbral consistency that suggests they are artificial,Page 283 → the additional gestural “skips” in the kick drum and hi-hat patterns not only are rhythmic but also imitate the way that human gesture would “work” in drum kit performance: they are “performed” with less energy and with a slight and uneven swing. The same is true of the basic shape of the bass line. The accentuation of certain notes by volume, length, and timbre (the last two notes of the repeated one-bar riff have a brighter attack) and the swing in the feel provide a similar “performed” sensibility. The guitar-like tones have similar volume, length, and swing characteristics, but the uniformity of attack makes them feel less “natural” than the drums and bass. In addition, at the end of the fourth bar of the repeated pattern, the “guitar” and bass sounds vary in a way that is somehow un-gestural and more machine-like. Indeed, a range of other invariant properties suggest electronic sounds rather than the performance of acoustic instruments. All of the sounds themselves and the nature of the reverberation have a strongly artificial character: as discussed earlier, the sounds have a consistency of timbre that is beyond what is possible with both the materiality of acoustic instruments and the physical possibilities of human gesture. However, while the sounds of the individual instrument tones are artificial, the gestural shape of the phrasing is quite human. At a higher structural level, though, the exact repetition of the four bar phrase for the whole 3:22 provides another sense of machine control. This brings us to an interesting issue within this theoretical model: As we know from the discovery of the operation of motor neurons in the brain, [a trumpeter’s] neurological response to trumpet music differs from her or his neurological response to piano music, a response she or he can’t control, by virtue of the fact that she or he has intimate physiological knowledge of what it takes to produce music from a trumpet. This is because the same body of neurons fires whether the action (e.g. playing the trumpet) is being undertaken, or is being perceived and hence simulated. (Moore 2012, 4) People born after the advent of MIDI in the 1980s are likely to have experienced musical activity via performance on a keyboard as part of their formative years that allowed them to trigger all sorts of sounds—drums, strings, brass, and so forth—from that keyboard. Of course, they are also likely to have experience of some or all of the “real” versions of these instruments. But how will the metaphorical mapping of these people differ from that of their elders who did not grow up with these technologies? Page 284 →The J. Dilla example, for one, may generate an entirely different form of conceptual blending for someone working with metaphorical musical mappings to embodied gesture that were developed while having a keyboard toy that played drum sounds. In either version, however, the invariant properties of human performance on a phrase level are placed in the larger structural context of invariant properties of mechanical (or electronic) repetition. In addition, the spatial clues emanating from reverberation and delay in the track are also highly schematic and clearly do not result from activity happening in an actual space. We recognize it as a particular type of sonic cartoon where the representation of musical activity in a space is highly artificial, and this flows from the intertextual relationship of invariant properties of human gesture placed in a context of highly artificial and machinelike invariant properties. Sohn’s “Ransom Notes” Sohn’s “Ransom Notes” (2014) starts with the sound of reverberation on the bass tones. These tones

have the slow attack and sudden stop associated with bowed instruments but are nevertheless very obviously synthetic. The reverberation is also synthetic in two main ways. First, the frequency content of the reverberant sound has been filtered to reduce the low frequencies so that we hear the power of the bass frequencies from the synthesizer itself and the reverb tail is primarily composed of the higher-frequency sounds. In a realistic reverberation sound, the low-frequency tails of the reverberant sound would last longer than the high-frequency content, the sound would have an exaggerated bass frequency, but the low-frequency ambience would mask the onset of the next sound and make it unclear. Second, the reverberant tail that we do hear has been sculpted so that it expands with the type of morphology that would be expected in a large space, but it has also had its tail shortened. This shortened tail, which would sound very odd if heard exposed, is masked by the onset of the next bass tone. The next musical elements that enter are all percussion. There is an arpeggiated pattern of clicks that provide a sense of different pitch centers but no distinct pitches to provide any further sense of tonality than the bass provides with its two-note sequence. These clicks have no added ambience, and this sense of nonspace, the regularity of the timbre, and the rhythm add to the sense of artificiality. In addition, there are four “drum” sounds: a rimshot, a hi-hat, a snare drum, and a kick drum. The rimshot is the most “realistic” of the four sounds and plays on the second, fifth, and eighth Page 285 →of the twenty-fourth-note divisions of this slow 4/4 feel. However, the sound’s sense of realism is undermined by the fact that the first hit lacks reverberation and the subsequent two have more added: in essence, the piece is making an impossible journey from nonspace into space. The other three sounds are highly reminiscent of and may be samples of the Roland TR808 drum machine, which was introduced in 1980 and became very popular with hip-hop and dance music producers. All three of the sounds completely lack reverberation and provide the momentum for the slow 4/4 feel. There is a fifth sound—some white noise through a reverberation unit—that is very distant and creates a further sense of spaciousness in the track. The sound world is distinctly electronic, and the sense of space, while expansive, is also clearly artificial, with some sounds in reverberant space and some not. When the vocal enters with a slow quarternote delay that repeats three or four times underneath the subsequent lines, the combined throbbing or pulsing morphologies of the bass and the vocal delay produce a sensation of floating in a large, albeit artificial, space. At 1:03 into the track we are presented with two additional musical elements that are much more human in character: a set of quite breathy sustained oohs and aahs as backing vocals and a guitar-like tone that doubles the arpeggiated click. While both of these sounds thicken up the harmonic texture of the track, they also contribute to the invariant properties of space that are already present. Although the vocals have an intimate character and the sense of proximity they provide is almost intrusive, the white noise of the breathiness is reminiscent of reverberation. Sustained oohs and aahs with an exaggerated breathy character, much like sustained high strings with the white noise of the bow sound, are tropes of spaciousness that are found over and over again in popular music arrangements. The guitar tone provides another musical cipher that relates to spaciousness. Materials that are set into motion and then left to vibrate until the energy is depleted create invariant properties of sound that are very similar to way that sound reverberates in space. Sheet metals and springs do this in a way that is so similar to acoustic reverberation that they have been used to create artificial reverberation in studios since the 1950s. Freely vibrating strings (such as guitars, pianos, and harps) and tuned metal bars or tubes (such as vibraphones, xylophones, and tubular bells) produce the same kinds of sonic morphologies but with two important differences. First, the initial attack transient, which usually includes a lot of unpitched noise (e.g., the click of a mallet on a bar, a hammer on a string, or a fingernail pluck), is not sustained as it is Page 286 →in “real” reverberation. This keeps the pitch-based content clearer and less muddied by noise. Second, while the pitched elements of the strings decay in much the same way as is the case in reverberant space, players can choose to stop the vibration to maintain harmonic clarity—that is, avoid having tones from previous chords hanging over and “intruding” into new harmonies. The use of these kinds of sounds in the creation of musical metaphors for space has a long history and can be found in many if not all musical cultures. In this example, the guitar-like sounds and later, at 1:50, the introduction of a bell or xylophone-like tone playing a fuller arpeggiated pattern fill up the metaphorical musical space but also create a further set of invariant properties that are associated with physical space. We are given a sonic cartoon of space—some of the properties of space are exaggerated and others (the messiness)—are inhibited or absent. Once again, the combination of a range of invariant properties from different sources creates a sufficient overall impression. Much like an impressionist painting, a good deal of the charm of the musical experience comes from the pleasure of the artistic technique: we recognize that this is not

“realism” but nevertheless enjoy the metaphor. This example demonstrates not only that this approach applies in cases of recorded or electronic music but also that all musical activity can be examined in terms of how it relates to previous embodied experience: melodic shape, harmony, rhythm, structural narrative, and so on. Amon Tobin’s “Journeyman” Amon Tobin’s “Journeyman” (2011) juxtaposes sounds that have a sense of the intimate and the everyday—the small-scale clicks, rattles, and gurgles of modern human life—with electronic sounds that seem grand and epic in comparison. In part, this relates to one of the most basic invariant properties of all: that small things make high-pitched noises and large things make low-pitched noises. The vehicle for the journey is a twobar pattern where the first bar consists of four descending gestures of two sixteenth notes and an eighth note using the Eв™- natural minor scale and the second bar is four quarter notes on Eв™-. The timbre and intonation of the piece’s sounds subvert that simple sense of tonality, sometimes quite dramatically and at other times less so. Although the relentless progression of this simple musical idea is undertaken by the electronic sounds, the clicks, rattles, and gurgles continually interfere. They do so not only in the form of “realistic” sounds superimposed on the progression but also as morphologies that disrupt the electronic sounds. Tobin fuses a Page 287 →broad range of these small-scale attack transients with the electronic pitched tones by triggering them simultaneously in complex and precise rhythmic patterns. This creates a confusing array of spatial cues because some of the activity (e.g., 00:40–00:58) seems very close and intimate yet fuses with pitched tones that have different spatial characteristics. We are confronted with impossible spatial sound as well as a bewildering array of types of activity and suggestions of materiality. This form of intertextuality is bombarding us with a rapidly changing and chaotic array of muddled invariant properties—a collage of both abstract and material sounds—where the only unifying factor is this relentless simple musical idea. It may only be hinted at during the beginning and the end, and it occasionally gets distorted to the point that it seems to have been overwhelmed by this chaos, but it is the sole organizing principle that stays with us as listeners. Other Forms of Manipulation Other forms of manipulation that are common in contemporary electronic forms of popular music are the mechanically repetitive triggering of recordings of very human sounds (like the voice), the use of rhythmic patterns that are obviously machinelike, and the creation of dynamic or textural arrangement features through extreme processing rather than changes in performed activity. In general, the strategies that have evolved are based on juxtaposing human characteristics with machine ones or juxtaposing aspects of realism and abstraction or artificiality. Thus, Jamie xx’s “Gosh” (2015) uses what sounds like a vocal sample as a snare drum but does so in a way that subverts the sound’s humanity. It is shortened and seems to be sped up but maintains enough of the invariant properties of a human voice to create that impression and grab our attention. The way that it jumps out of the track in comparison to the other drum sounds demonstrates how we are drawn toward the human voice even when it sounds distorted and artificial. The conceptual blend between the human and the mechanical or artificial involves the distortion of some element of the humanity of the sound by superimposing some invariant properties of artificiality onto it. Beyoncé’s “7/11” (2014), conversely, has a hi-hat pattern that includes a very fast and even sequence of tones that give the impression of being produced by a machine rather than played by a human, the opposite effect to what is heard in the J. Dilla track, where the volume, rhythm, and timbre of the bass and drum parts offer small clues about human gesture. In this instance, Page 288 →the morphology of the hi-hat “performance” is too consistent to be human. The invariant properties lie outside our perceived affordances of human bodily activity. Finally, Wolf Alice’s “Giant Peach” (2015) uses a filtered and processed version of the track as an introduction before the fullfrequency version starts up. This is an updated version of a very well established arrangement technique in popular music where a piece’s introduction is performed by a reduced or smaller version of the full ensemble. This frequently takes the form of a solo guitar or piano playing a riff or chord sequence before the rhythm section joins in. In this example, a recording of the full ensemble has been filtered so that the low-frequency content (kick drum and bass) is no longer audible, but the recording also has the reduced dynamic range and consequent distortion of a telephone or small computer speaker. The first eight bars of the introduction are played in this reduced form before the full-frequency mix kicks in with the rest of the extended introduction. In this instance, the

invariant of the filtered sound is that something has been removed or reduced, and the process of conceptual blending allows us to build a connection between that and the more traditional form of reduction that constitutes the arrangement technique. In the Jamie xx, Beyoncé, and Wolf Alice examples, this cognitive process of conceptual blending combines invariant properties from different types of experience to afford some form of metaphorical meaning—that is, an intertextual relationship.

Conclusions This chapter explores how the literary theory of intertextuality can be grounded in cognitive theory and used for musicological analysis. If the nature of cognition is metaphorical and our understanding of new experience is always constructed through its relationship with previous embodied experience or our previous metaphorical connections, intertextuality can be seen as an example of this same type of connectivity. Literary theorists such as Kristeva (1966), Bakhtin (1982), and Barthes (1977) have explored the notion of intertextuality to explain how works are culturally as well as individually constructed. Differing models of interpretation couch these intertextual relationships in terms of the influence of specific, individual texts; broader cultural texts such as myths and other generic forms of narrative; or stereotypical characters and archetypes. In short, the notion that meaning in literature is not inherent Page 289 →in the text but is constructed anew by readers, who bring to bear their previous experiences of the world—including their literary and cultural world—is mirrored in the ecological approach to perception, where our understanding of the world is not based on the passive reception of data about an external, objective world but is an active process of exploration (and interpretation) based on our previous experience. Thus, intertextuality can be viewed in the wider context of how humans engage with the world and construct meaning. Whether one approaches an analysis from the perspective of the author’s intention, the audience interpretation, or some pseudo-objective “external” stance, there are many layers of text to refer to. This chapter works from the third of these perspectives and discusses a range of examples to extract the beginnings of a typology of textual forms that inform our interpretation of electronic popular music. In particular, I explore the ways in which acoustic sounds provide a textual basis for the interpretation of electronic sounds through agency, materiality, activity, and spatial positioning. The juxtaposition of the human and the machine and the “real” and the artificial provide the points of tension, but once this general point has been made, the details of specific instances sustain our interest.

Notes 1. The hoover sound was initially developed on the Roland Alpha Juno synthesizer by Eric Persing and seems to have been first used as a lead sound on a 1991 commercial recording, “Mentasm,” by Second Phase, produced by Joey Beltram. 2. “The affordances of the environment are what it offers the animal, what it provides or furnishes, either for good or ill” (Gibson 1979, 127). These affordances are perceived as “offered” because of the parallel perception of a set of invariant properties in that environment. The process of learning involves the building of probabilistic connections between invariant properties and affordances. Thus, once we learn the connection between the invariant properties of being a flat surface, roughly horizontal and at approximately knee height with the affordance of sitting, we can identify all sorts of very different instances of a potential seat. 3. For discussions of the unique and visceral relationship we have with vocal sounds, see Frith 1998, 192; Lacasse 2010. 4. This was the advertising strapline for the 1978 Superman film directed by Richard Donner. 5. I presented a study of this sort on Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” at the 2009 IASPM Conference at the Institute of Popular Music in Liverpool. Page 290 →

References

Bakhtin, M. M. 1982. Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. New ed. Austin: University of Texas Press. Barthes, Roland. 1977. “The Death of the Author.” In Image, Music, Text, translated by Stephen Heath, 142–47. New York: Hill and Wang. Clarke, Eric F. 2005. Ways of Listening: An Ecological Approach to the Perception of Musical Meaning. New York: Oxford University Press. Fauconnier, Gilles, and Mark Turner. 2003. The Way We Think: Conceptual Blending and the Mind’s Hidden Complexities. New York: Basic Books. Feldman, Jerome A. 2008. From Molecule to Metaphor: A Neural Theory of Language. Cambridge: MIT Press. Frith, Simon. 1998. Performing Rites: Evaluating Popular Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gibson, James J. 1979. The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Iacoboni, M., I. Milnar-Szakacs, V. Gallese, G. Buccino, J. C. Mazziotta, and G. Rizzolatti. 2005. “Grasping the Intentions of Others with One’s Own Mirror Neuron System.” PLOS Biology 3 (3). Kristeva, Julia. 1966. “Word, Dialogue And Novel” In The Kristeva Reader, 1986. Edited by Toril Moi. New York: Columbia University Press. Lacasse, Serge. 2001. “Réalisme et Représentation Spatiale en Musique Rock Enregistrée : Authenticité, Intimité, Transparence.” Les Cahiers de la Société Québécoise de Recherche en Musique 5 (1–2): 107–12. Lacasse, Serge. 2010. “The Phonographic Voice: Paralinguistic Features and Phonographic Staging in Popular Music Singing.” In Recorded Music: Society, Technology, and Performance, edited by Amanda Bayley, 225–51. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lakoff, George, and Mark Johnson. 2003. Metaphors We Live By. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Moore, Allan F. 2012. Song Means: Analysing and Interpreting Recorded Popular Song. Farnham: Ashgate. Smalley, Denis. 1997. “Spectromorphology: Explaining Sound-Shapes.” Organised Sound 2 (2): 107–26. Zagorski-Thomas, Simon. 2014. The Musicology of Record Production. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Zagorski-Thomas, Simon. 2016. “Sonic Cartoons.” In Sound as Popular Culture, edited by Jens Gerrit Papanburg and Holger Schulze, 403–10. Cambridge: MIT Press.

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Eleven. Intertextuality and Lineage in The Game’s “We Ain’t” and Kendrick Lamar’s “m.A.A.d. City” Justin A. Williams WHILE THIS VOLUME is testament to the fact that numerous genre cultures are highly intertextual, hip-hop culture arguably celebrates and references its influences more overtly and openly than other genres do. In addition to using preexisting material to new ends, many instances of hip-hop culture also demonstrate a self-consciously historical nexus that is performed both extra musically and within the recorded hip-hop texts themselves.1 This chapter outlines and extends arguments that I initially considered in Rhymin’ and Stealin’ (2013), which set out to show the many ways that hip-hop recordings demonstrate intertextuality: through digital sampling (in both beat and flow), stylistic allusion, reperforming “samples,” emulating a production style, quotation of music or lyrics, vocal imitation of a rapper’s style, or other techniques. The primary case study in the chapter focuses on The Game’s “We Ain’t” (2005), as an example of the highly intertextual nature of hip-hop and demonstrates a specific intratextual instance of lineage construction within the West Coast gangsta rap subgenre. Specifically, I look at aspects of the song’s “sonic signature” produced by Eminem, flow, peer references, and use of sampling in the chorus, all of which add to the construction of a Compton-based gangsta rap lineage. Both The Game and Kendrick Lamar extend the N.W.A.–Dr. Dre–2Pac–Eminem–50 Cent gangsta rap lineage2 yet comment on that lineage in drastically different ways. Comparing and contrasting these two artists reveals the historicizationPage 292 → of gangsta rap and the evolving topical concerns of the genre as it continues further into the twenty-first-century pop music landscape.

History, Lineage, and Artistic Authority To use an extended analogy with another, longer-established, musical tradition than West Coast gangsta rap, the construction of Western classical music history has included a semifictitious periodization (e.g., baroque, classical, romantic) alongside a canon of great composers and works. This canon has been largely male and Germanic, and as art music composition progressed into the twentieth century, composers such as Schoenberg and Stravinsky became increasingly concerned with their place in such a canon. Furthermore, an artist may emphasize certain aspects of that culture while neglecting others in the interest of being placed within the tradition. Homage to past artists as well as the relationship between mentor and student can easily become fodder for lineage construction. Artistic lineage does not just happen “naturally” but is largely a social construction. As Robert P. Morgan (1988, 65) writes, “One chooses the tradition one wants, or even creates a unique tradition for one’s own personal requirements. The past is not forced upon the composer, handed down by decree (or вЂtestament’); he shapes it himself.” For Schoenberg, tradition is intertwined with a notion of “progress,” utilizing the idea that his compositional style was the “next reasonable and logical step” (Rosen 1975, 16) in art music creativity.3 Popular music has similar processes of canon, tradition, and lineage, although it seems that in the second half of the twentieth century in particular, these periods of music history have become shorter and shorter. Where historians once referred to a period of fifty or one hundred years or more in classical music, popular music often moves in microgenerations of anywhere between five and ten years. The 2007 BBC documentary Seven Ages of Rock and the twelve-part 2011 documentary series Metal Evolution (complete with family tree of bands and subgenres) point to the historicization and periodization of such repertories. Musicians often acknowledge past traditions: for example, Eric Clapton and many others cite the influence of bluesman Robert Johnson in both interviews and song lyrics; his posthumous fame helps solidify his legend as one of the classic masters of the blues guitar (Rothenbuhler 2005). In country music, artists often align themselves with the Carter Family, Jimmie Rodgers, or the posthumous success of Hank Williams (Peterson 2007). Pete Frame (1983) also provides an example of constructed lineage in Page 293 →rock music. Jazz historiography has used the trope of a continuous

history of great men with stylistic periods that emphasize continuity and direct transmission between these musical generations, just as a linear trajectory purportedly pervades Western art music history (DeVeaux 1991). In some ways, the most striking parallel of lineage construction to the figures I discuss in gangsta rap may be that of Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven. Tia DeNora (1995) looks at what she sees as the construction of “serious music” around the characters of these three men. The story begins, in many ways, with the death of a young Mozart: During the early 1790s and later, Mozart was hailed (initially in the Prague press) as “immortal Mozart” whose “death came too soon both for [his widow] and for Art”—as Constanze Mozart herself put it in the announcement of a benefit concert published in the Weiner Zeitung on 13 December 1794.В .В .В . This posthumous rediscovery of Mozart revolved around imagery of the composer culled from his life before his genius had reached its fullest flower. The precise genus and species of that flower became the object of dispute, however, as Mozart’s posthumous prestige became a resource for the reputations of potential musical heirs. In other words, association with Mozart became a way of articulating status claims. (16; emphasis added) According to DeNora, Beethoven and Haydn had a public and symbiotic student-teacher relationship in Vienna, and Beethoven forged connections with patrons and other members of society that helped him to be perceived as Mozart’s musical heir. Count Waldstein’s well-known farewell letter, written as Beethoven left to study with Haydn in Vienna in 1792, asserts that, “With the help of assiduous labor you shall receive Mozart’s spirit from Haydn’s hands” (84). DeNora writes that others were looking for the heir to the “immortal Mozart,” and after Beethoven’s success, people began to fabricate stories that Mozart actually heard a young Beethoven play, allegedly commenting that he was the “man to watch.”4 In the hip-hop world, those immortal figures exist in the form of Tupac Shakur and Notorious B.I.G., canonical rappers who were involved in a West Coast–East Coast rap feud and died in 1996 and 1997 respectively, leading to a number of memorial processes (including memorial songs, posthumous albums, T-shirts, murals, and so forth). According to Kris Ex (2003, 156), “Even at this early date,” in the post-Tupac rap world, “there’s no shortage of would-be heirs to the throne of Thug Immortal.” As I have previously noted (Williams 2013, 103–39), Page 294 →newer artists often digitally sample the voices of 2Pac and Biggie to contribute to their artistic posturing within a gangsta rap lineage: those who have done so include Jay-Z, Eminem, and 50 Cent. In this lineage, the 1980s group N.W.A. (Niggaz Wit Attitudes) becomes a founding “classical” group, with Dr. Dre as mentor figure to others (Snoop Doggy Dogg [1993], Eminem [1999], 50 Cent [2003], The Game [2005], and Kendrick Lamar [2012]) (see table 11.1). Rappers use the symbolic immortality of 2Pac and Biggie to solidify their own status, providing what Van Wyck Brooks (1918) and more recently Lois Zamora (2007) have called “a usable past” for a number of purposes.5

The Game Born Jayceon Terrell Taylor in 1979, rapper The Game grew up in Compton, Los Angeles. Like many black youth of Compton, he grew up with the realities that are typically explored in gangsta rap lyrics: the everyday violence of gang warfare (Crips versus Bloods), drug abuse, and crime. His highly anticipated debut album, The Documentary (2005), featured such star producers as Dr. Dre, Kanye West, Scott Storch, Eminem, Hi-Tek, and Just Blaze, and went on to receive double platinum status in the United States and sold five million copies worldwide.6 Unlike previous protégés of Dr. Dre (Snoop Doggy Dogg, Eminem, and 50 Cent),7 The Game, like his mentor, was from Compton. He had been a drug dealer, member of the Bloods gang (his mother was a Hoover Crip and father a Nutty Block Crip), and was recovering from gunshot wounds in the hospital (after waking from a three-day coma) when he decided to study classic rap albums and pursue a rap career (Reid 2005). A number of labels were interested (including Bad Boy Entertainment), but Dr. Dre’s label, Aftermath, won the contract, not least because The Game could work with his hometown hero. In 2005, The Game explained, “I opted for

