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ACKNOWLEDGMENT
For much that may be of value in the following I wish to express my gratitude to four musicians: Henry Cowell, Hanns Eisler, the late Jacob Schaefer, and especially to Charles Seeger, whose learning is both brilliant and catholic.
Further thanks are due to Herbert Haufreucht, Josephine Metcalf and Daniel Schwartz for their painstaking reading and criticism of the manuscript; to Helen Schechter for her generous assistance in preparing the copy, and above all to my wife for her invaluable criticisms, comments and suggestions.
IT IS ASTONISHING THAT AT THIS LATE DATE THE PLACE OF MUSIC in society and the influence of social forces on its development have been so little studied. Social analysis has in recent years cast new light on the meaning and development of literature and painting, the sciences, technology, religion and almost every aspect of human culture, yet towards an interpretation of the functions of music in society and its relation to the life of its time, little more than a beginning has been made.
While in literature the ivory tower, art-for-art's-sake theory is no longer accepted, this concept still prevails with regard to music, which is still considered as largely a vague, intangible experience, unrelated to all other experiences, whose chief function is to entertain, uplift, provide subjective emotional satisfaction to each individual in his own way. Is a piece of music pleasing? Is it ``good" or ``bad" music? These, it is felt, are the only important questions.
But who is to determine what is ``good" and what is ``bad" music, and furthermore, the question arises, ``Good for what?" To some the music of Stravinsky (or Shostakovich or Schönberg or Gershwin) is stimulating, vivid, challenging, ``good" because it reflects the forces of contemporary life; to others it is discordant, ugly and depressing. Some of the Negro Songs of Protest have been received with tremendous enthusiasm by certain audiences, as ``good" because they express the deepest feelings of an oppressed people; others no doubt find them harsh and bitter, ``bad music" for the same reason. Subjective reactions evidently tell us less about what is ``in the music" than about our own attitudes towards life and towards music as a part of it. Undoubtedly when we attempt to judge the nature of music and its place in the world solely on the basis of subjective reactions, thrills, pleasure and pain we are led into endless contradictions and confusion.
In present-day musical criticism there is no general agreement on the nature and function of music, its place in society, or contemporary problems. Composition today, we are told, is on the wane, but except for a few vague generalizations about the ``anti-artistic machine age," the ``decline of idealism," etc., no attempt is made to explain how this has come about. It is just a question, it would appear, of the absence of great individuals, of lack of creative genius, things which, anyway, no one can understand.
Even with regard to the music of the past, contemporary critical thought is equally confusing and contradictory. The history of music has been gone over with a fine-tooth comb to determine the individual facts of even its most obscure moment: whether such a composition was written on or before a certain date; whether it influenced or was influenced by another one; whether a certain musical form appeared in one country earlier than in another, etc. The facts of individual biography have been established with equally meticulous care. Yet because music has been investigated as though it were unrelated to the broad currents of history and developed on its own, out of artistic motives alone; because it has been studied in isolation from the general course of social and human development, musical history has been made to appear either as a succession of remarkable individuals, ``geniuses" who evolved everything out of their inner consciousness, or, in more scholarly works, as a rather mechanical process of evolution of certain technical forms. Since the latter are practically never treated in functional relation to inner content, to the social driving force which demanded that they should be brought into existence, the reasons why they should ever have come into being at all are not made clear, and we are led to suppose that, like Topsy, they ``just grew."
Why music developed and changed as it did (sometimes, as in 1600 or in 1900, with dramatic suddenness) ; why vocal music predominated in one period, and instrumental music in another; why at one time contrapuntal forms held sway, at another harmonic, and at a third contrapuntal again; why certain nations entered the history of music, receded, made a brilliant return, and then disappeared for hundreds of years3, why one period emphasized strictness of form, another instrumental virtuosity, a third emotional content--to all these questions and to many, many others we are given no answers, except that ``it happened so." And indeed we can be given no answers from the point of view of pure music because the profound events of musical history have fundamentally extra-musical causes.
In fact, we are given to understand that questions as to the why of music are in themselves absurd. We are told that music cannot be questioned or understood, it just is. Biographers, historians, radio commentators, critics, writers of program notes--whose ideas ultimately determine, by and large, those of the public--unite in affirming that music is a mystery4, that it is essentially a ``spiritual" thing5(hence not to be comprehended in ``material" terms); that it is entirely a product of the inner life of individuals6; and that society and the environment have little or no influence on ``great" music7. The composer, we are told, stands beyond time and space, and outside the sweep of forces that affect other men. In fact, it appears that not even he is aware of what happens when he writes music, being moved by some unseen power. Thus Gilman: ``No musical artist knows quite what he is saying."8``The strange power of Debussy's music proceeds from... the invisible life of the soul, the dream within the dream"9; and Downes: ``Music comes from a deeper source in ourselves than we ourselves know, and art is an escape from actuality."10
Even practising musicians themselves, who, because of their daily contact with the very material problems of the medium, should know better, remain largely under the sway of these doctrines. Stravinsky, a careful handler of the technical and physical materials of music, and a good business man to boot, writes of music as if it belonged to a world apart from life: ``Music is given to us with the sole purpose of establishing an order in thins.... It is... this achieved order which produces in us a unique emotion having nothing in common with our ordinary sensations and our responses to the expression of daily life."11
But the most profound comment is that of Walter Damrosch (whose regular weekly Music Appreciation broadcasts are said by NBC to have over seven million listeners), who reasons that because Schubert, who was poor, and Mendelssohn, who was rich, both wrote good music, this proves ``to what a limited extent genius is affected by the conditions of existence."12After this, truly no more can be said!
Whether or not the ideologists of the present order are correct in separating music from everything else in life we shall see later. What we are concerned with now is to find out who benefits from this separation, with its attendant mystification and confusion. For from the point of view of certain interests in contemporary musical life, it is no bad thing.
In the first place, if these doctrines are unhesitatingly accepted by those concerned with music, as for the most part they actually are, musicians will not question the social bases of the conditions under which they work, nor the social function of their work. The public, too, will patiently accept the musical status quo, believing that since music is unrelated to material conditions, and is, furthermore, entirely the affair of a few individuals, they, as the mere audience, cannot possibly have any influence upon the development of the art. Composers will go on creating in the same way for the same people, contemplating the ``inner soul" and never questioning the society under which such activity is doomed to frustration in advance.
Conversely, the spread of a realistic, social view of music would be dangerous to those for whom the confusion and mysticism of the present viewpoint is valuable. Once we begin to look upon this art as part of the social organism, affected by and affecting practically everything else in society, we are rudely awakened out of the idyllic dream-world of the romantic biographers and radio commentators. Instead of the much-publicized ``advance" of music in the world today, we find that it is from top to bottom in the throes of as severe a crisis as afflicts every other aspect--economic and cultural--of present-day society13.
We find that, as in other fields, capitalism has created the most magnificent apparatus for the production, distribution and consumption of music that the world has ever seen: yet this apparatus is so riddled with contradictions basically economic in origin that it negates its own potentialities and is rapidly becoming unable to function.
What are these contradictions? First, with regard to production. (In music this is necessarily a multiple process involving composers and performing musicians.) Concerning the former, we have more well-trained composers today than ever before in history, yet the difficulties that stand in the way of their normal functioning are daily growing more enormous. Except for the one field which is commercially profitable--popular dance music--their works are for the most part unpublished, are rarely performed, and hence remain almost completely unknown to the public. Although much is said by leading socialites and in the press about what is being done for ``culture," and although hundreds of millions of dollars are spent annually on music in this country, practically no money can be found to recompense composers of serious music--sonatas, symphonies, string quartets, operas--with the result that not one composer of such music in America can live by his work as a composer14. Paradoxically enough, the country which spends more money than any other on music does not provide for those who are most essential to the continued existence and further development of the art, with the result that our best creative talents, pressed by economic necessity, are obliged to give the larger part of their time to every kind of work but that for which they are most fitted and which is of the highest social utility.
Even those composers who work in the jazz field--the only one which grants some measure of material recognition--find themselves faced by the social contradiction of a constantly expanding demand for good popular music on the one hand and a continuous and catastrophic decline in the sale of sheet music, on the other. Add to this the growing monopolization of music publishing by a few large corporations, with the attendant increasingly conservative publishing policy (large investments mean that the emphasis must be on the exploitation of big names, and on ``cashing in" on numbers and styles that have already gone over; new, unknown composers and ``experimental" forms and styles are dangerous risks), and it becomes apparent that the struggle of the jazz composer for survival grows ever more intense, his exploitation by the big companies ever harsher15, and the chances of new ideas or new talent breaking through ever smaller.
What of the performers? Here too, although the interpreter on the whole far eclipses the creator in public prestige and (largely because he is so well unionized) material reward, the contradictions of the present social set-up have wrought and are wreaking havoc. Although instrumental skill has advanced in recent years to the point where thousands now possess the virtuosity needed to play compositions which a few generations back were approached only by a daring few; although the general musicianship of a wide strata of performing artists now surpasses anything so far achieved, yet the opportunity to make use of these abilities has been drastically and tragically curtailed, not only by general economic conditions, but by technological changes--radio and movies--which, if rationally organized, could be the greatest force for the furtherance of music which the world has ever known. True, a few stars have capitalized on the tremendous sums expended by commercial advertisers for radio time. But while radio has caused a sharp drop in concert opportunities 16, this industry employs an astonishingly small number of musicians17. In consequence, as against one all-star ``Toscanini orchestra" (salary of conductor $4,000 per night), tens of thousands of musicians face the prospect of more or less permanent unemployment. Conservatories and music schools add to this total by turning out new thousands of superbly trained young artists every year without concerning themselves as to where and how all this talent will find an outlet.
