Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Aspects
of
Rhythm
Peter
Nelson
Music,
School
of
Arts,
Culture
and
Environment,
University
of
Edinburgh,
12
Nicolson
Square,
Edinburgh
EH8
9DF,
Scotland.
email:
p.nelson@music.ed.ac.uk
Thinking
about
rhythm
has
been
dominated
by
two
strands
of
enquiry:
on
the
one
hand
is
the
investigation
of
the
notion
of
pulse,
and
the
nature
of
the
repetition
inherent
in
ideas
of
pulse;
on
the
other
hand
is
the
cataloguing
of
rhythmic
patterns,
from
the
lists
of
poetic
feet
found
in
ancient
Greek
treatises
to
the
hierarchical
pattern
structures
proposed
by
Lehrdahl
and
Jackendoff1,
Karlheinz
Stockhausen2
or
Simha
Arom3.
Composers
of
the
Western
tradition
in
the
post-1945
period
often
tried
to
conceive
of
rhythm
in
statistical
terms,
with
regular
pulse,
and
irrationally
related
streams
of
sounds
that
subvert
such
notions
as
pulse
and
pattern,
as
the
two
ends
of
a
continuum.
But
all
of
these
approaches
DRAFT
are
united
by
a
search
for,
or
invention
of
mechanisms:
that
is,
rational
processes
which
can
be
theorized
as
underlying
the
composed
or
performed
phenomena
of
rhythm,
and
which
are
susceptible
to
notation.
Thus
psychological
and
physiological
investigations
of
pulse
look
for
clocks,
within
the
body
and
outside
of
the
body,
and
semiotic
or
grammatical
investigations
of
pattern
look
to
language
and
the
natural
world
for
sources
of
imitation.
Both
of
these
investigative
traditions
could
seem
to
be
in
the
service
of
writing,
and
they
provide
the
dominant
modes
by
which
composers
and
performers
in
a
number
of
traditions
have
developed
their
musical
practices.
While
much
of
the
historical
writing
about
rhythm
has
been
undertaken
by
philosophers
or
music
theorists,
in
the
twentieth
century
a
number
of
important
contributions
have
in
fact
been
made
by
composers.
Both
Olivier
Messiaen4
and
Karlheinz
Stockhausen
produced
highly
influential
theories
of
rhythm,
which
document
aspects
of
their
own
compositional
practices.
Messiaens
contribution
is
based
on
a
catalogue
of
1
Lerdahl,
F.,
and
Jackendoff,
R.
A
Generative
Theory
of
Tonal
Music.
Cambridge,
Mass.:
The
MIT
Press,
1996.
2
Stockhausen,
K.
how
time
passes
in
Die
Reihe
(English
Edition)
3.
Vienna:
Universal
Edition,
1959.
3
Arom,
S.
(trans.
M.
Thom
et
al)
African
Polyphony
and
Polyrhythm:
musical
structure
and
1
patterns,
introducing
ideas
from
Indian
music,
while
Stockhausen
cleverly
extends
the
theory
of
the
harmonic
series
into
the
domain
of
time,
and
thus
rhythm.
However
the
only
really
general
account
is
that
produced
by
Iannis
Xenakis5.
With
his
theories,
of
sieves
on
the
one
hand
and
stochastic
or
indeterminate
probabilities
on
the
other,
he
lays
a
conceptual
foundation
for
the
study
of
rhythm
which
links
both
pulse
and
pattern,
with
clocks
at
one
end
and
imitations
of
random
natural
processes
at
the
other.
John
Cages
contribution
is
more
curious,
since
he
is
the
only
one
who
starts
to
move
away
from
both
pulse
and
pattern
and
considers
instead
the
purely
temporal
perceptions
of
the
listener.
You
might
say
that
his
work,
433
is
stochastic,
in
Xenakis
sense,
imitating
by
actually
presenting
us
with
the
rhythmic
contingencies
of
the
real
world.
But
the
later
works,
which
present
rhythms
as
performer-actions,
to
be
carried
out
only
within
a
given
time-
frame,
are
clearly
informed
by
a
different
conception
of
rhythm,
concerned
with
temporal
perception
rather
than
with
pulse
or
pattern.
