Abstract

Playing to Win:

A Cultural Sociology of the International Music Competition

by

Lisa Lorraine Helen McCormick

2008

Performance is a key issue in cultural sociology. This concept has been central to theories

of social action from Parsons' role theory to Goffman's dramaturgical metaphor. But it

has remained under-developed in the study of cultural forms, even performing arts such

as music. In this study, I develop a theory of music as a mode of social performance that

builds on cultural pragmatics and the performative turn in musicology. This new

theoretical framework is elaborated through the empirical study of international music

competitions in the world of classical music. Despite their proliferation and the ongoing

controversy over their function, music competitions have been neglected by sociologists.

I investigate this institution from several angles using a combination of qualitative

methods. Through the ethnographic observation of five case studies on three continents,

in-depth interviews with participants, and discourse analysis of media coverage, publicity

materials, and online forums, I analyze the representation and interpretation of

competitions in the public sphere, the social construction of competitors, the presentation

of musical self, the moral basis of aesthetic judgment, and the cultural contradictions of

the musical public. I argue that music competitions are of great consequence not only

because they control the distribution of symbolic capital in the music world, but also
because they provide a public forum where competing meanings, ideals, and cultural

commitments are negotiated. This study ultimately shows that theories of performance

need to be attentive to the organizational and institutional settings that provide resources

for their accomplishment.

 Playing to Win:
A Cultural Sociology of the International Music Competition

A Dissertation
Presented to the Faculty of the Graduate School
of
Yale University
in Candidacy for the Degree of
Doctor of Philosophy

by
Lisa Lorraine Helen McCormick

Dissertation Director: Jeffrey C. Alexander

December 2008
 UMI Number: 3342731

Copyright 2008 by
McCormick, Lisa Lorraine Helen

All rights reserved.

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements 7

Chapter 1: Introduction 9

Chapter 2: The International Music Competition: Cases, theory, and method 37

Chapter 3: Representations of the International Music Competition 104

Chapter 4: The Presentation of Musical Self 137

Chapter 5: A Musical Public 192

References 223
List of Tables, Boxes, and Figures

Tables

Table 2.1: Case study competitions 66

Table 2.2: Breakdown of formal interviews collected 99
Table 3.1: Sacred and profane narratives of international music competitions 132
Table 5.1: Adorno's typology of listeners 195
Table 5.2: Adorno's typology reconsidered 205

Boxes and Figures

Box 2.1: Repertoire list for the 2005 Rostropovich Competition 49

Box 5.1: The musical code 217

Figure 2.1: Brochure for the 1977 Van Cliburn Competition Ill
 Acknowledgem ents

First and foremost, I would like to thank the members of my committee. I have

benefitted greatly from Jeffrey Alexander's guidance, Philip Smith's intellectual prowess,

and Ron Eyerman's enthusiasm for a theoretically robust sociology of the arts. As these

pages will show, Tia DeNora has also been a major influence in my work. Her creativity

and generosity are truly unmatched. Ron Jacobs and Georgina Born were kind enough to

read portions of my work at an early stage, and I have tried my best to respond to their

insightful interventions. I have been fortunate to belong to two intellectual communities

dedicated to all the things I care about. My colleagues at the Center for Cultural

Sociology at Yale University (especially Julia Zhang and Nadya Jaworsky) and the

SocArts group at Exeter University (especially Sophia Acord, Arild Berg, and Ian

Sutherland) have taught me a great deal. This project bears the imprint of my early

mentors from Rice University at the most fundamental level. Bill Martin awakened my

sociological imagination and sensitized me to the craft of writing. Norman Fischer was

inspirational both through his artistry and in his unfaltering commitment to musical

values.

I am very grateful to the competition organizations that tolerated my sociological

gaze and provided me with the access and materials I needed. Richard Rodzinski and

Sevan Melikyan of the Cliburn, Anne Rodda of the Michael Hill, Eric de Gelis and

Laurence Langou from CIVP, Steve McHolm and Julie Wright from the Honens, and

Barry Shiffman and Ken Murphy from BISQC were invaluable resources. Laura Ruede

provided expert assistance in navigating the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition
Archive at Texas Christian University. Denise Mail, Robert Ford and Madeleine

Midgley, and Al and Jacqui Randall were kind enough to open their homes to this

itinerant scholar.

I am blessed to have had the support of friends and family throughout this project.

Inna Faliks has never backed away from correcting me or disagreeing with my

arguments, and my work is much better for it. Every step of the way, my parents have

given unlimited assistance of every kind, for which I am eternally grateful. If a greater

debt exists, it is to those I cannot name, the competition participants who took the time to

share their experiences and ideas with me.

 Chapter 1; Introduction

Music is a performing art. It is organized sound that is perceived to unfold not in

space but in time (Boorman 1999:29). As Benjamin Britten (1999) once said, "music

does not exist in a vacuum. It does not exist until it is performed" (p. 177). And yet one

seldom gets this impression from the literature in the sociology of music. The problem is

not that performers have somehow been overlooked. An abundance of empirical studies

analyzes musicians in their social contexts across an impressive range of genres. The

conspicuous absence, rather, is the issue of performance. This concept has been central to

social theories of action from Parsons' role theory to Goffman's dramaturgical metaphor,

as well as postmodern theories of gender. Yet it remains curiously underdeveloped in the

study of cultural forms, even performing arts such as music.

My contention is that this is not an oversight, but a symptom of a more

fundamental theoretical problem. Since Adorno, scholarship in the sociology of music

has been dominated by an economic framework. The "production/consumption

paradigm" has afforded insights into certain aspects of music-making, but it is not

without its limitations. In my view, the major shortcoming of this framework is that it

misconstrues music as a static object that is produced or consumed, rather than a dynamic

and inherently social process.

The aim of this chapter is to understand how the field arrived at the current state

of affairs. To begin, I will elaborate a number of factors, some historical, and some

disciplinary, that have contributed to sociologists' neglect of music's performativity.

Then I will move on to trace the history of the production/consumption paradigm,

showing the shift in nuance and meaning as it is handed on from Adorno to Bourdieu and
 10

across the ocean to the American proponents of the "production of culture" perspective.

In an attempt to transcend this problematic framework, I offer an overview of the

literature through an alternative categorization based on the presumed definition of

music. Through a discussion of these categories, I demonstrate the need for an approach

that addresses music as a symbolic action, and conclude by laying the groundwork for a

new perspective based on the theory of social performance.

THE ROLE OF THE PERFORMER IN MUSIC HISTORY

In the Western art music tradition, performers occupy an ambiguous position.

They are often charismatic figures, celebrated for phenomenal technical skill, revered and

feared for their power to engage the emotions of an audience. But in scholarship and in

the popular imagination, the ultimate creator of music is the composer, and the musical

work takes precedence over any of its realizations. Accordingly, the composer enjoys an

elevated status while the performer's contribution to music-making is seen as vital but

ancillary. This ambiguity is reflected in the two common characterizations of the

performer. In the first, she is seen as the composer's "ambassador" while in the second

she is a keystone in the interdependent, triarchical relationship between composer,

performer and listener (Dunsby 2004). For better or for worse, the former has been the

more dominant view for the last two hundred years (see Taruskin 1995).

As ambassador, the performer is never beyond suspicion. The composer's

reluctance to entrust his music to someone else can never be entirely extinguished

because his intentions are inevitably at the mercy of the performer's interpretive freedom.
 11

Unless he can perform the music himself1 or master a technology that can bypass the

performer, the composer must accept his dependence on others to realize the score and

shoulder the risk of misrepresentation. Stravinsky (2003 [1942]) argued that this situation

of dependence distinguished music from the visual arts:

[I]n contrast to the craftsman of the plastic arts, whose finished work is
presented to the public eye in an always identical form, the composer runs
a perilous risk every time his music is played, since the competent
presentation of his work each time depends on the unforeseeable and
imponderable factors that go to make up the virtues of fidelity, and
sympathy, without which the work will be unrecognizable on one
occasion, inert on another, and in any case betrayed, (p. 123)

The problem is not just the contingency of live performance, but the uncertainty that a

performer will portray musical ideas "accurately", that is, as the composer had conceived

them. Two hundred years earlier, C.P.E. Bach made a similar observation in his treatise

on keyboard playing: "What comprises good performance? The ability through singing or

playing to make the ear conscious of the true content and affect of a composition. Any

passage can be so radically changed by modifying its performance that it will be barely

recognizable" (Bach 1753 quoted in Dunsby 2004). In other words, the performer has the

power not only to convey musical meaning, but also to transform it. But while both Bach

and Stravinsky were pointing to the decisive role of the performer, the overtones are quite

different because they reflect the musical culture of the author's time. For Bach, who was

writing for amateur musicians, the alteration of musical meaning revealed an

underdeveloped taste or an imperfect technique. For Stravinsky, it amounted to a personal

1
When the composer does perform his or her music, it rarely resolves this issue. Twentieth century
recording technology has revealed that composers can have strikingly different interpretations of the same
piece on separate occasions. It is also common for composers to endorse others' interpretations as superior
to their own efforts, even when these blatantly depart from markings in the score.
 12

betrayal and a dearth of virtue. But for both it remains a problem because the integrity of

musical meaning could be undermined.

The development of increasingly specific performance instructions can be

understood as an attempt by composers to extend control over the conditions of

performance. Precise notation helps reduce the chance of misrepresentation by

minimizing ambiguity in the score. In the most extreme cases, nearly every note is

marked with an articulation or expression, as we see in some scores by Webern or

Boulez. But these are only the more recent manifestations of a trend that has been

evolving gradually over the centuries. One of the more striking early examples is J.S.

Bach's keyboard music. He was chided by his contemporaries for carefully writing out

ornamentation in the greatest detail when preparing pieces for publication, a practice they

found unnecessary and even insulting. Beethoven took this trend a step further when he

used the Maelzel metronome, a brand new invention in his day, to provide more precise

indication of tempi. A few generations later, Mahler was crafting orchestral scores with

directions so specific that he would indicate the string on which a violin passage should

be played, where a slide should be audible between notes, and how many desks of the

violin section should play a particular passage.

But musical texts are rarely transmitted purely through the literate form. Even in

the Western art music tradition, where the written text has considerable authority,

composers and editors inscribe scores with the knowledge that these will to some degree

be supplemented with oral transmission, which conveys practices and conventions

through live performance (Boorman 1999). The composer can also incorporate verbal

instructions. Most of the time these are expressed informally in conversation, but
 13

occasionally, they are written down in personal communications. For instance, W.A.

Mozart included a letter with the commissioned piano sonata (K. 457) to explain the logic

behind his unconventional compositional choices. Today, in an era when everyone writes

for posterity, the common practice is to include a "note to the performer" as a preface to

the score.

No matter how precise the markings or how detailed the verbal instructions,

however, some ambiguity will always remain. Musical notation is by nature an imperfect

mode of communication. It is notoriously imprecise, and should never be mistaken for

the musical work: "the text carries no more than the minimal necessary information for a

new performance. It is not the composition itself (Boorman 1999:406). Composers are

acutely aware of this limitation. Some (e.g., Britten and LutosDawski) see this is as a

blessing and explore its possibilities in their compositional practice. Others, like

Stravinsky (2003 [1942]), see it as a curse:

[N]o matter how carefully it may be insured against every possible

ambiguity through the indications of tempo, shading, phrasing,
accentuation, and so on, it always contains hidden elements that defy
definition, because the verbal dialectic is powerless to define musical
dialectic in its totality, (p. 123)

The interpretive freedom of the performer poses less of a threat when music is

performed by those in the composer's circle of influence, or when he participates in the

performance. This continues to be the practice in many popular music genres, but in

Western art music, historical masterworks have come to dominate the repertory. Until

well into the 18th century, however, art music was written for particular occasions and not

for posterity, and like popular musics today, it was a rare and significant honour for a

composer's music to be played after his death. In such a musical culture, composers were
 14

never too far removed from performance because it was one of many interrelated aspects

of their professional lives. The most famous figures of this era, such as J.S. Bach, Joseph

Haydn and W.A. Mozart, made their living as church music directors or court musicians.

Duties in this position included the composition of new pieces for specific occasions, but

also the rehearsal and direction of performances in that venue.2 When the composer is

near at hand, the burden on notation is reduced; it functions more as a memory aid than a

medium of communication.

This less-differentiated musical culture was also reflected in the compositional

styles of the time. In the Baroque and early Classical period, scores were more suggestive

than authoritative. Notation systems and musical forms allowed ample room for

improvisation. For example, basso continuo (the bass line for ensemble music of all

kinds) was written using the manner of notation called "figured bass" which used figures

and other signs to indicate the harmonies implied, stated, or required in other voices (see

Williams and Ledbetter 2007). A competent player could elaborate these figures at sight.

Musicians of 17th and 18th century were also trained to embellish melodies through the

spontaneous addition of ornaments in pitch, rhythm, and articulation. Further,

For example, the terms of the contract entered into by Joseph Haydn with his eminent employer, Prince
Esterhazy, included a considerable number of duties in addition to composing:
"5. The said Joseph Heyden shall appear daily in the antechamber before and after
midday, and inquire whether his Highness is pleased to order a performance of the
orchestra. On receipt of his orders he shall communicate them to the other musicians, and
take care to be punctual at the appointed time, and to ensure punctuality in his
subordinates, making a note of those who arrive late or absent themselves altogether. [...]
7. The said Vice-Capellmeister shall take careful charge of all music and musical
instruments, and be responsible for any injury that may occur to them from carelessness
or neglect.
8. The said Joseph Heyden shall be obliged to instruct the female vocalists, in order that
they may not forget in the country what they have been taught with much trouble and
expense in Vienna, and , as the said Vice-Capellmeister is proficient on many
instruments, he shall take care himself to practice on all that is he is acquainted with..."
(Weiss and Taruskin 1984)
 15

improvisation was built into musical forms. The cadenza, a virtuoso passage inserted near

the end of a concerto movement or aria, provided an outlet for performers to showcase

their improvisational talents (see Badura-Skoda 2004).

Over the course of the 19th century, the roles of composer and performer became

specialized and the tension between them emerged. The social dynamics driving the

process of specialization has attracted the interest of many scholars. In The Imaginary

Museum of Musical Works, philosopher Lydia Goehr (1992) provocatively argued that a

decisive ontological shift occurred in music around the year 1800 that produced a

completely different musical culture (see also Erauw 1998). Music became something

that could exist apart from its performance, being maintained forever in its textual form.

What caused this radical transformation in music's ontological status was a change in its

social function. Around 1800, instrumental music became a secular religious experience

for the rising bourgeois class. Like the sacred scriptures of the Judeo-Christian tradition,

canonical musical scores acquired a transcendental status that preserved them from

becoming outdated through repetition. In transforming music's ontology, the "work-

concept ideology" also reconfigured musical roles. Music composition before 1800 was

seen as a craft, or metier. Afterward, it was seen as a transcendental fine art.

Consequently, the composer acquired a mysterious connection to the ineffable while the

performer's creative role was diminished. She was not just playing music; she was

interpreting a text with sacred qualities. No longer considered a creative force in her own

right, she was reduced to a "medium" endeavoring to interpret the composer's will as

faithfully as possible to an audience listening in a contemplative, reverent silence.

 16

Sociological explanations of the historical transition of music from craft to art

have emphasized social structural as well as cultural mechanisms. In his reflections on

the life of W.A. Mozart, Elias (1993) argued that the cultural notion of musical genius,

and the corresponding role of master composer, could only flourish in certain material

conditions. For a court musician like Mozart's father, steady employment and artistic

acclaim depended on the ability to conform to the standards imposed by those of higher

social rank, even if they had less knowledge or talent. But with the development of a free

market for music, a new patron emerged. An anonymous paying public provided the

financial support for a musician to contemplate becoming a full-time "freelance"

composer as well as the independence to develop according to self-imposed standards

and ideals. For Elias, the great tragedy of Mozart's life is that he was born at least a

generation too early. His exuberant, independent personality was better suited for a time

in which music was seen as an art, not a craft. But the preconditions for this musical

culture would not be in place until Beethoven's time. For this reason, Mozart can be seen

as a genius only in retrospect (Eyerman 1995).

Adorno (2002a) agreed that the commodification of music in the 19th century

radically transformed the social situation of music. But he did not see it generating a new

source of social power or freedom for the artist. In his view, music's absorption into the

capitalistic process only completed the alienation of music from society. The

dehumanizing consequences of this development are best understood by examining the

fate of performance in modern musical culture. Previously, musical reproduction

(performance) had played a vital role by mediating between the realms of composition

and listening. It served both simultaneously by making otherwise dead texts

 17

"immediately present" to an audience who could not otherwise participate in them.

Before the capitalist era, the predominance of tradition in musical performance helped

stabilize the relationship between music and its listening public. But as Adorno explains,

[a]ll this changes with the victory of the bourgeois class. The work itself
establishes its independence and, in a rational system of signs, defines
itself as commodity in relation to society; the tradition of interpreters and
their guilds breaks off with the establishment of free competition... The
intervention of the interpreter in the work, still tolerated in the era before
the definitive reification of the work, becomes an arbitrary and evil
concern from which the rationally designed work must keep its distance.
The history of musical reproduction in the last century has destroyed
reproductive freedom. (Adorno [1932] 2002: 412-3)

Adorno traces the gradual elimination of the performer's interpretive freedom in

the evolution of musical forms and notation styles. Figured bass and the improvisatory

practices of the Baroque and early Classical periods were discarded. Rationalized forms

and notations systems specified more aspects of performance. Details like tempo and

dynamics which had once been entrusted to the performer's taste were increasingly

dictated by the composer. By the turn of the 20th century, even the cadenza was

composed and the art of virtuosic extemporization was lost, bringing the process to its

inevitable conclusion. The interpretive freedom of the performer which was once a

valued part of music-making had become a potential source of distortion to be kept under

control. No longer able to mediate between the realms of composition and listening, the

interpreter was faced with a choice: either submit to the work's supremacy and resign

themselves to "decoding" it in a rational, machine-like fashion, or give in to the will of

society as market and allow the configuration of the work to perish.

It is entirely fitting that the one composer who for Adorno represented every evil

tendency in modern music composition also enthusiastically advocated the view of

 18

performance as the machine-like decoding of texts. For Stravinsky (2003 [1942]), the

ideal performer knew her "proper function" as the "transmitter" of the composer's will.

He employed the term "execution" to describe the purely objective manner of

performance he advocated, which involved "the strict putting into effect of an explicit

will that contains nothing beyond what it specifically commands." He contrasted the

"executor" with the "interpreter," a performer whose unsolicited modifications to the

score are variously decried as sins, criminal assaults, and (as above) betrayal. In

Stravinsky's infamous statement, we find the characterization of the performer as

ambassador in its most extreme form. The performer's intervention had finally become a

menacing threat from which the rationalized work must be insulated, just as Adorno had

predicted: "It is the conflict of these two principles - execution and interpretation - that is

at the root of all the errors, all the sins, all the misunderstandings that interpose

themselves between the musical work and the listener and prevent a faithful transmission

of its message" (Stravinsky 2003 [1942]:122).

Priding themselves on their skepticism toward Romantic legacies, sociologists

would insist that they have nothing to do with work-concept ideology or the

corresponding characterization of the "performer as ambassador," especially in the

version described by Stravinsky. They would acknowledge that this image might still

circulate in the popular imagination and the more old-fashioned disciplines in the

humanities. But it is precisely this ideology, and the interests it serves, that they would

seek to expose through a sociological analysis. For their part, sociologists present

themselves as the champions of the second, more democratic model of the interdependent

triarchical relationship between composer, performer, and listener. But they are not as
 19

different from Stravinsky as they would like to believe. As I hope to demonstrate in the

next section, the widespread adoption of economistic language in the sociology of music

has subsumed, not challenged the characterization of the performer as mere "executor"

and the work-concept ideology from which it derives.

THE PRODUCTION/CONSUMPTION PARADIGM

Since Adorno, work in the sociology of the arts and scholars' own self-

identification has been organized through the dichotomy of production and consumption.

This vocabulary is inherited from Adorno himself, for whom it both characterized and

criticized the social situation of music in a capitalist society. In his analysis, "production"

refers to the composition of music, and the moment of "consumption" occurs when music

is heard by an audience. As described earlier, he never used the term "performance" to

refer to the realization of musical scores. He spoke instead of "musical reproduction"

which mediated the realms of production and consumption by bringing the musical public

in contact with texts that would otherwise remain silent. In his view, one of the more

tragic aspects of contemporary musical culture was that "reproductive freedom," by

which he meant artistic license in interpretation, had been destroyed.

As Adorno fell out of favor in sociological circles, the economic framework he

employed in his analysis found new life in Bourdieu's oeuvre. Although he would have

denied sharing Adorno's Marxist sympathies, it is well known that he made extensive

(and clever) use of the language of production and consumption, especially in his work

on the arts. As we see in the opening lines of Distinction (Bourdieu 1984), his magnum

opus on class and taste, the guiding purpose of a sociological analysis is described

through economic terms: "There is an economy of cultural goods, but it has a specific
logic. Sociology endeavours to establish the conditions in which the consumers of

cultural goods, and their taste for them, are produced" (p. 1). The concept of

performance, however, is completely absent from his analysis of the artistic field of

cultural production. A contributing factor is that the aesthetic fields that interested him

most, visual art and literature, are not performative in the same sense as music. But the

main reason is his theoretical conviction that social action is determined by the actor's

habitus. Accordingly, Bourdieu was inclined to use the term "reproduction" to refer to

the perpetuation of social inequality, and what Adorno had tried to capture with the same

term was lost.

The production/consumption dichotomy lost all its critical traces when it was

taken up by the American "production of culture" perspective in the 1970s. As Richard

Peterson (1994) explains, "production" is more broadly conceived in this perspective; it

"focuses on how the content of culture is influenced by the milieux in which it is created,

distributed, evaluated, taught, and preserved." Less concerned with the intended

meanings of cultural objects like music, this approach employs methods designed to

"facilitate the uncovering of the so-called "unintended" consequences of purposive

productive activity" (p. 164-5). Two categories of scholarship have emerged within this

perspective - production and reception studies - depending on which side of the

dichotomy is chosen as the analytical focus.

The attraction of this paradigm is that it offers the analyst a way to think and talk

about art in a way that goes beyond the commonsense view. The refusal to take things at

face value has always been the core of the sociological imagination; its aim is to reveal

that nothing is ever as it seems. To accomplish this end in the study of artistic matters,
 21

many sociologists believed it was necessary first to jettison the ideologically-loaded

vocabulary of "art" and its corollaries "artist" and "artwork" and replace them with more

neutral terms like "cultural forms," "cultural producers" and "cultural consumers." By

adopting this vocabulary, sociologists thought they had effectively rejected the ideology

of art, liberated themselves from its terms of analysis, and made these the very object of

analysis (Inglis 2005).

But when it comes to performing arts like music, the production/consumption

paradigm does not transcend the work-concept ideology; it simply reproduces its

ontology and configuration of musical roles in another guise. By construing music as an

object which only exists in two moments - its production and its consumption - the

creative role of the performer and the constitutive nature of performance is bracketed.

Once again, the producers of music (composers) and the objects they produce (scores) are

of greater analytic significance, and those who realize musical texts (performers) are

relegated to a subservient position. Only the language has changed.

While this economic framework might succeed in hiding the theoretical issue of

performance, it does not make it go away. For this reason, the production/consumption

dichotomy has been difficult to sustain in practice. To take an example from the

production side, Peterson's (1997) classic study of country music reveals how the music

industry was constantly adjusting their product according to audience's (changing) idea

of authenticity. Similarly, from the reception side, DeNora (2003) has suggested that

music and the listener not be viewed as separate entities, but as mutually configured

entities through a process of "co-production." These adaptations, however sophisticated,

only serve to demonstrate that the time has come to shed this paradigm and its limiting
 22

vocabulary. Because it lacks the mediating role Adorno provided with the concept of

"reproduction," it fails to address the performative nature of music and effectively

distorts our sociological lens. Is it not revealing that since Adorno, the sociology of music

has rarely been about music (see DeNora 2004), and that it has been through DeNora's

(2000; 2003) reconsideration of his project that music has returned?

To help transcend the current orthodoxy, I propose an alternative orientation. In

my view, the cultural study of music can be organized into three categories based on the

operative definition: music as a text, music as the product of a social world or industry,

and music as a resource for social action. This heuristic is intended to highlight what was

purportedly the focus of sociological investigation in the first place - music - and

demonstrate how the definition presupposed determines several aspects of the research

program, from analytical priorities to the choice of methodology. In the next section, I

will briefly describe each category and point to its key contributors before outlining an

agenda for a fourth category that would define music as social performance.

AN ALTERNATIVE CATEGORIZATION OF THE FIELD

Music as a text

For scholarship in this first category, "music" is primarily understood as a text

produced by an author. Through formal analysis of structural properties, the analyst

attempts to demonstrate how music can carry social meaning. The primary figure in this

category, of course, is Adorno, whose efforts to demonstrate the social significance of

music remains unmatched to this day. With a few notable exceptions (Witkin 1998;

DeNora 2003), sociologists have largely disowned Adorno, having hastily condemned
 23

him as a cultural elitist. But his work continues to figure prominently in musicology by

providing a major impetus for the strand of scholarship known as the "new musicology"

(e.g., Leppert and McClary 1987; McClary 1991; Subotnik 1991; Kramer 1993; Solie

1993; Brett, Thomas, and Wood 1994; McClary 2000; Kramer 2002; Brett, Haggerty, and

Ingarden 2006). Apart from the technical language, this literature should find a

sympathetic audience among sociologists for obvious reasons. New musicologists seek to

find patterned similarities between musical and social structures, often flavoured with a

critical edge from a Marxist, Foucauldian, or feminist perspective. While some have

rightly criticised new musicology for its weak theory of social structure and its failure to

articulate the mechanisms through which music has social effects (e.g., DeNora 2003),

the most virulent critique has come from within its own discipline (e.g., Rosen 1994; van

den Toorn 1995).

New musicology, however, does not have a monopoly on investigating musical

meaning. Musical semiotics (Nattiez 1990; Agawu 1991), musical rhetoric (e.g., Sisman

1993, 2001; McCreless 2002), as well as narrative analysis (e.g., Maus 1997a; 1997b)

and Bakhtinian theories of literary genres and techniques (e.g., Edwards 1991) have also

been explored. These approaches have not received much attention from sociologists, in

part because they do not make as grand social claims as new musicology, and in part

because their methods demand a technical knowledge of music theory that is unusual

amongst sociologists. Adorno was the last of a dying breed in many respects. But they are

no less sociologically significant; to identify how musical materials can communicate

nonverbally, draw on shared meanings, and resonate with lived experience is to prove

that music is intensely, and necessarily, social.

 24

Music as the product of a social world or industry

In many respects, scholarship in this vein positioned itself in opposition to that

described in the first category. Leaving the "decoding" of texts to the humanities, the task

here was to bring sociological analysis to bear on the social relations in which "cultural

objects" are produced. This entailed importing insights from non-musical theories and

applying them to the social contexts in which music is created (Dowd 2004). Those who

favored a macro-level analysis assembled under the banner of "the production of culture"

perspective (for an overview see Peterson 1994; Peterson and Anand 2004). Peterson led

the charge, mostly famously in his investigation of the dynamics and complexities of

popular music industry structures (Peterson and Berger 1975; Peterson 1990, 1997; see

also Dowd 2000; Dowd and Blyler 2002; Dowd 2004). Another major figure is Dimaggio

(1982a; 1982b; 1987) who combined institutional analysis and Bourdieu's concept of

cultural capital to explain the foundation of cultural institutions, such as the non-profit

symphony orchestra, in 19th-century Boston.

A different but sympathetic approach in microsociology was articulated by

Howard Becker who imported theories from the sociology of work to contexts of musical

production. Rooted in the Chicago School tradition, the "art worlds perspective" (Becker

1974, 1982) proposes that the artwork should be seen as the collective accomplishment of

complex division of labour (both formal and informal) that is organised by social

conventions. Like the production perspective, the art worlds approach stresses the

importance of socio-cultural context, such as occupational structures, in shaping the

aesthetic values, interactions, and personal identities of musicians. This approach has

informed empirical studies in a range of scenes and genres, such as Hollywood studio
 25

musicians (Faulkner 1971), barbershop singing (Stebbins 1996), jazz (Becker 1963,

2002), blues clubs (Grazian 2003), British rock bands (Cohen 1991), concert music

(Gilmore 1988), and amateur musicians (Finnegan 1989).

Music as a resource for social action

In this category, music is not just an object produced, but used for a social

purpose. It is a resource for accomplishing a social action, a tool for achieving an end.

The towering figure in this category is Pierre Bourdieu. In his formulation, art is

instrumental in the project of status accumulation. Within the field of artistic production

(1993; 1996), it serves as a resource for obtaining a position, while in the realm of

consumption (1984) it is a resource for distinction. Work in British Cultural Studies has

similarly defined music as a resource, though in that tradition, it is not always in the

service of reproducing social structure. When a cultural object, like music, is deemed

homologous with subcultural values, it is adopted and utilised in rituals of resistance that

express the rejection or enact the subversion of mainstream culture (e.g., Hall and

Jefferson 1976; Hall et al. 1980).

But music's potential as a resource is not restricted to class acts. In their work on

social movements, Eyerman and Jamison (1998) have explored how songs can act as a

cultural resource for collective action, whether as a source of collective memory, a device

to learn the values and goals of a movement, or as an expression of protest (see also Roy

2002). Also concerning the political uses of music, Stamatov (2002) has stressed the

importance of non-discursive "design" properties in enabling patriotic uses of high art

forms, in his case, the operas of Verdi. On a micro level, Michael Bull has used
 26

ethnographic methods to understand urban dwellers' use of music personal stereos and

other sound technologies to transform the experience and pattern the use of public space

as a pedestrian (Bull 2000, 2005) or while driving in one's automobile (Bull 2004). And

finally, DeNora (2000) has contributed insightful analyzes of how music is used as a

technology of the self, or as a resource in cognition and in channelling emotion (2003).

BRINGING THE PERFORMER BACK IN

While all three of these approaches offer valuable analytical insight, none can

adequately address the performativity of music.3 Because it is text-bound, scholarship in

the first category can only gesture to the possibilities of performance, a limitation of

which musicologists are acutely aware. The structure of the text and the intentions of the

author determine the meaning conveyed to a considerable extent, but the score, in itself,

is never complete. As Adorno (2002) once said, the composer's "text is merely a coded

script which does not guarantee unequivocal meaning" (p. 412). It is at best a skeleton, an

elaborated framework riddled with gaps that can only be filled through performance. The

realisation of the musical text necessarily involves interpretation, a highlighting of some

elements while underplaying others, which influences the meaning enacted. No matter

how precise the score, there are always ambiguities and interpretive decisions that the

performer has to make anew, in the moment, with every encounter with the piece. As

3
An important exception to this general neglect can be found in the phenomenological and
ethnomethodological tradition. In a classic article, Schtltz (1951) used the "tuning in" of chamber music
performance as a special case of the intersubjectivity that is necessary for human communication. In Ways
of the Hand, Sudnow (1978) provided an account of learning jazz improvisation at the piano showing that
music is best understood as an embodied "process of doing." Both Schtttz and Sudnow can be faulted for
denying the centrality of the musical text and ignoring the macro-level culture structures, such as codes and
narratives, which shape musical experience. That aside, their emphasis on music as an embodied,
interpretive process pointed in a promising direction, and it is regrettable that microsociology did not
pursue it further.
 27

Boorman (1999) explains, "every performance, and every hearing is unique, for each one

is a distinct, individual response" to the instructions contained in the score. The

variability of each realization depends on a host of factors, including "the levels of

information carried by the notation, the conventions which composers applied to the

notation and performers to the execution, the technical and musical abilities of the

performers, the concentration of the listener, and the listener's previous memories or

conceptions" (p. 406).

Scholars can hardly be blamed for their dependence on texts. For all their

ambiguities, scores are relatively stable entities that lend themselves to systematic

analysis. Performance, on the other hand, is by nature ephemeral; it leaves no "object"

and resists translation into more durable forms.4 The problems with analyzing

performance are most vividly displayed in historical performance practice research.

Teaching manuals and other documents on the craft of music are at best suggestive

because they were meant to supplement, not replace, practical instruction in the

cultivation of taste that can only be gained through practical experience. Few historical

writings address performance issues directly, and those that do often appear

contradictory. Musicologists have spilled rivers of ink arguing over what might appear to

outsiders as the minutiae of performance execution. For instance, a heated debate raged

for a decade over the proper execution of rhythmic alterations such as notes inegales in

Baroque music and the validity of this technique in the performance of works by J.S.

Bach (see Neumann 1981; 1982; 1988; Fuller 1989; Neumann 1994). Until the advent of

4
The performing art that most resists translation into textual form is dance, as the challenge in
reconstructing historical ballets from choreographer's notebooks demonstrates.
 28

recording technology, it has been nearly impossible to capture aspects of performance

except as traditions passed on from teacher to pupil through oral transmission.

In contrast to musicology, which has yet to explore the methodological

possibilities (Clarke 2004) and theoretical implications (Cook 2001) of recordings, music

sociology can be accused of the reverse problem. It borders on obsession with the use of

recorded music. One impetus for this fixation is the rejection of Adorno. His insistence

on the superiority of live music-making and despairing over the impoverished experience

or authoritarian potential of the radio phonograph (Adorno 2002b; 2002c) smacks of

Romanticism, elitism, or nostalgia for most contemporary sociologists. The second, more

decisive, factor is the affinity of recorded music to the production/consumption paradigm.

As a cultural object that is at the same time unashamedly commodified, pre-recorded

music suits the economic framework particularly well. Granted, a number of thoughtful

studies (e.g., DeNora 2000; Hennion 2001; Maisonneuve 2001; DeNora 2003) have

persuasively demonstrated that mediated musical experience is not necessarily passive or

predictable, and that the role of technology in the social relation to music and definition

of genres and cannot be ignored. Without disputing the importance of recording

technology in contemporary musical culture, however, I believe our theoretical models

have become distorted by the overemphasis on this form of musical experience. Rather

than approach it as a particular context of performance where the performer and listener

need not be co-present, the tendency has been to treat recording as a distinct

phenomenon. The performative moment in the recording studio is thereby overlooked or

underestimated.
 29

Nowhere is this tendency stronger than in the second category of music

scholarship. When music is defined as a product of a social world or industry,

performance is effectively absorbed into the production phase as musicians become

support personnel that contribute to the final product. The implication is that they

constitute no more than a stop on the assembly line, contributing their share in production

before sending the object down the line. In Becker's formulation, the central concept is

"convention." These commonly-shared principles and norms constrain and enable action

in the art world; it is in reference to them that choices are made at every phase of the

artwork's construction (Becker 2006). It is convention that dictates the division of labour

between composer and performer and other support personnel, and that coordinates the

work involved in producing a concert. It is also convention that guides choice of

materials used in constructing a work as well as the performance style that orients

audience taste. Convention is not so rigid that change is impossible. Practices that are

initially considered deviant often gradually become the norm, as he demonstrates with the

example of vibrato in string playing. But unconventional choices come at a considerable

cost. Not only are they more difficult to accomplish; they are also likely to meet

resistance from other members of the art world because they threaten to destabilize the

organizational structure.

With the concept of conventions, Becker moved toward performance, but not far

enough. As I argued elsewhere (McCormick 2006), the concept is of limited theoretical

utility because it is called on to cover too much ground. By including too vast a terrain of

social beliefs, values, and practices, its explanatory value is compromised. Moreover, to

speak of a division of labor between composer and performer is misleading; it does not
 30

adequately characterize the collaboration between these roles in the creative process. Just

as DeNora (2003) found that that production is intricately tied up with reception, neither

can composition be completely untangled from performance.

Aside from the need for greater analytical precision, a more troubling deficiency

in the art worlds perspective stems from a fundamental denial of meaning in artistic

activities. For Becker, social conventions are not symbolic structures. They are merely

labor-saving devices. For example, he writes:

People who cooperate to produce a work of art usually do not decide

things afresh. Instead they rely on earlier agreements now become
customary, agreements that have become part of the conventional way of
doing things in that art. Artistic conventions cover all the decisions that
must be made with respect to works produced, even though a particular
convention may be revised for a given work. (Becker 1982:29)

Later he continues:

Members of art worlds coordinate the activities by which work is

produced by referring to a body of conventional understandings embodied
in common practice and in frequently used artifacts. [...] Conventions
make collective activity simpler and less costly in time, energy, and other
resources; but they do not make unconventional work impossible, only
more costly and difficult. (Becker 1982:34-5)

As these excerpts demonstrate, Becker understands conventions as norms which order

social action, but not symbolic action. Consequently, culture does not participate in the

definition of the situation, but is determined by it. As Martin (2006) argues, in moving

away from the discourse of art to the discourse of work, Becker was able to see

"musicians' culture as a consequence of their occupational contingencies and problems

(rather than considering the supposed qualities of the musical works themselves)" (p. 98).

In contrast to Martin who praises this move, I see it as an odd position for a symbolic
 31

interactionist to take. Motivated by a "congenital anti-elitism," Becker is so determined to

unmask the artist as ideological mirage and the artwork as mundane object that he fails to

recognize the moral valence of the social conventions that govern aesthetic activity. If

morality were not at stake, why would Stravinsky describe the performer's intervention

in the transmission of the score as a "sin" or a "betrayal"? In the debate over rhythmic

alteration, why would overdotting be cast as a dangerous "syndrome", "delusion", and a

"collective hallucination" (Neumann 1981)? Why would someone feel it necessary to

erect "an impregnable fortress of rationalistic "proof buttressed by huge quantities of

documentary evidence" to protect the music of J.S. Bach from the notes inegales (Fuller

1989:28)?

In my view, the language invoked by these musical actors indicates that defining

conventions is a more serious business than simply facilitating convenience and efficient

coordination. Rhetorical flourish and vivid metaphor are called upon to signal that they

are deeply troubled by these issues. In the lifeworld of music, performance is of central

importance to experts and practitioners not just on the practical level, but a philosophical

one as well. As Dunsby (1995) astutely remarked, "getting all the right notes in the right

order at about the right time is a good start", but beyond those initial steps, any

"entanglement with music" involves facing a series of "riddles" that require reflection,

rumination, and risk (p. 7-8). To this end, countless hours are spent in the rehearsal studio

weighing options, striking compromises, and balancing tradeoffs. Musicians are

preoccupied by these decisions not just because they can reduce the contingency

encountered on any performance occasion, but also because it is through their choices

that the "sonic self (dimming 2000) is constructed and judged.

 32

That sociologists have failed to pick up on the centrality of performance exposes a

troubling discontinuity between matters of importance to inhabitants of the music world

and those that preoccupy analysts. This inconsistency stems from the choice of

theoretical frameworks adopted, such as the production/consumption paradigm.

Sociologists tend to develop research agendas based on the most powerful conceptual

tools in their arsenal such as networks, occupational structures, and institutions, leaving

to one side the more thorny issues of performance and meaning. To some extent, this

maneuver is flaunted by scholars in the second category. But those in the third category

are not up to the task either. Performativity is still not adequately addressed when music

is defined as a cultural resource. In this category, music facilitates the performance of

social action both as a cultural object and an aesthetic material. There is performance, but

not musical performance. Music is considered important only to the extent that it has

produced measurable effects in a realm considered relevant to sociology, such as political

protest, the construction of self-identity, or social stratification.

I wish to propose a fourth category that does not deny the importance of these

social processes or the role that music can play in them. Rather, it takes the next logical

step, suggesting that musical performance itself should be seen as sociologically

significant and culturally meaningful. In other words, I propose that we recognize

musical performance as social performance.

OVERVIEW

The next chapter introduces the international music competition, the peculiar and

fascinating musical occasion that will provide the empirical site for developing a
 33

performance perspective. After briefly placing the music competition in historical

context, I will discuss its significance in the world of classical music today.