How about distribution and consumption--are there contradictions here too? The most obvious one, of course, is that of ``over-production" in the midst of want--a want and a need for good music that has grown with phenomenal rapidity all over the United States within the last few years. Although thousands of unemployed musicians are able and anxious to produce, and a public of hundreds of thousands and millions is anxious to hear the best music, the fact remains that producer and consumer cannot get together: this country of over 125 million people has only one full-time major opera house, and less than a dozen major orchestras. We will have to seek the reason for the gulf between producer and consumer not in any poverty of artistic resources or economic capacity, but in the distribution set-up which fails to organize the productive forces of music so that they may function in a rational way, just as it fails, for that matter, to organize the distribution of wheat or automobiles. That music is a cultural commodity and wheat and automobiles physical commodities in no way alters the fact that the crisis in each of these fields is due neither to a failure in the technique of production nor to the disappearance of the need and desire to consume: the fault in each case lies with the system of distribution for profit instead of for use.
The present entrepreneurs of the music industry, the ``angels," boards of directors and managing agencies (the latter coming more and more under the control of the two large radio chains) without whom no concert activities of any importance can function at the present time, have shown, by their failure to provide for the broad needs of either producers or consumers of music, that their system of private investment and subsidy on the one hand and private profit on the other is outmoded and cannot organize the music industry to meet the needs of present-day society.
But, it may be objected, why worry about the concert field? Is it not giving way before more modern and more far-reaching techniques of circulating music? Although it is doubtful whether the new distributing agencies will ever replace the concert, there is no question but that the radio and movies have both contributed enormously to the diffusion of musical culture among wide masses of people never reached by the concert. Yet, much as they have done, their utility is seriously limited, and, even negated by (1) the lack of any serious, systematic educational program to relate the music to the lives of the people, and (2) the planless, crazy-quilt mixture of ``classical," ``semi-classical" and ``popular" music (often on the same program) dictated by the commercial sponsor's philosophy of ``appealing to every taste." As a result, while much fine music is played, it is often bogged down and lost in a morass of mediocrity and musical pap. Many of the best programs of unusual and valuable music are presented at hours when they cannot be heard by the majority of people, who work, the reason being that most of the best hours are sold. Furthermore the social value of even the finest music is seriously jeopardized by the circumstances surrounding its presentation. Thus when used as a ``come-on" for vicious anti-labor attacks (the stock-in-trade of Henry Ford's and General Motors' Sunday night speech-makers), the performance of such a work as Beethoven's Ninth Symphony (Alle Menschen Werden Brüder) obviously negates its own original purpose.
Once we become aware of the constricting and limiting effects of the present social set-up upon music, it is not hard to see why the corporation magnates, socialites and bankers who patronize and hence in the long run control every important means of production of music18cling to the doctrines of ``music for music's sake," the ``spirituality" of music, the ``freedom" of the creative mind which can always ``rise above" its ``mere" material environment, etc., etc. If it be generally accepted, as it now is, that the material and social circumstances in which music is produced have no bearing on the substance of music itself, then the actual control of music will be considered unimportant and this control will not be challenged.
It is obvious now why the pure art doctrines are preached and emphasized so incessantly. They form a lovely, ethereal mist which has hovered over and almost completely concealed the domination of our musical life by the ``angels" of high finance and high society. Nor is this domination a mere whim or fancy to idle away a weary hour. It serves the very real and valuable purposes of maintaining social prestige19and creating a benevolent cultural facade for those whose activities in other directions are hardly benevolent20, as well as the more obvious uses of advertising, purchasing public good will, and indoctrination21.
In those countries where the economic crisis has compelled the industrial and financial oligarchy to resort to terror and fascism to maintain itself in the saddle, ruling class control and utilization of music for its own narrow class purposes has become blatant and unconcealed. With apologies to no one, music is openly abused and distorted; it takes on vicious, degrading functions. Only two examples can be given here: (1) the shameless perversion in present-day Germany of Beethoven's Eroica Symphony, dedicated originally to a great liberator and democrat (the young Napoleon), performed today in honor of Adolf Hitler22; and (2) the distortion of the traditional popular Christmas hymn, Heilige Nacht, which teaches peace and brotherhood, into a Nazi-Pagan hymn of hate.
When in the face of these facts we read statements by outstanding modern composers that ``music has no more relation to the external world than has a game of chess" (Schönberg) ; and that ``music is nothing else but the interplay of forms, patterns, and volumes of sound" (Stravinsky), it is obvious that these would-be leaders of musical opinion have had the wool drawn over their eyes and are now trying to draw it over ours. It becomes a matter of cardinal importance that we understand the social function of music if that art is not to degenerate into, utter bankruptcy. Such a study involves a new analysis and revaluation of the whole history of music and becomes an instrument of enlightenment and action, with particularly important practical consequences for the performance and composition of music today.
WHAT DOES A SOCIAL ANALYSIS OF THE HISTORY OF MUSIC REVEAL? We shall try to indicate this in a series of basic general hypotheses, followed by a brief summary of specific historical material as illustration. The following eight points may serve as a preliminary framework for a social understanding of music23:
It should be obvious from a consideration of these eight hypotheses that the adoption of a social viewpoint does not give one a mechanical formula that suffices to explain forthwith every musical situation. The relation between society and music is never that of an identity, 1 == 1. Social influences do not act in an immediate, direct, simple way. Often the effect is delayed, circuitous, oblique; in most cases a broad effect, felt over a long period of time, not perhaps discernible in one particular instance, but evident in a broad collection of instances. And music just as frequently has as strong an effect on society as the other way round. Often it develops its own momentum and goes off on its own, apparently independent of the dominant forces of society. The act of responding to a social stimulus becomes in itself a stimulus creating new musical responses apparently unrelated to the original initiating force. But this lack of relationship is only apparent; and can only go so far. Social pressure sooner or later makes itself felt again, and again fresh contact is established, possibly from a new point of departure28.
In any case, it should be clear that serious students undertaking an analysis of the works of a particular composer or period must be prepared to take into consideration a vast complex of interrelated factors.
WHEN ONE CONSIDERS THE AGE OF THE ART OF MUSIC, ITS UNIVERSALITY, and the endless variety of forms which it has taken all over the world, the provincialism of judgment of those musicians and critics who base their thinking on one small segment of the totality of musical experience becomes apparent. It is common knowledge that most of the musical public as well as the vast majority of professionals consider that ``good music" began with Bach and ended with Brahms, or if one is very broad-minded, with Debussy; and includes only music written for the concert or operatic stage during this period.
Any understanding of music that is founded on something broader than private prejudice and wishful thinking must include recognition of the fact that music is music not only when played in full dress from the platform of a high-priced auditorium; that that music which is familiar and pleasing to us is only part of the vast human experience of music; that there are no hard and fast lines between art, popular and folk music, which constantly intermingle and grow out of one another; that from a scientific point of view it is equally important to consider and evaluate the music of other nations and cultures as well as that of our own; finally that in Europe alone there has been a vast amount of non-concert music which is of equal if not greater significance than the music played from the concert stage for audiences comprising at most one or two percent of the people.
If we are really to evaluate the place and potentialities of music as part of civilization, it is necessary to examine it objectively as it appeared at different moments in history, to consider its relation to life and society, and how this relation developed from the earliest times to the present29.
FIRST, THEN, WHAT WERE SOME OF THE EARLIEST SOCIAL FUNCTIONS of music? A study of the musical practice of primitive and folk cultures reveals that there was practically no aspect of life in which music did not play an essential and functional part. It was an integral part of important public acts, magic, ritual, ceremony and labor30.
This list of functions can be extended almost indefinitely, so varied are the circumstances in which men in all parts of the world have found music to be of practical value in accomplishing the tasks of everyday living31. From the cradle to the grave, literally, music has been an omnipresent factor in most primitive and folk societies, closely associated at every step with vital biological and social activities. Its use determined its form, and ``pure" or unrelated art was unknown, or the rarest of exceptions32. The intensity of the struggle for survival caused early man to press into service everything that could stimulate, encourage, organize and help him. Music was found to be an invaluable helper.
Much valuable information as to the social use of music can be gathered from a study of the folk music of the world. One of the most widespread uses of music was as an aid to labor: (a) to energize, to lighten the monotony, to set the rhythm for repeated labor movements (songs of millers, weavers, potters, spinners, smiths, etc.); (b) to regulate the pace and help coordinate the efforts of large groups of workers, as well as to stimulate and help workers spur one another on in the performance of tedious and protracted tasks (songs of barge-haulers, planters, reapers, lumbermen, boatloaders, oarsmen; more modern examples: pile-drivers, railroad gangs, longshoremen, cotton pickers). At all times, among all peoples, men have sung to help themselves at work. Repeated rhythmical labor movements have turned into basic musical rhythms, strong and weak beats growing out of the tension and relaxation of the body muscles.
Another function of music was as an integral part of the labor mechanism, apart from any psychological effect on the worker himself. Thus, the flute-playing of the shepherd arose not out of any aesthetic urge to self-expression, but from the discovery that it was an admirable means of keeping the flock together. Hunters' songs imitative of the sound of animals, useful as decoys, and street cries advertising a product are but two other examples of this type of music. Space does not permit a further analysis of labor music33. So basic was this use that it is found everywhere in folk music (Russian, German, French, etc., the ``Volga Boat Song" being the commonest example) right up to the present day, and it is the basis of many forms of ``art" music (e.g. the spinning song, hunting song, pastorale, boat-song are refined, latter-day concert versions of the same).
Another important function of music was its use in ceremonials: to arouse in large numbers of individuals a common emotion and the sense of joint participation in a ritual or event of vital significance to the group as a whole. No more effective means of creating a sense of group solidarity has ever been found than joint participation in music of this character. Universally we find music used to, awaken and intensify group emotions in wedding celebrations, holidays, funerals, memorial ceremonies, and in the winter solstice (Christmas), spring (Easter), and autumn harvest festivals. Originating in earliest times, these uses of music are universally found today. Some of the other functions Of music34widely found in primitive and folk cultures (which we can but list) are:
Examination of but a few specimens of the above will reveal the influence of function on form35. Thus it is obvious that the lullaby function, for instance, demands certain types of monotonous rhythm, subdued tone color, placid melodic outline; war music on the other hand demands stimulating, sharp rhythms, harsh and aggressive tone color and insistent melodic forms. Love music demands a rich, appealing tone color; dance music a persistent, regular rhythmic beat. Because of its simplicity, primitive and folk music provides excellent material for the study of these fundamental relations.