The
most
philosophical
of
them
all
of
course
is
Igor
Stravinsky,
who
with
his
pronouncement
that,
Music
is
the
sole
domain
in
which
DRAFT
man
realises
the
present.6
begins
to
address
the
wider
context
within
which
rhythm
actually
has
meaning.
This
is
not
to
say
that
meaning
has
been
ignored
by
other
writers,
and
indeed
some
of
the
earliest
philosophical
fragments
concerning
rhythm
address
the
most
fundamental
matters
of
meaning
and
perception.
Thus
Aeschylos
has
the
captive
Prometheus,
chained
to
a
rock,
exclaim,
echoing
a
fragment
from
Archilochos
(from
two
hundred
years
earlier,
around
700
B.C.),
where
he
strives
to,
Both
of
these
quotations
are
from
the
start
of
Curt
Sachs
monumental
work,
Rhythm
and
Tempo9,
where
he
discusses
the
ways
in
which
the
earliest
theorists
try
to
develop
an
5
Xenakis,
I.
(ed.
S.
Kanach)
Formalized
Music:
thought
and
mathematics
in
composition.
Stuyvesant,
2
understanding
of
rhythm.
Aristoxenos
definition
of
rhythm
as
taxis
chronon,
the
order
of
times,
seems
to
link
with
the
images
of
Aeschylos
and
Archilochos
in
showing
an
understanding
of
the
human
condition
as
being
bound
into
time
as
time
is
bound
into
rhythm.
But
this
still
rather
begs
the
question
as
to
how
rhythm
itself
operates.
Of
these
early
accounts,
Sachs
laments,
The
confusion
is
terrifying
indeed.
It
seems
to
me,
and
to
a
number
of
other
writers,
that
this
confusion
does
not
abate
over
the
succeeding
centuries
of
writing
about
rhythm.
I
will
take
just
one
example
of
this
confusion,
which
is
investigated
at
some
length
by
Simha
Arom
in
his
chapter,
A
Brief
Survey
of
Western
Rhythmics.
In
his
analysis
of
African
polyrhythm,
Arom
is
clearly
in
need
of
some
useful
concepts
and
analytical
methods,
so
he
undertakes
a
brief
but
critical
survey
of
the
theory
and
terminology
current
in
Western
theorizing
of
rhythm.
The
example
I
want
to
consider
concerns
the
notion
of
accent
or
stress.
This
seems
to
me
to
be
a
critical
example
since
it
is
centrally
involved
in
the
writing
of
barred
music
with
which
we
are
at
this
point
in
Western
music
most
familiar.
Stress
and
accent
are
also
critical
to
DRAFT
Arom,
since
the
African,
polyrhythmic
music
which
he
is
investigating
poses
perceptual
problems
for
Western
listeners:
the
flow
of
sound
events
often
seems
reasonably
regular,
yet
the
placing
of
a
regular
downbeat
within
the
flow
is
not
so
obvious.
It
would
seem
to
us
that
an
investigation
of
the
accentual
patterns
within
the
music
might
be
helpful.
Arom
considers
a
number
of
discussions
of
the
idea
of
accent
,
but
it
is
the
work
of
Cooper
and
Meyer10
which
most
clearly
presents
the
problems.
For
those
of
you
not
familiar
with
this
work,
Cooper
and
Meyer
propose
a
very
thorough
methodology
for
the
analysis
of
rhythm
in
Western
Classical
music
which
takes
as
a
basic
assumption
that
there
is
an
accent
on
the
first
beat
of
each
bar.
This
probably
comes
as
no
surprise
to
you,
and
Lehrdahl
and
Jackendoff11,
who
attempt
to
present
a
theory
of
music
which
takes
its
cue
from
Chomskys
theory
of
generative
grammars,
make
exactly
the
same
basic
assumption.
However,
its
clear,
when
you
think
about
it,
that
actually
making
an
accent
on
the
first
beat
of
every
bar
in
performance
is
not
very
musical,
so
Cooper
and
Meyer
are
forced
to
substitute
the
term
stress
to
account
for
the
first-beat-ness
which
gives
what
we
would
call
the
meter
of
the
music.
This
manoeuvre
is
picked
up
by
Arom
as
follows:
9
Sachs,
C.
Rhythm
and
Tempo:
a
study
in
music
history.
London:
Dent,
1953.
10
Cooper,
G.W.
and
L.B.
Meyer.
The
Rhythmic
Structure
of
Music.
