Performing Bodies and Musical Objects in Andrew Norman’s “Susanna”

By Mariusz Kozak (Columbia University)

Author’s note: The following is a very short fragment from my forthcoming book, Enacting Musical Time.

“Susanna,” the third movement of Andrew Norman’s Companion Guide to Rome (2010, for string trio—but the movement is for solo viola), presents a fascinating case study of how a performer’s body becomes implicated in the constitution of emergent and transient musical objects. These are objects that lack the kind of endurance we typically associate with notes, chords, or generally events that can be represented on the page. Instead, they are fleeting phenomena that arise and dissolve together with the flow of time. In what follows, I want to suggest that these transient entities materialize in real, bodily relationships between performers and listeners, turning those relationships into proper objects of music analysis.

You can listen to the movement and follow its score by clicking here.

Norman’s miniature for solo viola has a very sparse and rudimental pitch structure, containing recognizable elements from common-practice tonality (such as chains of 4–3 suspensions and open fifths) without actually operating within a tonal system. It’s somewhat reminiscent of J.S. Bach’s works for solo stringed instruments, but Norman doesn’t use any identifiable quotations. In fact, whatever tonal techniques he does employ seem to be completely banal, mere stock figures that could’ve come from just about anywhere, used more for their capacity to stand in as markers of archaism than for their motivic potential. From a purely formalist perspective, the deceptively simplistic pitch structure offers interesting capital for a pitch-based analysis. In particular, notice below that the whole-tone descent in the lowest voice that supports chains of 4–3 suspensions, or the boxed-in “failed” tritone resolutions (e.g., E–A# → E–B).

Contrapuntal Reduction

Reduction of the first two lines of Norman’s “Susanna” showing chains of 4–3 suspensions.  Solid boxes indicate “incorrect” resolutions of the tritone.

Yet, I want to suggest that it’s not the pitch structure but rather the performer’s bow hand that is the principal purveyor of meaning in “Susanna.” The violist is instructed to apply heavy pressure to the bow while initially shaking it and, later, moving it very slowly, producing sounds that barely escape the instrument. From an almost inaudible G#–B dyad in the opening, to the full-throated broken chords in the third line of the score, there is a gradual opening of sound, an increase in clarity that corresponds with the upsurge of dynamics. A dominant-like C–B suspension against an open G–D fifth suggests imminent tonal closure, but the sound is arrested once again. Finally, in a last-ditch effort, the music lunges into an exasperated climax on a broken d-minor triad, only to be brutally and summarily choked by the violist’s heavy bow hand.

Thus, more than merely reproducing notated pitches, the body of the violist quite forcefully conceals “normal” sounds behind the harshness and awkwardness of the stutters and the shakes. Rather than thinking of this body as something “extra”-musical, I will argue that it is very much an indissoluble element of the music. The sounds we hear function as vehicles for a body caught up in an action that urges musical interpretation.

To be clear, the product of such an interpretation wouldn’t be stories of the sounds taken by themselves. No: they would be stories of how sounds signify particular kinds of bodily exertions, and what those exertions might, in turn, signify of the person producing them; or stories about historical figures, such as St. Susanna, the third-century Christian martyr and patron of the Roman church that inspired this movement; or maybe even stories that critique and challenge our societal assumptions regarding bodily norms and abilities. In all these cases, there is a human agency latent within sound, a gesture that gives it life and becomes the (transient and emergent) object of analytical attention.

*          *          *

Let’s delve a bit into this gesture: Who makes it? What is its musical significance? How do we incorporate it into our analytical stories?

The human body is a signifier par excellence because it always seems to stand in for someone who is more than a mere collection of his or her parts. There is always a “self” or a “subject” that inhabits the body, someone who gives it character: playful, lustful, sick, angry, fragile, powerful, confident, timid, and so on. However, as Naomi Cumming has shown, musicians’ bodies signify this subjectivity somewhat differently, for they exist in a liminal space between pure physicality (exemplified by the sheer athleticism of technical facility) and pure musicality (mediated and interpreted as particular kinds of sonic signs). As such, it becomes possible to conflate sounds with musicians’ identities because “the characteristics of sound are the aural ‘marks’ of bodily actions.” Thus, when listening to a recording of Midori (whom Cumming discusses at length) we don’t merely attend to the sounds, but simultaneously construct a body that produced them (or one that we imagine could’ve produced them). Based on our prior knowledge of bodies, and of correlations between actions and sounds, we supposedly create a “persona” of the performer.

For Cumming this attention to something beyond the acoustical signal constitutes the heart of musical experience. For example, a so-called “singing” violin sound (as highly desirable as it is elusive) doesn’t emerge because this sound merely refers to vocality, or because the violinist imitates a singing voice with the instrument. Rather, Cumming claims that listeners interpret it as emanating directly from the violin because “singing” is “heard as belonging to a sound.”

The pedagogical tradition of comparing the sounds of stringed instruments to the voice goes back at least to Leopold Mozart’s Treatise: “singing is at all times the aim of every instrumentalist.” In this same passage, particularly relevant to Norman’s “Susanna,” he furthermore praises the human voice for its ability to “[glide] quite easily from one note to another,” without creating a break between notes except to produce “some special kind of expression, or the divisions or rests of the phrase demand one.” Because of this long history of associations, the sounds that the violist makes in “Susanna” can be heard as violating some norm, marking them as pathological (stuttering, choking, etc.). In turn, this creates an image of a body that might produce these sounds, a body that struggles to express itself, a body engaged in some excruciatingly difficult and painful labor, fighting against some force, straining to liberate itself from whatever internal or external power is trying to suppress it.