Aftermath since Dre was from Compton, I’m from Compton, you know.В .В .В . I’ll keep the whole N.W.A legacy going.В .В .В . That’s where I wanted to be” (Reid 2005). This was also important in that the West Coast gangsta rap scene had not produced a new artist with major national impact for more than a decade (Ahmed and Kondo 2015). It is safe to say that The Game fits the archetype persona of a gangsta rapper: a former drug dealer and gang member who survived a number of gunshot wounds (as 50 Cent did) and lived to rap the tale. The album cover of The Documentary shows The Game sitting on car tires, shirtless, Page 296 →muscled, tattooed, and wearing gold chains, fitting the stereotypical image of black hypermasculinity associated with gangsta rap. The Compton link made it easier for The Game to extend a tradition of rap that reached national prominence with N.W.A. in the 1980s. In particular, The Game’s lyrical references were the main component of constructing such links. I focus on “We Ain’t” (track 11) from The Documentary as an example of the variety of intertextuality in hip-hop and as exemplary of the range and quantity of his lyrical references in addition to other stylistic features that link The Game with other rappers (e.g., Eminem’s production). To paraphrase DeNora on Beethoven, The Game’s association with rappers such as Dr. Dre, 50 Cent, and Eminem stylistically and lyrically became a way of articulating his claims to status. Page 295 → Table 11.1. Los Angeles Gangsta Rap History Year(s) Event or Album Release 1940s–70s • African American “Second Great Migration” to Los Angeles (South Central) 1965 • Watts Riots (Aug 11–17)

1970s 1985

1987 1988 1989 1991 1992

• Black Panther Party, Brown Berets active in region • Gang formation intensifies (including the Crips and Piru Bloods) • Toddy Tee’s releases “Batterram,” a rap song protesting police chief Daryl Gates’s decision to use tank-sized vehicles to run over homes in South Central Los Angeles suspected to be drug dealer residences. • Ice-T’s debut album, Rhyme Pays • N.W.A. (Niggaz Wit Attitudes; members: Dr. Dre, Eazy-E, Ice Cube, DJ Yella, MC Ren) releases debut album, Straight Outta Compton (Ruthless/Priority Records) • Ice Cube leaves N.W.A., releases solo album, AmeriKKKa’s Most Wanted (Priority Records) • N.W.A. releases second and final album, Efil4zaggin • Los Angeles peace treaty between Crips and Bloods • 29 April—Los Angeles Rebellion (aka L.A. Riots) following the acquittal of the police officers in the Rodney King case

1993 1995

• December—Dr. Dre’s solo debut, The Chronic (Death Row/Interscope/Priority Records); his production style ushers in the G-Funk era and shifts the mainstream rap focus on the West Coast • Dr. Dre produces Snoop Doggy Dogg’s debut album, Doggystyle; it becomes first rap album to debut at No. 1 on Billboard Top 200 • Tupac Shakur is released from prison and signs with West Coast Death Row Records • Tupac Shakur releases single, “California Love,” produced by Dr. Dre, featuring Dr. Dre and Roger Troutman

1994–97

• Shift from West Coast G-Funk gangsta rap prominence back to East Coast (New York City)

1996 1997 1997–99

• East Coast–West Coast feud between Bad Boy Records and Death Row Records • 13 September, Tupac Shakur murdered • 9 March, Notorious B.I.G. murdered • Shift to southern hip-hop and “bling era” mainstream

1999

• Dr. Dre produces Eminem’s major-label debut, Slim Shady LP (Interscope/Aftermath) • Dr. Dre releases Chronic 2001

2003 2005 2006 2012 2015 2015

• Dr. Dre produces 50 Cent’s major-label debut, Get Rich or Die Tryin (Aftermath /Interscope/Shady Records) • Dr. Dre produces The Game’s The Documentary (Aftermath/Interscope/G-Unit/Shady Records) • The Game releases Doctor’s Advocate (Aftermath/Interscope/G-Unit/Shady Records) • Kendrick Lamar releases Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City (Top Dawg/Aftermath/Interscope) • Kendrick Lamar releases To Pimp a Butterfly (Top Dawg/Aftermath/Interscope) • August, worldwide release of Straight Outta Compton (directed by F. Gary Gray), biopic depicting the career of N.W.A. • 7 August, Dr. Dre releases third (and reportedly final) album, Compton (aka Compton: A Soundtrack), on Apple Music and the iTunes Store (CD release, 21 August) • The Game releases sixth major-label studio album, The Documentary 2

The lyrical function of “We Ain’t” introduces The Game as rap artist—he simultaneously boasts about how great a rapper he is while respecting those who came before him, in particular, the track’s producer, Eminem (Marshall Mathers III). Eminem raps for the duration of verse 2, affirming The Game’s greatness in lyrical content and declaring that his label mates “have his back.” The track is in simple versechorus form (Covach 2005) in that it does not vary from its core harmonic structure (e minor) throughout with the exception of the introduction. The use of the synthesizer and drum machine to build the “beat”—used here as a term that encompasses all sonic material apart from the “flow” or rap—recalls Dr. Dre’s and Eminem’s production styles of the late 1990s and 2000s. The four-measure phrase in example 11.1 shows what Allan Moore (1993, 182) calls a “driving pattern” from rock music, albeit here in a synthesized form, in the “basic beat.” (see table 11.2 for additional examples) The melody of the basic beat is mirrored by the chorus, sung by The Game (“We ain’t goin nowhere so fuck you,” repeated twice). The repeated notes in the bass can be found in a number of Eminem productions at this time, including “Crazy in Love” from Encore (2004), 50 Cent’s “Patiently Waiting” and “Ghetto Gospel” (2004) from the posthumous 2Pac album Loyal to the Game (Williams 2013, 140–66). The driving pattern has infinite variations in rock music, and its synthesized variant maintains the stream of fixed-pitch eighth notes, although such a comparison does not account for variations in timbre, accent, and other features. Nevertheless, “We Ain’t” still holds enough family resemblance to act as interobjective comparison material (Tagg 2012, 238), sonically associated with Eminem’s production style at the time.8 A pattern associated with rock adds a “rock star” status to figures such as Eminem and The Game. And while this “rock star”/“driving pattern” link is possible, Page 297 →the more immediately perceived element is that Eminem provides a sonic signature in his production that links himself with The Game.9 Example 11.1. Basic Beat In addition to being noted for his skills as a rapper, Eminem emerged as a successful producer as his career developed,10 creating a distinctive “sonic signature” that can be found on many albums, including his own. According to the work of Mark Gillespie (2006, 31), a sonic signature refers to the ways a producer or a producer’s style can be identified in a recording: literally saying his/her name, recognizable sounds, rhythmic

patterns, structural elements, orchestration and timbre, sound effects, or phonographic staging.11 In this case, the similarities in Eminem’s production between “We Ain’t” and “Ghetto Gospel,” for example, include orchestration; timbre; structural, rhythmic, and melodic patterns; and other discrete and abstract sounds. The link with Eminem is also forged by having Eminem guest rap on verse 2 of the song (see table 11.3). Having guest verses is not uncommon in rap, but certain parameters of Eminem’s delivery seem uncharacteristic to his usual flow. His voice is largely monotone, fixed on one pitch (with the exception of the word which), mirroring the one note of the Page 298 →driving pattern in the bass not so much in exact rhythm but in its fixedpitch delivery. The purpose of Eminem’s downplayed delivery might be understood as not overshadowing the leading artist, who needs to be promoted as the “next big thing.” Links are also forged by the multiple references to the rapper and his alter egos Marshall Mathers, Eminem, and Slim Shady (see table 11.4) as well as a strong rebuttal from The Game in response to critics who believe Eminem to be a racist.12 Table 11.2. “Driving Pattern” Examples Derived from

Element “Driving Rock/Metal/Punk pattern” Black Sabbath, “Paranoid” (1970) (Moore 1993, 182) Deep Purple, “Smoke on the Water” (1972) Sex Pistols, “Anarchy in the UK” (1976)

Van Halen “Jump” (1984) [in guitar under synthesizer riff] Megadeth, “Symphony of Destruction” (1992) In Other Eminem and Dre Productions “Patiently Waiting” (2003), “In da Club” (2003), “Crazy in Love” (2004), “Ghetto Gospel” (2004) (Williams 2013, 151–53) In terms of the flow of “We Ain’t,” The Game has a moment of lyrical delivery that imitates the flow of an earlier Eminem track. It is the anapestic tetrameter alluded to in various places on the track but most prominent in verse 3: “[For tellin] me its hot, when its not, and you got, what you got, From them rocks on the block” (see table 11.5). This anapestic tetrameter is found on Eminem’s “The Way I Am,” which complements the beat of the 2000 single from The Marshall Mathers LP (“I sit back with this pack of ZigZags and this bag of this weed it gives me the shit needed to beВ .В .В .”).13 The first half of chorus is sung by The Game (in unison with the synth melody), again a stylistic trait akin to “rap crooners” 50 Cent and Eminem. Sung choruses were presented in earlier rap examples (in particular, Dr. Dre’s early 1990s G-funk production), but it was less common to have the star rapper sing the chorus (which of course has implications for the “pop” codes in mainstream rap and the subsequent authenticity of a rapper who uses a verse-chorus form). Elements such as flow, sonic signature, guest rap, and lyrical reference contribute to the solidification of a linkage between Eminem and The Game and do so in ways not dissimilar to the mentor-student relationship between Dr. Dre and Eminem at the start of his career.14 Furthermore, The Game’s first album is filled with a wide range of lyrical references, as if it were a webpage saturated with hyperlinks. One Page 299 →critic wrote that The Game “believes that if he mentions a rap classic or classic rapper in every other sentence then he too will become legendary in the minds of confused fans who’ll mentally place him within those referenced ranks” (Pursey 2007, 34). These types of references (groups, artists, places, cities, record labels, albums, and producers) are extremely common in rap, though The Game arguably includes such references at an accelerated rate. Table 11.4 shows the number of references,

including Dr. Dre’s record label (Aftermath), Compton, hip-hop martyrs Biggie and Pac, and other canonical figures of African American music Page 300 →such as Jimi Hendrix and Michael Jackson.15 In the current context, The Game’s reference to the “Classical LA, N.W.A. shit” is particularly intriguing, since it historicizes and periodizes the group as “classical” in terms of West Coast gangsta rap.16 Despite the frequency and repetition of numerous lyrical references to gangsta rap history, the most frequent reference is to The Game himself, with fifteen citations from Eminem and The Game combined. Table 11.3. “We Ain’t” Form Intro Verse 1 The Game Chorus Part A: The Game (sung) Part B: Eminem, Dr. Dre, Eminem (3 autosonic quotations) Verse 2 Eminem Chorus Part A: The Game (sung) Part B: Eminem, Dr. Dre, Eminem (3 autosonic quotations) Verse 3 The Game Outro Parameter 11.4.1 Peer References

Table 11.4. Lyrical References Trope/Derivation Hip-hop genre tropes of mentioning place, label, other rappers. Reference to album Straight Outta Compton (by N.W.A.)

Aftermath (label) (00:11), N.W.A. as “classical” rap (history) (00:30), (4:17) (intro and outro) Invoking lineage (Dre, Eminem/Shady, 50 Cent) Invoking ancestors (Biggie and Pac) Compton (place): (00:14), Mentions executive producer/mentor (Dr. Dre) (00:27) Lo=Angelo Sanders (A&R for Aftermath Records) “Straight out the muthafuckin G-Unit (50 Cent’s rap label and crew) streets of Compton” (from intro) “Classical LA, N.W.A. shit” (1:04–1:06) Eminem references: Marshall (00:35), 8 Mile (3:05), shady (3:08, 3:30), Eminem (3:13), Slim Shady

(4:24) “Shady one of the greatest, like biggie and pac was” (00:49–00:52) “Me, him [Em], and 50 racin” (00:54) Dre (3:00, 3:26, 4:26) “Rappin on Dre hits” (1:04) Michael [Jackson], (1:10) commenting on the media Jimi Hendrix (3:18) “Lo get Dre on the phone quick” (2:58) G-Unit (3:40, 4:29, 4:33) The Game (00:20), (4:22), end of each chorus (15 times total) 11.4.2 Game: “Em just killed me on my own shit” (3:00) 11.4.3 Biographical Details “When I’m tryin to feed my son” (00:38) “Made

Allosonic quotation from Nas’s “Ether” (2002) [when he insults Jay-Z: “Em killed you on your own shit,” a reference to “Renegade” from The Blueprint (2001)] Trope of rapper biography/psychology and life struggle (Tupac and Eminem) Wider biographical gangsta rap tropes of gangs and drug dealing, including The Game’s three-day coma following gunshot wounds in 2001.

momma proud that her son made it out” (00:44)

There are allusions to earlier rap songs, such as when the Game raps, “Em just killed me on my own shit,” a reference to the Nas’s 2002 rap diss, “Ether,” which insulted Jay-Z by stating that on “Renegade, ” a 2001 duet between Jay-Z and Eminem that Eminem produced, Eminem lyrically outplayed Jay-Z on his own album. The Game turns this around as a sign of homage and respect to Eminem. As is often the case in African American based music, The Game is Signifyin(g) on Nas’s lyric, claiming it, and turning the insult into something positive (Gates 1989; see also Brackett 2000; Burns and Woods 2004). There are larger tropes as part of the lyric and thematic references outlined in table 11.4 that I mention only briefly here. This includes the autobiographical details of struggle and hardship (“I’m tryin to feed my son”) that first became prominent in 2Pac’s work and then intensified in the lyrics of Eminem—what Kodwo Eshun (1999, -004) has called the “nauseating American hunger for confessional biography.” Furthermore, listeners are often familiar with the extramusical biographical details of gangsta rap tropes such as The Game’s history with gangs and drug dealing and bring that information to their interpretations of the track. Since rap music began as party accompaniment for dancing, the inclusion of a deeper sense of autobiography beyond name, location, and boasting of skills was a later development in rap lyrics.17 Thus far, most of my examples have been allosonic rather than autosonic (Lacasse 2000). I have chosen these examples partly to prove that not all discussion of borrowing and intertextuality in hip-hop should be limited to digital sampling. But digital sampling is a prominent technique within hip-hop and other genres, useful for myriad purposes: to save money on studio musicians, to “punch in” a chorus that sounds exactly the same in multiple places, to construct hip-hop beats with a palette of sounds, to create collage effects (e.g., the Bomb Squad), to use a voice of another artist (often a deceased rapper), and many others. I now point specifically to an autosonic (digitally sampled) example of rap borrowing that occurs in the second half of the chorus (analyzed in table 11.5). The first sample in the chorus is from an Eminem-produced track, Page 301 →“One Day at a Time,” a posthumous “duet” between 2Pac and Eminem from the film Tupac Resurrection. The second sample is from Dr. Dre’s “The Watcher” from 2001, and the third sample is from 50 Cent’s “Patiently Waiting,” the Eminem-produced track that introduced 50 Cent to the commercial mainstream sphere. The Game modifies the line “You’re about the witness the power of fuckin’ 50” to “You’re about the witness the power of The Game.” This line also alludes to an earlier moment in rap history: Dr. Dre’s opening line from N.W.A.’s 1988 album Straight Outta Compton: “You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge.” The transformation of the line from the street knowledge of N.W.A. to the promotion of 50 Cent and The Game arguably mirrors a shift from the emphasis on social realism of ghettocentric spaces to the promotion of the individual within gangsta rap culture. From a practical and legal standpoint, Aftermath/Interscope owns all of these samples, so it may be easier to reuse them without cost. But there is a conscious construction at work here. To digitally sample these songs Page 302 →and to textually signal that they come from another source (see Williams 2013, 7–9) are processes that not only fit within the framework of hip-hop aesthetics but also serve a specific purpose, placing The Game within the historical lineage of gangsta rap.

Parameter

Table 11.5. Flow Derived from

11.5.1 Eminem’s “The Way I Am” (2000) Game’s flow [verse 1 (portions) (e.g. “I sit back with this pack of Zig-Zags and this bag of this weed it gives me the shit needed to be . . .”) and verse 3 ]—anapestic tetrameter (2 unstressed syllables followed by 1 stressed): “[For tellin] me its hot, when its not, and you got, what you got, From them rocks on the block” (3:21–3:43). 11.5.2 Rapper50 Cent and Eminem verse-chorus forms sung chorus 11.5.3 Matches driving pattern of the beat (in fixed pitch) (see table 11.3 and example 11.1) Eminem’s flow (verse 2) 11.5.4 Chorus 11.5.4a. “One Day at a Time” (1:58) [Eminem from Tupac Resurrection, a posthumous duet] Autosonic quotations 11.5.4b. Dr. Dre—“The Watcher” (1999) from Chronic 2001 11.5.4a. Em: 11.5.4c′ 50 Cent “Patiently Waiting” (2003)(2:43) “This day, the game, will never from 50 Cent’s debut album Get Rich or Die Trying be the same” 11.5.4c″ N.W.A. Straight Outta Compton (1988) (0:01) (1:40–1:43) [Dr. Dre: “You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge”] 11.5.4b Dre: “Things just ain’t the same for gangstas” (1:43) 11.5.4c. Em: “You’re about to witness the power . . .” (1:50)

Kendrick Lamar The next Dr. Dre protГ©gГ© to reach national stardom after The Game was Kendrick Lamar (born in 1987 as Kendrick Lamar Duckworth). Like The Game, Lamar was born and raised in Compton and was signed to Aftermath and Interscope in 2012. His major label debut, Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City (2012),18 tells the story of a seventeen-year-old Kendrick Lamar who deals with gangs, peer pressure, nagging parents, and sexual desire for women. With his friends, he is K. Dot, a quasi-alter ego persona who drinks and smokes and gets into trouble with

theft and gun violence, whereas inside, he is “good kid” Kendrick.19 This concept album largely focuses on one day in Lamar’s life. He gets robbed earlier in the story, and by the end of the day, he and his friends get drunk and try to retaliate, resulting in the death of one of his friends’ brothers. The second half of the album sees Kendrick reflecting on the dangers of life in Compton and his desire to get out and make something of himself. The crux of this realization comes in “m.A.A.d. City,” where Lamar raps about previous encounters with death and destruction (“Brace yourself, I’ll take you on a trip down memory laneВ .В .В .”). Both beat and flow add to a sense of panic and stress as he recalls the first time he saw a dead body (when he was nine), having to duck while shootings were occurring during a meal with his family, and recounts the death of his cousin due to gang violence. The track also features MC Eiht from Compton’s Most Wanted, a figure and group associated with the G-funk era of West Coast gangsta rap in the early 1990s. At the end of the fourth verse of “m.A.A.d. City,” Lamar states, “I live inside the belly of the rough / Compton, U.S.A. / made Me an Angel on Angel Dust, what,” as we hear a stylistic allusion to one of the most identifiable signifiers of the G-funk era, the high-pitched whine of a synthesizer. There are two large-scale manifestations of the “whiny synth” sound in G-funk and rap history: the first is a digital sample of the Ohio Players’ “The Funky Worm” (1972), while the second comprises synthesizer allusions to the song rather than exact quotation. A number of producers used the “Funky Worm” sample in a variety of ways, with N.W.A.’s “Dope Page 303 →Man” (1987) serving as an early example.20 Dr. Dre’s production with N.W.A. was primarily sample-based, but when he went solo, he switched to replaying source samples with a studio band (even when putting them through a synthesizer). Rather than use the “Funky Worm” sample autosonically as he did previously for “Dope Man,” Dr. Dre used a now-iconic melodic riff for “Nuthin but a вЂG’ Thang” (The Chronic, 1992), invoking a synthesizer timbre that alluded to “The Funky Worm” but that carried its own melodic identity. The synthesizer-heavy “Chronic Intro” sets the tone for the soundscape of the album, with the synthesizer sounds acknowledging influences from the P-Funk of George Clinton.21 The trend of using high-pitched synth melodies continued with Snoop Doggy Dogg’s “Serial Killa,” from his 1993 debut album, Doggystyle, which used a fragment of the “Funky Worm” riff that was heard on “Dope Man.” Even former N.W.A. member Eazy-E’s 1993 diss of Dr. Dre on “Real Muthafuckin G’s” (which was a response to Dr. Dre’s 1992 diss of Eazy-E in “Fuck wit Dre Day”) used the stylistic allusion of a highpitched synthesizer to help make his point. The Game also used the effect of a whiny synth for “California Vacation” on his second major-label album, Doctor’s Advocate (2006), where it accompanies lyrics such as “The West Coast back crackin’ like it’s ’94” and “I graduated from Dre school, top of my class,” and “Still bangin’ The Chronic like Doggystyle came with it.” The melody is exactly the same portion of “Funky Worm” used for “Serial Killa” (which itself was part of “Dope Man”) and features guest raps from Snoop Dogg and Xzibit, both of whom are associated with Dr. Dre and West Coast gangsta rap. What was once a funk sample representing 1970s funk groups like Parliament Funkadelic and the Ohio Players thus became firmly associated with a powerful moment in late 1980s/early 1990s West Coast gangsta rap. The synth stands for the success of Gfunk and its associated artists, the gangsta lifestyle, Compton, and West Coast rap as well as celebrates black masculinity (at the expense of black women). The “Funky Worm” synth is one of the most prominent signifiers of West Coast gangsta rap, identifying an era, subgenre, and a geographical location. It is celebratory in most of its contexts, but Lamar uses it in markedly different lyrical contexts. The sound of the synth at the end of “m.A.A.d. City,” however, can be read in a completely different manner from previous examples given the lyrical content of the song. For Dr. Dre, the synth sound became celebratoryPage 304 → of an early 1990s Compton under gang peace treaty, full of parties and barbecues, depicted in music videos from The Chronic. For Lamar, it is a leitmotif for Compton that becomes attached to the horrors of the city and the anxieties of its inhabitants. This can be particularly powerful for the fans of hip-hop, as

reception hinges on a person’s knowledge of the “original” material. A listener who grew up with Gfunk or knows it well would find the Lamar track especially poignant and might even feel a sense of shame for celebrating the “gangsta” lifestyle in the early 1990s. “m.A.A.d. City” is an example of a track in rap music where the lyrics deeply affect the interpretation of the accompanying sounds.22 Pharrell Williams, another producer on the album, commented that Lamar is “speaking of a Compton that’s very different from the one Dre and Snoop blessed us with. He’s giving us a new perspective on a world most people don’t even know about” (Ahmed 2012). While in its new context, the whiny synth Compton leitmotif in “m.A.A.d. City” is associated with negative connotations, “Compton,” the last track on GKMC, does use earlier G-funk musical themes in a celebratory manner. The track signifies the start of Lamar’s successful rap career and the lineage of artists from Compton. It is the only track on the album that features Dr. Dre, and the ending includes robotic-sounding vocoder vocalizing initially associated with recordings by Zapp and Roger (such as “Computer Love” [1985]). To an audience familiar with rap music, the brief vocoder phrases on “Compton” are reminiscent of “California Love,” a 1996 track from 2Pac’s All Eyez on Me by Dr. Dre featuring Roger Troutman from Zapp. Many interviews note that Lamar was a young child when he stood on his father’s shoulders to watch the filming of the “California Love” music video in Compton. Lamar describes “Compton” as the “perfect song” The history behind that song is incredible. It was the first song I ever recorded with Dre. It was the first time meeting him and actually walking in the studio, that was the beat that was playing. I’ll never forget that exact moment. (Ahmed 2012) While the linkage between Lamar and Dr. Dre is less explicit and much less performed than Eminem and Dr. Dre or The Game and Dr. Dre, such extramusical quotes help place Lamar into gangsta rap history even if the subject matter and posturing toward it have a slightly different effect.23 Page 305 →

