1
Abstract
This paper explores the commonly held belief in musicological circles that works of music are
fixed, permanent, and defined objects, or texts, as I have defined it. Several problems arise
when this belief becomes predominant. Some of these are linked to the identification of a
musical work with its score (the score being both a consequence and a cause of the abovementioned belief), and some arise separately, including a distortion of the temporal nature of
music, and the problematic issue of the canon of works. The paper will describes these
problems, and proposes an alternative way of viewing musical works—one which relies less
on a work’s textual nature, and more on the situation in which it is experienced.
Keywords
Musicology, musical experiences, scores, musical relationships, meaning.
Musical Works as Musical Texts: Problems, Impact, and Alternatives
Works of music in the Western art tradition are predominantly viewed as being texts: fixed,
permanent, defined objects. This paper will consider some of the implications of this
viewpoint, and suggest an alternative.
While I do not limit my description of a text to that which is written down—the score
—it is clear that having a system of notation allows for this viewpoint. 1 It can describe
elements of a musical work in a fixed (by virtue of its being written down), permanent (so
long as a score can be preserved), and defined (once it is being used in a culture where the
symbols have an agreed meaning) way. However, it is not infallible in any of these respects.
The score of a work changes, being subject to the vagaries of editors, copyists, performers,
and others. Stanley Boorman has pointed out many of the problems with copying scores from
manuscripts or other scores, stating that a received score is in fact ‘a definer of a specific
moment in the evolving history of the composition,’ showing that scores are not as fixed as
we sometimes think they are.2 Furthermore, symbols are often poorly defined, and their
meaning can change. Thus, what is implicit to a reader of a score at one point in history may
be indeterminable to a reader of the same score at a different point.
It is also worth pointing out that, by necessity, many musical details are omitted from
the written score. Were a composer to include every detail of a work in the score, there would
be no flexibility to adapt a performance based on extra-musical circumstances such as the
acoustics in the hall or the familiarity of the audience with the work. Furthermore, it would
allow for no freedom of expression for the performer, and the composer would end up
‘constraining the performer with too many or overly binding rules,’ which would affect the
performance negatively.3 Similarly, it would have an impact on the audience’s perception of
music since, as O’Grady puts it, ‘it is likely that a perceiver’s response to a given work will be
affected, perhaps unduly, by knowledge of indeterminacy.’4 Thus, the inclusion of a performer
who has influence over the form of the work is important for listeners. Furthermore, it would
1 The existence of a system of notation is also a consequence of the perception of musical works being texts,
since the writing something down requires the existence of a text to write. Thus, issues in musical thought
which derive from the score itself are also a consequence of this perception.
2 Stanley Boorman, ‘The Musical Text,’ in Rethinking Music, Mark Everist and Nicholas Cook (eds.) (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1999), 403–423 (414–20).
3 David Behrman, ‘What Indeterminate Music Determines,’ in Perspectives of New Music 3/2 (Spring/Summer
1965), 58–73 (61).
4 Terence J. O’Grady, ‘Aesthetic Value in Indeterminate Music,’ in The Musical Quarterly 67/3 (July 1981),
366–81 (371).
2
render the score unreadable. If every facet of performance were to be determined, the amount
of information in the score would be unmanageable. By allowing certain aspects of a
performance to remain up to the performer, the composer reduces the amount that they have
to convey in the score.
These facts raise several issues when it comes to making the leap from a score to the
sounding music. Urtext scores try to solve the problem of scores changing, though doubts
have been expressed about the validity of the endeavour and its results. 5 A bigger issue,
though, is how one goes from the score, with its ambiguities, necessary omissions, and
implicit nature, to the work of music.6 Some writers view the text of a musical work as being
at least that which is in the score.7 In this setup, it is the role of an interpreter (typically a
performer) to undo the ‘distortions’ to the musical work required by the act of writing it down
—which is to say, to interpret the notation.8 The audience is thus presented with the
performer’s opinion of what the work really is: the “true” text of the composition. However,
different performers often create different sounds from the same score.
This demonstrates that our reliance on a score to provide a representation of a musical
text has fundamental problems, which affect the way we perceive (and even conceive of) a
musical work—both because the score itself is unreliable, and because trying to discover the
“true” musical work from the score is problematic in itself.
I would like to move past the issues of the score for the moment (though I will return
to them later), and consider the impact of the belief that a musical work is a text.
One of the inevitable consequences of musical works being texts is the canon: a body
of works which, by some standard, are judged worthy of preservation and repeated use.