But remember that for Cumming vocal pathologies belong to the sound and not to the body of the performer. This means that we are not dealing with the real, physical human body directly engaged in making sounds. The violist in “Susanna” isn’t literally choking or stuttering. Instead, Cumming proposes that performers project what she calls “presence,” which is a body created metaphorically through acts of interpretation. In other words, bodily presence in sound is mediated by language or other representations; it’s a sign. Or, to use another of Cumming’s terms, the sound conveys a “virtual agency,” akin to Edward T. Cone’s “persona” or Carolyn Abbate’s “figural subject.” These agents, personae, and subjects all take the human body as their (imagined) form, but it’s not a body like yours or mine, made of flesh and bones. Instead, it’s a body created in the semiotic act of listening, a body that is unrestrained by physical laws and thus capable of superhuman feats. In short, it’s a body that has been defleshed and deboned. This somewhat grotesque act of butchery displaces the immediacy of communication between performers and listeners, turning it in to an “illusion,” a “mediating representation” created by the performer’s negotiation of “the mediating space between physicality and interpreted gestural motion.” Presence here is thus a construct, an effect of semiotic play.

*          *          *

Perhaps we sometimes need this semiotic play to create a distance between ourselves and the music, an act reminiscent of Homer’s Odysseus tying himself to the mast of his ship in order to experience the treacherous song of the sirens. But, contrary to Cumming, I propose that this distance, a culturally mediated space promising safety and aesthetic enjoyment, is not at all how the presence of the body in “Susanna” is created. Here we’re not dealing with a body that is a product of our imagination, nor is the intimacy enacted by the performer a mere effect of interpretive work, an “extra”-musical appendage in excess of the notes themselves. No, these aren’t the sounds of nobody; these are sounds made by real flesh and blood and stained by pathology and violence. The relation between performer and listener is immediate precisely because sounds mark the bodies that produce them.

To be sure, the nature of this relation may not be captured by metaphorical descriptions like “stuttering” and “choking.” When I hear this piece I don’t have the urge to leap onto the stage and start performing the Heimlich maneuver. Nevertheless, I want to suggest that the whole point of “Susanna” is to hear the body that makes the sound, not just the one imagined in it; to hear the violist defy and defile those very modes of sound production that constitute our Western performance tradition; to hear her body tense up, close up, force itself into shapes and gestures that transgress everything she has painstakingly cultivated through years of study. The communion thus established between the performer and her listeners is far from an illusion created by mere semiotic play, but instead is as real and as moving as those between bodies engaged in intimate––if violent––nonmusical acts.

It is this communion that brings forth the emergent and transient musical objects I mentioned in the beginning, objects that may not necessarily be concrete and precise, but are nonetheless experientially genuine and transformative. Indeed, a dogged focus on “the notes themselves” wouldn’t create a sufficiently rewarding listening experience, but neither would an approach that considers the intimate link between performer and listener a mediating illusion. In contrast to Cumming’s claims, the manner in which Norman directs the violist to perform “Susanna” does not merely inscribe the body in the sound, but makes it so that the sound is heard as explicitly issuing from a very real, physically present body. And it is the tangible corporeality (corpo-reality) of this body that becomes musically meaningful.


Intrinsic and Extrinsic Dynamics

By Nathan Pell (The Graduate Center, CUNY)

First an anecdote:

At the end of my masters degree, I was required, as all composers were, to pass a jury in which members of the composition faculty comment on a portfolio of recent works.  One of these—a spare, quasi-recitative setting, the first in a larger collection of Blake songs—was met with great displeasure from one of my examiners (a composer of renown, whom I respect a great deal) because I had written it with no dynamic markings whatsoever.  What could have possibly motivated me to do this?, I was asked.  Did I want the performance to be “flat,” that is, lacking dynamic shape?

I gave a twofold answer.  First, that I had omitted dynamics in order to restore to the performers some interpretive license (the tempo marking was “Liberamente”):  my small antidote to what I regard as an outbreak of over-notation that has pockmarked scores from the past century.  As composers have given increasingly specific performance instructions, performers in turn have grown more dependent on these instructions—and, thereby, on the composers who write them.  By notating less, I said in my jury, I hoped I could encourage performers to reclaim a more equal share in the creation of the music—even if that resulted in performances I didn’t like.  (Nor am I alone in this opinion.)  I added that modern performers certainly know how to put across “under-notated” music (Bach, for instance) without sounding “flat,” despite the anachronism of the notation.

Second, I told the jury that I considered all of the dynamics in my piece to be “extrinsic”; the rest of this post will explain what I meant by that.  I can’t say that either this argument or the preceding screed against over-notation managed to win over my jurors.  But all’s well that ends well:  I passed my jury, and the composer in question was kind not to mention the disagreement in the official write-up.  I do understand this composer’s points and am glad they were raised, for they have led me to develop my thinking on this subject.