Conclusion The song “We Ain’t” exemplifies the intramusical lineage construction of The Game within an already-established yet constantly shifting canon of “great rappers.” According to Brendan Koerner (2005), “Since 1998, only five albums can truly be considered pure Dre projects—the first two releases from Eminem, the debuts of 50 Cent and The Game, and his own 2001.” In the decade-plus since Koerner wrote those words, Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City and Dr. Dre’s third album, Compton (2015), can be added to that list, though Lamar’s inclusion is more complicated given that much of the album questions, rather than celebrates, gangsta lifestyles. The Game became the new star rap artist after 50 Cent, aligned with Eminem and Dr. Dre, and used the symbolic immortality of rappers such as Tupac Shakur to solidify his place. Paula Higgins (1997, 2007) explains student-mentor composer relationships through the concept of “creative patrilineage,” noting that these canons are often overwhelmingly male, and gangsta rap and its problematic lyrics celebrating misogyny and violence toward women are no exception. Some have also commented on the disappearance of women in the N.W.A. biopic Straight Outta Compton (2015)—in particular, women who were physically abused by Dr. Dre, such as reporter Dee Barnes and his girlfriend, Michel’le (Barnes 2015; Bradley and Visci 2015; Rich 2015). Race, too, seems to trump gender: white rapper Eminem’s place in Dr. Dre’s lineage (see Williams 2013, 144–58) demonstrates that a white male can enter the canon of great rappers in ways that women cannot. Rumors have suggested that Eminem will perform the Eazy-E role on tour with the reunited members of N.W.A. (Gordon 2015), thus solidifying a lineage that is arguably more color-blind than gender-blind. Michel’le and other female artists associated with Ruthless Records and Aftermath artists such as Eve and Truth Hurts are excluded from historicization, adding to the barriers and discrimination faced by females of any race who seek to become rap artists and producers. Although all hip-hop is intertextual to varying degrees, The Game represents an intensification of the referencing

and allusion found in most hip-hop.24 Perhaps this is not a coincidence. According to Simon Reynolds (2010, xxi), 2000s pop music reflected a culture obsessed with its own recent past rather than interested in creating new styles: “Not only has never before been a society so obsessed with the cultural artifacts of its immediate past, but there has never before been a society that Page 306 →is able to access the immediate past so easily and so copiously.” He sees retro as an “intersection between mass culture and personal memory” (xxi) and provides a long list of such manifestations including band reunions (the Police, Led Zeppelin, the Pixies), the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and other museums, biographies, rockumentaries, shows such as VH1’s I Love the 80s, reissues, remastered albums, YouTube as new “field of cultural practice” (59), Hollywood film remakes (True Grit, Get Smart, Dukes of Hazzard), sampling, and the White Stripes and other bands that espouse much older rock ideologies from the 1960s (xi).25 While I would not label the Game’s albums “retro” in the way that Reynolds conceives it, a link may exist between the amplification of the referential in the first decade of the twenty-first century and the intensification of the hyperlink-like flow of the Game. In the esthesic realm of interpretation, there also exists an amplification of identifying references with websites such as Rap Genius.26 This arguably demonstrates a Web 2.0 intensification of the crowdsourced lyrical interpretations of hip-hop’s intertextuality by those I have called the imagined community of the hip-hop nation (Williams 2013, 13–15). These crowdsourced interpretations, debated and posted online, have helped make the imagined community of hip-hop become a virtual community for website users. There are line-by-line interpretations of “We Ain’t”: for example, one Genius user (Maboo) outlines the main theme of the song: “The Game worships Eminem, his former—and now reunited—labelmate.” Lamar’s albums in particular include a range of lyrical interpretations by fans published online. These interpretations are primarily lyric-based (although music producers and some samples are cited on the website, echoing the lyric focus of early rap academia) and may well catch only a certain level of rap’s intertextualities. Following the work of John Frow (1990), Burns, Woods, and Lafrance (2015, 6) observe, “The selection or recognition of intertextual referencesВ .В .В . is always already an interpretative process.” What is particularly interesting with Genius and deserving of further study is how such an interpretative process online forms a dialogue between one’s individual interpretation and the discourse of crowdsourced interpretations of song texts.27 The hyperreferential in both the rap stylings of The Game and interpretations on Genius and other websites also demonstrates a process of historicization in gangsta rap and emphasizes cultural memory as a feature of African American culture (Floyd 1995; see also Rose 1994). I am not arguing that one impulse or characteristic trumps all others on these tracks, but that they involve a complex blend of African American culturalPage 307 → impulses, intrageneric references and cultural memory, the urge to periodize, the obsession with our recent past, and the appropriation of a usable past to promote new artists and place them within a tradition. These centuries-old practices are in evidence in “We Ain’t,” “m.A.A.d. City,” and other tracks in West Coast gangsta rap history.

Notes 1. This invocation of history can reference either hip-hop culture itself (Williams 2013, 20–46) or wider links with African American culture such as funk music (Rose 1994). 2. This N.W.A.–Dr. Dre–2Pac–Eminem–50 Cent lineage was first discussed in Williams 2013, 140–66), and this chapter extends the lineage to encompass more recent developments. 3. Taruskin (1988, 158) writes that Furtwängler’s and Schoenberg’s approaches “rely on a sense of continuity—and hence direct transmission—of tradition that many in the twentieth century believe to be lost.” Echoes Morgan (1988, 62), “Always implicit in Schoenberg’s remarks is the belief that music history is linear in nature—that one compositional development leads logically and inexorably to the next, producing the progressive growth of an ever more varied, complex, and differentiated musical language.” For examples outside of music, see Hobsbawm and Ranger 1992. 4. Yet Mozart’s letters offer no evidence that he ever heard Beethoven play (DeNora 1995, 114). Higgins (1997, 2007) finds cases of intertextuality that emphasize the student-mentor lineage (what she deems “creative patrilineage”) between composers in early laments, particularly in laments for

fifteenth-century French composer Johannes Ockeghem. Examples include Josquin des Prez/Jean Molinet, “Nymphes de Bois” (1497) and Guillaume Cretin, “Deploration dur le TrГ©pas de J. Ockeghem” (1497). Higgins uses the term patrilineage to emphasize the male-dominated nature of such canons. 5. Also important to memorial processes and lineage is the 1995 death of N.W.A. founder Eazy-E (Eric Wright) of an AIDS-related illness. Eazy and others (e.g., Jam Master Jay, Big L, and Proof) are memorialized to a lesser degree than 2Pac and Notorious B.I.G. but are nevertheless reflective of the close proximity of death within gangsta rap cultures (see Williams 2015). 6. The album was originally supposed to be titled Nigga Witta Attitude Vol. 1—a reference to N.W.A.—but the name had to be changed because of legal complications involving Eazy-E’s estate. 7. Snoop Doggy Dogg was, however, from Long Beach, creating a Southern California linkage. 8. Eminem-produced tracks for other artists include Jay-Z’s “Renegade” (2001) and “Moment of Clarity” (2003), Nas’s “The Cross” (2002), and 50 Cent’s “Patiently Waiting” (2003), among others. His star persona as an MC, however, receives much more media focus and promotion than his production work. 9. Adam Krims (2007, 161) writes that many rap fans are knowledgeable Page 308 →enough to identify producers’ sonic identities on rap albums: star producers such as Timbaland, Kanye West, and Pharrell Williams espouse what Krims has identified as branding in recent music trends, as there often exist elements of a sonic signature recognizable by fans (and sometimes imitated by other producers), and consumers will purchase these albums based on the producer brand. According to producer Scott Storch, “People say that [Eminem’s] music sounds the same or whatever but anybody can make a beat, the thing they need to realize is you need to create a signature beat so that every time you hear a beat you automatically think вЂyeah Lil Jon or Dr. Dre or Just Blaze’” (quoted in Brown 2006, 82). 10. Like his mentor, Dr. Dre, Eminem has a number of collaborators who feature in production credits, among them the Detroit Bass Brothers (Mark and Jeff Bass) and keyboardist and producer Luis Resto. When I refer to Eminem as producer, I am acknowledging that Eminem’s sonic signature is a product of these collaborations and not simply Eminem as auteur. I use “Eminem’s production” or “Eminem’s sonic signature” as shorthand for “the result of a number of agents involved in a production credited to Eminem.” 11. Gillespie differentiates between “sound signatures” (nonvocal sonic material) and “name signatures” (allonymic [the producer is named by someone else] and autonymic [the producer names him /herself]). Gillespie’s taxonomy of sound signatures includes (1) discrete (immediately recognizable sounds, e.g., Timbaland’s “flute” sound); (2) abstract (e.g., particular rhythmic patterns); (3) performative (“feel,” use of quantization); (4) structural (organization, how the track is put together); (5) orchestral (specific combinations of patches); (6) sound effects; and (7) phonographic staging. 12. Rumors that Eminem was racist were fueled by the 2003 discovery of a tape from his teens where Eminem uses the word nigger to refer to a black ex-girlfriend. The Game’s defense of Eminem may specifically refer to this incident. See BBC News 2003; Reid 2003. 13. The imitation could be an act of homage, or Eminem may have ghostwritten the lyrics for The Game, which would explain the stylistic similarity in flow. 14. Although the beat of “We Ain’t” was produced by Eminem (and his team), Dr. Dre’s role as executive producer (and as mentor figure) did not go unnoticed in the press. Dr. Dre gets framed not only as a founding father of West Coast gangsta rap but also as boss, as Svengali, in line with the mentorstudent relationships found in earlier eras. One writer wrote of The Game’s debut album, “Then there’s the fact that The Documentary, though it bears The Game’s byline, is more a product of the Dr. Dre assembly line than anything else” (Koerner 2005). 15. Tupac Shakur often mentioned figures in African American history, in particular civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X as well canonical artists such as Marvin Gaye and Billie Holiday (e.g., “Thugz Mansion”). For an investigation of hip-hop sampling of civil rights and 1970s blaxploitation figures, see Demers 2003. 16. The high degree of intertextual reference is also displayed on The Game’s body in the form of tattoos he has received throughout his career. First, his body emulates the archetype of the Tupac Shakur–type gangsta rapper (made iconic on the Rolling Stone cover after his death), a heavily muscled

and tattooed iteration of black masculinity also shared by 50 Cent. The Game has tattoos of Eazy-E Page 309 →(on his right forearm); a graveyard with 2Pac, Jam Master Jay, and Eazy-E; Cedar Block Pirus; N.W.A.; Tupac Shakur as an angel; the word Compton across his stomach; album covers of The Chronic and The Documentary on his lower stomach; and Trayvon Martin and Nate Dogg on his legs. He also has a tattoo for his son, a deceased friend, Barack Obama’s face, and others. 17. This romantic trope of struggle—in particular, the psychology of inner feeling largely popularized by Tupac Shakur and Eminem—has intensified through the work of Kendrick Lamar, Earl Sweatshirt, Future, and others since 2010. 18. This follows 2Pac’s penchant for using acronyms to mean more than one thing (e.g., NIGGA = Never Ignorant, Getting Goals Accomplished). Here, m.A.A.d. is often cited as “my Angel’s on Angel Dust” or “my Angry Adolescence Divided.” In some instances, M.A.A.D. (all capitals) is used; however, I use m.A.A.d. here for consistency. 19. According to Lamar, the track “Good Kid” “represents the space I was in. Knowing that you’re doing wrong things, but at the same time, you’re a good kid at heart. I knew what I was doing and what I was getting myself into and the people I’m hanging with” (Ahmed 2012). 20. Examples include Ice-T, “Bitches 2” (1991); MC Breed, “Ain’t No Future in Your Frontin’” (1991); X-Clan, “Xodus” (1992); Above the Law, “Black Superman” (1994); and the pop rap duo Kris Kross, “Jump” (1992). Ice Cube’s “The Wicked” (1992) uses the sample as a shorter loop than “Dope Man,” creating a more menacing effect. 21. The influence from George Clinton and P-Funk is the primary reason that the style was dubbed G-funk (with the G standing for “gangsta”). For a fuller account of the early G-funk era, and the use of the funky worm sample, see Westhoff 2016. 22. On “Wesley’s Theory,” the opening track from Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly (2015), we hear a high-pitched synthesizer as part of the beat before we hear an interlude with Dr. Dre saying, “Yo, what’s up? It’s Dre. Remember the first time you came out to the house? You said you wanted a spot like mine. But remember, anybody can get it. The hard part is keepin’ it, motherfucker.” The song itself is a parable for young African American men who achieve fame and fortune but lose it as a consequence of ignorance and poor management. (Wesley refers to actor Wesley Snipes, who was convicted of tax evasion.) Less explicit than “m.A.A.d. City,” “Wesley’s Theory” represents both a lineage with George Clinton (who also appears on the song) and the dangers of a lifestyle associated with Compton. 23. Lamar’s second major-label album, To Pimp a Butterfly, is framed as a poem that Lamar writes to 2Pac, and the album ends with an interview with 2Pac (digitally manipulated as if he were speaking to Lamar). This powerful case of postmortem sampling (Williams 2013, 2015) furthers a link between the two despite the fact they did not know each other in reality. 24. For examples that use this hyperreferencing to very different ends, see rapper Childish Gambino (Donald Glover). The work of Lady Gaga might also fit this trend, with her use of a number of musical intertexts, though Burns, Woods, and Lafrance (2015) have argued that her intertexts go beyond simple plagiarism and that she advances popular music genres in new ways. Page 310 →25. “Instead of being the threshold to the future, the first ten years of the twenty-first century turned out to be the вЂRe’ Decade. The 2000s were dominated by the вЂre-’ prefix: revivals, reissues, remakes, re-enactments. Endless retrospection: every year brought a fresh spate of anniversaries with their attendant glut of biographies, memoirs, rockumentaries, biopics and commemorative issues of magazines” (Reynolds 2010, xi). Reynolds is overly critical of mashups and of digital sampling in general, and his book has encountered a lot of criticism, in particular his postpunk, tinted-sunglass view of musical creativity. 26. Founded in 2009, the website began as Rap Genius but has now expanded to embrace other musical genres and in 2014 renamed itself Genius. 27. For more on crowdsourcing, see Howe 2006; for a critique, see Silverman 2014.

References

Ahmed, Insanul. 2012. “The Making of Kendrick Lamar’s вЂGood Kid, m.A.A.d. City.’” Complex, October 23, http://uk.complex.com/music/2012/10/the-making-of-kendrick-lamars-good-kid-maad-city/ Ahmed, Insanul, and Toshitaka Kondo. 2015. “The Making of Game’s вЂDocumentary.’” Complex, January 18, http://uk.complex.com/music/2015/01/making-of-games-the-documentary Barnes, Dee. 2015. “Here’s What’s Missing from Straight Outta Compton: Me and the Other Women Dr. Dre Beat Up.” Gawker, August 18, http://gawker.com/heres-whats-missing-from-straight-outta-comptonme-and-1724735910 BBC News. 2003. “Rapper Eminem in Racist Lyric Row.” BBC News, November 19, http://news.bbc.co.uk /1/hi/entertainment/3283089.stm Brackett, David. 2000. Interpreting Popular Music. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bradley, Laura, and Marissa Visci. 2015. “Who Are the Women of Straight Outta Compton? Here’s What the NWA Biopic Leaves Out,” Slate, August 19, http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2015/08/19 /straight_outta_compton_women_the_background_the_nwa_biopic_doesn_t_provide.html Brooks, Van Wyck. 1918. “On Creating a Usable Past.” Dial, April 11, 337–41. Brown, Jake. 2006. Dr. Dre in the Studio: From Compton, Death Row, Snoop Dogg, Eminem, 50 Cent, The Game and Mad Money: The Life, Times, and Aftermath of the Notorious Record Producer Dr. Dre. New York: Colossus. Burns, Lori, and Alyssa Woods. 2004. “Authenticity, Appropriation, Signification: Tori Amos on Gender, Race, and Violence in Covers of Billie Holiday and Eminem.” Music Theory Online 10 (2), http://www.mtosmt.org/issues/mto.04.10.2/mto.04.10.2.burns_woods_frames.html Burns, Lori, Alyssa Woods, and Marc Lafrance. 2015. “The Genealogy of a Song: Lady Gaga’s Musical Intertexts on вЂThe Fame Monster’ (2009).” Twentieth-Century Music 12 (1): 3–35. Covach, John. 2005. “Form in Rock Music: A Primer.” In Engaging Music, edited by Deborah Stein, 65–76. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Demers, Joanna. 2003. “Sampling the 1970s in Hip-Hop.” Popular Music 22 (1): 41–56. Page 311 →DeNora, Tia. 1995. Beethoven and the Construction of Genius: Musical Politics in Vienna, 1792–1803. Berkeley: University of California Press. DeVeaux, Scott. 1991. “Constructing the Jazz Tradition: Jazz Historiography.” Black American Literature Forum 25 (3): 525–60. Eshun, Kodwo. 1999. More Brilliant Than the Sun: Adventures in Sonic Fiction. London: Quartet. Ex, Kris. 2003. “2Pac.” In Classic Material: The Hip-Hop Album Guide, edited by Oliver Wang, 156. Toronto: ECW. Floyd, Samuel A., Jr. 1995. The Power of Black Music: Interpreting Its History from Africa to the United States. New York: Oxford University Press. Frame, Pete. 1983. The Rock Family Trees: The Development and History of Rock Performers. London: Omnibus. Frow, John. 1990. “Intertextuality and Ontology.” In Intertextuality: Theories and Practice, edited by Judith Still and Michael Worton, 45–55. Manchester: Manchester University Press.

Gates, Henry Louis, Jr. 1989. The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of African-American Literary Criticism. New York: Oxford University Press. Gillespie, Mark. 2006. “вЂAnother Darkchild Classic’: Phonographic Forgery and Producer Rodney Jerkins’ Sonic Signature.” Master’s thesis, UniversitГ© Laval. Gordon, Jeremy. 2015. “N.W.A. Planning Reunion Tour with Eminem.” Pitchfork, July 22, http://pitchfork.com/news/60479-nwa-planning-reunion-tour-with-eminem/ Higgins, Paula. 1997. “Musical вЂParents’ and Their вЂProgeny’: The Discourse of Creative Patriarchy in Early Modern Europe.” In Music in Renaissance Cities and Courts: Essays in Honor of Lewis Lockwood, edited by Jessie Ann Owens and Anthony M. Cumming, 170–82. Warren, MI: Harmonie Park Press. Higgins, Paula. 2007. “Lamenting вЂOur Master and Good Father’: Intertextuality and Creative Patrilineage in Tributes by and for Johannes Ockeghem.” In Cum Maioribus Lachrymis et Fletu Immenso: Der Tod in Musik und Kultur des SpГ¤tmittelalters, edited by Birgit Lodes and Stefan Gasch, 277–314. Tutzing: Schneider. Hobsbawm, Eric, and Terence Ranger, eds. 1992. The Invention of Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Howe, Jeff. 2006. “The Rise of Crowdsourcing.” Wired, June 14, http://archive.wired.com/wired/archive /14.06/crowds.html Koerner, Brendan I. 2005. “The Game Is Up: Why Dr. Dre’s ProtГ©gГ©s Always Top the Charts.” Slate, March 10, http://www.slate.com/id/2114375 Krims, Adam. 2007. Music and Urban Geography. London: Routledge. Lacasse, Serge. 2000. “Intertextuality and Hypertextuality in Recorded Popular Music.” In The Musical Work: Reality or Invention?, edited by Michael Talbot, 35–58. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Moore, Allan. 1993. Rock: The Primary Text. Buckingham: Open University Press. Morgan, Robert P. 1988. “Tradition, Anxiety, and the Musical Scene.” In Authenticity and Early Music, edited by Nicholas Kenyon, 57–82. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Peterson, Richard A. 1997. Creating Country Music: Fabricating Authenticity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pursey, Rob. 2007. “Check One-Two.” Hip-Hop Connection, March, 34. Page 312 →Reid, Shaheem. 2003. “The Source Digs Up Tape of Eminem Using Racial Slurs.” MTV News, November 18, http://www.mtv.com/news/1480512/the-source-digs-up-tape-of-eminem-using-racial-slurs/ Reid, Shaheem. 2005. “The Game: Out of the Shadows.” MTV News, January 25, http://www.mtv.com /bands/g/game/news_feature_012705/ Reynolds, Simon. 2010. Retromania: Pop Culture’s Addiction to Its Own Past. London: Faber and Faber. Rich, Katey. 2015. “The Women Left Out ofВ Straight Outta ComptonВ Have Begun to Speak Up.” Vanity Fair, August 19, http://www.vanityfair.com/hollywood/2015/08/straight-outta-compton-dee-barnes-michelle Rose, Tricia. 1994. Black Noise. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press.

Rosen, Charles. 1975. Arnold Schoenberg. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rothenbuhler, Eric W. 2005. “Robert Johnson’s Records.” In Afterlife as Afterimage, edited by Steve Jones and Joli Jensen, 209–34. New York: Lang. Silverman, Jacob. 2014. “The Crowdsourcing Scam.” Baffler 26, http://thebaffler.com/salvos /crowdsourcing-scam Tagg, Philip. 2012. Music’s Meanings. Larchmont, NY: Mass Media Music Scholars. Taruskin, Richard. 1988. “The Pastness of the Present and the Presence of the Past.” In Authenticity and Early Music, edited by Nicholas Kenyon, 137–207. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Westhoff, Ben. 2016. “Backstabbing, Moogs, and the Funky Worm: How Gangsta Rap Was Born.” Guardian, September 13, https://www.theguardian.com/music/2016/sep/13/gangsta-rap-history-nwa-ice-cube-drdre Williams, Justin A. 2013. Rhymin’ and Stealin’: Musical Borrowing in Hip-Hop. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Williams, Justin A. 2015. “Rap Music and Post-Mortem Sampling.” In Death and the Rock Star, edited by Barbara Labrun and Catherine Strong, 189–200. Aldershot: Ashgate. Zamora, Lois Parkinson. 1997. The Usable Past: The Imagination of History in Recent Fiction of the Americas. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Twelve. Mix Tapes, Memory, and Nostalgia An Introduction to Phonographic Anthologies Serge Lacasse and Andy Bennett THE INVENTION OF the cassette tape recorder during the early 1960s was heralded as a significant breakthrough in domestic technology.1 By the early 1970s, cassette players were in widespread use. In addition to replacing the cumbersome reel-to-reel analog tape recorder with a small and easily portable unit, cassettes afforded a new freedom to assemble a personal collection of songs—typically recorded from the radio and/or records belonging to the cassette player’s owner or friends. Both the choice of songs and the order in which they appeared on the tape were governed by the preference of the individual listener. The cassette tape recorder, then, effectively opened the door into a new world of musical ownership: songs could be “lifted” from their place in scheduled radio programs or the preselected ordering of the vinyl LP or hand-picked from a collection of “singles” and recombined in highly particularized ways to suit the taste and mood of the listener. The pick-and-mix approach inspired by cassette technology has persisted and since the digital revolution of the 1980s has been facilitated by rapid turnover of state-of-the-art digital formats—the CD, the minidisk, MP3, the iPod, and streaming music services such as Spotify and Apple Music. Moreover, if the technology for creating personal collections of music has become increasingly sophisticated, then the sheer volume of music now available has created endless possibilities for the creative compilation of songs and instrumental pieces. Indeed, for a growing number of individuals, the act of producing such compilations has transcended Page 314 →the boundaries of leisure and is treated as an art. This chapter explores the significance attached to such personal compilations of music—mix tapes—by those who produce them. As illustrated by Nick Hornby’s novel High Fidelity (1995) and the 2000 release of its cinematographic adaptation (by director Stephen Frears), the practice of assembling mix tapes has become a prominent activity among music fans around the world. Also known as compilations, these anthologies typically reflect their compiler’s tastes, interests, and moods. As such, mix tapes form an important part of the compiler’s biography, constituting a statement of personal aesthetics (Frith 1987) and lifestyle (Chaney 1996) and thus a means by which compilers present themselves to others. Mix tapes can also act as a communication tool between individuals belonging to what could be described as compilation communities. Within such communities, the art of producing and comparing mix tapes constitutes a form of cultural capital (Bourdieu 1979/1984). Since the 1990s, increasing domestic access to the Internet has facilitated the ease and scope of communication between individual members of mix tape communities, and translocal networks now stretch around the globe. Despite the widespread use and manifest expressive function of mix tapes, however, academic researchers have expressed little interest in the subject. This is surprising given the increasing attention to musical life in mundane, everyday contexts.2 A small number of academic researchers to have examined the mix tape phenomenon from a number of perspectives: as a means of expressing feelings and stories (Pauws 2000; Fox 2002; Herlyn and Overdick 2003; Moore 2004); as a model of commerce (Drew 2005; WikstrГ¶m and Burnett 2009); as a site of cultural memory (Jansen 2009); and even as a means to “write our own bibles” (Grimshaw 2014, 3). However, no study seems to have looked into mix tape communities from the perspective we offer here.