To provide a sense of what it is like to attend this event, I describe the structure of

proceedings, the spaces in which the competition is held, the kind of organizations that

host the event and the people who participate, as well as what happens "behind the

scenes" when competitors are not on stage competing. I also explain the methodological

strategies demanded by this multi-dimensional theoretical perspective. My investigation

is carried out from several angles, drawing from a wide range of sources collected over

the course of observing four competitions on three continents: newspaper articles,

advertising brochures, documentary films, weblogs and internet discussion forums, as

well as in-depth interviews with competitors, judges, directors, and audience members.

To conclude, I describe the case studies chosen for this study, and the particular

challenges of researching a non-verbal form of communication that is carried out in an

institution haunted by allegations of bad faith.

Chapter 3 investigates the first element of performance, the system of collective

representations. I reconstruct the narratives, symbols, and metaphors used to make sense

of the competition event in the public sphere by contrasting the self-presentation of the

competition in publicity materials with the interpretation of the event in newspaper

media. Further, I identify two narrative frameworks that guide the construction of the

competition event: a "game frame" that emphasizes the competitive aspect and invites

comparisons with sport, and a "ritual frame" that emphasizes Romantic notions of music

as a transcendent experience. Providing a counterpoint to the competition organization's

oscillation between these frames, music critics project a counter-discourse aiming to de-
 34

legitimize the institution through ironic commentary and debased metaphor. In the final

section of the chapter, I show how each narrative frame guides the cultural construction

of the musicians who perform in the competition event, and how this intersects with other

social performances, especially those of race and gender. I argue that it has become more

difficult for competitions to achieve the collective effervescence of successful rituals as

ironic discourse becomes the dominant narrative among competition participants.

The next chapter addresses the competitor's experience by analyzing forms of

musical agency and problems of performance encountered in this musical environment.

Drawing from ethnographic observation and personal interviews with competitors, I

investigate how this institutional context shapes musical/social performance through the

following questions: What are the discourses used to describe a successful performance?

How do musicians define what it is to be a "good performer" and how do they try to

embody this in performance? How are musical resources and performer stereotypes

mobilized to present an image of musical genius, and how is this presentation enhanced

(or compromised) by other social performances "given off, such as age or gender? To

whom do competitors direct this performance - the jury, the audience, their peers, or

themselves? To what extent does this environment contradict musical values and

problematise the authentic presentation of the musical self? How does the competition

context affect performative "fusion", that is, the process of cultural extension from text to

performer to audience? The analysis will center on three elements of performance: the

musical actor (the competitor), the means of symbolic production (musical, visual, and

otherwise), and the mise-en-scene (the conditions of performance in the cultural

framework of the competition.) Ultimately, this chapter will explain how the inherent
 35

contradictions of the competition event produce an unfelicitous context that usually

undermines efforts towards fusion on the part of the performer.

Having discussed the competition from the performer's point of view, Chapter 5

turns to the audience and their role in international music competitions. Despite having

no say when it comes to selecting winners, an engaged audience is crucial in determining

the success and legitimacy of the event. It provides a visible symbol of the organization's

importance and the relevance of music in contemporary society. I argue that there are two

dimensions to the competition audience's role. In addition to participating as the listener

in the concert rituals that comprise competition proceedings, the audience also constitutes

a public through engagement in critical debate. To analyze the first dimension, I revisit

Adorno's (1962) infamous typology of listeners. I suggest a new reading of Adorno to

show that sociologists have wrongly dismissed his theory of listening. Then I reconstruct

his typology through the terms of social performance to investigate what is really going

on in music competitions. To analyze the second dimension, I discuss the audience as a

public in the Habermasian sense (Habermas 1969 [1989]). Through ethnographic

observation, personal interviews, and the discourse analysis of online forums, I show that

a "musical public" emerges at competitions because the diversity of listening orientations

creates the need for audience members to engage in dialogue and seek consensus about

how to interpret competitors' performances and competition results. The competition

audience is therefore a public in that participants enforce norms of inclusion and the

supremacy of rational argument. But at the same time, it is a musical public in that the

content of its debates are judgments of musical value. This chapter will show why the

music and civil codes that are both critical to the identity and operation of the musical
 36

public exist in tension which each other, and how the "powerless" audience is in fact vital

to a successful competition event.

 Chapter 2: The International Music Competition: Cases,
theory, and method

"You start competing when you're, like, ten [years old]. You do a local
concerto competition, and you do that until you win it. Then you say,
okay, I've won this. Now what's next? Some kind of regional competition.
And then some kind of national competition. You just keep moving up."
(Interview with Competitor 1)

"My teacher had this mentality that competitions are like the lottery. The
more applications you fill out, the more lottery tickets you're casting out,
and the bigger chances you have of winning. That also has the effect that
the more applications you cast out, the more you're rejected, and the more
you get used to rejection. The sooner you get used to that, the better
musician you'll become." (Interview with Competitor 2)

If 19th-century musical culture was defined by the public concert, our own time

will surely be remembered as the era of the competition. Contests have become a fact of

life in music worlds of all genres. Amateur singers in a women's barbershop chorus are

just as likely as members of an aspiring professional string quartet to remark that they are

perpetually involved in competitions, alternating between preparing for and participating

in them. While the degree of institutionalization varies, competitive events are also a

common practice in a variety of popular music styles, from the "battle of the bands" in

hard rock to the combative improvisations of freestyle rap. The sold out crowds at the

final rounds of live competition events and the popularity of televised music contests

suggest that competitions have also become a standard musical experience for listeners.

In recent years, the reality television phenomenon American Idol has drawn a weekly

audience of 20 million viewers and over 30 million for the season finale in the United

States alone (Strachan 2008), while the live broadcast of the annual Euro vision Song

Contest has attracted an estimated global audience of 110 million (Sherwin 2006).
 While the obsession with competitions is fairly widespread across genres, it is

most established in the world of classical music. Anyone who took music lessons as a

child is likely to have had firsthand experience with the standard pedagogical practice of

entering novices in local competitions within a year or two of beginning their studies. For

some, the experience of public evaluation will extinguish any desire to continue their

studies and firmly plant the notion that any music-making should be left to professionals.

For others, this first encounter launches a competition career that extends from early

childhood to young adulthood. As Competitor 1 described in the passage quoted above,

the typical pattern for promising young musicians is to be entered in small events hosted

by public schools, music conservatories, or festival programs before moving up the ranks

of the larger events organized and coordinated by national organizations (e.g., the

Canadian Music Competitions and the Kiwanis Music Festival in Canada, the National

Guild of Piano Teachers and the American String Teachers Association in the United

States) until reaching the ultimate tier of international competitions. In contrast to other

fields, such as figure skating, where a practitioner's competition career ends when one

become professional, the normal expectation for classical musicians is to continue

entering competitions into the early stages of a professional career. Competition prizes

have become such a staple in promotional media and resumes that one would be hard-

pressed to find an artist's biography that does not boast a string of them in the list of

accomplishments and honours.

In the previous chapter, I provided an overview of the literature in the sociology

of music and demonstrated the need for a new perspective that approaches music as a

mode of social performance. My purpose here is to introduce the international music

 39

competition, the unusual musical occasion that will serve as the empirical site for

developing this new perspective. To my surprise, sociologists have had little to say about

competitions despite the staggering number of them and the perpetual controversy over

their function and influence in the music world. This oversight is difficult to explain. It

might be that competitions were mistaken for public recitals because at first glance, the

two do not appear to be all that different. Similar repertory is performed in the same

venues following the same concert rituals; even the audience etiquette is identical (though

subject to stricter policing by ushers and fellow listeners.) But if the lower average age of

performers were not enough to catch the eye of a sociologically-inclined observer, the

curious addition of an awards ceremony at the conclusion should have snared their

attention. As I hope to demonstrate in the chapters that follow, there is much more to

music competitions than first meets the eye. A sociological investigation of this musical

institution is a worthy pursuit not only because of its intrinsic interest, but because of the

theoretical issues implicated. Through an analysis of music competitions, we can better

understand the complexity of social performance and the role of the arts in sustaining

civil society.

I will begin by providing some historical context. After describing its

predecessors, I trace the phases of the modern competition's development from its

emergence, through its proliferation, to the standardization that is still unfolding. This

provides the background for the second part of the chapter where I compare two

approaches for the sociological analysis of this musical occasion. To cement further the

case for a cultural approach, I explain why the production perspective would inevitably

result in a reductive analysis and outline the analytical model for a performance
perspective. Having stated my theoretical position, I move onto methodological concerns

in the final section of the chapter. Here I introduce the sample of competitions I attended

over the course of this project and describe the combination of methods I employed to

investigate the competition circuit from a number of angles.

CONTESTS, DUELS, AND OTHER FORMS OF MUSICAL COMBAT IN HISTORY

Music contests have a long history, especially for singers. Prizes were awarded

for poetry, music, and drama at the city festivals of ancient Greece as early as the sixth

century B.C.E. In medieval France, the troubadour tradition evolved into musical

societies called puis that held song competitions at annual festivals on the feast days of

patron saints. The puis flourished until the 17th century and were imitated in Germany by

the Meistersingers, music guilds that required that apprentices participate in singing

competitions as part of their entrance examination (Caldwell 1978; Ongaro 2003). At

these public performances, the singer who performed with the fewest errors was awarded

a silver chain decorated with coins that he would keep until his title was challenged at the

next concert (Brunner 2008). A similar tradition of competitive singing in Wales dates

back to at least the 11th century. At festivals announced as early as a year in advance,

bards would gather from around the British Isles to discuss professional duties and

compete against each other for a chair in the King's court. This tradition, which in the

18l century came to be called eisteddfod (literally, "a session"), continues to this day

(Boyd 2008).

It was during the 18th century that public contests between rival solo

instrumentalists started to capture the public imagination. Many of these musical duels
 41

are quite famous because they involve some of the most distinguished figures in musical

history: G.F. Handel and Domenico Scarlatti on the harpsichord and the organ, J.S. Bach

and Louis Marchand on the organ, and W.A. Mozart and Muzio Clementi on the

pianoforte. Over time, these minor episodes have been built up into epic tales in which

bitter rivalries erupt, false idols are toppled, and the artist's destiny is foretold (see e.g.,

Schonberg 1987[1963]; Horowitz 1990). But like all good legends, these tales contain

more cultural truth than factual basis. For example, the Handel-Scarlatti encounter

orchestrated by Cardinal Ottoboni in Rome did not produce a decisive victor. Scarlatti is

said to have immediately conceded Handel's superiority on the organ. But when it came

to comparing their harpsichord playing, those in attendance were divided. Neither was the

drama of this encounter heightened by any sort of animosity. The surviving evidence only

suggests that they shared a mutual professional respect. For his part, Handel went on

record describing Scarlatti in flattering terms, complimenting his "great talents as an

artist" and his "sweet temper". Scarlatti returned the esteem in equal measure. When he

happened to pass the masked Handel playing at the Venice Carnival, he paid him a

compliment, insisting that "it could be no one but the famous Saxon, or the devil" on the

harspichord (Plantinga 2008). As for the Bach-Marchand contest, it might very well be a

pure fabrication. What little evidence survives suggests that the duel was to take place at

the court in Dresden, but that Marchand skipped town before J.S. Bach had even arrived

(Higginbottom 2008).

The Mozart-Clementi encounter in Vienna, however, comes closer to the collision

of wills evoked by the imagery of the duel. This contest was arranged by Joseph II on

Christmas Eve 1781 to entertain his distinguished guests, the Grand Duke and Duchess of
 42

Russia. Both musicians were asked to improvise, to play some of their own compositions,

and to perform some other sonatas at sight. Like the Handel-Scarlatti duel, there was no

clear victor. But it might be for this very reason that the contest generated a bitter rivalry,

at least for Mozart, who might never before have encountered anyone remotely as

talented as he. Initially, he described Clementi in a letter to his father as a "mere

mechanicus" who "plays well as far as execution with the right hand goes" but "has not a

kreuzer's worth of taste or feeling". Later, he publicly denounced Clementi as a

charlatan, an accusation which did irreversible damage to the artist's already declining

reputation (Plantinga 2008).

By the turn of the 19 century, musical audiences were actively constructing

encounters between prominent musicians as decisive battles. In some cases, these were

carefully-staged events where virtuosi were pitted against each other for the purpose of

entertainment. For instance, devotees of the pianoforte in Vienna orchestrated a series of

duels involving Beethoven, which helped him earn his reputation as a great improviser

(DeNora 1995). But in other cases, 19th-century audiences simply read contests into

events that were neither structured nor intended as such. For example, in 1816, the great

violin virtuosi Paganini and Lafont traded solos in a public concert in Milan. This event

was immediately interpreted by the public as a contest in which Lafont suffered a

humiliating defeat. As far as the, two violinists were concerned, a contest was never even

declared; in personal correspondence following the concert, Paganini only spoke in

flattering tones about Lafont, praising his artistry and beauty of tone. Nonetheless, the

story of his defeat persisted long afterwards, frustrating the violinist enough that 14 years

later, he published his account of the story insisting that he "was not beaten by Paganini,
 43

nor he by me" (Schwarz 2008). This would not be the last encounter between musical

celebrities to be stubbornly misinterpreted by the public. The participation of Franz Liszt

and Sigismond Thalberg at a benefit concert in a Parisian salon was similarly

sensationalized by contemporaries as a clash of the titans, though this is unlikely to have

been the tone of the event or the intention of its organizer, Princess Belgioso (Gooley

2004).

The reason why these encounters were interpretively inflated into decisive battles,

and why they have such enduring appeal, is that there was always more at stake than

simply determining who was "better" than whom. Duelling musicians can, and often do,

serve as representations for something much larger than themselves. More than innocent

entertainments, musical duels and the narratives that describe them, dramatize the

aesthetic, political, and social tensions of their day. As Gooley (2004) explains:

The narratives through which these contests are related all thematize rival
musical idioms and performing traditions of their times. Handel
represented the church style against Scarlatti's court style. The Bach-
Marchand contest [...] was a narrative about the ongoing battle between
the galant and contrapuntal styles. Clementi and Mozart staked out claims
for the two major keyboard schools of the time [...] while Lafont and
Paganini juxtaposed the two dominant schools of violin playing, (p. 18)

When aesthetic debates align with social divisions, duels become imbued with political

overtones. For instance, in referring to Clementi as the "holy Catholic church" in the duel

with Mozart, the emperor transformed him into a symbol of Rome and Mozart into a

representative of Vienna and the empire. Similarly, the Beethoven-Wolffl duel was

interpreted by contemporaries as a confrontation between the newly-emerging "serious"

music championed by the old aristocracy and a more dilettante ideology advocated by

more marginal members of the social elite (DeNora 1995). And finally, the encounter
 44

between Liszt and Thalberg dramatized warring factions of the Parisian beau monde with

Liszt standing for the "aristocracy of talent" and Thalberg the "aristocracy of birth"

(Gooley 2004). As we will see, present-day music contests take a radically different form

from these legendary musical duels, but they continue to invite the same multi-layered

narrative construction as their historical predecessors.

The modern music competition as we know it - that is, an event organized by a

bureaucratic institution where young performers from several nations participate - did

not appear until the 1890s. The Anton Rubinstein International Competition, founded and

organized by the famous virtuoso pianist in 1886, is generally agreed to be the first of its

kind (Cline 1985). The international music competition therefore emerged in the same

historical moment as similar institutions in other fields, such as the International Olympic

Committee (1894), the Venice Biennale of International Art (1895), and the Nobel Prizes

(1901) (English 2005). Indeed, like the Olympics, the original idea behind the Rubinstein

competition was for it to be held every five years in a different country. Though grand in

its vision, the Rubinstein proved to be short-lived. Only five cycles were completed in St.

Petersburg, Paris, Berlin, and Vienna before it folded with the outbreak of World War I

and the Russian Revolution. The Rubinstein might have dissolved, but the idea of the

international competition took hold. During the interwar years, a handful of similar

organizations sprouted in various places around the world, including the Naumburg

Competition in New York (1926), the Chopin Competition in Warsaw (1927), and the

Queen Elisabeth Competition in Belgium (1937).

Since 1945, the number of international music competitions worldwide has

exploded. In the immediate postwar period, they proliferated at such a rate that by 1957,
 45

13 competitions cooperated to found a meta-organization, the World Federation of

International Music Competitions (WFIMC), to regulate standards, coordinate schedules,

and resolve disputes. Over the last fifty years, WFIMC membership has grown steadily

from the original 13 to 122 member organizations.1 Many of the most famous

competitions in the world today are WFIMC members, such as the Tchaikovsky, the Van

Cliburn, the Leeds, the Chopin, the ARE), the Paganini, and the Busoni competitions. But

some organizations prefer to function independently, which makes it difficult to

determine the precise number of active competitions across the globe. One measure of

their abundance is a directory that lists over 650 solo competitions held in 58 countries

for the piano alone.2 To help aspiring pianists navigate this complicated terrain, a second

meta-organization, the Alink-Argerich Foundation, emerged "to give information,

assistance and advice to musicians and competition organizers" as well as post "news and

rumors".3In any given calendar year, it archives the application requirements and results

of over 300 competitions.

The WFIMC has also precipitated and facilitated the gradual standardization in

the field. When the Federation was founded in 1957, music competitions were not just

variable in quality, but generally disgraced by recurring corruption scandals. For this

reason, one of its primary objectives has been to promote a positive image of

competitions through the determination and enforcement of professional and ethical

1
Membership figures are drawnfromthe 2008 WFIMC Yearbook, available online at www.fmcim.org.
Accessed March 1,2008.
2
www.alii.org/~afn39483. Accessed March 20, 2006.
3
http://www.alink-argerich.org/. Accessed February 10,2008.
standards. To this day, the following conditions must be met for two cycles in order to

qualify as a member of the WFIMC:

"a) Have an international character, i.e. be open to competitors from all

nations.

b) Show a permanent character and schedule regularly recurring

competitions.

c) Pursue solely artistic and cultural objectives, none designed to produce

commercial gain.

d) Assemble juries whose members represent several nationalities, the

majority of which are not of the country in which the competition is held.

e) State at the time of the application for admission the discipline(s)

already covered and not add new disciplines without prior consent of the
General Assembly.

f) Avoid giving the competition a name that could lead to confusion.

g) Not excuse any competitor from the first round of a competition.

h) Hold a final round with orchestra., unless the competition's discipline

makes this requirement unsuitable."

Organizations that violate these conditions, fail to pay their membership fee, or have a

prolonged absence from the annual general assembly, may be excluded from the

Federation by majority vote of all members. While its influence might be limited to the

policing its own members, the WFIMC nonetheless represents a valiant attempt to

replace local charismatic and traditional authority with universal legal-rationality in the

aesthetic realm.

The standardization of competitions can be seen in both the structure of

proceedings and the requirements demanded of competitors. The typical format consists

of three rounds with each concluded by an elimination, though a few organizations divide

4
(2005) "Statutes of the World Federation of International Music Competitions"
 47

the first round into two segments. In each stage, the candidate is challenged to meet a

different sort of requirement. For solo instruments, the first round usually consists of

unaccompanied selections, followed by a second round of chamber music, concluding

with a final concerto round with orchestra. Every round is heard by a distinguished

international jury that evaluates performances and produces rankings in closed

deliberations. In terms of requirements, the common practice in the immediate postwar

period was to devise a repertoire list detailing the choice of works that could be

performed in each round. Competitors would submit their selections in advance of the

competition. Although candidates were expected to prepare all of their selections in their

entirety, it was unlikely that the jury would hear the every piece from beginning to end,

especially in the first round. Much like in an examination or an audition, the practice was

for the jury to indicate how much of each selection would be heard, reserving the right to

interrupt at its discretion either by speaking to the candidate, ringing a bell, or (as was the

practice at a string quartet competition in Asia) turning off the stage lights.

Since the 1990s, the trend has been to abandon the audition format in favor of the

recital ritual. Candidates on the circuit today can expect to play all of their selections

from beginning to end in all rounds, which is one of the reasons why preparing for a

competition has become a major endeavour; candidates must build the stamina necessary

to play up to four complete programmes in the space of a few days. A handful of piano

competitions have taken the recital simulation even further by abandoning the repertoire

list altogether (e.g., the Gina Bachauer, the Cliburn, the Honens). Granted, time limits are

still imposed, guidelines are often provided,5 and repertoire is still restricted for the

5
For example, the Honens application book includes the following recommendations: "Technical mastery
of the piano is expected of all competitors. While the choice of music which primarily displays virtuosity is
 48

chamber music and concerto rounds. But the idea here is to grant candidates the same

freedom they would have as a professional musician, thereby allowing the jury to judge

their programming decisions. This radical change has been favorably received by jurors

and competitors alike, but competitions for other solo instruments (e.g., violin, cello,

flute) and for ensembles (e.g., string quartet, brass quintet, piano trio) have not followed

suit, continuing instead to publish repertoire lists along with the rules for participation

(for an example, see Box 2.1). Logistical reasons are certainly a factor in this decision;

solo violin competitions, for example, must be able to provide accompanists who are able

to play whatever the candidate selects. But aesthetic principles are equally important. It is

through the composition of the repertoire list that a competition communicates what kind

of performer they seek,6 and determines the criteria through which candidates will be

compared and evaluated. The list for the Rostropovich competition, for example, reflects

its namesake's dedication to new music by requiring all competitors to perform a piece

by a 20th century composer in the first round.7

of course acceptable, the competition strongly advises and encourages applicants to include in all their
programs some pivotal works of the piano literate which are as demanding intellectually and emotionally as
they are technically. [...] Applicants are advised to consider each solo performance a concert, and to design
programs with the same care and on the same principles as for a short public recital.[...] Applicants are
reminded that 2006 marks the 250th anniversary of Mozart's birth..." Application Book for the Fifth
Honens International Piano Competition, revised October 15, 2005.
6
Competitions that have abandoned repertoire lists can still communicate their artistic values in the way
rounds are structured. For example, the Honens director feels they attract a different pool of candidates by
requiring chamber music in both the first and second rounds.
7
Indeed, many have suggested that a latent function of competitions has been the expansion of a concert
repertory that was in danger of stagnating. After investing the time to learn a piece for a competition, many
performers incorporate it into their repertoire, thereby introducing audiences to the music of a lesser-known
avant-garde or living composer.
 49

Box 2.1: Repertoire list for the 2005 Rostropovich Competition

First round (maximum : 20 minutes) - Conservatoire superieur de Paris - CNR

A -Jean-Sebastien Bach : Prelude (obligatory) and other movements (choose from) one
of the six Suites for Solo Cello (without repeat)

B - ONE OF THE FOLLOWING:

- Gilbert Amy : Quasi scherzando* Ed. Universal

- Benjamin Britten: Suite for cello opus 72 (IV.Canto terzo, V.Bordone, VI.Moto
perpetuo e Canto quarto) Ed. Faber Music
- Benjamin Britten : 2nd Suite for cello opus 80 (I.Declamato, II.Fuga, Ill.Scherzo) Ed.
Faber Music
- Benjamin Britten : 3rd Suite for cello opus 87 (VII.Recitativo, VIII.Moto perpetuo,
IX.Passacaglia) Ed. Faber Music
- Rodion Shchedrin : Russian Fragments* Ed. Sikorski
- George Crumb : Sonata for solo Violoncello Ed. Peters
- Henri Dutilleux : Trois Strophes sur le nom de SACHER (First Strophe) Ed. Heugel-
Leduc
- Paul Hindemith : Cello Sonata op.25 n°3 Ed. Schott
- Gyorgy Ligeti: Cello Sonata Ed. Schott
- Witold Lutoslawski; Sacher Variations for Cello solo Ed. Chester
- Krzysztof Penderecki: Per Slava* Ed. Schott
- Kaija Saariaho : Spins and Spells* Ed. Chester Music
- Alfred Schnittke : Improvisations for solo cello* Ed. Sikorski
- Marco Stroppa : Ay there's a rub* for solo cello Ed. Ricordi
- Iannis Xenakis : Kottos* Ed. Salabert

• works commissioned for previous Rostropovitch Competitions

Second Round - Amphitheatre de 1'Opera Bastille

A - ONE OF THE FOLLOWING

• Ludwig van Beethoven : Cello Sonata op. 102 for piano and cello n°l
• Johannes Brahms : Sonata for cello and piano in E minor op. 38
• Robert Schumann : Ftinf Stiicke im Volkston op. 102 for piano and cello
B - ONE OF THE FOLLOWING

• Serge Prokofiev : Sonata for cello and piano, in C major, opus 119 (2nd et 3rd
movements)

http://www.civp.com/rostro/rostrogb/rules2005.htm. Accessed June 6,2008.

 50

• Claude Debussy : Sonata for cello and piano, in D minor

• Igor Stravinsky : Suite italienne pour violoncelle et piano (Introduzione, Serenata, Aria,
Tarantella, Minuetto e finale) Transcription from Pulcinella for Cello and Piano, arr.
I.Stravinsky & G.Piatigorsky. Boosey & Hawkes

C - Franghiz Ali-Zadeh : work for solo cello, composed for the Competition (about
seven-eight minutes) (commissioned by musique nouvelle en liberie)

The score will be sent to the competitors one month before the rounds start.

D - David Popper : Elfentanz, opus 39

Final Round -Theatre du Chatelet

ONE OF THE FOLLOWING

• Anton Dvorak : Concerto for Cello and Orchestra opus 104

• Robert Schumann : Concerto for Cello and Orchestra op. 129
• Dimitri Shostakovich : 1st Concerto for Cello and Orchestra, op. 107
• Serge Prokofiev : Sinfonia Concertante for Cello and Orchestra op. 125

The final round will take place at the Theatre du Chatelet on Saturday 19 November
2005, with the Orchestre de Paris, conducted by Janos Furst.

Even more significant than the proliferation and standardization of competitions,

however, is the role they have come to play in the world of music and the broader cultural

sphere. Music competitions are important institutions. By awarding a prestigious title and

a prize that includes publicity, concert engagements, and high-quality recordings,

competitions can provide major assistance to young professionals in the establishment of

careers in a fiercely competitive industry. But competitions are more than just launching

pads. They also provide a public forum where competing ideals and cultural

commitments are negotiated. Competitions are occasions where different segments of the

musical public can debate the qualities of the ideal performer, the legitimate basis of
 51

aesthetic authority, and the future of classical music. This is why they are so often the

focus of controversy, not only in the music world, but in the broader cultural realm.

THE COMPETITION IN SOCIOLOGICAL PERSPECTIVE

Despite their importance in musicians' lives and their visibility in the public

sphere, there has been no previous sociological investigation of classical music

competitions. Had they not escaped the attention of sociologists, they would most likely

have been analyzed through the "production perspective," a framework which has

dominated the sociology of the arts for the past twenty years. It is easy to imagine how

such a study would have proceeded. Drawing from Bourdieu (1984), ([1980]1993),

([1983] 1993), Dimaggio (1982), and Peterson (1994), this account would argue that the

music competition is a professionalizing institution in the field of cultural production. By

controlling the distribution of symbolic capital (i.e., prestige), the competition would be

seen as a mechanism for elite musicians to fill their own ranks, thereby producing a

distinction between consecrated performers (professionals) and lesser musicians

(amateurs in the derogatory sense.) This distinction would be said to rest on the illusion

that competition winners possess a "rare talent" that, upon closer inspection, is revealed

to be a product of a social background and specialised training. The analysis would reveal

that performers who win competitions are those who demonstrate qualities that represent

and preserve the institutional structure. For this, they are rewarded not just with monetary

prizes, but "consecration;" they are invested with the economic and symbolic capital

necessary to launch a professional career. Ultimately, it would be argued that the function

of competitions is to construct belief in the rarity of talent and create a scarcity of "great"
 52

performers that will sustain a market in which only a few professionals can demand

exorbitant fees.

A production perspective study would provide evidence through statistical

methods. A measurement would be devised for ranking competitions by prestige. The

probability of successful careers would be calculated for winners of competitions at

various levels of prestige. A regression model would predict the combination of

characteristics most likely to win the most prestigious prizes or produce the best career.

An analysis of professional career paths would identify barriers in the career progress of

competition losers and describe alternative paths to success. But no production

perspective study would be complete without including an institutional analysis. The

funding sources of music competitions would be investigated, and the composition and

structure of organizing committees analyzed. Strategies undertaken by competition

committees to create and sustain prestige would be articulated. Ultimately, this analysis

would demonstrate the role of music competitions in reproducing cultural capital and

distinction for both musical and economic elites.

While this kind of undertaking has its merits, the production perspective could

only ever produce a partial and problematic account of the music competition. Its

conclusions are so easily predicted because they are logical outcomes of its theoretical

presuppositions. Because the production perspective has bracketed meaning, it could only

ever see the music competition as an opportunity for status accumulation, whether it was

the hopeful competitor or the wealthy patron volunteering to sit on the board. Because the

production perspective understands music as an object rather than a process, it could only

ever see the music competition as an institutionalized strategy for increasing the value of
 53

a cultural and commercial commodity. In the end, the production perspective's reduction

would lead to an overly mechanistic view of the competition. By focussing exclusively

on outcomes, it would blind us to the possibility of other motivations for musical

production or consumption in this context. Neither would it offer any insight into the

meaning of the competition event.

A more promising alternative is the "performance perspective" which recognizes

the centrality of meaning without diminishing or denying the importance of institutional

context, material interest, or power. This approach is based on cultural pragmatics, the

"macro-sociological model of social action as cultural performance" that aims to explain

the potential for symbolic communication to integrate groups while still acknowledging

the fragmentation, disenchantment, and inequalities that characterize contemporary social

life (Alexander 2004). In this model, a social performance is composed of six

interdependent elements: systems of collective representations; actors; audience and

observers; the means of symbolic production; mise-en-scene; and social power. In order

for a performance to be convincing and for social interaction to achieve the

inter subjectivity of ritual, all of these elements must come into alignment, a state referred

to as "fusion". Performances that fail to achieve fusion come across as contrived and

artificial. While social performance is by definition a contingent process, fusion is even

more difficult to achieve in complex, differentiated societies because competing moral

frames and incongruent social positions undermine authenticity, trust, and understanding.

Social performance theory has been most frequently applied in the analysis of

political events (e.g., the September 11th attacks (Alexander 2006), the

Clinton/Lewisnsky scandal (Mast 2006), the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in

 54

South Africa (Goodman 2006), Willy Brandt's kneefall at the Warsaw Memorial (Rauer

2006)). But its analytic utility is hardly limited to the political sphere (see for example

Giesen (2006)). Elsewhere (McCormick 2006), I outlined a performance perspective for

the sociology of music in more general terms. In the following section, I will provide a

basic schema of the approach and relate each element of performance to the specific

context of the music competition. This cursory description is intended to provide a sense

of the framework that orients my analysis. In the chapters to come, each element will be

considered in much greater depth.

THE PERFORMANCE PERSPECTIVE

The theoretical innovation at the core of my project can be stated quite simply: I

am proposing that we understand music as mode of social performance. In other words, I

am suggesting that music be seen as a "social process by which actors, individually or in

concert, display for others the meaning of their social situation" (Alexander 2004:529).

This process can be analyzed through the elements that compose a social performance. I

will address each one in turn.

Systems of Collective Representations

Every social performance involves a script, whether it is premeditated,

improvised, or attributed. Scripts are intelligible or even compelling to the extent that

they invoke background symbols and organize them into coherent sequences; in

concretizing collective representations, they supply actors with acts and motivations that

resonate with an audience. Alexander (2004) describes this as a two-part symbolic

reference: foreground scripts provide the "immediate referent for action" by

 55

particularizing and dramatizing the background cultural structures that constitute the

cognitive, moral, and emotional universe inhabited by both actors and audience (p. 530).

In musical performance, scripts are the musical texts realized into sound by

musicians. The standard practice in classical music is for these texts to be written down in

the form of a notated score. Like the thespian's script, the score is also a two-part

symbolic reference. The sheet music for a Bach Minuet or a Paganini Caprice provides a

set of instructions for the performer indicating the sequence, speed, and combination of

sounds to be played. But at the same time, the musical materials and techniques

employed in the piece, such as form, instrumentation, rhythm, and harmony, convey

musical meaning. In musicology circles, this system of collective representations is

referred to as "the music itself or "the musical vernacular." It is through our familiarity

with purely musical collective representations that we can distinguish a waltz from a

march from a lament, or that we can appreciate a humorous piece without the assistance

of liner notes or visual cues from the performer.

But as sociologists are always quick to point out, musical texts do not completely

determine meaning because they are never performed in a vacuum. Rather, they are

enacted by flesh-and-blood performers in particular contexts, such as a religious service,

the grand opening of an Ikea store, or a music competition. The environment in which

music is performed introduces its own set of collective representations that may or may

not bear any relationship to the musical texts being realized, but will nevertheless shape

the musical experience for both the performer and the audience. For example, one of the

interpretive frameworks most commonly invoked at music competitions is borrowed

from the world of sports. The Cliburn, the Rostropovich, and contests of similar stature
 56

are invariably described as a "musical Olympics" in which champions from around the

world vie for the title. The contradictions and consequences of applying sports metaphors

to musical performance will be explored in the next chapter. But the "game frame" is

never the only symbol system at play. Entrants must embody cultural notions of musical

genius to capture the audience's attention, win over the jury, and gain recognition. The

genius scripts most frequently engaged by competitors, and the resources needed to

portray them, will be the subject of Chapter Four.

Actors

This element refers to the flesh-and-blood people who project meanings and enact

the patterned representations encoded in scripts. In theater as in social life, the aim of an

actor is to "fuse" with the text. By developing competence in a range of skills, they strive

to embody collective representations so effortlessly that any awareness of the constructed

nature of performance dissolves. When an actor is successful, the performance comes

across as natural, sincere, and authentic.

In musical performance, actors are the creators of music, the composers who

invent musical scripts and the musicians who realize them in various ritual contexts.

Through rigorous training and countless hours of practice, they develop skills in the craft

of composition, instrumental technique, style, and stage presence in order to convey

musical meaning effectively. As discussed in the previous chapter, the Western art music

tradition is characterized by a division of labor in which the person performing musical

texts is rarely the same person who composed them; indeed, they are often separated by
 57

hundreds of years. This "de-fusion" of elements presents a problem of performance that

the actor must overcome.

In music competitions, the central actors are the competitors who perform to the

best of their ability and strive to embody performance ideals. As in every occasion for

musical performance, they aim to fuse with their chosen musical scripts so completely

that the music appears to flow from them and the details of execution come across as

spontaneous. While this is a challenge in any live performance situation, it is especially

difficult at competitions. In an important sense, these are institutions dedicated to the

social construction of the actor; with every cycle, they reconsider the role of the

performer in this aesthetic tradition, articulating and revising anew what constitutes an

authentic and effective performance. As such, they necessarily draw attention to the

musical actor's craft and the constructedness of their presentation.

Audience

Social performances involve the display of meanings for others. An actor's

presentation is necessarily directed at an audience that is meant to decode the symbols in

the script and evaluate the effectiveness of the performance. As in all interpretive

endeavors, the decoding process is unpredictable because it hinges on a variety of factors.

Audiences can be absorbed or distracted, and they can possess varying degrees of

familiarity or sophistication regarding the kind of performances presented to them. The

conditions of observation are another significant factor. Audiences that participate

voluntarily will have a different relation to the performance than those that are coerced,

or those that become a witness by accident.

 58

The intensity and quality of the audience's engagement will also vary. An actor

can execute a performance flawlessly, but still fail to inspire psychological identification;

observers might merely understand the script on a cognitive level without being

emotionally moved. It is also possible for audiences to be swayed by intervening

authorities, such as critics, who can convince them to abandon previously-held

convictions. In spite of this unpredictability and occasional fickleness, the power of the

audience over the fate of the performance should never be underestimated. Their role is

not merely to receive, but to complete the performance and secure its meaning. It is

possible, for example, for the audience to subvert a performance and transform it in

midstream. They can misinterpret a symbol, deny an actor's intentions, or respond

emotionally to the "wrong" part of the script and leave the actor little choice but to pursue

a different track.

In musical performance, the audience is composed of listeners who can be

present in the concert hall, imagined in the practice room, or, through recording

technology, completely removed in space and time from the original performance

context. Depending on the occasion, the musical genre, and the historical period, the

audience gathered for a performance is more or less cohesive. This is not just a matter of

empirical investigation; it is also a problem of performance. Audience segments that are

differently-equipped, differently-invested, and differently- positioned to decode musical

performances will invoke a variety of interpretive frameworks to make sense of what is

going on. An actor facing such an audience must either find a way to communicate so

effectively with them that these boundaries become unimportant, or select which

segment(s) will be the intended audience.

 59

This is certainly the case at music competitions where the audience is both highly

fragmented and stratified. As one would expect, the listeners who most preoccupy

competitors are the judges. This audience segment holds the most power during the

competition event because they determine who will be eliminated and who will advance

to the next round. The criteria guiding this decision are set out by the competition

organization (i.e., the director and the board of trustees) which comprises another coterie

of influential listeners. But these are not the only attendees who can provide opportunities

for competitors. Concert presenters and agents regularly attend competitions to listen to

prospective guest artists and clients. Yet another group with a professional interest in

competition proceedings consists of critics and journalists covering the event.

While critics' accounts are read with skepticism by competitors and professional

musicians in attendance, they are consulted religiously by regular competition attendees

who follow results for enjoyment and travel great distances to take in the performances

live. These listeners, who typically have an extensive background in music, can be

spotted by the dog-eared scores they casually carry into the concert hall, or the detailed

notes they scribble in the margins of program books. Sitting alongside them are the

casual listeners, such as the friend of the competitor's family who came to demonstrate

support, or the first-time concert-goer who read about the event in the paper and came out

of curiosity. Another audience segment even more invested in the results of the event is

composed of patrons, who hope the object of their civic pride will gain national or even

international significance, and volunteers, such as the host families, who come to develop

a personal relationship with the competitors who are their house guests. In addition to all

these listeners who are physically present in the hall, another segment of the audience
watches from afar. Geographically distant observers engage with musical performances

and participate in the event through newspaper coverage, radio broadcasts, internet

streaming, and weblogs.

As this overview suggests, the audience for competitions is composed of

segments with considerably different motivations for participating and resources for

interpretation. The audience's role in the event, and the relationship between its diverse

segments, will be the subject of Chapter Five.

The Means of Symbolic Production

This element concerns the environment and the material objects actors need to

mount a performance. On the most basic level, the performer needs a stage, a physical

space that facilitates communication and reduces the chance of interruptions and other

interventions. Once the actor has procured a stage, symbolic equipment might be

incorporated to support, sustain, or heighten meanings expressed through performative

acts.

A musical performance can occur just about anywhere. While the art music

tradition has since 1800 favored the purpose-built concert hall, functional musics have

occupied a greater variety of venues (e.g., taverns, churches, battlefields, city squares,

churches.) More recently, recording technologies from the loudspeaker to the iPod have

made it possible for music to take place in any social situation. We have come to take the

ubiquity and mobility of music for granted. But when these technologies were first

introduced, many composers objected to them on the grounds that they uprooted music

from the traditional venues that solidified the ritual context. While their objection might
 61

have been shortsighted, they were right to point out that venues are never neutral. In

every performance, whether mediated or live, the setting influences the meanings

displayed and interpreted. Each venue has its own architecture, which facilitates or

discourages certain practices, and its own history, which will usher in its own set of

associations and frameworks. Part of the musical actor's skill is in assessing the potential

and limitations of the environment and adjusting their performance accordingly.

Musical actors also incorporate a range of symbolic equipment to accomplish

their symbolic projections. For classical musicians, the most important is the musical

instrument itself, but meanings are also given and given off through visual means,

including dress, demeanor, and gesture. Beyond the walls of the concert hall, musicians

can cultivate other resources to enhance their image as an artist and incline the audience

to receive their performance sympathetically, if not enthusiastically. Recording

technologies provide an arsenal of editing and engineering equipment to assist musicians

in capturing their ideal interpretation of a musical text. The advent of the internet, along

with ongoing innovations in software, has made the production and distribution of sound

recordings increasingly inexpensive. This development has upset the industry structure

that dominated the better part of the 20th century, but at the same time, it has also

provided musicians with yet another set of resources for the creation and projection of

meanings.