*          *          *

Charles Rosen writes:

Dynamics [in the eighteenth century]…were one way for the performer to elucidate the structure of pitch and rhythm and make them expressive and even personal.  With Haydn and, above all, Beethoven, however, the dynamics are often an integral part of the motif, which has become unthinkable and unintelligible without them.  Gradually…dynamics…[were] removed from the process of realization and transferred into the basic process of composition….  In several pieces of Debussy, it would give the music less of a shock to play a wrong note than to play the wrong dynamics or apply the wrong touch  (Freedom and The Arts:  Essays on Music and Literature).

Continuing this line of thought, I would argue that dynamics are of two sorts:  those that are more or less implicit from their musical contexts, and those that are not.  Put another way, some passages give the sense that they “belong” at one and only one dynamic, whereas others suggest a wide range of plausible interpretive possibilities.  I have sensed this very often while composing.  Some dynamic markings write themselves, so much do they feel woven into the fabric of the piece.  Others give me pause, and at these moments I feel that I am interpreting more than I am composing:  indeed prescribing a single performance solution out of several conceivable ones, rather than describing the dynamic that seems already “built into” the music.  These two sorts of dynamics can be said to occur at different stages in the composition process—the interpretive kind at a later, more “post-compositional” point, at which performance markings are added to pitches and rhythms that have already been worked out.

I’ll call “intrinsic” those dynamics that seem “baked into” what music the composer has already written.  Those that seem subject to negotiation are the more open “extrinsic” dynamics, written in by the composer-as-interpreter.  Of course, most music falls on a spectrum somewhere between these two poles, and sensible musicians will be able to disagree about most cases.

*          *          *

My first examples will come from music whose dynamics are left unnotated, for these will show what I mean most clearly.  As a cellist, my natural gravitation is towards Bach.  Who would dream to play the opening of the Third Suite at any dynamic other than forte?  Nobody, I’d hope!  I surely haven’t heard it any other way, and for good reason.  It is expansive, proclamatory, a bit grand; indeed, much could be said about the topical associations of these traits.  It is also, intrinsically, forte music, even though no written instruction to that effect is provided.  When nineteenth- and twentieth-century musicians edited the suites, they all dutifully wrote in “f” here (unless their editions contained no dynamics at all).


The first edition (Louis-Pierre Norblin, 1824)

But in doing so, they weren’t telling anyone anything they didn’t already know:  they were stating the obvious.  By virtue of the culture in which this music came to be and (to some extent) still remains, its forte-ness is understood.

Not so for the Second Suite, whose opening has been played and understood at many different dynamics:

1008 Collage

The Opening of the Second Suite in a Sampling of Editions from the Nineteenth and Early-Twentieth Centuries

Of particular interest are the editions by two tremendously influential cellists:  Julius Klengel and Hugo Becker.  Klengel instructs that the D and A be played as double stops, resulting in quite a loud execution.


Edition by Julius Klengel, 1900

In contrast, Becker requests that the opening be played up the rather muffled-sounding G string:  a much more subdued affect.


Edition by Hugo Becker, 1911

By clicking here, you can hear me play the opening of the Suite in these two very different editions.  Because this passage suggests no obvious dynamic level, the dynamics are more extrinsic here than in the Third Suite.

*          *          *

The distinction I am making applies just as much in music whose dynamics are notated.  The finale of Beethoven’s Sixth concludes with two orchestral waves, each beginning piano, attaining fortissimo, and ebbing back down again—intrinsic dynamics.  The second, larger swell ends at a hushed pp sotto voce (a later composer might have added “religioso”):


From the end of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, Fifth Movement

But how is the passage’s crescendo (fifth bar) to be taken?  Does it effect a linear increase from pianissimo to piano, or should the “p” be taken subito (the crescendo exceeding piano)?

The question has divided musicians ever since the ink dried.  Transcriptions by Hummel (below) and Liszt (played here by Gould) adopt the linear interpretation, marking the downbeat fp:


Transcription by Johann Nepomuk Hummel, 1829

I’ve made a compilation video in which you can hear many orchestras playing the passage over the years.  With few exceptions, the performances preserved on early recordings seem to have favored the subito version (Weingartner); only after WWII does the linear option begin to take hold (Barshai).  Toscanini’s career encapsulates the changing performance practice:  having long performed the “psubito, he can be heard switching camps in his final recording of the piece. Nowadays, you can hear both in concert (Järvi, Merrill).  As these performances show, both versions work at a range of tempos.  I strongly prefer one way over the other (I won’t say which!), but must admit that both can yield beautiful performances.

Beethoven could have notated the passage more clearly:  “subito p,” Hummel and Liszt’s “fp,” or even omitting the “p” entirely.  However, he would not have used mp or mf, which do not appear in the symphonies.  But this raises an interesting question:  should nothing in the Beethoven symphonies, then, ever be played mezzo forte?  Is something about the symphonies intrinsically not mezzo forte?  The answer, of course, is no; for no dynamic marking (or in this case, lack thereof) is ever entirely intrinsic—nor do dynamics merely tell one how loudly to play.

*          *          *

In the C minor Nocturne, Op. 48, No. 1, Chopin marks the A’ section (where the minore returns) pp agitato.


From the Retransition and A’ Section of Chopin’s C minor Nocturne, Op. 48, No. 1

Emil Gilels follows Chopin’s instructions almost to the letter.  Most pianists do similarly.  Because the A section begins rather quietly (mezza voce) and the A’ very quietly, it seems that Chopin designed these (intrinsic) dynamics to buttress the piece’s ternary form.