Chicago:
The
University
of
3
Two
questions
now
arise.
First,
what
is
the
difference
between
stress
and
accent
when
both
fall
on
the
first
beat
in
a
measure?
Then,
if
stress
on
a
weak
beat
does
not
accent
it,
though
it
does
involve
a
dynamic
intensification,
how
is
it
perceptible?
The
problem
becomes
even
more
complicated
when
Cooper
and
Meyer
turn
to
the
causes
of
accentuation.
After
emphasizing
that
definitions
should
be
free
of
ambiguity,
they
write,
Though
the
concept
of
accent
is
obviously
of
central
importance
in
the
theory
and
analysis
of
rhythm,
an
ultimate
definition
in
terms
of
psychological
causes
does
not
seem
possible
with
our
present
knowledge.
That
is,
one
cannot
at
present
state
unequivocally
what
makes
one
tone
seem
accented
and
another
not
In
short,
since
accent
appears
to
be
a
product
of
a
number
of
variables
whose
interaction
is
not
precisely
known,
it
must
for
our
purposes
remain
a
basic,
axiomatic
concept
which
is
understandable
as
experience
but
undefined
in
terms
of
causes.
DRAFT
This
brings
us
back
to
the
question
raised
above:
since
an
accent
can
only
be
perceived
by
contrast
with
unaccented,
and
stress
is
defined
as
dynamic
intensification
what
is
the
difference
between
them?12
I
think
there
is
an
answer
to
this
question,
but
like
many
of
the
problems
which
arise
in
the
literature
on
rhythm,
I
think
it
is
not
susceptible
to
an
answer
within
the
confines
set
for
this
whole
discussion.
Indeed
it
is
not
until
Simon
Friths
two
extraordinary
chapters
on
rhythm
in
his
book,
Performing
Rites13,
that
the
curious
blindness
which
has
afflicted
most
other
accounts
of
rhythm
becomes
apparent.
The
crucial
moment
of
Friths
insight,
which
I
think
has
huge
implications
for
the
actual
creative
work
of
composition,
is
the
changing
of
the
question,
from
how
does
rhythm
work
to
the
much
more
challenging,
yet
also
much
more
fruitful
question,
what
is
rhythm
for?
Now
Im
not
going
to
rehearse
here
what
Frith
says:
anyone
who
has
not
read
Performing
Rites
really
has
to
read
it.
But
the
realization
that
there
is
another
approach;
another
context
for
discussions
of
rhythm,
instantly
reveals
another
literature,
not
so
obviously
to
hand
but
perhaps
containing
possibilities
for
breaking
out
of
some
of
the
impasses
that
conventional
rhythm
theory
presents
us
with.
To
return
to
the
confusion
of
12
Arom,
S.
op.
cit.
pps
187-188.
13
Frith,
S.
Performing
Rites:
evaluating
popular
music.
Oxford:
Oxford
University
Press,
1996.
4
terms
which
so
concerns
Arom,
and
which
in
the
end
leads
him
to
the
conclusion
that
even
such
a
fundamental,
theoretical
property
of
rhythm
as
meter
does
not
actually
exist,
once
one
changes
the
question
not
how
does
it
work?
but
what
is
it
for?,
other
possible
explanations
for
our
actual
rhythmic
practice
start
to
raise
their
heads.
The
notions
of
stress
and
accent
which
are
so
crucial
to
the
notation
of
the
bar-line
definitely
pose
problems
for
composers,
for
performers
and
for
thinking
about
rhythm.
One
interesting
way
of
at
least
thinking
about
these
problems
is
provided
by
the
French
psychologist,
Gaston
Bachelard,
in
his
book,
The
Dialectic
of
Duration14.
Bachelard
is
a
follower
of
the
great
French
philosopher,
Henri
Bergson,
and
this
book
attempts
to
show
that
the
perception
of
duration,
one
of
Bergsons
main
themes,
is
subject
to
a
dialectic
or
duality.
So
Bachelard
identifies
Bergsons
philosophy
as
what
he
calls,
a
philosophy
of
plenitude
time
and
experience
for
him
are
full.
Bachelard
argues
for
a
sort
of
psychological
duel
between
fullness
and
emptiness,
where
the
moments
of
fullness
have
special
meaning
for
us,
and
we
have
to
work
at
them.
