Digital Musicultures 45

M U S I C U LT U R E S
ECOLOgIES/ÉCOLOgIES
VOL 45 No.1-2 2018

M U S I C U LT U R E S
VOL 45 No.1-2 CONTENTS / SOMMAIRE 2018
ix FROM THE GENERAL EDITOR / MOT DE LA RÉDACTRICE EN CHEF

xi NOTES ON CONTRIBUTING AUTHORS / NOTES SUR LES
COLLABORATEURS
Introduction
1 AARON S. ALLEN
One Ecology and Many Ecologies: The Problem and Opportunity of
Ecology for Music and Sound Studies
A R T ICLES
14 JULIANNE GRAPER
Bat City: Becoming with Bats in the Austin Music Scene
35 ALEXANDRA HUI
Imagining Ecologies through Sound: An Historic-ecological Approach to
the Soundscape of the Mississippi Flyway
53 JOHN E. QUINN, ANNA J. MARKEY, DAKOTA HOWARD, SAM

CRUMMETT, and ALEXANDER R. SCHINDLER
Intersections of Soundscapes and Conservation: Ecologies of Sound in
Naturecultures
71 JENNIFER C. POST and BRYAN C. PIJANOWSKI

Coupling Scientific and Humanistic Approaches to Address Wicked
Environmental Problems of the Twenty-first Century: Collaborating in an
Acoustic Community Nexus
ii MUSICultures 45/1-2
92 SUNMIN YOON
What’s in the Song? Urtyn duu as Sonic “Ritual” Among Mongolian
Herder-singers
112 REBECCA DIRKSEN

Haiti, Singing for the Land, Sea, and Sky: Cultivating Ecological
Metaphysics and Environmental Awareness through Music
136 JAMES EDWARDS

A Field Report from Okinawa, Japan: Applied Ecomusicology and the
100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project
146 LAURA CHAMBERS

Feed the Soil, Not the Plant: Case Studies in the Sustainability of
Ontario’s Regional Orchestras
167 JUHA TORVINEN

Resounding: Feeling, Mytho-ecological Framing, and the Sámi
Conception of Nature in Outi Tarkiainen’s The Earth, Spring’s Daughter
190 JOSHUA OTTUM

Between Two Worlds: American New Age Music and Environmental
Imaginaries
215 RANDALL HARLOW

Ecologies of Practice in Musical Performance
238 DARYL JAMIESON

Uncanny Movement through Virtual Spaces: Michael Pisaro’s fields have
ears
Afterword
255 JEFF TODD TITON
Ecomusicology and the Problems in Ecology
iii
BOOK R EV IEW S /
COMPTES RENDUS DE LIVRES
265 TRAVIS D. STIMELING

Henry Adam Svec. American Folk Music as Tactical Media
268 MEI-RA SAINT-LAURENT

Andy R. Brown, Karl Spracklen, Keith Kahn-Harris, et Niall Scott (dir).
Global Metal Music and Culture: Current Directions in Metal Studies
271 MARIE-HÉLÈNE PICHETTE

Simha Arom et Denis-Constant Martin. L’enquête en ethnomusicologie.
Préparation, terrain, analyse
274 LEI OUYANG BRYANT

Nancy Yunhwa Rao. Chinatown Opera Theater in North America
R ECOR D IN G R EV I E W S /
COMPTES RENDUS D’ENREGISTREMENTS
277 LEE BIDGOOD

Hearing Place in “Location Recordings”: Tony Russell and Ted Olson,
The Bristol Sessions: The Big Band of Country Music; Tony Russell and Ted
Olson, The Johnson City Sessions: Can You Sing or Play Old Time Music?
Michael Montgomery and Ted Olson, Old Time Smoky Mountain Music;
Ted Olsen, On Top of Old Smoky: New Old-Time Smoky Mountain Music.
282 SÉBASTIEN LEBLANC