WHEN WE PASS TO THE STUDY OF MUSIC OF RELATIVELY MORE COMPLEX types of social organization, we witness the development of other forms corresponding to the needs of other social stratifications. The music of chieftains and kings begins to differ from that of the mass. New functions arise: music begins to be used as a mark of social prestige, for the glorification and entertainment of the ruling class. The aristocracy, anxious to separate itself culturally and spiritually from the common herd, tends to develop a distinctive musical language of its own. The most talented musicians of the people are drawn into the palaces. They become house servants or ``professional" musicians, whose activity leads them to invent new, subtler and more pleasing tone colors and techniques of performance, as well as to create special refined and intricate music which will henceforth be the property of their patron or employer. The nobleman exhibits ``his" musicians and ``his" music before his fellow aristocrats as a sign of refinement and quality, and, on rarer occasions, to the entire populace, as a symbol of his grandeur and might. Music, which arose out of the folk, becomes a regular part of court functions, changing its character, losing its roughness, vigor and simplicity in the process of becominp, the property of the aristocracy.
In Java, for example, the music of the nobility was, until recently at least, entirely different from that of the folk. Princes vied with one another in supporting larger and more lavish ``gamelan" orchestras. Social distinction was carried to such an extreme, that each orchestra not only cultivated its own musical style, many had their own special systems of tuning the, instruments. Similar conditions are found in Bali, India and elsewhere. Feudal or semi-feudal classes in Japan, China, India, Arabia and western Europe until the nineteenth century cultivated special music of their own differing from that of the folk, and this was often carefully guarded from the people to preserve distinction and prestige36.
All through the middle ages in western Europe these two types existed and developed side by side: aristocratic music of entertainment, elegance and social prestige, cultivated at first by the troubadours and minnesingers and then by a long line of musicians hired by princes to compose music for court dances, fetes and other ceremonies; and the music of the people, which continued to perform the life-functions mentioned above, and constantly created an abundance of living material which surrounded the court musicians on all sides, and from which they constantly drew for the nourishment of their own art.
Developing alongside of these two types of music was a third, equally important one: religious music. Because of its ability to arouse strong emotions, music has since earliest times been a vital part of magical and religious ceremonies. Shamans, wizards, medicine-men, sooth-sayers, magicians and priests have understood this power of music and have used it universally to arouse the feelings of awe, solemnity, mystery and ecstacy so essential to the effectiveness of the ritual.
In those religious based on drawing the people into active participation in the ritual performance, whether for the purpose of arousing mass hysteria and ecstacy37or collective expressions of self-debasement, grief and repentance38, collective singing, often lasting for hours, and sometimes days, served as an invaluable means of inducing these states. In order to be effective, the music here had to be of a kind that the people could and would sing. It is not surprising then that religious music in these cases drew heavily on folk music for much of its material39.
In other religions, possibly those more closely bound up with the policies of dominant social groups, the ceremonies were performed almost entirely by the shamans or priests and their assistants, the people participating only in a passive way, and often being forbidden to sing. Music here took on the function of hypnosis and bewitchment, and became a means of cowing the superstitious mass into fear and obedience. This required a special form of music, music that differed markedly from that of everyday life. Strange, awe-inspiring and mystical, it was often sung in a special tone-quality cultivated by the priests, and in a monotonous and lulling or ecstatic manner which gave it a super-terrestrial quality. In addition to this special manner of chanting, the religious songs were often sung in a special, consecrated language incomprehensible and mysterious to the multitude, thus conferring additional holiness upon it and making it seem really like a special means of communication with the super-natural powers40. The music used for this purpose frequently became the exclusive property of the religious caste, the people being forbidden to sing it. This, too, lent it sacredness and prestige.
These uses of music and their effects on the development of musical form are clearly illustrated in the history of the Christian church. In the first three centuries, when Christ's teachings were the religion of poor fishermen, artisans and slaves, all the people joined in singing the psalms, and even improvised their own versions of hymns during the services41. Music was used as a means of arousing enthusiasm for the new religion42to cement the will to resist the persecutions of the Roman authorities, and although the Christian hymns were crude compared with the flowery, richly ornamented music enjoyed by the Roman patricians, still they were already considered very moving and a powerful means of conversion43. These early hymns were, in all probability, largely popular in origin44.
And when, towards the fourth century, this mass religious movement became a menace to the upper classes, they adopted Christianity as the official state doctrine and set up the institutionalized Roman church to be supervised in the interests of the ruling class. Like all other aspects of this powerful mass movement, its music began to come under authoritarian control, and rigid restrictions were set up45regarding its practice. Finally, ``The council of Laodicea, in the year 364, forbade anyone to sing hymns, except the canonical psalmists who had the right to mount the pulpit."46
In order to suppress better the ever-present danger of heresy47, which often crept in via the musical route, and to strengthen the authority of the Roman pope over the not always too submissive bishops of the outlying provinces recently converted from paganism, Pope Gregory in the sixth century drew up a catalog of approved songs and sent emissaries throughout the Christian world with instructions that these songs were henceforth to, be the exclusive music of the Christian church48.
As part of its emphasis on the sinfulness of the body, in its struggle against paganism, the church attempted to eliminate all musical elements originating in physical activities of any kind49. Thus all dance music, work music, love music--in short, folk and popular music of all varieties--was declared the work of the devil, those who sang it threatened with eternal Hell-fire, the popular musicians (minstrels and jongleurs) excommunicated50and even the major scale outlawed because it was the one in which many popular songs were composed51.
In place of these the church developed its own kind of music--a music with no measures, no strong or weak beats, no stimulating accented rhythms (these would be too reminiscent of the dance); no rousing melodic leaps. In the course of several hundred years there developed the Gregorian chant52--a floating, detached, impersonal kind of song, which achieved the chief effect of the liturgy: lulling, hypnosis, submersion of the individuality of the listener. Besides the fact that it was sung to, not by the people, in the Latin language which they could not understand, the very nature of the music itself--its lack of clear-cut outlines, its hovering quality--was conducive to removing the mind from the things of the world and plunging it into a spiritual fog, in which commonsense analysis of the sermons which were interpolated among the musical numbers became increasingly difficult, if not impossible.
It is not hard to see why it was a good investment for the church to support tens of thousands of monks (who were given the monopoly of musical as well as other kinds of learning) to develop and supervise Gregorian music, for this was one of the main instruments utilized by the church all through the middles ages in the accomplishment of its main social task, the upholding of feudalism. The profits which the church derived from its place in the feudal system are too well known to need exposition here.
From about the ninth century onward, monastic specialists, possibly under the stimulus of outside influences, possibly from a natural tendency towards variation and experiment, began to modify and embroider the Gregorian chant by the addition of various types of counterpoint53. Aroused by the threat that this musical play might endanger the austerity and effectiveness of the traditional chants, the ecclesiastical authorities took action. From this time on there issued from the papal chair a continual series of regulations and restrictions designed to maintain and fixate the traditional official church style against the threat of innovation and against that of popular music, another constant danger to the church philosophy. In spite of these repeated authoritarian edicts, however, popular music not only flourished vigorously everywhere on the outside all through the middle ages, but it kept continuously infiltrating into the church54, pushing right up into the church music itself, undermining the dry austerity of the latter, acting as a stimulus and contributing to musical advance, enlivening and enriching the works of the leading church composers at every stage55.
In vain did the Pope thunder against the modern innovations; in vain did the church lay down narrow restrictions (at one time sanctioning the exclusive of the three rhythm, because this was the number of the Holy Trinity56; at another banning written sharps and flats57 because these menaced the traditional old model system.)
The growing life of the towns and the development of free cities due to the expansion of commerce between the twelfth and fourteenth centuries had developed a new type of man whose interests ranged wider than those of the peasant or serf bound to the soil, and who, having once tasted the pleasures of the new contrapuntal style, could no longer be contented with the bare simplicity of the older one-voiced Gregorian chant. Under the combined stimulus of the inhabitants of the bourgs--the ``bourgeois"--and of the feudal seigneurs, now in the prime of their power, there grew up a curious new contrapuntal form, the early motet. This musical pattern was an amazing reflection within the church art itself of the contradictions in mediaeval society and of the various class groups contending for power in it. A typical sample might superpose in a nonchalant way: a bawdy love sonp,, of popular origin; a courtly ornamented troubadour melody; and last (sometimes least) a traditional Gregorian chant--all three sung simultaneously, as part of the church service!
No wonder the pope, in another of his Joshua-like attempts to command the progress of music to stand still, decreed, at Avignon in 1322, the total abolition of all counterpoint (except for a few fourths, fifths and octaves, which might be allowed on the very holiest holidays) and ordered a return to the good old unadorned Gregorian chant. But it was no use.
The church musicians, responding more to the impetus of the advancing currents of life in the outside world than to the narrow letter of the pope's dictates, immediately began to seek, and find, loopholes in the law, and soon were on their way merrily as before, developing new contrapuntal forms and contributing to the interest and advancement of their art58.
MENTION HAS BEEN MADE OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE BURGHERS AND aristocrats alike on church music. But both of these classes were, all during the period under discussion, developing distinctive musical forms of their own, corresponding to their own class interests. Limitations of space permit only the briefest mention of these, although the aristocratic music, at least, was in no way inferior in importance, quantity or quality to that of the church. Starting at about the time of those great religious and commercial movements, the crusades, and possibly under the influence of Arabic court art, and certainly under that of the heretical Albigensian doctrines in Southern France, the knights and barons, who constituted the dominant landowning class in feudal society, developed a highly refined, lyrical and formalized type of song of their own.
Dealing with chivalry, knighthood and courtly love, the songs of the troubadours, trouvéres and minnesingers were rhythmical, fresh, and exceedingly attractive to the ear. They expressed poetic, and frequently personal sentiments of a clever and often sensuous character, typical of a leisured class with a great deal of time to devote to the weighty problems of falcon-breeding, making war on one another and competing at the famous ``courts of love." These songs naturally formed the greatest contrast to the contemporary music of the church, being closely related and indebted59to the music of the serfs and peasantry, out of whom the feudal lords drew not only food, labor, taxes, dues and physical and military services, but also, in the ``spiritual" sphere, a rich and endless stream of melodies which provided the raw material for the fashioning of many a song of courtly elegance and grace60.