But we must reassess upon hearing Myra Hess’s shattering account of the work (a performance I cherish), in which she plays ff agitato at the same spot; the dynamics must not be as intrinsic to this passage as we thought.  Her fortissimo makes sense because of the added triplet figuration, carried over from the B section; it’s as if the B section has caused the A’ section to get louder.  She’s well aware that playing from here to the end of the piece at this loud dynamic would be onerous on the ear, so she uses the written diminuendo in bar 4 of the minore to get down to Chopin’s marked dynamic, or thereabouts.  This approach allows her to dovetail somewhat the join between sections; she helps us recognize that the A’ section blends elements from the A and B sections.

*          *          *

I am aware that my thoughts on dynamics—particularly their separability or inseparability from “the music”—may tell us far more about how I myself conceive of them, and little if anything about “music itself.”  And I have not had time here to address much that I want to, including “workhood,” non-score-based traditions, and changes in performance culture.  Furthermore, for many friends of mine, composers who write a dynamic level first (or a texture, or governing instrumental technique) and fill it out with pitches and rhythms second, perhaps all dynamics are necessarily intrinsic.  We must ask, then, whether we have been right in calling such parameters “secondary”; for dynamics can be as central to the creation of musical structure and affect as pitch, even when these dynamics are devised by the performer rather than the composer.  At the very least, I hope the view from where I sit—as a performer, composer, and (apparently) a theorist—is found interesting if only for the questions it raises.

Creaking Chairs and Metric Clarity: Microtiming Glenn Gould Recording Schoenberg Op. 19/1

by Richard Beaudoin (The Royal Academy of Music, London and Brandeis University)


Glenn Gould performed and recorded on an increasingly rickety, loose-jointed, swaying piano chair that his father, Bert Gould, had fashioned from a folding bridge chair in 1953. Its telltale clicking/cracking noises — made whenever Gould shifted his body — can be heard in this 1966 film of Gould discussing Schoenberg’s music with Yehudi Menuhin. Below are two photographs of the chair, in all its skeletal beauty:

I encountered Gould’s chair creaks up-close while microtiming his recording of Schoenberg’s Op. 19/1, to use as the basis for a series of new compositions called New York Mikrophon. I found the trajectory of Gould’s chair creaks intriguing, and I began to investigate.

My approach, which extends Paul Sanden’s writings on “corporeal liveness, considers Gould’s so-called “ambient” or “extraneous” chair noises as significant “sounded movements.” Quantifying sounds that are normally marginalized, my research connects sound studies, music theory, and performance analysis, and fuses published analyses about rhythm and meter in Schoenberg’s composition with the audio artifacts of Gould’s corporeality.

The elements of my analysis can be seen below:


Using the Lucerne Audio Recording Analyser [LARA], I made millisecond-level measurements of the number and location of all of the sound events — including each chair creak — in Gould’s recording of Schoenberg’s Op. 19/1, made in September 1965, at 30th Street Studios in New York.

This recording is very noisy, even by Gould’s standards; there are 85 creaks in this 86-second track. I noticed that the creaks were not spread uniformly across the performance, but, instead, followed a rough trajectory (see the image below). In addition, prominent gaps in the creaking were not easily explained.

spectrographRather than propose my own analysis (which might be seen as self-serving to the microtiming data I had collected), I surveyed the published scholarship on rhythm and meter in Op. 19/1. This led me to publications by Jonathan Kramer, Charles Morrison, and John Roeder. Kramer devotes a chapter of The Time of Music to Schoenberg’s 17-measure work, and singled it out as exhibiting “the emergence of a foregrounded meter” (Kramer 1988). His tracing of the work’s metric evolution is outlined in the three score-based examples below:



kramer-3I set about comparing the location the chair creaks in Gould’s recording with Kramer’s chart of the emerging metric hierarchy in Schoenberg’s work.

Within this specific recording of this specific work, the level of Gould’s body motion that is transferred to the chair correlates to the gradual emergence of a metrical hierarchy: as Schoenberg’s written meter becomes the sounding meter, Gould’s physical shifting largely abates. The image below presents the first stage of my findings; I presented more detailed analyses in a paper given at SMT/AMS Vancouver 2016, as part of the session called Performing Meter.


You can listen to how Gould’s creaking relates to Kramer’s metrical observations here.

The microtiming also turned up some wonderful ‘hidden’ details in the recording, including:

  • Gould re-attacking a tied note on the downbeat of measure 8 (the tie exists in Schoenberg’s manuscript and all printed scores), which affects the perceived metric clarity,
  • a peculiar gap in the creaking that corresponds precisely to measure 7, which Kramer highlights as the clearest meter thus far in the piece,
  • an unusual bit of vocalizing in measure 2, in which Gould sings a motive which is not simultaneously occurring in the piano (as was his common practice), but which instead occurs a few moments later — a kind of subtle, improvised vorimitation.

I’ll write more about these in the future, as I prepare a paper on this research.

I don’t, however, take these findings to be general proof of what pianists do when playing metrically irregular music. Nor do I use them to hypothesize about body movements by pianists, twentieth-century pianists, mid-twentieth-century Canadian pianists, or Glenn Gould in his mid-30s, etc.