Group Iza. Roumanie : Musique du Maramureș
iv MUSICultures 45/1-2
EDITOR / RÉDACTRICE EN CHEF

HEATHER SPARLING Cape Breton University
P.O. Box 5300
Sydney, Nova Scotia B1P 6L2
heather_sparling@cbu.ca
REVIEW EDITORS / RESPONSABLES DES COMPTES RENDUS

KATHRYN ALEXANDER University of Arizona
(English: ethnomusicology kralexan@gmail.com
and traditional music)
ERIC SMIALEK McGill University
(English: popular music) eric.smialek@mail.mcgill.ca
MARIE-CHRISTINE PARENT Université de Montréal /
(français) Université de Nice Sophia Antipolis
mc.parent@umontreal.ca
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT / ASSISTANTE DE RÉDACTION

NELLWYN LAMPERT nellwyn.lampert@gmail.com
EDITORIAL BOARD / COMITÉ DE RÉDACTION

CHRISTINA BAADE McMaster University
ELAINE KEILLOR Carleton University
DENIS LABORDE L ’ École des Hautes Études en
Sciences Sociales
CHARITY MARSH University of Regina
HADI MILANLOO (student rep) University of Toronto
JEFF PACKMAN University of Toronto
JESSICA RODA Concordia University
MAISIE SUM University of Waterloo
v
ISSN 1920-4213 / eISSN 1920-4221
MUSICultures (formerly The Canadian Journal for Traditional Music / La Revue de

musique folklorique canadienne) is the scholarly peer-reviewed publication of the
Canadian Society for Traditional Music.
MUSICultures publishes original articles in English and French on a wide range of

topics in ethnomusicology, traditional music research, and popular music studies. The
journal welcomes articles on music in Canadian contexts as well as music in global
and transnational contexts. The journal also publishes reviews of books, and sound
and visual recordings. Please contact the review editors about submitting reviews.
MUSICultures (autrefois The Canadian Journal for Traditional Music / La Revue de

musique folklorique canadienne) est la publication érudite de la Société canadienne
pour les traditions musicales. Cette revue, dont les articles sont sanctionnés par un
comité de lecture, est publiée sous les auspices de la Société canadienne pour les
traditions musicales.
MUSICultures publie des articles originaux, en anglais et en français, sur un éventail

de sujets: ethnomusicologie et recherche dans le domaine de la musique traditionnelle
ou populaire. La revue encourage la soumission d’articles sur la musique dans le
contexte canadien ainsi que ceux qui abordent la musique dans des contextes globaux
et transnationaux. De plus, elle publie des comptes rendus de livres et d’enregistrements
(visuels et sonores). À propos de la soumission de ces derniers, prière de communiquer
directement avec la responsable des comptes rendus. Les auteurs qui désirent soumettre
un article pour la publication doivent faire parvenir une version électronique (Word) de
leur texte au rédacteur en chef.
SUBMISSION GUIDELINES
1. The article text should be typed, double-spaced (including explanatory endnotes,

quotations, song texts, Reference List, and captions for figures and illustrations) and
submitted as an attached electronic file (Word format). Parenthetical quotations
longer than forty words should be separate and indented on the left side of the
page. Articles are normally between 5,000 and 7,000 words.
2. As each article is assessed by two anonymous referees, information identifying the
author should appear only in the email message to the editor.
3. Articles should conform to the Style Guide, which can be found on the CSTM
website. Parenthetical documentation for references should be used in the text, with
full bibliographic references given in a list of References at the end of the article.
Endnotes should be kept to a minimum and reserved for explanatory material.
4. Musical figures, graphics, and tables should be submitted in separate files with
explicit indication of where they should be inserted in the article text. All figures,
graphics, and tables should carry complete captions, including full identification of
the item and all necessary credits and acknowledgements. The author of the article
is responsible for obtaining permissions for the use of copyrighted materials, as well
as for other materials, where appropriate.
vi MUSICultures 45/1-2
5. Authors should provide an abstract (up to 100 words) as well as a biographical note
(not more than 70 words), typed and double-spaced in separate files accompanying
the article.
SUBMISSION PROCESS
A manuscript is assessed first by the journal editor, who determines if it is of sufficient