Naturally, this standard will be set by the works already in the canon. Until recently, for
example, this value-judgement was on the basis of organicism and unity in a work:
‘Masterpieces diversify unity’ wrote Alan Walker in 1966.9 Things have changed somewhat
since then, with Ruth Solie pointing out that critical theory is now more focussed on the
‘perception and understanding by a more “democratic” audience’ of a musical work, and that
theorists now try to explain idiosyncratic or individual elements within a work. 10
Nevertheless, many of the works that most people are familiar with, either through hearing
them or through study, still exhibit a significant amount of organicism.
In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the performance canon was entirely
made up of a diverse range of modern works. Nowadays, though, if one goes to a typical
concert, the vast majority of music will be over a century old, representing a small number of
“great” composers, whose work can often be placed in context with reference to the other
“great” composers. Thus, we have a chain of composers from Bach (and more recently his
antecedents) through Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms, Strauss, and
Mahler. This small number of white, male, German-speaking composers (essentially what
Stravinsky, over fifty years ago, described as the ‘German stem’ of music and musical
judgement)11 make up the backbone of the currently-performed instrumental repertoire.
Certain composers are excluded from the canon, since their work does not fit in to
5 Stanley Boorman, ‘Urtext,’ in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, Stanley Sadie and John
Tyrrell (eds.), 2nd edn, vol. 26 (London: Macmillan, 2001), 163–4.
6 This question presupposes the existence of a “musical work” which exist outside the score. I don’t wish to
enter the debate as to whether such an entity exists: I will assume that it does.
7 Edward T. Cone, ‘The Pianist as Critic,’ in The Practice of Performance: Studies in Musical Interpretation,
John Rink (ed.) (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 241-53 (244).
8 Roy Howat, ‘What do we perform?’ Ibid, 3–20 (3).
9 Alan Walker, An Anatomy of Musical Criticism (London: Barrie and Rockliff, 1966), 26.
10 Ruth Solie, ‘The Living Work: Organicism and Musical Analysis,’ in 19th-Century Music 4/2 (Autumn
1980), 147–56 (156).
11 Igor Stravinsky and Robert Craft, Dialogues (London: Faber & Faber, 1982), 30.
3
what is considered as “canonic.” Marcia J. Citron, for example, has studied how female
composers have been excluded. This is partially because of their historical social standing,
since they were not in a position to compose full-time, to publish, or to be involved with
church music, but also because their work tends to be (though not necessarily is) differently
put together to that of male composers.12 Similarly, McClary claims that Schubert’s music
reflects his homosexuality, and that it is as a result of this that his music (and Tchaikovsky’s)
has been described as feminine and structurally weak. She concludes that, if we accept that
their sexuality had an influence on their music, then we start to view the music as being
‘defective.’13
Thus we see that the canon tends to exclude composers whose aims, backgrounds, and
means of expression have been different to those of the select few whom we have accepted.
While I am not saying that canons are a bad thing in themselves, it must be remembered that
they do not paint the whole picture. They venerate a particular version of the past, and they
‘reduce a complex, plural, and contested history to a mythically unified construct.’14
Another problem with the view of a musical work as a text is that it stops being
viewed as a flowing series of events, and instead starts to take on an architectural quality.
Music, to paraphrase Goethe, becomes frozen music: an edifice occupying a single space,
rather than an experience moving through time. This is partially a result of recordings, since a
work can be listened to repeatedly and conceived of as a whole, and it also partially derives
from the existence of scores, since they render the music in a spatial medium, and thus it can
be viewed architecturally.15 Since the ‘identification of musical substance with what can be
notated […] is an assumption built deeply into discourses that surround [Western art music],’
this results in an architectural understanding of music. 16 For example, what Meyer calls style
analysis is interested in demonstrating how particular compositions fit into general
frameworks.17 Once a work is fixed into one form or another, it becomes all about its form: it
is a manifestation of an architectural entity, fixed in musical space, and thus non-temporal. As
a result of this, ‘comprehension of the whole [becomes] a prerequisite for appreciation of the
part.’18 The view that this is the primary way of appreciating music is not agreed with by all.