However
Bachelard
is
concerned
not
DRAFT
just
with
the
internals
of
individual
psychology
but
also
with
the
connections
and
social
implications
of
communal
perception,
and
moments
where
we
have
a
communal
sense
of
fullness.
The
passage
I
find
interesting
is
as
follows:
(But)
the
equalisation
of
timing
is
already
one
of
the
great
tasks
of
relational
psychology.
When
one
has
effected
this
synchronisation,
that
is
to
say,
when
one
has
put
precisely
together
two
superpositions
of
two
different
psyches,
one
sees
that
one
has
almost
all
the
attributes
of
physical
adhesive
bonding.
The
time
of
thought
marks
thought
profoundly.
Perhaps
one
is
not
thinking
the
same
thing,
but
one
thinks
something
at
the
same
time.
What
a
union!
[my
translation]
The
beat
acts
as
a
signal,
not
as
a
mere
duration.
It
binds
into
coincidences,
binds
rhythms
into
instants
that
will
stand
out.15
This
last
comment
is
so
striking
that
Simha
Arom
uses
it
as
an
epigraph
for
his
chapter
on
western
rhythmics,
and
its
strange
he
doesnt
really
pick
up
on
its
implications
for
his
14
Bachelard,
G.
La
Dialectique
de
la
Dure.
Paris:
Boivin
&
Cie
,
1936.
15
quoted
in:
Arom,
S.
op.
cit.
5
discussion.
If
the
beat
after
the
barline
cannot
really
be
a
moment
of
stress,
or
accent,
it
is
clearly
the
moment
for
performers
at
which
we
know
we
are
together.
Perhaps
..
not
thinking
the
same
thing,
but
(thinking)
something
at
the
same
time.
It
proposes
one
of
the
essential
moments
of
rhythm
as
a
moment
of
social
integration,
and
as
Simon
Frith
so
clearly
shows
us,
social
integration
is
one
of
the
things
that
rhythm
is
for.
DRAFT
being
played
by
the
clubs
orchestra
is
not
music
at
all
because
every
couple
of
beats
has
a
bit
missing.
If
one
simply
substitutes
this
notion
of
pulse
as
a
sort
of
theoretical
clock
measurement
with
Bachelards
notion
of
the
beat
as
signal,
one
can
happily
theorise
the
socially
integrating
effect
of
both
kinds
of
pulse
practice.
For
Sachs,
and
for
his
Egyptian
friends,
the
thinking
together
which
constitutes
the
beat
as
signal
simply
happens
at
a
different
moment.
Each
is
subject
to
exactly
the
same
regularities
of
memory
and
protension,
but
within
a
social,
culturally
defined
environment.
In
this
reading,
even
foot-
tapping
becomes
not
a
natural
physiological
function,
but
a
social
physiological
function,
capable
of
different
meanings
and
different
inclinations
to
the
purpose
of
the
beat.
Simon
Frith
is
again
the
cue
here,
when
he
quotes
Ruth
Finnegans
study
of
African
oral
poetry,
where
she
says,
16
Sachs,
C.
op.
cit.
p.?
17
Frith,
S.
op.
cit.
p.132
6
musical
rhythm
is
as
much
a
mental
as
a
physical
matter;
deciding
when
to
play
a
note
is
as
much
a
matter
of
thought
as
deciding
what
note
to
play
(and
in
practice,
such
decisions
are
not
separable
anyway).
A
moments
thought
will
convince
us
that
this
is
as
true
for
a
jazz
solo
as
it
is
for
a
Chopin
melody,
and
that
binding
a
culturally
primed
audience
into
the
beat
as
signal
is
as
crucial
as
agreeing
with
our
co-performers.
One
might
add
that
with
a
metronomic
notion
of
beat
there
is
of
course
no
decision
to
be
made;
one
has
to
play
with
the
tick,
and
the
actual,
practical
difficulty
of
this
seems
to
confirm
both
Frith
and
Bachelard:
we
really
need
to
be
able
to
decide
when
to
play
the
note,
and
our
being
in
or
out
of
time
can
only
be
decided
by
our
co-musicians
performers
or
listeners
not
by
a
clock
measurement.
DRAFT
to
many
psychologists
and
musicians,
but
in
parenthesis
I
have
to
say
that
the
implications
of
this
have
not
yet
had
much
significant
impact
on
the
business
of
creating
or
composing
music.)