In Chapter 4,1 will discuss the various forms of symbolic production marshaled

by musicians in their effort to embody performance ideals. But competitors are not the

only ones performing in the context of a music competition. The organization hosting the

event is also presenting itself to a diverse and segmented audience that includes peer
 62

institutions, the professional music world, the civic community, and the wider public. To

construct and display its desired image, they recruit a staff with the requisite skills, such

as publicists, graphic designers, and filmmakers, to engage symbols effectively in

publicity materials (e.g., press releases, posters, brochures, promotional videos,

documentaries.) The competition organization's symbolic projections, and their

reception, will be analyzed in the next chapter.

Mise-en-Scene

Having selected their texts, claimed a stage, and gathered the necessary means of

symbolic production, actors then engage in dramatic social action. Until the script is

brought to life, it remains merely an encoded text; the meanings must be projected - "put

in the scene" - through the choreography of communicative gestures. The challenge,

however, is that enactment always involves more than the script indicates.

In musical performance, this is known as the issue of style. A musician can play

all the right notes in the right order at the right time, but still fail to realize the text in a

way that is meaningful to the audience. An actualization can be flawless in terms of

execution but still not feel "right." While scholars have filled the pages of academic

journals arguing over the "performance practices" of ancient music, the quest to capture

and codify this ineffable quality is hardly restricted to historical repertoire. For example,

musicians struggle to master the idiosyncrasies of musics from different cultures (e.g., the

Hungarian rhythms in a Bartok string quartet) and aesthetic traditions (e.g., the sway of

an Argentine tango.)
 63

In any musical occasion, mise-en-scene is a complex interaction between

audience expectations and the actor's performative techniques which are in turn

constrained by the setting and the possibilities structured in the text. It is in this sense that

every performance is a calculated risk. But the music competition environment

compounds this risk, further complicating mise-en-scene by drawing so much attention to

it. In this context, the success of an actor's self-presentation hinges on whether a

particular segment of the audience (the jury) accepts the aesthetic choices made in the

realization of musical scripts.

Social Power

The final element takes into account the unequal distribution of power. The

performance process is profoundly affected by the "nature [of a society's] political,

economic, and status hierarchies, and the relations among its elites" (Alexander

2004:532) Certain texts can be altered or forbidden altogether for a perceived threat to the

status quo. The legitimacy of some performers can be taken for granted regardless of the

stage they claim, while others are denied access to even the crudest means of symbolic

production. Social power also determines who can make symbolic projections, who is

permitted to observe, and whether a performance is allowed to reach its conclusion.

In musical performance, every element is shaped by inequality. For instance,

different groups might invoke their own symbol systems to interpret a musical

performance, but they will not necessarily be considered equally legitimate. Social

privilege is sustained and justified through familiarity with particular systems of

collective representations and facility with certain interpretive practices (Bourdieu 1984).
 64

The musical actor's source of social power is reputation. Those whose names are

recognized can legitimize obscure texts, consecrate unknown persons, and gain access to

other realms of privilege (Bourdieu [1983] 1993). Audiences also exercise social power

by endowing certain performers with symbolic value while denying others esteem

(DeNora 1995). Access to the means of symbolic production is also stratified.

Consecrated musicians bolster their reputation by performing in the most distinguished

venues and engaging the best sound engineers to make a new recording. But musicians

encountering economic hardship might not be able to acquire a decent instrument or

receive adequate training.

One of the most fascinating aspects of music competitions is their power

structure. This institution claims for itself the authority to distinguish performers with

unusual levels of symbolic power. But this authority is neither unquestioned nor

permanent. The method and purpose of competitions is constantly debated in the music

world, and as every director is painfully aware, the legitimacy of each organization rests

on the prestige borrowed from the jury and the reputation accumulated by their laureates.

And then there are the music critics. These interpretive authorities are independent of the

candidates as well as the competition organization. Through their own means of symbolic

production, critics can disseminate their own interpretations and intervene in the

reception of a candidate's performances or the competition's claim to legitimacy. And

finally, the event itself is characterized by an unusual power structure. The recital ritual

typically places the musical actor in control of the performance. But this is not the case at

competitions, however much they bear a surface resemblance. As mentioned earlier, one

segment of the audience, the jury, is endowed with the authority to declare which
performances are successful by producing a ranking and declaring a winner. The

disruptive potential of this arrangement on the process of performance will be discussed

in Chapter 4.

CASES

Having established the theoretical underpinnings of a performance perspective,

my next task is to describe how I put this analytical framework into practice. For the

purposes of this study, I have narrowed my empirical investigation to international music

competitions in the genre of classical music and attended five selected cases (see Table

2.1). While all the competitions I observed are members of the WFIMC, the selection

criteria for my sample introduced the variation necessary to achieve a cross-section of

this diverse field. First, I wanted to observe competitions for particular instruments. Two

piano competitions are included because this is the discipline most heavily dominated by

contests. The piano is also over-represented because it is currently considered the solo

virtuoso instrument par excellence, with the violin a close second. The cello, my own

instrument, is included in the sample not only because I am intimately familiar with the

repertoire, but also because of its ambiguous status. Historically, the cello has generally

played a supportive role in providing the bass line in ensembles. But with the help of a

few champions, like David Popper in the 19th century and Mstislav Rostropovich in the

20th century, the cello has been gradually establishing itself as a solo instrument in its

own right. I was interested to see how competitions and players cope with the relative

scarcity of virtuoso repertoire in a musical environment infamous for favoring virtuosic

display. The string quartet competition is also unusual, but in a different way. Chamber
 66

music is defined by cooperation and intersubjectivity, and it is often said that players are

drawn to this lifestyle precisely because it shuns the virtuoso mentality. How, then, does

a chamber music ensemble adapt to a competitive environment? The string quartet

competition provided an opportunity to consider how collective musical identity is

fashioned to undergo evaluation. Apart from representing a variety of disciplines, my

sample was also designed to include cases from three continents. Because competitions

are often identified as a mechanism of globalization in the music world, it was important

to strive for a global sample to assess the degree of standardization and homogenization

that has actually been achieved. And finally, the sample includes younger and more

established competitions at the centre and the periphery of the music world.

Table 2.1: Case study competitions

Date founded Frequency Location

Van Cliburn International 1958 Quadrennial Fort Worth, Texas,

Piano Competition USA

Honens International 1991 Triennial Calgary, Alberta,

Piano Competition Canada

Rostropovich 1977 3-5 years Paris, France

International Cello
Competition

Michael Hill International 2001 Biennial Queenstown and

Violin Competition Auckland, New
Zealand

Banff International String 1983 Triennial Banff, Alberta, Canada

Quartet Competition
 67

In the next section, I will provide a brief description of the five competitions

included in my sample. However cursory, some historical background and ethnographic

detail is necessary to convey the distinctive personality of each event and to provide some

sense of what it is like to attend them. It is important to stress, however, that these cases

were not selected for the purpose of conducting a conventional comparative analysis

(Ragin 1987). Instead, I follow Wagner-Pacifici's (2000) strategy in which she analyzed

a series of selected cases to "extract the essence" of the standoff. In my case, I strive to

identify the general characteristics of a particular musical environment toward the

broader goal of theorizing musical/social performance.

The Van Cliburn International Piano Competition

The Cliburn is best described as the quintessential music competition for the

quintessential solo instrument. It is one of a handful of prizes perceived to be the pinnacle

of success for aspiring pianists, and there are few competitions as well-known in the

classical music community or by the general public. A long-time member of the World

Federation of International Music Competitions, the Cliburn was founded in 1958 by a

group of music teachers and citizens of Fort Worth, Texas to celebrate Van Cliburn's

victory at the Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow, an achievement made all the more

significant because it occurred at the peak of cold war political tensions. Since its first

cycle in 1962, the quadrennial competition has become a major civic event for the city of

Fort Worth, gradually cultivating a devoted local audience for piano music. It has also

built a sizeable army of dedicated volunteers. The program book for the most recent cycle

listed seven volunteer committees coordinating hundreds of people in a range of roles and
 68

activities such as entertaining the jury, ushering for concerts, staffing the gift shop,

monitoring the practice pianos, chauffeuring competitors, jurors, and their entourages

around town, and "backstage mothers" to comfort competitors and resolve any crises

during those tense minutes before they walk out on stage.

While the Cliburn competition is restricted to pianists between the ages of 18 and

30, its reputation and its generous prize9 invariably draw an impressive number of

applications. It has therefore been necessary to devise a screening process to select a

more manageable number of competitors (typically 35) for the event in Fort Worth.

Through the 1980s and 90s, the 150 or so candidates who made the first cut were invited

to perform recitals that were videotaped. Although the best equipment and engineers

were organized for these recording sessions, jurors insisted this was no substitute for the

live concert experience. Since 1997, arrangements have been made for the screening jury

to travel to five selected cities around the world to attend all the pre-selection recitals.

These concerts are open to the public free of charge, and have succeeded in attracting an

appreciative audience. But it is the competition in Fort Worth that draws the biggest

crowd, with ticket packages ranging in price from $300 to $1400 USD selling out months

if not years in advance.

Audience members attending the 17-day competition are in store for a demanding

schedule. The official proceedings alone require considerable stamina; those wanting to

hear all the candidates in the first round are effectively volunteering for approximately 8

hours of intensive listening a day. If this is not enough to sate their musical appetite, they

can also attend a host of ancillary events. During 12th cycle, the Cliburn organized

9
In the 2005 competition, first, second, and third prize winners were awarded $20,000 in addition to
concert engagements around the world.
symposia on a range of related topics, a film festival screening the documentary

filmmaker's oeuvre, and "piano marathons" featuring unsuccessful competitors at the

Museum of Modern Art. The music department at Texas Christian University also hosted

concurrent programs for young artists and music teachers attending the competition,

organizing master-classes with jurors and performance opportunities in those few time

slots not occupied by the competition.

For the first ten cycles of the Cliburn, the preliminary and semifinal rounds were

held in the Ed Landreth Auditorium at the department of music on the campus of Texas

Christian University. The modest 1,235-seat proscenium performance space, completed

in 1949, offered a fine acoustic. But it failed to inspire music critic Joseph Horowitz who,

after attending the eighth cycle, described it as a disappointing venue that, "with its plain

walls and gray metal seats covered in red velour, [looked] more like a high school

auditorium than an impending celebrity Mecca"(1990:163). Because the final concerto

round invariably attracted a larger audience, this stage of the competition was held in the

Tarrant County Convention Center Theatre which offered a larger stage for the orchestra

and approximately 1800 more seats. But the bigger venue came at the expense of the

acoustic. Horowitz (1990) complained that the "pale, dry, and soft" sound was further

compromised by an audible air-conditioning system, a necessity in Texas during the

summer months (p. 223).

In 2001, the Cliburn abandoned the university campus and the convention center

to take up residence in its new home, Bass Hall, which was entirely privately funded by

Nancy Lee and Perry R. Bass (inheritors of the Sid Richardson oil empire, long-time

patrons of the arts, and former board members of the Cliburn Foundation). A major
 70

impetus driving the construction of this hall was the desire to build a world-class venue

for the Cliburn competition. Indeed, Edward P. Bass, chairman of Performing Arts Fort

Worth, described Bass Hall as

".. .the godchild of the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition.

Throughout the Hall's design and creation, the Cliburn was its spiritual
mentor, with every element conceived and executed with the quadrennial
event in mind. [...] It is our hope that the architecture and acoustics of the
Hall will provide a setting to inspire the artists, thrill the audiences and
serve the jurors to best advantage in their difficult task."

The hall can be justifiably deemed a success according to this and a host of other

measures. Since its completion in 1998, it has garnered over two dozen architectural

awards. It is credited with being a crucial element in the revitalization of the downtown

area. Visiting artists rave about its fine acoustic. And judging by its ubiquity on local

postcards, it has been adopted by citizens of Fort Worth as an icon of the city.

The magnificence of this limestone building is communicated both through its

scale and its form. Designed in the style of a ^-century European opera house, it

occupies an entire city block in downtown Fort Worth. Any visitor to the hall is

immediately struck by the pair of 48-foot limestone angels gracing the grand facade,

silently heralding the structure's importance with golden trumpets permanently raised to

their lips. The corner entrances open into an atrium illuminated by art deco chandeliers

and framed by white marble staircases that lead visitors up to the performance space. The

2,056-seat concert hall, studded with crystal light fixtures and crowned by an 80-foot

diameter fresco-painted dome, rivals the opulence of the exterior. While the style of

architecture deliberately looks to the past, the facility is otherwise thoroughly modern,

outfitted with state-of-the-art audio and visual technology. Audience members who might
 71

have lingered too long during intermission in the gift shop or at the bar can watch the

performance on the television screens installed in every lobby. These modern

conveniences are tastefully incorporated into the design of the hall so that the 19th-

century opera house feel is not disrupted. The television screen, for instance, is mounted

behind a mirror so that any unseemly wires, malfunctioning equipment, or makeshift

stands do not clash with the decor.

But the official proceedings taking place in Bass Hall are not all there is to the

Cliburn competition. It has also earned a reputation for the Texas hospitality it extends to

all participants. The most recent cycle was launched by two lavish parties that took place

on the same evening. Audience members were invited to an opening gala dinner at the

lavish Renaissance Worthington Hotel honoring the jury and candidates for $125 a plate.

To further augment the grandeur of the occasion, President and Laura Bush were listed

on the invitation as honorary chairmen. Meanwhile at the "drawing party", the main order

of business is the determination of performance order by the drawing of numbers. What

could have been accomplished in a dry, bureaucratic manner is instead done in style. As

Mike Winter, a music critic in attendance, described:

The four and one-half acre estate of John and Lesa Oudt was the idyllic
setting.... Upon entering the pea gravel driveway dividing the superbly
manicured grounds overlooking the Trinity River, there is no clue of
surrounding Fort Worth, much less the fact there is a grocery store less
than a minute away. The 1927 brick Tudor house is long and narrow (kind
of like a famous pianist who lives in the neighborhood) and is situated on
the lawns for the least wind resistance, John Oudt explained to me. Across
the driveway, stairs lead down to the pool and guest house, where I began
my exploration... The living room of the guest house is also a trophy
room displaying magnificent African antelope, an Ibex and a water
buffalo. But the attention here was on the competition pianists who were
having their feet measured for a pair of authentic, Texas style cowboy
boots.. .Behind the main house was a tented area where the dinner was
served to about 120 guests, mostly the 35 pianists and their host families,
 72

plus a dozen or more media people.. .Early in the evening the level of the
affair was set by the wines being offered in the guest house and at dinner:
a 1995 Mondavi Cabernet Reserve, a '98 Chateau Neuf du Pape, a
sumptuous 2002 Puligny Montrachet, among others. The dinner meal,
capped by black and white cookies shaped like musical eighth notes, met
the standard deliciously. (Cliburn blog, May 19, 2005)

Competitors got the opportunity to break in those custom-made cowboy boots at the

ranch party held during the break between the semi-final and final round. After the rodeo,

volunteers and competitors feasted on Texas barbeque and two-stepped into the night to

the twang of a live country and western band.

While some critics (see Horowitz 1990) have complained that the Cliburn's

elaborate social calendar was in danger of overwhelming the original purpose of the

competition, the participants I spoke with during the 2005 competition vehemently

denied that this was the case. One patron, who had over the course of her lifetime been

involved in seven cycles including the inaugural competition, defended receptions and

parties in terms of their ritual and pragmatic functions. She described these events as "the

lifeblood of the organization" that not only fostered a sense of community among

volunteers and sponsors, but offered competitors an important opportunity to hone their

networking skills which would be a valuable asset in their future careers.10 This

member's insightful (and surprisingly Durkheimian) comments resonate with a theme

that will surface repeatedly in the chapters to come: competitions incorporate a diverse

range of participants who are differently-engaged and differently-invested in the event.

To understand the competition world, the sociological observer must widen her lens

beyond the official business being carried out onstage.

Private conversation with Paige Hendricks, June 2,2005.

 73

The Honens International Piano Competition

Calgary, Alberta would strike many as an unusual home for a classical music

competition. Like Fort Worth, it is seen as a "cow town" famous for oil and ranching, as

distant culturally as it is geographically from the more renowned arts institutions

clustered in Ontario and Quebec. Municipal and provincial governments in Alberta have

lived up to the urban cowboy stereotype by consistently undervaluing the fine arts; when

comparing the arts funding of Canada's provinces and territories, Alberta has ranked 11th

out of 13 (Yedlin 2006). Despite this meager support, Calgary's arts institutions have

managed to survive through a combination of entrepreneurialism and reliance on the

generosity of local elite families (Clarke 2006).

But in the last decade, Alberta has been experiencing the strongest economic

growth ever recorded in Canadian history due to the large-scale development of oil sands

projects in the Northern part of the province. Between 2002 and 2005, the nominal gross

domestic product rose 43%; in the same period, the average annual growth rate has been

12.7%, approaching that of China (14.8%) (Cross and Bowlby 2006). As a result, Calgary

has been rapidly transformed into a major urban centre. Along with traffic jams, upscale

restaurants, housing and labor shortages, and unprecedented inward migration, Calgary

has also witnessed its local cultural institutions gather momentum. Poised at the center of

this burgeoning scene is the Honens.

The Esther Honens Calgary International Piano Competition and Festival (later,

renamed simply "Honens") was founded in 1991 and is named after a local philanthropist

and music enthusiast whose $5 million gift secured a viable endowment for the

organization. While it has since developed successful concert series and outreach
 74

programs, its central event and guiding purpose continues to be the 16-day triennial

competition that is open to pianists between the ages of 20 and 30. Despite being

relatively new, it has surpassed the longer-running Montreal Competition to become the

most significant solo competition in Canada. Internationally, it strives to be known as the

most fair and transparent competition in the world.

The Honens has a lot in common with the Cliburn: an unflinching commitment to

recognizing excellence, an impressive volunteer base, a screening round held in selected

cities around the world, the practice of lodging of candidates in private homes, a

rationalized voting system, and the organization of concert opportunities during the

second and third rounds for unsuccessful candidates. These similarities result in part from

membership in the WFIMC and in part from the legacy of Andrew Raeburn, director at

the Cliburn in the 1980s and then at the Honens in the following decade. But the Honens

insists it is not a "Cliburn North." In fact, one would be tempted to describe it as the

"anti-Cliburn" piano competition if it were not for the amicable relationship between

directors. What distinguishes the Honens is the artistic philosophy it espouses. As they

explain in all of their promotional materials, they aim to discover the "complete artist"

who embodies the following artistic principles:

Interpretations shall be founded upon the intellectual and emotional

understanding of musical text, and upon a performer's ability to synthesize
and express such understanding so as to challenge and stir both the
intellect and the emotions of the listener. This understanding will stem not
only from knowledge of a particular composition itself but, equally
importantly, from a wide knowledge of related music, of musical literature
as a whole, and of the other arts, including but not limited to, the visual
and literary arts. If the resulting interpretation appears unusual and
unconventional it will appear so freshly and naturally. Artists taking part
in Honens must also express through their stage deportment and
 75

programming ability, a sensitivity to contemporary culture and an ability

to communicate effectively with audiences of today.

In other words, they are less interested in the typical competition winner, the flashy

technical whiz that competitions like the Cliburn have been identifying and trumpeting

with predictable regularity for the last fifty years. Instead, they seek a musician who can

do more than dazzle the audience by playing the old warhorses faster and louder; they

want someone who is equally dedicated to chamber music, who can inform the music

they perform with knowledge of historical and cultural context, and who can engage

audiences through unconventional approaches or exceptional abilities (such as

improvisation.) It is perhaps a measure of their success that they have been criticized for

catering more to musicians than to audience members.12

In addition to its artistic philosophy, the Honens has also introduced several

innovations in the design and structure of the event, many of which speak directly to

criticisms frequently aimed at competitions. Chief among them is the composition of the

jury. The Honens endeavors to find judges who are currently enjoying an active

performing career. While the jurors they select might not always be household names,

they can boast a younger than average jury with a higher representation of women than

any of their peers. They can also take pride in addressing the criticism that juries are

increasingly populated by "professional jurors", that is, judges who are not circling the

globe to play concerts, but to judge competitions. The concern here is threefold. Firstly,

these jurors are accused of promoting the same kind of musician in every contest, thereby

11
http://www.honens.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=24. Accessed March 2, 2008.
12
Private conversation with Steve McHolm, Honens director, October 21,2006.
 76

contributing to the homogenization of classical music. Secondly, some fear that in

leaving the concert stage, these jurors have lost touch with what it is like to perform,

thereby diminishing their authority. Thirdly, for some, being a long-standing member on

a number of juries is not a testament to a person's competence and reliability, but an

indication of questionable motives and (possibly) corruption. "Professional jurors" are

denigrated not only because they are suspected of engaging in quid pro quo politics; they

are also seen as having exploited a position that should be approached as a service

reluctantly if not begrudgingly undertaken (much like the Speaker of the House in the

British parliamentary system), distorting it into an opportunity for personal gain and self-

aggrandizement.

The Honens' other design innovations include the performance of lieder

(collaboration with a singer) in the chamber music requirement, the inclusion of

collaborating artists and the commissioned composer in deliberations and voting, and a

three-season career development program as part of the prize for laureates. And finally,

further demonstrating their commitment to artistic integrity, the Honens is one of the few

competitions in which every competitor enjoys the opportunity to play two full programs

before the first elimination. While some bureaucratic efficiency is sacrificed, this

procedure responds to another common frustration among competitors. Many complain

that after investing considerable time, money, and energy to participate in a competition,

they play for a mere ten minutes only to be eliminated in the first round. While the judges

do not always need to hear the candidate a second time to arrive at a decision, the

For the 2006 competition, the first prize winner was awarded a cash prize of $35,000 CAD, the second
prize winner won $25,000 and the third prize winner won $17,000.
 77

competitor can at least have the satisfaction of having a second chance to make an

impression.

For the first few cycles of the competition, all rounds were held in the Jack Singer

Concert Hall, a downtown venue with the capacity to seat 1800 people. But once the

Rosza Centre was built on the University of Calgary campus in 1996, the Honens

relocated to its 384-seat recital hall (named after the Canadian composer Sophie Carmen

Eckhart-Gramatte) for the first and second rounds. Despite being a less convenient

location, most sessions attract enough audience members nearly to fill the hall, which

enhances the musical experience as much for the performer as it does for the audience.

The lobby space of the building has also been put to good use. Before every session, two

laureates run a pre-concert lecture series entitled "MSL 3.0" (the acronym standing for

"Music as a Second Language") which audience members can attend free of charge to

learn about the repertoire that is about to be performed.

Rostropovich International Cello Competition

Cellists know better than anyone that international competitions for their

instrument are not only rare, but that they are much less visible than their piano

counterparts. For these reasons, the Rostropovich is all the more remarkable. While it

might not be as well-known as the Tchaikovsky, it is one of the most coveted prizes in

the discipline.14 This competition owes its status to its much-loved namesake, Mstislav

In addition to concert engagements, the first prize winner is also awarded €12, 000. The cash prize for
second place is €8,000, and for third place is € 4,500. Even more attractive, however, is the unofficial
mentorship the first prize winner receives from Slava himself.
 78

Rostropovich,15 cellist and political dissident who captured the world's attention first in

1974, when he defected from the Soviet Union and denounced the regime's treatment of

artists, and again in 1989, when he travelled to Berlin to play Bach suites as the wall

came down. In contrast to Van Cliburn, Slava played a major role in the competition that

bore his name, acting as chairman of the jury until his death in 2007. In this role, he was

responsible for assembling the jury and commissioning a composer for the imposed

piece. His participation greatly benefitted the organization. Slava's historical significance

drew more media attention than similar events enjoy. His association also attracted the

interest of musicians. Many who otherwise avoid the competition circuit have made an

exception for the Rostropovich because it represented an opportunity to work with or

play for the maestro. It remains to be seen how the competition will fare without his

imposing presence.

The first cycle of the Rostropovich was held in 1977 in La Rochelle, France as

part of a contemporary music festival founded by journalist and music critic Claude

Samuel. The idea for the cello contest came from Samuel, who approached Slava to lend

his name and his support.16 When the festival folded shortly thereafter, the competition

moved to Paris to come under the umbrella of the Concours Internationaux de la Ville de

Paris (CIVP - Association of International Competitions in the City of Paris), of which

Samuel has been director since 1981. With this relocation, the Rostropovich entered a

crowded field. Paris becomes a hotbed of competitions every fall; from September to

15
For the sake of clarity, I will refer to the competition as "the Rostropovich" and to the man as "Slava,"
the widely-used variation on his name which means, appropriately, "glory."
16
Samuel also collaborated with Slava and his wife, singer Galina Vishnevskaia, in the 1983 publication of
Entretiens avec Mstislav Rostropovitch et Galina Vichnevska'ia sur la Russie, la musique, la liberti (Paris:
Editions R. Laffont) about the couple's defection. The book was translated into English in 1995.
 79

November, up to four cycles take place. Two of these are likely to be CIVP contests; in

addition to the Rostropovich, this organization hosts seven other competitions in

disciplines as diverse as contemporary piano, jazz piano, flute, organ, instrument and

bow-making, harp, and trumpet. Paris is also the home of the Long-Thibaud Competition,

which alternates between violin and piano, as well as the biennial Nadia and Lili

Boulanger Competition for voice and piano duo.17

At the inaugural Rostropovich competition, composers outnumbered cellists on

the jury; Luciano Berio, Iannis Xenakis, Henri Dutilleux, and Witold Lutoslawsi sat

alongside cellists Raya Garbousova and Pierre Penassou. Since joining the CIVP, the

Rostropovich has reduced the representation of composers on the jury while retaining its

commitment to contemporary music which was, as mentioned earlier, Slava's passion. At

the most recent cycle, the only exception to the all-cellist jury was the distinguished

luthier, Etienne Vatelot. He has the additional duty of inspecting each candidate's

instrument and recording his assessment in a booklet for the jury's reference in

deliberations. Unlike piano competitions, which provide the instrument for contestants,

string players must arrive with their own..This matter will be discussed at greater length

in Chapter 4.

Like the Cliburn and the Honens, the Rostropovich has had to institute a live

screening round in four cities around the world to select competitors from the initial pool

of applications. The record number of applications received for the 2005 cycle has caused

the administration also to consider lowering the age limit from 33 to 30 years of age.

Screening was previously accomplished through submitted recordings. But as a staff

17
All CIVP competitions are members of the WFIMC, but the Long-Thibaud and the Boulanger are not.
 80

member explained, this was unsatisfactory, not only because of the variable quality of

recordings, but because they encountered fraudulent submissions. For instance, one

applicant attempted to pass off a dubbed professional recording as his own. This could

have been intended as a subversive act - musicians who are frustrated with the

competition circuit's mysterious criteria and unpredictable decisions often wonder if

iconic performers would be able to meet their standards - but it is unknown whether this
1R

particular applicant was testing that theory or had simply resorted to dishonest methods.

The screening jury also grew frustrated with recommendation letters that convey very

little useful information. For example, a cello professor from France recommended his

students with a photocopy of the identical letter (Validire 2005).19 While some candidates

are exempt from the screening round on the basis of previous competition success or a

strong CV, the vast majority were invited to be heard live in Washington, Paris, Moscow,

or Tokyo in auditions that were open to the public. The screening jury was composed of

the tireless Slava, who attended auditions in every city, and two cellists from the host

country. In contrast to the Honens and the Cliburn, where most candidates at the

screening round can expect to be turned away, the preliminary elimination for the

Others have tested the theory. A pianist once submitted a recording of Rubinstein under a false name to
see if he could get into the competition named after him. The application was rejected, but since rejections
are never supported by reasons, it is unknown whether the jury recognized the icon's playing or if indeed
Rubinstein himself did not measure up.

This incident resembles an anecdote related to me by another director. In that case, a music professor sent
a single letter to the competition listing all the candidates he wished to recommend. When the director
contacted the professor to explain why this was not adequate and why these candidates would be removed
from consideration, the professor threatened to boycott the competition completely and chastised the
director for failing to realize how lucky he was that he had considered letting his high-caliber students
participate at all. In both these cases, the music professors believed that their names carried enough
significance that they were recommendation enough. While English (2005) would interpret this exchange
as a power struggle between institutions over who can distribute symbolic capital, I would argue instead
that it is a clash between a pre-modern guild system mentality(the conservatory) and modern legal
rationality (competitions).
 81

Rostropovich is not as severe. From an initial pool of 211 candidates from 43 countries,

95 cellists were invited to Paris for the first round. In the end, 77 arrived to participate.

The first round of the 2005 Rostropovich was held at the Conservatoire National

de Region de Paris in the eighth arrondissement. This venue was chosen for both

symbolic and practical reasons. Symbolically, it is located in the heart of the city's

musical life. The neighborhood, whose streets are named for the great European cities,

was built at the same time as nearby St. Lazare Rail Station, a frequent subject of

Monet's paintings. One could not find a higher concentration of things musical anywhere

else in the city; rue de Rome is packed with instrument makers and sheet music dealers.

These businesses set up shop shortly after the Conservatoire, then under the direction of

Gabriel Faure, took over an old Jesuit school on rue Madrid in 1911. Since the

Conservatoire (renamed to carry the impressive acronym CMSMDP) relocated to a larger

facility in la Villette in 1990, the building on rue Madrid has been renovated and

purchased by the city for the Conservatoire National de Region de Paris.20 It is also the

rehearsal hall for professional ensembles.

This building is an ideal facility for a competition involving nearly 80 candidates.

By definition, music schools are designed to provide a multitude of soundproof rooms.

The rows of practice rooms in this building are a necessity for the Rostropovich which

does not (and, reasonably, could not) provide accommodation for competitors in private

homes. In contrast to Cliburn and Honens competitors, who stay in the best homes and

are chauffeured to and from the competition, most Rostropovich candidates stay in one of

the affordable pensions suggested by the competition, all of which are a stone's throw

http://www.cnr-paris.cotn/. Accessed June 10,2008.

 82

from the Boulevard Peripherique, the ring road which geographically and symbolically

marks the boundary between the city proper and the suburbs. Rostropovich competitors

are responsible for getting themselves to the competition on time, at their own expense.

For first-time visitors to Paris, the task of traversing the city for a 10am session can be

daunting enough.22 Rostropovich competitors must accomplish it with a cello in tow.23

At the first elimination, 25 competitors were selected progress to the second

round which took place in the 500-seat amphitheatre at the infamous Opera Bastille. This

ultra-modern facility stirred controversy during its construction in the 1980s when an ill-

timed resignation from Daniel Barenboim and Chirac's tenure as prime minister

interfered with Mitterrand's plan to mark the 200th anniversary of the storming of the

Bastille with the unveiling of this $300 million structure (Greenhouse 1988). The dust has

since settled, and while it might not be one of Paris' most loved buildings, it provided a

fine acoustic for the competition. It did not, however, provide enough seating. At the

evening sessions, dozens of audience members waited in the lobby hoping that someone

would leave early. If they did not make it in to hear a particular candidate, they missed

their chance; the hall did not have closed circuit televisions installed to broadcast

competitors' performances in the lobby.

Travel and accommodation expenses are reimbursed only for those candidates who advance to the
second round. Meals are not provided.
22
A competitor who had to play first in the morning session said he woke up at 5am in order to have
enough time get to the concert hall and warm up. This is an unusual schedule for concert musicians who are
accustomed to performing in evening concerts.
23
According to one respondent, the Tchaikovsky competition handles accommodations in the same way.
Unfamiliar with Moscow's subway system, she got lost on the way to the competition. She became so
nervous about being late for her own performance that she left her teacher's bow on the train. While she
made it just in time to play - she literally unpacked the cello and walked right on stage - the bow was never
recovered.
 83

But there was no shortage of seating for the final round. This was held at the

Theatre du Chatelet, a historic, 2500-seat concert hall on the right bank just east of the

Louvre in the first arrondissement, which was considered the largest venue in all of Paris

when it first opened in 1862.24 By coincidence, all six finalists chose to play the first

Shostakovich concerto with the Orchestre de Paris. More cynical observers speculated

that they all wanted to be eligible for the €2500 special prize for the best performance of

the Shostakovich concerto, but they could equally have been motivated by the chance to

play the concerto for its dedicatee. The 10-day competition was concluded with a

concert des laureats and awards ceremony in the same hall. After the mayor and a host of

other dignitaries finished distributing the awards, Slava spontaneously grabbed the master

of ceremony's microphone to end the event with an impromptu speech (related through

his translator) about the bright future of cello playing.

It was during this concluding concert that the difference between European and

North American competitions became most apparent: the Rostropovich is conducted as a

public service. This is not surprising when one considers their main funding source. The

city of Paris only recently reduced its financial support from 95% to 70% of the overall

budget for this event; this cycle was the first for which they needed sponsors to meet their

costs (Bance 2005). But while some of the prizes might now be named after banks and

businesses, the director still sees the competition as a gift to the people of Paris. For this

reason, they do not charge admission for the first and second rounds, and the most

expensive ticket for the final round was €15. The director also integrates the competition

into France's institutions of musical education. In contrast to the Cliburn, which does not

24
At the turn of 20th century, Tchaikovsky, Grieg, Richard Strauss and Debussy conducted many of their
own works in this hall. http://www.chateIet-theatre.com/chatelet.php?lang=fr Accessed June 12, 2008.
 84

allow children under twelve in the hall, the most conspicuous presence at the concert des

laureats were the hordes of children bussed in from conservatories around the country. In

the pauses between competitors, I was delighted to listen to a child seated in the row

behind me quiz his younger brother about the instruments of the orchestra and highlight

what made each performer's interpretation different. Furthermore, some of the children in

attendance were later selected to play for members of the jury and to perform with the

laureates.25 The Rostropovich operates within an educational framework not as a last

resort, but because it has no need to "sell" either the event or the instrument to attract a

crowd or justify its existence.

Michael Hill International Violin Competition

When it comes to naming competitions, the usual sources are performers (e.g.,

Menuhin, Cliburn, Maria Callas), composers (e.g., Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Bach), and

host cities (e.g., the Leeds, the Cleveland, and the Sydney piano competitions.) The

Michael Hill International Violin Competition belongs to a less common variety; it is

named after its initiator and main benefactor. Michael Hill is the owner of an

international chain of jewelry stores who became a household name in New Zealand

through a memorable television advertising campaign in which he delivered the

catchphrase ("Michael Hill, jeweler.") But the profession that made him rich and famous

was not his first choice. As a young man, he dreamed of becoming violinist. While

circumstances did not allow Hill to pursue a career in music, he never lost his passion for

25
Author unknown. (2005) "La valeur n'attend pas le nombre des annees: Concert de jeunes Aleves en
prdsence des membres du jury du Concours Rostropovitch." Le Violoncelle. Issue 17, December.
http://www.levioloncelle.com/revue.php Accessed June 13, 2008.
 85

the instrument as he built and expanded his business. Today, he is an accomplished

enough amateur violinist that he frequently appears as a guest artist with the Auckland

Philharmonic and collaborates with the country's top tier of professional musicians

(Calder 2000; McNabb 2003; Newth 2001).

The idea for the competition came to Hill in the summer of 1999. After

performing chamber music with the associate concertmaster of the Auckland

Philhamonia, Miranda Adams, he mentioned to her in passing a pipe dream of having a

violin competition in New Zealand. Adams related his interest to the Philharmonia's

general manager, Anne Rodda, who wasted little time in approaching him formally to

pursue the idea. Within a few months, they had reached an agreement. The competition

would be a biennial event open to violinists under the age of 30.26 Hill would provide the

lion's share of the $500,000 needed, while the Philharmonia would organize the event

under Rodda's direction (Rasmussen 2001). Apart from providing the inspiration, the

jeweler has also left his mark on the prizes awarded. In addition to a $40,000 cash award,

a professionally-engineered recording and a concert tour of New Zealand, the first place

winner also receives a Rado Superjubile watch and a gold pendent designed by the patron

himself. At the awards ceremony, these are bestowed by none other than the Rt. Hon.

Prime Minister Helen Clark, who is also a board member.

The inaugural cycle of the Michael Hill was held over Queen's Birthday weekend

in June 2001. From the beginning, a pre-selection panel has scrutinized submitted

recordings to select the 18 candidates to be flown to New Zealand, all expenses paid, to

participate in public stages of the competition. With every cycle, the number of

26
The age limit has since been lowered to 28 years of age.
 86

applications has climbed, rendering this an increasingly arduous task. The inaugural

competition received 60 completed applications. By its third cycle, the number had risen

to 88.

In terms of its structure, the Hill parallels the Honens in a number of respects.

Firstly, the competition is divided into four stages, and every candidate is guaranteed to

play in the first two. These are the solo rounds in which competitors perform

unaccompanied Bach, the commissioned piece, a virtuosic work, and a sonata with piano.

The third stage is a chamber music round in which the candidates perform with members

of the NZ Trio. This is where a second parallel with the Honens can be found. While this

requirement has become standard practice in piano competitions, it is unusual to find it in

string disciplines. The Michael Hill introduced this round for the 2005 cycle partly to

facilitate the selection process; the juries for previous cycles had found it difficult to

narrow the field from 18 to 3 candidates on the basis of solo repertoire alone. But the

chamber music requirement also reflected the philosophy of the competition's artistic

consultant, Australian violinist Dene Olding. He encouraged the administration to adopt

criteria that would identify and reward a well-rounded musician who, like the Honens'

"complete artist", possessed a keen musical intellect, versatility, and interpersonal skills

over and above extraordinary technical competence.27 The final similarity between the

Michael Hill and the Honens is the smaller-than-average jury. While the Cliburn

assembles twelve jurors and the Rostropovich the round number of ten, the Honens and

Micheal Hill have a panel of six and seven jurors respectively.

Private conversation with Anne Rodda, June 16,2005.

 87

One of the more unusual aspects of the Michael Hill is that it changes location

part way through the competition. The first two rounds are held in Queenstown, an alpine

resort town nestled in the Southern Alps on the South Island. For the chamber music and

concerto rounds, the competition relocates to Auckland, the country's most populous city

situated on the top of the North Island. This arrangement is not entirely in line with the

patron's wishes. Originally he had envisioned an event that would attract great violinists

from around the world to his hometown of Queenstown. But it proved logistically

unfeasible for the small mountain community to host every round. Even if the funds

could be raised to transport the Auckland Philharmonia to the South Island for the

concerto round, there would still be no venue in Queenstown with a large enough stage to

accommodate the orchestra.

Regrettably, the two-city compromise came at the cost of dramatic tension. The

Auckland Town Hall has been near capacity for the finals of every cycle, but it never

develops the magic of the Queenstown rounds. For the Auckland audience, the concerto

round is hardly different from any other guest appearance with the orchestra; they were

not there from the beginning to follow competitors through each stage and anticipate the

outcome. The compensation, however, is that the two-city arrangement transforms the

competition into an object not just of civic but national pride. This is no small matter in a

country whose largest city casts a long shadow in the cultural landscape.

The Queenstown rounds of the competition are housed in the Memorial Hall,

which provides a perfectly adequate space for solo and chamber music performances. But

its location next to the rugby field, and immediately adjacent to the locker room, presents

its own problems. For the inaugural cycle, the competition had no choice but to schedule
 88

its sessions around rugby matches so that sound leakage would not disrupt proceedings.

That art had to accommodate sport would come as little surprise to New Zealanders,

especially when it comes to the beloved game played by the All Blacks. Rugby occupies

a highly sacred status that, like ice hockey in Canada and baseball in the United States,

unites the country and inspires patriotic sentiment. But it is ironic that rugby should have

interfered with the violin competition. While only a minor headache for the

administration, this episode encapsulates the preponderance of sport in the kiwi public

imagination that helped motivate its patron to found the contest in the first place. As Hill

commented to a reporter, "this is a country noted for its legendary sportspeople. If only

we could make it a cultural capital as well" (Calder 2000).