Rather, what interests me is how all of the sounds captured by the microphone in New York in September 1965 work together to create a distinct impression of this unique piece. And in this single case, the proliferation and exact placement of the creaks made by Gould’s chair does, subtly, guide the mind across a trajectory of movement that is sympathetic with a recognized structural aspect of Schoenberg’s piece. In this way, they are perhaps analogous to microexpressions.

My work — in some ways the opposite of corpus analysis —involves detailed cataloguing of all of the sounds within a single recording. Doing so, I unearth little signals provided by overlooked, over-heard, so-called extraneous noises. Removing or suppressing such “insignificant” sounds — a common practice in the recording industry — deprives the listener of unique types of intimacy and musical understanding.

A Cybernetic View of Theory and Practice, or Reflections on Integrating Analysis and Performance

by Victoria Tzotzkova (Harvard University)

“The dualism between subject and object disappears…. The world as this ‘cybernetics’ constructs it is a monism.… Because the worlds are coupled, they must in the last analysis be regarded as a single system.”

—N. Katherine Hayles, How We Became Posthuman

The cybernetic principle—the idea of a self-changing feedback loop, where each part is continually reinvented through its interaction with all others—has been at the core of different technological advances, and is also at the core of theoretical work in different fields. In some of its unfoldings (like the theory of enaction developed by Francisco Varela and his collaborators), the basic idea of a dynamic, generative, recursive interaction, linking the constituent parts of a process has served as a powerful framework for theorizing the fundamental relationship between an organism and its environment. Stemming from concerns in regulating automatic processes, research in cybernetics has been developed in much larger contexts, posing some profound philosophical challenges, but also engaging diverse communities, and opening avenues for research, design, and experimentation.

For all its promise and power as a model for conceptualizing different aspects of human existence, as well as for creating tools and technologies, the cybernetic principle can bear deeply unsettling implications: once in motion, the process continues on a path that cannot be reliably predicted at the outset; a self-changing process shapes itself as it goes along.

In regards to relating—or even integrating—performance and analysis, can we usefully consider this idea of a dynamic interaction of mutually engendering parts of a holistic process? What would it mean for performance and analysis to interact, such that each continually shapes the other? What would exploring the relationship between performance and analysis look like if we tried to imagine it with the idea of cybernetics in mind?

I. A personal turning point relating analysis and performance

Growing up in then still communist Bulgaria, I started formal music training at a very young age, a study that included solfège and basic theory. In my hours of practice, still as a child, I developed the habit of doodling around my pieces, going, for instance, between themes from different Haydn sonatas I was playing. I got chastised for resorting to a bit of that same practice during a concert, and, being a dutiful student, I stopped it.

Years later I began to think my doodling may have been a good idea, but I was so completely out of practice, that it was pretty much impossible to reclaim. I had become a typical, non-improvising, classical performer. Yet some years later (and after a few encounters with French traditions in keyboard harmony), I gradually reclaimed my doodling abilities, and the path was through theory: the countless harmonic dictations and simple tonal progressions that had been drilled into me as a child turned out to be a perfect beginning for a course in re-learning how to improvise. I now practice my doodles, and from a performer’s standpoint, find it to be the best anti-anxiety routine I know, as well as a great way to build up my classical performer’s sense of agency. In this sort of practice routine, studying harmony or motivic gestures, devising practice exercises, or building up my performer’s familiarity with a piece are aspects of the same process: a sort of continual feedback, merging performance and analysis.

II. A brief overview of a movement

The Performance and Analysis movement (and the Performance and Analysis Interest Group [PAIG] of the Society for Music Theory) arose at least partly in response to a perceived divide between performance and analysis, which many felt did not capture their musical experience. In recent decades, the movement has expanded the focus of music analysis, from the score (predominant in traditional analysis) to also include recordings, embodied aspects of performance, and performers’ voices.

In British musicology—as well as elsewhere in Europe—performance studies and artistic-/ practice-based research are becoming a relatively significant part of the study of music, which has given impetus for emergent institutions specifically devoted to such activity (e.g., The Orpheus Institute, Belgium), as well as projects specifically conceived to cross between university and conservatory settings (e.g., Centre for Music Performance as Creative Practice, UK). This trend has resulted in events like masterclasses in artistic research (e.g., by Paulo de Assis), the Performance Studies Network conferences, as well as research positions for practicing musicians and research studies involving conservatory and professional musicians. The Centre for Performance Science (Royal College of Music, London) is also a catalyst for a related move to develop the more explicitly scientific study of performers and their performances.

Yet, most research in this vein—which explicitly involves or addresses practicing musicians—comes typically from musicologists, psychologists, empiricists, etc., and rarely from music theorists. Even those of us in music theory who specifically work on performance would generally agree that, by and large, our discipline has not yet found ways to embrace performance as an integral concern.

III. Carving out spaces for dialogue: The PAIG special session

What stops music theory from fully embracing performance? Are we looking to address performance and performers through beliefs and practices that do not facilitate a fluid exchange? If so, do we do this consciously, or out of habits we have not yet clearly examined? What might these habits be and can they be revised in fruitful ways, to build on cherished skills and approaches while inviting performers’ insight and participation?

