Holtmeier on Weber and Mattei

My plan to read about music and economic history and post my notes here on an ongoing basis has been derailed slightly by personal emergencies and obsessions. I’ll probably resume next week. In the interest of keeping you people busy and happy, I’m recycling some old material from my stash. Here’s my translation of an excerpt from a very good article by Ludwig Holtmeier that I wish were better known in English: “Feindliche Übernahme: Gottfried Weber, Adolf Bernhard Marx, und die bürgerliche Harmonielehre des 19. Jahrhunderts” (“Hostile Takeover: Gottfried Weber, Adolf Bernhard Marx, and the Bourgeois Harmonic Theory of the Nineteenth Century”), which appeared in the journal Musik und Ästhetik 16, no. 63 (July 2012), 5–25.

Holtmeier’s article covers the rise of a tendency he calls “bourgeois harmonic theory” in Germany in the early nineteenth century. The bourgeois harmonic theory is characterized by a reliance on rational system-building rather than practical example, disconnection from the musical practice of performer-composers, and the systematic exploration of a combinatorial possibility-space. These qualities arise from an attempt to emulate the principles of rational enquiry that the bourgeois theorists had received from their professional training outside music. Holtmeier makes much of the fact that the foremost exponents of the bourgeois harmonic theory, Gottfried Weber and Adolf Bernhard Marx, were lawyers and journalists (and Marx a sometime professor), not professional musicians.

The passage translated here concerns one of the most remarkable confrontations in the history of music theory. Gottfried Weber, one of the foremost progressive harmonic theorists of Germany in the early century, anonymously reviewed a practical partimento tutor by the Italian theorist Stanislao Mattei. In the process, Weber revealed that he had virtually no knowledge of the partimento tradition or of eighteenth-century thoroughbass theory more generally. Most striking to me is the fact that he focuses exclusively on Mattei’s prose introduction, which takes up six pages of a 200-page book, rather than the dozens of figured and unfigured partimenti that make up the bulk of the text. The idea that the theoretical content of a work like Mattei’s might consist in the musical exercises (or, more precisely, what the musical exercises invite the student to do) apparently never occured to him. Continue reading

Forkel’s “On the Theory of Music”: Introduction

Many years ago now, Patrick McCreless observed that we have entered a “new stage” in studying the history of music theory, “one in which historians have moved beyond an overriding concern with musical substance and structure to take into account the philosophical, aesthetic, and cultural contexts of the theories about which they write.”1 While new discoveries since that time have reopened questions of musical substance,2 it is nevertheless true that the history of music theory has largely morphed into a local branch of intellectual history.3 We turn to the music theory of Germany in the last quarter of the eighteenth century not for its insights on the technique of Haydn and Mozart—indeed, by our standards the writers of this generation have very little of interest to say about Haydn and Mozart—but out of an interest in the culture and thought of the era as a whole. It is in this spirit that I offer a translation of the essay “On the Theory of Music” (1777) by Johann Nikolaus Forkel as a contribution to the history of music theory.4 This essay has been repeatedly referenced in recent literature.5 Although an MS translation exists in the papers of John Wall Callcott,6 and isolated excerpts have been translated here and there, this is the first time the entire essay has been made available to the public in English. Continue reading

More on musical guilds

Following up from last week, I’ve been doing some reading about guilds in general and musical guilds in particular. At this stage of the project I’m still quite remote from anything related to music theory, but this background research helps to flesh out my image of a “pre-modern” mode of conducting musical business. Some salient features of this pre-modern mode that jump to mind:

  • Small-time, bilateral relations (of employment, apprenticeship, etc.).
  • Musical trade preferentially passed down from father to son. (Limited participation of women, generally speaking).
  • Rigid organizational forms that change slowly.
  • Complex structures that are not rationally designed, and can only be adequately explained through their history.

Although I’m getting ahead of myself here, one notable thing about this pre-modern mode is that it would offer no incentive to streamline or simplify the musical knowledge we now classify as music theory. Under this pre-modern mode, notation, tonal centricity, melody, harmony, and rhythm all evolved according to the needs of the moment and the possibilities expressed by existing authorities. The result was a confusing hodgepodge of systems drawn from many sources that wasn’t, and could not be, adequately explained by any single theoretical text. If you wanted to understand how music works, you could only do so by becoming deeply embedded in its practice. And that was how people at the time liked it. How else would you learn about music than apprenticing yourself to a practising master? A complete reform of the theory of tonal centricity, to take one example, serves no purpose until the pre-modern relations are already beginning to fray around the edges.