The Michael Hill is not the only music competition in New Zealand; Christchurch

regularly hosts the Adam International Cello Competition, and the multi-disciplinary

Young Musician of the Year has enjoyed a high profile. But the violin competition is

unique in the Southern hemisphere, and it enjoys the distinction of being the first in New

Zealand and the second in Australasia to qualify as a member of WFIMC. Director Anne

Rodda knew from its inception that gaining membership in the Geneva-based

organization was critical in securing the legitimacy necessary to put the event (and by

extension the country) on the map. She need not have worried quite so much; its novelty

did much to guarantee its success. A major draw for candidates is the opportunity to visit

the remote country, which the administration clearly recognizes, or they would not

feature the landscape so prominently in all their promotional materials. Even more

important, however, is how the competition's novelty infects the audience with

enthusiasm. Not a trace of cynicism can be detected; they seem to share in, rather than
 89

deride, the founder's dream of discovering the next Heifitz. Even the critics temper their

disagreements with the jury by returning to the same refrain: "let us not forget that the

most important thing is that this competition exists" (Dart 2003). Such is the luxury of

geographic isolation; having not yet encountered scandal or disappointment, there is little

to discourage confidence in the institution. In this way, the Michael Hill is a throwback to

the excitement that must have fueled the proliferation of competitions in Europe and

North American during the postwar period.

Banff International String Quartet Competition

String quartet competitions are almost as rare as those for cello. Of the 10

WFIMC members listed in the chamber music discipline, only 4 are for string quartet

alone. The Banff International String Quartet Competition (BISQC) stands out among

this group, but not just because it is unique in North America. It is special because of its

location. The competition takes place in the mountain resort town of Banff, Alberta

which boasts many of the same tourist attractions as Queenstown. But in addition to

stunning scenery, alpine air, and glacial lakes, the small community nestled in the

Canadian Rockies is also home to the Banff Centre, one of Canada's premier institutions

for arts and culture. The government-funded facility houses an ever-expanding array of

programs in literary, new media, visual, and performing arts. In the music world, Banff is

known as a haven where musicians escape for summer master-classes with legendary

pedagogues or for extended residencies to pursue long-term projects. But for one week

every three years, the Centre becomes saturated with string quartet players and
 90

aficionados who are more interested in listening to chamber music than in exploring the

mountains.

The idyllic, isolated setting is one reason why this competition comes closer than

most in achieving the atmosphere of a festival. Another contributing factor is its genesis.

The BISQC was originally intended to be a one-off event to celebrate the 50th anniversary

of Banff Centre in 1983. Of all the submitted proposals, the competition was chosen for

its connection with the institution's identity and tradition. At that time, the string quartet

program was among the most successful summer courses in the music division, having

earned a reputation across North America and beyond. The BISQC, then, was not an

independent initiative in search of a venue like most competitions, but an idea that grew

out of well-established advanced education programs. As such, it reflected the

institutional culture. The Banff Centre strives to create a protected zone for emerging

artists where their needs are the highest priority, and the BISQC did its best to avoid

being an exception. In consultation with the music faculty, the organizers aimed to create

the most positive experience possible for participants. From all accounts, they were

successful, and not just as far as the competitors were concerned. The auspicious

occasion was attended by a few hundred audience members and broadcast across the

country on CBC radio. It was not just well-received; it "prompted the largest flood of

appreciative letters in the program's history", which convinced the administration that the

competition should become a triennial event (Godfrey 1986).

With some modifications, the BISQC s structure is essentially the same as it was

at its inception. Eligibility is restricted to quartets whose members are under the age of 35
 91

on the first day of the event.28 The age limit is slightly higher than solo competitions to

take into account that quartets are formed at a later stage in a musician's career. Like

many of its peers discussed above, the BISQC assembles a preliminary jury to listen to

submitted recordings "blind" and select the groups that will be brought to Banff, all

expenses paid. But in contrast its solo counterparts, fewer competitors are admitted; a

maximum of 10 quartets are invited to attend. Repertoire requirements define the stages

preceding the first and only elimination. At the 2007 cycle, these were divided into a

recital round (Haydn and Bartok), a Romantic round, the Canadian commission round,

and a Beethoven or Schubert round. Like the Honens, the BISQC ensures that

competitors do not travel all the way to Banff to play for 10 minutes andfindout that

they did not make the first cut. Every group performs five complete works before the jury

deliberates. Moreover, the four groups who advance to thefinalround are guaranteed a

prize.29 In 2007, the jury produced thisfinalranking through an adapted version of the

rationalized scoring system designed by mathematicians for the Honens.

From the point of view of the administration, holding the competition at the Banff

Centre solves nearly every logistical headache that could arise. Accommodations and

meals are easily provided for participants in the conference facilities. Rather than seeking

host families who can accommodate four guests at once, competitors stay on campus

where they can rehearse through the night and only run the risk of disturbing the bears.

28
Some chamber music competitions use the average or combined age of members to determine eligibility.
The reason for insisting that all members meet the age limit is to exclude groups composed of an
established player and his or her pupils.
29
For the 2007 cycle, the first prize included $20,000, a quartet of bows by Canadian bowmaker Fracois
Malo, a European and North American concert tour managed by the Banff Centre, and a residency at the
Centre to record a compact disc. The second, third, and fourth place winners were awarded cash prizes of
$12,000, $8,000, and $5,000 respectively.
Neither is there any need to rent a hall; the director has the luxury of choosing between

the smaller recital hall and the larger auditorium for competition sessions. With all these

needs met at the Centre, the competition need not bother with renting shuttle buses once

participants arrive. A further advantage is that these facilities are all staffed with sound

engineers, stagehands, ushers, and box office handlers, so there is no need to raise and

train an army of volunteers like the Cliburn or the Honens. The BISQC could very well

be the easiest competition to organize.30

While the Centre helps it run smoothly, the resident audience lends the event its

intensity. Attendees can purchase special residency packages which give them the option

of staying on campus for the length of the competition and taking their meals alongside

jury members and competitors. This is in marked contrast to competitions like the

Cliburn where the jury is carefully segregated and the listener's best chance of meeting a

competitor is to linger outside the stage door immediately following a performance. In

addition to fostering an atmosphere of collegiality, this arrangement also ensures

audience continuity through the duration of the event. The ratio of listeners who attended

the first round to those who attend the finals is higher than any other competition in my

sample.

Even more impressive is the audience continuity over the years. Introductions at

meals usually begin with a proud declaration of how many cycles one has attended.

Returning audience members bring more than their T-shirts from previous years; they

also carry over their loyalties for returning groups they believe might have been wrongly

overlooked by the last jury. With a devotion that sometimes borders on the fanatical, the

30
Private conversation with Ken Murphy, founder of the BISQC September 27,2007.
 93

resident audience faithfully attends every performance and ancillary event. Even the

jurors have been surprised by the degree of audience enthusiasm. When a judge was told

to expect a full house for his lecture on Webern on the last day of the 2007 competition,

he thought the director was kidding; mention of the early 20th century avant-garde

composer usually acts as a deterrent. But the prediction was accurate. Like every other

lecture that week, one had to arrive 15 minutes early to have any hope of getting a seat. In

one sense, the competition has suffered as a result of its success. Chamber music is best

experienced in an intimate performance space. But due to its popularity, the competition

has no choice but hold every round in the 959-seat auditorium to accommodate a growing

audience.

This is not to suggest that the BISQC has been free of controversy. At the 2004

cycle, a competition poster was defaced so that the word "international" was crossed out

and replaced with the word "American". The accusation was not entirely baseless. In five

of the six previous cycles, the winners had been American. What might have caused even

more frustration in 2004, however, was that all three groups from the U.S. advanced into

the finals, and one of them ultimately won (Littler 2004). But this incident was minor

compared to the audience revolt that nearly erupted three years earlier. The 2001

controversy concerned a lyonnaise quartet that had developed a strong following in the

audience but did not advance to the finals. The audience was not shy about expressing its

disapproval. The morning after the deliberations, one judge was overheard at breakfast

muttering that he thought the jury was "going to be lynched" (N.A. 2001).31 The judges

31
While this juror was exaggerating, unpopular decisions sometimes result in threats of violence. At the
2005 Cliburn, the police were notified after a judge on the preliminary jury received threatening phone
calls.
 94

remained unharmed, but the episode has never been forgotten. It has evolved into a

legend proudly passed on to new attendees. In one version, members of the audience are

said to have organized their own final concert in a different hall on campus for those who

thought the Lyonnaise group should have won.

For all this audience enthusiasm and agitation, the administration refuses to

institute an audience prize. Current director Barry Shiftman avoids the practice on the

grounds that it absolves the audience of responsibility. When BISQC awards a prize such

as cash award or a concert tour, it promises to follow through on its commitment by

finding sponsors and doing the work required to secure those engagements. An audience

prize deserving of the name should be no different. If listeners feel that a group is

especially deserving of recognition, they should promote that group to their local

chamber music society. In the long run, a performance opportunity and the chance of a

return engagement are much more valuable to a quartet than the title of audience

favorite.32 But even before Shiftman came on the scene, the administration was

uncomfortable with the idea. While they would never dispute that anyone can enjoy

music, they would not agree that anyone can evaluate it. When assembling the seven-

member jury, organizers seek the most accomplished musicians who have dedicated their

lives to learning, performing, and teaching the string quartet repertoire. In their

estimation, an audience prize would both insult the panel and undermine their authority.33

In this respect, BISQC is not following the populist trend visible amongst its American

counterparts. South of the border, audience prizes have almost become standard. Some,

32
Conversation with Barry Shiffman, August 20,2007.
33
Conversation with Ken Murphy, September 27,2007.
like the William Kapell piano competition in Maryland, have gone even further by

instituting a volunteer jury.34 It is ironic that in a province famous for grassroots politics,

the BISQC remains firm in its old-fashioned elitist stance.

METHODOLOGY

The main methodological tools in my investigation were ethnographic

observation and qualitative interviewing. Like the members of the Chicago School who

first combined them, I found these complimentary methods the most effective way to

"illuminate[e] both the culture and the biographical particulars of members' worlds"

(Warren 2002: 85). By ethnographic observation, I do not mean that I entered these

competitions as a competitor. I have had extensive experience performing in local,

regional, and national-level competitions over the course of my own musical training,

both as a soloist and in chamber music groups. Because I already have a good sense of

what it is like to participate as a competitor, I conducted my ethnographic observation as

an audience member and, occasionally, as an honorary member of the press. Admittedly,

these statuses did not give me unlimited access. For example, I was never admitted to the

jury room for any of the closed deliberations, and I was rarely allowed to sit backstage

during competition proceedings. But this vantage point allowed me to see more of the

competition than I ever could have as a competitor preoccupied with preparation for

performances. It also positioned me to engage in informal conversations with a greater

34
The volunteer jury, chaired by a professional pianist, is composed of listeners who register on a first-
come first-serve basis. Members of the volunteer jury are expected to attend an orientation session and
attend all the rounds of the competition. At the conclusion of the competition, their vote determines which
competitor is awarded a special $1,000 prize.
http://claricesmithcenter.umd.edu/2007/downloads/kapell2007/Kapell07VolunteerJurv.pdf. Accessed July
4,2008.
 96

diversity of participants over the course of the event. Rarely did I have to initiate these

interactions myself because the ethnographic practice of writing fieldnotes in between

performances invariably piqued curiosity. Audience members frequently approached me

to ask if I was a journalist, an arts presenter, or a music teacher. To my relief, the

revelation of my identity as a sociologist was an effective ice-breaker, enabling

conversations through which I became acquainted with patrons, music teachers, host

families, music critics, volunteers, and family members of competitors.

Some competition participants, however, remained more elusive. Early in my

first ethnographic foray, I made the discouraging discovery that the worst time to talk to

competitors, judges, or directors, is during a competition. In my initial research design, I

had naively assumed that I would arrange for onsite interviews, not only because it would

be more convenient for respondents, but also because the experience would still be fresh

in their minds. Once I arrived at the competition, it did not take long for me to realise my

mistake. The vast majority of competitors I approached for interviews politely suggested

I contact them once the competition was over, because they preferred to focus on their

preparation as long as they were still in the running. Unfortunately, I could rarely follow

through on such invitations due to the expense of traveling to their various home

countries for face-to-face interviews.

Judges and directors were even more difficult to reach. Elites in any institutional

sphere are protected from outsiders by a series of barriers and gatekeepers, which

presents unique research challenges (Odendahl and Shaw 2002). Esteemed musicians, for

instance, conduct their business in private residences or buildings guarded by security

officers who deny entry to uninvited guests; those more advanced in age are especially
 97

likely to entrust all their administrative affairs to agents, spouses, or assistants who filter

incoming messages and protect their personal contact information. In the institutional

context of the competitions, the first barrier preventing my access to judges was the

stratified geography of the concert hall (Johnson 1995). The Cliburn jury, for example, is

thoroughly insulated from interactions with other audience members through the

architecture of Bass Hall; judges are seated in their own balcony box, they enter and exit

through a separate entrance, and they are shuttled to and from the hall in private cars

organized by the competition. Rules and procedures also render the judges' circle

impenetrable. Many competitions forbid members of the jury from discussing the

competition with anyone while it is in progress to protect them from conflicts of interest

and violations of confidentiality. (They are sometimes even forbidden to discuss

competitors or performances amongst themselves, though this is for different reasons that

will be discussed elsewhere.) The greatest barrier preventing access to directors, on the

other hand, was their schedule. While they all graciously welcomed my interest, it was

obvious that they could have spared more time (with fewer interruptions) in the interim

period between cycles.

When logistics were not an issue, it was the sensitivity surrounding the topic that

caused problems. Competitions are controversial institutions, and it is rare to find a

musician who does not have a strong opinion about their function. But not everyone feels

free to share their thoughts. The classical music world is not that large to begin with, but

the population of performers on the competition circuit on a particular instrument is even

smaller. I encountered many musicians who felt strongly about the topic and wanted to

contribute to my research, but were reluctant to be interviewed despite reassurances of

 98

anonymity and confidentiality. While jurors hesitate to compromise professional

obligations and personal ties, competitors worry about their reputations. As one

respondent cautioned, withholding names would not be enough to ensure anonymity; the

respondent's instrument and nationality, along with their manner of speaking, would

often provide enough information for peers in the music world to discern a subject's

identity. Musicians in the process of establishing themselves professionally were

especially reluctant to speak frankly about competitions because they recognized their

words would be self-damaging, no matter what their fate had been in the competition. If

they had acquired a prize, pointed criticisms would come across as disingenuous. But if

they had been unsuccessful, any negative opinions voiced would acquire the bitter tinge

of sour grapes.

It is for this reason that I conducted a series of qualitative interviews with

respondents who have no connection with my sample of case study competitions. This

research strategy offered a number of advantages. Firstly, it expanded the scope of my

data collection beyond the competitions I was able to attend, thereby strengthening the

generalizability and validity of my findings. Secondly, the interview acceptance rate

improved considerably when I described the purpose of the interview, and framed my

questions in terms of competitions in general, rather than a particular cycle of a particular

competition. In so doing, I departed from the standard research guideline that instructs

interviewers to gather descriptions of concrete incidents, not generalized statements

(Weiss 1994). What I found, however, was that when I did not set up the conversation

(Kvale 1996) in this way, the respondent would often deliberately redirect the interview

to offer their analysis of competitions in generalized terms. These passionate

 99

interventions, whether diatribe or defence, invariably provided the most lively and

sincere data, so I always welcomed them.

Over the course of my research, I collected 45 interviews (see Table 2.2 for a

breakdown of populations investigated.) In addition to key informants identified through

my fieldwork and personal networks, I also recruited respondents through snowball

sampling. When requesting a subject's participation, I emphasized that I had no

affiliation with the WFIMC or its members, and that their cooperation or refusal to be

interviewed would have no effect on their relationship with any competition. This

practice both satisfied the ethical requirements of the institutional review board and

communicated my independence from competition organizations in the eyes of

respondents. I also offered to provide a copy of my interview schedule in advance, a

recommended courtesy when interviewing elites (Odendahl and Shaw 2002).

Table 2.2: Breakdown of formal interviews collected

Population N

Directors 7

Judges and teachers 15

Competitors 16

Other participants 6
(e.g., hosts, competition staff, audience members)

Total 45

Apart from two exceptions, all interviews were "one-shot" conversations lasting

between 45 to 90 minutes. With the respondent's permission, they were recorded with a
digital device. Because musicians handle recording technology every day in their

professional activities, my recorder caused no discomfort. In addition to note-taking

during the interview, I also wrote fieldnotes on the tone and content of the "strip" of

conversation that occurs once the stop button is pressed and the official interview is over

(Warren et al. 2003). Recorded interviews were subsequently transcribed for coding and

analysis using qualitative research software (AtlasTi).

While talk is only ever imperfectly translated into textual form (Poland 2002), the

most salient challenge I faced in transcription was the speech of respondents who were

not speaking in their first language. Participants in international music competitions are

unusually cosmopolitan; most are both well-travelled and multi-lingual. Out of respect, I

interviewed francophone subjects in French to the best of my ability. But with all other

subjects, conversations were carried out in English, regardless of the respondent's first

language. While this did not greatly hinder our communication in conversation, it did

pose a problem when it came to transcribing which I resolved by adopting what Oliver et

al. (2005) refer to as the "denaturalized" approach to transcription. Like verbatim

transcription, this approach aims for a full and faithful transcription, but it is more

concerned with accuracy in the interview's substance than the intricacies of geo-ethnic

accents and involuntary vocalizations that preoccupy proponents of conversation

analysis. While the "translation" of accented speech into Standard American English

imposes a considerable interpretive burden, it was better suited to my theoretical

orientation and offered another means of protecting anonymity. As a further precaution, I

also adopted the practice of identifying respondents by number when quoting directly
 101

from interview transcripts rather than use the standard convention of assigning

pseudonyms.

Because qualitative fieldwork involves the "embodied presence" of the researcher

in the everyday lives of subjects, the ethnographer herself becomes a research instrument

(Emerson and Pollner 2001). Her body influences entree and shapes interaction by

conveying socially meaningful characteristics such as age, gender, ethnicity, class, and

sexual orientation (Warren 2001). As predicted by the methodology literature, gender and

age greatly influenced my access to respondents and shaped my rapport with them in

interviews (Benney, Riesman, and Star 1956; Riessman 1987; Williams and Heikes 1993;

Arendell 1997; Warren 2002). I found that competitors, who are for the most part in their

20s, could easily relate to me as a peer, often because they could identify with my status

as a student and my endeavour to complete a major degree requirement. But when it

came to interviewing judges and directors, who are for the most part men above the age

of 60, these same characteristics became a liability. The large age differential often

undermined my credibility, and generational prejudices were sometimes amplified by

cultural differences. These obstacles could often be overcome by negotiating a mentor-

advisee interaction for the duration of the interview. To establish this more patriarchal

relationship, I had to concede some authority as interviewer, but it was necessary to

restore a power dynamic more familiar to elite respondents to facilitate a useful

exchange. But fewer amenable options were available to me in the field where my age,

gender, and sexual orientation made me "fair game" in the eyes of some men (Warren

2001). Requests for formal or informal interviews were sometimes deliberately

misconstrued as flirtation. My main strategies for averting sexual overtones and

 102

reinforcing my definition of the situation involved what Goffman called "symbolic

equipment" (i.e., professional dress, business cards) and "teamwork" (i.e.,

accompaniment and introductions by key informants).

In establishing credibility with subjects, my educational status and institutional

affiliation were much less effective than my standpoint as a musician. Respondents

invariably expressed relief when I described my musical training; the tone of voice would

change, or they would chuckle about being able to skip over facile explanations they had

developed for non-musicians. Some even confessed they had been sceptical about a

sociologist's ability to handle such a project with limited knowledge of classical music.

In spite of confessions of this sort, it was often necessary to remind respondents of my

insider status throughout the interview. This practice departs from another of Weiss'

(1994) guidelines which advises that self-disclosure be avoided and that interviewers

provide only brief answers to respondent's questions. When interviewing elites, however,

subtle communications of expertise are crucial for maintaining authority and ensuring a

productive exchange (Odendahl and Shaw 2002). For example, I found that name-

dropping, both of personal musical contacts and events I have attended as a musician,

was an effective facilitative technique when respondents were oversimplifying answers or

evading my questions.

While qualitative interviews and fieldwork helped me grasp the subjective

experience of the competition world, I employed an Alexandrian discourse analysis

(Magnuson 2005) of public documents to uncover the culture-structures (Rambo and

Chan 1990) that motivate action and guide interpretation. This involved collecting a

range of different materials from a variety of sources. I began by looking at the

 103

promotional materials (e.g., documentary films, brochures, posters) that competitions

distribute to recruit competitors and attract audiences. The second source, and by far the

largest, was the local, national, and international media coverage courted by competitions

to increase their visibility in the broader cultural sphere. A third source was the internet;

the perpetual controversy surrounding competitions provides a steady supply of fodder

for discussion and debate on the internet in online forums and interactive weblogs. While

the amount of material available depended on the resources, accessibility, and notoriety

of each competition, I made every effort to collect all the physical and online materials

available for each of the cycles I attended, supplementing those whenever possible with

items from the organization's archives. Altogether, these sources provided a wealth of

documents for analyzing how participants invoked, transformed, or rejected various

cultural structures in this institutional domain.

CONCLUSION

In this chapter I presented a new perspective for the sociology of music that

approaches music as a mode of social performance. I also introduced the empirical

context I have chosen to develop and elaborate this approach, and outlined the

methodological strategies devised to investigate this institution from a variety of angles.

With this conceptual background in place, the analysis can begin. First I will consider

how the event is presented and perceived in the public sphere. Then I will turn my

attention to the performers and the difficult task of presenting one's self in this

institutional context. To conclude, I will consider the role of the audience and explain

how this controversial institution fosters the critical engagement necessary to sustain civil

society.
 Chapter 3: Representations of the International Music
Competition

Earlier I expressed surprise that there was no previous investigation of the

international music competition despite its intrinsic interest and sociological significance.

It is time to back up this claim. Competitions are an unusual environment for musical

performance for three reasons. First, they are occasions designed to examine and

celebrate effective musical performance. They provide a forum for the musical

community to regulate and evaluate standards of performance through the identification

and rewarding of "good performers", a designation that implies moral worth as much as

musicianship and technical skill. In a setting that closely resembles the recital ritual, the

performer is challenged to demonstrate that they are the embodiment of the performance

community's ideals by enacting a multi-layered performance that simultaneously displays

different meanings to a fragmented audience. Each segment of this audience -judges,

critics, peers, musical public - is differently engaged and differently positioned to

interpret competitors' performances. It is perhaps for this reason that it is not unusual for

segments of the audience to disagree about which performer is most deserving of first

place.

Music competitions are also public and publicized events that unfold through a

series of stages (typically three) in which the performer is presented with a variety of

challenges. As described earlier, the most common format in solo instrument

competitions is a first round of solo recitals, a second round of solo recitals and chamber

music, and for the final round, a concerto with orchestra. A gala concludes the

competition with a number of speeches, the presentation of awards, a concert featuring

 105

laureates, and a reception. In short, the competition is an extended public event

punctuated by three elimination rounds and concluded with a celebration. The tripartite

structure of the competition therefore creates a broad framework (with a beginning,

middle, and end) within which recital rituals, and narrative construction, takes place.

The third distinctive feature of music competitions is that they are an occasion for

musical performance where the stakes are unusually high, and yet ultimately it changes

very little. Like Geertz's (1973) Balinese cockfight, they are an intensely meaningful

focussed gathering, a site for deep play. The music competition is a cultural framework, a

structured context within which musical and social performances are enacted and

interpreted. It is not in itself a stand-off (Wagner-Pacifici 2000), social drama (Turner

1982), failed social performance, or 'fused' ritual (Alexander 2004). Rather, it is the

context within which all of these can occur.

But for the sociologist, the most intriguing aspect of this institution is its ongoing

struggle for legitimacy, which is what I will explore in this chapter. Through a discourse

analysis of publicity materials and media coverage, I reconstruct the symbolic

frameworks that guide the construction of the event and the interpretation of competitors'

performances. I also trace the critical challenge to the idealized representations of the

event, and decode the gender ideologies implied in commonly-used metaphors. For the

purposes of analysis, I will focus on the Cliburn. As one of the most visible competitions

in the public sphere, it offers a vivid illustration of dynamics observed in music

competitions in general. To analyse the public discourses surrounding this competition, I

examined two sources of data. The first source is published materials and public

statements from the Cliburn Foundation, including advertising brochures, competition

 106

programme books, film documentaries, press releases, documents posted on the official

website, and speeches delivered at public ceremonies. The second source is the media

coverage of the Cliburn in newspapers, special interest publications, on the radio, and on

the internet from 1977 to 2005 (n=342).

I analyze two aspects of this discourse. The first is the cultural construction of the

event, which involves the definition of this musical occasion. I identify two idealised

representations of the competition projected by the competition organization, one on the

profane and the other on the sacred narrative level. These are contrasted with the realist

counter-narrative projected by music critics. As we will see, the expression of idealised

meanings, and the emphasis of one narrative level over the other, is never fixed because

the competition organization continually responds to its audience's interpretation. In

addition to the event, I also examine the cultural construction of the competitors who

participate in this musical occasion. The narrative framing of performers operates on

mundane and mythical levels that correspond to the profane and sacred representations of

the event. On the mundane level, the interpretation of musical actors intersects with other

forms of social performance, such as gender. On the mythical level, we find the legacies

from 1 ^-century romanticism expressed through the recurring motifs of music as a

transcendent experience and popular notions of musical genius.

THE CULTURAL CONSTRUCTION OF THE COMPETITION EVENT

Idealised Meanings of the Cliburn Competition

Despite the obvious tripartite tournament structure, the meaning of the music

competition is neither inherent nor self-evident. Like all social facts, it requires cultural
 107

construction. This is accomplished through metaphors and narratives that dramatize the

cultural codes that resonate with the performance community. For the organization

running the competition, the meaning of the event is a matter of self-presentation.

Through various means of symbolic production, the organization projects an idealised

image of the competition to its relevant audience which includes aspiring musicians,

professional musicians, pedagogues, music critics, the musical public, the general public,

government bodies, corporate sponsors, and rival competitions.

Every music competition seeks to make its presence known in the public sphere

through various media. The Cliburn, however, has had both the resources and the desire

to cultivate the means of symbolic production to a greater extent. In terms of publicity,

the Cliburn circulates print materials worldwide and prepares radio programmes for

broadcast in North America and Europe. Since the 5th competition in 1977, it has also

commissioned a 90-minute documentary which is broadcast on national public television

and screened in local film festivals. Like many of its peers, the Cliburn has developed an

elaborate website for posting information about the competition and archiving audio

recordings of competitors' performances for download (free of charge) through streaming

software. But the Cliburn is perhaps the first to explore other possibilities on the internet,

such as hosting an interactive weblog,1 posting video clips on YouTube, and developing a

profile on the social networking website MySpace.com. In terms of expanding the

audience for the event, the Cliburn has incorporated a range of media technologies.

1
The Cliburn's experiments with internet technology were successful in attracting a large audience by
classical music standards. By the end of the semi-final round of the competition, it was estimated that
10,000 separate users worldwide had registered to watch the competition broadcasts, and over 16,000 had
read the blog (Borland 2005). Two music critics were hired to write the weblog, which attracted a dedicated
following. At the climax of the competition, a single posting could provoke as many as one hundred
responses.
 108

During the last cycle of the competition, those unable to reserve a seat in the hall could

listen to performances on public radio or television; download the performance on the

internet; purchase a 'rough cut' recording on CD or DVD format; or watch a live

broadcast of the competition projected onto a movie screen that had been installed in

nearby venue (Kennedy 2005).2 The Cliburn's cultivation of media forms has not only

expanded its profile worldwide; it has also facilitated mediated participation in

competition proceedings around the world, whether in real-time or after the fact.

Through these various means of symbolic production, the competition

organisation communicates idealised meanings of the event that operate on two narrative

levels. On one level, the competitive aspect is emphasized. Here it is stressed that the

event is carefully designed to test skill and endurance by placing extreme demands and

intense pressure on the performer. As such, it offers a mechanism for identifying 'the

best' - those who posses both extraordinary talent and the stamina to take on an

international career. When operating on this narrative level, the Cliburn Foundation

describes the competition as an occasion for "the cream to rise to the top."3 This attitude

is perfectly in line with the founders' vision of the event as 'a living testament to the

tremendous impetus that winning a major competition gives to launching an international

career.'4 After all, the Cliburn is named after the quintessential competition winner, Van

2
This measure was initially introduced to accommodate young children who are not allowed to attend live
performances, audience members who could not obtain tickets for sold out performances, and members of
the public who prefer a more casual concert experience. It has since developed into an attraction in itself,
with ticket holders sometimes giving up their seats in the hall to take in part of the performance on the big
screen. During intermissions, it is common to see audience members trekking back and forth between the
two venues.
3
Private conversation with Richard Rodzinski, Director of the Cliburn Competition, June 3,2005.
4
http:www.cliburn.org/page 116. Accessed May , 2005.
 109

Cliburn, the Texan who won the first Tchaikovsky International Competition in Moscow

at the height of the cold war. Van Cliburn enjoyed instant success following his victory:

New York threw him a ticker tape parade, Eisenhower invited him to the White House,

and his calendar was suddenly crowded with concert engagements with major orchestras.

The Cliburn Foundation hopes to recreate this phenomenon for a new generation

of pianists. For this reason, the first prize is carefully designed to include all the

ingredients necessary for launching an international career: three seasons of international

concert engagements, a contribution towards domestic and international air travel, a new

concert wardrobe from an upscale department store, a recording on a respected label that

is distributed worldwide, and a substantial cash award.5 On this narrative level, the

ultimate purpose of the event is "the discovery of the world's finest young pianists"6 and

their introduction to the musical public which includes not only an adoring audience, but

respected critics and concert presenters as well. Take, for example, this excerpt from the

first page of the jury's handbook:

.. .While we cannot presume that we will be so fortunate as to discover an

artist at each competition, we can hope to identify someone who may
someday become an artist. The jury ought to listen for those very special
musicians who might bear the seeds of greatness and who are prepared to
have a few doors opened for them by the competition. It must be
remembered that the function of the Van Cliburn Foundation is not to
discover a "star" but to offer opportunities to musicians deemed worthy of
the support. The jury is in a unique position of being able to offer someone
a powerful helping hand. This is a solemn responsibility while at the same

5
For the very first Cliburn Competition held in 1962, the first prize was $10,000, then an unprecedented
amount for an international music competition. For the 12th cycle of the competition in 2005, the cash
award for gold, silver, and crystal winners is $20,000. The jury also distributes a number of discretionary
awards.
6
1 am drawing phrases commonly used in the competition ticket brochure and competition history, all
available on the Cliburn website. Some quotations drawn from specifically from
http://www.cliburn.Org/page/116 accessed May 3, 2006.
 110

time, we trust, one that will offer the jury a joyful sense of fulfillment.7

The competition is an attractive method for identifying those "worthy of support"

because it is believed to be fair and democratic. Rules governing the procedure for

application, the choice of repertoire, and voting are devised and enforced. Applicants

demonstrate their "worthiness" not only through their artistry, but also through a personal

statement describing what they hope to achieve by entering the competition. Throughout

the competition proceedings, there is a sustained and visible effort to maintain the

impartiality of the jury. For example, in 12th competition, a jury member excused herself

from the panel when seven of her pupils were selected as competitors. These gestures are

essential for the competition's success because they affirm a commitment to fairness. A

competition can be democratic only to the extent that competitors advance solely based

on the merit demonstrated in their performance at the competition, not personal

connections or past accomplishments. A level playing field and an equal chance of

winning does not only create dramatic tension; it also supports the competition's claim to

legitimacy.

When operating on this narrative level, a symbol is frequently borrowed from the

world of sports: the Olympics. This is an effective metaphor for many reasons. Like the

Olympics, music competitions usually operate on four-year cycles, they attract

accomplished young musicians from around the world, and they are a high-stakes contest

of skill and endurance where competitors strive for perfection in performance. At the

Cliburn, the Olympics metaphor is further specified and reinforced through a number of

7
The jury handbook is made available for download on the competition website (www.clibum.ora.^ It is
therefore accessible to the public, demonstrating an effort by the organization to be transparent about its
rules and procedures.
 Ill

practices: competitors are identified by nationality in the programme and in press

releases, flags of the countries represented in the competition adorn the space where the

competition is held, and the first, second, and third-place winners are awarded gold,

silver, and bronze medals.8 For the 5th Competition in 1977, the Cliburn Foundation went

so far as to use the Olympics metaphor in a literal manner in its print publicity. The

official competition poster and programme book featured an image of the winners'

medals while the accompanying brochure showed a time-line of legendary Olympic

athletes through history - from Jesse Owens in Berlin 1936 to Nadia ComDneci in

Montreal 1976 - leading up to the 1977 Cliburn in Fort Worth where the next "legend"

could be found (see figure 2.1.) The same year, jury member Alberto Ginastera got

caught up in the metaphor, declaring to The New York Times: "these young pianists

[Cliburn competitors] are the athletes of music; competing is their glory"(Ardoin

1977:D27).

Figure 2.1: Brochure for the 1977 Van Cliburn Competition

BERUN GRENOBLE MUNCH MONTREAL FORTWORTH
1936 .Jesse Owens 1368 Peggy Fleming 1972 Mark Spitz 1976 Nadia ComSneci 1977 Gold, Sirver, Bronze
Medals
VAN CLIBURN
INTERNATIONAL
Piano Competition

lf««y fourth yiw Cutetffcsas?K&#s »>rt yizm i"s* i $ w » 8m>g eac

J?as« m a * SHsw lw& «* tm ftes!

It was only for the 12 competition that the bronze medal was renamed the "crystal award."
 On the second narrative level, however, the competition organisation

downplays the competitive aspect, emphasizing instead that the event is an

occasion for transcendent musical experience. To introduce the vocabulary of

social performance, the competition is portrayed as an occasion for "fused

performance", an "effective" or "successful" ritual in which the elements of

performance - from script to background representations to actor - become

seamlessly connected, and there is cultural extension between performers and the

audience. When operating on this narrative level, the Cliburn Foundation claims

that the competition is "centre of the music world" (quoted in Horowitz

1990:162). Every four years, it transforms Fort Worth not into the Olympia, but

the '"Mecca of the classical music world' where some of today's most promising

pianists gather to reveal their immense talents." Audiences are offered the

"privilege of hearing some of the world's most promising young pianists." They

are promised a "thrilling" musical experience with performance after performance

of "electrifying piano playing" that is "always met with thunderous applause and

standing ovations."9 At this narrative level, the mundane details of the

competition fade away. The jury's deliberations no longer matter, the memory of

previous performances dissolve, and the listener no longer tries to predict the

outcome of the competition because it no longer matters. The pleasure of fused

musical performance - the elusive transcendental musical experience - takes

9
The Mecca reference is quoted from a Boston Globe article on the front page of a brochure advertisin
ticket subscriptions for the 12th competition, accessed July 4, 2005.
http://www.cliburn.Org/pdfs///2005%20Brochure%20February%20version.pdf
 113

over. Here the musical performance of a competitor is no longer a demonstration

of skill or a question of accurate execution; it becomes an effortless embodiment

of musical meaning, a communication so effective that it brings an experience of

collective effervescence.

The counter-narrative from within

It is likely that many competition observers accept these idealised meanings,

shifting from one narrative level to the other over the course of the event. When operating

at the mundane level, they compare the difficulty of performers' repertoire, predict

winners, and speculate about the jury's criteria for evaluation. When operating on the

mythical level, they rush out to buy a recording of an inspiring performance, and wait

anxiously by the stage door to obtain a glimpse or an autograph of an admired performer.

But these idealised meanings are not accepted by everyone in the performance

community. In the late 1970s, music critics began publishing virulent critiques of the

competition phenomenon in major papers and specialist trade magazines. As one of the

largest and most famous competitions with the most generous prize, the Cliburn was a

favourite target. Shortly after the 5* competition in 1977, an article in The New York

Times headlined "Triumphs and Turmoil at the Cliburn Competition" declared the first

prize winner a compromise choice who was "literally played off the stage" by the second-

place winner at the gala (Ardoin 1977:D27). A year later, Harold C. Schonberg (1978)

dared to ask if competitions were actually good for music. The criticism built momentum

through the 1980s. A feature article in Clavier, a trade magazine, warned piano teachers

of the dangers of the "competition syndrome" (Weirich 1984). At the close of the decade,
 114

Bernard Holland (1989) condemned music competitions by comparing them to political

campaigns, outlining the five simple rules competitors should follow to successfully

"sway" a jury. The next year Joseph Horowitz (1990) published a book-length critique of

the Cliburn competition in which he described competition-bashing as "such an easy

sport that it becomes hard to stop" (p. 17). By 1994, the climate was such that Edward

Rothstein (1994) declared in The New York Times that "winning a music competition has

become a liability" (p.21). The critical attitude toward competitions has hardly abated. In

a recent review of a festival featuring several competition winners, Jeremy Eichler (2005)

opened with a cynical, rather than celebratory, tone:

Competitions are for horses, not artists. That was Bartok's famous opinion
on the matter, and he was probably onto something. Debate about musical
competitions has been around as long as the modern competition itself.
Can something as complex and subtle as a musical performance be judged
like a track and field event? And what exactly do we measure when we
try? (p. B9)

The critique of idealised competition narratives centred on three themes. First,

they argued that music competitions were inherently arbitrary and unfair. While an

organisation like the Cliburn might strive to be democratic, it cannot resolve the problem

that jury members never agree on what constitutes artistic excellence. Therefore, the

results will always be arbitrary, no matter how careful the deliberations; in any given

competition cycle, a different jury would produce a different verdict. In a desire to be

fair, jury members often resort to concentrating on objective aspects of performance, such

as speed, accuracy, and volume, which can be singled out and tallied quite easily. But

these are hardly the qualities of musicianship that matter the most. Artistry is neither

quantifiable nor objective, and for that reason, the ranking system used in competitions is

meaningless. It implies differences in ability that are really differences in style.

 115

Furthermore, the voting procedure frequently fails to reward the most worthy artist. In the

yes-no voting system used in the early years of the Cliburn and in many other

competitions, risk-taking performers tended to split the jury and get eliminated early. As

a result, the performers most likely to win were those who simply generated the fewest

objections. It might not be their intention, but the Cliburn was effectively punishing

individuality and rewarding the conventional players who performed "unarguable"

repertoire in an inoffensive manner. Leon Fleisher described the problem succinctly: at

best, major competitions had only helped raise the level of mediocrity (quoted in Weirich

1984:26).

Secondly, competitions were criticised for their failure to discover the next

generation of great artists. Writing in 1990, Horowitz was moved to emphasise the

following statement with italics: "Not since Krystian Zimerman won the Chopin

competition in 1975 has a gold medal launched a major career." He pointed to various

possible causes: the inferiority of contemporary competitors to their "celebrated

predecessors", the diminishing influence of political rivalries with the end of the Cold

War, and the proliferation of competitions (1990:66). Ten years later, there had been little

change. New York Times critic Anthony Tommasini (2001) issued the following

complaint during the 11th cycle of the Cliburn: "With striking regularity, Cliburn gold

medalists [have been] anointed in Texas with much fanfare and sent on tour amid great

promise only to drop from visibility: pianists like Ralph Votapek, Vladimir Viardo and

Jose Feghali. Quick, name the winner of the last competition, in 1997. Stumped? It was

Jon Nakamatsu. (I had to look it up myself)" (p. 19). While it might strive to recreate Van

Cliburn's meteoric rise after winning the Tchaikovsky, the Cliburn had failed to find his
 116

"successor" and had succeeded only in "stirring up pseudo-excitement." But the Cliburn

was hardly alone in this respect. With a depressing regularity, major competitions around

the world were producing laureates who never became household names.