One of the aims of the PAIG-sponsored special session at last year’s SMT conference in Vancouver was precisely to address questions like these from an unusual angle, namely, by giving the floor to performers. The three presentations of the session were given by performers—Patrick Boyle (jazz trumpet, joined by his trio), John Lutterman (baroque cello), and Charles Neidich (clarinet)—with a response from British empirical musicologist and performance scholar Eric Clarke. Each of the presenters addressed concerns that emerge in practice and through the experience of performance, and spent considerable portion of their time playing their instruments. One might say that these particular performers were all of a special kind: those who have already developed their performance concerns into research programs. But they still spoke as performers, and developed their presentations from that standpoint. They each brought to the session their love for the music they play, as well as their enthusiasm for engaging with their scholarly audience.

Whatever might be keeping us—as scholars—from fully embracing music performance as an area of study, hearing out performers’ voices might point some ways out. In listening to performers talk, we undoubtedly hear some ideas and expressions that are not entirely native to music theory. But we also recognize many of the insights as deeply musical and also deeply familiar. So we might try listening specifically with an ear to finding the common vocabulary and common commitments, and use these points of contact as points of departure, as a springboard from which we can reflect back on what we do as music theorists, and on the sorts of things music theory can be.

If we let them, performers might take us into directions we have not already taken. These directions would be as of yet unknown, and following them would be to embark on a journey with no preexisting roadmap. By the same token, in talking to us, performers themselves—like the presenters at the PAIG special session—might approach, experience, and perhaps even do performance a little differently.

IV. “How should music theory change to accommodate this kind of work?”

I was asked the question above at my dissertation defense and am forever grateful for it. It opened the possibility that music theory is a fluid and evolving endeavor, and that the concerns and commitments I have by virtue of being a pianist may not only one day be included; they may even shape the concerns and commitments of the discipline.

If we do engage performers and find ways to build and maintain live ties with the people and activities within music performance, there may be changes to what we know as music theory and what we do as music theorists. Similarly, a tight interaction with performers would also potentially bring changes to what we know as performance and what we (or they, performers) do as performers. An ongoing (cybernetic) interaction implies both.

For me—as both performer and theorist, or better yet, as a musician—these changes are exciting and welcome.

Reflections on PAIG and SMT

by Daniel Barolsky (Beloit College)

At this year’s business meeting for PAIG at SMT/AMS in Vancouver, we ended with the relatively mundane task of discussing and voting on a new set of bylaws. One of the sub-topics that I had expected to be routine was the issue of interest-group membership. Much to my surprise and dismay, there were voices that expressed concern about our openness and proposed hypotheticals that some collection of individuals (especially those from organizations other than SMT) might decide to colonize the interest group. Happily the final decision was to define membership by the listserv, a collection of email addresses to which anyone, regardless of institutional or disciplinary affiliation, can join.

However jocular the suggestion about “colonization” or more serious the proposal to police membership, I couldn’t help reflect, as I left Vancouver, on the larger intellectual, disciplinary, and political context of this conversation. Not five hours after the business meeting, the AMS convened a session on “Race, Ethnicity, and the Profession” that made clear to everyone how the restriction of methodologies did more than merely help define a discipline but, rather, served to shut out individuals and identities. Less than a week before the US election, I couldn’t help but see parallels between the desire to “other” members of  different musical societies (including their subjects and approaches) and the rhetoric of political candidates who espoused building walls to keep out people of certain faiths and ethnicities. And, finally, I reflected on the history of the Performance and Analysis Interest Group, an inclusive and welcoming organization that over a decade ago gave me, a graduate student in musicology who was interested in performers and recordings, a scholarly, intellectual, and professional home at a time when the majority within the AMS and SMT excluded methodologies that addressed the voices of performers and their performances. The question we need to grapple with, as we continue to revise and develop our bylaws and, in particular, our mission statement, is what would restricting our membership protect? What does it really mean to limit ourselves to theorists only?

As I flew home to a polarized and fractious political climate, I also took comfort in the excellent and discipline-bending session organized by PAIG that took place the evening before the business meeting (as well as in the other papers/sessions during the weekend that explored a range of issues pertaining to performance and analysis). In particular I took hope from the comments by the session moderator, Victoria Tzotzkova, who urged the audience, while listening to the presenters (none of whom were exclusively music theorists, some of them not even card-carrying members), to expect new voices, sounds, and perspectives, and to consider in what new and inclusive ways we could imagine music theory to be.

“Extravagance” in Performance and Analysis

by Nathan Pell (The Graduate Center, CUNY)

The starting point for my post is a lyric from the theme song from the ‘70s sitcom Happy Days, which I’m sure was formative for many of us:  “it feels so right, it can’t be wrong.”  I’d like to apply this to matters of performance and analysis, in a way I hope The Fonz would approve of.

As performers, we spend much of our time trying to do things cleanly.  So we practice tricky passages to get the notes fluent and even, and we strive constantly towards good phrasing, intonation, ensemble, diction, etc.  These things are generally construed as “right,” their opposites “wrong.”  Performances that adhere more or less to these standards are generally considered ideal.  Those that epitomize them are virtuosic, especially if carried off with ease.

But I’d like to focus on performances that, by such standards, are generally deemed wrong:  the ham-fisted, out-of-tune, misplaced, and erratic (either accidental or intentional).  Funnily enough, these bloopers are frequently my favorite part of a performance, and I will sometimes miss the messy version when I hear a “clean” rendition of the same passage.  At the heart of my “desert island” collection of recordings are many that feature faux pas in some way or another.