interest to proceed to the next step, which is to send the manuscript to two external
referees. The referees write evaluations and recommendations, sometimes with
suggestions for revisions. These assessments are sent to the editor who either rejects the
manuscript, postpones a decision while suggesting revisions, or accepts the manuscript
in its present state. The referee’s assessments and recommendations are forwarded
anonymously to the manuscript’s author, along with the editor’s decisions. The review
process normally takes between four and five months.
Authors should also consult the “Publications” link on the Society’s website:
www.yorku.ca/cstm
Publishers should submit books, videos, CDs, etc. for possible review to the review
editor(s).
MEMBERSHIP AND SUBSCRIPTIONS
A one-year CSTM membership includes:

• Subscription to peer-reviewed MUSICultures (formerly The Canadian Journal for
Traditional Music / La Revue de musique folklorique canadienne)
• Subscription to Canadian Folk Music magazine
• CSTM Mail Order Service Discounts
• Access to the CSTM listserv
Membership dues in Canadian dollars:
Canadian Members:
$70 Individuals (+$15 for MUSICultures in print)
$35 Under-employed (includes students, seniors, and unemployed)
(+$15 for MUSICultures in print)
$95 Institutions (+$25 for MUSICultures in print)
Non-Canadian Members:
$80 Individuals (+$15 for MUSICultures in print))
$45 Under-employed (includes students, seniors, and unemployed)
(+$15 for MUSICultures in print)
$105 Institutions (+$25 for MUSICultures in print)
Lifetime Members:
$850 Individuals
$1000 Individual + Partner at same address
Please send a completed membership form (available on the CSTM website)

along with Visa information, cheque, or money order to:
vii
CSTM
c/o Jeffrey van den Scott
School of Music
Memorial University of Newfoundland
St. John’s, Newfoundland A1C 5S7
Canada
RÈGLES CONCERNANT LES SOUMISSIONS
1. L’article doit être dactylographié à interligne double (ce qui comprend les notes
à la fin de l’article, les citations, les paroles de chansons, la liste des références
et les vignettes des figures et illustrations), puis envoyé sous la forme de fichier
électronique (en format Word). Les citations de plus de trois lignes doivent être
séparées et en alinéa du côté gauche de la page. La longueur habituelle des articles
du périodique varie entre 5 000 et 7 500 mots.
2. Puisque chaque article est évalué par deux évaluateurs anonymes, toute information
identifiant l’auteur ne devrait figurer que dans le courriel destiné au rédacteur en
chef.
3. Veuillez réviser votre article selon le guide de rédaction, qui se trouve sur le site Web
du SCTM.
4. Les figures, les graphiques, et les tableaux se rapportant à la musique doivent
être fournis dans des fichiers distincts tout en étant accompagnés d’indications
expliquant à quel endroit ils doivent être insérés dans le texte. Toutes les figures,
tous les graphiques et tous les tableaux doivent être assortis de vignettes complètes,
ce qui doit comprendre l’identification complète de l’article et toutes les mentions
de source et les remerciements nécessaires. Il incombe à l’auteur de l’article
d’obtenir les permissions nécessaires en vue de l’utilisation de matériel protégé par
droits d’auteur de même que les permissions relatives à tout autre matériel, le cas
échéant.
5. Les auteurs doivent fournir un résumé de l’article (jusqu’à 100 mots) de même
qu’une référence biographique (ne dépassant pas 70 mots) dactylographiés à
interligne double dans des fichiers distincts accompagnant l’article.
POUR ENVOYER UN ARTICLE
Le manuscrit est évalué tout d’abord par le rédacteur en chef du périodique qui
détermine si l’article revêt un intérêt suffisant pour passer à la prochaine étape,
celle-ci consistant à envoyer le manuscrit à deux évaluateurs externes. Ces deux
évaluateurs rédigent ensuite leurs évaluations et recommandations, et font même
parfois des suggestions de révisions. Ces évaluations sont acheminées au rédacteur
en chef et celui-ci décide soit de rejeter l’article, de reporter sa décision en attendant
que des révisions soient faites ou d’accepter le manuscrit dans l’état où il se trouve à
ce moment-là. Les évaluations et les recommandations des évaluateurs sont ensuite
envoyées, de manière anonyme, à l’auteur du manuscrit, en même temps que les
décisions du rédacteur en chef.
Ce processus dure normalement entre quatre et cinq mois.