The third accusation was that competitions had actually done more harm than

good. They were bad for performers because sensitive players were likely to crumble

under the pressure. Only the more egoistic musicians could play such a Herculean

amount of repertoire in such extraordinary circumstances. Competitions could also stunt

artistic growth by encouraging "dishonest" playing and "freeze-dried expression"

(Ardoin 1977: D27). They also produced an unhealthy obsession with the first place title

and with youth. Many expressed concern about the psychological setbacks experienced

by non-winners who had to recover from the devastation of "only" placing second

(Schonberg 1978: D17). Young pianists considered their career over if they had not

collected a handful of first place titles before they were 25 years old. In other words, the

music competition was not fostering young talent, but destroying it, and while it might

claim otherwise, it was decidedly not in the service of music. Bernard Holland (1989)

described the problem as a

vicious circle - one in which a restricted repertory played in much the

same way is passed from music schools to competition to the concert
world and then back to the same music schools entrusted with preparing
the next generation. Musicians do not grow, so neither do audiences. [...]
The Cliburn and events like it may be - whether they mean to be or not -
just one more agent for preserving the old, the familiar and the
comfortable. It is for this reason that [renowned piano pedagogue Russell]
Sherman calls competitions "the antichrist" of music, (p. C21)

Together, these criticisms combined to create a realist counter-narrative that described the

competition not as a mechanism for discovering and promoting the next generation of
 117

great artists, but as an institution contributing to the mechanisation of musical

performance. Moreover, competitions were precipitating the decline of classical music by

entrenching a system that rewarded empty technique and virtuosity over substance and

expression. Competition events did not promote the "true" musical experience of fused

ritual performance; they degraded music by turning it into sport. Through the declaration

of an overall winner, competitions were ultimately helping sustain a corrosive

commercial reality where concert promoters were only interested in booking champions

sure to pack the hall. If this succeeded in attracting a wider audience for classical music,

it was for all the wrong reasons. This counter-narrative presented a serious challenge to

the competition's idealised meanings because it came from within the performance

community. Music critics were a particularly important audience for the competition's

self-presentation. Because they share the same cultural codes, they are more likely to be

sympathetic with their intentions. They also possess the expert knowledge necessary to

evaluate competitors and dispute the deliberations of the jury. But most important, they

have an independent means of symbolic production. Needless to say, music critics'

evaluation of the competition event is critical in sustaining the competition's legitimacy

not only within the performance community, but in the broader public as well.

Like many competitions, the Cliburn underwent a number of significant changes

over the 1990s. The strict repertoire list was abandoned completely, leaving nearly all

programming choices to the competitors. To reflect a philosophy of equality at the top, all

three finalists were awarded similar concert engagements, a recording for the same label,

and a cash award of the same amount. The yes-no voting system was replaced with a

rationalised voting procedure designed by a mathematician that calibrated scoring scales,

 118

thereby protecting controversial competitors. The rules were re-written to allow ties; as

many as four gold medals could be awarded in one competition. The Olympics metaphor

disappeared from advertising materials, and the flags that had once adorned the concert

stage moved to the lobby. The competitive aspect of the competition was downplayed

and the mythical level emphasised through the introduction of a new metaphor - the

"festival" - which continues to be the metaphor of choice for competitions around the

world. In every brochure and throughout the programme booklet, the Cliburn was touted

as a "celebration" of young talent and a "joyous festival" of music-making. Competition

discourse, now polluted, was also avoided in public speeches during the event. At the

awards ceremony for the 10th competition in 1997, the Chairman of the Jury, John

Giordano, carefully avoided the word "competition" in his address despite the fact that he

was announcing the ranking of competitors and distributing prizes: "The jury

deliberations were very difficult in every phase of the festival because of the extremely

high level of the...the competitors from the...the...the very first stages, the screening

stages all the way through the finals."10 The Chairman's hesitation mid-sentence is

revealing. The metaphor guiding the interpretation of the competition event must

harmonise with the cultural construction of its participants. In this respect, the festival

metaphor might offer a favourable substitute for "competition", but it does not carry a

corresponding alternative for "competitors." Perhaps it is for this reason that a new

metaphor, the "job interview", was beginning to surface during the 12th competition. If

this becomes the predominant metaphor, it would indicate a return the mundane narrative

level and a greater emphasis on the competitive aspect of the event.

10
Transcript of 10* cycle proceedings held at the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition Archive,
Tape 416, p. 4.
 119

THE CULTURAL CONSTRUCTION OF COMPETITORS

Musical performance is a mode of cultural communication, a multi-layered form

of social performance. In the context of a music competition, a competitor communicates

musical as well as other social meanings; their musical performance is at the same time a

performance of race, ethnicity, gender and other social characteristics. As mentioned

above, these meanings are communicated to a fragmented audience that is differently-

positioned and differently-engaged in the competition event, evoking different cultural

frameworks to interpret competitors' performances. This fragmentation is reflected in

representations of competitors in media coverage of the competition. Two tiers of media

can be identified in this coverage: music critics and general media. Both tiers are engaged

in an interpretation of competitors' multi-layered performances and both are printed in

the same publications. But while music critics draw primarily from an expert knowledge

of music for their interpretations, the general media tends to focus on other symbolic

systems, such as meanings communicated visually in musical performance (through

physical gestures, facial expressions, and dress) or in social performances off-stage. Like

the idealised meanings of the competition event, representations of competitors are

constructed on two narrative levels: the mundane and the mythical. On each narrative

level, the role of competitors and their social performance is interpreted through a

different set of symbols, metaphors, and archetypes.

Musical Champions: The Mundane Narrative

On the mundane narrative level, musicians are portrayed as rivals fighting for

their survival in the contest. In both local and international papers, the Cliburn has been
 120

referred to as a "duel in the sun" (Brown 2005), a "musical shoot-out" (Ward 2001)

where pianists go "head-to-head" for the top prize. These combat metaphors are not just

references to Texas cowboy culture; piano competitions have been referred to as duels at

least since Beethoven's time (DeNora 1995). If not through combat metaphors, the rivalry

is portrayed through metaphors from competitive sports. While the Cliburn Foundation

might have retreated from any overt equation of music and sports, these metaphors

continue to proliferate in media coverage. If the Cliburn is the "Piano

01ympics"(Greenaway 2005: Bl), a "pianists' super-bowl", a "ballgame played on

Steinways" (Casstevens 2005: 4BB), a "marathon" (Gay 2005: 1 A), or a "horse-race"

(Madigan 2005: IB), Cliburn pianists are therefore the athletes determined to triumph

and obtain the trophy cup. In interviews, they are asked about the gruelling practice

regimen they have endured in the months leading up to the competition (Greenaway

2005) and the personal rituals that help them prepare psychologically for their

performance on stage (Goodloe 2005). Sometimes, the analogy of musicians as athletes is

made explicitly:

Muhammad Ali told his opponents, and the world, "I'm so bad I make
medicine sick." There are only two Greats, he boasted. "Britain and me."
Believing in oneself does not guarantee success, but beliefs drive behavior
and behavior affects performance, whether it's sports or making that
journey alone to center. Concert pianists mentally prepare for competition
much the same way successful athletes do. They understand the
importance of self-confidence. [...] Yang, the youngest here, gives herself
a pep talk. "I'm going to play this the way it should be played. I'm going
to show how it's done. I have to believe "I'm It." (Casstevens 2005: 4BB)

Although music critics are generally critical of this narrative level, they also help

construct musicians as athletes when they discuss competitors' repertoire choices as if

they were game strategies, pointing out the challenges they present for each individual
 121

performer and the possible advantages and disadvantages they could bring. For example,

in a section revealingly entitled "Today's Players", the local paper offered a brief

background on each competitor and a summary of their repertoire in the style of the

voice-over for televised figure skating or gymnastics meets:

Rem Urasin 29, Russia, 1p.m.

Who he is: A Kazan native with a dark, dramatic stage presence, Urasin
studies with Lev Naumov, the coach of champions, at the Moscow
Conservatory.
His program: It will move from the sunshine of Bach's Italian Concerto
to the storms of Liszt's Mephisto Waltz No. 1. In between, he'll become
gradually more dramatic, offering up a pair of Chopin etudes followed by
a set of Liszt's transcriptions of Schubert's songs.
His challenge: Urasin obviously plans to gradually build drama from
Bach to Chopin to Liszt. Massive sound and velocity should be no
problem for him in the Liszt; finding equilibrium and clean textures in the
Bach will be his hurdle. If he accomplishes his aims, he should emerge as
an audience favorite. (FWST 2005: 4B)

As in sports, physical feats are applauded. At one point in the 12th competition, a

journalist measured the speed of pianists' hands in the fastest passages with the same

device used to measure the speed of a baseball pitch or a tennis serve (Ward 2005).

An interesting consequence of sports metaphors is that they invite a particularly gendered

interpretation of musical performance. When the music competition is portrayed as a

physical contest, it reinforces the tendency for virtuosic musical performance to be

interpreted as a display of masculinity. This is hardly a new phenomenon. According to

DeNora (2006), we can trace the cultural equation of pianism with masculinity back to

Beethoven. Many women enjoyed active performing careers during Beethoven's lifetime,

but few performed bis piano repertoire. Women were reluctant to perform his music

because it demanded the embodiment of new musical techniques and a visceral approach

to the instrument that compromised notions of feminine propriety. As this gender

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segregation at the keyboard was emerging, Beethoven as composer was being

reconfigured through ideas circulating in turn of the century Vienna. Through

philosophical discourses about the sublime and popular scientific notions, Beethoven was

being constructed as the ultimate heroic figure - a "master" of music capable of

"mesmerising" his audience. DeNora argues that Beethoven's body became inscribed in

his music, transforming the musical performance of his revolutionary repertoire into an

object lesson in agency. But not everyone could be cast as a Beethovenian performer:

"The new forms of musical display [required in Beethoven's piano repertoire], and the

agencies they implied, not only excluded women from the heart of the musical canon;

they also celebrated a currency of bodily capital (appearance, physique, comportment and

temperament) that was differentially distributed to men." (DeNora 2006:118)

This legacy is reflected in the history of the Cliburn competition. In the first

eleven cycles of the competition - a period spanning nearly forty years - there were only

two female gold medalists, Christina Ortiz of Brazil in 1969 and Olga Kern of Russia in

2001. In Kern's case, however, the gold was shared with a male competitor, Stanislav

Ioudenitch. The media coverage of Kern is particularly interesting because it reveals the

complex performance demanded of a female pianist: her social performance must

conform to standards of femininity, but her musical performance must display the desired

level of masculinity. Kern obviously managed to strike this balance. When it came to her

musical performance, she was lauded for her athleticism and "described as one of the

fastest, loudest and most powerful players in this competition" (NPR 2001). Kern herself

acknowledged and appreciated that her performance style was described in masculine

terms:
 123

Asked whether she took it as a compliment when people described her

playing as mannish, she agreed enthusiastically. "It is very good for me. I
play strong like a man, but I feel like a woman. If I have these two things,
it's only the better for me." (Pfeifer 2001: C14)

This display of masculine virtuosity was shown in contemporary as well as

Romantic piano repertoire. Competitors in the 11th competition were given a choice of

five pieces by living American composers for their semi-final recital. But before the

scores were distributed, all traces of the composers' identities were removed and replaced

with numbers. When discussing how she chose from among the several commissioned

contemporary scores, Kern confessed about her final selection:

When I saw the scores, I think that it must be composer man, not woman,
because the music very strong. [...] I like the freedom and this type of
technique and everything. And after that I know that this is woman, I was
so surprised, and I think "Uh-huh. She's like me." (NPR 2001)

Here we can see Beethoven's legacy. Even in the 21 st century, performers still approach

pianism as an object lesson in a particularly masculine form of agency, and it is assumed

that the composer's (male) body is inscribed in his compositions.

Kern might have shown masculine strength in virtuoso repertoire, but her femininity was

never in question. As one reviewer remarked:

Kern's musicality radiates off the stage and saturates the hall, and it is
joyously alive, immediately communicative, fragrantly sensual, and
almost visual in its intensity. Whatever it is - call it star quality - music
likes Kern the way the camera liked Garbo.11

While both gold medalists that year had returned to compete a second time, Kern's

comeback story hinged on favourable changes in her performance of conventional

11
(Ronald Broun of the Washington Post) quoted on http://www.cliburn.org (Accessed May 1, 2005)
 124

femininity:

What a difference four years can make. After being eliminated in the
preliminary rounds of the 1997 Van Cliburn International Piano
Competition, Olga Pushechnikova went home to Moscow and underwent a
complete makeover. [...] Late last month, with a new last name derived
from her mother's maiden name, with more musical maturity and
competitions notched on her belt, with a new coiffure, a glamorous new
wardrobe, and a marriage, a divorce, and the birth of a child, Olga Kern
came back to Fort Worth. This time, at the 11th Van Cliburn Competition,
things were different. Now a blonde favoring off-the-shoulder gowns, she
became an instant audience favorite. [...] As for her physical appearance,
Kern admits, with giggles, that being a blonde is more fun. When she
competed in the 1997 Van Cliburn, her unremarkable coiffure featured
medium-length dark hair with bangs parted in the middle. She insists that
the black was "an experiment". [...] In addition, Kern says that after the
birth of her son she "changed her figure -1 hope in a good way."
Certainly, the red spaghetti-strap and black one-shoulder gowns she wears
in competition photos reveal few figure flaws while emphasizing the
positive attributes. (Pfeifer 2001: C14)

Four years later, Kern was still remembered as much for her concert attire as for her

aggressive athleticism:

Kern took chances. She outlasted the men in the traditional gigantic "boys
only" repertoire of Liszt, Barber and Balakirev. She played a little faster.
She dressed the part, right down to the famous red jacket she wore in the
finals. [...] Most important, she played better than any of the men. (Gay
2005: P9)

In short, Kern succeeded in presenting a complex social performance. The

masculinity she displayed in the performance of virtuoso repertoire was balanced by a

conventional femininity in every other aspect of her gender performance on and offstage,

from her physical appearance and comportment to her sexual orientation. Or, to put the

point differently, the conventional femininity communicated visually in Kern's musical

performance was neither a substitute nor a distraction from the desired musical meaning.

It is likely that Kern's gender performance drew so much attention because at the
 125

time, female finalists were still very rare. There are signs, however, that the trend of

male-domination in piano competitions may have come to an end. In the most recent

cycle of the Cliburn, more women than men were chosen to compete, more women than

men advanced to the semi-finals, and there was an equal gender division among the six

finalists. One music critic predicted that this would be "the last Cliburn competition in

which a female majority will be cause for comment" (Gay 2005: 3AA). This remark rings

true, but not only as an acknowledgement of the competence demonstrated by female

pianists. In the 12th competition, gender had been eclipsed by race. As was often

remarked in the press, the unprecedented female majority was also predominantly of

Asian birth or descent, and for the first time, the largest national contingent was from

China. Asian pianists placed well throughout the competition. Half of the twelve semi-

finalists were from mainland China, and in the finals, a Chinese woman placed third

while the silver medal was awarded to a 19-year-old Korean woman. While some had

anticipated the 2005 competition to be "the year of the woman" where audiences would

see the "softer side of the Clibura"(Gay 2005: P9), it became the year that Russia's

domination began to wane and China became cast as the saviour of classical music

(DMN 2005; Gay 2005). In this context, the interpretation of Cliburn pianists'

musical/social performance was complicated not only by gender, but by race, although

this cannot be pursued here.12

12
In the past, ethnicity was the dominant framework for interpreting musical/social performance at
competitions. Musicians were easily identified and classified as representatives o f national schools' on the
basis of technique and style. At the 12th cycle of the Cliburn, however, the discourse surrounding pianists
became racialized. For example, candidates representing the United States who were of Chinese heritage
were not seen as 'Americans' or even 'Chinese-Americans' but as 'Asian.' It is too early to say whether
this is a temporary or permanent development. The ethnicity framework could return through expanded list
of'national schools' that includes Chinese, Korean, and Japanese schools, but the globalization of music
education is more likely to continue eroding these categories until they become an anachronism.
 126

For the most part, musicians resent the mundane level of narrative construction

for its frequent portrayal of music as sport. As the gold medalist of the 12 competition

remarked in a press conference, "We're musicians. This shouldn't be like a baseball

game" (Bahari 2005: 3AA). To make matters worse, these narrative constructions do not

fade with the conclusion of the competition. The 2001 co-gold medalist, Ioudenitch,

complained that he could never escape athletic representations during the three-year tour

that was part of his prize: "What I fundamentally didn't like about [the tour] was that the

presenters were expecting the Van Cliburn winner to be closer to a sportsman; it was how

athletically you played that mattered. [...] But this is not a sports competition. I really see

this considering the player to be a sportsman as an insult" (Marton 2005: Dl). For

musicians, athletic representations are not only insulting because they degrade the

musical ritual to spectacle; they are polluting because they distort the musical ritual. By

emphasising rivalry and physical contest, they reduce musical performance to a physical

display and distract the audience from evoking the proper symbolic framework for

interpretation - music.

The Artist-Interpreter: The Mythical Narrative Level

Representations of the performer do not always operate on the mundane level of

narrative construction. Occasionally, there is a shift to a mythical level where the results

of the competition become trivial and the rivalry dissolves. Here, the musician is no

longer portrayed as a contender, but as an artist. Her musical performance is no longer a

strategic move in the battle for the top prize, but a cultural communication so effective

that the fragmentation of the audience is overcome. The musician is celebrated as a "great
 127

performer" capable of an effortless embodiment of musical meaning; she does not merely

"play" music, she "lives" it. She is one of the "chosen" capable of going beyond the

mundane details of the score to access the "eternal truths" contained in timeless

masterpieces, thereby transcending the artificial context of the competition (Pressler

2005:60-61). Through her artistry, the interpreter conveys these ineffable "truths" to the

audience, thus allowing them to participate in a transcendent, pure musical experience.

One would expect music critics to be the least likely to participate in the mythical

construction of Cliburn pianists. The realist counter-narrative framework that guides their

experience of the music competition almost precludes the possibility of a fused

performance in what they consider a contrived and problematic context. And yet,

unqualified celebrations of a charismatic performance still occasionally emerge from this

most cynical group in the performance community because, like every other segment of

the audience, music critics are seeking a performer who transcends the profane context of

the competition and provides an opportunity to abandon profane discourses. Take for

example this review of a preliminary round recital:

... There were those soft moments and pauses in her Bach, when everyone
in Bass Hall stopped breathing. And there was that moment when she
reached back in history and asked, "Why not take a chance?" and
concluded her performance of Reminiscences de Don Juan by doing what
Liszt would have done: she improvised a new ending. Whether or not she
takes a medal at the 2005 Cliburn, Yang showed a glimpse of what we
hope piano performance will be like in the 21 st century: imaginative,
technically brilliant, connected to the audience and historically aware.
(Gay 2005: 3AA)

This review contains a number of references to fused performance: the power of

the performer to captivate the audience (the collective holding of breath), the performer's

uncanny embodiment of another composer-performer-genius' performance practices (the

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improvised ending to a famous virtuoso piece), and the trivialisation of the outcome of

the competition. Others stress the effortlessness with which the elements of performance

are fused: "[she] mak[es] everything she does on stage look almost too easy" (Ahles

2005: 4BB). A teacher similarly described his student's fusion with pride: "He lets the

music happen. He doesn't force it [...] He, the instrument and the music all become one"

(Bahari 2005: 1 A). Others stress the musician's connection to the other-worldly,

sometimes in a very literal fashion. For example, in an interview with Arizona public

radio, Olga Kern was asked to recount a dream in which she was visited by the late

Rachmaninoff and enjoyed an hour-long lesson on a few of his pieces (KNAU 2001).

On this mythical level, the sports and combat metaphors are replaced by the

archetype of the genius or child prodigy. In this narrative framework, the musician's life

is re-interpreted through the ideals of the performance community. The narrative itself

conforms to a number of conventions.13 First, there is the attribution of inborn talent, a

"gift" or unusual ability that manifests itself so early in the musician's life that it cannot

be the result of instruction. This endowment from nature is identified as the quality that

separates the dedicated but ordinary musician from the "interpreter" or "true artist." As

Richard Rodzinski (2005), director of the Cliburn competition, explains:

An aspiring pianist may sit before a score and commit to memory all the
instructions the composer has offered in his blueprint, but those notes will
mean little if they fall on barren ground. It is not easy to define what that
"ground" is, but less difficult to determine whether that "ground" exists at
all in any given person. There are individuals who are simply born with
innate musical aptitude, the fertile ground as it were. (p. 33-4)

Manifestations of unusual ability or precociousness in infancy are often treated as

13
In this section, I have drawn from Steve Sherwood's ritual structure of the artist biography that is based
on Kris and Kurz (1979). See Sherwood (2006).
 129

early premonitions of later greatness. Through these episodes, the prodigy is

demonstrated to be one of the few chosen to be born with this transcendent musical gift.

For example, anecdotes like the following can be found in the programme biographies

and press coverage of every Cliburn finalist: "When Piano was 3, his godparents gave

him a toy white-and-red keyboard. He pounded away at it for four years, before the

family acquiesced to the inevitable and arranged for lessons. Six months later, his teacher

asked to talk to his parents. She told them that their son needed a piano in the home ~ and

a better teacher" (Autrey 2005: 4BB). Similarly, the announcement of the gold medalist

for the 12th competition printed in newspapers around the world began with these lines:

"When Alexander Kobrin was a toddler in Russia, he played happily with his toys as long

as he could hear music. When the radio was turned off, he cried. So his piano-teacher

father taught him how to play when Kobrin was about 5" (Brown 2005).

The second recurring motif is the genius's calling to art as a vocation. Here the

artist recognises that talent is not just a gift, but a responsibility, and that sacrifices must

be made for its cultivation. We can see both of these motifs in the promotional biography

of the silver medalist of the 12th Cliburn competition:

The youngest of the Twelfth Cliburn Competition participants, Joyce

Yang received her first piano as a birthday- present from her aunt when she
was four and immediately took to the instrument. After winning several
national competitions in Korea, she moved to the United States to begin
studies at Juilliard's pre-college division. Her victory at the Philadelphia
Orchestra's Greenfield Competition for students led to her debut with that
orchestra at the Academy of Music when she was thirteen...14

Here Yang is very obviously constructed as the child prodigy, showing an immediate

14
Excerpt from the Program booklet of the 12th Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, p. 111.
 130
i
affinity with her instrument, acquiring high-profile concerts at an unusually young age,

and gaining admittance into the Juilliard pre-college division, one of the most prestigious

conservatory programmes in the world. These are all attributions of talent and markers of

prestige but, at the same time, they imply her dedication to her art. The mention of

Yang's studies at Juilliard is especially meaningful in this respect. In the biographies of

visual artists, the calling to art as a vocation is provoked by a single encounter with a

master or masterwork followed by a period of seclusion and obscurity in which the artist

develops his own style. In musical narratives, however, devotion to one's calling involves

a prolonged and intimate relationship with a master-teacher who provides the artist with a

solid musical foundation while coaxing out individual artistry (see for example Madigan

2005). To quote Rodzinski (2005) further:

For those who possess (or are possessed by?) this gift, however,
recognition of their musicality is just a prelude to a lifelong journey. A
unique bond is established between the gently guiding music teacher and
the student, during which the talent is allowed to unfold. Following the
initial honing of basic skills, the voyage turns into an evermore solitary
one as the musician begins to plumb the very depths of his soul to listen
for a voice, if one exists at all, able to recognize and to communicate
something beyond the score, (p. 33-4)

In other words, the role of the teacher is to guide the artist in finding her own method of

accessing the '"eternal truths" in music and to help the artist develop an original voice to

communicate these to an audience. These are the sacred aspects of performance to which

the teacher orients the artist: "[My teacher] just sort of led the way for me to see that

music is what it's all about, not competitions or winning or being famous" (Madigan

2005: 4D).

Eventually, the years devoted to cultivating talent come to fruition. This brings us
 131

to the third narrative motif, the rise to prominence, where the genius gains public

recognition. This could take the form of a medal at a prestigious competition, a string of

favourable reviews in the press, a handful of important concert engagements, or the

development of an enthusiastic audience that responds to every recital with rapturous

applause. Public recognition takes so many forms because each segment of the audience

is differently-positioned and differently-equipped to bestow an acknowledgement that is

visible both to other audience members and other audience segments. And while these are

not unrelated, the artist rarely enjoys all of them at once. Regardless of how many forms

the young artist acquires, however, it is the rise to public prominence that provides the

fitting conclusion for the narrative construction of Cliburn pianists. Since they are young

musicians at the very beginning stages of a professional career, theirs is only an

optimistic and heroic tale of promise and potential. We are spared the inevitable fall from

grace that is the next narrative motif in the sequence. Here the artist would be denigrated,

suffering through failure and solitude in equal proportion to the success and recognition

that was just enjoyed. But in the construction of competition pianists, the ritual structure

of the artist's biography, which follows a "rise and fall" scenario, is effectively cut short.

And by omitting the pessimistic phase of denigration, the artist's sacred status is only

further enhanced.

CONCLUSION

Music competitions are surrounded by discourses that can be mapped in the

following way:
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Table 3.1: Sacred and profane narratives of international music competitions

Sacred (Ritual frame) Profane (Game frame)

Competition Event Occasion for transcendent "pure" Democratic mechanism for

musical experience identifying "the best"

Metaphors Festival, Mecca Competition, j ob interview,

examination, test

Performer Artist who interprets musical Rivals determined to triumph;

meaning, communicates "eternal contestants in top form
truths" in and through music, capable of extraordinary
embodiment of ideal musician physical feats.

Metaphors, motifs (Beethovenian) Musical genius, Candidates, journeymen

former prodigy rising to prominence

Examples "...a joyous festival dedicated to "The competition serves as a

music and the discovery of the
world's finest young pianists."
living testament to the
tremendous impetus that
winning a major
competition gives
to launching an international
career."
"The competition is a rigorous
and comprehensive
examination of every facet of
each contestant's
musicianship and technical
proficiency."

These narrative frames reflect the ambivalence that characterises the event. It is at once

game and ritual following the distinction made by Levi-Strauss (1966 [1962]):

Games thus appear to have a disjunctive effect: they end in the

establishment of a difference between individual players or teams where
originally there was no indication of inequality. And at the end of the
game they are distinguished into winners and losers. Ritual, on the other
hand, is the exact inverse; it conjoins, for it brings about a union [...]
between two initially separate groups, (p.32)
 133

Music competitions are games in that they engender asymmetry through contingent

events, chance, and talent. In competitive sports this is achieved through a series of

matches, while at music competitions, it is a series of recitals. In both cases, the result is

the same. From a group of selected candidates who are equal - they are all subject to pre-

defined rules and have the same chance of success - an ultimate winner is declared. This

engendering of inequality, and its consequences, would be the exclusive focus of a

production perspective account. In an important sense, the production approach assumes

the terms of the profane narrative frame, only the zero-sum game it ultimately unveils is

one of status accumulation.

But music competitions are not only games. At the same time, they are ritual-like.

Classical music concerts display many of the characteristics of ritual in the

anthropological sense (Small 1998; Kingsbury 1988). They are highly structured

environments for cultural communication in which the performers and the audience have

a shared understanding of the intention, content, and intrinsic validity of that form of

symbolic interaction (Alexander 2004). Prestigious competitions like the Cliburn strive to

recreate the performance conditions of the formal recital because they seek musicians

who can create a union with the audience in similar circumstances. From a performance

perspective, Levi-Strauss's "union" would be described as "fused performance", that is,

when all the elements of performance become seamlessly connected, the fragmentation of

the audience is overcome, and cultural extension from audience to performer is achieved.

For Levi-Strauss, it is the effect of play that determines whether it is a game or a ritual.

Even competitive sports can be treated as a ritual. Among his examples are the Gahuku-

Gama people of New Guinea who would play as many football matches as necessary for
 134

both sides to reach the same score (Levi-Straus 1966 [1962]). By this definition, the

status of music competitions should be clear. But as we have seen, they never definitively

achieve game status despite their bureaucratically-mandated disjunctive effect. To

understand why, we need to bring in a Durkheimian dimension. Simply put, music is

infused with notions of the sacred. This is especially true of instrumental classical music,

which remains strongly associated with 19th-century ideas of the sublime and

transcendent experience. A Durkheimian discourse analysis allows us to trace the transfer

from the game to the ritual frame, or back again, over the course of a particular music

competition because this process involves a discursive shift from profane to sacred

narratives.

Discourse analysis also illuminates how narrative frameworks are embraced,

rejected, or transformed by different segments of the audience. Among those Adorno

would have called "expert listeners," the game frame inspires ironic commentary and

debased metaphor. Music critics in particular have tried to undermine this representation

of the event, invoking a polluting discourse to associate the competition with everything

that is reviled by the music community. Therein, they describe performers as victims of

this evil institution; having been corrupted, they become mechanistic (soul-less technical

machines) or strategic performers "using" repertoire and performing it in a style that

might be technically perfect, but calculated to achieve self-serving ends.

For other segments of the audience, the game frame is not profane and pianism as sport is

unproblematic. This explains why the Olympics metaphor emerges so consistently in

general news coverage of competitions. The fused performance with which the general

public identifies is the conquering hero and musical champion, especially if the pianist
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was acting as representative of their own country. In the case of the Cliburn, the awe-

inspiring image is of Van Cliburn himself, returning triumphant from the Soviet Union

and being celebrated in the ticker-tape parade on 5th Avenue. But as we have seen, when

this narrative framework employs symbols and tropes from the masculinized realms of

sport and combat, it engages gender ideologies in the interpretation of bodily display and

musical meaning. This poses a unique problem of performance for female performers

who must juggle contradictory cultural expectations regarding musical virtuosity and

conventional femininity.

For their part, competitors and the music community are constantly seeking to

jettison the game frame because for them, it is not the competition that creates the

musical hero. The fused performance they are seeking is a musical one that conjures the

sacred and transcends the competition. This is certainly the aim of the performer, who

wants to be seen as a sensitive soul capable of interpreting musical meaning and

conveying it to their audience in such a compelling manner that it trivializes the context

of performance.

In this chapter, I hope to have shown that meaning is integral to musical

production and reception. Under the influence of Bourdieu and the production

perspective, the sociology of the arts has tended to assume that high art automatically

enjoys legitimacy as a result of its institutionalization. My findings suggest that this is not

the case; status and legitimacy are negotiated through ongoing, contingent social

processes. A performance perspective offers a promising alternative method for exploring

the cultural dimension of this negotiation. In place of Bourdieu's concept of

"consecration", which reduces artistic value to a function of instrumental machinations

(e.g., symbolic investment, position-taking) and manipulations (i.e., illusio,

misrecognition, production of false belief), a performance approach centers on the

Durkheimian concept of the "sacred," which recasts engagement with the arts as ritual

and debates over artistic value as endeavors to protect notions of the good. The case of

the music competition demonstrates that battles over legitimacy are not restricted to the

boundaries of an organisation or even the art world. Struggles between contradictory

metaphors and tropes, as well as competing commitments to popular appeal and

excellence, spill out from the concert hall into the larger public sphere.
 Chapter 4: The Presentation of Musical Self

The competition is perhaps the most Goffmanian of institutions in the art world of

music. In this social establishment, the musician's techniques of impression management

come under the microscope, and the effectiveness of performance carries serious

consequences. Musicians entering a competition are effectively volunteering to undergo a

public labeling process in which there are only two available outcomes. Either they

become a laureate, which signals to the general public that they are a good performer who

could become known as one of the great talents of their generation. Or they become an

also-ran, which can compromise both their reputation and their identity as an artist.

If this risk were not enough cause for anxiety, competitors also have little

knowledge or control over the process of evaluation that results in their final ranking.

Jury deliberations are closed and the calculation of scores remains secret forever,

shrouding the evaluative process in mystery. All the performer can be sure of is that the

audience is unlikely to practice tactful inattention if they slip while conveying a fostered

impression, because it is those slips that provide the jury with unambiguous justification

for their elimination. For better or for worse, the labels bestowed on candidates at the

conclusion of each competition are only temporary. Those fortunate enough to receive

the title of laureate know it enters its half-life as soon as the competition holds the next

cycle. In those short years that they carry the unstable symbol of competence, the

performer must continue to convey the right impression in quite different musical

environments. And as many laureates come to learn the hard way, the competition prize
often pushes audience expectations unrealistically high, and critics' expectations unfairly

low.

The purpose of this chapter is to understand the experience of competitors by

analyzing different strategies of performance and forms of musical agency in this most

treacherous of musical environments. I will begin by discussing the impressions that can

be fostered by competitors, identifying four common constructions of musical genius

available to the performer. To use Goffman's (1959) language, these impressions have

the potential to define the competition situation in the performer's interest, inspiring the

jury and the audience to see the musician as the clear winner so clearly beyond such

bureaucratic exercises that they even break the apparatus of the competition. Or, to use

the language of social performance, these constructions invoke powerful background

symbols that guide the interpretation of social performance and increase the chance of

fusion between audience and performative text. I will then move on to discuss the

symbolic equipment and other means of symbolic production at the performer's disposal

to convey these impressions. To conclude, I will discuss what it is about the competition

that tends to thwart these strategies, and undermines efforts toward fusion on the part of

the performer.

PERFORMING GENIUS

While it is true that the concept of genius, not to mention Art, is a product of

modernity, the cultural logic of artistic genius has a much longer history. It is an

inheritance of ancient Greek culture that is reinterpreted and reshaped in different

historical moments. This cultural continuity was persuasively demonstrated by Kris and
 139

Kurz (1979) who showed the striking uniformity of historical accounts of artists' lives in

the West stretching back through the centuries: "From the moment when the artist made

his [sic] appearance in historical records, certain stereotyped notions were linked with his

work and his person - preconceptions that have never entirely lost their significance and

that still influence our view of what an artist is" (p. 5). For example, some of the

recurring motifs in artists' biographies include: the chance discovery of the artist's talent

at a very young age by a distinguished person; the overcoming of obstacles put in the way

of the prodigy's chosen profession; the artist's ability to imitate nature so perfectly that it

is mistaken for reality; the artist's use of virtuosity to embarrass critics or take revenge on

miserly clients. Stereotyped episodes such as these are often told through the literary

device of the anecdote. Like jokes, anecdotes have a "point" that is not only pleasurable,

but also makes the prominent person, or social type, more understandable. It matters very

little whether an anecdote is true in any particular case, because it serves a different

cultural purpose. It conveys the image of the artist.

Kris and Kurz were primarily concerned with the myths and legends pertaining to

painters, sculptors, and architects, but musicians are hardly exempt from this interpretive

process. The cultural construction of the musical artist is more complicated, however,

because the musical artist has been split in two. In previous eras, the competent musician

was proficient in both composition and performance. But in the 19th century, musical

practice was transformed and musical creation was divided into two specializations. This

had partly to do with the increasing complexity of musical notation. But it had even more

to do with work-concept ideology (Goehr 1992) which advocated a hierarchical

configuration of composer, performer, and listener. Together, these developments

 140

precipitated and justified the specialization and professionalization of musical roles. By

the early decades of the 20th century, the separation of performer and composer was

complete, and it remains the standard practice to this day. This division of musical labor

presents a problem of performance for both musical actors. For the composer, the lack of

technical proficiency forces them to entrust to others a competent and accurate

presentation of their text. For the performer, they must convince the audience that they

have fused with the text's meanings and are transmitting these so perfectly in

performance that they "play as if from the soul of the composer".1 This problem is further

compounded in the performance of historical masterworks which constitute the majority

of the repertoire for classical musicians.

Another consequence of this transformation in musical practice is that the concept

of musical genius has been completely taken over by the composer. Music scholarship

has actively contributed to this cornering of the genius market, as much thrall to the

work-concept ideology as the popular imagination. As a result, the pantheon of musical

genius is now thought to be populated only by master composers. How we have come to

restrict the definition of genius requires some creative misremembering of musical

history. Take, for example, two of the most famous icons of musical genius, Mozart and

Beethoven. Today they are seen as exemplars of the highest level of musical creativity

because of their compositional achievements. They are widely recognized as the creators

of masterpieces that are among the greatest achievements of Western culture. (This is

"culture" in the old-fashioned, elitist, Arnoldian sense.) But in their lifetimes, both were

1
J.A.P. Schulz, "Vortrag," (1775/92) in Sulzer, Allgemeine Theorie der Schonen Kiinste, quoted in (Hunter
2005)
 141

recognized as much for their extraordinary talents in performance as they were for

composition.

I would like to reclaim the notion of genius for the performer by drawing attention

to common constructions of extraordinary performance ability that continue to inspire

acclaim and admiration in the world of classical music today. My intention is not to

essentialize, refine, or rehabilitate the controversial concept of genius, but to identify

collective representations that continue to define the role of the musical performer for

both the audience and the musician. My discussion will centre on four cultural scripts: the

prodigy, the fire-breathing virtuoso, the conquering hero, and the intellectual. This is not

meant to be an exhaustive list of all performer tropes,2 but a cursory examination of those

that appear most frequently in the context of international music competitions.

The prodigy

Whether it is in math, chess, or music, the fascination with child prodigies is their

precociousness; they are miraculously able to perform well in a highly demanding field at

a level that is far beyond their years. Musical prodigies usually demonstrate this

extraordinary ability through the performance of technically demanding repertoire. This

public demonstration is often supported by the circulation of anecdotes illustrating other

superlative musical skills which often serve as premonitions of what the child is expected

to become.3 For example, the archetypal musical prodigy, W.A. Mozart, is said to have

2
For an unsystematic yet vivid discussion of many other performer tropes in the history of the piano, see
(Schonberg 1987[1963]).
3
1 take Feldman's (1986) point that although there is an "intuitive connection between them" (p. 16), the
terms "prodigy" and "genius" should not be used interchangeably. He distinguishes prodigies, who show an
extraordinary capability for an existing field, from geniuses, who are credited with transforming a field
both fundamentally and irreversibly. He argues that some prodigies may become geniuses, but that this
 142

transcribed an entire mass from memory after hearing it only once. What makes the

prodigy's performance so compelling, however, is that their ease and facility with the

instrument does not necessarily reveal a consciousness of what they are doing. For this

reason, the less-convincing prodigies are accused of merely being over-rehearsed through

parental coercion; at worst, they are decried as less than human, "trained monkeys" or

"wind-up dolls." But the more convincing prodigies are awe-inspiring precisely because

of an uncanny quality of performance. They seem to be moved by something else.

To use Kivy's (2001) terms, this places the prodigy firmly within the "passive"

notion of genius that comes from Plato. Here, creativity is not an act of will, but a

temporary madness. The poet's inspiration is a divine gift that happens to him. In this

state, the poet is not himself, but is, essentially, "possessed." There is a necessary loss of

self or personhood: "the god speaks through the poet; so it is not the person of the poet

but the 'person' of the god that makes the poetry" (p. 73). The same notion is reflected in

the contemporary practice of referring to prodigies as "gifted children". Historically,

however, the association with the divine had more sinister overtones. Often described as

"monstrosities", the original meaning of prodigy was "something extraordinary from

which omens are drawn".4 Although prodigies are no longer associated with prophesy,

they can still acquire the aura of a sacred figure. For example, Sand (2000) describes how

audiences responded to the young Yehudi Menuhin with "a frenzy that the music world

transition is contingent on exogenous factors. While I appreciate the desire to pin down a precise definition
for each phenomenon, this is exactly the essentializing concept of genius that I do not wish to employ or
refine. In contrast, my focus is the common associations and "intuitive connections" that amount to cultural
constructions of genius.
4
Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd Edition.
has not seen since, rushing up to him at the end of the performance, desperate just to

touch his garments, as though he were a saint" (p. 155).

Centuries later, Schopenhauer adapted the Platonic notion of genius for the

modern age, stripping it of its supernatural overtones while preserving the idea that feats

of creativity come from the loss of self. For him, the genius shared the madman's

inability to function in the mundane aspects of everyday life. But rather than being

possessed by a god, it is the object of knowledge into which the genius loses himself.