Jerrold Levinson, who believes that music is experienced as a series of concatenated
moments, writes about how ‘one cannot perceive the form of such a musical composition as a
whole, one can only conceive it.’19
Perhaps the view of music as being architectural is best summed up by analysts like
Lendvai, who writes about the music of Bartók, claiming that climax points are reached at
points that correspond closely to the Golden Ratio or the Fibonacci sequence. 20 The premise is
that, since these two entities exist extensively in nature, and are often found in aesthetically
12 Marcia J. Citron, Gender and the Musical Canon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 11.
13 Susan McClary, ‘Constructions of Subjectivity in Schubert’s Music,’ in Reading Music: Selected Essays,
Ashgate Contemporary Thinkirs on Critical Musicology Series (Aldershot: Ashgate Publishing Limited,
2007), 169–97 (174).
14 Robert Walser, review of Disciplining Music: Musicology and its Canons, Katherine Bergeron and Philip V.
Bohlman (eds.), Music and Letters 75/4 (November 1993), 569–72 (569).
15 As I noted above, the existence of scores also derives from the notion of musical texts.
16 Nicholas Cook, Beyond the Score: Music as Performance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 17.
17 Leonard B. Meyer, Explaining Music: Essays and Explorations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1973), 7.
18 Edward T. Cone, ‘Three Ways of Reading a Detective Story—or a Brahms Intermezzo,’ in Music: A View
from Delft, Robert P. Morgan (ed.) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 77–93 (86).
19 Jerrold Levinson, Music in the Moment (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997), 20.
20 In fact, these two concepts are related to one another, since the ratio between any two successive members of
the Fibonacci sequence becomes increasingly close to the Golden Ratio (approximately 1:1.618) as one
moves further through the sequence.
4
pleasing architecture, they should also be relevant to musical proportions. However, some of
his calculations require adapting the music, for example the addition of an extra empty bar at
the end or the completion of a half bar at the beginnning. 21 Furthermore, his argument doesn’t
take into account changes in tempo, and it doesn’t follow that what is pleasing in architecture
will be pleasing in music. Most of all, though, it does not take into account the way in which
people listen to music, and the way we perceive time when listening, which is quite different
to how time actually moves. This sort of analysis leaves the temporal aspect of time out, a
consequence of viewing music as a text, both since the analysis is essentially an analysis of
what can be seen of the score, not what is heard, and because it relies on an architectural view
of music, occupying a point in space rather than existing as a flowing object.
In fact, time plays an important role in the perception of a musical work: ‘the feeling
that music is progressing or moving forward in time is doubtless one of the most fundamental
characteristics of musical experience.’22 The fact that music is a succession of events in time,
whose order matters (in most cases), means that it is ‘pure process,’ rather than something
which is a single point.23 Meyer’s view of music is one of implication, in which a listener’s
prior knowledge of style and each musical event generates implications and expectations for
what will follow, with meaning and value being contained in the realisation and frustration of
these implications.24 This relies on the order of musical events, not just their existence.
(I do not wish to suggest that analysis of music which is nontemporal—say that which
seeks to demonstrate large-scale connections in a work—is necessarily a bad thing, or one
which cannot help a listener to understand a work. I do, however, think that this sort of
analysis is only a means to an end. A nontemporal study is useful, so long as its findings can
then be applied to a temporal understanding of the work.)
The issue of time in music runs more deeply than the perceptual level. Music is a way
‘to organize our sense of time.’ 25 Writers have shown how differing conceptions of time have
resulted in different organisations of music. Karol Berger writes about how, say, a Bach piece
(whose material undergoes little or no transformation in the course of a piece, hence the piece
is not a function of linear time) and a Mozart piece (whose material is shaped by where it
occurs in the piece, so that knowledge of where one is in a piece is a prerequisite for
understanding, making the piece is linear in time) display different characteristics of time. He
notes how the change in how musical material is presented in time coincided with a change in
how time was viewed in society, from cyclic to linear, though (I think wrongly) stops short of
making this ‘a claim about causality.’26 Jonathan D. Kramer writes about how the people of
Bali do not perceive temporal processes as linear; similarly, Balinese music is nonlinear.27
Thus we have seen that the perception of a musical work as a fixed, architectural
object rather than part of a temporal flow—a consequence of being a musical text—is
fundamentally at odds with both a listener’s experience and the formation of music.
21 Ernö Lendvai, Béla Bartók: An Analysis of his Music (London: Kahn & Averill, 1971), 22, 28.
22 Edward A. Lippman, The Philosophy and Aesthetics of Music (Lincoln: The University of Nebraska Press,
1999), 40.
23 Monroe C. Beardsley, Aesthetics: Problems in the Philosophy of Criticism (New York: Harcourt, Brace &
World Inc., 1958), 338.