In other words, a performance can have moments that are “so wrong, they’re right.”  I consider this a sort of extravagance.  Of course it’s not how the passage “should go”; but the mistakes humanize the performance, and there’s a certain brilliance to the unorthodoxy that I savor.  I would not be surprised if many of us have our own personal lists of similarly cherished, extravagant moments.  I’ll share some of mine, and will then relate these comments to analysis.

The great pianist Edwin Fischer was famous for his wrong notes.  His landmark recording with Wilhelm Furtwängler of the Beethoven “Emperor” Concerto is littered with them.  They handle the transition from the Adagio to the Rondo with particularly exquisite subtlety.  Less subtle, however, is the beginning of the Allegro, where Fischer’s left hand misses the mark a couple of times.  I do not for a second wish that he played the right notes:  the mistake (along with some heavy pedaling!) accords perfectly with the finale’s romping, jubilant character.

Furtwängler has long been my favorite conductor, despite his immensely complicated status as a political figure.  His performances revel in spontaneity of all sorts, including some jarring mistakes.  But I consider many of these endearing:  for example, the fourth horn’s woeful intonation in the Ninth Symphony’s notorious solo.  I find the effect rather nice, actually.  The reduced forces here remind me of the village wind band in the Scherzo of the Sixth Symphony:  inept, but very earnest.  There is something touching about the halting performance, especially in context of the pious simplicity of this movement.

Speaking of the Sixth Symphony, there is a wrong note in Furtwängler’s recording with the Vienna Philiharmonic:  in the finale, a first violinist loudly plays an E♭ where F is written.  I have always enjoyed this mistake because I like to imagine that the player is hearing the E♭ as leading towards the subdominant (of course, not what Beethoven wrote!).

Outright mistakes are not the only way a performance can be “so wrong, it’s right.”  Indeed, performance allows all sorts of heterodoxies.  My favorite performers are often those who are not afraid to do something extravagant and “wrong” in the service of the music.  The effect is usually not subtle, for this kind of transgression results from the performers intentionally flouting performance traditions.

In a performance of Don Giovanni’s Commendatore scene from the 1960 Aix-en-Provence Festival, Rolando Panerai sings Leporello’s triplets late, surely on purpose.  The contrast between the resolute Don and Commendatore on the one hand and the hysterical Leporello on the other is immensely effective, and, having heard these late triplets, I cannot be completely satisfied with any on-time rendition.  Later in the scene, Leporello begs Don Giovanni to heed the Commendatore’s calls of repentance.  The Don refuses and is soon engulfed in flames for his sins—making Leporello’s “sì, sì” the very last interaction between servant and master.  Panerai’s performance hardly resembles what Mozart wrote, but remains tremendously evocative.

As far as I’m concerned, there is only one recording that makes sense out of the finale of Bruckner’s Sixth Symphony:  Furtwängler’s with the Berlin Philharmonic.  The moment I like best is an unconventional, gleefully irreverent trombone slide in a fortissimo passage (it exists in no score).  To me, it is completely in character:  “so wrong, it’s right.”

The famous Boccherini Minuet is certainly a light piece, and as such admits a great many liberties in performance.  (It is fascinating to consider the question of what makes an extravagant performance “work” in one case but not in another—this would require far more space than this post allows me.  Suffice it to say that it must be very subjective, but that there are probably some moments that call for extravagance more than others.)  Enter the idiosyncratic Russian cellist Daniil Shafran, known for his wide and fast vibrato (which my cello teacher once mimed by pretending to stick his finger into an electric wall socket).  The vibrato is on full display in his performance of the Boccherini, but it’s hardly the most bizarre thing going on here!  Of particular note are Shafran’s pecking bow articulations and very distinctive rubato (especially in pesante passages), for which his harpsichordist appears ill-prepared.  Now consider the performance by nineteenth-century piano virtuoso Francis Planté, widely considered one of the finest players of his day, who was captured on record at the age of 89.  His début, 80 years earlier, had been attended by Chopin.  It is astounding, therefore, to hear his recording and to think:  yes, people really did play like this!  The left-hand accompaniment is quite loud, and the melody whirs along until the grinding halt of each cadence, whose “plunk, plunk, plunks” sound comical to modern ears.  But a more “correct,” more virtuous performance sounds so dry in comparison!—even if it is not lacking in character, and its execution is blameless by any of the usual musical criteria.

*            *            *

All those who practice the art of analysis are well aware of its greatest danger:  over-analyzing.  We live in constant fear of explaining the special-ness out of music, of making it conform too snugly to a theory.  In reality, we know that music is always messy, irreducible, and illogical; but we must make sense out of it, reduce it, make it look cleaner.  In this way, the impulse towards “cleanliness” and “right execution” is as strong in analysis as it is in performance.

But analysts can counter this impulse in the same ways as performers.  Sometimes the best way of serving a piece is to produce a “wrong” analysis, one where the extravagant idiosyncrasies of the music outweigh any obligations towards the decorum of good praxis.

What does an “extravagant analysis” look like?  A famous example is Schenker’s graph of the C major Prelude from WTC I.  Despite its canonic status, it is not a “clean” graph.  In fact, it contains a sizeable contradiction!


Note how D4 is transferred up one octave to D5 (in red), creating a prolongational span.  The saw-toothed beam that connects E4 to C5 (blue) indicates another prolongational span.  But these two spans clash, representing two different harmonies!  The contradiction is irreconcilable, and any introductory analysis student would be marked off for it:  even more shocking when one considers that the Urlinie-Tafeln were designed to be teaching resources!  His objectively “wrong” analysis is nevertheless of true value, though, because it captures something important about the work that a “correct” reading would surely miss.