Theorizing Mix Tape Culture Perhaps the most complete project to date devoted to the study of mix tapes is that of Gerrit Herlyn and Thomas Overdick (2003a, b), two German theorists who have explored a number of aspects related to mix tapes as part of an exhibition project they presented at the Museum fГјr Kommunikation in both Hamburg (22 May–29 June 2003) and Frankfurt (10 December 2003–8 February 2004). Work related to the exhibition included the organization of two university seminars, interviews Page 315 →with compilers, and the gathering of cassette tape

designs by compilers. Focusing exclusively on the cassette tape, Herlyn and Overdick suggest that this format is considered a “true” medium by many compilers, who seem to impart cassette tapes with a nostalgic quality and a corresponding higher “authentic” value than digital counterparts such as CDs and MP3s. Clearly, however, this could be a simple demographic issue in that many of those who currently compile mix tapes grew up in the predigital age and associate the cassette medium, like much of the music they compile, with the time of their youth. Indeed, according to Simon Frith (1987), youth is often when music has its most wide-reaching effect as a soundtrack for everyday life. Herlyn and Overdick suggest that mix tapes serve many functions for compilers, including reactivating personal memories and providing a medium for interpersonal communication and more specifically a “flirtation instrument.” Indeed, the researchers compare the mix tape to the personal letter that one would send to a close friend or to a potential lover. The nostalgic quality of mix tapes that Herlyn and Overdick note corresponds with the work of other popular music theorists who have identified a strong nostalgic appeal in the way that music works for individuals in contemporary society. Thus, Frith (1987, 142) declares, Songs and tunes are often key to our remembrance of things past [providing a] vivid experience of time passing. Music focuses our attention on the feeling of time; songs are organized (it is part of their pleasure) around anticipation and echo, around endings to which we look forward, choruses that build regret into their fading. Many of Herlyn and Overdick’s ideas are echoed and further developed by Kamal Fox (2002), who attempts a critical reading of the phenomenon of mix tapes in the context of courtship. Like Herlyn and Overdick, Fox locates the practice within a set of “antecedents and analogues that set the scene forВ .В .В . romantic mixed tapes.” Such an interpretation of the mix tape’s emotional value is significant in that, as Donald Horton (1957) has previously suggested, songs often provide a means of communicating to others emotions and feelings that individuals feel unable to express in their own words. Indeed, Fox (2002) places the phenomenon of mix tapes side by side with other apparently unrelated practices such as the use of cartes de visite or bouquets of flowers.3 Highly conventional, these practices were rather well understood at the time. On the contrary, the meaning of the contemporary mix tape is much more vague Page 316 →and potentially polysemous: “While narrators want their mixed tapes to be expressive, revealing, etc., they also employ them as a sort of mask, self-constructive guise or вЂpersona.’ This persona reveals without being personal, it’s a buffer that protects the narrator’s ego.” Fox approaches the practice of compiling mix tapes from a semiotic perspective, using terminology and concepts from narratology and intertextuality. For example, he distinguishes between what he calls a paradigmatic reading (when each song is taken for itself) and the syntagmatic reading (when songs are considered side by side). Evoking Roland Barthes’s (1957/1972, 114) “second-order semiological system”, Fox (2002) writes that “each songВ .В .В . contributes to the overall arrangement of songs itself, which is a narrative.” This overall arrangement of songs itself—the sequence—indeed seems to be the most important element of the practice of compiling mix tapes.

Problem, Aims, and Content Although these empirical and semiotic/intertextual approaches are revealing and provide an initial insight into the significance of compiling mix tapes as a form of everyday musicalized practice, a more precise description of what constitutes a mix tape is useful, enabling us to locate the practice within a larger ensemble of parallel practices. Furthermore, while the function of mix tapes as “flirtation instruments” is indeed very interesting, it is also important to widen the perspective and approach the practice from other angles. Thus, we present some preliminary reflections on the mix tape as an intertextual cultural practice—or, more precisely, a polyphonographic cultural practice (see Lacasse, this volume) with the sequence as the primary signifying element. Frith (1987) argues that songs provide a means for the experience and expression of feelings, particularly in

relation to nostalgia. This observation alludes to the fact that the act of listening to music, including electronically reproduced music, involves far more than the passive reception of the musical text. Rather, listening to music involves an intertextual process whereby a musical text invokes particular feelings and sentiments in the listener and are then symbolically inscribed by the listener in the text. As a result, they are reinvoked each time the text is heard. The art of producing mix tapes takes this way of experiencing music a stage further. In an attempt to move beyond the individual listening experience, the compiler strives to animate his/her experience of listening to and interpreting music in a way that can be understood by Page 317 →others (or at least by those for whom the mix tape has been made). The personal letter is particularly relevant here in that as with the emotional investment of the personal letter, the music collection presented on the mix tape is intended to express a particular set of feelings or emotions. Indeed, the mix tape is rarely a stand-alone object; rather, its intended meaning is often supplemented with a narrative offered by the compiler to render meaningful the chosen sequence of songs and/or pieces of music for the recipient of the mix tape. This narrative usually centers on an account of why particular songs were chosen, what they represent for the compiler, and the significance of the order in which they appear. This practice of qualifying musical meaning through an extramusical narrative is consistent with Frith’s (1996, 17) claims that “the essence of popular cultural practice is making judgements” and justifying these judgments to others. Indeed, the act of producing a mix tape sets in motion this need to qualify the musical selection contained on the tape. In this context, songs become creative resources, with the particular choice of songs and their mix and match becoming a vehicle for the creative license of the compiler. The art of producing mix tapes can be regarded as a form of cultural capital. In his original formulation of this term, Bourdieu (1971, 1979/1984) suggested that cultural capital, as expressed through socially acquired habits and tastes as well as the acquisition of particular artifacts, is used as a means of displaying social status underpinned by distinctions between social classes. In applying Bourdieu’s work to contemporary dance club culture, Thornton (1995) introduces the term subcultural capital. In so doing, Thornton moves beyond the notion of status as related purely to class distinctions and considers its relevance in the context of popular cultural practice—more specifically, the contemporary dance music club scene. Thus, according to Thornton (1995, 11–12), through conspicuous displays of “subcultural capital,” self-affirmed “serious clubbers” differentiate themselves from what they regard as “non-serious” or “mainstream” clubbers: “Just as cultural capital is personified in вЂgood’ manners and urbane conversation, so subcultural capital is embodied in the form of being вЂin the know,’ using (but not over-using) current slang and looking as if you were born to perform the latest dance styles.” Mix tape communities also strongly orient themselves around appropriate displays of cultural capital, such displays denoting the relative status of individual mix tape compilers and enabling mix tape communities to collectively distinguish themselves from those considered rank-and-file music fans. That is, members of mix tape communities do not regard Page 318 →themselves simply as people who make compilations, like, for example, rock or jazz lovers who make compilation tapes to accompany their daily commutes or to use when jogging. Rather, the art of producing mix tapes has engendered its own set of practices, a crucial element of which is the individual’s ability to demonstrate his/her skill as an auteur. Such skill can be demonstrated in a variety of ways, such as by creating song sequences in which individual songs are linked using a key known only to the compiler and perhaps the more astute members of the mix tape community. Similarly, as High Fidelity so aptly demonstrates, a highly developed knowledge of music is integral to mix tape compilers who take their art seriously. The acquisition of such knowledge demands time, money, and effort to assemble a personal collection of music that goes well beyond the commercial chart/hit parade arena in which the average member of the recordbuying public resides. For the serious mix tape compiler, a knowledge of and interest in “obscure” B-sides, limited edition “white labels,” and small “independent” and secondhand record stores are part of the aesthetic rigor through which cultural capital is displayed.

The Art of the Mix As Peterson and Bennett (2004) observe, the Internet is now a central communications resource for fans of

particular music genres and specific artists scattered around the world. In more recent times, Facebook has become a key online resource through which like-minded music fans connect, a quality that has also endeared Facebook to mix tape compliers (Kaun and Stiernstedt 2014). Evidence also suggests, however, that mix tape fans continue to use older web platforms, especially websites. Like those belonging to particular style- and musicbased scenes such as punk (Goslin 2004) and goth (Hodkinson 2004), mix tape communities have created their own dedicated websites for the discussion and exchange of ideas and music.4 The Art of the Mix, for example, is a website entirely devoted to sequences of songs (playlists). The site’s many sections include different mix categories, writings on some of the practice stakes, guidelines on how to build a good mix tape, and so on. But above all, the site offers visitors thousands of sequences. Between the site’s December 1997 launch and February 2016, the site editors accumulated around 130,000 mixes, all of them submitted by one of the site’s roughly 54,000 members—the AOTM Community—whose nicknames, e-mail addresses, and other information are listed in directories and search engines.5 Page 319 →For each of the submitted sequences, an individual page provides the mix title, the submission date, the format for which the mix is intended (cassette, CD, playlist), and the mix category. The content of the mix itself is displayed in the form of a table that lists the artist names and song titles (with direct links to iTunes) as well as additional information according to the format, such as cassette sides or CD track numbers. The page also offers information about the compiler: name and photo, his/her original membership date, his/her total number of posted mixes, the total number of responses received, and three hyperlinks (“Message,” “Friend,” and “View All Mixes by [name]”). In addition, the page provides direct access to the member’s most recent mixes. Finally, the page features comments by the compilers themselves, who often justify their choices or attempt to translate into words the mix’ effects, as well as by members of the community, who offer feedback regarding the mix. As Bennett (2002, 2004) notes, the particular mode of interaction facilitated by the Internet offers distinctive opportunities for displays of knowledge among music fans. Whereas the display of knowledge in offline physical contexts may be achieved through a combination of informed speech, personal appearance, argot, and so on, in online contexts such displays are achieved primarily through the written word. Websites established for the discussion of particular bands and scenes and specific genres of music afford considerable scope for such written displays of musical knowledge, offering forums for discussion and debate, for positing particular points of view, and for defending aesthetically informed positions regarding the relative merits—or not—of particular bands, artists, albums, tracks, outtakes, and so on. In the case of The Art of the Mix and other mix tape websites, displays of musical knowledge and hence authority assume a deeper resonance as mix tape enthusiasts discuss and critically evaluate each other’s work, calling on individuals to justify and defend their particular choices and ordering of music. At the same time, these online modes of interaction also seem to rest on aesthetic principles that are more traditional, such as the ones at play in the conception of literary anthologies.

Phonographic Anthologies Definition The set of features available at The Art of the Mix (factual information, actual ordering of songs, and comments) seems to meet Emmanuel Page 320 →Fraisse’s (1997) characterization of an anthology. Although Fraisse conceived his definition to apply to literary anthologies, it is easily adaptable to mix tapes. Indeed, we can roughly define phonographic anthologies as any collection of recordings whose assemblage is dictated by an arranging principle. This principle is usually explained and presented in one form or another, such as liner notes for commercial anthologies or, in the case of private anthologies, other types of written or virtual comments. Furthermore, according to Fraisse, only collections presenting multiple artists and songs should be considered “truly” anthological, a condition that excludes any album produced by a single artist, such as The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (1967).6 In principle, this same criterion of multiplicity prevents us from considering the compilation by a third party of works by a single author or artist. In the phonographic domain, this could correspond to commercial greatest hits or private mix tapes devoted to a single performer or composer.

This multiplicity condition seems important. For example, commenting on a May 2002 Mix of the Week that features different versions of the song “Mack the Knife,” a member of The Art of the Mix website writes, “Um, OK. It’s kinda funny how a вЂmix’ can only have one song on it and [still] be called the вЂMix of the Week.’” Although not ideal, a mix can contain more than one song by a particular artist, but the mix must then follow a number of additional rules, as evidenced by a 24 February 2003 comment posted by “Commie” in the “Constructing the Perfect Mixtape” forum: I am meeting a girl this Friday at the Blood Brothers show.В .В .В . I am in love with her and I’m making a mixtape for her birthday. I want this to be perfect, or as close as it can be! .В .В .В What I am attempting to do is the most ambitious mixtape I have ever attempted. First of all, I am breaking one of the fundamental laws (or so I’ve heard) of mixing; two of each artist. For instance, if there were only 3 bands on the CD (A, B, and C) it would go like this: A B C B A. I will have two of each band, and in the very middle it climaxes with “The New Sound” by the Capricorns. There is only one Capricorns track on the CD.7 Arranging Principle Among the 130,000 or so sequences found on The Art of the Mix, there are thousands of examples of the exposition of an arranging principle. Here, we focus on two sequences that were designated “Mix of the Week.” Page 321 →The first sequence, submitted by “Brad” and awarded Mix of the Week in October 2002 constitutes an example of high virtuosity. The sequence, “Son of Son of Song Cycle: UK Subs Make Own Food,” features a “song cycle,” where all songs are covers of other artists’ songs. Moreover, any given track must be followed by a cover of the artist being covered in the current track. For example, the first song in the sequence is a cover by the UK Subs of “She’s Not There,” a song originally recorded by the Zombies. The following track, therefore, must be a cover of another artist’s song performed by the Zombies. In this case, the Zombies song was originally recorded by the Supremes, so the next song must be a recording by the Supremes, and so on. To complete the cycle, the last track, by Guns N’ Roses, is a cover of a song originally recorded by the UK Subs, who opened the cycle (see table 12.1).8 With it’s fifty-one tracks, this sequence is rather long and certainly deserved to be named Mix of the Week. Moreover, comments provided by the compiler, the guest editors, and other members demonstrate not only how sequences constitute the central element of phonographic anthologies but also how the making of sequences that are highly considered by the community leads to the accumulation of cultural capital (Bourdieu 1979/1984). Just as Thornton (1995) talks about cultural or subcultural capital in the dance club scene as manifesting itself in the studied culmination of style, argot, and musical knowledge, so in the mix tape community a comprehensive music collection and demonstration of skilled aesthetic judgment in its use are key to the acquisition of cultural capital. In his comment, Brad writes, As I teeter on the brink of irrelevancy and technicality, I offer this one last song cycle. This will never get made (by me, anyway). This one was a lot of fun, and it’s close enough for my sake. “SueEW” responds, This would be very cool if someone did actually make this—and, as for what it would say about you, Brad? That you’d be the coolest kid on the block for having these songs! This mix has certainly gained Brad some cultural capital within the community, and his status is further reinforced by his creation’s selection as Mix of the Week. Page 322 → Table 12.1. Brad, “Son of Son of Song Cycle: UK Subs Make Own Food” The Art of the Mix, submitted 2 October 2002

No

Artist

Title

1 2 3 4

UK Subs The Zombies The Supremes Nancy Sinatra

She’s Not There (Zombies) When the Lovelight Starts Shining Through (Supremes) These Boots Were Made for Walkin’ (N. Sinatra) Down from Dover (Parton)

5 6 7

Dolly Parton Kenny Rogers Debbie Boone

Sweet Music Man (Rogers) You Light Up My Life (Boone) God Knows (Noone)

8 9

Peter Noone The Chairmen of the Board

Give Me Just a Little More Time (Chairmen) Rockaway Beach (Ramones)

10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

Ramones The Trashmen The Ventures Johnny Nash Bob Marley and the Wailers Nina Simone Judy Collins Paul Young Billy Bragg John Cale Nico The Doors Them John Lee Hooker Eddie Boyd Big Mama Thornton B. B. King Louis Jordan Jon Hendricks Herbie Hancock Peter Gabriel Youssou N’Dour

Surfin’ Bird (Trashmen) Walk, Don’t Run (Ventures) I Can See Clearly Now (Nash) Mellow Mood (Marley and the Wailers) To Be Young, Gifted, and Black (Simone) My Father (Collins) Everything Must Change (Young) Man in the Iron Mask (Bragg) Fear Is a Man’s Best Friend (Cale) Nibelungen (Nico) The End (Doors) Gloria (Them) Don’t Look Back (Hooker) Five Long Years (Boyd) Hound Dog (Thornton) Rock Me Baby (B. B. King) Saturday Night Fish Fry (Jordan) I Want You to Be My Baby (Hendricks) Watermelon Man (Hancock) Mercy Street (Gabriel) Shaking the Tree (N’Dour) Chimes of Freedom (Dylan)

32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

Bob Dylan Ring of Fire (Cash) Johnny Cash Rowboat (Beck) Beck Diamond Dogs (Bowie) David Bowie It’s Hard to Be a Saint in the City (Springsteen) Bruce Springsteen Jersey Girl (Waits) Tom Waits Highway Cafe (Friedman) Kinky Friedman Lover Please (Swan) Billy Swan Don’t Be Cruel (Presley) Elvis Presley And the Grass Won’t Pay No Mind (Diamond) Neil Diamond Both Sides Now (Mitchell) Joni Mitchell Why Do Fools Fall in Love? (Lymon) Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers Searchin’ (Coasters)

44

The Coasters

It’s Your Thing (Isley Brothers)

45 The Isley Brothers Page 323 → Todd Rundgren

Hello It’s Me (Rundgren) Good Vibrations (Beach Boys)

46 47

The Beach Boys

Walk on By (Bacharach)

48 49

Burt Bacharach Bobby Vinton

Blue on Blue (Vinton) The Exodus Song (Boone)

50 51

Pat Boone Guns N’ Roses

Paradise City (Guns N’ Roses) Down on the Farm (UK Subs)

Lakespeed The second sequence on which we focus was posted by “Lakespeed” in January 2002. Mix tapes are rarely stand-alone objects and are often accompanied by a paraphonographic narrative offered by the compiler as means of justifying a particular song sequence. On occasion, mix tapes and their accompanying narratives are the product of the compiler’s experience of other media—for example, film and literature. This act of intermediality is evident in Lakespeed’s song sequence, which is concerned with using actual sounds as a musical counterpoint to a book (see table 12.2). In effect, Lakespeed is attempting to re-create for the listener the feelings and emotions he experienced when reading the book. As Lakespeed explains the relationship between the presented mix tape and the book that inspired it, The above [mix] is a 3-CDR representation of my favorite book: Bulgakov’s The Master & Margarita, which, literally, took me months to plot and compile. The book itself, aside from being a spiteful, humor laced indictment of Stalin-era Russian life, is also a mirror of Goethe’s Faust themes of good vs. evil, regeneration, and the transcendence of the human spirit. The 3 discs were meant to both somewhat follow the plot as well as offer metaphorical support to the on-goings. Lakespeed then offers a detailed description of how each track functions in relation to events depicted in the book.9 While the compiler gains much cultural capital with this mix, some comments point to another important aspect of the practice: artistry. Member “Summer Burton” considers the mix “amazing” and writes, “Consider yourself commended by me, as well as, it appears, most of the rest of the AOTM community. I can now unashamedly say that making mixes is an art, and you are a master.” This comment is strongly echoed in “Thoughts on the Politics of the Mixed Tape,” a manifest found in the “Writings” section of the website: “The politics of the mixed tape concern the politics of art, for the mixed tape itself is an art, albeit a вЂlesser’ form of expression, ranking more with forms such as the collage, the pastiche, the juxtaposition of found elements” (Xantheis 2002). To refer again to Bourdieu’s concepts of cultural capital and distinction, not only are members seeking recognition within the AOTM community, but AOTM as a whole seeks recognition as an artistic community with a studied and collectively understood code of aesthetics governing the practice of compiling mix tapes. This statement not only shows that practices such as collage and pastiche are considered “lesser forms of expression” but also clearly situates the practice of creating mix tapes—or any phonographic anthologies, for that matter—within the realm of intertextuality. Page 324 → Table 12.2. Lakespeed, “Manuscripts Don’t Burn [Bulgakov: The Master and Margarita]” The Art of the Mix, submitted 13 January 2002 No Artist Title 1 Wayne Shorter Mephistopheles 2 Sid Hemphill, Lucius Old Devil’s Dream Smith

3

Jimmy Lyons

Premonitions

4 5 6 7

Jelly Roll Morton Prokofiev/Rainer/CSO Lungfish The Mob

Dead Man Blues Alexander Nevsky Op. 78: Russia under the Mongolian Yoke The Evidence Witch Hunt

8 9

Metallica The Frayed Ends of Sanity Alexander “Skip” Weighted Down (The Prison Song) Spence

10 11 12

Billy Bragg The Chills The Dismemberment Plan The Pogues Korenyashkata grupa na Karlo Berlioz/Karajan/BPO J. S. Bach/Klemperer J. S. Bach/Klemperer J. S. Bach/Klemperer Reverend Gary Davis Fred McDowell and Hunter’s Chapel Singers of Como, Mississippi Third Eye Foundation Cowboy Junkies Pink Floyd (w/Syd Barrett) Igor Wakhevitch Sonic Youth The Incredible String Band Stravinsky/Ozawa/CSO

Strange Things Happen Dark Carnival That’s When the Party Started

Stravinsky/Ozawa/CSO Stravinsky/Ozawa/CSO Stravinsky/Ozawa/CSO Stravinsky/Ozawa/CSO Stravinsky/Ozawa/CSO Verdi/Marandi/NSOI Verdi/Marandi/NSOI

The Rite of Spring, Pt. II: The Sacrifice—Mystic Circles of the Young Girls The Rite of Spring, Pt. II: The Sacrifice—Glorification of the Chosen One The Rite of Spring, Pt. II: The Sacrifice—Summoning of the Ancients The Rite of Spring, Pt. II: The Sacrifice—Ritual of the Ancients The Rite of Spring, Pt. II: The Sacrifice—Sacrificial Dance (Chosen One) Aida—The Dance of the Priestesses Aida—Ballet Music

Sun Ra/Myth Science Arkestra

Thither and Yon

13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 Page 325 → 34 35

Turkish Song of the Damned Yambolkso horo La Damnation de Faust, Op. 24: Menuet des Follets St. Matthew’s Passion, BWV 224: Nr 54 Rezitative: Auf das Fest aber hatte St. Matthew’s Passion, BWV 224: Nr 55 Choral: Wie wunderbarlich St. Matthew’s Passion, BWV 224: Nr 59 Rezitative: Schrieen aber noch mehr Crucifixion Amazing Grace

No Dove, No Covenant Working on a Building Chapter 24 Materia Prima: a) Gnomides, b) Faust, c) Vulcain ’Cross the Breeze Witches Hat The Rite of Spring, Pt. II: The Sacrifice—Intro.