The broad variety of musical patterns and forms which characterized the art of this class reflected the diversity of subjects treated by the troubadours and minnesingers, and the numerous uses which they made of music. Of great interest also, as a revelation of the class antagonisms of this period, are the many satirical songs (the so-called ``sirventes") directed by the troubadours against the rapacity and -hypocrisy of those of the clergy who preached abstinence while living on the fat of the land. These anti-clerical songs61, mirrored the growing resentment of all classes of people during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries against the greed, corruption and scandalous abuses of the church, which, while it owned between one-third and one-half of all the land, and collected a tax of ten per cent on everyone's income, worked its serfs ruthlessly and contributed much less than it pretended to the relief of the sick and the poor.
The influence on music of another important segment of mediaeval society is to be found in the works of the bourgeois trouvéres of the commercial city of Arras, who directed satirical songs against both clergy and nobility62. One of these, Adam de la Halle, composed the secular drama with music, Robin et Marion, which mercilessly flayed the vices of the feudal barons, thus reflecting the already strong conflict of interests between the town bourgeoisie and the nobility in the thirteenth century. The wide utilization of popular themes by these writers and by the slightly later musicians of the German guilds, the meistersingers, reveal in striking form the energy of this class63.
Was it an accident that when in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the complex, intellectual art of polyphony attained its most elaborate development, it was largely in the thriving, teeming commercial cities of Flanders that it did so64? Although the composers of the famed Netherlands School, from Josquin des Pres and Jannequin to Orlando di Lassus, wrote for both church and court, the lively rhythms and popular themes which they introduced into even their motets and masses revealed a freshness of spirit and an intellectual curiosity characteristic of the enterprising merchants and traders who were soon to found the first of the modern bourgeois republics, Holland.
It is this same spirit which a short time later was to dominate the Elizabethan madrigalists (Byrd, Morley, Gibbons) and, within the limits of the aristocratic patronage system which still constrained them to write exquisitely of ``Fair Phyllis" and ``Gentle Sweet Nymph," to give a boldness and vitality to their work which marked them as belonging to the generation of Marlowe, Shakespeare and Francis Drake.
At this place mention might be made of the influence, throughout several centuries of musical development, of the princely and royal chapels which reflected the growing concentration of state power in the hands of the centralized monarchies of France, England, Spain, etc65. These chapels, consisting of singing groups, orchestras, and composers writing especially for them, began on a small scale around the fourteenth century, and gradually took on more importance for music as the centralized monarchies grew in power, reaching their climax in the royal opera of the courts of Louis XIV, with Lully; George III in England, with Handel; and the Emperor Joseph II in Austria, with Mozart.
PERHAPS THE GREATEST CONTRAST IN MUSIC DURING THE RENAISSANCE was between those two outstanding Italian masters, Palestrina and Monteverde. The former, composer to the Sistine Chapel, and the last great representative of Catholic polyphonic art, eschewed the lively profane themes employed by the Flemish composers, and developed a ``sober style, free from all impure and light suggestions" that was the admiration of the Council of Trent. Claudio Monteverde (1567-1643), whose career overlapped that of the pope's musician (1524-1594), was a fearless musical innovator. He developed a tempestuous, emotional opera style in which all the violent energies of the late Renaissance found their fruition. The detached, conservative, impersonal manner of Palestrina's polyphony suited perfectly the ideology of his patron, the pope. Monteverde's bold use of the solo voice, his prosodical, declamatory setting of words, his daring dissonances, his use for the first time of the orchestra as a background to the voice--these served to stir the passions and to give a sense of the excitement of life to the adventurers, soldiers and ennobled or bourgeois tradesmen of renaissance Italy, and particularly those of mercantile Venice. In communicating this new message to this new audience--the message of the individual human character, of searing emotions, of love and violence, Monteverde was impelled to develop new techniques. He and other opera composers of his time broke down the century-old traditions of impersonality and objectivity embodied in the mediwval polyphonic style of the church, and laid the foundation of the modern homophonic style of accompanied melody, a style suited to the requirements of an age of action and individualism.
The revolutionary nature of the innovations of Monteverde and his school have often been pointed out as evidence of the mysterious workings of individual genius and the unpredictability of the development of music. But it is only when we study this composer in relation to the rising new audience for whom he wrote, and whose interests led him to express a new content, that the sudden changes in musical technique and style which he introduced become intelligible, and the so-called mystery of musical development disappears.
While in Italy mediaeval ideals were being broken up by the Renaissance, in other parts of Europe they were being violently assailed by the Reformation. Luther, as a representative of the German middle class, knew that if the power of Rome, with the weight of centuries behind it, was to be broken, every possible means of persuasion and militant struggle would have to be used; and he realized the potency of music as a means of rallying the multitude behind him, writing in 1524: ``I propose, after the example of the prophets and of the early church Fathers to write for the people German hymns and spiritual songs, so that, by the help of song, the word of God may abide among them66. In line with the new doctrines of the Protestant faith, which held that the people can speak to God directly and individually rather than through the mediation of priests (John Strachey calls it ``the free market in God"), Luther saw that it was necessary for everyone to participate actively in the religious service. Instead of passively absorbing a musical revelation handed out by the priest and choir in a foreign tongue (also musically foreign), as in the Catholic church, the congregation was now to participate in the singing of hymns67, in their own language, and in a musical idiom familiar to them.
These new conditions demanded a new kind of music suitable for mass singing, the Gregorian chant and the Catholic polyphony being obviously too complex and rarefied. Assisted by a number of trained musicians, Luther himself set out to develop a new type of song (later termed the chorale) specifically suited to the needs of the new church. And, of course, the musical materials suited to the new social purpose did not spring full-born out of the air, ready for use. They had to be taken from materials already at hand, molded, patched over, transformed with the new purpose in mind until they gradually took on a more or less serviceable form. Luther examined the old Gregorian chants, folk songs, street songs, any likely tunes that came to hand.
``He took whatever old melody suited his purpose and 'improved' it--only the improvement was often more drastic in the case of the tune than in that of the words, for it was his first care to see that the melodies were singable and easily grasped ... While the Reformation brought the folk song into religion ...the object was conversion rather than borrowing [as] was shown by the title of a collection that appeared in Frankfurt in 1571:
``Street songs, cavalier songs, mountain songs, for the abolishing in the course of time of the bad and vexatious practise of singing idle and shameful songs in the streets, in fields, and at home, by substituting for them good, sacred, honest words."68
Comparison of these songs before and after they had been ``improved" reveals how the change in their social function necessitated revisions in their technical structure: alterations in the melodic outline, general slowing down and simplification of the rhythm, the addition of harmony, and the breaking up of the melody into short phrases separated by the characteristic ``holds."69
For one hundred and fifty years (1550-1700) the particular requirements and conditions of the Protestant church molded the work of the long line of composers70whom it employed to write its special music, leading them to develop characteristically Protestant forms, founded on the chorale as the music known to and sung by the masses. Thus there grew up the great forms of organ music, the chorale prelude and the chorale variation, and the vocal form of cantata and passion, all of which played a regular, functional role in the religious service71. The culmination of this long development was in the works of two great Protestant composers, Handel and, especially, J.S. Bach.
``The works of Bach are, in the deepest sense of the word, occasional works; he wrote them because circumstances ordered them72." Bach was no other-worldly visionary. He couldn't be, for he had to make his living at writing music, among other things. From the age of fifteen to the very end of his life, he wrote according to the wishes of his employers, or those whom he hoped would employ him. His music was functional to the environment in which he lived. When he had a position as organist, he wrote organ music; when he worked as violinist in the orchestra of a petty ducal court, he composed for the violin and for the orchestra; when he became head of music in a leading Leipzig church, he wrote cantatas for chorus and orchestra (for anumber of years, one every week). The B Minor Mass, the piano works (Klavierübung)73, the Brandenburg Concertos, the St. Matthew Passion--all these were written not for the sake of self-expression or out of a desire to create pure art, but as specific responses to the needs of the environment, and, more often than not, in fulfillment of the order of a specific patron. That Bach was able at the same time to create enduring works of art testifies not only to his personal genius, which was great, but also to the value of the stimulus of the type of functioning that an artist has when he is integrated, physically and spiritually, with his environment.
A comparison of the church music of Bach and Handel is revealing. Both men wrote for the Protestant church74. Yet, as Alan Bush points out, there is a marked difference in spirit between the works of the two men75. Bach's church music reveals, on the whole, an attitude of resignation and defeatism regarding worldly affairs, and often a mystical longing for death ``which would be incomprehensible," says Bush, ``in a person of his character and abilities, except when seen as a reflection in the religious sphere of the dissatisfaction with its material conditions of the class to which he belonged, the German middle class," which was then going through a period of economic stagnation.
The church music of Handel, on the other hand, was characteristically full of bounding energy. It radiated a robust, four-square confidence in life and reflected Handel's position as composer to the thriving commercial middle classes of bourgeois England in the heyday of its colonial power76.
The introspective quality of much of Bach's art and its emphasis on the poignant emotional overtones of the biblical stories was a natural reaction to a rather provincial life in a backward German town far from the main currents of action of his century. It fostered the complex, brooding chromaticism and the intricate contrapuntal speculation77so characteristic of much of his work. In his St. Matthew Passion, Bach summed up two hundred years of suffering and unfulfilled longing on the part of the peasants and artisans of southern Germany who had turned to the Protestant faith for liberation from the hardships of their lives. Handel's music, easier, more forthright and more external than Bach's, eschewed contrapuntal and chromatic complexities for the most part, founding itself on a relatively simple harmonic counterpoint whose directness spurred on to a life of energy and action.
Although austerity dominates Bach's church music, his other works reveal different traits. Bach reflected the various social groups with which he came in contact: in his Peasant and Coffee Cantatas, and in the solidity and robust good health of his inventions, instrumental ``instruction pieces" and dance movements, are reflected the honest, hard-working artisans and petty bourgeois78; in his entertainment and display pieces, concerti, toccatas and suites, he reflected the tastes of the provincial nobility.