viii MUSICultures 45/1-2
ADHÉSION ET ABONNEMENT
L’adhésion annuelle à la SCTM comprend :

• l’abonnement à la revue MUSICultures (autrefois La Revue de musique folklorique
canadienne)
• l’abonnement à la revue trimestrielle Musique folklorique canadienne
• un rabais pour les services de vente par correspondance de la SCTM
• l’accès à la liste de diffusion de la SCTM
• une voix dans les affaires de la Société
Frais d’adhésion en dollars canadiens :
Membre individuel
70$ (+15$ pour le journal sur papier)
Étudiants et chercheurs autonomes 35$ (+15$ pour le journal sur papier)
Institutions 95$ (+25$ pour le journal sur papier)
Adresses non canadiennes

Membre individuel 80$ (+15$ pour le journal sur papier)
Étudiants et chercheurs autonomes 45$ (+15$ pour le journal sur papier)
Institutions 105$ (+25$ pour le journal sur papier)
Adhésion à vie
Membre individuel 850$
Membre individuel et de son conjoint 1000$
Il est possible d’envoyer un formulaire d’inscription dûment complété accompagné

d’un chèque ou d’un mandat poste à :
CSTM
c/o Jeffrey van den Scott
School of Music
Memorial University of Newfoundland
St. John’s, Newfoundland A1C 5S7
Canada
ix
From the Editor
W hat a pleasure and honour it has been to work with guest editors Jeff Todd
Titon and Aaron S. Allen on this special Ecologies issue. The impetus for
this issue originated in a conversation that the three of us had shortly after
“‘A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place’: The (Ab)uses of Music
Ecology” by Brent Keogh and Ian Collinson was published in MUSICultures
(2016). With this article and its predecessor (Keogh 2013), Keogh and
Collinson identified and critiqued what they argue is a misleading naturalistic
trope, a “utopian ecological model of balance and harmony,” underlying
a strain of music scholarship that seeks to show music’s integration with
cosmology, worldview, and social life in a variety of music cultures throughout
the world. To help broaden the discussion, Titon and Allen, both well-known
for their pioneering contributions to the study of ecomusicology, proposed to
demonstrate the wide variety of rigorous, cross-disciplinary, ecology-based, and
ecology-inspired scholarship on music sound, nature, culture, and environment
that was emerging in fields as diverse as ecological psychology and biology, as
well as collaborations among soundscape ecologists and ethnomusicologists. It
is the job of journals like MUSICultures to be the forum for such conversations
that develop across and through articles and other forms of scholarship.
We anticipated a healthy interest in the topic, so the guest editors put
together a call for proposals rather than requesting full manuscripts. We took a
friendly bet on the number of proposals we thought we’d receive. Jeff guessed
23, Aaron guessed 32, and I guessed 37. We wound up with 55! In an attempt
to design a strong, unified, and coherent issue, after a series of submissions
followed by internal and external reviews we wound up with the twelve articles
and one review essay that you find in these pages.
An exciting initiative developed when I invited some of the proposal
authors not accepted for the special issue to submit a manuscript for
consideration in an “open” issue of the journal. I was delighted that several
accepted. Meanwhile, I received other articles on environmental topics. These
papers will be published together in 2019 in an “unofficial” special issue on
“music and environment.” Jeff and Aaron have graciously agreed to write an
introduction to that issue in order to draw connections between the future
environment issue and this ecologies issue, further clarifying and elaborating
the similarities and differences between these topics.
Meanwhile, I would also like to highlight relevant environment articles
published in the last issue of MUSICultures, the special issue on Protest Singers
and Songs, notably Jada Watson’s “‘If They Blow a Hole in the Backbone’:
Sarah Harmer’s Campaign to Protect the Niagara Escarpment” and Julie
x MUSICultures 45/1-2
Rickwood’s “Lament, Poetic Prayer, Petition, and Protest: Community Choirs