That’s enough speculation for now. My goal this week is to report some relatively straightforward facts about guilds. Continue reading

Guilds and the political economy of music theory

Over the next few weeks I plan to do a large volume of reading focusing on music history and political economy. I’ve never been much of a note-taker, but I don’t want to rely solely on my memory for retaining this information. I also want some kind of schedule to keep myself honest as the quarantine weeks drag on. So I hereby commit to writing something here at least once a week summarizing my readings and what I’ve gleaned from them.

Through my time studying at McGill, I’ve realized that the most interesting developments in music theory are taking place in the history of theory. My thesis work, which I began with the intention of writing a standard essay in analysis and performance, morphed over time into a study in the history of metric theory and performance with translated passages from and commentary on theoretical treatises of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The analysis kept getting sidelined by the theoretical issues, which struck me as much more compelling. But I also sense serious problems in the way the history of music theory has been written about, at least until very recently.

The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, published in 2002, is the most comprehensive survey of the history of music theory ever undertaken in English. And it has done a real service to the field by consolidating knowledge that was spread across hundreds of books and articles in several languages, concerning music theory across more than two millenia. Anyone who reads the Cambridge History cover to cover will have taken in a solid survey of what had been accomplished in the field by the turn of the century. The problem is that the field keeps moving, and with every new book or article that is published the theoretical shortcomings of the Cambridge History are made more apparent.

As I understand it, the major problem with the Cambridge History and the style of historiography it embodies is that it is essentially a summary of and commentary on various musical texts. The number and variety of texts it covers is impressive, and the work involved in compiling such a summary and commentary is nothing to sneeze at. But music theory is a living body of knowledge. Texts are only a part of this knowledge, and not necessarily the most important part. Texts provide a place where dead ideas can rest, awaiting rediscovery and revival when they become relevant again. Actual theory is embedded in pedagogical practices of various kinds. Texts may be used as a tool in musical practice (as Fux’s Gradus has been for nearly 300 years), and they can provide various kinds of evidence about practice, but they are not themselves practice. And without being continually reproduced by practice, theory lacks any force. Continue reading

Alfred Uhl at Neumarkt

I’m currently preparing for a concert where I’ll be performing Alfred Uhl’s Divertimento for clarinet quartet, a piece written during the Second World War. I discovered, after already having programmed the piece, that Uhl was in the army during the war and served as the commander of a prison camp in France. To put it lightly, this is not a quality we typically admire in our composers, so I thought it was necessary to learn more.

Not much is written in English about Alfred Uhl, and information on his activities during the war is even sparser. I was, however, able to find a biography in German. Below is my rough-and-ready translation of the passage concerning Uhl’s time as the head of a prison camp.

And then the war seized Uhl and solved all problems for him. On 24 Feb. 1940, six weeks after the birth of his son Peter, Uhl was drafted into the military; three months later he moved to Gmunden, where he underwent a hard military training. And the same musician, who once wrote to his sister from Switzerland the passionate words: “such a war is just about the worst thing that people have invented,” carried now his military duties with utter serenity: “I have just shifted into a state of desirelessness, as Schopenhauer understands it.”

The lance-corporal was assigned as the leader of a French detention camp in Neumarkt on the Ybbs, a task he received thanks to his ability to speak French, and with the help of music he imparted a humane accent to it. He accompanied church services for the prisoners on the organ French church songs, which he learned by ear and during the mass gave impromptu harmonizations. His organ preludes and improvisations lured the local residents in droves toward the church, where they were not allowed to enter, and shook the prisoners to tears. In 1960 a former camp inmate, now a priest, wrote to him a touching note of thanks from France.

On 13 Sept. 1941, Uhl was summoned to the Russian front…

Alexander Witeschnik, Alfred Uhl: Eine biographische Studie (Österreichischer Bundesverlag, 1966), 28.

(As a bit of context: very shortly after being moved to the Eastern front, Uhl stepped on a mine and was severely injured. He spent the rest of the war out of commission.)

For the most part I’m reserving judgment on this issue. My impression is that Uhl was mostly wrapped up in musical matters, was drafted into the army with a low rank, ended up where he did solely because he was able to speak French, and tried to treat the prisoners well during his short time in charge of the camp. However, this is from a source obviously well-disposed toward Uhl, which does not investigate the details very closely or ask any inconvenient questions. I also don’t know what the camp conditions were like at Neumarkt. So it’s hard to draw much of a conclusion from this. But I wanted to make this passage available in English for any others who may have similar concerns.

Investigating an inscription: Margaret Vaughan Williams on the Canadian prairies?

Book of Mozart sonatas held at the Eckhardt-Gramatte Music Library, University of Manitoba.

You turn up all kinds of strange things working in a library. Earlier in 2017, in the course of working on a project to audit and improve our holdings of Mozart sonatas, I found an old book with an interesting inscription.