So
Colwyn
Trevarthens
definition
of
what
he
calls,
the
intrinsic
motive
pulse
gives
a
hugely
convincing
account
of
the
beginnings
of
this
situation
in
mother-infant
interaction.
Just
to
complete
the
discussion
of
pulse,
beat
and
accent,
it
is
worth
remembering
exactly
what
Trevarthen
says:
Pulse
is
the
regular
succession
of
discrete
behavioural
events
through
time,
vocal
or
gestural,
the
production
and
perception
of
these
behaviours
being
the
process
through
which
two
or
more
people
may
co-ordinate
their
communication,
spend
time
together,
and
by
which
we
may
anticipate
what
might
happen
and
when
it
might
happen.18
This
seems
to
accord,
roughly
speaking,
with
Bachelard,
and
although
the
word
regular
gives
more
than
a
nod
towards
clock-time
measurements,
the
communicative
priority
tied
into
rhythmic
activity
seems
to
give
us
a
basis
for
the
slight
change
in
perspective
I
have
been
discussing.
18
Trevarthen,
C.
&
S.
Malloch.
Musicality:
Communicating
the
Vitality
and
Interests
of
Life
in
Malloch,
S.
&
C.
Trevarthen
(eds)
Communicative
Musicality:
Exploring
the
Basis
of
Human
Companionship.
Oxford:
Oxford
University
Press,
2009.
7
Arom
describes
the
phenomenon
thus:
emergent
music
takes
place
when
a
mother
seeks
to
pacify
a
crying
baby,
During
those
brief
intervals
in
which
the
baby
catches
its
breath,
the
mother
punctuates
its
crying
with
a
meaningless
syllable,
an
o.
Little
by
little
,
a
dialogue
is
set
up
between
cries
and
responses,
This
also
represents
a
sort
of
unconscious
musical
socialisation,
the
first
stage
in
the
future
musicians
apprenticeship
thus
beginning
at
the
earliest
possible
age.19
DRAFT
rhythmic
practices,
but
I
will
come
to
that
in
a
moment.
So
in
his
discussion
of
African
musical
culture,
Frith,
citing
the
work
of
the
ethnomusicologist
John
Chernoff,
notes
that
in
polyrhythmic
music
the
social
participants,
resist
the
tendency
to
fuse
the
parts,
or
more
precisely,
The
music
is
perhaps
best
considered
as
an
arrangement
of
gaps
where
one
may
add
a
rhythm,
rather
than
as
a
dense
pattern
of
sound.
This
is
a
sort
of
opposite
of
the
beat
as
signal
for
unanimity,
where
the
rhythms
of
each
participant
as
in
the
mother/infant
interactions
I
just
described
leave
spaces
for
the
presence
of
others.
One
can
see
a
clear
example
of
another
social
relationship
attached
to
this
rhythmic
structure
in
an
eastern
European
tradition
related
to
matchmaking.
When
a
match
is
made,
the
matched
couple
are
given
a
bed-sheet
to
shake
out
and
fold.
If
the
collaborative
rhythmic
interaction
is
judged
to
be
good,
the
match
will
go
ahead;
if
not,
the
matchmaker
thinks
again.
One
presumes
there
is
a
variety
of
rhythms
in
which
one
can
shake
a
bed-sheet.
Im
going
over
again
what
I
think
is
probably
rather
old
ground
by
now,
because
I
want
to
fully
disclose
a
change
of
emphasis
I
have
come
to
value.
In
all
the
discussions
of
19
Arom,
S.
op.
cit.
pps
9-10
8
mother/infant
interaction
in
which
I
have
been
involved,
music
has
been
called
on
as
an
explanation,
or
a
means
of
describing
and
accounting
for
certain
phenomena.
After
all,
musicians
know
how
to
talk
about
rhythm.
But
it
is
only
now
that
I
am
beginning
to
see
what
the
reverse;
the
implications
this
has
for
music
and
how
we
perceive
it.
Simon
Friths
account
of
the
way
rhythm
works
is
both
similar
to
that
of
Simha
Arom
and
others,
and
also
profoundly
different
in
aspect.