Schopenhauer also drew a stronger connection between the genius and the childlike. For

him, both share the liberation from the "dominance of will" (p.75). Echoes of this notion

persist in the present day. Prodigies are commonly described as "born to play", as though

they were essentially helpless toward the compulsion to master the instrument: "If you

have a child who is in this world to play the violin, and you decide this child is not going

to learn to play the violin—you have killed that child, if not physically, then certainly

emotionally and spiritually" (Feldman, David Henry quoted in Sand 2000:149)

The fire-breathing virtuoso5

This type of performer is another case of "possession", but here it is demonic

rather than divine. A Faustian genius, the fire-breathing virtuoso's aim is to make music

an immanent experience. Here the artist is seen as a magician, an ambiguous figure

whose "magical powers" (i.e., superhuman virtuosity) inspire both adoration and fear

(Kris and Kurz 1979). Extraordinary technical skill and the physicality of music-making

are used to startle and astonish the audience. Musical experience becomes a matter of

5
1 must thank competitor 7 for this wonderfully evocative term.
 144

"shocking the listener, making him hear as he had never heard before, of taking over his

musical senses" (Sennett 1977:201). This has often involved a more cavalier attitude

towards musical material for two reasons. First, the score is not believed to have a direct

affinity to the music; it is the musician who, like a magician, brings the music to life

(Sennett 1977:199). Second, the gymnastics and contingencies of enactment are the real

focus of the performance. Spectacular effects and feats of virtuosity enhance the

immediacy of experience while the sheer force of personality overwhelms the musical

material. The same music played by anyone else simply is not the same piece. As Liszt

famously quipped, "le concert, c'est moi." The less-convincing of this type are accused of

being charlatans peddling cheap tricks and pandering to vulgar tastes. But the more

convincing virtuosi force even the most skeptical critics to concede that their

performances are unforgettable, albeit due to a mixture of charm and repulsion.

The archetypal fire-breather is the 19th century violinist Niccolo Paganini, who

not only revolutionized violin playing, but became the gold standard by which all

successive virtuosi were measured. Indeed it was after seeing him perform one night in

Paris that the nineteen year old Liszt set out to become the "Paganini of the piano", and

that label was applied to him for most of his career (Gibbs 2006). Although Paganini's

international career lasted only six years, in this short time, he became a legend. In

6
Weber (2004) has recently argued that the term "charlatan" only acquired decisively negative
connotations in the 19th century when a repertoire identified as "classical" attained canonic status and a
hierarchy of taste distinguishing "serious" from "light" was established. In the previous century, it was used
pejoratively by learned musicians to describe itinerant, self-trained musicians whose success threatened
their professional status. See (Weber 2004)
 145

addition to his peerless technique, which he demonstrated to full effect in his own

compositions, Paganini was an unequalled showman.7 As Sennett (1977) describes:

All his work on stage was focused on drawing attention to himself. The
audience at a typical Paganini concert might witness the violinist break
one, two, or finally three strings on his violin, so that by the end of a
difficult concerto, all the notes were being played off a single string. [...]
Paganini liked to appear suddenly in front of the audience from a hiding
place within the orchestra, rather than waiting in the wings offstage; once
visible, he would wait one, two, or three minutes, staring silently at the
audience, bringing the orchestra to an abrupt halt, and all at once begin to
play. Paganini loved best to start with a hostile audience, ready to boo
him, and then reduce them to blind adulation by the force of his playing,
(p. 200-1)

From the moment he burst onto the concert stages of Europe, Paganini had a

strong association with the macabre. Many of his signature compositions were based on

gothic themes (e.g., Le streghe "The witches"), or acquired suggestive nicknames (e.g.,

Caprice no. 13 was known as "Le rire du diable" ("The devil's laugh")). These noir

references were further dramatized through his physical appearance, which had become

gaunt and cadaverous after suffering from many illnesses, including wasting disease. Off-

stage, the mythology surrounding him thrived on rumors of "demonic possession, of

murder and imprisonment, and of profound sorrows and destitution" (Gooley 2005).

After his death, his diabolical image was further cemented; between his reputation for

immorality and his refusal of last rites on his deathbed, church authorities refused him a

7
Gooley has recently explored the possible influence of comic opera and Italian theatre on Paganini's
performing identity and compositions during his formative years (1795-1815) in Italy. He argues that the
image of Paganini that has dominated music history is actually a reinterpretation of the theatrical dimension
of his music coloured by German Romanticism and mediated by the culture of the Bildung; before 1828,
reviewer tended to employ neoclassical references and metaphors. Gooley shows that when properly
understood, Paganini in his comic mode is also demonic. Through theatrical devices such as imitating
animal sounds and human voices, Paganini, like a magician, "conjures out of the wooden box a multitude
of mimed voices that have a phantasmic quality because they are semi-articulate, half-heard, fleeing and
reappearing, laughing, and crying." (p. 416) See (Gooley 2005)
 146

Christian burial until the Grand Duchess of Parma finally intervened. While his musical

contribution continues to be overpowered by his image, Paganini's impact on music

history was decisive: "With his gaunt and gangling appearance and his demoniac

temperament, Paganini almost single-handedly forged the romantic mystique of virtuosity

as a superhuman, even diabolical endowment" (Taruskin 2005:254)

Superhuman virtuosity does not only appear in diabolical form; it has also been

described through the symbolism of the machine. This discourse emerged at the height of

the Industrial Age, especially in reference to the piano, which served both as a metaphor

and agent of capitalism and instrumental rationality in its design, production, and

distribution. But it was not just the musical instrument that was represented in this way:

[T]he virtuoso pianist was himself likened to a machine and thereby

rendered at once superhuman and not human at all.[...] The mystery of
machines, and of virtuosos performing on a musical machine, fed from
contemporaneous fascinations with and anxieties over the brave new
industrial world. The saving grace of musicians in this respect was that
they demonstrated a magical ability to out-machine the machinery.
(Leppert 1999, emphasis added).

Clearly, the image of the artist as magician is not confined to a traditional or religious

cultural context. Indeed, the machine metaphor has kept it alive to this day, although

instead of the pistons and cogs of the steam engine, today it is computer technology that

inspires salvation and apocalyptic discourses (Alexander 1998).

The conquering hero

No mere conduit for a supernatural power, the conquering hero is a force to be

reckoned with. This type of performer is a powerful figure that dominates the instrument,
 147

masters the repertory, and commands the audience's attention. To borrow Kivy's (2001)

terms again, these characteristics place the hero within the Longinian concept of genius in

the Kantian mode: "genius as nature's rule-giver to art" (p. 118). In marked contrast to

the Platonic genius who is passive and "possessed", this performer is an active

"possessor" of power and agency who makes things happen. The hero's music results

from the sheer force of will, which often entails breaking the rules of musical and social

convention. Accordingly, the less convincing performers of this trope are accused of

being self-absorbed and reckless egoists, brutish tyrants, or delusional divas. But the

more convincing are lionized for communicating their noble spirit which puts the listener

directly in touch with the sublime in art.

The archetypal musical hero is Beethoven, in both the music and the man. As

Burnham (1995) has shown, the hero trope has dominated critical and scholarly

discussions of his middle-period compositions, especially the Eroica symphony. This

work has been understood as the ultimate expression of the conditions of selfhood

because its heroic quality is found on three levels. Firstly, it is a portrayal of heroism,

inviting programmatic interpretations of struggle and triumph. Secondly, the work is

itself an act of heroism; by composing this symphony, Beethoven is transformed into

"The Man Who Freed Music", single-handedly revolutionizing Western music. And

thirdly, the symphony is experienced phenomenologically as an act of heroism; the music

enlists the listener's identification to such an extent that it becomes her own victory.

While social resources and cultural transformations provided fertile ground for the

construction of Beethoven's reputation as a genius (DeNora 1995,2006), few have

"given the rule to art" on the same level as Beethoven. The values of his heroic style have
 148

become core values of music: "For nearly two centuries, a single style of a single

composer has epitomized musical vitality, becoming the paradigm of Western

compositional logic and of all the positive virtues that music can embody for humanity"

(Burnham 1995:xiii).

In Beethoven's biography, the hero trope is often conveyed through a disability

narrative (Gray 2002) in which he overcomes his deafness to become the most important

composer of all time. But the interpretive work of establishing this master trope in his

biography was not accomplished purely through his reception history; Beethoven also

helped construct himself as a heroic agent in his personal and professional life. In a

famous letter to his brothers from 1802 (commonly referred to as the Heiligenstadt

Testament because of its writing style), he expressed a heroic resolve to overcome his

affliction.8 He also cultivated a distinctively aggressive and visceral style of playing the

piano that challenged aristocratic notions of decorum (DeNora 2006). His rebelliousness

in music-making carried over to his interpersonal relations. He was, in short, uncouth,

flouting the rules of social etiquette. Anecdotes about his rude behavior abound,

describing not only his cruelty toward servants and condescension toward fellow

musicians, but his arrogance toward the aristocracy as well. His unconventionality

therefore took on an ideological tone (see Kivy 2001; DeNora 1995).

"...Born with a fiery Lively Temperament susceptible even to the Diversion of Society, I soon had to
keep to myself, pass my life in solitude, if I attempted from time to time to rise above all this, o how
harshly then was I repulsed by the doubly sad Experience of my bad Hearing, yet I could not say to People:
speak louder, shout, for I am deaf, alas how could I acknowledge the weakness of a Faculty which ought to
be more perfect in me than in others, a Faculty I once had to the highest degree of Perfection, such
Perfection as only few of my calling surely have or have had—o I cannot do it. Therefore forgive me if you
see me withdrawing when I should gladly join you. My misfortune afflicts me doubly, since it causes me to
be misunderstood. [...]But what Mortification if someone stood beside me and heard a flute from afar and I
heard nothing; or someone heard a Shepherd Singing, and I heard nothing. Such Happenings brought me
close to Despair; I was not far from ending my own life—only Art, only art held me back. Ah, it seemed
impossible to me that I should leave the world before I had produced all that I felt I might, and so I spared
this wretched life..." Translation reprinted in (Weiss and Taruskin 1984).
 149

In the 19th century, the hero trope was commonly rooted in a militaristic symbolic

framework. For example, Richard Wagner described Beethoven's Eroica as an emulation

of Napoleon (Burnham 1995). Popular virtuosi were frequently found to resemble the

military icon's face and figure, including violinist Alexandre Boucher, who did actually

bear some resemblance (Kawabata 2004), and the pianist Franz Liszt, for whom this

claim was more of a stretch (Gooley 2000). That today we are unable to recognize any

physical resemblance between Liszt and Napoleon, and would find such a claim

preposterous, only serves to demonstrate the power and historicity of culture structures. It

was also in the decades following the French Revolution that the "warhorse" metaphor

emerged in musical culture. This term continues to be used, especially in the context of

competitions, to describe large-scale, highly virtuosic compositions that place particular

interpretive and technical demands on performer. Gooley (2004; 2000) argues that this

term has actually drifted to the musical work from its original source, the performer,

whose dramatic and virtuosic performance evoked battle imagery quite independently of

the content of the musical text performed.

The "warhorse" metaphor, however, is an unusual relic. Military references and

representations have otherwise faded from the world of classical music. But the hero

remains a powerful trope, because it has been taken up through other symbolic

frameworks, such as sports (see chapter 3). We are hardly lacking for contemporary

artist-heroes. Two famous images will suffice for examples. First, there is Van Cliburn

being given hero's welcome of a ticker tape parade down 5th Avenue in New York City

on his return from the 1958 Tchaikovsky competition. The second is the political
 150

dissident Mstislav Rostropovich playing Bach Suites all night at the fall of the Berlin wall

by a breach between the concrete blocks.

The intellectual

In contrast to the fire-breather's cavalier attitude toward musical material, the

intellectual's approach is one of reverence: "the text is the only guide to what the music

should be" (Sennett 1977:198). The intellectual lives by the mantra of "letting the music

speak for itself. To impose one's personality, or take liberties with the markings, is seen

as hubris. A near fanatical obsession with faithfulness to the score drives the intellectual

to control every interpretive decision. Nothing is left to chance or whim because it would

compromise the integrity of the compositional structure. Every aspect of performance

must be deliberate, conscious, and painstakingly researched; problems are to be solved by

studying the score, an approach facetiously referred to as "consulting the oracle"

(Taruskin 1995:55). The aim of this performer is for music to be a transcendent

experience. Ideally, the performer reveals the truths contained in the score, thereby

transporting the attentive listener. While the more convincing of this type are hailed as

brilliant minds, the less successful are accused of alienating the audience with their dry,

emotionless performances.

A paragon of the objectivist approach to music that usually characterizes historical

performance (see Taruskin 1995), this type of performer has been the cult figure of the

20th century. The most famous examples are pianists: Glenn Gould, Alfred Brendel, and

Maurizio Pollini. As Schonberg (1987[1963]) describes, the intellectual advocates a

thoroughly modern style that is "objective, literal, severe, impersonal, dedicated to an

 151

accurate blueprint of the architecture of the music. Color, charm and emotion mean less

than a stringent exposition of the form and relationships of a piece. The modern style

takes Stravinsky's injunction to heart: don't interpret me, just play the notes as I have

written them" (p. 482). Although anything that smacks of entertainment is banished from

concerts, audiences flock to these solemn occasions, listening "as though attending a holy

rite" (Schonberg 1987[1963]: 483).

These four scripts should be understood as generalized tropes that can be creatively

engaged, not cookie cutters that straightjacket or pigeonhole the performer. Each

musician must individualize the script according to their skills and the available

expressive equipment. Those who do not sufficiently adapt the role, or who emulate too

closely a particular successful incarnation, are in danger of compromising their claim to

authenticity. Imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery, but when it comes to

icons of performing genius, the imitation can only go so far:

"There are a lot of people I know who formulate their repertoire around an
icon, like Horowitz, or Cliburn, for example. A lot of people are so
influenced by Horowitz, they want to do everything he did. I always think
that's a little strange, personally." (Interview with competitor 2) 9

"You don't want to give a carbon copy of Horowitz's Appassionata when

you're playing in a competition. People know that Horowitz played like
that. We don't need another one. We need a person who's found their own
voice, who's found a way to approach this music in a new way that
nobody has ever done before." (Interview with competitor 11)

9
As explained in the introductory chapter, I will adopt the bureaucratic practice of using numbers to protect
the anonymity of the competitors I interviewed.
 152

Neither should these genius scripts be taken as a set of mutually-exclusive

categories into which individual musicians must be definitively categorized. There is no

pre-determined number of scripts a given performer can take on; different tropes can be

engaged in different contexts, or in different phases of the performer's career. Indeed, all

of the performers discussed as archetypal examples engaged most if not all of these four

tropes during their lives; perhaps this is why they remain such prominent figures in music

history. In the context of a competition, it is not necessarily to the performer's advantage

to engage a single genius trope for the duration of the event. Even if they are entirely

convincing with a particular script, they run the risk of being branded as one-

dimensional.

To engage all of the tropes is an incredible accomplishment, however, because

some scripts are more amenable to transition than others. The fire-breathing virtuoso and

the conquering hero, for example, are extremely compatible tropes with overlapping

meanings. Virtuosity gives the fire-breather the power to dominate or "mesmerize" the

listener (DeNora 2006), while the hero's habit of breaking social convention can bring

the performer's morality into question. Goethe suggested a strong connection between the

two when he remarked that both Paganini and Napoleon shared a "demonic" quality that

set them apart from other men:

The demonic is that which cannot be explained in a cerebral and a rational

manner. It is not peculiar to my nature but I am subject to its spell.
Napoleon possessed the quality to the highest degree. Amongst artists one
encounters it more often with musicians than with painters. Paganini is
imbued with it to a remarkable degree and it is through this that he
produces such a great effect.10

Quoted in de Courcy, Paganini: The Genoese, I, 361-2.

Other scripts, however, are much more restrictive. The child prodigy is a totalizing trope

with a built-in expiration date that, once passed, leaves the performer little choice but to

cultivate a new impression from scratch.

The flexibility of the script is not the only factor affecting the transition between

tropes; the audience must also be inclined to accept the change. If the performer was

especially effective in portraying a particular script, she risks being "type-cast" by the

public. To convince the public to see her in a new light, she must foster a new impression

by cultivating the means of symbolic production at hand. It is this expressive equipment

to which I will now turn.

HOW TO DO THINGS WITH MUSIC

In social performance theory, the means of symbolic production include the

material things required to make vivid symbolic projections. Goffman referred to this as

"standardized expressive equipment" in role performance. For example, a stethoscope

and a white coat are props that help an individual produce a convincing performance of

medical expertise. In the case of competitors in music competitions, the means of

symbolic production generally fall into two categories: musical and visual.

The musical means of symbolic production

Unlike a singer whose instrument is her own body, the instrumental musician

relies on technology (the musical instrument) to produce her "voice". For pianists, this

dependence translates into an occupational hazard. Since travelling with a piano is a

logistical nightmare, they have no choice but to adapt to whatever instrument is on stage
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and make the most of it. In competitions, the organization running the event is

responsible for providing and maintaining the instrument to be used in competition. This

arrangement places competitors somewhat at the mercy of the competition's resources,

but it has the advantage of leveling the playing field. Recently, it has become common

for larger, more prestigious competitions to provide a choice of pianos from different

manufacturers (e.g., Hamburg and New York Steinways, Yamaha, Bosendorfer etc.)

When this is the case, the process of selection is treated with utmost seriousness. Each

competitor is allotted a short amount of time to try every instrument in the venue where

the competition is held. A competition official monitors the time with a stopwatch and

records each competitor's selection. The practice of providing competitors with a choice

of instrument has addressed the criticism that competitions might inadvertently

disadvantage candidates from abroad who are unaccustomed to the kind of piano

commonly used in the competition's home region. But it does little to alleviate the

pianists' occupational hazard. Twenty minutes is hardly enough time to gain familiarity

with an instrument. The pianist will not know until well into the performance what the

piano can do, and in the hours leading up to that moment of truth, the performer can only

wonder if they made the right choice.

String players, on the other hand, have the luxury of bringing their own

instruments to competitions since they are relatively portable. But this is not necessarily

to their benefit, because not all string instruments are created equal. Competitors realize

they put themselves at a serious competitive disadvantage if they play on an instrument of

inferior quality. For this reason, many borrow better instruments from teachers or violin

shops. In the interest of fairness, some competitions have begun to take into consideration
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that not every competitor will be playing on a Stradavarius and that ignoring this

disparity would introduce a bias against competitors from countries where economic or

political conditions have made decent instruments hard to come by. The Rostropovich

International Cello Competition, for example, has implemented an "instrument

inspection" at the beginning of each cycle. Upon arrival, every competitor's instrument is

inspected by the competition's luthier, much like the medical examination that precedes

participation in the Olympics. The luthier's assessment is recorded in a journal which is

copied and distributed to the rest of the jury for consultation in deliberations. The

Rostropovich Competition even goes a step further in addressing this disparity by

selecting a competitor to receive the use of a high quality instrument for up to three

years.11

But when it comes to performing in competitions, the symbolic equipment that is

given the most thought is the choice of repertoire. First and foremost, competitors must

demonstrate skill in the interpretation and communication of musical meaning. It is for

this reason that competitors take so much care in selecting musical texts. A skilled

performance of a musical work requires technical proficiency, a clear conception of the

meanings contained in the score, a sensibility for the style, and an ability to adjust to the

musical environment in which it will be performed. If any of these is found lacking, the

performance is likely to fail. When selecting what to play in a competition, the performer

also has to take into account a host of other factors: what repertoire has been overplayed,

what is currently "in their fingers" at performance level, what can be resurrected quickly,

what best features their technical and musical strengths, and what will show greatest

11
The cello awarded in the 2005 competition was by Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume, dated 1852, on loan from
the Le Fonds Instrumental Francais.
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range of their abilities. And when weighing up these factors, they must bear in mind that

they are not just playing for an "ordinary" audience of "real people" as competitors call

them, but for a jury whose level of technical expertise is presumably high. I say

"presumably" not out of spite, but because jury members do not always play the

instrument they judge. Those who do are not necessarily more sympathetic with the

competitor's plight for having "been there"; an intimate knowledge of the repertoire and

instrumental technique can make a juror even more sensitive to the constructedness of

fostered impressions.

Performers often select certain repertoire to cue the judges who they believe will

evaluate them through typification or comparison. To engage a performer trope

effectively, the musical texts performed must support the desired image, supplying the

performer the appropriate meanings with which to fuse. This is why repertoire choice is

so important. For example, a pianist wanting to come across as a fiery virtuoso will do

better to program repertoire that is full of dramatic contrasts and that showcase visibly

impressive acrobatics. Often this is not the most profound music, but it is effective. As

the competitors describe:

"There are some pieces that are just good for competition. Like, for
example, the second Kabalevsky cello concerto. It's a really stupid piece.
But a lot of cellists have figured out that it's excellent for competitions,
because it starts out with all these pizzicatos, and it's really intense. Then
there's all this fast stuff. It's like, "Rrrrr, fast! Rrrrr, fast!" And everyone's
like "oh, wow!" because they haven't heard it before. They're like, "Oh!
They're playing this interesting piece, and it's so impressive!" (Interview
with competitor 10)

"That's why so many pianists play Islamey, which is the biggest piece of
garbage in the world. But everybody puts it in their first round because it's
the hardest thing ever written. It's just a piece of trash, but it's really
impressive. And if somebody can hit the notes in that piece, wow. There
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are some pieces which are known to pianists that if you play them
perfectly, it's an automatic ticket into the next round. If you miss a note,
it's an automatic ticket out of the first round. That would be like the
Brahms Paganini Variations. It's one of the hardest solo pieces,
technically, out there. If you can play it perfectly, you pretty much
guarantee you'll get into the next round." (Interview with competitor 2)

When a musician wants to register as a "cerebral" or intellectual performer, on the

other hand, the program will contain quite a different assortment of music. Flashy or

entertaining repertoire is shunned. Instead, the performer might organize a concert

according to a concept, feature works by 20th century avant-garde composers like

Schoenberg or Boulez, or take the risk of performing a single work that is as demanding

of the audience's attention as it is of the performer's interpretive imagination (e.g., J.S.

Bach's Goldberg Variations, Beethoven's Diabelli Variations).

But to describe repertoire choice purely in these terms exaggerates the strategic

aspect, and reduces the complexity of meaning involved in deciding what to play in

competition. Programming involves not just the selection of musical texts, but also their

arrangement into a meaningful sequence. One respondent described the program of a first

round recital:

"I programmed those three pieces because they were related. They were
all in the grand Romantic spirit, but also, the first piece ends on a G. And
the second piece begins on a G. The second piece ends on a B-flat major
chord. And the third piece begins enharmonically on the same thing. In the
history of performance, Rachmaninoff produced this generation of pianists
that would modulate between pieces. They'd end a piece, and they'd
probably bow, and then they'd start in the key that they'd finished and
work their way to the key of the next piece, and then they'd start the next
piece. So there's some kind of precedent for having that sort of harmonic
link between the pieces. And probably nobody was listening for that or
noticed it. But I noticed it and I enjoyed it." (Interview with competitor 7)
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This excerpt demonstrates how programming holds multiple layers of meaning. On the

surface, the program the competitor was describing was quite conventional. It brought

together three works from the golden era of the solo piano literature. Because pieces in

the "grand Romantic spirit" provide a mixture of poignant and virtuosic writing, they are

ideal (and popular) choices for a competition environment. But the program also held

together on a deeper level. The succession of pieces was determined by a musical logic,

specifically, the beginning and ending tonality of each work. While admitting this was

probably imperceptible to most audience members, the performer felt it added another

dimension to the program. It was also personally meaningful because it aligned him with

a particular historical tradition, and performance icon, he admired.

Even more revealing than the performer's choice of repertoire, however, is how it

is performed. The performer's character is most exposed in the interpretation of musical

texts. Due to the inherent ambiguities of notation, musical scores are not a series of

instructions that can be followed to the letter. Although Adorno used the misleading term

"re-production" for musical performance, even he recognized that the musical text is

"merely a coded script which does not guarantee unequivocal meaning"(Adorno 2002:

412). Performing music is inherently and necessarily an interpretive act. It requires the

ability to grasp patterns of musical signifiers in an abstract manner and realize them in a

contingent performance situation. This is not simply a matter of refining motor skills and

performing stereotyped actions. As musicologist Nicholas Cook (1990) explains, what

distinguishes the accomplished musician from the novice instrumentalist is the

coordination of motor sequences with the analytic capacity to interpret musical texts.

Indeed, an appreciation for the fundamental connection between the two is the basis of a
musical training. For musicians, the technical aspects of musical performance are never

simply practical solutions to navigating an instrument. They are the means through which

musicians embody an interpretation of musical structure: "To adopt a fingering is to take

up an interpretative stance in relation to the music in question"(Cook 1990: 81). This

principle applies equally to every technical decision, from bowings and articulation, to

tempi and phrasing.

Because each piece requires countless decisions of this kind, the presentation of a

musical text is at the same time a revelation of the self:

"The sound you create should be transferred from inside of you. It should
be your voice that is transferred to music. And if it's so, it's kind of
personal, and that's really good. That might be really unique, which is the
most important thing. The sound you produce should be, you know, your
own voice." (Interview with competitor 4)

This is true even of string quartets and chamber ensembles who present a

collective identity in musical performance:

"A group needs to have a unified sense of self as an ensemble when going
into a competition environment. That's harder than going in as a soloist.
That's also why most groups don't sound good the first year. They haven't
figured out yet who they are, what they sound like, and what they believe
in. That's important to take into any performance situation, but
particularly a competition where they're judging you and they want to
know who you are. If it's unclear, then they probably won't want to hear
more of you." (Interview with competitor 12)

Sometimes the musical text provides opportunities to reveal aspects of the self

that are suppressed in other social situations:

"Rachmaninoff is just...everything is just raw. [laughs] His music is

something I strive to be but can't in a normal situation. I cannot just let my
insides flow out like that. I tend to be on the reserved side; I try to be
polite and nice. But his music is everything but that. So I think it brings
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out the side of me that I wish to be, and that I am allowed to be in a

performance situation." (Interview with competitor 6)

The investment of self in musical performance, however, means that the elimination from

a competition is inevitably experienced as a personal rejection;

"I feel like I show my personality and who I am when I play. It's very
much me, it's very honest. So if they don't like it, to me that means they
don't like me. So I take that very personally." (Interview with competitor
9)

"[After being eliminated] I was really depressed for about a week and a
half. And I didn't play the violin for a while. These things are so
depressing if you don't do well. Everybody takes them differently. I think
people get depressed, especially really intense people. How could you not?
You take it as a self-worth issue."

The visual means of symbolic production

In earlier years, many competitions used a curtain to obstruct the jury's view of

the candidates and identified competitors with numbers, as is the current practice in

orchestral auditions (Alink 1990). Today, music competitions are never blind. Even the

pre-selectians, which used to be conducted through submitted audio recordings, are now

commonly videotaped. It is therefore not just the aural aspect of musical performance that

is put to the test in music competitions; the visual element, and all of its complexity,

comes into play as well. Leppert (1993) has correctly argued that the visual element in art

music - the "sight of sound" - is usually overlooked in music scholarship:

Music, despite its phenomenological sonoric ethereality, is an embodied

practice, like dance and theatre. That its visual-performative aspect is no
less central to its meanings than are the visual components of these other
performing arts is obvious in musical theatre—opera, masque and so forth
(though this linkage is little discussed in musicological literature)—but the
 connection between sight and sound in other sorts of art music remains
untheorized. (p.xxi)

Leppert makes this connection in his research by analyzing the representation of music-

making in visual art. In the following section, I will attempt to make the connection by

analyzing the meanings displayed visually by musicians in the competition context.

Although Leppert is right to point an accusatory finger at musicologists, they are

not the only ones guilty of overlooking the visual means of symbolic production.

Classical musicians are just as notorious for downplaying this aspect of performance.

True inheritors of 19th-century Romantic aesthetics, performers aim to be

"simultaneously transparent to the work and vividly present to the audience" (Hunter

2005:362), but the vividness is to be achieved through the creativity of interpretive

nuance, not the theatrics of visual display. When asked about the visual aspect of

presentation in competition, many respondents initially thought I was asking about

concert dress, which they clearly considered a frivolous matter:

"I don't think about it too much. I've always had the impression that girls
had to think about it more because they have more choice as far what they
can wear. I mean, guys just wear suits and tuxedos. Some of them wear
strange things. There's a French pianist who always wears red socks or
something with his black tuxedo. I'm personally not interested in making
those kinds of statements. I just try to do whatever's traditional...nothing
to distract from the music." (Interview with competitor 7)

"Such a huge deal is made about [competitors'] gowns in the newspaper:

who's wearing what, how much it's worth, and blah blah blah. I have to
say I'm not very into it, compared to some people. It's important to look
good, but you don't have to go obsess about it. You should have a gown
that fits you, that flatters your figure. I had a gown like that. I wore it for
three years for every single important concert until somebody told me that
I was wearing the same gown in every photo. I thought if some random
person noticed this, maybe I should get another one. So I got a purple
gown and wore that for a long time." (Interview with competitor 3)
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"The judges are not looking for some kind of circus type to perform or to
make people laugh. They want to find somebody who's sending a message
which is impossible to deny. But the question is: how do you send the
message? Through throwing your hands around, fancy dresses, or a
haircut, and making this your most important thing? Because the judges of
good competitions are world-class musicians and professionals, I think it's
really difficult to convince them with superficial effects like dresses or
smiling all the time. You can do it, but it's dangerous. Because they are
serious musicians themselves, and they're looking for natural music,
mostly." (Interview with competitor 4)

Through comments such as these, where the visual is trivialized and gimmicks are

condemned, competitors are trying to show that they are serious musicians whose highest

priority is the "music itself - what Green (1997) calls the "inherent" meanings of the

score, and what I have called the musical system of collective representations. But even

the staunch purist will begrudgingly concede that the audience relies to some extent on

gestures and facial expressions to interpret musical meaning, whether or not they should.

Studies in the psychology of music suggest that this is in fact the case, and that

performers neglect the visual dimension at their peril. For example, Williamon (1999)

demonstrated through a controlled experiment that an audience will score the identical

solo cello performance lower when a music stand partially obstructs the view of the

performer. Neither is the jury's evaluation immune from the influence of the visual. Da

Costa Coimbra and Davidson (2001) found that physical appearance figured as strongly

as musical expression in the assessment of college-level vocal recitals. Jurors made

judgments about the performer's personality and sense of self based on the non-verbal

information displayed through "stage presence" - her manner of walking on stage and
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bowing, her body's demeanor in the physical labor of producing sound, her style of dress,

and her facial expressions.

Some would interject at this point to argue that the visual dimension is more

important for singers than for instrumentalists, and that the jurors of vocal performance

are perfectly justified in examining the body of the singer because that is the instrument.

Others, like Green (1997), would point to the cultural expectation for singers to have

visual appeal. I have found, however, that the visual element is just as important in

instrumental performance. Instrumentalists themselves read a great deal from the non-

verbal communication of the performer, and use this information to anticipate the quality

of performance before a note is even sounded:

"A juror once told me that he could often tell who would make it to the
next round and how people were going to play just by the way they
walked onstage and bowed. Yeah, just by the confidence that was
displayed. I don't disagree, actually. A lot of times you see somebody
come onstage and you just know it's going to be good. [Laughs] And
sometimes you see somebody come on and bow and you just know it's
going to be terrible. [Laughs] And then there are those times when
somebody is completely unpredictable, when their playing blows you
away and you never thought it would." (Interview with competitor 2)

This remark suggests that even though occasions for classical music performance are

highly ritualized (Small 1998), the manner in which prescribed actions are performed can

communicate a great deal about the performer. But this communication is not just

directed towards others. The meanings displayed through stage presence are performed as

much for the self as they are for the audience:

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"If the competition is in a small room with just the jury present, I wouldn't
bow. But I would walk out as if I were on stage, like I was about to bow.
Because it helps me too. All of that helps me feel, like, okay - this is "go"
time! This is not casual. This is for real. And I feel like anything I can do
to make the judges feel confident in my playing is only going to help me. I
just want to do whatever I can from the beginning to put them at ease so
that they sit back and be, like "Oh, this is going to be good!" Because
then, before I even start, it gives me a little bit of an edge. They're not
waiting for me to screw up because they don't think I'm going to."
(Interview with competitor 10)

Concert traditions are among the first lessons of a musician's training, which

typically occur in early childhood for pianists and string players. After learning the

format of the ritual (e.g., entering and exiting the stage, how to acknowledge applause,

etc.), the developing musician gradually personalizes these stereotyped actions by

incorporating the advice of teachers and by imitating admired performers. For example:

"My very first teacher gave me certain pointers that I still keep to this day.
Like for example, when I'm walking out on stage, I don't run to the piano
as if it were a security blanket. I shouldn't feel vulnerable just walking.
Also, I always smile when I bow. Even if I have a bad performance, I
make sure that I smile to the audience to acknowledge them, as if saying
"thank you very much for listening." It's not supposed to be the smile of
"I performed really well; hence I'm going to smile now." It should be as
though it doesn't matter if it was a bad performance. There are people who
frown after a bad performance, and it puts the audience in a solemn mood
too." (Interview with competitor 6)

By the time they reach the stage of international competitions, these mannerisms have

become almost second nature, which explains in part why competitors invariably insist

that a performer's stage presence should be "natural".

But as one respondent perceptively remarked: "You have to be natural, but it's not

easy to be just natural, right? You have to become natural, through the experience of
 165

hundreds of concerts and competitions" (Interview with competitor 4). In other words,

"being natural" is not a default, but an achievement; it is an ongoing, reflexive process.

Performers can hardly be blamed, however, for marshalling out a discourse of naturalism

because it is essential both to their claim to authenticity and their aspiration for

performance genius. These are again an inheritance of Romantic aesthetics. The notion

that the performer should be able to grasp music's expressive content instinctually, or by

"sudden inspiration", became common in 19 -century treatises on music (Hunter 2005).

We should hardly be surprised that contemporary musicians extend the ideal of

spontaneity and instinctive sympathy to other aspects of performance. For example, one

respondent expressed clear reservations regarding the attempt to attach particular

meanings to various gestures, as though stage presence were a form of picture acting:

"Some people, who have too much time on their hands, analyze what kind
of signals you're giving to the audience. Like if you bow away from the
piano, you're being a little more self-centered. Whereas if you bow with
your hand on the piano, you're acknowledging the fact that it's not just
about you, but the piano is also part of the picture. Then there are the
signals you give when you're actually playing the piano. It got a little too
technical, so I don't even remember - 1 can't really care too much about it.
But I heard that when you're playing and looking up and to the right,
you're paying attention to the musical things you want to come out of your
performance. While if you look up and to the left, you're listening more to
your sound and making sure that your technique is right. Something of
that sort, I can't remember. I wasn't sure I bought into it, but it's
interesting." (Interview with competitor 6)

This respondent articulated a typical resistance to a "stage presence by numbers"

approach on the grounds that it was mechanical and calculated. The onus is on the

performer to do more than manipulate the audience by pointing to certain meanings; they

must embody them with sincerity.

 166

But the performer need not worry quite so much about becoming too calculating,

because a great deal of visual symbolic production is beyond their control. As Goffman

(1959) established, the presentation of self involves expressions both intentionally

"given" and unconsciously "given off', and the audience typically relies on the latter to

gauge the reliability of the former. Along with dress, facial expressions and other

manipulable devices of stage presence, the performer's body is itself a text that is read by

the audience. The expressions given off through physical and social characteristics can

either reinforce or compromise the image conveyed by the performer. For each of the

genius tropes discussed above, there is a cultural expectation of how the performer should

look. And although they are never set in stone, certain visual signifiers help the performer

"look the part" of a given trope.

For the prodigy, the critical sign of credibility is a small body. As one respondent

recalled:

"I started playing the cello when I was three, and I did some smaller
competitions in my town. I think it was good for me in some ways. It
made me more confident because I would win them. And I think I won
them because I was.. .little, basically. I was sort of like a freak show,
because I was just so small!" (Interview with competitor 10)

The delicacy of the female prodigy's body is often further emphasized with a carefully

manicured appearance. This produces a doll-like effect which we can see in Sand's

(2000) description of thefirsttime she saw violinist Sarah Chang, then six years old, at a

master-class with Dorothy Delay at Juilliard:

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"Sarah was wearing a white party dress, white stockings, and white patent
shoes, and had her hair tied back with a pink satin bow. She was tiny and
totally charming." (p. 161)

The smallness of male prodigy's body, on the other hand, merely emphasizes the tender

age of the performer, making their effortless execution of demanding repertoire all the

more astonishing (or disconcerting). For example, one respondent marveled at a prodigy

brought to their attention by their teacher:

"I saw a YouTube video of this kid - he was eight years old, and he
played like he was thirty-five! His feet were still dangling from the chair,
and he was playing this Liszt piece with such facility and artistry. It was
right after my lesson. And I was thinking - why am I watching this? I want
to quit. Because if there are eight year olds out there who can play like
this, and I'm struggling to get my lesson repertoire ready in time, I mean,
why am I doing this?" (Interview with competitor 11)

Sometimes the cultural expectations for the prodigy trope are so strong that they are

forced on performers against their will. For example, violinist Joshua Bell complained

that the press kept printing articles claiming that he was fourteen even after his eighteenth

birthday (Sand 2000:157). But no matter how much the public wants a young prodigy,

this sort of fiction can only be sustained as long as the performer's physical appearance

supports it.

For the fire-breathing virtuoso and the conquering hero, the performer's physical

characteristics serve merely to underscore the body language that displays the defining

meanings of each trope. For this, the performer is almost entirely dependent on the

properties of the musical instrument to provide the opportunity structure for meaningful

visual display. Historically, the piano and the violin have held the greatest symbolic
potential. In the 19 century, the piano served as a perfect metaphor and vehicle for

bourgeois subjectivity because it was "a self-sufficient, all-conquering machine" that

could replace an entire orchestra; "on no other instrument except the organ (where issues

of portability and repertoire limited the possibilities) could one person impose his or her

will more completely on the music" (Winter 2004:17). As discussed earlier, DeNora

(2006) has argued that Beethoven subverted aristocratic values and provided an object

lesson in heroic agency by demanding a more visceral and aggressive approach to the

keyboard in his piano repertoire. Liszt continued this legacy by taking violent

performance choreography to a whole new level: "By amplifying vertical gestures into

the keys, introducing stormy embellishments, and mimicking the musical drama with

facial expressions and physical movements, he made virtuosity an agonistic spectacle of

domination and triumph that invited listeners to imagine the performance as a battle, the

virtuoso as a valiant warrior" (Gooley 2000:62).12 For the violin, it was the ballet of the

bow arm that evoked power, military heroism, and masculinity for 19 century audiences

consumed with the cult of Napoleon. The new "Cramer" bow design, which was

straighter, longer, and sharper-tipped than the previous model, was easily transformed in

the popular imagination into a rapier or sword wielded by the violinist like a general

commanding his troops (Kawabata 2004).

Contemporary audiences might draw on different symbolic systems than their

19th-century counterparts, but the significance of the musician's performing body has

12
Beethoven has a well-deserved reputation for being the "keyboard strangler" whose ferocious pounding
of the keyboard invariably damaged the delicate wood-framed instruments of his day. It is less well-known
that Liszt was just as notorious a "string-breaker" and "keyboard-shatterer". When he performed in public
concerts, Liszt kept two pianos on stage because one instrument was unlikely to make it through the entire
performance. For contemporary accounts of Liszt's creative acts of destruction, see Gooley (2000).
 169

hardly diminished. Other instruments, such as the bassoon, the tuba, or the triangle, might

be as difficult to master as the violin or the piano. But because they have a limited

possibility of gestural display, or have associations with symbolic codes that are at odds

with the virtuoso image, they compromise performer's claims to this trope. The organ is

an interesting case in point because it was once a great virtuoso instrument. Today,

however, the organist has a great deal more difficulty engaging the fire-breather trope.

This is in part because of the organ's association with the church, the demonic's semiotic

opposite. But it is also because the placement of the organ console usually hides the

performer from the audience's view. The instrument with the least chance of engaging

the virtuoso trope, however, is the kazoo. Indeed, the ridiculousness of this scenario has

been realized by Peter Schickele under his satirical compositional persona, P.D.Q. Bach.