First leaf of a book of Mozart piano sonatas held in the Eckhardt-Gramatte Music Library at the University of Manitoba.

And a closer view:

Mozart piano sonata book, first leaf inscription, detail.

If you can’t see the image, here’s what it says:

Margaret Vaughan Williams
June 6th, 1903
Haus Hugo Richter
Davos Platz

From Auntie

In itself, this book is the kind of junk that accumulates in music libraries everywhere: an old, bad edition of standard repertoire in deteriorating condition. The textual value of a hundred-year-old book of Mozart piano sonatas is questionable, and under ordinary circumstances it would probably be withdrawn. But the name of a close relative of a major composer written on one of your library’s items is hard to ignore. At the request of our music librarian, I started to look into the matter to see what the story was behind this book. Continue reading

Graphing the clarinet

A note on the clarinet

We could use this as a graphical representation of a single note played on the clarinet. Let’s say this is a mid-range note, played with its ordinary fingering, at a moderate loudness. It’s a quarter note in a moderate tempo, lasting about a second.

If you know anything about graphs, you know that they represent the input and output of a function: they visualize something in terms of something else. So it would be useful to ask: what are these somethings in the case of this graph?

The X (horizontal) axis is easy: it represents units of time. The curve on the graph is actually a series of points, and each point represents the value of Y (the vertical axis, or the function’s output) at time X. You can imagine a vertical cursor line traversing our X axis from left to right, showing the value of Y at each successive now-time. Continue reading

A little update

The Contrapuntalist launched to great fanfare in late August. I had several 80% finished articles in the pipeline, and big plans for the future. Then the reality of graduate school set in. My sincerest apologies for the tardiness. We’re working to get several articles ready over the Christmas break that we can then release on a staggered basis over the subsequent weeks. Some of this material has been months in the making. Wheels are turning, but slowly. One of our goals for 2018 is to be able to publish content on a more regular basis, even if it’s infrequent.

Thank you very much for your patience.

Justifying music theory in a time of crisis?

Recently, the usually reliable Current Affairs put out a puzzling article by chief editor Nathan J. Robinson. The article turns on a bit of Internet nonsense, a response to a response to an abstract Robinson wrote for a hypothetical essay. The abstract is titled “Can Philosophy Be Justified In A Time of Crisis?,” and it’s about exactly what you’d think. Now, I’m never one to shy away from calling academics useless, but Robinson goes awfully far in suggesting that philosophers have some kind of moral imperative to give up and retrain as public health professionals.

Someone called the “Maverick Philosopher” bristled at this suggestion, and Robinson’s article is largely a response to this little-known blogger. On its merits this dispute is hardly worth paying attention to, but I suspect that many Current Affairs readers are, like myself, aspiring academics of one stripe or another. It would be unfortunate to let this deeply flawed argument go unchallenged.

I’m a graduate student in music theory, a field not known for its social conscience, vision, or utility to the broader world. I’m also, if I may say so without bragging, a reasonably smart person with skills that might fruitfully be put to use elsewhere. How do I square this?

As it happens, I considered this question at length during my undergraduate studies, and again before choosing to pursue academia rather than become a performing musician. I’ve never come to a definitive answer, but I’ve managed to satisfy my guilty conscience after wrestling with the issue for a long time. Some questions and comments that come to mind are:

Is music really so useless? (You could easily substitute whatever “useless” activity you like here.) Or perhaps a healthy society is one that has many people pursuing a variety of different activities, including and especially ones that are not directly related to daily sustenance? Obviously becoming a musician or music professor is a withdrawal from the social or political realm in a way that becoming, say, a union organizer or a nurse isn’t. But many people with respectable careers are several degrees removed from any useful or urgent activity, or even actively doing harm – why then is teaching and researching in the humanities a uniquely questionable pursuit? Is it good enough to say that I’m doing what I like and harming no one in the process?

Ultimately, is my choice of career that important? Is it not presumptuous to lavish so much attention on this question, as if I’m some kind of potential messiah? More realistically, I’m someone who has the potential to make a modest contribution to one of a handful of fields, and must make a choice between them. In terms of broad systems, the outcome of that choice scarcely matters.

In his response to the “Maverick Philosopher,” it never seems to occur to Robinson that his question is an elementary one that most people have answered hundreds of times over by the time they have a career in a useless humanities field. When people are short with you, it’s worth taking a moment to consider whether they’re truly dazzled by your logical prowess or just sick of rehashing the same arguments to justify themselves – especially to half-bright Ivy League shitheads.

Throughout his article, Robinson relies tacitly on a notion of fungible skills – the idea that some people are just “smart,” and could become advanced metaphysicians or public health professionals just as easily. This is obviously false, as anyone who has met a philosophy student can attest. Different fields of endeavour require different skills, and not everyone is equally suited for everything. In a perfect world, everybody would devote their life to something they’re well-suited for and happy with. In this fallen one, we do what we can. I would never blame anyone for taking the opportunities available to them.