DURING THE LIFETIME OF THESE TWO MASTERS, THERE WAS TAKING place a gradual shifting in position of the two great musical tendencies which for several hundred years had been pursuing parallel courses of development, often influencing each other, often interpenetrating technically, but by and large maintaining each its specific characteristics: ritual church music, and aristocratic entertainment music. Church music on the whole had been in possession of the larger, monumental techniques and forms, and its composers continued to produce large works of major importance right up to the middle of the eighteenth century. Aristocratic music, while quantitatively numerous, had more or less contented itself with the dance, the suite and the opera (in itself a collection of small forms).
With the death of Bach and Handel, towards the middle of the century, church music lost the last two masters capable of executing the larger church forms with any degree of conviction. At about the same time that church music was receding into the background, aristocratic entertainment music had arrived at the point where it was developing characteristic large forms of its own: the sonata, the string quartet and the symphony. This shifting in position of the two musical traditions brought with it a change in musical techniques. The predominant style of the orchestral writing of the generation of Bach and Handel--to take one example among many--had been contrapuntal weaving, equivalence of all voices, basso continuo, sectional or architectural use of shading, frequent fugues or fugatos, etc. Towards the middle of the century, in a comparatively few decades, this old, more serious style gave way to one characterized by a single leading melody with a harmonic accompaniment composed of chords or figuration rather than a continuous bass; square, syrnmetrical phrase-lengths; coloristic, emotional use of shading; two-theme sonata form in place of fugal forms; and a coloristic, differentiated use of instruments.
If this change in musical form were to be considered--as it very frequently is--simply as a technical process, motivated by intramusical causes alone, the comparative rapidity with which it seems to have taken place would appear arbitrary, unpredictable, or--as is often stated--the result simply of personalities (the death of the older Bach and the emergence of the more ``experimental" Ph.E. Bach, Stamitz and Haydn). But when we view history as an organic whole, with music, and its individual personalities, as part of the general course of social development, then the technical change no longer seems arbitrary. The decline of the polyphonic style between 1700 and 1750 is seen as part of the decline of the influence of the Protestant church in men's affairs79. The greatly increased patronage bestowed upon music by royalty during this period is seen as responsible for the development of the ``gallant manner" of Cimarosa, Pergolese, Haydn, Mozart and others of their generation. When we take into account the influence of the brilliant, frivolous courts and their interest in music as a source of pleasure and prestige, it is no mystery that the old forms with their complex counterpoint, thick texture and comparative lack of charm should have given way to the courtly salon style with its frills and delicacies, its elegance and clarity of texture, and its light, artless melodies written over the easy-to-listen-to Alberti bass. It was for the aristocrats that the outstanding mid-eighteenth century composers wrote; their interests, desires and needs constituted the standards of musical taste.
Why did the eighteenth century courts give such lavish support to music? Sir William Hadow has shown that in most cases aristocratic patronage of music was more a matter of maintaining social prestige than a sign of genuine interest in the art80. A private orchestra and a composer or two to write for it was the sine qua non of elegance and high position, whether one liked music or not. Every prince had his musicians just as he had his gilded coach and liveried footmen. Says Hadow: ``The system appears to have depended little on ... personal taste. Frederick the Great, an enthusiastic amateur and flute player ... was not more cordial in his patronage than the Empress Catherine who did not know one tune from another."
The complexity of the relation between historical forces and musical forms may be illustrated at this place. While the aristocracy had from time immemorial maintained its domination over the common people by carefully nurturing the social myths of its ``bluebloodedness," ``refinement of spirit," ``God-given fitness to rule," etc., in the eighteenth century it became all the more necessary for this class to demonstrate its spiritual superiority because of the growing disinclination on the part of the more advanced members of the Third Estate to accept this superiority. The middle class was growing economically powerful and consequently restive under the social, political, economic and cultural restraints imposed upon it by the institutions of the ancien régime. Not only was it beginning to campaign for certain social privileges, through the writings of its representatives Diderot and the Encyclopaedists; but it was coming to realize, dimly at first, but with increasing clarity as time went on, the prestige value of art and culture, and soon it was calling for new artistic standards fitted to its own tastes and purposes.
Thus that bourgeois apologist and jack of all trades Rousseau not only attacked the artificiality and empty formalism of aristocratic music and pleaded for simplicity, naturalness and emotional values in music as in life; be put his theories into practice in the composition of his peasant opera, Le Devin du Village. This work was successful and ran for many years on the French stage.
Faced with the intrusion of the middle class into the hitherto ``kept" realms of culture, the aristocracy countered by (1) increased generosity in patronizing the arts, and (2) a demonstration of ``enlightenment" and ``liberalism" on its own part which went as far as to make ``back-to-nature" a fad for a season among the courtiers themselves. Thus Louis XVI became a ``worker" (a gentleman locksmith), and Marie Antoinette and her ladies-in-waiting became ``shepherdesses" and ``milkmaids."
This aristocratic ``liberalism" enabled Gluck, whose operas were produced under court patronage, to speak of wanting ``to depict emotions truly and without artificiality" (almost Rousseau's words), and to write ``not Salon music, but music for wide spaces like the Greek Theatre." It enabled Haydn to introduce peasant tunes, rough and unorthodox in their rhythmic and melodic contour, into the music he wrote for his patron, Prince Esterhazy. The infusion of these lively, vigorous elements drawn from the music of the people, and the elimination of much trivial, superfluous decoration, distinguished Haydn's work from the conventional aristocratic entertainment music of dozens of his contemporaries who also worked for princes.
And yet for all the liberalism of those aristocrats who were in. fected with the ideas of the Enlightenment, it remains true, as Hadow says, ``that the whole principle of patronage was fraught with danger to the art that it protected. ... The relation implied in this patronage was, for the most part, that of master and servant. As a rule, genius sat below the salt and wore a livery like a butler or footman. ... At best he might be admitted to the part of friendship that a good sportsman felt for his keeper; at worst he might be dependent on the tyrannical caprices of an ignorant or tyrannical despot81."
IT WAS MOZART'S FORTUNE TO FALL INTO THE HANDS OF A PATRON OF the latter variety, and to be the first one to strike the blow for freedom that marked the end of the whole patronage system based on the class domination of the old aristocracy. An infant prodigy, an adorable plaything, fêted by all the crowned heads of Europe, to whom he dedicated childish but exquisite minuets, sonatas and symphonies, he found himself a sa grown man in the compulsory service of Archbishop Hieronymus of Salzburg. Hieronymus, a typical stupid reactionary despot of the old regime, who still felt himself to be temporal and spiritual lord of his petty fief, envied the worldwide fame of Mozart and resented the freedom of manner which the composor as a Weltmensch and a friend of kings had begun to adopt82. He decided to exercise his still legal feudal prerogatives and to put one whom he regarded as his servant and vassal in his place. Mozart was commanded to refuse all commissions from outside sources and to restrict himself to writing masses for the Salzburg cathedral. Fretting, but not yet bold enough to defy authority, Mozart remained for three years in the provincial town pouring his talent into the stiff, outworn mold of the Catholic service.
Finally, exasperated by repeated insults and deliberate indignities, and after a protracted refusal to pay his salary, Mozart went to see the Archbishop in person to demand a redress of grievances. Hieronymus decided to teach ``his" composer humility and submissiveness once and for all, and ordered him thrown out bodily. Mozart resigned from the Archbishop's employ, writing his father:
``The heart shows the true nobleman, and although I am no count, I am more honorable perhaps than many a count; and whether it be a footman or count, whoever insults me is a scoundrel83."
The dam was down; the equalitarian ideas of Rousseau had filtered through, even to Salzburg, and though the Archbishop attempted reprisals, this was the eighteenth century and not the thirteenth, and the nobility of Vienna laughed at the impotent rage of the provincial tyrant. Mozart, now on his own, began giving concerts and composing for his private benefit, creating the type of modern ``independent" artist, parallel of the free entrepreneur in the economic sphere. Spiritually exhilarated by this independence (although physically he was eventually to starve for it), he set about writing works daring in their opposition to the nobility and the old order as a whole. Defying an imperial ban, he wrote music to Beaumarchais' Marriage of Figaro--a scathing indictment of the rottenness and degeneration of the aristocratic class. The brilliance of the music compelled the emperor to permit its performance. In Don Juan Mozart painted an attractive picture of a free-thinking individualist who defies religion and hell-fire for his loves. Finally, the composer not only joined the Freemasons but set their then progressive doctrines to music: is not the conflict of the Sun and the Moon in Zauberflöte a symbolic representation of the struggle between the Enlightenment and those powers of Darkness which initiates knew to be the old despotic order?
The facts of Mozart's later years have been clouded and distorted by ``popular" biographers more anxious to make a wide sale than to reveal the composer as he was. In any case let those who love to think of Mozart as ``divinely innocent" and those who describe him as ``above time and space" ponder the relation between the libertarian ideas of his later years and the freedom of form and deepening, almost romantic content--overtones of the coming age of individualism--to be found in such later works as the C Minor Fantasy and the scene of the armed men in Zauberflöte.
WHAT IN MOZART WAS BUT A FOREBODING BURST FORTH IN FULL FORCE in his successor Beethoven. Beethoven's passionate interest in the political and social struggles of the revolutionary years in which he lived are too well known to need repetition here. But when we read that ``he was a child of his age," we must understand that he belonged to the rising progressive class that stormed the Bastille (his Bastilles were the old, cramping forms of court music), a man to whom freedom was more than a word, equality something to he fought for in everyday life, and fraternity a great human dream to be celebrated by the greatest and best work of his career. And while we read all the details of Beethoven's personal life we must not forget that some of the chief influences upon his work as a creative artist have been almost entirely ignored, namely the ideas and the music of the French Revolution84.