and Environmental Activism in Australia.”
I was fascinated by the range of subjects and especially scholarly approaches
that the guest editors curated here in this issue. A number of authors are (ethno)
musicologists, as one might expect, but also represented are biologists, ecologists,
music theorists, sound artists, composers, and historians. One of the enjoyable
challenges of developing this issue was working with scientists unfamiliar with
the conventions of humanities and social sciences publications. Topics range
from the analysis of sound recordings made in particular environments to
assess the impacts of noise on both natural and human systems, to the future of
regional orchestras in southwestern Ontario. Musics and sounds from all over
the world are represented in these pages, including Japan, Mongolia, Haiti, and
Finland, as well as Canada and the US. Although I am quite earnest when I say
that I enjoyed reading all of the articles, I especially enjoyed the unexpectedness
of reading about human-bat relationships in Austin, Texas, and about duck calls
in the Mississippi Flyway.
I truly appreciate all the authors’ work to ensure that their articles were
as strong as they could be. I cannot thank Jeff and Aaron enough for dedicating
so much of their time and expertise to this special issue of MUSICultures.
With this issue, I regret to announce that English-language review editor
(ethnomusicology and traditional music) Glenn Patterson has resigned for
personal reasons. I thank him for his work, which continues as he mentors
our incoming English-language review editor, Kate Alexander. I am very much
looking forward to working with Kate, and wish her a warm welcome to the
team. I also warmly welcome our new copyeditor, Nellwyn Lampert. Nellwyn
comes to MUSICultures with a wealth of editing experience and a background
in theatre. She is also bilingual. Of course, welcoming Nellwyn means that I’m
bidding farewell to Gillian Turnbull, who has been MUSICultures’ copyeditor
for several years. Not only has Gillian been an excellent copyeditor, her PhD
in ethnomusicology and her research expertise in popular music meant that
her editing was informed by a deep understanding of the kinds of scholarship
represented in MUSICultures’ pages. She is also a dear friend and I will miss
working with her.
I also want to welcome Jeff Packman to the editorial board, as well as
Hadi Milanloo, our editorial board student representative, both from the
University of Toronto. I am, as ever, grateful to the editorial board members
for their support and insights, and to the rest of the journal editing team for all
their work and efforts on behalf of the journal.
HEATHER SPARLING
xi
References
Keogh, Brent. 2013. On the Limitations of Music Ecology. Journal of Music Research
Online 4. Available online: http://www.jmro.org.au/index.php/mca2/article/
view/83.
Keogh, Brent and Ian Collinson. 2016. “A Place for Everything and Everything in its
Place”: The (Ab)uses of Music Ecology. MUSICultures 43 (1): 1-15.
Mot de la rédactrice en chef
Q uel plaisir et quel honneur ce fut de travailler avec nos rédacteurs invités,
Jeff Todd Titon et Aaron S. Allen à ce numéro thématique intitulé Écologies!
L’idée de ce numéro est née d’une conversation que nous eûmes tous les trois peu
de temps après la parution dans MUSICultures, en 2016, de l’article de Brent
Keogh et Ian Collinson, « A Place for Everything and Everything in its Place:
The (Ab)uses of Music Ecology ». Dans cet article, et celui qui l’avait précédé
(Keogh 2013), Keogh et Collinson identifiaient et critiquaient ce qui pour eux
est un trope naturaliste fallacieux, un « modèle écologique utopique d’équilibre
et d’harmonie », sous-jacent à une lignée de recherche universitaire en musique,
qui cherche à démontrer l’intégration de la musique à la cosmologie, la vision
du monde et la vie sociale d’une grande diversité de cultures musicales à travers
la planète. Afin d’élargir la discussion, Titon et Allen, tous deux renommés pour
leurs contributions d’avant-garde à l’étude de l’écomusicologie, ont proposé de
mettre en lumière la profusion d’études rigoureuses, interdisciplinaires, fondées