36

The Receptionists

Soren Loved Regina

37 38

Like a Girl Jesus Judas

39

Game Theory Tricky w/Martina Tooley Bird The Birthday Party

40 41 42

Brian Eno Baby’s on Fire Johnny Clarke Fire and Brimstone A Go Burn the Wicked Stravinsky/Ozawa/CSO Fireworks, Fantasy for Orchestra, Op. 4

43 44 45

Albert Ayler Harvester Unwound

Spiritual Rebirth Och Solen Gar Upp (And the Sun Rises) Demons Sing Love Songs

46 47 48 49 50 51

Mark Hollis Neutral Milk Hotel P. J. Harvey Bob Dylan John Fahey Neutral Milk Hotel

The Gift Two-Headed Boy/The Fool The River I Shall Be Released Commemorative Transfiguration and Communion at Magruder Park Two-Headed Boy, Part II

Mutiny in Heaven

Conclusion: From the Intertextual to the Interpersonal Since they involve the reordering of preexisting recordings, phonographic anthologies can be approached as an intertextual practice. More precisely, creating such anthologies involves a rewriting of dispersed elements into a new—and meaningful—configuration. Songs and tunes are effectively removed from their original contexts and reworked into new, Page 326 →personalized, and aesthetically justified maps of sonic meaning.10Thus, as Fox (2002) observes, mix tapes are not only intertextual but also interpersonal: [A mix tape] is a cultural product made up of cultural products, a referencing system that references other such systems. Since all musical practices are based on this borrowing and quoting and this wish to build social bonds through cultural commodities, mixed tapes, in turn, are not about the disclosure of the “self,” they are instead about creating a sense of availability. Echoing LГ©vi-Strauss’s (1962) notion of bricolage, this intertextual rewriting practice not only is highly meaningful within a community but can also serve as a crucial element in the process of self-identification. Indeed, the prominence of mix tapes as a form of informal musicalized and intertextual communication in society highlights the issue of musical ownership in contemporary society. We are referring here not to economic or artistic ownership but rather to the way that individuals effectively appropriate songs and make them part of a personal identity (Frith 1987). Such a feeling of ownership can often be particularly intense, to the extent that if a person’s musical taste is criticized, he or she will take it as a personal criticism. As Frith (1987, 143) has noted, people’s emotional attachment to music is often such that they “feel [they] possess the [music] itself, the particular performance, and its performer.” Through the creation and dissemination of mix tapes to significant others in their lives, individuals reassert such ownership of musical texts, with the physical object of the mix tape often accompanied by a verbally communicated personal account of the contained music selection’s personal value for the compiler. The practice of compiling mix tapes, then, conflates the acts of consumption and composition and thus involves simultaneous acts of reading and writing: writing about ourselves by rereading others’ music or even better, reading ourselves in others’ music.

Notes 1. According to John Borwick (2003, 506), the cassette tape was “introduced by Philips at the 1963 Berlin Radio Show. The sound quality potential of the new compact cassette was underplayed at the

launch.В .В .В . Philips had chosen the slowest tape speed then available, 1 7/8 [inches] (4.76 cm) per second, a quarter-track format and a new narrower tape width of 0.15 [inches] (3.8mm). Page 327 →The cassette was much more user-friendly than the open reel-to-reel tapes then in use.” 2. See, e.g., Bull 2000; Denora 2000. 3. As Fox (2002) writes, “a mixed tape is more like the calling card or the bouquet, which вЂstandin’ for their sender. Whereas the cellular phone and the playing of the records require the sender’s presence to be significant.” 4. For a similar view, see McCourt 2005, 251. 5. The Art of the Mix editors, e-mail to authors, 18 February 2016. 6. In fact, this kind of album is closer to what is called recueil in French (Genette 1999, 172), a term that seems to have no English equivalent. It is a collection of more or less self-contained texts—such as poems—composed by a single author (or artist). 7. See http://www.peopletalktooloud.com/cgi-bin/ikonboard/topic.cgi?forum=5&topic=133 (no longer available). 8. Some websites are exclusively devoted to such cover chains: see, e.g., The Covers Project, www.coversproject.com, where the longest cover chain has close to 450 songs. 9. “For those familiar with both the book and the tracks, there are a plethora of subtle nuances to be had added. Disc 2 actually begins with Side 1, #16. Disc 3 with Side 2, #9. Tracklist/plot notes as follows: Thursday (Disc 1): 1.1–1.3: Berlioz/Bezdomny meet Woland at Patriach’s Ponds; Woland predicts Berlioz’s death 1.4: Berlioz decapitated by a streetcar 1.5–1.7: Yeshua dines with Judas; Yeshua arrested after making political comment about Caesar 1.8–1.10: Bezdomny meets The Master in the asylum 1.11–1.14: Woland and his gang settles in to Apt. 50 and causes chaos throughout Moscow: Likhodoyev sent to Yalta, Korovyev plants currency, Savelyechi Varenuka becomes a vampire, etc. 1.15: Woland & his gang give performance at The Variety Friday (Disc 2) 1.16–18: Pontius Pilate interrogates Yeshua, sentences him to death 1.19: Yeshua is crucified 1.20–1.21: After Yeshua’s death, storm descends on Yershalaim 1.22–1.23: Margarita re-reads remnants of Master’s manuscript 1.24: Margarita goes to park to meet Azazello 1.25–1.26: Margarita becomes a witch, destroys critic’s apartment and flies off to meet Woland 2.1–2.8: Satan’s ball takes place with Margarita as hostess Saturday (Disc 3): 2.9–2.11: Woland grants Margarita a [wish]: to be reunited with The Master 2.12–2.13: Judas is murdered 2.14–2.16: Shootout in Apt. 50, building burns, Woland’s gang [performs] pranks that leave parts of Moscow burning 2.17–2.20: Levi Matvei comes to Woland with request from Yeshua: give the Master peace; Azazello gives poisoned wine to The Master and Margarita and their bodies die 2.21–2.25: Master is allowed to set Pilate free from his insomnia; Master and Margarita are given a little cottage in which to spend eternity. Also, a note on the packaging: 3 jewel case bases glued to plywood, and connected by ribbon to make a Jacob’s Ladder (har har), which then fold into a wooden slipcase. Color me an obsessive geek” (http://www.artofthemix.org/FindAMix /getcontents2.aspx?strMixID=20242). 10. As Lacasse (this volume) describes, the practice of phonographic anthologies can therefore be located within a particular area of intertextuality, polyphonography, that “includes any practice whose main purpose is the construction of large diachronic phonographic structures through the assemblage of smaller, Page 328 →self-contained recordings” (24). Polyphonographic practices include not only to phonographic anthologies but also the album and deejaying.

References The Art of the Mix. http://www.artofthemix.org Bakhtin, Mikhail. 1981. The Dialogic Imagination. Edited by Michael Holquist. Translated by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: University of Texas Press. Barthes, Roland. 1957/1972. “Myth Today.” In Mythologies, 109–59. New York: Hill and Wang. Bennett, Andy. 2002. “Music, Media, and Urban Mythscapes: A Study of the Canterbury Sound.” Media,

Culture, and Society 24 (1): 107–20. Bennett, Andy. 2004. “New Tales from Canterbury: The Making of a Virtual Music Scene.” In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal, and Virtual, edited by Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 205–20. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Borwick, John. 2003. “Cassette.” In The Continuum Encyclopedia of Popular Music of the World, vol. 1, Media, Industry and Society, edited by John Shepherd, David Horn, Dave Laing, Paul Oliver, and Peter Wicke, 506. London: Continuum. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1971. “Le marchГ© des biens symboliques.” L’AnnГ©e Sociologique 22: 49–126. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1979/1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Translated by Richard Nice. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Bull, Michael. 2000. Sounding Out the City: Personal Stereos and the Management of Everyday Life. Oxford: Berg. Centre de recherche sur l’intermГ©dialitГ©. 2003. “Recherches.” http://cri.histart.umontreal.ca/cri/fr /html/recherches_champ_principal.htm DeNora, Tia. 2000. Music in Everyday Life. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Drew, Rob. 2005. “Mixed Blessings: The Commercial Mix and the Future of Music Aggregation.” Popular Music and Society 28 (4): 533–51. Fox, Kamal. 2002. “Mixed Feelings: Notes on the Romance of the Mixed Tape.” Rhizomes 5 (Fall). http://www.rhizomes.net/issue5/fox.html Fraisse, Emmanuel. 1997. Les anthologies en France. Paris: Presses universitaires de France. Frears, Stephen. 2000. High Fidelity. Buena Vista Pictures. Frith, Simon. 1987. “Towards an Aesthetic of Popular Music.” In Music and Society: The Politics of Composition, Performance, and Reception, edited by Richard Leppert and Susan McLary, 133–49. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Frith, Simon. 1996. Performing Rites: On the Value of Popular Music. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Genette, GГ©rard. 1999. “Paysage de fantaisie.” In Figures IV, 171–90. Paris: Seuil. Goslin, Tim. 2004. “Not for Sale: The Underground Network of Anarcho-Punk.” In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal, and Virtual, edited by Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 168–83. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Grimshaw, Mike. 2014. “Introduction—Sonic Bibles and the Closing of the Page 329 →Canon: The Sounds of Secular, Mundane Transcendence?” In The Counter-Narratives of Radical Theology and Popular Music: Songs of Fear and Trembling, edited by Mike Grimshaw, 1–15. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Herlyn, Gerrit, and Thomas Overdick. 2003a. “Kassettengeschichten: Von Menschen und Ihren Mixtapes.” Das Archiv: Zeitschrift fГјr Post- und Telekommunikationsgeschichte 1: 32–36. Herlyn, Gerrit, and Thomas Overdick, eds. 2003b. Kassettengeschichten: Von Menschen und Ihren Mixtapes. MГјnster: Lit.

Hodkinson, Paul. 2004. “Trans-Local Connections in the Goth Scene.” In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal, and Virtual, edited by Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 131–48. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Hornby, Nick. 1995. High Fidelity. London: Victor Gollancz Ltd. Horton, Donald. 1957. “The Dialogue of Courtship in Popular Song.” In On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word, edited by Simon Frith and Andrew Goodwin, 14–26. London: Routledge. Jansen, Bas. 2009. “Tape Cassettes and Former Selves: How Mix Tapes Mediate Memories.” In Sound Souvenirs: Audio Technologies, Memory, and Cultural Practices, edited by Karin Bijsterveld and José van Dijck, 43–54. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. Kaun, Anne, and Fredrik Stiernstedt. 2014. “Facebook Time: Technological and Institutional Affordances for Media Memories.” New Media and Society 16 (7): 1154–68. Kristeva, Julia. 1967. “Bakhtine, le mot, le dialogue, et le roman.” Critique 23 (239): 438–65. Kristeva, Julia. 1969. Sèméiôtikè: Recherches pour une sémanalyse. Paris: Seuil. Lévi-Strauss, Claude. 1962. La pensée sauvage. Paris: Plon. McCourt, Tom. 2005. “Forum: Collecting Music in the Digital Realm.” Popular Music and Society 28 (2): 249–52. Moore, Thurston, ed. 2004. Mix Tape: The Art of Cassette Culture. New York: Universe. Pauws, Steffen Clarence. 2000. “Music and Choice: Adaptive Systems and Multimodal Interaction.” PhD diss., Technische Universiteit Eindhoven, Netherlands. Peterson, Richard A., and Andy Bennett. 2004. “Introducing Music Scenes.” In Music Scenes: Local, Translocal, and Virtual, edited by Andy Bennett and Richard A. Peterson, 1–15. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Thornton, Sarah. 1995. Club Cultures: Music, Media, and Subcultural Capital. Cambridge: Polity. Wikström, Patrik, and Robert Burnett. 2009. “Same Songs, Different Wrapping: The Rise of the Compilation Album.” Popular Music and Society 32 (4): 507–22. Xantheis. 2002. “Thoughts on the Politics of the Mixed Tape.” http://www.artofthemix.org/writings /politics.asp

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Contributors Andy Bennett Andy Bennett is Professor of Cultural Sociology in the School of Humanities, Languages, and Social Science at Griffith University. He has written and edited numerous books, including Popular Music and Youth Culture, Music, Style, and Aging,В and Music Scenes (with Richard A. Peterson). He is a Faculty Fellow of the Yale Center for Cultural Sociology, an International Fellow of the Finnish Youth Research Network, and a founding member of the Regional Music Research Group.

J. Peter Burkholder J. Peter Burkholder is Distinguished Professor of Musicology at the Indiana University Jacobs School of Music. Through his foundational article “The Uses of Existing Music: Musical Borrowing as a Field” (Notes, 1994), his extensive entry on “Borrowing” in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (2001), and his online bibliography Musical Borrowing and Reworking, he helped to establish the study of musical borrowing as a field across all centuries and traditions of music. He has written or edited four books on Charles Ives, including All Made of Tunes: Charles Ives and the Uses of Musical Borrowing (1995), and his articles range from borrowing in the fifteenth-century mass to Schoenberg, modernism, and musical meaning. His research has won awards from the American Musicological Society, the Society for American Music, and ASCAP. He is best known for his textbook A History of Western Music and the Norton Anthology of Western Music. Page 332 →

Lori Burns Lori Burns is Professor of Music and Director of the School of Music at the University of Ottawa. Her interdisciplinary research merges cultural theory and musical analysis to explore representations of gender and sexuality in the lyrical, musical, and visual texts of popular music. Her articles have appeared in edited collections published by Ashgate, Bloomsbury, Cambridge, Garland, Oxford, Routledge, and the University of Michigan Press as well as in leading journals (Popular Music; Popular Music and Society; The Journal for Music, Sound, and Moving Image; Studies in Music; The Journal of the International Association of Popular Music; Music Theory Spectrum; Music Theory Online; and The Journal for Music Theory). Her book on popular music, Disruptive Divas: Critical and Analytical Essays on Feminism, Identity, and Popular Music won the 2005 Pauline Alderman Award from the International Alliance for Women in Music (2005). She was a founding coeditor of the Tracking Pop Series at the University of Michigan Press and is now serving as coeditor (with Stan Hawkins) of the Ashgate Popular and Folk Music Series. Her research has been funded by the Social Sciences and Humanities Council of Canada (1997–2000, 2002–5, 2007–10, 2013–18).

Roger Castonguay Roger Castonguay is a percussionist, composer, and teacher at the UniversitГ© de Moncton. He has studied musicology at the UniversitГ© Laval with Paul Cadrin and music composition at the UniversitГ© de Moncton with Richard Gibson and at the UniversitГ© de MontrГ©al with AndrГ© PrГ©vost and Michel Longtin. Castonguay’s research focuses on both classical and popular music and deals primarily with thematic analysis in its different forms, from Forte’s set theory to Schoenberg’s concept of developing variation. He has coauthored (with Colette McLaughlin) the Guide des Collections de Musique Folklorique for the Centre d’Études Acadiennes at the UniversitГ© de Moncton. Various ensembles such as the Arthur-LeBlanc String Quartet and Symphony New Brunswick have commissioned his works as composer. As musician, he has performed with numerous Acadian pop singers, among them Natasha St-Pier and Jean-FranГ§ois Breau, and was a founding member of the Et + KГ© 2 percussion ensemble. Page 333 →

William Echard William Echard is Associate Professor of Music at Carleton University. He is the author of Neil Young and the Poetics of Energy and Psychedelic Popular Music: A History through Musical Topic Theory as well as numerous articles and book chapters on the intersections among popular music signification, critical theory, and socially grounded philosophical aesthetics. He is currently working on a critical, analytical, and historical survey of musical transcription practices.

Walter Everett Walter Everett is Professor of Music (Music Theory) at the University of Michigan. He is the author of The Beatles as Musicians (2 vols.) as well as of The Foundations of Rock and is the editor of Expression in Pop-Rock Music. He has published more than thirty journal articles, book chapters, and reviews on topics spanning the entire history of pop-rock music as well as on song and opera of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries; most of these may be found at https://umich.academia.edu/WalterEverett. He has led weeklong seminars at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, and the University of OsnabrГјck, Germany, and has served as an invited speaker at dozens of other colleges, universities, and conservatories.В Everett has held fellowships with the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Archives and the National Endowment for the Humanities and has delivered keynote addresses to conferences around the world.

Stan Hawkins Stan Hawkins is Professor of Musicology at the University of Oslo and Adjunct Professor at the University of Agder. His research focuses on music analysis, popular musicology, gender theory, cultural studies, and audiovisual aesthetics. He is author of Settling the Pop Score, The British Pop Dandy, Prince: The Making of a Pop Music Phenomenon (with Sarah Niblock), and Queerness in Pop. His edited volumes include Music, Space, and Place (with Sheila Whiteley and Andy Bennett), Essays on Sound and Vision (with John Richardson), Pop Music and Easy Listening, Critical Musicological Reflections, and The Routledge Research Companion for Popular Music and Gender. He and Lori Burns are series editors for Routledge’s Ashgate Popular and Folk Music Series. From 2010 to 2014 he led a Norwegian state-funded project, Popular Music and Gender in Page 334 →a Transcultural Context, and since 2017 he has led the Nordic Sounds: Critical Music Research Network. In 2017 he was elected as a member of Det Norske Videnskaps-Akademi (The Norwegian Academy of Science and Letters).

Serge Lacasse Serge Lacasse is Full Professor of Musicology at the UniversitГ© Laval in Quebec City. He heads both the Laval site of the Observatoire interdisciplinaire de crГ©ation et de recherche en musique (oicrm.org) and the Laboratoire audionumГ©rique de recherche et de crГ©ation (larc.oicrm.org). He favors an interdisciplinary approach, and his research and research-creation projects deal primarily with the study and practice of recorded popular music and the singing voice. In addition to multiple chapters, articles, and conference papers, he is the coauthor (with Sophie StГ©vance) of Les enjeux de la recherche-crГ©ation en musique and of ResearchCreation in Music and the Arts: Towards a Collaborative Interdiscipline (Routledge). He coedited Quand la musique prend corps (with Monique Desroches and Sophie StГ©vance) and Rewriting the Rules of Record Production (Routledge) (with Simon Zagorski-Thomas, Katia Isakoff, and Sophie StГ©vance). He is also active as a record producer, musician, composer, and songwriter.

Allan Moore Allan Moore is Professor Emeritus at the University of Surrey. Author of a dozen monographs (including Rock: The Primary Text and Song Means) and edited collections (including Ashgate’s Library of Essays on Popular Music and Bloomsbury’s Handbook of Rock Music Research), he is most interested in questions of hermeneutics in recorded popular song and in modernist concert music, privileging both the listener’s perspective and considerations of musical texture and gesture. He has served as coordinating editor of Popular

Music as well as on a number of other editorial and advisory boards, and edits the Routledge book series Music’s Interdisciplines.

Mark Spicer Mark Spicer is Professor of Music at Hunter College and the Graduate Center, City University of New York, where he was the 2015 recipient of Page 335 →Hunter’s Presidential Award for Excellence in Teaching. He specializes in the reception history and analysis of popular music, particularly British pop and rock since the 1960s, and his writings have appeared widely in scholarly journals and essay collections. He coedited Sounding Out Pop: Analytical Essays in Popular Music (with John Covach), edited the volume on Rock Music for Ashgate’s Library of Essays on Popular Music, and served as associate editor of Music Theory Spectrum from 2013 to 2015. Spicer is also a professional keyboardist and vocalist and continues to take the stage most weekends with his “electric R&B” group, the Bernadettes.

Justin A. Williams Justin A. Williams is Senior Lecturer in Music at the University of Bristol. He is a musicologist working within popular music studies and hip-hop studies in particular. Williams has edited and published on diverse areas such as jazz, crowdfunding, progressive rock, the singer-songwriter, and Hamilton: An American Musical. He is the author of Rhymin’ and Stealin’: Musical Borrowing in Hip-Hop (University of Michigan Press, 2013), editor of the Cambridge Companion to Hip-Hop (CUP, 2015), and coeditor (with Katherine Williams) of the Cambridge Companion to the Singer-Songwriter (CUP, 2016) and The Singer-Songwriter Handbook (Bloomsbury Academic, 2017). In 2017, he was awarded a Leadership Fellowship from the Arts and Humanities Research Council (UK) for a project on Regional Rap in the United Kingdom.

Alyssa Woods Alyssa Woods teaches courses in music theory, music history, and popular music studies at the University of Ottawa and Carleton University. Her research involves an interdisciplinary approach to musical theoretical and sociocultural analysis, focusing on the study of gender and race in popular music with particular emphasis on hiphop. She has published articles in Music Theory Online and Twentieth-Century Music as well as in the edited collections Pop-Culture Pedagogy in the Music Classroom and The Cambridge Companion to the SingerSongwriter.

Mary S. Woodside Mary S. Woodside is retired from the position of Associate Professor of Music History at the University of Guelph. Her research interests include Page 336 →Russian music and musical life, nineteenth-century French vaudevilles, and the cultural connections between Russia and Western Europe. Her publications include The Russian Life of R.-Aloys Mooser, Music Critic to the Tsars: Memoirs and Selected Writings. From 2004 to 2007, she served as English editor of Intersections: Canadian Journal of Music.

Simon Zagorski-Thomas Simon Zagorski-Thomas is a Professor at the London College of Music, University of West London. He is the founder and codirector of the annual Art of Record Production Conference, a cofounder of the Journal on the Art of Record Production, and a cochair of the Association for the Study of the Art of Record Production (www.artofrecordproduction.com). His publications include The Musicology of Record Production and The Art of Record Production (coedited with Simon Frith). Before becoming an academic he worked for twenty-five years as a composer, sound engineer, and producer with artists as varied as Phil Collins, Mica Paris, the London Community Gospel Choir, Bill Bruford, the Mock Turtles, Courtney Pine, and the Balanescu Quartet.