With the emigration of the aristocracy after the Revolution, the economic base of thousands of French musicians was removed. No longer were steady jobs to be had writing or playing minuets for the nobility. On the other hand here was the new democratic Republic, surrounded by enemies, and engaged in a desperate struggle for survival. The Jacobin government realized that if victory was to be achieved, every last man of the people would have to be enlisted and inspired with the conviction that the nation's salvation was his own personal salvation, that it must use every possible means of firing the whole nation with that heroic enthusiasm without which the unarmed, untrained people's army could not defeat the paid, armed, professional force of the Prussian and Austrian invaders. Not the least of these means was music. From among the people themselves came militant songs--mass songs such as La Marseillaise, the Carmagnole, Ca Ira, Le Chant du Départ, etc.--music quite different from the Minuets dedicated to Marie Antoinette. And now:
``For the Festivals of the First Republic [vast public gatherings of tens of thousands of people called to stimulate the revolutionary spirit and the feeling of unity], the people wanted music of an almost religious character, exalted, pompous and impressive. It was thought that in these solemn and fervent patriotic hymns music was recurring to its original state as an expression of the common feeling of the people. The people themselves were called upon to take part in the performance of Le Chant du Départ, La Marseillaise, and L'Hymn du 10 Aôut. Here indeed can be seen the most characteristic and important quality of the music of the French Revolution--the use of massive musical effects. Méhul imagined a chorus of 300,000 voices to take part in a Fête de l'Être Suprême, and in the final chorus, the trum pets having given the signal, the crowd would with one impulse join its 300,000 voices to those of the musicians, while 200 drums would beat and formidable cannon shots would resound, representing the national vengeance and announcing to the republicans that the day of glory has arrived85."
Composers such as Gossec, Méhul, Lesueur and Cherubini set to work for their new patron, the State, writing marches, symphonies, hymns, joyful and funereal odes, cantatas and great pageants expressing the feelings of the whole people. These were performed on the Champ de Mars before huge audiences. Given an entirely new function, music took on new forms, structures, orchestration; it became an instrument of national life, a representation and a weapon in the hands of the revolutionary bourgeois state.
Following the events of the Revolution with passionate interest, the libertarian Beethoven was inspired by the music of Cherubini and Méhul. It was his desire not to continue in the measured patterns of the court style of his predecessors whose main function was to entertain. He filled the mold of the symphony with a tremendous new content based on grandiose, noble thoughts, the depiction of the struggle of mankind, the celebration of the heroic, and the communication of inspiration and joy so necessary for confidence in victory. This new content overflowed the bounds of the classic symphony, which was intended for the intimate enjoyment of small salon groups. Broadened and deepened, the symphony grew into a new form of monumental grandeur. The size, the orchestration, the massive effects of the new Beethovenian symphony show that it was intended for huge gatherings, and reveal the influence of the Freneb composers. And Beethoven learned more than this from France: the note of triumph and militancy at the close of all his symphonies is more than traditional fanfare. It is the peal of triumph, the call to action which sounded across the borders and back again. Did not Beethoven add to the close of his Egmont overture, after the passage depicting the death of the liberating hero, a ``Sieges-sinfonie," a triumphant martial note, with the trumpets blaring out the promise of other and greater heroes to come86? It is not necessary to know the titles of Beethoven's Eroica or Leonore overture to grasp the message of solidarity and cheer that he brings in those works.
And yet this composer of composers felt that this was not enough; it was not sufficient for people to sense his message, he must present it clearly and unequivocally. For his one and only opera, Fidelio, he chose a text taken from a drama of the French revolution, a drama of faith in brotherhood and justice, and of hatred towards tyranny87. Beethoven puts a Bastille on the stage, shows us the dungeon, the torture, and the unbreakable will of the imprisoned victims of despotism. In the music of the Prisoners' Chorus from Fidelio we have the most vivid expression ever written of the feelings of men released from tyrannous imprisonment.
In his last and most monumental work, Beethoven decided to state his message of democracy and brotherhood so clearly that every man could understand. Did the old form prescribe the use of instruments alone in the symphony? No matter, the new content will create a new form. Instruments alone are not enough; for this last message the human voice itself is needed, and the human voice in the form of a great chorus. All his life Beethoven meditated the form in which he would cast Schiller's Ode to Joy. Finally after many trials he chose a simple folk song, a simple sixteen-bar tune that everybody can whistle, as the most fitting for the final theme of his crowning work; a theme that is almost banal considered in terms of high symphonic art, but which becomes great when considered in terms of the purpose for which Beethoven destined it. A purpose transcending anything hitherto permitted by the social bonds of music, it was to spread the message of brotherhood, of joy, of struggle, of the unity of all mankind, and to spread it so that all who could listen would understand and sing along.
THE DECLINE OF THE ARISTOCRACY IN THE FIRST DECADES OF THE nineteenth century resulted in the gradual elimination of the patronage system and with it the age-old category of aristocratic music. The rise of a new audience, the middle class, called for the emergence of a new type of music and a new type of composer. And they did emerge: the music, romanticism; the composer, the bourgeois ``free individual," writing according to his fancy, taking his cue from his subjective life experiences rather than from any objective functional role. Newly liberated from the demands of taste, etiquette and emotional ``propriety" imposed by aristocratic patronage, the composer began to give vent to all those seething moods and passions that were supposed to be characteristic of the ``emancipated personality." If court etiquette demanded correctness, balance and restraint, the ``free man" must be filled with Sturm und Drang, reckless of formality and tradition, one whose every mood and desire finds full expression, and whose emotions overflow all patterns and boundaries. The Romantic composer, in ignoring all previous forms88, and being guided solely by his individual impulse (were not the characteristic romantic ``forms" the fantasy, the impromptu, the rhapsody, the ``mood picture"?), provided the rising middle class with a model of the type of human being who has cast aside aristocratic traditions in favor of the free emergence of personality. As the protagonist of individualistic ideals in the ``higher" cultural sphere, he gave the bourgeoisie moral justification for their struggles for individual liberty of action in the more material spheres of economics and politics. Thus music became a stimulus and a weapon of the middle class in its fight for democracy against royalism and reaction in Europe during the 1820s, '30s and '40s.
In the work of a composer like Schumann, for example, particularly his early work, we feel the virile enthusiasm of an optimistic, fighting class determined to master its place in this world. Challenging and dynamic, Schumann's work was a symbol to those looking ahead to a full and joyful life. To them, all experiences were good; life was full of possibilities. That Schumann was on the side of the rising class is evident not only from his attacks on the ``Philistines"89and his repeated introduction of the forbidden Marseillaise into his work90, but especially from his sharp, lifting rhythms, his dynamic drive, freshness of form, and individual fantasy.
Another representative of this sturdy generation of the German '30s and '40s (the period of great industrial expansion, of boundless dreams of the future, of Utopian Socialists and finally of Marx and Engels) was the young Wagner. Here was a man ready to carry the middle class doctrine of the ``free individual" to the limit. With him romanticism--still a progressive, liberating force--reached its fullest development. In the opera Siegfried, for example, we have the finest musical portrayal of the healthy, romantic type of ``free, fearless, uncorrupted natural man" who alone, in Wagner's mind, could ride roughshod over the laws of a money-mad (dragon-ruled) world. In this work Wagner paints a symbolic picture of the kind of life envisioned by the Utopian Socialists and Anarchists in whose circles he moved in the '40s, with whom he fought on the barricades in 1848, and with whom he fled into exile after the crushing of that social struggle. In Tristan the composer penetrated deeper into subjectivity and individualization of mood than had ever been done before. In Die Meistersinger he drew up a magnificent brief for the complete unfoldment of the personality and the rights of the imaginative, creative individual in a narrow, tradition-worshiping society. Wagner's original form, the music-drama, was the direct product of his ideology and of his desire to create an art form in which music, combined with the arts of the theatre, would serve as a vehicle of expression of those motley and often contradictory social ideas acquired from the idealistic rebels of his generation. Perusal of the composer's essays on ``Art and the People" and ``Art and Revolution" will suffice to show that he had very definite, if confused, thoughts on the social function of music and the necessity of social revolution as a prerequisite to the fullest fruition of that art.
Those were the honeymoon days of Romanticism, when artists believed--or professed to believe--that they were really free, that one had only to follow ``the ideal" and create ``high art" and the world would be waiting to receive the creation with open arms and a laurel wreath for the ``divinely inspired" creator.
Believing those middle-class prophets who promised the millenium after the abolition of the aristocracy and the reign of free competition, musicians like Liszt and Berlioz plunged zealously into the struggles of the '30s in France, side by side with writers and artists like Victor Hugo, Lamartine, Delacroix. Berlioz orchestrated the Marseillaise and wrote a Symphonie Funébre et Triomphale to commemorate the martyrs of the July Revolution of 1830. Liszt sketched a Symphonie Révolutionnaire91 and, under the influence of the Saint-Simonians, to whose circle he belonged for a time, wrote a remarkable series of essays outlining a plan for bringing music to the working man and the general public through the public employment of composers, community orchestras and choruses, and the publication of cheap editions of good music92.
The awakening came soon enough, and it was rude. The bankers and lords of finance who had taken power in France in 1830 in the name of liberty and social progress soon realized that while it was fine to speak of the freedom of the artist when you were among the ``outs," actually to support this freedom by furnishing the where- withal of existence meant shelling out cold cash. Yes, the artist was free to create, to be sure. But to perform his work, to publish it? Ah, that is another matter. That is the individual's own responsibility93. The artist must eat? One should not talk of such material things! (Does not the true artist live only for the things of the spirit?) The artist must have material security to permit him to think of his art? One should be careful not to deprive him of those wonderful energizing forces, self-reliance and individual initiative! No wonder artists began to hate the bourgeoisie, who spoke loudly of culture and ideals but who, having risen to power on the backs of the workers and students who had manned the barricades for them, thought of nothing so much as of reducing taxes and paring ``Superfluous" expenditures from the state budget. Thus in 1835 Liszt railed against the bourgeois government of Louis Philippe:
``At the present hour, nothing is more commonplace ... than to glorify the pretended sovereignty of art in hollow and sonorous phrases, as true and as false as the pretended sovereignty of the people. ... Practically no politician ever makes a speech about the budget without expressing his solicitude for the fine arts.... Everyone admits the social necessity of art. ... If, however, one wished to take the trouble to consider the facts ... as they necessarily result from the ... present organization of the Department of Fine Arts, one would be a little surprised at their shrieking discord with the pompous phrases and naive illusions which are almost universally accredited. ... Immediately after the Revolution of 1830, His Citizen Majesty dismissed, for economy's sake, as one would dismiss a useless servant, the artists of the Royal Chapel.... Once started, bourgeois vandalism ... goes quickly to work. Economic reforms rain from the right and from the left. The dissolution of the ... Royal School of Classic and Religious Music followed closely. ... This accomplished, the allotment granted to the institute of the Rue Vaugirard [another music school] was stricken out.... Indeed, that is quite indicative and proves that the arts are protected and the situation of the artist is well worthy of being envied94."