sur, et inspirées par, les recherches universitaires sur le son, la nature, la culture et
l’environnement de la musique qui commencent à apparaître dans des champs
aussi divers que la psychologie et la biologie écologiques, ainsi que dans des
collaborations entre écologistes des paysages sonores et ethnomusicologues.
Il revient à des revues telles que MUSICultures de se faire le forum de telles
conversations qui naissent grâce à ces articles, et entre ces articles et d’autres
formes de recherches.
Nous nous attendions à ce que ce sujet suscite un vif intérêt, aussi les
rédacteurs invités ont-ils simplement lancé un appel à propositions d’articles
plutôt que de solliciter des manuscrits achevés. Nous avions parié amicalement
au sujet du nombre de propositions que nous allions recevoir. Jeff a parié pour
23, Aaron pour 32, et moi pour 37. Nous en avons reçu 55! Afin de réaliser un
numéro consistant, cohérent et qui forme un tout, après une série de soumissions
d’articles suivie d’évaluations internes et externes, nous nous sommes retrouvés
xii MUSICultures 45/1-2
avec douze articles et un essai bibliographique que vous découvrirez dans ces
pages.
Une intéressante initiative s’est concrétisée lorsque j’ai invité certains des
auteurs qui nous avaient soumis des propositions n’ayant pas été acceptées à nous
soumettre un manuscrit dans l’éventualité d’un numéro « ouvert » de la revue.
Plusieurs personnes ont souscrit à cette idée, à ma grande joie. Dans l’intervalle,
j’avais reçu d’autres articles sur des sujets environnementaux. Ces articles seront
publiés ensemble en 2019 dans un numéro thématique « non officiel » sur « la
musique et l’environnement ». Jeff et Aaron ont aimablement accepté de rédiger
une introduction à ce numéro afin d’établir des connexions entre ce futur numéro
sur l’environnement et ce numéro-ci portant sur les écologies, afin de clarifier
encore et de mieux cerner les similitudes et les différences entre ces deux sujets.
En attendant, je souhaiterais également rappeler l’existence d’articles
relevant de l’environnement publiés dans le dernier numéro de MUSICultures,
le numéro thématique sur les chanteurs et chansons contestataires, notamment
celui de Jada Watson intitulé « If They Blow a Hole in the Backbone: Sarah
Harmer’s Campaign to Protect the Niagara Escarpment » et celui de Julie
Rickwood, « Lament, Poetic Prayer, Petition, and Protest: Community Choirs
and Environmental Activism in Australia ».
J’ai été fascinée par l’étendue des sujets et, en particulier, par celle des
approches de recherche que les rédacteurs invités ont organisées dans ce
numéro. Un certain nombre d’auteurs sont des (ethno)musicologues, comme
on pouvait s’y attendre, mais des biologistes, des écologistes, des théoriciens
de la musique, des artistes du son, des compositeurs et des historiens y sont
également représentés. L’un des défis appréciables de l’élaboration de ce
numéro fut de travailler avec des scientifiques peu familiers des conventions des
publications en sciences humaines et sociales. Les sujets abordés vont de l’analyse
des enregistrements sonores effectués dans des environnements particuliers afin
d’évaluer les impacts du bruit sur les systèmes tant humains que naturels, jusqu’à
l’avenir des orchestres régionaux dans le sud-ouest de l’Ontario. Les musiques
et les sons du monde entier sont représentés dans ces pages, depuis le Japon, la
Mongolie, Haïti et la Finlande jusqu’au Canada et les États-Unis. Bien que je
sois tout à fait sincère en disant que j’ai apprécié la lecture de tous les articles, je
dois dire que j’ai particulièrement aimé le caractère inattendu des relations entre
humains et chauves-souris à Austin, au Texas, ainsi que les appeaux aux canards
le long de la voie migratoire du Mississippi.
J’ai vraiment apprécié tout le travail fourni par les auteurs pour s’assurer
que leurs articles soient aussi solides qu’ils pouvaient l’être. Je ne pourrais jamais
assez remercier Jeff et Aaron pour avoir consacré tant de leur temps et de leurs
compétences à ce numéro thématique de MUSICultures.
xiii
Avec la parution de ce numéro, j’ai le regret d’annoncer que notre rédacteur