In general, we should feel some sort of imperative to be good citizens – to be active in our communities, to help others, to push for a better, more equitable world. But this can look different for every person. For an academic, this might mean striving to make academia a more hospitable place for all its inhabitants. The primary role of even the crustiest professor is, after all, to teach the young professionals whose futures Robinson cares so much about. Or it might mean putting a lot of energy into political activism in one’s spare time. Or it might mean keeping one’s head down, doing good work, and being decent to one’s students and colleagues. We have to recognize that not everyone can or will contribute equally, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. As long as you’re not doing evil, or actively blocking the path of those opposing evil, you’re doing good enough.

In most spheres of life, no one person has an overwhelming influence. A sober look at this fact might lead one to conclude that cultivating personal virtue is not the be-all and end-all. People who devote their lives to running charities or curing diseases are admirable – but this does not mean that those of us with less exciting lives are somehow slacking off. Individual effort is overrated. We may be in a time of crisis, but that does not mean every available person must devote every available bit of energy to solving it. It’s not possible to mobilize the entire population in this way, even in times of war.

Ultimately, Robinson’s problem is that, despite his no-nonsense attitude, he’s bought into the delusion peddled by the elite universities: that meaningful change will be driven by the problem-solving exertions of the professional class. Does it really seem plausible that the reason poor Alabamans get medieval diseases is that not enough smart people are getting degrees in public health? Or is there a more systemic problem, perhaps requiring some kind of large-scale collective solution? I’m pretty sure there’s a word for such a thing, but I can’t quite think what it is. Maybe I should have paid more attention in political philosophy class.

Feature image credit: excerpt from Heinrich Schenker’s Harmonielehre (1906). Public domain.

The Manitoba University Consort: Medieval music from Canada’s heartland, 1963-1970

It’s hard to imagine, but one of the centres of the Early Music movement in the 1960s was in Winnipeg, Manitoba, on the Canadian Prairies. Manitoba is not often thought of as a place with its finger on the pulse. Sitting in the middle of the country, with a long distance (not to mention Lake Superior and a lot of rocky hills) separating it from the traditional centres of Canadian culture, it’s usually considered a backwater.

However, the province has long punched above its weight musically. Winnipeg, the capital, has played host to three important orchestras (one sadly defunct) and a world-renowned ballet company. There’s a strong history of chamber music, opera, musical theatre, and Gilbert & Sullivan productions. The province is served by three university music schools of solid reputation, three university-adjacent schools offering lessons to children and amateurs, and countless private schools and teachers. For decades, the province has played a key role in Canada’s musical development.

An important but little-studied example comes from the Manitoba University Consort, a group founded in the early 1960s by Winnipeg musician and bassoon teacher Christine Mather and featuring Peggie Sampson, the prominent Canadian cellist and professor of music theory. Aside from intersecting with important moments in the country’s musical history and touring internationally to unanimous acclaim, the consort was a pioneer of the performance of medieval, Renaissance, and early Baroque music using replica instruments, authentic performance practices, and transcriptions from scholarly editions.

Although the consort was a professional ensemble, it was centred in Winnipeg and drew its strength from the vibrant local musical ecosystem that existed at the time – which included the University of Manitoba’s new School of Music. The consort disbanded in 1970, but it set the stage for the ensembles that would develop in Canada in the 1980s, when the Early Music revival kicked into high gear.

The Manitoba University Consort with an array of instruments. Photo from the “Old Music from the New World” pamphlet.

The group played on replica instruments built by artisans in Germany, Switzerland, England, and a few from the United States, after originals mainly in European museums. Their impressive collection of instruments included around 20 recorders of various sizes, a lute, a psaltery, a portative organ, bells, crumhorns, a dulzian, a racket, shawms, and several viole da gamba.

“Most of the instruments belong to me and I believe they must be one of the largest and most complete collections in the world,” Mather said in an interview with the Ottawa Journal.1

Some of the other members owned their own instruments as well – particularly Peggie Sampson, who largely abandoned the cello after 1970 and launched a new career as a viola da gamba soloist.

The ensemble’s repertoire covered the 12th to 18th centuries, and featured music by the big name medieval and Renaissance composers (Machaut, Landini, Dufay), some more obscure figures (Oswald von Wolkenstein, Louis de Caix d’Hervelois), and even a few Baroque stalwarts (Bach, Telemann, Buxtehude). They covered the gamut from instrumental music to accompanied songs, and from solo works to full ensemble pieces. The majority of their repertoire is represented on their four CBC recordings (see Discography). Continue reading