But the instrument is not the performer's only resource for producing spectacle.

Dress can also provide potent signifiers for the fire-breather trope. Contrary to

conventional wisdom, flamboyant wardrobe has not become the exclusive reserve of

popular entertainers like Elton John or Liberace. One respondent described a veteran of

piano competitions who was not afraid to exploit playfully this aspect of his appearance:

"Alexander is an amazing pianist who likes to dress up for an audience.

He never wears all black [which is traditional concert attire]. He prefers to
wear a yellow suit with an orange tie. There's a popular story about when
he competed in a Liszt Totentanz competition while in music school: He
enters the stage wearing all black, which the audience finds very strange
because that's way too conservative for him. Everybody is whispering
"What? Huh?" until we all realized he was wearing a black cape. The
Totentanz, you know, is a piece inspired by the devil. So right before he
starts, he whips off the cape, and throws it on the ground - to reveal that
he's wearing all red! This is a huge gimmick that completely disgusts

13
To protect his identity, the pianist's name has been changed.
 170

some people. Others who know him a little better think it's charming. But
there's one thing that's for sure about Alexander, which is that the visual,
his character, his poise, and his personality completely affect the way that
audiences perceive him. [...] Alexander without his visual is kind of hard
to imagine. He's the ultimate performer with his wardrobe and his
gimmicks and everything. You can't just stick him on a cassette tape and
say "this is Alexander" because that's not really who he is." (Interview
with competitor 2)

While few competitors take the visual element as far (or as literally) as "Alexander", this

story deserves some consideration because he achieved an impressive congruence of

meanings in various elements of performance. First, there is the obvious symbolic

connection between the musical text and concert dress: the (Slavic) performer wore a

Dracula costume to play a piece about the dance of death. On a more abstract level,

however, "Alexander" was conveying the fire-breather image, and in this endeavor, he

could not have devised a more fitting tribute for the archetypal virtuoso who composed

that musical text. Instead of a cape, Liszt would throw his gloves and his handkerchief in

front of the piano as he entered. This sort of gesture, as well as Liszt's distinctive use of

his body while playing the piano, polarized the audience just as effectively. And just as

this respondent insisted that "Alexander" cannot be captured by an audio cassette,

Schumann wrote of Liszt that he had to be seen as well as heard "for if Liszt played

behind the screen, a great deal of poetry would be lost".14

The intellectual trope might not require the same sort of theatrics as the fire-

breather, but the visual is just as emphasized, ironically, because it is so stubbornly

neglected and conscientiously denied. For this trope, typical signs of credibility include a

slightly unkempt or bookish appearance, or, even better, eccentric habits. For example,

Quoted in (Gooley 2004) (p. 11, n8)

 171

Glenn Gould's off-stage eccentricities contributed a great deal to his legendary status. A

recluse who would sleep through the day, Gould refused to shake anyone's hand for fear

of contamination, and would continue to wrap himself up in a beret, ear muffs, a scarf,

overcoat, and leather gloves throughout the summer months. But eccentricities are hardly

confined to off-stage behavior; the intellectual can also display an expressive body

language at the instrument no less theatrical than the fire-breather. Gould, for example,

would sway, hum audibly, and beat time with his free hand while playing. These

mannerisms can come across just as dramatically (or affected) as those of the virtuoso.

As one respondent complained:

"The greatest is when pianists vibrate. That crosses the line. It annoys the
heck out of me. You can't vibrate on a piano! And they say "Can't you
hear it?" No! You can do it on a clavichord, because the hammer
mechanism actually touches the string. But on a piano, it's more like an
idea to help you envision or hear the phrase." (Interview with competitor
11)

Some intellectuals, however, eschew exaggerated body language, keeping a still body at

the instrument and using an economy of motion to produce sound. This sort of highly-

controlled physical presentation is often described as an abstention from the visual

element of performance. But it is more accurately understood as a tremendously

expressive signifier of the modern, severe, puritan style this performer wishes to

represent. The fact that so many are "blind" to the signification of the intellectual's visual

performance does indicate its absence. Rather, it serves to demonstrate how automatically

its meaning is grasped.

 172

Gender and musical genius

The discourse surrounding classical music is centered on the ideal of autonomous

musical meaning, which should render the social characteristics of the performer

irrelevant. But the effects of gender and race cannot be avoided, especially in live

performances where the audience can gaze on the body of the performer. As Green

(1997) has argued, the gender of the musical performer is not merely an extra-musical

association; it enters into the interpretation of musical meaning, becoming intrinsic to the

listening experience. Male and female musicians have a different relationship to their

audience because the bodily display involved in the performance of music is enmeshed in

gender ideologies.

In Green's view, the acceptance of women in public musical roles has depended

in large part on whether musical performance has symbolically resonated or challenged

institutionalized gender roles. Although the degree of gender exclusion varies according

to a host of factors including the type of instrument, the performance context, and the

style of music performed, some general patterns can be identified across genres and

historical periods. The female singer, for example, has been the most socially acceptable

because she generally affirms patriarchal definitions of femininity as "susceptible,

natural, desirable and dangerous" (p. 54); because she makes music with her own voice,

she remains "subjected to the vicissitudes of the body" (p. 86). The female

instrumentalist, on the other hand, is disruptive of femininity. Her competence with

musical technology offers instead "a femininity which controls, a femininity which

alienates itself in an object and impinges on the world" (p. 54). The male instrumentalist,

in contrast, enjoys the privilege of being "metaphorically transparent" to the audience

because the qualities of instrumental performance affirm his masculinity (p. 54). His

gender only provokes comment when he enters a performance context that is overly

feminized. As we have seen in the previous chapter, this is hardly a danger in

competitions, where the masculinized realms of sports and combat have become the

dominant symbolic frameworks.

Female competitors are well aware that their gender is not only "visible" to the

audience, but that their physical attractiveness factors into the listener's experience. As

one respondent explained:

"I think that appearance is so important. If people are tone deaf in the
audience, which is a lot of people, you have to make them want to look at
you for some other reason. So if you look bad, I mean, then you're just
done! [Laughs] Then no one wants to look at you! [In terms of
performance clothes] I try to find something that is fashionable, looks
good, makes me look good, makes my body type look good, but is not too
sexy. Because I don't like that either. A little bit is okay. [...] I was happy
though that a lot of the girls [in this competition] wore pants because I was
worried about the fact that I wasn't wearing a dress or a skirt." (Interview
with competitor 9)

This competitor's remarks also resonate with Green's argument that women can

compensate for the disruptive effect of performing instruments through a bodily display

that affirms femininity. Indeed, since the 19 century, successful female instrumentalists

have been described as beautiful women and fine players. Apparently, then, competitor 7

(quoted above) was right; the visual aspect of performance is more of an issue for

women. But this observation, while accurate, is also an over-simplification because it

overlooks the female musician's dilemma. In satisfying the cultural expectation of an

appropriately feminine appearance, the performer can draw more attention to her bodily

display, which often compromises her authority as a serious musician. Listeners tend to
doubt the ability and the commitment of the female performer who comes across as

investing too much effort in her appearance. Visual presentation is therefore a complex

calculation of risk involving many factors:

"I never know what to wear [in competitions]. Because I want to show
respect, and be formal. But sometimes you're playing the first round at ten
in the morning. You don't really want to wear just pants and a shirt, but
you don't want to wear your ball gown either, you know? Because it's ten
in the morning! And if there are two rounds on the same day, do you
change? Or do you wear the same thing? Because sometimes people say
that of course you change, because it's a different round, and it helps give
you a mental distinction between what had just happened and what is
going to happen next. But then you wonder if the jury is thinking
[grumbling] 'this is not a fashion show.'" (Interview with competitor 10)

Appearance is not the only aspect of performance in which a delicate balance of

femininity must be found. In terms of their playing, female musicians garner praise less

for being genderless at the instrument than for achieving a desirable combination of

masculinity and femininity. As one respondent described:

"Everyone has told me I play like a man. That I look feminine, that I look
lovely at the piano, and that I sound like a man. On my good days. On one
hand, I take it as a compliment. On the other hand, I say no! I sound like
me, not a man or a woman. But honestly, there is a degree of truth to that,
I'm sorry to say. There is a type of playing that's very nice and pretty and
emotional, but it's very powerless." (Interview with competitor 14)

This competitor's comments indicate that the gendering of musical performance runs

much deeper than physical appearance and bodily display. The influence of patriarchal

gender ideologies in this respect is almost as striking as the longevity of Romantic

legacies. In her discussion of Marie Pleyel's exceptional career in mid-19th century Paris,

Ellis (1997) shows how this pianist similarly elevated herself to the status of "honorary

man". Through her playing, Pleyel produced an image that "conformed] to the Romantic
 175

concept of genius as containing simultaneously the masculine and feminine elements of

control and passion" (p. 377). Critical response was so enthusiastic that reviewers "ran

out of superlatives" to describe her playing (p. 359). But if Madame PleyePs acclaim so

great that she was often favorably compared with Liszt, why has she not enjoyed the

same legendary status? No doubt the careful reader will have noticed (perhaps even

resentfully) that up to this point, all of the archetypal performers discussed have been

male. This raises an important question: is this an accident of history, or are images of

musical genius inherently masculinized?

For some time, feminist scholars have argued that traditional images of genius

ought to be rejected on the grounds that they are contaminated beyond repair, having

been used for too long to entrench and justify male domination (see Battersby 1989). In

terms of musical genius, some tropes have certainly been more culturally available to

women than others. Among the genius scripts discussed here, those described as

"passive" have been less problematically-engaged by women. Historical examples of

celebrated female prodigies are as abundant as contemporary ones (e.g., Nannerl Mozart,

Fanny Mendelssohn, Midori, Han-Na Chang). Female musicians have had also moderate

success in engaging the virtuoso trope.15 As Ellis (1997) has shown, 19th-century (male)

critics often enthusiastically praised the technical accomplishments of concertizing

female pianists. In their reviews, metaphors describing the female pianist as a prophetess

or priestess were hardly in short supply, suggesting that women were considered suitable

15
Indeed, the term virtuoso, used to describe female musicians of extraordinary talent, came into use as
early as the 16th century. Adding more evidence to Green's (1997) argument, the professional singers in the
concerto delta donne of Duke Alfonso II of Ferrara were among the first women to acquire this
designation. While the term virtuoso referred to extraordinary talent in composition and performance in
male musicians, its female counterpart, the virtuoso, refers only to performance. See (Harris 2007).
 176

vessels for musical truth. But such praise was directed mainly to the performance of a

(feminized) Classical repertoire which had acquired a canonical, but sub-professional

status.16 When women attempted to "translate the oracle of such Gods as Beethoven,

Mendelssohn, etc.," they were usually accused of putting on airs and ridiculed for
17

tackling repertoire beyond their comprehension.

Romantic aesthetics provide some cultural support for the female musician in the

role of vessel, but the same cannot be said for the role of creator. For this reason, women

have encountered much more difficulty engaging genius scripts that present her as a

powerful agent and possessor of will, a pattern most powerfully demonstrated in the

dismally low representation of women in composition. Green (1997) argues that

composition has been the most gender exclusive of musical roles because it emphasizes

the "cerebral" aspects of music: "once women begin to compose, it is hardly any longer

the body that features in the activity at all, for composition involves a metaphorical

display of the power of mind. This cerebral power conflicts with patriarchal constructions

of femininity to the extent that, when it is harnessed by women, it produces a threat to the

sexual order" (p. 88). The same can be said of the intellectual trope, which similarly

emphasizes the power of the mind in the interpretive creativity of the performer as well

Male pianists also specialised in Classical repertoire in the 19* century, but they too occupied a degraded
status. Ellis (1997) quotes an intriguing article from 1861 in which music critic Gustave Chouquet used the
intriguing term "fingerless virtuoso" to describe this kind of pianist, ranking him third in a four-tier
hierarchy of professional competence. (First in his estimation was the virtuoso who composes, followed by
the virtuoso who only performs others' compositions; the Classical pianist was superior only to the
accompanist, an entirely supportive role.) The image of the "fingerless" virtuoso is a striking contrast to
caricatures of Liszt with grotesquely elongated fingers, or Dantan's bust of Thalberg with octopus-like
hands that had sprouted extra fingers. This suggests to me that the pianist's "fingers" could function as a
symbol of virility and masculinity. See (Ellis 1997).

19 -century critic Stephen Heller quoted in Ellis (1997:371).

 177

as the objective approach in performing. A woman engaging this trope therefore risks

contradicting patriarchal notions of women as subjective, irrational, and emotional.

Nowhere are gender ideologies more apparent, however, than with the hero trope.

In the 19th century, the cultural resistance to the heroic female performer stemmed in part

from the gendering of certain musical instruments as female. A woman performing the

violin or the piano in a public setting risked evoking the taboo of homosexuality

(Kawabata 2004) or hermaphroditism (Ellis 1997), a danger that could only be attenuated

if she was seen to be imitating (though not embodying) a masculine display of strength,

power, and virility. But such meanings were best displayed through musical texts that

feature military and heroic topoi. And as we have seen, this repertoire was generally off

limits for women pianists on the grounds that it demanded a physicality that

compromised feminine decorum (2006; DeNora 2004), and was simply beyond their

comprehension.18 On the violin, a handful of Paganini's female contemporaries

performed the tremendously popular military concerti of the day, but only one earned

herself the title of "Joan of Arc" amongst the "Scipios, Alexanders, and Napoleons of the

violin".19 Otherwise, the sight of the female violinist was unsettling for 19th-century

audiences. In spite of their skill, they were described in reviews as ungratifying,

improper, and ill-suited to the instrument (Kawabata 2004).

If the female performer was seen in terms of conquest, it was in terms of her

sexual power. A woman could conquer her audience through coquetry, her musical

18
The boundary between gendered repertoires was not just informally produced and policed; it was also
institutionalized in music education. As Ellis (1997) describes, the Paris conservatoire selected quite
different works for the competitions that concluded each year of study.

Allgemeinen Wiener Musikzeitung (1843) quoted in Kawabata (2004: 100).

 178

performance becoming an "act of seduction" (Ellis 1997). Since the concept of coquetry

no longer holds much currency in post-feminist sexual relations, it is helpful to recall

Simmel's (1950) definition:

"The nature of feminine coquetry is to play up, alternately, allusive

promises and allusive withdrawals - to attract the male but always to stop
short of a decision, and to reject him but never to deprive him of all hope.
The coquettish woman enormously enhances her attractiveness if she
shows her consent as an almost immediate possibility but is ultimately not
serious about it." (p. 50).

In musical performance, the successful coquette was said to possess a masterful control

over emotion in herself and others. She could arouse feelings in the listener through the

sincere portrayal of emotion without giving into excessive sensibility, a quality that was

also attributed to the fire-breathing virtuoso: "his extraordinary powers give him the

appearance of spontaneous feeling and the ability to arouse momentary feeling in others"

(Sennett 1977:202) The less-convincing coquettes, however, were accused of

manipulating the audience, or being overly emotional. If the association with such

feminine traits were not enough to undermine her authority, the insinuation of

calculation, a cardinal sin in the era of Romantic aesthetics, was equally polluting. Again

there is a striking similarity to the virtuoso, whose authenticity was brought into question

through accusations of manipulation in the form of charlatanry. These parallels suggest

that in reference to female soloists, the hero and virtuoso tropes were elided, producing a

uniquely feminized image of the performer as seductress or siren.

AN UNFELICITOUS CONTEXT
 179

"Fused performances" (Alexander 2004) are those rare occasions when all the

elements of performance fall into alignment and meanings are conveyed as effortlessly as

they are interpreted. In musical performance, fusion requires two reciprocal processes: a

cultural extension of musical text and musician to the audience, and a psychological

identification of the audience with the performer onstage. As far as the performer is

concerned, the first part of the equation is their responsibility. To this end, performers

spend endless hours in rehearsal refining those elements of performance in their power.

Practicing, however, is merely improving the odds. While the means of symbolic

production can be organized in the privacy of the practice room, experimentation with the

mise-en-scene can only occur in front of an audience. Every performance occasion will

present its own set of contingencies. It is for this reason that competitors avoid

performing new repertoire in competition at all costs. This is not merely an issue of

accuracy. Fusing with a text involves an intense familiarity that can only be developed

over time:

"I think a piece can be played in perfect way once the piece becomes you,
yourself. But it takes time. I have to feel with a piece as though I
composed it myself, somehow. I just have to know it so well. Then I can
say my word in the competition with this piece. But if the piece is new,
every performance is a new experience, and different things happen in
different performances. Once you've been on the stage with this piece ten
times, there are certain things you already know, like your own concept of
this work and its place in the whole program." (Interview with competitor
4)

"One thing I would not play in competition is something that is not battle-
tested. That means it's been through its one or two bad performances.
Maybe it doesn't have a bad performance, [laughing] but you know what I
mean. It's been through those awkward moments. Any piece that is in that
category should not be played in competition. I mean, what's the point if
you want to play your best? That's why people recycle pieces over and
over again." (Interview with competitor 12)
 180

The challenge, however, is that even when "recycling" repertoire, the performer must

never give the impression of being overly-rehearsed. The performance should relate a

spontaneous quality:

"[For this upcoming competition] I'm going back to all the old pieces I've
played in the past. When you haven't played a piece for a while, you have
to go back and start from the beginning, learning all the notes to make sure
it's secure. But at the same time, you have to try to keep this freshness in
your mind about the piece. Because even though you've played it for so
long, it still needs to sound fresh. It can't sound like it's been practiced,
and that you've played it for so long. It needs to sound new and
invigorated." (Interview with competitor 11)

Over and above fusing with the text, the performer aims to establish a connection

with the audience. To this end, they develop a heightened sensitivity to audience

response. While the listener need not always be at the forefront of her mind, the

performer is constantly interpreting and reacting to the quality of the listener's attention

as she is playing:

"If you're playing something slow, or something soft and introverted, and
people start making noise, you think that they're not interested. So you do
something interesting to get their attention. Or maybe you play softer. But
if they're very quiet, and everything is quiet, then it's a wonderful feeling.
Somebody told me once that a standing ovation is not the greatest
compliment an audience can give. The greatest compliment is silence
while you're playing. Then they're really listening." (Interview with
competitor 7)

"When you're making a special moment, the audience responds and sends
their vibes back to you. When you feel that, you want to be more creative.
Because when you play a concert, you can either play note perfect or you
can take chances. You decide in a split second whether you can do well
enough without taking chances, or if you want to do something that is so
special that it would make a unique, unforgettable moment. It's the
difference between a good concert and a great performance. That happens
probably one in ten concerts. And it depends on the audience. If they don't
 181

respond, if they just sit there, even if they're quiet, you just don't get the
vibes and you just don't feel the atmosphere. There's no adrenaline going.
You can play a perfectly fine recital, but it won't be special." (Interview
with competitor 3)

While this respondent described the cultural extension to the audience in terms of

metaphysical "vibrations", another described a synchronization of bodily

processes:

"[Sometimes while you're playing] you sense that the audience is

breathing with you. You can feel that "ah." You can almost hear it
sometimes. [My quartet] just played this concert with this really friendly
audience, and at the end of this movement, there was this huge sigh from
the audience. We've experienced that before, but this was really unusual.
It was an audible sigh. And we were like, [gasp] "Okay! That's amazing!"
You can tell if people are really with you. You can feel it in the room."
(Interview with competitor 12)

These comments provide a striking illustration of what DeNora (2000) calls

musical entrainment, which refers to the process of regularizing or modifying the

body and its processes in relation to musical elements. In his mechanistic model

of ritual interaction, Collins (2004) argues that it is precisely this synchronization

that charges ritual participants with emotional energy.

The music competition presents an especially treacherous context for the

performer because it undermines fusion by altering the normal power dynamics of the

concert ritual. The jury, not the performer, has the power to define the situation. In

competitions that adopt the proceedings of auditions, the performer's loss of control over

the mise-en-scene is most extreme. Not only is a repertoire list imposed to restrict the

choices of texts that can be performed; the jury also decides how much of each selection

will be heard, and in what order. Indeed, until the 1990s, the chair of the jury often had
 182

the right to interrupt performances at any time by ringing a bell. The adoption of the

recital ritual grants more control to the performer, but the power dynamics remain tilted

in favor of the jury. The validation that normally comes with a ticket-buying audience is

cancelled out by the jury whose results ultimately determine whether the performance

was successful. As one respondent describes:

"[In a competition] you're trying to represent yourself and to be yourself

in a different way than in a concert. Because at a concert, people come to
hear you, so you don't have to prove something in the same way. You just
want to give them a transformative experience. They've already made the
decision to come. But competitions are different. They're deciding if
you're worth giving a prize to [forced laugh]. They're deciding whether
it's worth it for other audiences to hear you. And that just feels bizarre."
(Interview with competitor 13)

Indeed, the jury's results are sometimes so powerful that they can retroactively de-fuse a

performance. Every competitor can tell a story about a first round performance in which

they felt they played their best and received an enthusiastic response from the audience

only to be eliminated the next day. In the struggle to interpret this contradiction,

competitors cannot help but doubt if their experience of fusion was only on their part, or

just a figment of their imagination.

In addition to bringing the performer's legitimacy into question, the presence of

the jury also draws unwanted attention to the constructedness of the performance, not just

for the audience, but for the performer herself. Regardless of the competition's format,

the awareness of evaluation produces a hyper-reflexivity that prevents "flow". In his

original formulation of this concept, Csikszentmihalyi (2000) described the experience of

flow as a "process of delimiting reality, controlling some aspect of it, and responding to

the feedback with a concentration that excludes anything else as irrelevant" (p. 54). As he
 183

explains, flow involves a "lack of dualistic perspective" where action is perfectly merged

with awareness; it is interrupted "when awareness becomes split, so that one perceives

the activity from 'outside'" (p. 38). The competition context is an environmental

condition that often produces exactly this interruptive effect, problematizing the flow

process by transforming heightened awareness into a debilitating self-consciousness:

"It's difficult because you don't play in competitions everyday. Once you
do, you think it's so important because it might change your career. But all
these thoughts are actually killing you, which is not so good. The
atmosphere at competitions makes you think "I'm beingyWgec/. I hope
they like me, I want to be liked." Your every note is heard. If something
happens, like you play one wrong note, you think you're going to get
kicked out. All these thoughts come into your mind." (Interview with
competitor 4)

"There are times in competition when I feel like it's a recital, where I feel
like I'm playing for an audience and there's an energy with them. Those
times I play well. But [chuckles] it can be hard to get the idea of the jury
out of your mind when you play. As musicians we're often pretty harsh
critics on ourselves. We wouldn't be where we are if we weren't. So it's
hard while you're playing to make yourself stop analyzing and not kill
yourself 'for missing that low F in the Hammerklavier fugue!" (Interview
with competitor 7)

"[Playing in a competition] feels noisy because people are judging you.

It's very different from playing in a concert. In the best competition
situations it's felt like a concert because I feel like people are just sitting
back and listening. But the energy of being judged in a very particular way
in a competition feels very noisy, and I have to try to get those voices or
that energy away so I can just play. It's like an internal battle." (Interview
with competitor 12)

Many competitors admit that to a certain extent, the competition/recital distinction might

be a false dichotomy. A recital audience can be highly critical, a competition audience

can be warmly receptive, and one's playing should have the utmost integrity and

commitment regardless of the occasion. But experientially, what sets apart the
 184

competition from every other musical environment is the weight of the jury's (auditory)

stare.

The awareness of judgment and the anticipation of results cause a great deal of

frustration because it leads many to compromise their own musical values. In an effort to

regain some of the control they have lost, competitors often become calculating, catering

to what they perceive to be the jury's expectations:

"With a competition you're adapting the repertoire to what you think the
jury will want, and that kind of sucks. If I want to give a recital, it's up to
me. I do what I want. I'm not programming something for a specific set of
people. I'm just doing exactly what I want to do. Whereas for a
competition, I'm thinking, "Well, I can't do that because they might think
this, and I'm not like that." Also, in competition, there's a need to show
your chops early so it's known that you have ten fingers right away. You
have to program so that you have something technical in at least your
opening round. You can't play a Brahms Ballade, a Mozart Sonata, and a
Bach Prelude and Fugue and expect to get through. The jury will be
thinking, "Well, I don't know if this guy can wiggle his fingers fast
enough."" (Interview with competitor 2)

For a performer raised on Romantic aesthetics, such manipulation constitutes a major

threat to one's authenticity. The other ethical compromise described by this competitor is

the recasting of technique as an end rather than a means. By focusing on technical

accuracy, the competitor tries to exert control over one of the more objective criteria of

evaluation. But the emphasis on enactment over interpretation only renders the fusion of

performer with text more difficult.

Another way competitors try to regain dominance is by performing obscure

repertoire, such as contemporary music, music by women composers, or rarely-

performed pieces. The logic behind this strategy is reasonable enough: if a jury is

unfamiliar with a work, they are more likely to listen to the composition than focus on the
 185

details of execution. While this strategy gains some freedom for the performer, it can

easily backfire. If the performer strays too far from conventional repertoire, the

performance can become meaningless. It will not matter how expertly or honestly a work

is performed if its meanings are incomprehensible or have no resonance for the listener.

To be identified as the embodiment of an ideal performer, the audience must be able to

decode the musical meanings conveyed by the performer, and the jury must be able to

identify what made their interpretation outstanding. One respondent explained the issue

succinctly:

"If I had a really conservative jury, I would never risk playing something
written after 1950. Not because they wouldn't appreciate it, but because a
lot of these people don't know what they're listening for. They're just
waiting to get it over with so they can hear some Chopin or something."
(Interview with competitor 2)

Contributing further to the performer's feeling of powerlessness is the lack of

transparency in competition institutions. Deliberations are carried out in private and the

judge's scores are never released to the public. This procedure would raise fewer

objections if conflicts of interest did not occur with such striking regularity. The most

common situation is for jurors to have students in the competition. Because those who are

best suited to judge competitions are often the most sought after teachers, it is nearly

impossible to assemble an impartial jury with no relationship whatsoever to

9ft
competitors. Rumors of corruption and favoritism can never be disproved because there

To address this problem, jurors often voluntarily abstain from voting from their own students. Some
competitions have introduced rules to the same effect, despite the difficulties of defining what exactly
qualifies as a student-teacher relationship. Many do not believe these procedures correct the problem
because the juror in question can still influence the results through other means, whether it is by eliminating
potential rivals through excessively low scores, or calling in favors from other jury members.
are no norms of public accountability or channels for resolving grievances. For their part,

candidates know full well that politics can work for or against them:

"Let's say someone hates my teacher and they are on the jury. That's not
good. Let's say someone loves my teacher and they're on the jury. That's
good for me. If I know some people on the jury, is that going to help me? I
hope so. [Laughs] Honestly, I hope so. [...] If I were a judge, and I saw
my old friend out there playing, no matter what I'd want to think it's better
than it is. Even if you say I have to be objective, it's so hard. I know
people in the competition and if they're my friends, I want to think that
they'll do really well. So I can imagine it's the same for them. I wouldn't
hold that against a judge. It's life. This is life. Politics is life. It's
something you kind of get used to." (Interview with competitor 9)

"There's going to be political situations in any competition you go to. So

if you're making your decisions based on that, then you can't do anything.
Nothing out there is completely fair. I just hope for the best. Sometimes
it's unfair in our favor. [Laughs] You can't do anything about that either.
I've had politics work for me and against me. [...] I was in a competition
two years ago, and of the sixteen semi-finalists, fourteen studied with
members of the jury. A lot of those people were incredible pianists, but at
the same time you couldn't ever distinguish who was legitimately there
and who got in because their teacher's on the jury... It's not something
that I really want to dwell on. I just accept it and move on. [Laughs]"
(Interview with competitor 2)

Because they are just as likely to benefit as suffer from this arrangement, competitors can

never publicly criticize the institution. Any accusation of corruption could de-legitimate

their own achievements, jeopardize current professional relationships, or establish an

undesirable reputation for being jealous and ungracious.

Given all these factors, it should come as little surprise that a discourse of

cynicism prevails amongst competitors. But it would be grossly unfair to dismiss this as

sour grapes, or to explain it away through what Geertz (1973) called a "strain theory" of

ideology. Competitors are more accurately described as organic intellectuals of the

Bourdieuian variety. When asked why they enter competitions, respondents did not
 187

describe personal motivations, but launched into an explanation of reputation-building in

the field of music. As one competitor described:

"The problem with today's music world is that there's really no other way
[to start your career]. When you read about Rubinstein or Horowitz, they
didn't need to enter competitions. They just came to America and were
famous the next day! I was really amazed with how these things used to
happen. Even ten years ago, you would hear of conductors like Karajan or
Maazel promoting young artists. But nowadays it just seems like if you
want a big career, you have to go to a competition one way or another."
(Interview with competitor 3)

This argument can easily be translated into Bourdieu's ([1980]1993) terminology: with

the disappearance of traditional "symbolic bankers" such as impresarios and conductors

willing to offer their accumulated symbolic capital as security, aspiring professionals are

turning to other sources, such as competitions, to acquire symbolic capital. But with the

rapid proliferation of competitions since the 1950s, the prize has become a devalued

symbolic currency:

"It used to be that once you won a competition you were a world-famous
pianist. But today there are hundreds of competitions in the world. So
what if you won a competition somewhere in Italy? No one cares. It
doesn't create the opportunity to play in the great concert halls because
there are so many competition winners." (Interview with competitor 4)

"Because there are so many more competitions these days, winning one
doesn't really mean anything anymore. There are so many winners of
competitions. Even if you win a big competition, it doesn't necessarily
secure a career. That's why people resort to doing so many." (Interview
with competitor 6)

These remarks suggest that for competitors, this credential has not only been diminished,

but has little guarantee of having any symbolic value.

 But the discourse of cynicism is anchored in more than bitterness for the

investment risk they feel little choice in bearing. Many competitors also hold a principled

objection to what the institution represents, arguing that it encapsulates all that is profane

in the world of music:

"For me, competitions are just a way to gain money and opportunities.
Everything to do with music I learn everywhere but competition.
Developing as a musician happens at school with my teacher, with my
colleagues, with my roommates. The competition is something we do
because we have to, especially as pianists." (Interview with competitor 2)

"I think a lot of the competition circuit is geared towards the players who
are not really interested in music as art. They're interested in it as this
athletic thing where they show their virtuosity and prowess and get
attention for it. It's about the competition, about being better than
someone else, about winning and getting the attention and prestige. It's
not about, like, exploring this really interesting aspect of this piece. And
it's not about art. The people who really care about the art do some
competitions because you have to, and because it helps raise your standard
of playing. But you can only take so much of that. At some point you
realize that it's kind of silly." (Interview with competitor 10)

Some find comfort in the knowledge that most music professionals describe competitions

as lotteries. If considering a competitor for a concert engagement, a fellow musician

would be more concerned with the standard of playing than how many prizes have been

collected. But the same cannot be said of the general public. Rather than trust their own

ears and musical instincts, the average listener at competitions can defer to the authority

of the judges. Competitors worry that the audience has come to place too much faith in

prizes as indicators of talent:

"The fact that there are so many competitions also implies that a lot more
people are listening to them. They're aware of what's going on in the
circuit. Hence if somebody looks at your biography and sees that you
haven't won a competition, then they might not take your performance as
seriously. It's very difficult, actually. People say that you can't make a
 189

name without winning competitions, but then even with prizes in your bio,
sometimes you don't get anywhere either." (Interview with competitor 6)

Even worse is the common analogy to sport. For example, one respondent complained

that nearly every time he entered a taxi-cab with his instrument, the driver asked about

his current world ranking, as though classical music were organized like tennis. As we

saw in the previous chapter, musicians consider the sports metaphor both a

misinterpretation and polluting framework for describing musical endeavors, and they see

competitions as the main source of this confusion.

English (2005) has recently argued that the cynicism surrounding the competition

prize is functional. Adopting a hard-line Bourdieuian position, he characterizes the

competition event as an act of collective cultural misrecognition that serves to perpetuate

the "economy in reverse" that defines all forms of cultural production. In becoming the

focus of disputes over who has the right to award cultural value and whether it has been

accurately gauged, the competition prize both "test[s] and affirm[s] the notion of art as a

separate and superior domain, a domain of disinterested activity which gives rise to a

special, nontemporal, noneconomic, but scarce and highly desirable form of value" (p.

52). The problem with this sort of argument is that it casts competitors as willing

conspirators in the production of false belief who deserve to be ensnared in its

mechanisms. Whether a competitor publicly criticizes the institution or refuses to

participate, she cannot avoid colluding with the illusio of artistic practice; both postures

play into to the scandal of refusal that raises the visibility, and therefore the power, of the

prize in the cultural field.

21
Aside from my general objections to the Bourdieuian perspective, I would argue that English can only
make this argument because he fails to appreciate the difference between live competitions artists
 190

In contrast, I would argue that the discourse of cynicism serves a different

function: it provides a profane context for the performer to transcend. It is easy enough to

imagine how this dynamic contributes to the construction of the images of musical genius

discussed earlier. Indeed, each trope can be characterized as a form of transgression: the

child prodigy is "out of the usual course of nature" (Feldman and Goldsmith 1986:3), the

virtuoso crosses "the limit of what seems possible or what the spectator can imagine"

(Gooley 2004:1), the hero rebels against the rules of musical and social convention (Kivy

2001), and the intellectual penetrates the boundaries of subjectivity. Here, the

competition provides an institutional location for the transgression to take place, be

witnessed, and receive recognition. What is less obvious, perhaps, is that the same

dynamic applies to competitors who have had as many disappointments as successes.

Here, competitors transcend the profane context of the competition by redefining the goal

of participating. For some this means using the competition as a deadline motivating

them to prepare a large amount of repertoire at a higher level. For others it means using

the competition to introduce themselves musically to a member of the jury that they

would not otherwise be able to meet. For many it means using the competition as an

opportunity to learn:

"There are so many good things about competitions if you take away the
competitive aspect of it. You get to socialize with other pianists, which
was wonderful when I was growing up. You can hear so much. You have
opportunity to play for teachers, and you get written criticisms that are
sometimes very helpful." (Interview with competitor 7)

voluntarily enter early in their careers (e.g., Cliburn), and awards for which established artists are
nominated on the basis of work produced for other occasions (e.g., the Tony, the Booker, the Oscars,
Turner, etc.).
 191

"Our quartet is such a better quartet because of doing two European

competitions last summer. We play more precisely, and it has raised the
level of awareness in our playing. There's nothing that quite does that like
a competition. [...] Competition environments force you to deal with fears
about yourself and your playing. That can be really hard to shake off, or to
transcend, to say I do have the confidence to be entirely myself, or we
have the confidence as a group to be ourselves, to bring forth who we are."
(Interview with competitor 12)

The intense scrutiny of judgment, and the experience of rejection, can also play an

important role in the construction of musical identity. Often it is through the soul-

searching prompted by disappointments at competitions that musicians determine their

musical values and what sort of life in music they truly desire, which may or may not

conform to the career paths set out in the competition circuit.

Ideally, the result of a music competition should be redundant. It should merely

reinforce an already convincing social performance by bestowing an award or a title. And

occasionally, it does work out this way. For the performer, however, it is impossible to

imagine a more unforgiving environment for performing music or an institution more

inclined to cast doubt on their self-identity as an artist. As such, the competition provides

a natural breaching experiment for musical performance, identifying what is taken for

granted in more felicitous circumstances.

 Chapter 5: A Musical Public
Audiences and publics are widely held to be mutually opposed concepts. In

literatures as distant as critical theory and media studies, audiences are understood to be

asocial groups, amorphous aggregates of de-sociated individuals with little more in

common than the consumption of mass-produced cultural commodities. Publics, on the

other hand, are meaningful collectivities; they are social groups defined by a shared

identity, forged through collective action, and guided by notions of the common good. To

be part of an audience implies passivity; one is a mere spectator or observer withdrawn

from the locus of action. But to be part of a public implies agency; one is a participant

engaging with the social world. Furthermore, audiences and publics are held to occupy

separate realms. Audiences are hidden away in the private sphere, while publics are

visible entities acting out in the public sphere.

Despite its prevalence, this dichotomy simply does not carry any weight. It also

fails to resonate on the experiential level. First, the concept of the audience assumes too

high a level of uniformity among the audience. Any audience will contain a variety of

orientations and experiences. Second, audiences and publics are not composed of entirely

different sets of people. Sometimes, the prototypical audience is simultaneously a public.

Like Livingstone (2005), I see a greater advantage in asking when an audience acts as a

public than in treating them as separate phenomena. To this end, I want to develop the

concept of a "musical public" by looking at the role of audiences at music competitions.

Their function is not immediately obvious. Attendees are present throughout the event,

but have no say in the final ranking. What, then, is their role?
 193

I will argue that there are two interrelated dimensions to the audience's role at

music competitions. In the first, the audience listens, that is, they interpret competitors'

musical performances. To analyze this dimension, I revisit Adorno's typology of listeners

and argue that his theory of listening has been discarded by sociologists for all the wrong

reasons. When stripped of its normative and hierarchical overtones and translated into the

terms of social performance, Adorno's typology continues to offer useful methodological

insight into musical engagement. The second dimension of the audience's role is where it

acts as a public. More than any other listening environment, the competition invites the

audience to reflect upon musical experience and critically evaluate performance. This

critical orientation provokes audience members to engage each other in debate about

what they heard, the merits of various competitors, and the ultimate purpose of the event.

The concept of the "musical public" aims to capture both these dimensions. The

competition audience is a public in that it is a social group constituted through certain

forms of sociability and guided by norms of inclusion and the supremacy of rational

argument. But it is a musical public in that the grounds for inclusion, and the central

subject for debate, is subjective musical experience. Through this discussion, I aim to

overcome the tendency to see arts audiences as passive, homogenized, and de-sociated

without resorting to the methodological individualism of reception studies.

THE AUDIENCE AS LISTENER

The primary role of the audience in any musical performance is the act of

listening. The importance of this role cannot be overemphasized. Music is a cultural text

performed in order to convey meaning to others. There must be a recipient to decode the
meanings displayed by the performer because without a listener, there is simply is no

music. To borrow the words of musicologist Nicholas Cook, music is more than

organized sound; it is an interaction between sound and the listener; "If it is not possible

to arrive at a satisfactory definition of music simply in terms of sound, this is probably

because of the essential role that the listener and more generally the environment in

which the sound is heard, plays in the constitution of any event as a musical one" (Cook

1990:11).

But how should we understand the act of listening? For Adorno, a theory of

listening had to be based on musical, not sociological, grounds. In the Introduction to the

Sociology of Music (1962: 92), he argued that the musical work, as an objectively

structured and meaningful thing, was "perceived and experienced with different degrees

of accuracy"(p.3). He proposed a typology of listeners conceived in terms of the

listener's orientation to music, rather than extra-musical factors such as the habits, tastes,

or social traits of individuals. Through the description of ideal types of musical conduct,

he mapped a range of listening positions, from the fully adequate to incomprehension or

indifference (see Table 5.1)

For Adorno, there were only two types of listener who could achieve "fully

adequate" listening. The first is the expert listener, whose mode of conduct is described

as structural hearing. As the name suggests, structural listening involves being able to

discern the architecture of a musical work through an awareness of musical logic and

fluency in technical categories: "Spontaneously following the course of music, even

complicated music, he hears the sequence, hears past, present and future moments

together so that they crystallize into a meaningful context" (p.4). Adorno admits this type
 195

Table 5.1: Adorno's typology of listeners

Type Description Example/ Common

Social Location
Expert listener Engages in structural hearing. Conscious of concrete Professional musicians
musical logic and fluent in technical categories.

Good listener Intuitive structural hearing; unconscious mastery of Aristocrats in Paris

music's immanent logic salons

Culture consumer Music is a cultural asset; atomistic listening. Responds to Symphony board ladies
measurable aspects (virtuosity) not form.