des comptes rendus en anglais (ethnomusicologie et musique traditionnelle),
Glenn Patterson, doit s’en aller, pour des raisons personnelles. Je le remercie pour
son travail, qu’il poursuivra en se faisant le mentor de notre nouvelle rédactrice
des comptes rendus en anglais, Kate Alexander. J’ai très hâte de travailler avec
Kate, et lui souhaite chaleureusement la bienvenue dans notre équipe. J’accueille
aussi chaleureusement notre nouvelle réviseuse, Nellwyn Lampert. Nellwyn
arrive à MUSICultures avec une abondante expérience de l’édition et une
formation en théâtre. Elle est également bilingue. Bien sûr, accueillir Nellwyn
signifie aussi que je dise au revoir à Gillian Turnbull, qui a été la réviseuse de
MUSICultures pendant plusieurs années. Non seulement Gillian a-t-elle été une
excellente réviseuse, mais son doctorat en ethnomusicologie et son expérience de
recherche en musique populaire ajoutait à son travail de révision une profonde
compréhension du type de travaux universitaires représentés dans les pages de
MUSICultures. C’est aussi une très bonne amie et cela me manquera de ne plus
travailler avec elle.
Je souhaite également la bienvenue à Jeff Packman au comité de rédaction,
ainsi qu’à Hadi Milanloo, notre représentant étudiant au comité éditorial, tous
deux de l’Université de Toronto. Je suis, comme toujours, reconnaissante envers
les membres de notre comité éditorial pour leur soutien et leurs avis, et envers
les autres membres de l’équipe de rédaction pour tout leur travail et tous leurs
efforts au nom de la revue.
HEATHER SPARLING
Références
Keogh, Brent, 2013, « On the Limitations of Music Ecology ». Journal of Music
Research Online 4, en ligne (http://www.jmro.org.au/index.php/mca2/article/
view/83).
Keogh, Brent et Ian Collinson, 2016, « “A Place for Everything and Everything in its
Place”: The (Ab)uses of Music Ecology ». MUSICultures 43 (1) : 1-15.
xiv MUSICultures 45/1-2
Notes on Contributing Authors /