What
Frith
succeeds
in
doing
is
actually
to
change
the
whole
context
of
the
musical
discussion
of
rhythm,
to
show
not
just
what
rhythm
is
for,
but
how
it
does
what
it
is
for
in
sophisticated,
grown-up
social
situations,
and
how
the
implications
of
this
change
of
viewpoint
impact
on
our
aesthetic
and
categorical
judgements
about
music.
Of
course
he
does
this
in
pursuit
of
his
own,
fascinating
account
of
the
ways
in
which
different
sorts
of
music
collide
and
interact.
But
it
seems
to
me
that
this
change
in
understanding
can
actually
make
us
listen
differently,
and
certainly,
for
me,
raises
new
ways
of
thinking
about
composing
music.
DRAFT
One
of
the
things
one
would
have
to
relate
about
music
that
attempts
to
play
with
the
social
roles
inherent
in
any
culturally
specific
rhythmic
practice,
is
that,
however
traditional
the
musical
materials,
it
turns
out
to
be
rather
hard
to
actually
perform.
And
I
dont
mean
hard
to
perform
in
the
way
that
the
complex
rhythms
of
Modernist
composers
can
be
hard
to
play.
A
pianist
friend
of
mine
told
me
an
interesting
story
about
rehearsing
a
piece
by
Iannis
Xenakis
for
a
recording
he
was
making.
The
piece
was
for
violin
and
piano,
and
the
violinist
was
a
very
famous
one;
a
specialist
in
this
repertoire.
My
friend
said
that
throughout
the
rehearsal
there
was
one
point
where
he
played
just
after
the
violinist,
and
the
violinist
would
stop
and
say,
no,
we
should
be
together
there,
but
still
after
several
attempts
the
coincidence
did
not
happen.
Eventually
they
had
to
take
the
score
and
calculate
just
exactly
where
all
the
beats
came;
at
which
point
they
discovered
that
they
had
been
playing
it
correctly
all
along.
The
point
of
the
story,
as
it
was
told
to
me,
was
that
the
violinist
had
already
made
several
recordings
of
this
piece
where
the
violin
and
piano
were
together
at
that
point
hence
his
confusion,
but
my
point
is
that
the
difficulty
they
were
encountering
was
of
an
entirely
different
type
to
the
difficulties
posed
by
a
changed
perspective
of
social
interaction.
It
is
not
necessarily
hard
to
play
or
co-
ordinate
such
rhythms,
as
alignments.
It
is
hard
to
play
them
as
social
agreements.
The
moments
where
the
beat
is
a
sign
come
in
different
places
in
the
different
parts.
These
differences
are
disorientating
for
the
performers,
who
want
to
be
together,
and
this
says
9
something
about
the
normal
possibilities
for
negotiating
rhythmic
relationships
in
a
particular
cultural
setting.
Complex
rhythmic
parts
are
difficult
to
master,
but
if
the
ethos
is
coincidence
even
at
irregular
places
the
social
interrelations
are
different
to
where
each
part
makes
a
space
for
the
other
to
inhabit
with
its
own
regularities.
Ill
take
one
final
step
in
this
discussion
by
giving
an
example
of
what
Curt
Sachs
terms
non-adaption.
Of
non-adaption,
he
says,
The
example
he
gives
is
from
the
music
of
the
Chippewa
or
Ojibwe
people
of
North
America,
of
which
he
relates,
One of the most unexpected experiences is to hear the regular drumbeat of the
DRAFT
accompanist
follow
a
tempo
entirely
different
from
that
of
the
voice.
In
one
song
of
the
Chippewa,
the
singer
would
proceed,
say,
in
quarter
notes
of
M.M.
168,
and
the
drummer,
much
more
slowly,
in
M.M.
104.
Or
the
other
way
round,
(this)
testifies
to
a
more
or
less
total
independence
of
the
two
media
and
their
perception.
Perhaps
this
independence
is
similar
to
that
found
in
our
own
church
services,
where
we
not
dream
of
co-ordinating
the
organ
and
the
choir
inside
the
church
with
the
bells
above.
However,
at
the
risk
of
cultural
inaccuracy,
though
with
no
bad
intentions,
I
might
say
that
the
image
for
me
is
more
reminiscent
of
the
relationship
between
human
sounds
and
non-
human
sounds.
All
the
accounts
of
rhythm
I
have
discussed
use
rhythm
to
relate
people,
yet
it
is
clear
that
we
also
have
to
relate
to
the
world
we
live
in,
and
the
image
of
a
human
voice
going
alongside
a
pulse
to
which
it
bears
no
calculated
relation
seems
a
powerful
one.