Liszt's description of the economic position of music students, teachers, performers and composers under the bourgeois regime of Louis Philippe is a remarkable anticipation of the actual lot of musicians today.
Berlioz, too, was keenly aware of the economic problems facing the composer in the new world of bourgeois rule. While composers of cheap galops and contre-danses for the music-halls raked in the royalties, Berlioz could neither earn his bread as a musician nor get his works performed in mid-century Paris. He wrote:
``To be a composer in Paris one must rely entirely on oneself. ... One must be content with mutilated, incomplete, uncertain performances, for want of rehearsals for which one cannot pay; inconvenient and uncomfortable halls ... the robbery of the tax-collectors, who never take into account the expense of the concerts and aggravate one's loss by deducting their eighth from the gross receipts. ... "95
Tragically symbolic of the frustration of the talented artist in this type of world is the account of the symphony that came to him one night in a dream at a time when his wife's illness had exhausted all their resources:
``On awakening the next morning ... I had gone to my table to begin writing it down when I suddenly reflected, 'If I write this part I shall write the rest. The natural tendency of my mind to expand the material is sure to make it very long. I may perhaps spend three or four months exclusively upon it; meantime I shall do no feuilletons ... and my income will suffer. When the symphony is finished I shall be weak enough to allow my copyist to copy it out, and thus immediately incur a debt of one thousand or twelve hundred francs. Once the parts are copied I shall be harassed by the temptation to have the work performed; I shall give a concert, in which, as is sure to be the case these days, the receipts will barely cover half the expenses; I shall lose what I have not got; I shall want the necessaries of life for my poor invalid and shall have no money for myself.' ''
He decided that he must forget the symphony. ``I hardened myself against temptation. I clung to the hope of forgetting. Finally, all recollection had vanished forever96.
Under these conditions, is it any wonder that the artist damned the bourgeoisie? And since bourgeois society--which after the middle of the century had won its battle with the aristocracy97and become stuffy, conservative and respectable98--was the only reality he knew, is it any wonder that the artist cried out: ``Reality is horrible; society is cruel; the only truth is suffering, the only redemption is art"? Romanticism, in its early days concerned with heroism, action and the affirmative, vigorous aspects of human personality, became a means of compensation and escape. Post-1848 composers indulged in dreams, fantasies, visions of the ``ideal"; music became exclusively an outlet for subjective conflicts; all forms were broken down to give way to emotional orgies of self-conscious introspection. To assert his superiority over the ``bourgeois" the artist went in for all sorts of exhibitionistic eccentricities. And the more the artist wept and bared the sufferings of his soul, the more his middle class audience enjoyed it. For was not this art an expression of their ``deepest ideals" too? The more profits the business man made, the cruder his graft and exploitation, the more deeply he felt the need for ``idealism" and grand emotions ... but please, sir, only in art. For only in art can the spirit scale the heights and release itself from the bondage of this material world, etc., etc.
Thus, later romantic music became at once an emotional compensation and a spiritual salve for the commercial middle class audience. (Although composers often spoke of ``the people," none of ``the people" were ever seen in a concert hall; concert-giving was itself a business that must show a profit--not to the artist, but to the promoter, and hence had to appeal to those who could pay handsome admission prices.) It became the fashion for the artist to be isolated from ``ugly" reality and to deal only with supernal, grandiloquent emotions. Everything must be done in the grand manner; grand exaltation, grand sorrow; either the most thrilling ecstasy or the most abysmal despair--nothing in between would do. Thus Wagner's heroes are all giants, gods, heroes or monsters, whose every mood and feeling is an event of earth-shaking, cosmic significance. Tschaikovsky's despair is not the sorrow of a man, but the metaphysical torments of the universe. Berlioz, Liszt, and the whole crew go in for the most spectacular frenzy of exhibitionism. Relishing melodrama and big doses of emotion for their money, the bourgeois audience came to the concert hall to be ecstatically exalted and furiously depressed, so that the tedium and spiritual emptiness of the day-to-day commercial grind could be forgotten.
With the demands of the audience for ever newer (though not too new) thrills, virtuosity grew apace. Pianists played faster and singers sang higher notes. Composers added more instruments to the orchestra and piled climax upon climax until there were more thrills per composition than ever before in history. Thus, late Romantic music (roughly, after 1850) became the typical music of and for the bourgeoisie--for, although many composers protested and ``rebelled" against the bourgeoisie, it was always to the bourgeoisie itself that this protest was directed. It was only an individualistic, personal and, therefore, as far as the bourgeoisie was concerned, a quite harmless rebellion. In fact it began to be quite proper and even ``interesting" for the artist to be a rebel--as long as he remained a bourgeois rebel, who confined his activities to emotional storms and eccentricities. But let him once connect his artistic rebellion with an organized social effort to change the world to one in which an artist could function normally, then: ``Off with his head!" A price of several thousand marks was actually set on Wagner's head for his participation in the South German revolution of 1848.
The period following the general failure of the revolutionary movements of 1848-1850 was one of unmitigated reaction throughout Europe. With the military dictatorship of Napoleon III in France, the absolute rule of Alexander II in Russia and of Bismarck in Germany, there set in an era of unparalleled expansion, gambling and profiteering on the part of big capital99accompanied by social repression that wiped out even that small degree of freedom which the petty bourgeoisie and the working class had been able to win up until that time. A general feeling of depression and futility came over the lower classes. ``Hence the note of sadness which prevails in literature throughout these twenty years. Romantic idealism was hopelessly defeated and the whole world was darkened."100
No wonder that romantic music, too, from the middle of the century onward, was eroded by an irresistible torrent of pessimism and despair. Although the goal was still the ``ideal," the ideal receded more and more into the distance, until it became by definition the unrealizable, unattainable ideal. Frustrated, the late romantic composers almost one and all broke down and wept, preached the end of all things, fixed their eyes on a relentless Fate pursuing them and agreed that there was nothing to do but bow the head and submit101. Like late romantic artists in other fields, they were obsessed with themes of death, corruption and decay. Tschaikovsky in his Pathétique, Wagner in Götterdämmerung and Strauss in Don Juan bemoaned the destruction of everything worth while, the futility of life and of noble striving. Some who had started as rebels, like Wagner and Liszt, ended in reaction, mysticism and the bosom of Mother Church102.
Romantic art entered the new century in the throes of a sickening erotic and mystical escapism, disgusting even to the omnivorous bourgeois audience itself. In Strauss' Salome and Elektra, Scriabin's Prometheus, Mahler's Lied von der Erde, and especially in Schönberg's Pierrot Lunaire, bourgeois music was nearing the end of its tether. It was the fate of music in a social order which isolated composers from life-giving contact with the source of music: the masses of the people, and condemned them to the sterility of endless introspection and mulling over the same outworn themes of frustrated love, untimely death and posturing heroism103.
It is significant that while there grew up in the second half of the nineteenth century a whole school of literature which laid bare and revolted against all the ugliness of bourgeois life (Gogol, Chekhov, Zola, Flaubert, Ibsen), realism, with a few notable exceptions, had little effect on music104. Whether this was because composers were more directly and absolutely dependent upon their big bourgeois patrons, or because of the unwritten tradition that ``good" music must shun the lowly and material for the ``noble" and ``uplifting," the fact remains that bourgeois composers provided their audience with spiritual opium-dreams long after their literary brethren had ceased doing so105.
But in at least one case a major composer did use music to spread enlightenment about life as it really was. This required the influence of one of those popular mass movements of the nineteenth century in which the lower classes reminded the lords of the earth that they would not always remain patient, uncomplaining beasts of burden. Realism raised its shaggy head in the vigorous and direct music of Moussorgsky, a son of the Russian aristocracy who, like others of his class106 in his generation, turned to Darwinism, materialism and then active sympathy with the revolutionary movement of the '60s and '70s107. This composer, who was held to be an extraordinary man because ``he considered the Russian muzhik a human being," earned the almost unanimous condemnation of the professional musicians of his time--particularly of those who held the reins of musical power, the critics, conductors, directors of conservatories and opera houses--by the simplicity, ruggedness and daring realism of his style. Moussorgsky as a composer was a phenomenon unique in world history. He was the first highly skilled professional musician who took motives from the life and music of the peasantry and translated these into art-forms without trying to ``elevate," ``purify," disinfect, or otherwise distort the fundamental point of view of the original creators in order to suit aristocratic, church or bourgeois tastes; nor did he negate the original social function of this music: to express the outlook and help in the lives of the people themselves. True, Moussorgsky's music was heard, when at all, by bourgeois audiences, the only organized concert audiences of his time, but be spoke to the bourgeoisie from the peasant's viewpoint, or rather from the viewpoint of one who knew and understood the peasants. His songs and operas have the grit, the unwashed, unshaven robustness of those who work the soil, whose gruff voice had never before been heard from a concert platform108.
Moussorgsky's realism consisted partly in treating subjects that had always been taboo as being ``not fit for art"--subjects which, in other words, violated the sensibilities of those classes which had always been the audience and consequently the arbiters of ``good taste." He wrote about war not as a heroic adventure but as a carrier of death and corruption109. For this he earned the wrath of the Czar's censor who confiscated the song as dangerous to the state. He portrayed the policemen and overseers who kept the peasants in subjection as coarse, brutal and vicious (in Boris Godunoff). The priests, particularly the Russian Orthodox Popes, he satirized as drunken and lecherous. He lampooned the aristocracy (in the Song of the Flea) as vain, pompous and stupid, and showed the Czar (in Boris) as a criminal, a degenerated tyrant. Only in the people did he see sanity and health, the source of the living material, the beauty, the suffering, the joy and laughter of art. Yet he did not idealize the people, he presented them as he saw them. The vivid realism of his songs depicting peasant children, old women, the proud village beauty, and the village idiot revealed possibilities for commenting on everyday life that had never been suspected in art music. Moussorgsky demonstrated by his works that the composer who identifies himself with the people taps a source of dramatic power and social effectiveness far beyond any boundaries that music has yet set for itself. His refashioning of musical technique, which has influenced practically all of the ``moderns" by the introduction of new scales, new harmonic materials and new rhythmic principles drawn from the music of the people, is eloquent testimony to the wealth of musical resource that yet lies hidden in the music and song of the ``lower classes."