Page 337 →

Index abstract parameters of song, 11–13, 26, 39, 50n49 Académie Royale de Musique (Opéra), 191 acoustic sound, interpretation. See electronic music, perception/interpretation of “Across the Universe” (Beatles), ix, 114–115 Adam, Jean Michel, 36 Aerial Ballet (Nilsson), 149 Aerial Pandemonium Ballet (Nilsson), 149 African Americans, 242n12, 306–307; black masculinity, 233–238, 245n40, 296, 303, 308n16; the dozens (verbal sparring game), 244n27, 245n30. See also race Aftermath/Interscope label, 294, 301, 302 Agawu, Kofi, 18 agency of creation, 279–280 “Air des Scythes et des Amazons” (timbre), 202, 204–205 airs (tunes/melodies), 191, 193–194, 195 “Albatross” (Fleetwood Mac), 110–111, 128n14 album covers, 35; Documentary, 294, 296; Magna Carta and Holy Grail, 225, 227–228; Marshall Mathers LP, and LP 2, 222 albums as polyphonography, 24–25, 50n43. See also concept albums album-version singles, 139, 141, 142, 144, 145; censorship, 149, 155, 158; effects changes, 146, 148, 149; length, 137, 150–151, 153–155, 158, 160, 161, 165n1. See also alternate mixes; singles Allen, Graham, 26 allographic works and transformation, 19, 22, 23, 27, 46n13; defined, 11–13, 46n9, 79n10. See also autographic works and transformation allosonic quotation (interphonography), 26–27, 41, 65, 73, 245n32, 300; defined, 26, 79n10. See also hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic); sampling (autosonic quotation) “All Over the World” (ELO), 123 allusion, as intertextuality, 26 Alone in the Universe (ELO), 112, 123–125, 133nn46–47 Alpheus and Arethusa (Lorenzi), 227, 228, 245n36

alternate mixes, x, 79n6, 139–164; differing edits of same recording, 141, 149–164; differing mixes of same edit, 141, 142–149; intratextual types, ix, 140–142, 164. See also album-version singles; editing; mixing; promo singles (white labels); stock singles Page 338 →American Beauty (Grateful Dead), 148 AM radio, 40–41, 42, 144, 146. See also promo singles (white labels); radio Ancien Théâtre (Avignon, France), 193, 198–199, 201 “Animal” (Shotta), 239 “Another Morning” (Moody Blues), 146, 151 answer rap, 239–240 Anthem of the Sun (Grateful Dead), 149 anthologies. See polyphonography Anthology (Beatles), 121 anxiety of influence, 111, 121, 124, 126n5, 126n9, 132n39; Bloom’s theory, ix, 3, 107–108. See also musical influence Anxiety of Influence: A Theory of Poetry, The (Bloom), 107–108 AOTM. See Art of The Mix, The (website) Aoxomoxoa (Grateful Dead), 149 archiphonography, vi, 13–18, 25, 28, 42, 47n20, 51n62 architextuality, 11, 47n16, 78n1, 208 aristocracy, 196–197, 210nn4–6 Army of Me, An: Remixes and Covers (BjГ¶rk), 23–24 “Army of Me, An” (BjГ¶rk), 23–24, 50n40 Art of the Mix, The (website), 4, 318–325; Mix of the Week examples, 320–325, 327n9 “Asshole” (Eminem), 222, 243n18 the Association, 150 Atlantic label, 144, 147 audio-vision, 44 Auslander, Philip, 20, 33–34 Autechre, xiv, 280–282 authenticity, x, 46n9, 169, 181 authorship, 170, 183–185

auto-changer device, 24 autographic works and transformation, 19, 22, 23, 26, 40; defined, 12–13, 46n9, 79n10. See also allographic works and transformation autosonic quotation (interphonography). See sampling (autosonic quotation) “Bad Guy” (Eminem), 28, 30 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 3, 170, 179, 181–182, 274, 288 Balance of Power (ELO), 119 “Ballad of John and Yoko, The” (Beatles), 148 Bangs, Lester, 185 Banks, Tony, 65 Barbiere di Siviglia, Il (Rossini), 200, 204–206 Barry Manilow I and II (Manilow), 43 Barthes, Roland, 45n4, 274, 279, 288, 316 Bat Out of Hell (Meat Loaf), 164 battle rap, 220, 243n13 Baudrillard, Jean, 254 Bauman, Richard, 187n2 BBC Concert Orchestra, 122 Beach Boys, the, 106–107, 125n1, 149 Beadle, Jeremy, 2 the Beatles, 3, 27, 108–109, 130n27; differing edits of same recording, 150, 151, 154, 156–157, 165n11; differing mixes of same edit, 141, 146–147, 148, 149; Harrison, 91, 120–121, 123, 143, 148; influences on, 106–107, 109, 110–111, 113, 120, 127n12, 131n34; instrumentation, 107, 110–111, 118, 122; Starr, 120, 121, 144. See also Lennon, John; McCartney, Paul the Beatles’ musical influence, 111, 134n49; anxiety of influence theory, 107, 126n5, 132n39; Beach Boys and, 106–107, 125n1. See also Electric Light Orchestra (ELO), Beatles’ influence on; harmonic and song structure beats: driving pattern, 296, 297–298; snap beat, 224, 244n28, 245n29 Beaumarchais, Pierre, 198 “Beautiful Morning, A” (Rascals), 144 “Beautiful People, The” (Manson), 233–234 Page 339 →“Because” (Beatles), 149

“Beep” (Pussycat Dolls), 130n32 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 107, 108, 113, 293, 296, 307n4 “Beethoven” (Eurythmics), 252 Belafonte, Harry, 92 Bennett, Andy, xvi, 4, 318, 319 Berry, Chuck, 109, 113 Bevan, Bev, 114 Beyoncé, 287, 288 Be Yourself Tonight (Eurythmics), 254 Bibliothèque Municipale (Avignon, France), 190, 193 Big Brother and the Holding Co., 149 Biggie Smalls (Notorious B.I.G.), 219–220, 239, 293–294 Big Sean, 223 “Billie Jean” (Jackson), 31 “(I’m) Billie Jean” (Kerr), 31 Björk, 23–24 Black Album (Jay-Z), 149 “Blackberry Way” (the Move), 110, 127n11 “Black Skinhead” (West), xii, 216, 232–238, 246n46 “Blood on the Leaves” (West), 232, 246n48 Blood on the Tracks (Dylan), 184 Bloom, Harold, ix, 3, 107–108, 124, 126n7 Bloomfield, Mike, 180 Blue Angel, The (film), 265 Bluenotes, 179–180 Blueprint, The (Jay-Z), 229, 231, 246n41 blues style: Beatles/ELO, 112, 115, 116, 117; Lennox, 256, 260, 261, 267; Young, 179–181 Boïeldieu, François-Adrien, 200 Bolshoi Theatre (St. Petersburg, Russia), 198, 210n8

Bonaparte, Napoleon, 197–198 Boney M, 147 Bono, 101–102, 103 Book of Yeezus: A Bible for the Modern Day, The, 240, 247n56 borrowing, Frow on, 216–217. See also musical borrowing Boston, 151 boundaries/line drawing, 220, 242n11 Bourdieu, Pierre, 4, 317, 325 Bowie, David, 155, 254 Brackett, David, 17 braggadocio in hip-hop, 216, 220, 223–224, 242n12 Brahms, Johannes, 108 Brainwashed (Harrison), 120 Brazier, Nicolas, 197 Brooks, Van Wyck, 294 Brøvig-Hanssen, Ragnhild, 36–37 B-sides, 64–65, 144 the Buckinghams, 148 Buckley, Jeff, 94–95, 97–100, 101, 102, 103. See also “Hallelujah,” Buckley cover Buckley, Tim, 94 Bulgakov, Mikhail, 323 Burkholder, Peter J., 1, 46n13 Burns, Lori, xii, 3, 37, 306 Butterfield, Paul, 180 Cabaret (musical and film), 266 Cale, John, 87–89, 90–91, 93–94, 102, 104n11; listener responses, 95–96, 100–101; vocal quality, 88–89, 92. See also “Hallelujah,” Cale cover Calife de Bagdad, Le (Boïeldieu, François-Adrien), 200 “California Vacation” (The Game), 303 Campbell, Glen, 150

camp quality, 265, 267 Capelle, Pierre, 191, 195 Capitol Records label, 146 “Captain Walker” (the Who), 153 captures (transfictionality), 30, 31 the Carpenters, 147 “Carpet Crawlers, The” (Genesis), 63 Carr, E. H., 103 “Carry on Wayward Son” (Kansas), 151 Carter family, 292 Cash, Johnny, 20 cassette tapes, 50n44, 313, 315, 326n1 Castonguay, Roger, vii–viii, 2 Cave, Nick, 92–93 Page 340 →Le Caveau (Parisian singing society), 191 CD compilations, 24, 25, 50n43, 313 CD reissues, 146 CDs, as objects, 34 celebrity. See fame censoring singles, 137–138, 148–149 centripetal/centrifugal forces, 181–182, 186 Chambers, Ross, 176 Charles, Ray, 92 “Cherubin’s Romance” (Beaumarchais), 198 “Chevrolet” (ZZ Top), 91 Chic, 154–155 “China Girl” (Bowie), 155 Chion, Michel, 44 Chopin, FrГ©dГ©ric, x, 41–42, 43

chord progressions. See harmonic and song structure Christie, Lou, 109, 110 Chrysalis, 161 Clapton, Eric, 158, 159, 292 “Clash of the Titans” (Krayzie Bone), 239–240 classical and early notated music, intertextuality parallels, v–xviii; alternate mixes, x; cover songs, ix; hip-hop intertextuality, xiii; inter/intratextuality, viii; lineage construction, xv–xvi, 292–293, 307n4; mix tapes, xvi–xvii; music videos, xiii–xiv; perception/interpretation, xiv–xv; stylistic intertextuality, xi classical music, condensed recordings, 150 classical-rock fusion, 42, 113, 129n23 Clé du Caveau à l’Usage de Tous les Chansonniers, La (Capelle), 191, 193, 195, 197, 201, 209 Clinton, George, 303, 309n21 Close to the Edge (Yes), 148 Cloud Nine (Harrison), 120 Cobain, Kurt, 229, 231, 241, 246n42 cock rock, 255, 263, 267 Cohen, Leonard, 3, 85–86, 99, 102, 104n8; lyrics, 100, 101; “Suzanne,” 86; vocal quality, 86, 93, 97. See also “Hallelujah” (Cohen) collectors, 141, 144 Collins, Judy, 91, 92 Collins, Phil, 65, 73 Columbia, 150, 165n1 Columbia label, 137–138 compact discs (CDs). See CDs compilations. See mix tapes; polyphonography composition, defined, 46n11 Compton (Dr. Dre), 305 “Compton” (Lamar), 304 concept albums: Eldorado (ELO), 113, 114, 129nn25–26; Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City, 302–305, 309n18; Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, 63, 78; Magna Carta Holy Grail, 215–216, 225, 227–228, 240–241, 242n4; Marshall Mathers LP 2, 215–216, 221–225, 242n6; as polyphonography, 25, 50n45; Yeezus, 215–216, 232, 240, 241n3

conceptual blending, 275, 278, 280, 282, 284, 288 “Concerto for a Rainy Day” (ELO), 116–117, 134n50 concert programming, 24, 50n43 concision (quantitative transformation), 22, 23 contrafactum (reusing tunes with new lyrics), 191, 201, 205 “Control” (Big Sean, with Lamar), 223, 244nn23–24, 245n31 Conyardi (vaudeville composer), 201, 204, 205, 206, 207, 209 Cook, Nicholas, 77 Cooper, Lee, 25 cophonography, vii, 13–15, 31–32, 36–37, 42, 44 copyright law, 27, 46n11 cotextuality, 36 “Could It Be Magic” (Manilow), vii, 40–43, 52n70 Covach, John, 108–109, 126n3 Page 341 →Cover Art (show), 37 cover songs, ix, 19–20, 25, 49n30; by the Beatles, 113, 127n12; of Beatles songs, 110, 129n23, 131n35; mix tape cover chains, 321–322, 327n8. See also “Hallelujah” covers; hyperphonography Crazy Horse, 172 Cream, 160 creative patrilineage, 305, 307n4 critical commentary and review: on “Could It Be Magic,” vii, 40–43, 52n70; on ELO, 114, 121–123, 128n15, 133n46; on Eminem, 216, 222, 242n6, 244n28; on Eurythmics, 266; on The Game, 299, 308n14; of “Hallelujah” covers, by fans, viii–ix, 94, 95–101; on Jay-Z, 216, 241, 246n41; as metaphonography, 13, 14, 15, 19, 38, 48n29; mythmaking and, 219–220, 221; on Shakur, 219–220; via hyperphonography, 19, 48n29; on West, 216, 232, 240, 246n44; on Young, 172–173, 174, 179–180, 181, 183–186 Crosby, Stills, and Nash, 160 Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, 172 Cubitt, Sean, 264 cultural capital in mix tape community, 4, 314, 317–318, 321 “Dance on a Volcano” (Genesis), 66, 69–73, 74, 79n14, 80n15 “Dandelion” (Rolling Stones), 151 “Dark Horse” (Harrison), 143

“Day in the Life, A” (Beatles), 111, 117, 118, 119, 126n3, 132n38, 151 Days of Future Passed (Moody Blues), 151, 160 Debord, Guy, 34 deejaying, 3, 24, 25, 50n43. See also promo singles (white labels) Deep Forest, 22 Deep Purple, 148 deification: Beatles, 108–109; Eminem, 222, 225; Jay-Z, 229, 240–241; West, 232, 240, 246n44 Delestre-Poirson, Charles-Gaspard, 193–194 demos. See promo singles (white labels) DeNora, Tia, 293, 296 Derrida, Jacques, 17 “Detroit Madness” (Dilla), xiv, 282–284 devaluation, 70 Dexter, Dave, 146 dialogism, 169, 176–177, 186 “Diary of Horace Wimp, The” (ELO), 132n38 Dietrich, Marlene, 265–266, 268n13, 269n14 digital playlists, 24, 50n43. See also mix tapes; polyphonography digital remixes, 146, 147. See also editing; remixes digital sampling. See sampling (autosonic quotation) Dilla, J., xiv, 282–284 Diplomate, Le (Scribe, vaudeville), 198–199, 201, 203, 209 disco, 119 Discovery (ELO), 119, 131n38 DJ singles. See promo singles (white labels) DNA, 23, 49n36, 49n39 Doctor’s Advocate (The Game), 303 Documentary, The (The Game), 294, 296, 307n6, 308n14 “Don’t Let Me Down” (Beatles), 110–111

the Doors, 144, 145, 149 Dowd, Tom, 147 “Down on Me” (Big Brother and the Holding Co.), 149 the dozens (verbal sparring game), 224, 244n27, 245n30 drag performance by Lennox, 253, 254, 255, 263, 265, 268n7. See also Lennox, Annie, genderplay by Page 342 →Dr. Dre: Eminem and, 222, 224, 295, 298, 304, 305; The Game and, 294, 295, 299, 301, 304, 308n14; gangsta rap lineage and, 291, 294, 295, 298, 301, 305; Lamar and, 302, 304, 309n22; N.W.A., 291, 294, 296, 301, 305, 307nn5–6; production style, 295, 296, 303, 305, 308n14; synth sound, 303–304 Dream Theater, 31 driving pattern (beat), 296, 297–298 “Drowning in the Sea of Love” (Starr), 144 drum sounds, electronic. See electronic music, perception/interpretation of drum tracks, panning on, 147 Dubuc, Tamar, 37 Dylan, Bob, 101, 120, 150, 173 dynamic range, 68–69, 146 Eaton-Lewis, Andrew, 252 Eazy-E (Eric Wright), 303, 307n5 Echard, William, x–xi, 3, 17 editing, 19, 22–23, 51n68, 69, 137–164; censoring, 148–149, 155, 158; “Could It Be Magic,” 40–43; crossfading, 151–153; digital remixes, 146, 147; fading out, 42–43, 150–151; muting, 147–149, 165n7; track length, 79n6, 137, 150–151, 153–155, 158, 160, 161, 165n1. See also alternate mixes; excision (quantitative transformation); mixing; studio effects Edwards, Mike, 114, 129n26 effects. See studio effects Eldorado (ELO), 113, 114, 129nn25–26 “Eleanor Rigby” (Beatles), 112 Electric Light Orchestra (ELO), 3, 107, 109–125; band forms, 110; classical-rock fusion, 113, 129n23; critics on, 114, 121–123, 128n15, 133n46; disbands, 119, 120, 129n21; discography, 112–113, 128n19; harmonic and song structure, 109–110, 113–119, 120, 123–125, 130n29, 132n38; instrumentation in, 111, 112, 114, 118, 122, 123; other monikers, 122–123; promotion of, 129n22; re-forms, 121, 122–123, 132n44, 133n46; re-recorded songs, 121, 122, 132n45; Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction, 133n46; as stylistically eclectic, 130n27, 133n47; Wood and, 110, 111, 112, 128n19. See also Lynne, Jeff Electric Light Orchestra (ELO), Beatles’ influence on, 3, 107, 109–125, 129n23; Alone in the Universe,

112, 123, 125; “Blackberry Way” (the Move), 110, 127n11; “Diary of Horace Wimp,” 132n38; “Evil Woman,” 115–116, 117, 121, 130n31; harmonic and song structure, ix, 112, 114–119, 123–125; Lennon reflects on, 109–110, 126n8; lyrics, 114, 115, 118, 130n31; “Mister Kingdom,” ix, 113–114, 115; “Mr. Blue Sky,” 116–118, 121, 122, 125, 132n38; “Showdown,” 109–110, 115, 121, 122; “When I Was a Boy,” 123–125; “Wild West Hero,” 118–119. See also the Beatles; the Beatles’ musical influence; Lynne, Jeff Electric Light Orchestra, The (No Answer, ELO debut album), 112, 128n20 electronic music, perception/interpretation of, 273–274, 278–289; “Detroit Madness,” xiv, 282–284; envelope sharing, 281; “Fleur,” xiv, 280–282; frequency ranges, 281–282; invariant properties, 279, 281, 282–283, 284, 285–286, 287–288; “Journeyman,” 286–287; other manipulation, 287–288; patterning of gestures, 280–281, 282–283; “Ransom Notes,” xiv, 284–286; sonic cartoons, 280, 284, 286; spectromorphology and, 274, 278–279; timbral consistency, 4, 273, 283, 284, 286, 287; waveform consistency, 281. See also invariant properties concept; perception/interpretation Elektra label, 145 Page 343 →EMI label, 146, 154 Eminem (Marshall Mathers), 3, 221–225, 243n17; characters of, 20, 28–31, 49n33, 298; critics on, 216, 222, 242n6, 244n28; Dr. Dre and, 222, 224, 295, 298, 304, 305; fame of, 216, 221, 222, 225, 238, 243n15, 243n19; flow style of, 216, 223–224, 240, 244n25, 297, 298, 308n13; The Game and, 291, 294, 296–301, 305–306, 308n13; gangsta rap lineage and, 291, 294, 305; Krayzie Bone and, 239–240, 247n53, 247n55; Marshall Mathers LP and LP 2, 30, 215–216, 221–222, 242n6; mythmaking by, 215, 220, 221, 238–240, 241; as producer, 291, 296–297, 300–301, 307n8, 308nn9–10; racism accusations about, 298, 308n12; Slim Shady persona, 20, 28–30, 49n33; sonic signature, 291, 296–297, 308nn9–10; whiteness of, 108, 223, 244n25, 245n30, 305. See also “Rap God” (Eminem) emotionality, 44; “Hallelujah” versions, 87, 88, 89–90, 94, 95, 97–99; “I Need a Man,” 261–262; mix tapes, 316–317, 326 “Entertainer, The” (Joel), 137–139, 154, 165n1 epiphonography, 33–35 Ethnomusicology (journal), 38 Eurythmics, xiii, 252–268; critics on, 266; Stewart-Lennox relationship, 255, 264; success of, 253–254; video trilogy, 252. See also “I Need a Man” (Eurythmics); Lennox, Annie; Lennox, Annie, genderplay by; Stewart, Dave Evans, Chris, 122 Eve (rapper), 305 Everett, Walter, ix–x, 3, 78n2, 126n9, 131n36 Everist, Mark, 196 Everly Brothers, 109 Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere (Young), 181 Everybody’s Rockin’ (Young), 173

“Evil Ways” (Santana), 150 “Evil Woman” (ELO), 115–116, 117, 121, 130nn27–32 Ex, Kris, 293 excision (quantitative transformation), 22, 147–156; in coda section, x, 150–153; “Could It Be Magic, ” 40, 42–43; of instrumental passages, 150, 154, 155–156, 158, 159, 161; in intro and interior passages, 153–155; “Los Endos,” 69; muting and, 147–149. See also editing expansion (quantitative transformation), 22–23 extension (quantitative transformation), 22–23, 69 extraphonographic practices, 31–43; cophonography, vii, 13–15, 31–32, 36–37, 42, 44; intra- and extramodal elements of, 32–33, 36, 38; metaphonography, vii, 13–16, 19, 31–32, 38–43, 48n29; paraphonography, vii, 13–16, 31–36, 38, 42–43, 47n20. See also phonographic practices Facebook, 318 Face the Music (ELO), 113, 114–115, 116 fade-out effect, 42–43, 150–151; crossfade, 151–153. See also editing; studio effects fame: Cobain, 231, 246n42; Eminem, 216, 221, 222, 225, 238, 243n15, 243n19; Eurythmics, 253–254; Jay-Z, 216, 221, 227–232, 238, 241, 243n15; West, 216, 221, 237, 243n15 Fast, Susan, 174 Fauconnier, Gilles, 275 femininity, 255, 263 feminism, 252 Fifth Symphony (Beethoven), 113 50 Cent, 291, 294, 298, 301, 305 film scores, xiv, 79n3, 131n37; Shrek soundtrack, 86–87, 90, 93, 94, 95–96, 104n11; Xanadu soundtrack, 119, 120, 128n21 Finson, Jon, vii, 39–43, 51n68 Page 344 →Fleetwood Mac, 110–111, 128n14, 151 “Fleur” (Autechre), xiv, 280–282 Flowers, Mike, 20 flow style, 301; Eminem, 216, 223–224, 240, 244n25, 297, 298, 308n13; The Game, 291, 298, 306, 308n13; Hot Stylz, 223–224; imitating, 217, 223–224, 240, 243n16. See also hip-hop intertextuality FM radio, 40–41. See also promo singles (white labels); radio forces concept (Bakhtin), 179, 181–182 Fox, Kamal, 315, 326, 327n3

Foxtrot (Genesis), 63 Fragile (Yes), 153 Fraisse, Emmanuel, 319–320 Frame, Pete, 292–293 “Free as a Bird” (Beatles), 121 Der Freischütz (Weber), 200 Fricke, David, 179–180 Frith, Simon, 20, 44–45, 255, 315, 317; emotionality, 44, 316, 326; On Record, 38–39 Frow, John, 216–217, 306 “Funky Worm, The” (Ohio Players), 302–303 Gabriel, Peter, 22, 73 Gale, Monica R., 76 The Game (Jayceon Terrell Taylor), xv, 4, 294–302, 308n16; critics on, 299, 308n14; Dr. Dre and, 294, 295, 299, 301, 304, 308n14; Eminem and, 291, 294, 296–301, 305–306, 308n13; flow style, 291, 298, 306, 308n13; gangsta rap lineage and, 291. See also “We Ain’t” (The Game) gangsta rap lineage, xv, 294–307; 2Pac and, 291, 293–294, 309n23; autosonic sampling signifying, 294, 301–302; Compton and, 294, 296; death, memorialization, immortality, 294, 307n5; Dr. Dre and, 291, 294, 295, 298, 301, 305; Eminem and, 291, 294, 305; 50 Cent and, 291, 294, 298, 305; misogyny, 305; N.W.A. and, 291, 294, 296, 301, 305; positioning oneself, in lyrics, 223, 300, 307; synth sound, 302–304, 309n22; time line (table), 295. See also The Game (Jayceon Terrell Taylor); Lamar, Kendrick Garcia, Jerry, 148 Gaye, Marvin, 109, 110 gender: all-female groups, 224; black masculinity, 233–238, 245n40, 296, 303, 308n16; creative patrilineage, 305, 307n4; femininity, 255, 263; hypermasculinity, 245n40, 256, 296, 303, 308n16; male gaze, 254, 262; misogyny, 305; music industry as male-dominated, 108, 255, 292, 305, 307n4; race and, 233, 242n12, 305; transsexuation, 19, 51n56. See also Lennox, Annie, genderplay by Genesis, vii, 2–3, 63–75; Collins, 65, 73; Gabriel, 22, 73; live performance, 63, 78. See also “Los Endos” (Genesis), hypertextual analysis of; Trick of the Tail, A (Genesis) Genette, Gérard, vi–vii, 9, 42, 45n4, 46n9, 187; hypertextuality defined, 11, 19, 47n16, 64, 78n1, 208; intertextuality defined, 2, 10, 26, 47n16, 62, 78n1, 174; Palimpsests, 2, 10, 13, 61, 63, 208; pastiche, 48n28, 209; transtylization, 67; transvaluation and, 41, 65–66. See also hypertextuality, Genette on; transphonography; transtextuality genre, 17, 25, 48n23, 173–176, 177, 187n4 George-Warren, Holly, 174 “Get Back” (Beatles), 111, 120

G-funk, 303, 304, 309n21 “Giant Peach” (Wolf Alice), 288 Gibson, James G., 275 Gillespie, Mark, 297 “Glass Onion” (Beatles), 111, 127n10 Glover, Roger, 148 Godard, Barbara, 170–171 “God Bless the Child” (Twain), 91 “God Only Knows” (Beach Boys), 107 Goldmember (film), 9 Page 345 →Gomart, Г‰milie, 35 Good Kid, m.A.A.d. City (Lamar), 302–305, 309n18 “Good Lovin’“ (Young Rascals), 147 “Good Vibrations” (Beach Boys), 107, 125n3 Goodwin, Andrew, 38–39 Gordon, Jim, 158–159 “Gosh” (Jamie xx), 287, 288 Gracyk, Theodore, 171, 174–175, 186 Grande, Ariana, 273 Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, 159 Grateful Dead, the, 148, 149, 158, 159 Green, Lucy, 16, 47n21 Gregorian chant, v Griffiths, Dai, 20, 94 Groucutt, Kelly, 114 group identity, 218–219. See also mythmaking grunge music, 246n42 Guardian, The, 122 Guck, Marion, 77