In
a
similar
vein
one
might
cite
the
piece,
Seiltanz
(Tight-rope
dance)
by
Hans-
Joachim
Hespos,
where
instrumental
music
is
performed
as
a
performer
cuts
their
way
out
20
Sachs,
C.
op.cit.
p.43
10
of
a
metal
tank
with
an
oxyacetylene
torch.
And
this,
post-industrial
imagery,
also
goes
neatly
with
contemporary
notions
of
Critical
Post-humanism,
where
the
music
we
make
might
go
alongside,
rather
than
merely
imitate,
the
sounds
of
the
animals
with
whom
we
share
the
planet
Im
thinking
here
of
the
gentle
singing
of
Joseph
Beuys
during
his
Action
Piece,
I
Like
America
and
America
Likes
Me,
where
he
shared
his
living
space
for
three
days
with
a
wild
coyote,
or
indeed
Paul
McCartneys
song,
Blackbird,
where
he
actually
duets
with
a
recording
of
the
bird.
However,
if
one
can
consider
music
as
a
set
of
rhythmic,
social
interactions,
one
cannot
forget
the
importance
of
the
audience
in
the
rhythmic
equation;
so
the
last
thing
I
DRAFT
want
to
consider
is
the
audience
of
music.
Arom,
in
his
book
on
African
Polyrhythm,
clearly
sets
out
one
of
the
common
viewpoints
on
the
nature
of
the
music-audience
relationship.
At
the
conclusion
of
his
introductory
essay,
he
remarks:
This
characterisation
of
the
audience
in
Western
music
culture
as
passive
has
a
long
history,
and
not
just
with
ethnomusicologists
or
critics
of
classical
music:
Bertolt
Brecht,
for
example
describes
the
audience
at
an
orchestral
concert
as,
While
I
think
I
know
what
he
means,
I
dont
really
believe
that
these
descriptions
do
justice
to
the
realities
of
the
situations
they
try
to
describe.
I
could
acknowledge
here
that
the
idea,
that
just
listening
to
music
is
somehow
superior
to,
say,
dancing
to
music,
is
clearly
ridiculous.
Some
of
the
weight
behind
the
critics
of
so-called
audience
passivity
might
be
rightful
indignation
at
a
sort
of
unnecessary,
but
nevertheless
existent,
cultural
11
snobbery.
But
there
are
situations
where
people
do
just
listen
to
music,
and
it
seems
to
me
to
be
dangerous
to
judge
the
internal
dynamics
of
such
a
situation
by
its
appearance.
If
people
do
just
listen,
what
do
they
get
out
of
it?
Simon
Frith
is
absolutely
clear
on
this
matter,
and
at
the
start
of
Performing
Rites
second
chapter
on
rhythm,
he
states
with
echoes
of
Igor
Stravinsky:
I
think
I
completely
agree
with
this,
and
I
find
the
discussion
and
elucidation
of
this
thought
through
the
rest
of
the
chapter
totally
compelling.
So
with
that
in
mind,
I
suppose
my
thought
as
a
composer
is,
what
is
this
audience
present
at?
Now
there
is
a
strong
and
clear
injunction
in
all
areas
of
creative
work
that
thinking
about
the
audience
is
a
bad
idea.
It
can
lead
to
the
wrong
sorts
of
decisions,
and
anyway
characterises
the
audience
as
a
group
of
people
who
need
to
be
looked
after
and
thought
about,
when
their
own
view
is
likely
that
they
are
quite
capable
of
looking
after
themselves,
and
would
judge
badly
any
DRAFT
obvious
attempt
to
play
up
to
them.
What
Im
describing
here
is
a
bunch
of
people
who
do
not
shape
up
as
very
passive,
even
if
their
mode
of
engagement
is
rapt
attention.
What
are
they
attending
to?
In his essay, Form, Substance and Difference, Gregory Bateson says the following:
Blake
noted
that
A
tear
is
an
intellectual
thing,
and
Pascal
asserted
that
The
heart
has
its
reasons
of
which
the
reason
knows
nothing.
We
need
not
be
put
off
by
the
fact
that
the
reasonings
of
the
heart
(or
of
the
hypothalamus)
are
accompanied
by
sensations
of
joy
or
grief.