Moussorgsky's music, reflecting the social movement of the Narodniki, of which it was the artistic counterpart in the 1860s, was the forerunner of a new world-function of music which began to unfold with the development of the working class as a conscious social entity. But before we turn to this, a few words on subsequent developments in middle class music. In the first years of the twentieth century began the break-up of the romantic style, which was, more than any other, the historical expression in music of bourgeois ideals and bourgeois life. Tired themselves of the morbidity, pessimism and neuroticism of late romantic music (good examples are Mahler's Kindertotenlieder and Strauss' Elektra), many middle class concert-goers began to seek relief in an impersonal art, an art which did not deal in human emotions at all, but only in abstract contemplation, in detached sensations, in visions of remote beauty, in ``Pure color" and ``pure form." Debussy and Ravel vouchsafed them a fleeting glimpse of a lovely, impressionistic never-never land, while Stravinsky, who for a time carried on one phase of the vigorous, hearty Russian peasant traditions of Moussorgsky110, was frightened away from contact with the people by the Russian Revolution, which said to him, in effect, ``Choose! For you must be on one side or the other!" This once most gifted of contemporary composers chose--to side with Parisian whiteguards and countesses, and to emasculate his music by turning to a reactionary religiosity111 and to a sterile, decadent neo-classicism112. Like Stravinsky, other bourgeois composers such as Schönberg and Hindemith have turned, each in his own particular way, to the ivory tower of neo-classicism. Still others express the chaos and defeatism of the post-war bourgeoisie in music of almost psychotic anguish (Berg in Wozzeck) ; or in works exalting triviality and nonsense (Satie and Poulhenc)113. On the other hand certain contemporary composers, such as Milhaud, Bartok, Ives and Prokofieff, have managed to attain in their work a certain freshness, healthiness and vigor that reveal a contact, in each case, with popular and even progressive elements. It is certainly no accident that of these four composers the first has been close to the French People's Front; the second has expressed strong anti-fascist tendencies; the third, a staunch democrat, has written a work, ``Down with the politicians and up with the people!"; and the last, after living a number of years in western Europe, returned to Russia and became a Soviet citizen.
Such, however, is the crisis and stagnation in the official musical world today that the works of modern composers, whether reactionary or progressive, are rarities in our concert halls. The middle class audience, still seeking for the old values in music--emotional exaltation, escape or diversion--has not been able to adjust itself to the newer music. As a result, the agents, directors and conductors, whose first concern is a good box office, have more or less concluded that the only music worth playing is that which is sure fire, and which involves no pioneering, no risks: the music of the past. Critics have come to an agreement on at least one point: that ``our unsettled times cannot produce great art." Probably about ninety per cent of all the music played in important concerts today is music by dead composers, while new music is faced with a hostile build-up and living composers are relegated to a position of secondary importance in comparison with the virtuoso conductor, singer or pianist. The public eye is riveted on the performance of what is already accepted rather than on the problems of new creation in the world of today. Emphasis on brilliance of performance and constant repetition of the same repertoire have almost completely removed the audience from any effective contact with the living present of music. Thus it can no longer be doubted that the chaos in music creation today reflects and is part of the general chaos of present-day society. The bourgeois concert hall has become a museum.
Meanwhile, what has been happening to the music of the people? Forced further and further into the backwoods by the advances of capitalist industrialism, folk music has nonetheless continued to nourish those few composers who have seen in it the living substance of art--early Stravinsky, Bartok and de Falla, among others. It is the source of vitality of that popular music which today serves as its substitute in the cities and towns of America and other industrial countries: jazz and swing, whose best melodic and rhythmic elements are drawn from Negro folk songs.
While highly trained bourgeois composers continue to produce ``serious" compositions for an ever-smaller audience of connoisseurs and specialists, the mass of the people, having no interest in this kind of art--both because it does not express their thoughts and lives and because they have never had an opportunity to hear enough of it to become familiar with its style--takes for its own the creations of tin pan alley. Rhythmically challenging, melodically alive, valuable for its spontaneity and its revival of the lost art of improvisation, this music is nevertheless limited, both in the range of its emotional content and in its demand that the audience discard almost all but the simplest intellectual equipment. It is music which glorifies the purely muscular level. It is excellent music for the body. But as music for the head it has had, until very recently, only one purpose: that those who hear it shall on no account think114.
WE HAVE SKETCHED IN A BROAD WAY THE DEVELOPMENT OF SOME OF the functions of music through primitive, feudal, renaissance and modern bourgeois societies, indicating some of the effects of various types of social organization on musical development. And now, having brought the discussion up to the present day, we are faced with the question perennially raised by learned critics and eminent authorities: what next? Having witnessed the decay of the old ``large forms" and the passing of our great bourgeois masters115with no one in sight to replace them, can it be, as the learned gentlemen often assure us, that we have come to the end of the period of great music? If by ``great music" is meant the music that has been great in fulfilling the bourgeois function of music, the function of individual exaltation, personal escape, private dreams and emotions, subjective aspirations and release--if that is what is meant by ``great music"--then unhesitatingly we answer: ``Yes!" It is unlikely that there will be many more great works of this kind-at least not in our present society. For the time is past when these ideals were the basis of the music of a great class--an energetic, rising class--and the vitality of that function of music is passing away with the vitality of the class that called it into being.
But in its footsteps we are witnessing the rise of a new class, the workers and farmers. With them come new energies, new demands, new possibilities, a new kind of social organization and therefore new functions and new forms for music. And with these, a new kind of ``greatness."
How can the social order of collectivism affect music? Although the evolution of musical forms is a long and gradual process (it took the Protestant church two hundred years to produce a Bach), certain facts are already beginning to shape themselves in answer to this question. One is that he who would write for a workers' society (or for the workers' movement) must be clearly aware of the new functions which music has for the working class. Here music can be no longer mainly an outlet for private, subjective emotions; it must express and solidify emotions that all have in common. It can depict the reality and intensity of the suffering, the oppression, the struggle, the hope, the joy and determination of the people; it can inspire courage and fire to action to remove the causes of that suffering.
The composer of the people's movement and of the collective society will utilize all the skills and techniques he has inherited from the past to write not luxury music for the few, but music which shall be of, for and about the many. His is the task of breaking down the age-old division between learned or art music on the one hand, and folk or popular music on the other. In doing this he will be helping to break down the class division which these musical divisions have symbolized and helped to perpetuate. It will also be his task to unite learning and popularity into an art which must become a broad instrument of social enlightenment and change. Already this is being done by present-day working class composers, and already music is being used in the labor movement throughout the world in practical and vital ways: at large gatherings, to focus and intensify a sense of solidarity among great masses of people; in parades, on picket lines, in the trenches of Spain and China to arouse, to strengthen and inspire; in homes, schools and union halls, to teach, to awaken, to fire enthusiasm. While some of these are old functions, when used for the new social goal they take on a new color, they make of music something it has never yet succeeded in becoming: an instrument of democracy, a means of strengthening the collective society where the latter has already been created, in the Soviet Union, and of awakening the desires and will to bring it about in those countries where the majority of the people are still the ``injured and oppressed."
Workers' music will no doubt develop its own characteristic forms, as religious, aristocratic and bourgeois musics have done in the past, when it becomes an integral and day to day part of the working class movement. And these new forms will fit the actual situations in which music is being put to use. Already many different composers are approaching the same goal of social music, each in his own way: Davidenko and Eisler writing workers' songs; Shostakovich, concert music; Blitzstein, music for the labor theatre and for radio; Copland, a children's opera teaching solidarity; Riegger, music for anti-fascist dancers; Revueltas, Prokofieff, music for films with a labor slant; Eisler, Siegmeister, music for workers' choruses, etc. The differences among all these men are great; yet every one of them has a certain directness, vigor and simplicity that reveal the contact with the new workers' audiences, and the influence of the collective ideal on his work116
The more the opportunities for music in the labor movement grow and the more time the democratic nations, the United States, France, Mexico, Czechoslovakia, and the socialist state, the U.S.S.R., have to foster the development of a collective people's art of music, the sooner will these new forms emerge in their clarity, the sooner will a truly human music spread as a civilizing force among all the peoples of the earth.
Among the firms subscribing were: Frigidaire Corp., R.C.A., Horn and Hardart, Sears Roebuck & Co.; is it discreet to ask how many of these have or have had company unions? (Italics mine--E. S.)
When Beethoven heard that Napoleon had proclaimed himself emperor, he erased the name ``Bonaparte" from the score and exclaimed bitterly, ``Then he too is only an ordinary human being! Now we shall see him trample on the rights of men to gratify his own ambitions; he will exalt himself above everyone and become a tyrant."
``We sit down in tearsHandel's composition ends in two connected movements, beginning Largo, working into a more positive Andante, and ending in a triumphant Allegro, fortissimo, with trumpets and drums going full blast in a spirit of boundless joy and satisfaction. The words are:
And call to Thee in the grave,
Rest softly, softly rest."
``Worthy is the Lamb, that was slain and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power and riches, and wisdom, and strength and honor and glory and blessing. Blessing and honor, glory and power be unto Him that sitteth upon the throne, and unto the Lamb, forever and ever. Amen, amen, amen, amen..." [for seven pages! I They made sure to wish the Lamb good, solid, bourgeois desiderata. (Italics, E.S.)For a discussion of the effects of Handel's reversion from the aristocratic to the bourgeois audience, Cf. Leichtentritt: op. cit., pp. 154-155: ``He [Handel] had courage enough ... to seek a new support in the bourgeois middle class. ... It is to these sound and receptive people that Handel speaks in his oratorios. ... The chorus in the Handel oratorio represents the voice of the people."
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