Gymnase Dramatique, 192, 204 Hall, Stuart, 39 hallelujah (word), 91–93, 101–102, 103 “Hallelujah” (Cave), 92–93 “Hallelujah” (Cohen), viii–ix, 3, 85–103; emotionality, 94, 99; harmonic structure, 94; instrumentation, 93–94; listener responses, 99; lyrics, 88–91, 93, 94, 99, 100, 101; original verses, 93; tempo, 93; title, 91; vocal quality, 86, 93, 97. See also “Hallelujah” covers “Hallelujah,” Buckley cover, viii–ix, 97–100, 101; diction choice and vowel intonation, 95; emotionality, 95, 97–98, 99; harmonic structure, 94–95; instrumentation, 94, 95; listener responses, 94, 97, 99–100; lyrics, 95; vocal quality, ix, 95 “Hallelujah,” Cale cover, viii–ix, 92, 93–94, 102, 104n11; diction choice and vowel intonation, 90–91; emotionality, 87, 88, 89; harmonic structure, 87–88, 89–90; listener responses, 95–96, 100–101; lyrics, 87, 88–90, 95, 100; vocal quality, 88, 90 “Hallelujah” covers, 2; Bono, 101–102; diction choice and vowel intonation, 90–91, 95; Dylan, 101; emotionality, 87, 88, 89–90, 94, 95, 97–99; harmonic structure, 87–88, 89–90, 92–93, 94–95, 101–102; instrumentation, 90, 94, 95, 101, 102; listener responses, viii–ix, 94, 95–101; lyrics, 87, 88–90, 95, 100, 101; vocal quality, ix, 88, 90, 95, 96–97, 98, 101; Williams, Kathryn, 101 “Hallelujah, I Love Her So” (Charles), 91–92 “Hallelujah,” Wainwright cover, 93, 96–99, 100–101, 104n11; diction choice and vowel intonation, 90–91; emotionality, 90, 97–98, 99; harmonic structure, 90; instrumentation, 90; listener responses, 96–97; lyrics, 95; vocal quality, 96–97, 98 “Hall of Fame” (Big Sean), 223 “Handle With Care” (Traveling Wilburys), 123 Harkins, Paul, 36–37 harmonic and song structure: Beach Boys, 106–107; Beatles influenced by others, 106–107, 109, 110–111, 113, 120; Beatles’ influence on others, 106–107, 112, 114–119, 123–125, 132n38; “Could It Be Magic,” 41–42; driving pattern, 296, 297–298; ELO, 109–110, 113–119, 120, 123–125, 130n29, 132n38; “Hallelujah” covers, 87–88, 89–90, 92–93, 94–95, 101–102; hyperphonographic transformation and, 19; “I Need a Man,” 256, 257, 258–259, 264–265; multisongs, 118, 126n3, 129n23; perception of, 70; shuttle progression, 110, 128n13; snap beat, 224, 244n28, 245n29; tonal center, 71, 80n16. See also “Los Endos” (Genesis), hypertextual analysis of Page 346 →Harrison, George, 91, 120–121, 123, 143, 148 Harvest (Young), 180 Hawkins, Stan, xiii, 3 Haydn, Joseph, 293 headphone listening, 147 “Heaven” (Jay-Z), 245n38

Heidmann, Ute, 36 “Hello, I Love You” (Doors), 144 “Hello Goodbye” (Beatles), 124, 134n49 Help! (Beatles), 146 Hendrix, Jimi, 155 Hennion, Antoine, 35 “Here, There, and Everywhere” (Beatles), 106–107 Herlyn, Gerrit, 315–316 “Hey Jude” (Beatles), 150 Higgins, Paula, 305, 307n4 High Fidelity (film), 314 High Fidelity (Hornby), 314, 318 Hilburn, Robert, 94 hip-hop culture, 215, 291; braggadocio, 216, 220, 223–224, 242n12; misogyny, 305 hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), xiii, 245n32, 299, 300. See also allosonic quotation (interphonography); flow style; sampling (autosonic quotation) hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), lyrics, 215; to assert superiority, 223, 238, 239–240, 244n23, 244n24, 244n28; “Black Skinhead,” xii, 232–233; “Control,” 223, 244nn23–24; “Holy Grail,” xii, 231; to identify influential figures, 222–223, 243n21, 294, 296, 300; to position oneself within lineage, 223, 300, 307; “Rap God,” xii, 222, 223–224, 243n21, 244n22; to shout-out to other artists, 224, 244n21; “We Ain’t,” 291, 296, 298–300, 306. See also lyrics and songwriting hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), stylistic: to assert superiority, 216, 223–224, 244n28; “Black Skinhead, ” xi, 233–234; “Holy Grail,” xii, 231; to identify influential figures, 296; “m.A.A.d. City,” 303–304; “Rap God,” xii, 223–224, 244n25; vs. strategic, 217–218, 221, 223–225, 229; synth sound, 303–304; “We Ain’t,” 296, 298–300. See also flow style; strategic intertextuality hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), video imagery: “Black Skinhead,” xii, 216, 233, 234–238; “Holy Grail,” xii, 216, 229–232; “Rap God,” 216, 223–225, 226–227. See also music videos Holm-Hudson, Kevin, 27 “Holy Grail” (Jay-Z), xii, 216, 225, 227–232, 234, 242n5, 245n37. See also Jay-Z Holy Grail relic, 225, 241 “Homme pour Faire un Tableau, Un” (air), 194–195 “Homme pour Faire un Tableau, Un” (timbre), 201–203 Hornby, Nick, 314

Horton, Donald, 39, 315 Hot Stylz, 223–224, 239, 244n26 “House of the Rising Sun” (the Animals), 155, 159 “Hurt” (Nine Inch Nails, Cash version), 20 hyperphonography, 18–24; analytical perspective focus, 28, 40, 44, 47n20, 49n39; Burkholder and, 46n13; “Could It Be Magic,” 40, 43; defined, vi–vii, 13–16, 18–19, 257; determination of hypo- vs. hypertext, 50n48, 64–65, 73–74, 75, 80n15; hypertextuality adaptations, vii–viii, 64, 68–69, 70, 71; intraphonography subtype, vii–viii, ix–x, 19, 26, 62, 77–78; parody as, 14, 19, 38, 48n29; quantitative transformations, 19–24, 69, 79n11, 79n13. See also “Los Endos” (Genesis), hypertextual analysis of hypertextuality, Genette on, 13, 47n14; adaptations for hyperphonography, Page 347 →vii–viii, 64, 68–69, 70, 71; defined, 11, 19, 47n16, 64, 78n1, 208; Genette refers to music, 21, 62–63, 68–69; pastiche as imitative, 48n28, 209; quantitative transformations, 20–24, 69, 75. See also Genette, GГ©rard hypotexts (hypophonograms): defined, 11, 18–19, 208, 268n9; determination of, vs. hypertext, 50n48, 64–65, 73–74, 75, 80n15; “I Need a Man” analysis, 257; “Los Endos” analysis, 65, 66, 68, 70–72, 73–74; pastiche as absence of specific, 48n28; quantitative transformations to, 22–23, 66, 68, 73, 79n14; vaudeville analysis, 208–209 “I Am a God (Feat. God)” (West), 232 “I Am the Walrus” (Beatles), 109, 110, 111, 112, 118–119, 124, 131n36 “I Can See for Miles” (the Who), 150 “Icarus” (Paul Winter Consort), 144, 145 identity: group, 218–219; musical ownership and, 326; through mythmaking, xiii, 215, 218–221, 238–239, 240–241 ideolect, 12, 252–253; Lennox’s genderplay and, 255, 256–257, 258–259, 261, 262–263, 264. See also vocal quality the Idle Race, 127 “I Don’t Need a Man” (Pussycat Dolls), 255 “I Heard It through the Grapevine” (Gaye), 109, 110 “I’ll Cry Instead” (Beatles), 154 “I’m Alive” (ELO), 120 “Immigrant Song” (Led Zeppelin), 146 immortalization. See deification; mythmaking “I’m Only Sleeping” (Beatles), 116, 148 “I’m Your Man” (Cohen), 255 “I’m Your Man” (Wham), 255

inclusion/exclusion, 176–177 “I Need a Man” (Eurythmics), xiii, 254–267; critical review, 252; emotionality, 261–262; harmonic structure, 256, 257, 258–259, 264–265; instrumentation, 256–257, 258–259, 264–265; temporal context, 260–261; video, 252, 254–255, 258–259. See also Eurythmics; Lennox, Annie; Lennox, Annie, genderplay by “I Need a Man” (Jones), 255 “I Need a Man” (Magnesses), 255 “I Need a Man to Love” (Joplin), 255 instrumental excision, 150, 154, 155–156, 158, 159, 161 instrumentation: the Beatles, 107, 110–111, 118, 122; ELO, 111, 112, 114, 118, 122, 123; “Hallelujah” versions, 90, 93–94, 95, 101, 102; “I Need a Man,” 256–257, 258–259, 264–265; “Los Endos,” 68, 70, 79n12; “m.A.A.d. City,” 302–303; vaudeville orchestration, 190, 193–194 interdimensional transformations, 68–69, 70–72, 73, 75 intermediality, 44 intermusicality, 177–178, 180–183, 185–186 Internet, 318–319 interphonography, vii, ix, 13–15, 25, 26–28, 41–42, 49n39. See also allosonic quotation (interphonography); hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic); sampling (autosonic quotation) interpolation, 27 interpretation. See perception/interpretation intertextual ethos, 177 intertextuality: Genette defined, 2, 10–11, 26, 47n16, 62, 78n1, 174; Spicer model, 217–218. See also classical and early notated music, intertextuality parallels; intratextuality; Kristeva, Julia, intertextuality concept by Intertextuality in Western Art Music (Klein), 1 “In the Cage” (Genesis), 63 Page 348 →In the Garden (Eurythmics), 253 intraphonography, as subtype of hyperphonography, vii–viii, ix–x, 19, 26, 62, 77–78 intratextuality, viii, ix–x, 73–78, 164, 186; alternate mix types, ix, 140–142, 164; defined, 62, 76, 78n2. See also alternate mixes invariant properties concept, 275–279, 280; acoustic sound, 281, 284, 286, 287; artificial sound, 279, 281, 282–283, 284, 285–286, 287–288. See also electronic music, perception/interpretation of; perception /interpretation iPods, 313

“Itchycoo Park” (Small Faces), 150 “It’s Wonderful” (Rascals), 151, 165n10 “It’s Yourself” (Genesis), 64–67, 73, 75, 79n6, 79n9 Jackson, Michael, 31, 229, 244n22 Jagger, Mick, 256 Jamie xx, 287, 288 Jauss, Hans Robert, 175 Jay-Z, 3, 149, 215–216, 246n48; critics on, 216, 241, 246n41; fame, 216, 221, 227–232, 238, 241, 243n15; gangsta rap lineage and, 294; “Holy Grail,” xii, 216, 225, 227–232, 234, 242n5, 245n37; mythmaking by, 215, 220, 221, 238–239, 240–241 Jazz music, lineage in, 292–293 J. Dilla, xiv, 282–284 Jeff Lynne and Friends, 122 Jeff Lynne’s ELO, 122–123 Jerkins, Rodney “Darkchild,” 36 “Jet Airliner” (Steve Miller Band), 148–149 J. J. Fad, 224 Joel, Billy, 137–139, 140, 149, 165n1 Johnson, Robert, 292 Jones, Allan, 185–186 Jones, Grace, 255 Joplin, Janis, 149, 255 Journal of Musicology, 108 “Journeyman” (Tobin), 286–287 jukebox play, 142, 165n4 Julien, Jacques, 1 “Just Like a Woman” (Dylan), 155, 158 Kaminski, Mik, 114 Kansas, 151 Kerr, Sandy, 31

“Kim” (Eminem), 28–29, 30 “Kind of a Drag” (the Buckinghams), 148 King Kong (film), 233 Klein, Michael, 1 Knight, Nick, 234 Koerner, Brendan, 305 Krayzie Bone, 239–240, 247n53, 247n55 Kristeva, Julia, intertextuality concept by, 3, 61–62, 79n8, 140, 170, 288; coins term, 45n4, 61; Monson and, 178–179. See also intertextuality Ku Klux Klan, 233, 234, 235, 237 Lacasse, Serge, vi–vii, xvi–xvii, 2, 4, 12, 49n33. See also hyperphonography; polyphonography; transphonography Lacasse, Serge, work referenced by others: allosonic and autosonic quotation, 79n10, 130n32, 245n32, 245n34; edits and remixes, 140, 165n2; hypertextuality, 257; polyphonography, 79n4, 327n10 Lady Gaga, 310n24 Lafrance, Marc, 37, 306 Laird, Andrew, 62, 76 Lamar, Kendrick, 244n23, 244n24, 245n31; Dr. Dre and, 302, 304, 309n22; gangsta rap lineage and, 291; as “good kid” persona, 302, 309n19; as “King of New York,” 223, 244n22; “m.A.A.d. City,” xv, 302–305 Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, The (Genesis), 63, 78 “Layla” (Clapton-Gordon), 158–159 Led Zeppelin, 146, 155, 174 Lee, Rich, 224 Page 349 →“Le Freak” (Chic), 154 “Legacy” (Eminem), 222, 243n17 Lennon, John, 3, 111, 114–115, 124, 148; on ELO, 109–110, 126n8 Lennox, Annie, xiii, 3, 252–268; blues influences, 256, 260, 261, 267; ideolect of, 252, 257; inspired by Dietrich, 265–266; relationship with Stewart, 255, 264; sexual orientation of, 255, 268n7; videos released by, 268n2. See also Eurythmics Lennox, Annie, genderplay by, xiii, 252, 260, 263–266, 267; drag, 253, 254, 255, 263, 265, 268n7; ideolect, 255, 256–257, 258–259, 261, 262–263, 264; visual performance, 255, 258–259. See also gender; “I Need a Man” (Eurythmics)

Let It Be (Beatles), 148 “Let It Be” (Beatles), 148 Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 326 Levitin, Daniel, 85 Lewis, John, 123 “Light My Fire” (Doors), 145 “Lightning Strikes Again” (Christie), 109, 110 “Like a Rolling Stone” (Dylan), 150 lineage construction, in Western classical music, xv–xvi, 292–293, 307n4. See also gangsta rap lineage liner notes, 35, 47n20 lip-synching, 37 listening, act of, 35. See also perception/interpretation literary texts, 63–64, 66. See also Genette, Gérard; intertextuality live performance, 46n11; Beatles abandon, 107; ELO, 112; Genesis, 63, 78 “Living for the City” (Wonder), 159 “Livin’ Thing” (ELO), 122 livrets (librettos), 193–194, 198 Locke, Ralph, 200 “Long Distance Runaround” (Yes), 153 “Lookin’ Boy” (Hot Stylz), 223–224, 244n26 “Los Endos” (Genesis), hypertextual analysis of, vii–viii, 2–3, 63–75, 77, 79n3, 80n17; “Dance on a Volcano,” 66, 69–73, 74, 79n14, 80n15; hypotext determination, 64–65, 73–74, 75; instrumentation, 68, 69, 70, 79n12; interdimensional transformations, vii–viii, 64, 68–69, 70–72, 73, 75; “It’s Yourself,” 64, 65–67, 73, 75, 79n9; “Squonk,” 65, 66, 70–71, 72, 73, 74, 80n15; timbre change, 67–68, 70, 79n12; transvaluation, 65–66, 67, 69–70, 71, 73; transvocalization, 67–68, 70, 71, 79n12. See also hyperphonography Lough, John, 196, 210n2 Louis, Jean, 265 Louis XIV, king of France, 191, 197 Love and Mercy (film), 106 LPs (long-playing records), 25 “Lucky Man” (Emerson, Lake, and Palmer), 150, 152–153

lynching, 233, 246n48 Lynne, Jeff, 3, 109, 129n26, 130n32; Alone in the Universe performed and produced by, 123–125, 133n47; anxiety of influence and, 132n39; critics on, 122; disbands ELO, 119, 120, 129n21; forms ELO with Wood, 110; instruments played by, 114, 123–125, 133n47; in the Move, 110, 127n10; orchestral/cinematic influences on, 131n37; as producer, 112, 116, 120–121; reforms ELO, 121, 122–123, 133n46; re-records ELO songs, 121, 122, 132n45; solo work, 123, 129n21, 133n47, 135; takes over ELO leadership, 112; Tandy and, 114, 115, 116, 122; in Traveling Wilburys, 120; vocal quality, 114; Wood and, 110, 111, 112, 128n19. See also Electric Light Orchestra (ELO) lyrics and songwriting, 3; Beatles’ influence on ELO, 114, 115, 118, 130n31; biographical struggle trope, 300, 309n17; Cohen, 100, 101; “Could It Be Magic,” 41; fan interpretation, crowdsourced, Page 350 → 306; “Hallelujah,” 87, 88–91, 93, 94, 95, 99, 100, 101; parody, 12, 19; “Rap God” sets Guinness Record, 243n20. See also hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), lyrics “m.A.A.d. City” (Lamar), xv, 302–305. See also Lamar, Kendrick “Ma Baker” (Boney M), 147 Machine Head (Deep Purple), 148 Mack, Burton, 218 “Mad Man Moon” (Genesis), 79n6 Magical Mystery Year Vol. 2 (Beatles), 154 Magna Carta document, 225, 241 Magna Carta Holy Grail (Jay-Z), 215–216, 225, 227–228, 240–241, 242n4 Magnesses, Janiva, 255 Mai, Peter-Hans, 170, 186 Maisonneuve, Sophie, 35 “Make Me Smile” (Chicago), 159, 160 “Malborouck s’en Va-t-en Guerre” (tune), 197–198 “Mal’bruk Na Voinu Edet” (Malbruk Goes to War) (Steibelt), 197–198 Mandler, Anthony, 228 Manilow, Barry, vii, 40–43 Manson, Marilyn, 233–234 Mariage de Figaro, Le (Beaumarchais), 198 Marmalade, 110 Marsh, Dave, 172, 174, 184 Marshall Mathers LP, The (Eminem), 30, 221–222

Marshall Mathers LP 2, The (Eminem), 215–216, 221–225, 242n6 Martin, George, 116, 121, 131n35, 146, 166n12 martyrdom, 219–220, 239, 299 masculinity: black masculinity, 233–238, 245n40, 296, 303, 308n16; hypermasculinity, 245n40, 256, 296, 303, 308n16. See also gender; Lennox, Annie, genderplay by mash-ups (as intramodal cophonography), 36–37, 247n50 Master & Margarita, The (Bulgakov), 323, 327n9 Mathers, Marshall (Eminem). See Eminem (Marshall Mathers) matrix numbering of alternate mixes, 139, 142, 153, 165n5 Max Headroom, 225, 245n32 McCartney, Paul, 3, 120, 126n4; Beach Boys and, 106–107; “Mr. Blue Sky” and, 118; “Yesterday, ” 117–118, 131nn34–35 McDowell, Hugh, 114 McLeish, Claire, 27 McRobbie, Angela, 255 meaning-making, xi, xiv, 175, 274 Meat Loaf, 163–164 media. See critical commentary and review; technology Megadeth, 147 Mellers, Wilfred, 108, 126n7 men. See gender “Message, The” (Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five), 159 Metal Evolution (2011), 292 metaphonography, vii, 13–16, 31–32, 38–43; critical commentary and review as, 13, 14, 15, 19, 38, 48n29 metaphor, neural theory of, 274–277, 278–279 metatextuality, 11, 47n16, 78n1 “Metropolis Part 1: The Miracle and the Sleeper” (Dream Theater), 31 Metropolis Part 2: Scenes from a Memory (Dream Theater), 31 Metzer, David, 1 Michel’le, 305

Middleton, Richard, 74–75 MIDI, 283 Miley, Bubber, 181 minidisks, 313 Minnelli, Liza, 266 “Mister Kingdom” (ELO), ix, 113–114, 115 mixing, 3, 40–43, 51nn68–69, 147; mono mixes, x, 138–139, 144, 145, 146, 149. See also alternate mixes; editing; stereo mixes; studio effects Page 351 →mix tape communities, 314–326; AOTM, 4, 318–325, 327n9; cultural capital in, 4, 314, 317–318, 325; Facebook and, xvi, 318; knowledge displays in, 318, 319; Mix of the Week examples (AOTM), 320–325, 327n9 mix tapes, xvi–xvii, 3, 4, 313–326; accompanying narratives, 317, 323, 325, 326; cassette format, 50n44, 313, 315, 326n1; as communication, as a personal letter, 315, 316–317, 326; cover chain sequence, 321–322, 327n8; emotionality conveyed in, 315, 316–317, 326; as musical counterpoint to literature, 323–325, 327n9; nostalgia and, 315, 316; as polyphonography, xvi, 14, 24, 50nn43–44, 316, 327n10; rules of, 320–321; scholarship on, 314–316, 326, 327n3. See also polyphonography MoГЇse (Rossini), 200 Monfort, Bruno, 24 mono mixes, x, 138–139, 144, 145, 146, 149. See also stereo mixes monophony, 40–41, 51n69 Monroe, Marilyn, 263 Monson, Ingrid, 177–179, 180–182 “Monster, The” (Eminem), 222, 243n19 Montgomery, David, 25, 50n45 Moody Blues, 146, 148, 151, 160 Moore, Allan F., viii–ix, 3, 77, 252–253, 257, 260, 296 Moore, Mandy, 37 Morgan, Robert P., 292 Mothers of Invention, 144 the Move, 110, 126n10. See also Electric Light Orchestra (ELO) Moylan, William, 262 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, xi, 293, 307n4 MP3 format, 313

“Mr. Blue Sky” (ELO), 116–118, 121, 122, 125, 132n38, 134n50 “Mrs. Robinson” (Simon and Garfunkel), 146 MГјller, Sophie, 252 musematic vs. discursive repetition, 74–75, 80n18 musical borrowing, 46n13, 61, 200–201. See also intertextuality; transphonography; transtextuality musical borrowing, vaudeville and, 190, 197–209; Diplomate, Le, 198–199, 201, 203, 209; “Malborouk” tune, 197–198; opera and, 192, 193, 200, 207, 209, 210; Plus Beau Jour de la Vie, 198–199, 201, 202–204, 206–207, 209; Visite Г Bedlam, 193–194, 198–199, 201–202, 209. See also vaudeville “Musical Borrowing: An Annotated Bibliography” (website), 1 musical influence, 292; on the Beatles, 106–107, 109, 110–111, 113, 120, 127n12, 131n34; creative patrilineage, 305, 307n4; identified in hip-hop lyrics, 222–223, 243n21, 294, 296, 300. See also anxiety of influence; Electric Light Orchestra (ELO), Beatles’ influence on musical styles, xi, 18, 48n25, 119; ideolect and, 252–253, 257. See also blues style; hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), stylistic “Music and Medium: Two Versions of Manilow’s вЂCould It Be Magic” (Finson), 39–43 music videos, xiii–xiv, 3, 37, 44; “Black Skinhead,” 216, 233, 234, 246n46; Eurythmics’ trilogy, 252; fight imagery in, 228, 229, 231, 245n40; “Holy Grail,” 216, 228–232, 234; “I Need a Man,” 252, 254–255, 258–259; “New Slaves,” 232, 246nn45–46; “Rap God,” 216, 223–225, 226–227, 234; strategic and stylistic intertextuality in, 217–218; “Sweet Dreams,” 254. See also hiphop intertextuality (allosonic), video imagery M.U.—The Best of Jethro Tull, 161 muting effect, 147–149, 165n7 “My Sweet Lord” (Harrison), 91 Page 352 →mythmaking, xiii, 215, 218–221, 238–239, 240–241 Negus, Keith, 9 neural theory of metaphor, 274–277, 278–279 Nevermind (Nirvana), 246n42 “Never My Love” (Association), 150 New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 200–201 New Musicology movement, 77, 80n19 “New Slaves” (West), 232, 246nn45–46 Nicks, Stevie, 151 Niebur, Louis, 38