24 Leonard B. Meyer, ‘Meaning in Music and Information Theory’ and ‘Some Remarks on Value and Greatness
in Music,’ in Music, the Arts, and Ideas: Patterns and Predictions in Twentieth-Century Culture (Chicago:
The University of Chicago Press, 1967), 5–41.
25 Simon Frith, ‘Towards an Aesthetic of Popular Music,’ in Music and Society: The Politics of Composition,
Performance and Reception, Richard Leppert and Susan McClary (eds.) (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1987), 133–150 (142).
26 Karol Berger, Bach’s Cycle, Mozart’s Arrow: An Essay on the Origins of Musical Modernity (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2007), 9.
27 Jonathan D. Kramer, The Time of Music (New York: Schirmer Books, 1988), 24.
5
I mentioned above that our conception of a musical work is closely linked to what can
be notated. This identification is at the root of another problem. Since our notation is better at
recording pitches but is ‘downright crude with respect to notation and worse yet with respect
to timbre, […] our work on pitch organisation overwhelms our work on rhythm, to say
nothing of timbre.’28 This is not to say that our notation is particularly good at recording pitch:
it does not take into account the ‘minute variations which are deliberately cultivated by
performers’ when presenting a musical work.29 Essentially, our notation pigeonholes musical
events.30 Thus, when we analyse, we must avoid the temptation of identifying objects in the
score since they do not correspond to what actually happens in the music. Instead, we must
focus on identifying musical objects: to take a trivial example, if we are in a C major,
functional, tonal space, and we see the pitches G, B, D, and F, the important thing about those
pitches is not what they are in themselves, it is that they form a dominant 7 th chord. While
they look like four particular pitches on the page, they are certainly not experienced as such,
particularly since their intonation will depend on the instrumentalist(s) involved. Thus,
analysis needs to rely on identifying musical objects, not just reading what is in the score.
This relies on two things: first, a willingness by the analyst to answer questions of
identification musically, rather than empirically, and second, objects having names to allow us
to talk about them. Admittedly, this causes the significant vocabulary of analysis, which can
be daunting to someone coming to it new. However, having names for objects does have the
advantage of improving cognitive ease,31 allowing us to write and talk about music more
readily.
A final problem arises directly from the perception of musical works being texts.
Because they are viewed as being fixed, permanent, defined objects, they are perceived as
being suitable for scientific study. Thus, theorists often use works to demonstrate the validity
of their own theories, rather than trying to tell us something about the music.32
***
Thus far, I have discussed the problems with and impact of musical works being
viewed as texts. Now I will present an alternative view, and indicate its advantages.
Music is essentially a set of relationships. Different writers have differing views on
what relationships are important. A theorist might tell you that the only important
relationships are those which are purely musical, while Christopher Small, in his thoughtprovoking book Musicking, sets out his belief that any relationship in the act of ‘musicking’ is
important—including one’s relationship with fellow listeners, the performers, and the concert
hall itself.33 Though I believe his idea has merit, I do have reservations. First, it reduces the
music to a sort of “social prop” in which the music itself is incidental to the coming together
of people, something which (in Western art music at least) is not necessarily true. I don’t think
that this attitude covers all of what music can do, and certainly does not cover the value of
professional music-making. (I do not wish to deny the social effect of music as a means of
28 Don Michael Randal, ‘The Canons in the Musicological Toolbox,’ in Disciplining Music: Musicology and its
Canons, Katherine Bergeron and Philip V. Bohlman (eds.) (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 10–
22 (13).
29 Cone, ‘The Pianist as Critic,’ 245.
30 Nicholas Cook, A Guide to Musical Analysis (London: J. M. Dent and Sons Ltd, 1987), 225.
31 Daniel Kahneman, Thinking, Fast and Slow (London: Penguin Books, 2011), 3–4.
32 Cook, A Guide, 228.
33 Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meanings of Performance and Listening (Middletown: Wesleyan
University Press, 1998).
6
drawing people together—particularly in an amateur setup, where choirs and instrumental
groups are often made up of people from diverse backgrounds who might not otherwise
interact. This is an immensely powerful and valuable part of our culture.) Second, he claims
that the relationhips in music ‘model the relationships of our world, not as they are but as we
would wish them to be.’34 This is only sometimes true. How, for example, do we reconcile this
view with the normal relationship between the first and second theme in a sonata that Small
describes: the secondary, feminine theme disrupts the ‘logically ordered world’ of the
masculine theme—an expression of male dominance which, in many cases, overcomes the
‘aberrant feminine antagonist.’35 Surely this is not a relationship that we wish continued to
exist.