These
computations
are
concerned
with
matters
which
are
vital
to
mammals,
namely,
matters
of
relationship,
by
which
I
mean
love,
hate,
respect,
dependency,
spectatorship,
performance,
dominance,
and
so
on.
These
are
central
to
the
life
of
any
mammal
and
I
see
no
objection
to
calling
these
computations
thought,
though
certainly
the
units
of
relational
computation
are
different
from
the
units
which
we
use
to
compute
about
isolable
things.21
21
Bateson,
G.
Form,
Substance
and
Difference
in
Steps
to
an
Ecology
of
Mind.
Chicago,
London:
The
12
This
passage
has
significance
for
me
in
a
number
of
ways:
first
because
it
effortlessly
attaches
emotion
to
computation,
second
because
it
proposes
performance
and
spectatorship
as
two
of
the
defining
moments
of
what
it
is
to
be
a
mammal
in
our
cases,
to
be
a
human.
And
we
have
already
seen
how
a
rhythmic
interlacing
of
performance
and
spectating
can
happen
at
fast
tempos,
enacting
intense
human
relationships
of
varying
sorts
Bateson
also
has
many
examples.
My
favourite
is
dogs
saying
the
opposite
of
what
they
mean
in
order
to
show
that
they
mean
the
opposite
of
what
they
say.
Thus,
two
dogs
meet,
snarl
at
one
another
and
bare
their
fangs,
tussle
with
one
another
as
a
demonstration
that
the
signal
of
attack
is
not
for
real,
and
then
become
friendly.
This
is
a
timed
and
rhythmic
performance,
and
is
example
just
to
say
that
the
mammalian
understanding
of
relationships
is
sophisticated,
and
spectating
is
a
real
sort
of
engagement.
Batesons
essay
is
actually
about
the
ecological
relationship
of
humans
with
the
world
they
live
in,
and
though
he
doesnt
go
into
it,
it
seems
that
performance
and
spectating
(as
well
as
love,
hate
and
all
the
rest)
also
get
enacted
between
us
and
the
DRAFT
physical
world.
I
think
that
man
had
to
cry
out,
that
man
had
to
sing
...
but
that
man,
probably,
did
not
perceive
music
until
it
had
passed
onto
an
instrument,
even
if
that
was
a
stone,
or
a
skin
stretched
on
a
gourd.
Probably
man
needed
to
go
outside
of
himself,
to
have
another
object:
an
instrument,
a
machine.22
If
the
notion
of
the
instrument
is
central
to
music,
this
image
of
the
musician
leaves
us
with
the
important
matter
of
characterising
the
precise
relationship
between
the
human
and
the
other
thing
that
makes
the
sound.
The
binding
links
are
breath
and
touch,
and
Schaeffer
clearly
proposes
a
relationship
which
is
balanced,
rhythmic
and
communicative,
rather
than
one
based
on
control
and
domination.
Schaeffer
further
presents
a
22
Schaeffer,
P.
A
propos
des
ordinateurs.
In
La
Revue
Musicale,
214-215.
Paris,
1971.
(this
authors
translation)
13
refreshingly
non-dualistic
and
indeed
tactile
aspect
to
human
thought
itself
when
he
continues,
I
will
say
that
while
we
are
listening
to
music,
we
must
always
ask
ourselves
how
it
is
made.
We
listen
to
music
with
our
hands.23
In
the
same
way,
I
would
like
to
say,
following
Bateson,
that
we
also
listen
to
the
rhythmic
interplays
of
music
with
our
sense
of
mammalian
social
interaction.
In
rhythms,
we
hear
relationships
being
played
out,
not
symbolically
in
Wagnerian
leitmotifs
but
actually:
between
one
player
and
another,
between
each
player
and
their
instrument.
What
we
are
present
at,
and
attentive
to
is
an
interplay
which
is
now,
which
is
why
it
is
fascinating,
rather
a
representation
of
something
imaginary.
The
proper
power
of
music
lies
in
its
social
and
relational
dynamics,
and
these
are
not
abstract
strategies
but
real
material
as
we
say
in
the
trade.
I
think
these
are
fascinating,
and
potentially
fruitful
areas
for
creative
invention
and
discovery.
DRAFT
23
Schaeffer,
P.
ibid.
14