“Nightrider” (ELO), 116, 122 Nilsson, 149 Nine Inch Nails, 20 “’97 Bonnie & Clyde” (Eminem), 20, 28–29, 30 Nirvana, 12, 19, 38, 231, 246n42 Nixon, Wendy, 20 No Answer (ELO), 112, 128n20 nonphonographic materials. See extraphonographic practices Notes (academic journal), 38 Notorious B.I.G. (Biggie Smalls), 219–220, 239, 293–294 Nursery Cryme (Genesis), 63 “Nutrocker” (ELP), 150 N.W.A. (Niggaz Wit Attitudes), 307nn5–6; gangsta rap lineage and, 291, 294, 296, 301, 305. See also Dr. Dre Oasis, 20 “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” (Beatles, Marmalade version), 110 Oddo, John, 177 Ohio Players, 302 Oldfield, Mike, 161, 163 Old Ways (Young), 173, 185 Once upon a Dream (Rascals), 151 “10538 Overture” (ELO), 111–112, 121, 128n18 “One Day at a Time” (2Pac and Eminem), 301 “One Last Time” (Grande), 273 On Record: Rock, Pop, and the Written Word (Frith and Goodwin), 38–39 On the Beach (Young), 180 “On the Beautiful Blue Danube” (Strauss), 74 On the Third Day (ELO), 113 opera, xi, xiii–xiv; vaudeville borrowing from, 192, 193, 200, 207, 209, 210 opéra comique, 192, 201

Orbison, Roy, 109, 120–121, 132nn41–43 organicism, 75 Out of the Blue (ELO), 116–117, 118–119 Overdick, Thomas, 315–316 overdub effect, 147, 161–162 “Over My Head” (Fleetwood Mac), 151 “Overture to Tommy” (the Who), 151–152 Palimpsests: Literature in the Second Degree (Genette), 2, 10, 13, 61, 63, 208 Pandemonium Shadow Show (Nilsson), 149 panning effect, 147 “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” (Meat Loaf), 163–164 paraphonography, vii, 13–16, 31–36, 38, 42–43, 47n20 paratextuality, 10–11, 13, 25, 32–33, 47n16, 47n18, 78n1 Paris theaters, social class of audience, 196–197, 210n2, 210n5 Parodie-Chanson: L’Air du Singe (Julien), 1 parody, 9–10, 12, 257; as hyperphonography, 14, 19, 38, 48n29. See also vaudeville Passion Play, A (Jethro Tull), 161–163 pastiche, 9–10, 19, 48n28, 209, 325 Past Masters (Beatles), 148 Page 353 →“Patiently Waiting” (50 Cent), 301 Paul Winter Consort, 144, 145 “Peace of Mind” (Boston), 151 “Penny Lane” (Beatles), 107, 127n11, 154, 156–157, 165n11 perceived performance environment (PPE), 262 perception/interpretation, xiv–xv, 274–289; affordances, 275–277, 280, 288, 289n2; agency of creation, 279–280; conceptual blending, 275, 278, 280, 282, 284, 288; ecological approach, 274–277, 278–279, 280, 289; interdimensional transformations affect, 68–69, 70–72, 73, 75; intratextual vs. conventional analysis, 75–76; listening act, 35; neural theory of metaphor, 274–277, 278–279; parameters of recorded songs, 11–13, 26, 39, 50n49; representational systems, 277–279; spectromorphology, 274, 278–279. See also electronic music, perception/interpretation of; invariant properties concept performance. See live performance; persona performatory parameters of song, 12, 26, 39

periphonography, 33–35 persona, 3, 20, 28–30, 316; Lamar and, 302, 309n19; subjectivity and, 257, 263; Young and, 177–183. See also Eminem (Marshall Mathers); Lennox, Annie, genderplay by Peterson, Richard A., 318 Pet Sounds (Beach Boys), 106 Petty, Tom, 120, 132n43 Phillips, 326n1 phonogram, defined, 33, 46n11 phonographic anthologies, defined, 320. See also mix tapes phonographic practices, 18–31, 43; interphonography, vii, 13–15, 25, 26–28, 41–42, 49n39; transfictionality, vii, 13–15, 28–31, 47n15. See also extraphonographic practices; hyperphonography; polyphonography “Piano Man” (Joel), 137, 165n1 Plasketes, George, 2, 19 Play It Again: Cover Songs in Popular Music (Plasketes), 2 playlist creation. See mix tapes Please Please Me (Beatles), 109, 146 Plett, Heinrich F., 186 Plus Beau Jour de la Vie, Le (Scribe, vaudeville), 198–199, 201, 202–204, 206–207, 209 poetry, 42, 70, 107–108 the Police, 18 polyphonography, vii, xvi–xvii, 4, 13–15, 79n4; analytical perspective focus, 16, 47n20; concept albums as, 25, 50n45; “Could It Be Magic,” 42; examples, 14, 24–25, 50nn43–45, 327n10; interphonography, distinction, 26; mix tapes as, xvi, 14, 24, 50nn43–44, 316, 327n10; sequencing devices, 24–25. See also concept albums; mix tapes polytextualité, 24 Popular Music (magazine), 3 Popular Music and Society, 49n30 Post (Björk), 23, 50n40 power, 216, 222, 225, 227, 233. See also fame Prelude, Opus 28, No. 20 (Chopin), 41–42 prequels (transfictionality), 29, 31

Presley, Elvis, 244n22, 254 primary valuation, 41 Procul Harum, 124, 133n48 promo singles (white labels), x, 141, 142, 143, 159, 164; censoring, 137–138, 148–149; “Could It Be Magic,” 40–43, 52n70; “Entertainer, The,” 137, 139, 165n1; excision in, 22, 42–43, 150, 158; “Lucky Man,” 152; matrix numbering, 139, 153, 165n5; mono mix in, 139, 144, 146, 149, 153; Passion Play, 163; “Penny Lane,” 157. See also alternate mixes Page 354 →Psalm 23, 228, 245n39 Pussycat Dolls, 130n32, 255 quantitative transformations, 19–24, 69, 75, 79n11, 79n13. See also editing; excision (quantitative transformation); studio effects Queerness in Pop Music (Hawkins), 263 “Question” (Moody Blues), 148 quotation, musical. See allosonic quotation (interphonography); sampling (autosonic quotation) Quotation and Cultural Meaning in Twentieth-Century Music (Metzer), 1 race: “Black Skinhead” and, 216, 232–238; gangsta rap lineage and, 305; gender and, 233, 242n12, 305; whiteness, 108, 223, 233, 244n25, 245n30, 305. See also African Americans racism: accusations about Eminem, 298, 308n12; “Black Skinhead” and, 238 radio: AM, 40–41, 42, 144, 146; FM, 40–41; programming as polyphonography, 24, 50n43. See also promo singles (white labels) “Rain” (Beatles), 116 “Ransom Notes” (Sohn), xiv, 284–286 “Rap Fraud” (Hot Stylz), 239 Rap Genius (website), 306, 310n26 “Rap God” (Eminem), 221, 243n20, 245nn31–34; lyrics intertextuality, xii, 222, 223–224, 243n21, 244n22; stylistic intertextuality, xii, 223–224, 244n25; video intertextuality, 216, 223–225, 226–227, 234 “Rapper’s Delight” (Sugarhill Gang), 164 the Rascals, 144, 151 “Real Love” (Beatles), 121 recording process, 3, 40–43, 51nn68–69, 147. See also editing; studio effects reel-to-reel tape recorders, cassettes replace, 50n44, 313, 326n1 reissues, 144–145. See also alternate mixes religion politics, West and, 232–238

religious symbolism in lyrics, 245n39; hallelujah (word), 91–93, 101–102, 103; “Hallelujah,” 88–90, 100, 101; “Holy Grail,” 228; Krazy Bone, 240, 247n54; West, 232, 246n44 “Remixed and Remastered” series (Megadeth), 147 remixes, 51n68, 79n11; digital, 146, 147; as hyperphonography, 18–19, 22–24. See also alternate mixes; editing; studio effects “Remix I” (Boney M), 147 repetition, musematic vs. discursive, 74–75, 80n18 representational systems, 277–279 reprise, 63 resignification processes, 253, 255, 260, 264 revaluation, 66, 70, 73 Revenge (Eurythmics), 254 reverberation, artificial/acoustic properties, 273, 281, 283, 284, 285, 286 revisionary ratios (anxiety of influence theory), 108, 124 Revolver (Beatles), 106–107, 112 Reynolds, Simon, 305–306, 310n25 Reznor, Trent, 20 “Rhiannon (Will You Ever Win)” (Fleetwood Mac), 151 Rhymin’ and Stealin’ (Williams), 291 Rihanna, 37 “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number” (Steely Dan), 150–151 ritornello theme (“Dance on a Volcano”), 66, 69–70, 71–72 Rizzuto, Phil, 164 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction: ELO, 133n46; Run DMC, 244n21 Rockwell, John, 173 Rodgers, Jimmie, 292 Rolling Stone magazine, 122, 128n15 Rolling Stones, the, 148, 151, 155, 256–257 Page 355 →“Roll Over Beethoven” (Berry, cover versions), 113 Rossini, Gioachino, 200, 204, 206–207, 209

“Roundabout” (Yes), 160–161 Rubber Soul (Beatles), 106, 146 Rundgren, Todd, 164 rush singles, 142, 144 Russia, 209 Saint-Gelais, Richard, 28, 29, 30, 31 “Saint of Me” (Rolling Stones), 155 sampling (autosonic quotation), 12–13, 26–28, 79n10, 120, 217, 309n23; “Evil Woman,” 130n32; “Gosh,” 287; “Los Endos,” 65, 79n9; “m.A.A.d. City,” 302–303; “Ransom Notes,” 285; “Rap God,” 225, 245n32, 245n34; to reference gangsta rap lineage, 294, 301–302; “Strange Fruit,” 246n48; “We Ain’t,” 291, 300–301. See also allosonic quotation (interphonography); autographic works and transformation; hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic); studio effects Santana, Carlos, 150 satire, vaudeville and, 191 Saturday Night Live, 232, 246n46 Savage (Eurythmics), xiii, 252, 254–268 “Say You Love Me” (Fleetwood Mac), 151 Schoenberg, Arnold, 74, 292, 307n3 Scotsman, The (newspaper), 252 Scribe, Eugène, 192, 193–194, 203 Secret Messages (ELO), 119, 132n39 Selling England by the Pound (Genesis), 63 sequels (transfictionality), 30, 31 sequencing of recordings. See mix tapes; polyphonography Settle, Mike, 91 “7/11” (Beyoncé), 287, 288 Seven Ages of Rock (BBC, 2007), 292 Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (Beatles), 107, 118, 119, 141n6, 151, 320 Shakur, Tupac (2Pac), 222, 225, 239, 242n9, 243n21, 308n15; critics on, 219–220; gangsta rap lineage, 291, 293–294, 309n23; sampled, 301, 309n23 “She’s Leaving Home” (Beatles), 154, 166n12 Shotta, Harry, 239

“Showdown” (ELO), 109–110, 115, 121, 122 Shrek (film soundtrack), 86–87, 90, 93, 94, 95–96, 104n11 Shusterman, Richard, 26 shuttle progression, 110, 128n13 Simon and Garfunkel, 146 “Sing Hallelujah” (Settle, Collins version), 91 singles: album compilation from, 24; “Could It Be Magic,” 40–43; distribution and purpose, 142, 144, 165n4; formats of, x, 138–139, 142–145. See also album-version singles; promo singles (white labels); stock singles Slim Shady (Eminem character), 20, 28–30, 49n33. See also Eminem (Marshall Mathers) Smalley, Denis, 274, 278–279 the Small Faces, 150 Smalls, Biggie (Notorious B.I.G.), 219–220, 239, 293–294 “Smells Like Nirvana” (Yankovic), 12, 19 “Smells Like Teen Spirit” (Nirvana), 12, 19, 231, 246n42 “Smoke on the Water” (Deep Purple), 148 Snoop Doggy Dog, 303 social class, vaudeville and, 196–198, 200, 210n4, 210n5 Society of the Spectacle (Debord), 34 sociocriticism, 36 Soft Parade, The (Doors), 149 Sohn, xiv, 284–286 Solitude Standing (Vega), 23 Songs from a Room (Cohen), 86 song structure. See harmonic and song structure Page 356 →songwriting. See lyrics and songwriting sonic signatures, 36, 291, 296–297, 308nn9–11 sound stage, defined, 262 Spector, Phil, 146 spectromorphology, 274, 278–279

Spencer, John, first Duke of Marlborough, 197–198 Spicer, Mark, ix, 3, 217–218 spoken comedies, 191 “Squonk” (Genesis), 65, 66, 70–71, 72, 73, 74, 80n15 “Stan” (Eminem), 28, 29–30 Starr, Ringo, 120, 121, 144 Steely Dan, 150–151 Steibelt, Daniel, 197–198 stereo mixes, 51n68, 138–139, 144, 145, 146–147, 149; Beatles and, 146, 148; mono mixes, x, 138–139, 144, 145, 146, 149 stereophony, 51n69 Sternberg, Josef von, 265 Stévance, Sophie, 50n48 Steve Miller Band, 148–149 Stewart, Dave, 253, 256, 257, 262, 265, 266; relationship with Lennox, 255, 264. See also Eurythmics; “I Need a Man” (Eurythmics); Lennox, Annie; Lennox, Annie, genderplay by Stewart, Martha, 25 Still, Judith, 176 Stills, Stephen, 160 stock singles, 141, 142, 144, 159, 164, 165n4; censoring, 148–149; “Dark Horse,” 143; “Entertainer, The,” 139; excision in, 148–149, 150, 158; “Lucky Man,” 153; matrix numbering, 139, 153, 165n5; Passion Play, 162; “Penny Lane,” 156, 157, 165n11. See also alternate mixes Straight Outta Compton (film, 2015), 305 Straight Outta Compton (N.W.A.), 301, 305 Strange Days (soundtrack), 22 “Strange Fruit” (West), 246n48 strategic intertextuality: ELO, 114, 124, 127n11, 130n31, 131n34; hip-hop, 217–218, 221, 223–225. See also hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), stylistic Strauss, Johann, II, 74 Stravinsky, Igor, ix, x, 108, 292; Stravinskian burst, 115–116, 117, 130n30, 130n32 “Strawberry Fields Forever” (Beatles), 107, 111, 114, 126n4, 127n11, 151 Stray Gators, 172

streaming music services, 313 Streetlife Serenade (Joel), 137–138 strict constructionism, 75 studio effects, 12, 21–22; changes to album-version singles, 146, 148, 149; crossfade, 151–153; Eurythmics, 254, 262–263, 266; fade-out, 42–43, 150–151; “hoover” effect, 274, 289n1; muting, 147–149, 165n7; overdubs, 147, 161–162; panning, 147; reversing source material, 27, 107, 116, 148. See also editing; electronic music, perception/interpretation of; perception/interpretation; sampling (autosonic quotation) stylistic eclecticism, 17–18, 111, 130n27, 133n47, 171–174, 181–185 stylistic intertextuality, hip-hop. See hip-hop intertextuality (allosonic), stylistic stylistic intertextuality, Young and, xi, 170, 174, 176, 187 subcultural capital, 317 subjectivity of musical artists. See persona substitution (quantitative transformation), 69 success. See fame Sugarhill Gang, 164 “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” (Crosby, Stills, and Nash), 160 Summer, Donna, 160 Summer Entertaining: Songs for Sunny Days and Starry Nights (Martha StewartPage 357 → CD compilation), 25 “Sunshine of Your Love” (Cream), 160 “Supersonic” (J. J. Fad), 224 “Supper’s Ready” (Genesis), 73, 77 the Supremes, 150 “Sur les Beaux-Arts et les Talents” (song), 194–195 “Suzanne” (Cohen), 86 Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) (Eurythmics), 253–254 “Sweet Dreams” (Eurythmics), 254 Swenson, John, 122 synecdoche, 18, 48n25 Tagg, Philip, 48n25, 52n71, 80n18, 207–208 Tandy, Richard, 114, 115, 116, 122. See also Electric Light Orchestra (ELO); Lynne, Jeff “Taxman” (Beatles), 27

Taylor, Jayceon Terrell (The Game). See The Game (Jayceon Terrell Taylor) technological parameters of song, 12, 26, 39. See also studio effects technology, 261; Eminem and, 222, 223, 224–225; Jay-Z and, 228, 232; West and, 238. See also electronic music, perception/interpretation of; studio effects teenage culture, 39 Telegram (Björk), 23, 50n40 temporality, 34, 68–69, 71, 80n16, 260–261 “testa vigira, La” (Rossini), 207 texts, conceptual discussion, 279 Théâtre du Gymnase Dramatique, 196 Théâtre du Vaudeville (first vaudeville theater), 192, 196 Théâtre-Royal de l’Odéon, 196 theatrical music, 79n3 thematic recurrence, 63, 78, 79n3 Thick as a Brick (Jethro Tull), 161 This Note’s for You (Young), 180–181 Thompson, Richard, 92 Thornton, Sarah, 317, 321 Timbaland, 216 Timberlake, Justin, 227; in “Heaven,” 245n38; in “Holy Grail,” 228–229, 231 timbre, 21; autosonic quotation, quality of, 27; electronic music, perception of, 4, 273, 283, 284, 286, 287; ideolect and, 12, 261; “Los Endos,” 67–68, 70, 79n12. See also vocal quality timbres (text of original version of a song), 191, 193, 209; “Air des Scythes et des Amazons,” 202, 204–205; “Homme pour Faire un Tableau,” 201–203 Time (ELO), 119 “Time Is on My Side” (Rolling Stones), 148 “Time of the Season” (Zombies), 165n7 Tobin, Amon, 286–287 “Tomorrow Never Knows” (Beatles), 27 “Tom’s Diner” (Vega), 23, 49nn36–37 “Tom’s Diner [DNA featuring Suzanne Vega]” (DNA), 49nn36–39

tonal center, 71, 80n16 Tonight’s the Night (Young), 184–185 To Pimp a Butterfly (Lamar), 309nn22–23 “Total Mass Retain” (Yes), 148 “Touch Me” (Doors), 149 Tourists, the, 254, 255 track length. See alternate mixes; editing; excision (quantitative transformation) Trans (Young), 173, 185 transfictionality, vii, 13–15, 28–31, 47n15. See also Eminem (Marshall Mathers) transmediality, 44 transmetrification, 19 Page 358 →transphonography, 2, 10–45, 61, 140; archiphonography, vi, 13–18, 25, 28, 42, 47n20, 51n62; cophonography, vii, 13–15, 31–32, 36–37, 42, 44; defined, vi–vii, 10–14, 43–44; extraphonographic practices, vii, 31–43; graphic representation, 14–16, 47n19; interphonography, vii, 13–15, 25, 26–28, 41–42, 49n39; metaphonography, vii, 13–16, 31–32, 38–43, 48n29; paraphonography, vii, 13–16, 32–36, 38, 42–43, 47n20; phonographic practices, vi–vii, 18–31, 43; porosity of categories, 16, 25, 28, 51n56; transfictionality, vii, 13–15, 28–31, 47n15. See also hyperphonography; Lacasse, Serge; polyphonography transposition, 71, 73 transsexuation, 19, 51n56 transtextuality: architextuality, 11, 47n16, 78n1, 208; classified by abstraction level, 47n16; defined, 10–11, 62; intertextuality, 2, 10, 26, 47n16, 62, 78n1, 174; metatextuality, 11, 47n16, 78n1; paratextuality, 10–11, 13, 25, 32–33, 47n16, 47n18, 78n1. See also Genette, GГ©rard; hypertextuality, Genette on transtylization, 67 transvaluation, 41, 65–66, 67, 69–70, 71, 73 transvocalization, 67–68, 70, 71, 79n12 Traveling Wilburys, 120, 123 Trespass (Genesis), 63 tribute bands, 20, 49n31 Trick of the Tail, A (Genesis), vii, 2, 62–65, 77–78, 79n11; “Dance on a Volcano,” 66, 69–73, 74, 79n14, 80n15; “It’s Yourself” and, 79n6; “Squonk,” 65, 66, 70–71, 72, 73, 74, 80n15. See also “Los Endos” (Genesis), hypertextual analysis of “Truckin’“ (Grateful Dead), 148, 158, 159 Truth Hurts, 305

Tubular Bells (Oldfield), 161, 163 “Tuesday Afternoon (Forever Afternoon)” (Moody Blues), 151, 160 Tull, Jethro, 161 Turner, Mark, 275 Twain, Shania, 91 20 Greatest Hits (Beatles), 150 Twilight of the Gods (Mellers), 108, 126n7 2Pac (Tupac Shakur). See Shakur, Tupac (2Pac) Tyson, Mike, 228, 229, 241 U2, 91; Bono version of “Hallelujah,” 101–102 “Umbrella” (Rihanna, Moore version), 37 “Uncle John’s Band” (Grateful Dead), 148 UK charts, 110, 111, 119–120, 128n19, 131n35, 133n48; ELO presence/absence, 111–112, 115, 118, 121, 129n22, 133n46 U.S. charts, 112, 115, 131n35, 131n38, 244n26 Varner, Antoine FranГ§ois, 203–204 vaudeville, xi–xii, 190–210; airs, 191, 193–194, 195; audience, 196–197, 210n2, 210n5; context and history, 191–192, 201; defined, 191, 210n1; orchestration, 190, 193–194; performers, 197; repertoire restrictions, 192, 204; scholarship on, 190, 201; social class and, 196–198, 200, 210n2, 210n5; social significance, 190, 191, 195–200, 210; text/music relationship, 190, 192–195; timbres, 191, 193, 201–205, 209. See also musical borrowing, vaudeville and vau de vire (song type), 191 Vega, Suzanne, 23, 49nn37–38 video imagery. See music videos vinyl pressings, 140; decline in production and sales, 145, 165n4; paraphonography and, 32, 33–34. See also alternate mixes virtuosity, 277, 282 Page 359 →Visite Г Bedlam, Une (Scribe and Delestre-Poirson), 193–194, 198–199, 201–202, 209 vocal quality: artificial/acoustic, 285; of Cohen, 86, 93, 97; in “Hallelujah” covers, ix, 88, 90, 95, 96–97, 98, 101; of Lennon, 114; of Lennox, 255–256, 260, 262, 266; of Lynne, 114; of Orbison, 120, 132n42. See also ideolect; timbre vocal tracks, 40–41, 52n71 voix de ville (song type), 191

Wainwright, Loudon, III, 90 Wainwright, Rufus, 90–91, 93, 96–99, 100–101, 104n5, 104n11; vocal quality, 96–97, 98. See also “Hallelujah,” Wainwright cover “Walk On” (U2), 102 Wallace, Christopher George Latore (Biggie Smalls, aka Notorious B.I.G.), 219–220, 239, 293–294 Walser, Robert, 96, 175 Walsh, John, 9–10 “Watcher, The” (Dr. Dre), 301 “We Ain’t” (The Game), xv, 4, 296–302, 305–307, 308n14; flow in, 291, 298, 308n13; sampling in, 291, 300–301; sonic signature, 291, 296–297, 308n9. See also The Game (Jayceon Terrell Taylor) wealth, 216, 222, 225, 227, 233. See also fame Weber, Carl Maria von, 200 Weisbard, Eric, 173 “We Love You” (Rolling Stones), 151 “We Sing Hallelujah” (Thompson), 92 “Wesley’s Theory” (Lamar), 309n22 West, Kanye, 216–217, 246n48; “Black Skinhead,” xii, 216, 232–238, 246n46; critics on, 216, 232, 240, 246n44; fame, 216, 221, 237, 243n15; mythmaking by, 215, 220, 221, 238–239, 240, 241; on SNL, 232, 246n46 “We’ve Only Just Begun” (Carpenters), 147 Whannel, Paddy, 39 “When I Was a Boy” (ELO), 123–125 “While the Earth Sleeps” (Deep Forest and Peter Gabriel), 22 whiteness, 108, 233; Eminem and, 223, 244n25, 245n30, 305. See also race “White Room” (Clapton), 158, 159 “Whiter Shade of Pale” (Procul Harum), 124, 133n48