I would like to suggest that music has the power music to affect, influence, and inform
members of a society, which derives from its immanent content. 36 This view is not new: in
fact, it is a near-constant feature of musical thought throughout civilisation. Plato’s Republic
describes how certain modes can inspire warriors, while others are suitable for those involved
in peaceful voluntary work.37 For a long time, music has been viewed in religious circles as
having the power to inspire someone, as Calvin put it, to ‘praise God with a more vehement
and ardent zeal.’38 Richard Taruskin writes about how the Taliban, Nazis, and Soviets have all
attempted to limit music because of its effect on society.39
In spite of this, most people do not tend to think of music in this way any more. Music
as an agent of social change is a concept foreign to twenty-first century listeners. Lawrence
Kramer writes an account of the New York Philharmonic’s concert in Pyongyang in North
Korea, and expresses the opinion that, if the audience had thought about the implications of
the music in the right way (and if Lorin Maazel, the conductor, had not made several blunders
in his programming and comments), it could have made them think about their state in a new
way.40 Yet it probably did not occur to any of them to think about the music in any other way
than as an interesting event, being the first cultural exchange between North Korea and
America, and I don’t think it would occur to many people in the Western world either.
Why not? Why, if we acknowledge that cultures in the past recognised that, for them,
music could influence thought (or at least express some mode of thought, a difference of
degree, not of kind), do we not view it in this way? I think it is in part because of the
perception in musicological circles of music as an object, whose meaning (if it is allowed at
all that music can have a meaning) is contained in and can be extracted from the text.
I would like to suggest a different viewpoint, one that is essentially a synthesis of
Christopher Small’s view of music as being the sum of relationships between elements of a
musical performance and the view of “new musicologists” that music contains far more
information than a purely musical analysis might reveal. I believe that music is both
34 Ibid.., 50.
35 Ibid., 170.
36 Some may disagree with me, saying that anything that we view as being internal to the music is actually
something that has been conditioned in us, and that any meaning thus comes from outside the music. While I
accept that conditioning is how meaning comes to be understood, I believe that, because the music was
written to be heard in the context of a particular culture, it is assumed that the conditioning has happened, and
thus meaning lies within the work. The notion that the musical work contains no meaning, that the meaning
depends on our own conditioning presupposes that the musical work was created in a vacuum, and that we
experience it differently, because of our conditioning, to how it was intended. This is another example of how
scientific method—which relies on the rejection of conditioning and the attempt to approach an object on its
own terms—can mistakenly be applied to music.
37 Plato, ‘Republic,’ in Source Readings in Music History, revised edn, Oliver Strunk and Leo Treitler (eds)
(New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 1998), 9–18 (10–11).
38 Jean Calvin, ‘Geneva Psalter: Foreword,’ ibid., 364–6 (365).
39 Richard Taruskin, ‘The Danger of Music and the Case for Control,’ in The Danger of Music and Other AntiUtopian Essays (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2009), 168–80 (168–71).
40 Lawrence Kramer, Interpreting Music (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2011), 280–85.
7
expression of the composer’s situation and a means of eliciting the perception of meaning in a
listener. Meaning, for the listener, does not come out of the music and into their
consciousness; rather, their consciousness is aroused by the content of the music. Of course,
the composer’s expression may well inform the listener’s perception of meaning, but it need
not limit it. The listener’s perception of meaning is based on the music itself, informed by the
setting, the performers, and other relationships, as well as the listener’s disposition.
It is clear that two listeners need not perceive the same meaning in the same piece.
Thus, my view of musical meaning rejects the notion of a work of music being a text, relying
on the notion that a work is not well-defined or permanent: meanings can be found in it, rather
than one meaning existing in it, and the potential meanings can change from time to time.
Meaning in this sense cannot be shown to exist. Lawrence Kramer writes that
interpretation is at its best when it lies between the extremes of dogmatism and empricism. 41
In fact, the greatest challenge facing interpretation is dogmatic empiricism: the belief that “if
it can’t be proven, then it cannot be true” being misapplied to art (a belief that has also caused
several of the problems I have outlined above). If musicologists can get away from this, and
engage with the idea that the real power of music lies not in its formal structure, but derives
from its social setting and how a listener perceives its meaning, then it is possible that others
will begin to engage with music in the same way, will consider its potential, and will believe
in its impact. Only if this engagement happens music can be returned to a central place in our
culture.
41 Kramer, Interpreting Music, 3.
8
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