Direct contradictions are only one sort of way analysis can be “wrong.”  Just as performance does, analysis admits a veritable menagerie of extravagant possibilities.  One can see a sort of extravagance in James Hepokoski and Warren Darcy’s view of Mozart’s G minor String Quintet, K. 516:  the second theme begins in the tonic (!) after an extremely unusual type of “medial caesura” (“I:PAC MC”).  Rather than forcing the piece into their theory, they chose instead to accommodate its remarkable divergences.  This might make for difficult theory, but yields a sensitive analysis.  Extravagance can take the form of an adventurous analysis; in Beethoven’s ‘Tempest’ Sonata, William Caplin locates the final cadence of the exposition at a point where “a literal tonic bass is not present.”  This is not a shy decision, but it is clearly made with a deep concern for expressing the work’s idiosyncrasies.  There is a stylistic “wrong-ness” in set-class analyses of ostensibly “tonal” music:  David Lewin analyzes WTC I’s F♯ minor Fugue as centered around the set class (013), and Milton Babbitt prefers to describe the “Tristan chord” as (0268).  Their extravagant analytic approach allows them to reveal latent musical relationships.

No matter whether one agrees or disagrees with the above decisions, I hope the expressive power of their extravagance is readily apparent.

As many of us attend SMT, a conference largely devoted to analysis, let’s remember the power of extravagance in music, and the dangers of over-correctness.  Our discipline places so much emphasis on the perfectly tidy theory, the airtight argument, the flawlessly consistent analysis—and rightly so!  But even as we cultivate these virtues, let’s not forget to keep a place for the slightly off-kilter, the imperfect and “wrong,” the undotted i’s and uncrossed t’s—in brief, the wonderful messiness of art.

Rethinking the Undergraduate Music Curriculum: Where Are the Performers and Their Performances

by Daniel Barolsky (Beloit College and PAIG Co-Chair)

In anticipation of our tenth-anniversary celebration of PAIG at this year’s joint AMS/SMT national meeting, a meeting that gives us the opportunity to rethink what we do and why, it seems only appropriate for this inaugural blog posting to consider the relationship between history and theory.  After all, in most music programs there are direct or indirect links between the teaching of the two disciplines.  In some cases theory provides historians with the analytical language that shapes discussions of musical “works” or, inversely,  musicologists introduce the repertoire and styles that music theorists subsequently use as their primary source material.  Regardless of the direction, the traditional study of music theory and history mutually reinforce the primacy of the musical score (as the “music work”) as the central locus of study.  Doing so the canonic repertoire (i.e. the compositions that fit both pedagogical priorities) is consolidated (there are some notable exceptions such as Matthew Bribitzer-Stull’s Anthology for Analysis and Performance).  Furthermore, not only is non-canonic repertoire largely excluded (in spite of efforts by most history textbooks to supplement the canon with the works of composers of color or by women), but so are performers.

But perhaps this isn’t entirely accurate.  Some music history textbooks include performers, yet only in the margins … literally.  In the the rare moment that a figure like Glenn Gould or Victor Maurel is mentioned, the content of the discussion is excluded from the “master narrative” and pushed, visually, into a supplemental box that merely decorates or colors the “history proper.”  Additionally, while performances are included as part of the CD anthologies, none of the commentaries actually discuss the performances themselves and the performers are relegated to an appendix.  What are some of the ways performer and/or their legacies can be integrated into the history?  Imagine a history where Gould isn’t an adjunct figure in relationship to Bach’s Goldberg Variations but a voice that contributed significantly to 20th-century conversations about technology or aesthetics.  Or consider the fact that we can actually listen to Maurel and the degree to which his style of singing transforms our view of the nineteenth-century sonic world?  How might students attempt to reconcile Maurel’s voice with the radically different late twentieth-century singers who aspire to realize  Verdi’s scores in the style of the nineteenth-century?

Similarly, many music theory texts (and even more professors) have taken great steps to challenge students to realize the potential relationship between analysis and their own performances.  But often the performers are still idealized rather than real, or their deferential relationship to the central score reinforced by the absence, in the texts, of authoritative or significant performances.  Think about  how the conversation would change were performances, historical and contemporary, central to the theory classes and where performing faculty and/or such historical figures as Alfred Cortot are given a voice.  Indeed, imagine the trajectory of a conversation that started with Cortot’s written analytical descriptions or editions.  Or what would happen if the formal ambiguities of Chopin’s G-minor Ballade was examined through the lens of Cortot’s multiple recorded interpretations?  How student performers could become more empowered when they have models whose views are respected?

The questions I want to pose are simple: To what degree does the interdependence of theory and history, on a curricular level, create a structural barrier to the inclusion of performers and broader conversations about performance in general?  And how might changes to these curricula ultimately have an impact on the teaching and perceptions of performers?  Are there ways, as PAIG seeks to expand its purview, that we can explore the extent of our disciplinary interdependence and limits?

Join the conversation! Share your comments with the “Leave a Comment” link above, and please subscribe to the PAIG blog in order to see future posts. If you are interested in writing a short essay (up to 600 words) on any subject related to performance and analysis, please contact PAIG co-chair Edward Klorman to discuss your idea.