Emotional listener Music is a trigger for emotions repressed or unfulfilled in Tired businessmen of
everyday life. Fiercely resists structural listening. Anglo Saxon countries;
the volatile Slav
Resentment Static-musical listening; banishes emotion; coercive and Bach devotees (early
listener uniform in musical conduct. music enthusiasts)

Jazz expert and Domesticated protest against the official culture that Youth
jazz fan mistakes itself as avant-garde; shares the sectarian
character of the resentment listener.

Music is Passive, un-concentrated, distracted listening with bursts "The man who has the
entertainment of recognition. Music is an addiction. radio playing while he
works."
Indifferent, Dislikes or avoids music. Coincides with
unmusical, and "pathological realistic
anti-musical mentality" observed in
people with talent for
special technical fields.
of listener is rare in modern society, limited mainly to the circle professional musicians,

though not identical to it, since the criteria for structural listening are neither dependent

nor reducible to formal training. This point is underscored in the description of the

second type who also engages in fully adequate listening, the good listener, whose

musical conduct is described as intuitive structural hearing: "The good listener too hears

beyond musical details, makes connections spontaneously, and judges for good reasons

[...] but he is not, or not fully, aware of the technical and structural implications" (p. 5).

Just as one can be ignorant of the rules of grammar and syntax and still use language to

great effect, this listener possesses an unconscious mastery of the immanent logic of

music. According to Adorno, this type survived in aristocratic circles well into the

nineteenth century, but was declining in modern society due to the waning of amateur

musical activity. As music became a specialized professional occupation and mechanical

reproduction provided an abundance of pre-recorded music, it eliminated both the need

and the desire to develop a proficiency in music for its own sake.

The "sociological heir" to the good listener is the culture consumer for whom

music is mainly a "cultural asset." Writing twenty years before Bourdieu and the

emergence of the production perspective, Adorno described a musical actor that would

soon come to dominate sociological research into taste and social distinction: "He is a

copious, sometimes a voracious listener, well-informed, a collector of records. He

respects music [...] as something a man must know for the sake of his own social

standing; this attitude runs the gamut from an earnest sense of obligation to vulgar

snobbery" (p. 6). This type of listener "hoards" information about music, such as

anecdotes about composers or the merits of particular performers, which becomes "a
 197

subject for hours of inane discussion" (p. 7). Adorno describes the culture consumer's

orientation to music as "atomistic." In contrast to the structural listener who

spontaneously relates the part to the whole, this listener "lies in wait" for specific,

recognizable elements, such as melodies or climaxes. The culture consumer gets excited

about the most superficial aspects of music, appreciating technique as an end in itself:

"The one thing they primarily respond to is an exorbitant and, so to speak, measurable

performance - breakneck virtuosity, for instance, wholly in the sense of the "show"

ideal" (p. 7). Adorno does not try very hard to conceal his disapproval of this group, or his

regret that it controlled the "official life" of music. Culture consumers not only

outnumber good listeners; they are also frequently the gatekeepers and elites that run

music organizations according to their conservative tastes. Of even greater offence to

Adorno than their conformism is their presumption of superiority to the culture industry

since this mode of musical conduct effectively commodified, and therefore degraded, art

music.

While the culture consumer uses music as resource in social distinction, the

emotional listener uses music to trigger emotions repressed or unfulfilled in everyday

life. This is accomplished in a variety of ways. For some in this category, music is used to

stimulate the senses, for example, to inspire visual imagery and associations.1 For others,

music is a "vessel" into which emotion is poured, or from which emotion is drawn.

1
Adorno's disparaging of the sensuous listener as a "culinary taster for isolated sonic stimuli" is very much
in line with the writing of the 19* century aesthetician and music critic, Eduard Hanslick. In The Beautiful
in Music, Hanslick argued that responding only to the sensual qualities and emotional suggestions was an
inadequate way to listen to music: "a good cigar, some exquisite dainty, or a warm bath yields them the
same enjoyment as a symphony, though they may not be aware of the fact." Quoted in Cook (1990: 15).
 198

Common to all emotional listeners, however, is a "fierce resistance" to structural listening

and a reduction the musical experience to the "affective factor."

The emotional listener finds its opposite in the resentment listener who turns the

ban on emotion that underpins modern public life into the normative ideal of musical

conduct. This type engages in "static-musical listening", a learned orientation that

favours a disciplined, if not mechanical, approach to music-making. Deviation,

flexibility, and affect are viewed with "puritanical suspicion": "subjectivity, expression -

to the resentment listener all this is profoundly linked with promiscuity" (p. 11).

Adorno's example of this type is early music specialists. Seemingly nonconformist

because they scorn mainstream musical life, this group is actually founded on intolerance

and reactionary ideologies. In their dogmatic aversion to the Romantic ideal of music,

resentment listeners display a "sectarian character" in that is also found among another

type of listener: the jazz fan or expert. Echoing his 1936 essay "On Jazz" (2002), Adorno

here argues that this group is based on two misconceptions. First, it mistakes jazz music

as avant-garde, when its form, expressive devices, and rhythmic structure betray

standardization. Second, it mistakes itself for a progressive protest against the official

musical culture when it is really a harmless adolescent rebellion.

The most common type of listener by far is the entertainment listener, for whom

music is a "comfortable distraction." This listener uses music as a "source of stimuli",

much like the emotional listener, except in this case, it has developed into an addiction

like smoking: "we define it more by our displeasure in turning the radio off than by the

pleasure we feel, however modestly, while it is playing" (p. 15). The ideal consumer for

the culture industry, this type listens to music in a distracted or "un-concentrated" state,
 199

with only occasional bursts of recognition and attention. The eighth and final type is a

residual category, combining the musically indifferent, the unmusical, and the anti-

musical who either avoid or dislike music altogether. Refusing to accept that this mode of

musical conduct is the result of a "deficiency of natural talent", Adorno resorts to a

psychological explanation, suggesting it is best explained by traumatic childhood

experience.

Like many of his essays on music, Adorno's typology of listeners has provoked

considerable criticism amongst his sociological heirs. And a great deal of this criticism

has been based on misinterpretations, just as he had anticipated (p. 18). For DeNora

(2003), Adorno does not offer a typology at all, but an elitist hierarchy that clearly

implies that inadequate listening is "associated not only with particular strata but with

particular musical genres" (p.87). Admittedly, Adorno had a narrow (and inadequate)

conception of jazz and popular music, and he indulged too enthusiastically in unflattering

and inaccurate stereotypes in his examples and descriptions. But he never suggested that

listening types were restricted to particular strata. In fact, he cautioned the reader that

"too much weight should not be given to the social differentiations within this draft"

because types will "cut across society" (p. 18). Neither did he suggest a simple

association of traditional high culture to good listening and popular genres to inadequate

listening. Adorno was not a conventional cultural elitist whose theory depended on a

simple opposition of high and low. The production and consumption of high culture often

failed to meet his standards of moral value (Hohendahl 1995; Witkin 1998).

DeNora also accuses Adorno of a "bias in favour of more cognitive modes of

musical reception" that lead him to condemn emotional listening as "nothing less than an
 200

abdication of reason and thus of the resource upon which democratic participation was

founded" (2003:85-7). This charge is also unjustified, on both counts. The dichotomy of

cognitive versus emotional modes of musical reception is DeNora's own invention.

Adorno described adequate listening as "conscious," never as purely cognitive. He also

insisted that emotion was an essential element structural listening. His problem with

emotional listening was that it reduced musical experience to this element alone: "without

an affective factor, adequate listening is not conceivable either. Only here, [with the

emotional listener] the factor is the thing itself (p.9). If Adorno were championing

emotion/ess listening, he would not have found the resentment listener so impoverished.

The more serious part of DeNora's criticism, however, is the second charge. Did

Adorno believe that inadequate listening, in any of its forms, amounted to an abdication

of reason? To make this criticism requires a slight distortion of Adorno's argument in

which the symptom is mistaken for the cause. A closer reading of the text reveals that

Adorno absolves the listener of any blame for the "dubious state" of listening in modern

society: "The prevailing condition envisioned by critical typology is not the fault of those

who listen one way rather than another" (p. 18). More surprising, perhaps, is that the

culture industry is not identified as the culprit either. In Adorno's estimation, the source

of the problem runs much deeper: "the condition [of inadequate listening] arises from the

nethermost sociological layers: from the separation of mental and manual labor, or of

high and low forms of art; later from the socialized semiculture, ultimately from the fact

that the right consciousness in the wrong world is impossible, and that even the modes of

2
One could easily argue that Adorno saw the resentment listener, not the emotional one, as the real threat
to the rational foundations of democracy. The description of this type includes many characteristics of the
authoritarian personality and references to fascism and the Holocaust.
 201

social reaction to music are in thrall to the false consciousness'" (p. 18, emphasis added).

If inadequate listening is to be condemned, it is not because it amounts to an individual's

deliberate rejection of reason; it is because it reflects and perpetuates all that is wrong and

dangerous about modernity. Adorno's analysis of the situation is bleaker than DeNora's

criticism implies. The listeners themselves cannot be blamed for abdicating reason

because they never possess the agency to surrender their responsibility to the art work in

the first place.

It is by returning to the concept of the art work, the founding premise of the

listener typology, that a more justified criticism can be put forward. Adorno wrote that

"works are objectively structured things and meaningful in themselves, things that invite

analysis and can be perceived and experienced with different degrees of accuracy" (p.3).

Here he reveals just how much he was a product of his time and his training. As a music

critic and avant-garde composer, Adorno was both inheritor and advocate of the "work-

concept" ideology (Goehr 1992) that asserted music's autonomy by establishing the self-

contained work as a fact of music history. It is within this framework that we should

understand adequate listening because it is both its logical outcome and its normative

practice.

To be fair, structural listening does not necessarily implicate a listener in this

ideological project. Hearing music as form simply entails "hear[ing] music as repeatable,

and hence independent of its realization in sound on any particular occasion" (Cook

1990:36). In the 18th century, this meant something quite different. It was the genre, not

the individual work that existed independently of its enactment. Because music in this

period was not written for posterity, its success was judged by the extent to which it
displayed the attributes of a genre. In other words, audiences in Mozart's day listened to

music the way Hollywood movies are commonly categorized today. The narrative

conventions and tropes of each genre (e.g., romantic comedy, psychological thriller,

Western) are well-established and well-known; members of a culture means are more

than adequately equipped to recognize a particular film's conformity (or deliberate

departure) from these conventions, at least on a basic level.

It was during the 19* century that everything changed. The emphasis shifted

"from a position where genres were exemplified by works to one in which works made

their own statement" (Samson 2003: 66). A piece of music became a "unique work of art

in its own right" to be appreciated for its particularity and originality rather than its

conformity to a model (Cook 1990:37). The individual composition thus became the

focus of the listener's attention in the way we are accustomed today. We no longer go to

hear another 'symphony', but 'Mahler's Fifth Symphony.' The establishment of the

work-concept has had a profound impact on musical culture. It reconfigured the

relationship between composer, performer, and listener, provided a new basis for

academic musical analysis, and transformed everyday concert hall etiquette. If we

disapprove of applauding in between movements, or feel unsatisfied by programmes that

string together isolated movements or excerpts of pieces, it does not come from a noble

desire to respect historical traditions. (Actually, plenty of evidence suggests the opposite

is true.) If these practices offend or disappoint, it is because they violate the unity and

coherence of the self-contained work that, following Adorno, we have come to demand

of all musical experience.

 203

The work-centred orientation has become so deeply engrained that it is applied

indiscriminately, even for repertoire that was clearly designed for a different sort of

musical attention. Sometimes, to engage in structural listening is to ignore (or even defy)

the aesthetic intention of the composer and distort the purpose of the music. And one

does not have to look to jazz or popular music to find examples. While its current

hegemonic status might make it appear otherwise, the work-centred orientation was never

the only practice in Western art musical culture. For a while, it co-existed with another

orientation in which music was heard primarily as performance, not as form. This

orientation focussed on the unrepeatable qualities of the musical event and celebrated

those elements inherently tied to context (Cook 1990: 37-8). Here the musical

composition was not the focus of attention, but the vehicle for show-casing performance.

The most extreme example of this orientation can be found in the virtuoso

repertoire of the early 19th century, such as the Caprices of Paganini, or the transcriptions

and etudes of Liszt. At the risk of over-generalising and over-simplifying, musical

material in this kind of repertoire is not developed and integrated into a coherent structure

where parts of the composition are best understood in relation to the whole. Rather,

musical material is used, often in highly conventional ways, to point across the

boundaries of the work to other compositions or genres, to explore the idiomatic features

of an instrument, to evoke expressive gestures, or to dramatize the personality of the

performer. In other words, the work character is deliberately sacrificed for the event

character of the composition. Virtuosity has always been dismissed by critics as

indulgent, trivial, and empty display. But Samson (2003) argues that there is more behind

its exclusion from the musical canon:

 204

For the composer to prescribe virtuosity is to weaken or obfuscate any sense of an

idea represented, a story told, a meaning rendered. The gap between signified and
signifier is at the very least narrowed. The telling is destined to exceed the tale.
[...] Our unease about virtuosity is partly due to this implicit challenge to
expression and form, even - at root - to authority, and also to the kind of
idealisation invited by work character. It offends our sense - our hope - that there
must be something behind the music, that in a mysterious way, one we cannot
fully understand, music can convey to us ideas of man and nature and mortality.
Virtuosity brusquely dismisses - pushes into the corners - any such pretension.
[...] Virtuosity presents, rather than represents. It encourages us to wonder at the
act, rather than to commune with the work and its referents by way of the act (p.
84).

To assert the creative power of the performer, and the autonomy of the performance,

constitutes a direct threat to the work-concept ideology at the heart of the avant-garde. It

is for this reason that Adorno must denigrate the culture consumer's appreciation of

virtuosity as the mark a dilettante, degrading him as a mere "appraiser" who becomes so

distracted by the sound produced by the violinist that he pays little attention to what is

being played (1962: 7). But this orientation is not always misguided. There are contexts

in which attention to performance is not only perfectly appropriate, but desirable.

As I see it, there are two major problems with Adorno's typology. The first is that

it presumes a particular context of listening. I agree with DeNora (2003:87) that an

idealized version of the public concert occupies an implied normative status in his

typology, and that his conception of musical experience was unconditioned by the

interactional, temporal, spatial, and cultural contexts of particular listening occasions. It

is for this reason that empirical investigations of different musical environments are

particularly instructive. As discussed previously, music competitions adopt the ritual

form of the public concert. But as an occasion designed to evaluate and reward

excellence in musical performance, it invites the audience to listen to performance as

 205

much as, if not more than, the work. And as I will discuss at length in the next section,

the interactional component plays a crucial role in the competition audience's musical

experience. A second, related problem is that Adorno implies that individuals can be

definitively categorized as a single type of listener. It would make more sense to argue

that we become a different type of listener depending on the environment in which we

engage with music. Should we expect someone to be the same type of listener at a public

concert, in the car on the commute home from work, and at a restaurant? Once we allow

for more than one context of listening, we can also allow for the possibility that we shift

from one listening type to another. Indeed, I would argue it is possible for an individual

to shift between types within a single musical event.3

Table 5.2: Adorno's typology reconsidered: modes of musical conduct at the

competition
Type Description
Structural/ Good listener Work-oriented; focuses on decoding the musical text

Music as entertainment Game-frame oriented; focuses on the competitive aspect and the
contingency of the result

Resentment listener Rallies around a particular performer and refuses to enjoy

performances given by anyone else.

Culture consumer Performance-oriented; focuses on enactment, performer, and

instrument

Listening to learn Artistic development through exposure to different styles and

approaches to music

Judgment listener Performance-oriented in order to judge the competition and the judges

3
Stockfelt (1997) makes a similar argument about shifting listening modes in everyday listening situations,
but in his case the shift is between two poles of concentrated and atomistic listening. He also emphasizes
the role of the listening environment in determining normative modes of listening but in his case, the aim is
to relativise the concept of "adequate listening" for other musical genres. See (Stockfelt 1997).
 206

To demonstrate that Adorno's typology remains a useful theory, I would like to

reconsider it within the specific listening environment of a music competition. With some

modifications, it can describe a repertoire of orientations available to this audience, each

focusing on a different aspect of musical/social performance (see Table 5.2).4

The structural and good listeners are modes that prioritize the musical layer of the
competition performance, sometimes to the exclusion of anything else. Here listeners will
be oriented to the work, focusing primarily on decoding texts through the musical system
of collective representations, and evaluating the coherence of a competitor's programme
in purely musical terms. The official bloggers for the competition often adopted this
mode in their reviews. For example:
"...The Franck 'Prelude, Chorale, and Fugue' which followed was an
unfortunate choice: for me the piece simply gets stuck, overly repetitious,
and I'll not to hold that against her. Her contemporary music choice was
William Bolcolm's 'Nine Bagatelles' in a scintillating performance. I may
have heard this work before at a prior Cliburn, but it is a bit of an homage
to Ravel, with parodies of sections of his 'Valses Nobles and
Sentimentales' and other Ravelian harmonies, making a perfect lead-in to
the program closer, her version of [Ravel's] 'La Valse.'" (Mike Winter,
official blogger, May 22)

The work becomes much less important for the listener who adopts the music as

entertainment mode. Here the focus is what I called the "game frame" of the music

competition, which is the aspect of the event that resembles competitive sport. The

excitement in this mode lies in the contingency of the outcome, and competitors'

performances (on and off the stage) are interpreted through symbolic systems that centre

on combat or competition motifs. For example:

4
For the sake of clarity, I will retain Adorno's original titles for the ideal types of his I am retaining.
 207

"[At the drawing party preceding the competition] I found myself next to a
tallish, black-haired young woman, wearing a blue name tag indicating
that she was one of the pianists, who looked like an Italian model. Of
course I introduced myself. [...] She feels the competition's increased
repertoire requirements, which she estimates come to four hours of
performance time, are "hard but good." Maria reminded me of a
thoroughbred, ready for the race." (Mike Winter, official blogger, May 19)

"My prediction for tonight 30 minutes before start time: Chu Fang really
knocks it out of the park with her performance of Beethoven 2, and
tonight's posters start considering her as worthy of the gold medal. This is
the "inside" scoop, guys. Enjoy!!!" (Jesse, June 3)

"My reasoning for Joyce Yang not winning gold assumed consistency out
of Piano and Kobrin, and Piano did not deliver. He's no longer in control
of his own destiny. Both Kobrin will have to slip for him to win gold (in
my view, Yang already has)..." (Jennifer, June 1)

"I think that the new format of this competition may need some
rethinking. Three solo recitals plus two concerti in such a short time and
under all of this incredible pressure may be too much even for these
healthy young thoroughbreds." (John Ruggero, June 2)

"The missed notes were distracting, but the larger concern for me was an
apparent lack of dominance over both the Brahms and the Ravel. It was as
if Piano [was] wrestling the pieces, and he didn't win." (Brad Hill, June 1)

The sectarian character of the resentment listener is also a common orientation at

the music competition. In this mode, audience members rally around a particular

competitor, campaigning for their success among other audience members by sharing

their enthusiasm for their performances alone. Often this campaigning takes on an

ideological character as the competitor comes to stand for something larger than him or

herself, such as nationality, ethnicity, or gender:

"I am very happy for Kobrin, he really deserved it!!!!!!! Go

Russians!!!!!!!" (Anelim, June 5)

"[G]ood luck Gabby, make Latin America proud!" (Carlos, May 25)
 208

"Go Chu-Fang, Sa, and Joyce!!! I'm all for the masterful Asian girls..."
(Chris, June 5)

Listeners can also rally around a performer for purely musical reasons:

"Anyone who heard Yang's performance of Dvorak tonight and does not
take her as the serious, special musician she is missing the essence of
music in my book!" (Rosie, May 29)
"If for some reason Kobrin the Undertaker had the gold in his claw-like
percussive grasp he no longer does after Joyce Yang's beautiful
performance. Mr. K should do himself the favor of listening to her. This
was what piano playing is supposed to be about. If Kobrin's followers
listened to her openly and critically, they would praise her sense of line,
finesse, grace and above all her sound." (Paco, June 3)

This mode of listening earns Adorno's "resentment" moniker when, having invested so

much in the success of a particular competitor, the listener actively resists enjoying the

performances of other competitors and looks only for faults to justify his allegiance and

support his claims for his chosen favorite.

The culture consumer is probably the most frequently-adopted mode at the music

competition. Here the listener becomes performance-oriented, focussing on the enactment

(technique and interpretation) and the means of musical production (instrument and tone

production) more than the text itself:

"My own view of her performance of that piece is that the tempi were just
too consistently fast. I agree there are many exciting moments, and fast
tempi are required in many places, but not 100% of the time, and not quite
as fast as she played them. Reconnaissance was played like an etude and
lost its charm. The final movement lost its impact for me because she
didn't capture the dotted rhythmic pulse of the Beethoven theme that
makes the march a bit sinister, and again, since it was all very, very fast,
much of the drama was lost." (Jon Buckheit, May 29)

".. .he had more problems on that top of that Hamburg Steinway than
Piano and certainly Cabassi who seemed to control it better. After about
half of the second movement, he finally figured out that flatter fingers
would take the edge but then he got distracted on the third and whacked
 the hell out of it. That is one difficult top register to control however, it
can be done by the change of the attack." (Rosie, June 2)

In many respects, the competition is a musical event designed for this mode of listening.

Since its purpose is to identify and reward excellence in musical performance, the

appreciation of virtuosity is more legitimate in this context. The culture consumer's

tendency to "hoard" information, such as biographical details about the competitors, is

encouraged by competitions through the publication of biographies in programme books.5

The "atomistic listening" characteristic of this mode is also more legitimate in this

context. Competitions impose demanding schedules on the audience; while the standard

professional recital demands at most two hours of concentrated listening, a typical day in

the first round of a competition will demand at least seven hours. What begins as a feast

for the ears can rapidly become over-saturation. The most expert and devoted listeners -

even jury members - have admitted to using the selective attention of atomistic listening

as a deliberate strategy to alleviate "listener fatigue."6

Since Adorno never suggested that his typology was exhaustive, I would like to

add two more categories to describe other subject positions I have encountered in my

fieldwork. The first one could be called listening to learn. The aim of this mode is artistic

development. By listening with a relatively open mind to new interpretations, diverse

As described in chapter 3, competition biographies follow a conventional form that typically includes the
following elements (in order): mention of the competitors' birthplace, an anecdote describing
precociousness and musical ability in childhood, a list of major teachers and institutions of musical
education, a list of competition prizes and other awards, a list of recent concert engagements, and mention
of extra-musical activities and interests.
6
Because they are professional musicians, jury members often listen to this many hours of listening in a
day. Therefore, if a juror listens selectively, it is usually because he or she does not need to listen to an
entire recital to make a decision on whether a candidate should advance. I have often been told that this
decision is made within the first minute, if not the first ten seconds, of playing.
 210

performance styles, and less-familiar repertoire, the listener can reconsider personal tastes

and rethink one's approach to music. As one young musician explained to me:

"I gave up going to the best conservatories in the country to study with my
teacher. And so, on the flip side of that, you need to get out and hear
what's out there or else how are you ever going to know what you're
working towards or if I can compete at that level. So I learn a lot in
hearing other cellists that are really good because I don't really hear them
that much." (Interview with Competitor 9)

Young musicians attending competitions are often encouraged to adopt this mode of

listening in order to gauge their level of playing compared to their peers, broaden their

musical horizons, and motivate them to practice. But this orientation is hardly exclusive

to the young. Even jury members have been known to take delight in being shown new

things, especially in the most familiar repertoire.

The second mode I would like to introduce could be called the judgment listener.

Like the culture consumer, this listener is performance-oriented, paying careful attention

to the technical ability and musicianship of each competitor. But rather than debate

impressions other audience members, this listener wants to evaluate the competition as a

whole. This evaluation involves determining the "level", that is, the general quality of

playing compared to other competitions and previous cycles. It also involves evaluating

the procedures and requirements, and, as the event progresses, judging the judges. This

orientation is often adopted by professional musicians with no vested interest in the

outcome, such as music critics, teachers who do not have students in the competition, or

administrators of music schools and other arts organizations. But this position can also be

adopted by the competitors themselves:

 211

"It might make you more nervous if you listen to other competitors. You
think "oh... he's so good." On the other hand, it's extremely important to
listen to others. That's what I did at some competitions when I had the
chance, when I didn't play the next day. I listen to others to judge the job
of the judges myself. I can then make my own judgment, whether the
results were correct, or if I disagreed." (Interview with Competitor 4)

"I'm always trying to figure out what the judges would think. So I don't
listen to it just like "Oh isn't that a great performance." I keep a checklist
and then compare it to how the results come out. I'm like "Oh okay. See
this person did this, and then they didn't advance." But sometimes weird
people win competitions. Every once in a while you're like "What was
that all about? Why that person?" (Interview with Competitor 9)

As these excerpts demonstrate, competitors adopt this orientation in order to interpret the

significance of their placement in the final ranking as well as the adjudicator's remarks

on their performance.

The illustrations I have provided for each listening type at the music competition

are not intended to suggest a strong a correlation between social position and listening

orientation. The modified typology should be understood as a repertoire of orientations

that audience members might adopt over the course of the event. The adoption of

particular modes is neither entirely chosen nor entirely determined by structural factors.

Contingent occurrences can also cause an audience member to shift between listening

types. For example, a music teacher might begin a competition as a judgment listener,

intend to be a learning listener for the first round, but become so taken with a particular

performer that they become a resentment listener for the rest of the competition. A patron

hosting a competitor is likely to begin the competition as a resentment listener having

developed a personal relationship with a performer. If this competitor is eliminated early,

this patron might resort to the entertainment mode if their disappointment has spoiled

their aesthetic enjoyment of the rest of the event. Someone who attends only a single
 212

session of a competition is likely to be a good listener. Having been absent for earlier

developments in the event, this audience member will not be able to predict results with

entertainment listeners, or debate the merits of each performer with culture consumers,

but is free to approach the performance as a self-contained public concert.

THE AUDIENCE AS A PUBLIC

But the competition audience does more than listen. They also talk. And their

conversation sometimes turns to argument over the merits of they have seen and heard,

and the meaning of the musical event they attended. This is when the audience becomes a

public. Adorno was wrong to dismiss so casually the culture consumers' conversation as

"inane." It is through the audience's discussion of shared experiences, such as

performances, that a solidaristic music community is created and renewed. It is also

through discussion that the audience debates conflicting orientations, negotiates

competing cultural commitments, and evaluates the legitimacy of musical institutions.

The practice of critically discussing musical experience emerged in tandem with

the public concert ritual at the end of the eighteenth century. Previously, only

connoisseurs and the nobility had the right to judge music. But as concerts became

increasingly available to anyone who could pay the price of admission, music was

liberated from the patronage of court and the church. The commodification that made art

autonomous also made it available as an object of discussion. As Habermas describes,

"art became an object of free choice and of changing preference. The "taste" to which art

was oriented from then on became manifest in the assessments of the people who claimed
 213

no prerogative, since within a public everyone was entitled to judge."(Habermas 1969

[1989]: 40)

The emergence of a critical art audience was not the result of economics forces

alone. It was also the consequence of a new subjectivity that was formed in the intimate

sphere of the bourgeois family. In this haven from society, members of the conjugal

family could relate as human beings and play out for each other the visions of

sentimentality communicated in popular literary genres like the early novel. But the

cultural development of sentimentality was not confined to the world of letters, as

Habermas implies. Johnson (1995) has demonstrated that it was also an active force in

the realm of music. He describes a radical transformation in the Parisian opera audience

between 1750 and 1780. Over this short period of time, the same audience that used to

arrive late and talk through performances had become strangely silent and prone to

bursting into tears. It was no longer a distracted lot fragmented by the opinions ofpetites

societes but an attentive audience united by sentiment. As musical expression came to be

defined by emotion rather than imitation, a greater emphasis was placed on the internal,

individual experience that at the same time implied a shared emotional experience among

all audience members, regardless of rank or position. The consequence of this new

musical sensibility was that previous methods of musical evaluation were undermined,

and individuals could formulate their own critical judgments:

"This construction of individual experience at the Opera, coupled with the

corresponding sense of unity through sentiment, gave birth to the notion of
a single musical public, which claimed in its public opinion to speak for a
singular taste superior to arbitrary opinions. It represents on the one hand,
a conceptual space for individuals to formulate their own personal
responses and, on the other, a collectivity conceived in terms apart from
 214

the earlier unity gained through the symbolic presence of the

king."(Johnson 1995: 92)

For Habermas, the importance of the aesthetic public was that it provided the

institutional basis and the training ground for the political functions of the bourgeois

public sphere. Through the establishment of journals and meeting places where they were

discussed, a culture-debating public emerged where status differences were bracketed and

rational argument ruled the day. The birth of the art critic in this period did not signal the

specialization, but the coming of age of a vibrant debating public. In the 18th and 19th

century, the art critic was not an authority like a judge, but one voice among many that no

one was obligated to accept. This attitude was reflected in the reception of the critic's

writings, which were not just the object of discussion in the coffee houses and salons, but

were viewed as an integral part of a larger, ongoing debate (Habermas 1969 [1989]: 41-

2).

According to Habermas, critical engagement with art has declined with the

disintegration of the public sphere since the 19th century. He shares Adorno's pessimism

toward contemporary cultural reception in believing that a culture-debating public has

deteriorated into a culture-consuming public. The expansion of access made possible

through commodification has not lead to the literary enlightenment and cultural

emancipation of the masses. Instead, the capitalist market has come to define the

production and reception of culture. The consumption orientation of mass culture has

created a public sphere in appearance only. With the proliferation of commodities

designed for various tastes, the public has lost its common ground for discussion and the

intimate relationship between cultural producers and consumers has been destroyed.

Critical commentary has also become specialized. Art critics and intellectuals become
 215

"split off from the general public, forcing them to explain their own alienation. As a

result, "the sounding board of an educated stratum tutored in the public use of reason has

been shattered; the public is split apart into minorities of specialists who put their reason

to use nonpublicly and the great mass of consumers whose receptiveness is public but

uncritical."(Habermas 1969 [1989]: 175)

There is no reason for such despair. The culture-debating public has not been

destroyed by new media technologies, but has incorporated them. If Habermas no longer

sees a vibrant critical public, it is not because it has disappeared; it is because it has

transformed. Even in the conservative world of classical music, a critical public continues

to exist, emerging around significant events and rituals that invite, or provoke, the

audience to engage critically with music and debate their interpretations others.

This is especially true of music competitions where a culture-debating musical

public can be observed in a number of practices quite unusual in other circumstances.

During the applause between competitors, a scattering of audience members can always

be found scribbling frantically in the margins of their programme books. While not

everyone goes to the trouble of writing them down, there is no shortage of opinions once

intermission starts. Evaluations, however personal or subjective, are rarely kept private.

A seemingly innocent inquiry (most commonly, "What did you think of that?") would be

an inconsequential pleasantry at any other musical occasion. But at a competition, it can

provoke an impassioned critique of a competitor's programme or launch a prolonged

debate between complete strangers. Even those who profess little expertise are eventually

goaded into declaring favorites and making predictions, and then further charged to give

reasons. It is no wonder that the jury is often segregated from the rest of the audience,
 216

because there is no comer of the concert hall free of friendly debate; critiques of

competitors' performances, and frustration over the jury's choices, can be overheard

parterre, in the upper gallery, in the lobbies, and even in the restrooms. Critic's reviews

are often the object of conversation between audience members. For example, I

encountered an audience member who had made it a ritual to arrive early for

performances to read newspaper coverage of the competition with the woman in the

neighbouring seat until the lights dimmed. She was one of many regular attendees who,

by the end of each round, had developed her own list of favorite candidates to advance to

the next stage, which she would compare and defend against other's choices while

awaiting the announcement of results.

This is not to suggest that debate between audience members is confined to the

face-to-face setting of the concert hall. The musical public is also active online. It is

becoming increasingly common for competitions to broadcast performances over the

internet, free of charge, through streaming technology. This has greatly expanded the size

and geographic reach of the competition audience. Another new development is the

weblog. Competitions have often provided subject threads for established online

communities and internet forums. But for the 2005 cycle of the competition, Cliburn

Foundation hosted its own interactive weblog on their official website which succeed in

mustering an impressive amount of activity and attention. Over the course of three weeks,

the Cliburn blog accumulated more than nine hundred responses and it was estimated to

have been read by over sixteen thousand people (Borland 2005).

Just as in the concert hall, the most common form of participation in the musical

public online is engagement in critical debate, which typically involves taking the role of
the critic or the jury. In postings ranging in length from a few sentences to multiple

carefully-written paragraphs, online participants offered their own evaluations of

competitors, discussing every aspect of performance from programming choices, to

performance practice issues, to stage presence. More importantly, these critical reviews

were rarely written to stand alone, but engaged the official bloggers, and other

participants, in dialogue. As the end of each round approached, participants often shifted

from taking the role of the critic to assuming the role of the juror. While some simply

posted their selection for the top prize, others offered a complete ranking of competitors

with accompanying reasons, as though they were on the jury defending their choices and

explaining their rationale to their peers in the deliberation room.

Through the communication of these critical evaluations, a binary discourse of

musical motives emerges (see Box 5.1).

Box 5.1: The musical code

Musical Unmusical

Original Derivative

Authentic Calculated

Natural Unnatural/ perverse

Profound Superficial

Sincere Manipulative

Passionate Emotionless/mechanical
 218

Appeals for the worthiness of a candidate were couched in terms of their demonstration

of laudable qualities in performance (e.g., sincerity, passion, originality, authenticity,

technical command, communicative power, etc.). For example:

"Kobrin ROCKED. I had chills on top of chills. [...] Finally, a performer

who drove his stake into the ground, claimed his character, and demanded
that we hear the music his way. Like it or hate it, that quality is worth
everything to me. [...] Gripping. Profoundly beautiful. Mysterious.
Steeped with integrity. Rich in sentiment and free of sentimentality. I want
to hear it again right now, and again tomorrow. Kobrin is the straight line
running through this competition. I do not know what to make of him
ultimately, and isn't that a good thing? If we have an ultimate conclusion
about a pianist after five hours, doesn't that bespeak shallow waters?"
(Brad Hill, Cliburn blog, June 4)

Justification for a candidate's elimination, on the other hand, pointed to the absence of

these qualities, or worse, their opposite (e.g., playing that was unimaginative, mechanical,

manipulative, arrogant, unnatural etc.). Consider the following examples, bearing in mind

that the first refers to the same competitor:

"His playing of the Mozart Concerto last night was like a sonic autopsy on
a not-quite-dead body. He clawed out the meat of the melodies, then
forcefully scraped them from the body with cold precision onto a marble
slab. "This used to be Mozart," I thought.... maybe. [...] All during his
performance, his face loomed with the hint of ire, his large glasses like a
shield emotionally removing him from the splatter of his carnage in order
that he might grasp the body more coldly. This, in my opinion was the
undertaking of the "undertaker"."
(Paco, Cliburn blog, June 3)

"I think Joyce Yang produced the fakest music tonight. Everything is
artificial, music, express, gesture. Her shaking, arm-actions are well
scheduled. The music was never from her heart, never spontaneous. I
guess she doesn't know what the music tells. Terrible!!! If she will get a
medal, Van Cliburn is ruined. Trust me!!!"
(Kevin, Cliburn blog, June 3)
 219

As these excerpts suggest, the reference to a shared musical code hardly created a

consensus. Disagreements between audience members about the manifestation of positive

qualities in performers were often resulted from different listening orientations. For

example, audience members who were consistently structural listeners developed a strong

devotion to certain performers, while cultural consumers, music as entertainment, and

other performance-oriented listeners proclaimed the virtues of a different set of

candidates.

For many forum participants, judgments were complicated by the nature and

quality of mediated experience. Fearing that the webcast may have distorted their

impressions, distant audience members often prompted those attending live to describe

the sound from their position in the hall. But sound was not the only aspect of

performance inadequately transmitted over the web. The mediated audience also had to

rely on the accounts of bloggers and others for descriptions of audience reaction, a

significant factor in the evaluation of candidates and the prediction their success. This

aspect of performance proved to be as open to interpretation as competitors' musical

performances. One of the most heated controversies to erupt on the Cliburn blog

concerned the degree of enthusiasm, and the sincerity, of audience response to the

competitor who was eventually awarded the gold. When the official blogger posted a

review suggesting that loudest applause for this performer was confined to a section of

rowdy students seated in the second balcony, he received a swathe of angry responses

contradicting his account. Forum participants seated near the students argued that the

blogger had woefully misrepresented the genuine zeal and admiration this performer had
 220

inspired among the young audience members. Others added their own accounts of

positive reactions from surrounding audience members in different corners of the hall.

The reason why the controversy over audience reaction became so heated is

because it concerned more than an accurate representation of events; it also raised the

issue of bias. When forum participants come across as resentment listeners, too eager to

promote or disparage a particular candidate, they are seen as revealing uncivil motives

(Alexander 2006) that pollute the musical public sphere. Evaluations and judgments of

competitors, however passionately felt, must take the form of impersonal, reasoned

argument; otherwise, participants risk having their comments dismissed as propaganda or

"hype." But impartiality is not always easy to achieve. When an audience member sees in

a performer the embodiment of their musical ideals, they strongly identify with that

candidate and invest emotionally in their success. There is much at stake in their

recognition. Laureates of competitions are more than winners of prizes on a particular

day in a particular city; they are ambassadors of music in the broader cultural sphere and

indicators of the direction the art world is taking.

The only other controversy on the Cliburn blog to achieve the same level of

fervour revealed the norm of inclusiveness. This is not to suggest that status was

completely bracketed. Perhaps in an effort to make up for the absence of social

information in online interaction, forum participants often added weight to their

comments by mentioning their credentials or their status in the music profession. But this

practice was only tolerated as long as status was never presented as grounds for inclusion

in the musical public. When a forum participant questioned an official blogger's right to

review the competition because he was not a professional musician, he was met with a
 221

chorus of dissenting views. In the musical public, everyone has the right to express an

opinion about musical experience, and authority can only be earned through the

demonstration of musical knowledge expressed in rational arguments.

CONCLUSION

The audience of international music competitions is hardly an amorphous

aggregate of de-sociated individuals passively receiving what is presented to them. They

are an active public that engages in critical debate about musical experience, the meaning

of the event, and purpose of the institution. Because segments of the audience are

differently-positioned and differently-invested in the musical event, they adopt different

orientations to the performance. Through Adorno's typology of listeners, I identified a

range of orientations that hold possibilities for fusion - and rejection - on a number of

different levels.

Underpinned by the cultural code of civil society, the musical public carries

certain expectations not only of its participants, but of the musical institutions they

inhabit. Competitions are expected to recognize performers who best embody ideals and

who will best advance the art of music. But they are also expected to be transparent, rule-

regulated, and committed to equality in accomplishing that end. The competition

organization cannot deliver on all these counts. It cannot sustain a norm of equality and

inclusiveness while identifying and rewarding excellence; it cannot require that judges be

impersonal and also make a subjective aesthetic judgment.

The legitimacy of a competition ultimately depends on the harmonization of the

audience's musical experience with the ranking produced by the jury. Audiences will
 222

reject the prestige of a competition if they cannot make sense of the outcome, just as their

faith in the institution and love of music is restored when they do. As one respondent

explained:

"Everybody said get ready to be really disappointed because the Duty's]

results definitely won't fit with your own. But this pianist who won,
Alexander Kobrin. I heard everybody and I knew where he stood. And I
told myself if he doesn't win, I will never participate. Because my
understanding of music, of making music, is really the same as his. My
goal is to achieve the way he was playing, musically and in every way. For
me it was just perfect. I knew that [this result] was really my door to go
this way." (Interview with Competitor 4)

Much to the frustration of the devoted audience, they can never engage the jury in the

kind of public discussion they practice amongst themselves. Deliberations are sealed

forever, and the jury is never held to account. It is no wonder then that competitions have

been a source of controversy and debate in the music world since they were first

introduced over a hundred years ago. They not only create the conditions for a critical

musical public to emerge; they also provide a forum for where participants negotiate their

conflicting cultural ideals.

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