Notes sur les collaborateurs
LAURA CHAMBERS is an accomplished freelance flautist who has performed with
several of Ontario’s regional orchestras. She is also one of the founding members of
Charm of Finches, Canada’s first professional flute quintet. Ms. Chambers holds an
Honours Bachelor of Performance from the University of Toronto and a master’s degree
from University of Southern California. Alongside running a private teaching studio,
Laura is currently pursuing her doctorate at York University.
SAM CRUMMETT is a Furman University Class of 2018 graduate with a BS in

Biology. At Furman, he studied ecology with an interest in conservation biology. His
senior thesis involved examining the effects of forest fires from November 2016 on the
ecology of western NC and upstate SC through changes in the soundscape.
REBECCA DIRKSEN is Assistant Professor at Indiana University and was recently

a Radcliffe Fellow at Harvard (2016-17). Working across the spectrum of Haiti’s
musical genres, her research concerns cultural approaches to development, crisis, and
disaster; diverse environmentalisms and ecomusicology; and applied/activist/engaged
scholarship. Her work has been published in Ethnomusicology: A Contemporary Reader,
Vol. 2; Yearbook for Traditional Music; Ethnomusicology Review; Conjonction; the Bulletin
du Bureau d’Ethnologie d’Haïti, and elsewhere.
JAMES EDWARDS is a social scientist with a deep interest in interdisciplinary and

mixed-methods research, the emergence and transformation of market-based societies,
and the dialectic between cultural traditionalism and experimentalism. James received
his doctorate in Ethnomusicology with a specialisation in Systematic Musicology from
UCLA in 2015, with a dissertation on the sociology and aesthetics of commercial
performing arts in Japan’s southernmost prefecture of Okinawa. He has published peer-
reviewed articles on a number of topics in (eco)critical musicology and cultural studies.
His personal interests include sound-making, recording, and his dog Tulip.
JULIANNE GRAPER is a PhD candidate at the University of Texas at Austin, where

she acted as assistant editor of the Latin American Music Review for two years. Her
research interests include science and technology studies, multispecies ethnography,
protest music, and music of southern Mexico. Her article “Pussy Riot: Performing
‘Punkness,’ or Taking the ‘Riot’ out of Riot Grrrl” was published in Songs of Social
Protest, edited by Dillane, Power, Devereux, and Haynes, in fall 2018. She also works
as a freelance translator.
RANDALL HARLOW is Assistant Professor of Organ and Music Theory at the

University of Northern Iowa. His research applies approaches from Ecological
Psychology, interaction design, and cognitive theories of embodied mind toward topics
xv
in performance studies and hyper-acoustic musical instruments. He has published

in the journal Keyboard Perspectives and has presented at numerous international
interdisciplinary music conferences. He holds a DMA degree from the Eastman School
of Music.
DAKOTA HOWARD is an undergraduate student at Furman University in Biology

and Computer Science. His interest is in Ecology and Genetics with a focus on
Bioinformatics. His senior thesis focuses on the intersection of big data and soundscapes.
Howard will pursue a PhD after Furman.
ALEXANDRA HUI is an Associate Professor of History at Mississippi State University.

In 2019, she will become the co-editor of the History of Science Society, including the
journal Isis. In addition to her monograph, The Psychophysical Ear: Musical Experiments,
Experimental Sounds, 1840-1910 (MIT Press, 2012), she has published several scholarly
articles, chapters in anthologies, and co-edited the 2013 Osiris volume on music, sound,
and the laboratory.
DARYL JAMIESON is a composer, sound artist, and researcher. His music for
Japanese and Western instruments has been performed around the world, and he was
the recipient of the 2018 Toshi Ichiyanagi Contemporary Prize. As a researcher, his
principal interest is in contemporary music and spirituality, and the contemporary
Zen philosophy of the Kyoto School. At present, he is an adjunct professor at Showa
University of Music in Japan.
ANNA J. MARKEY is a Furman University Biology graduate and aspiring big cats
researcher. Her undergraduate research focused on spatial patterns of sound in a zoo
setting. Markey is an avid world traveler and passionate wildlife conservationist. She is
currently part of the South Florida Deer Study looking at predator-prey interactions
between Florida Panthers and White Tailed Deer in the Big Cypress Basin.
JOSHUA OTTUM holds an MFA in Integrated Composition Improvisation and

Technology from UC Irvine and a PhD in Interdisciplinary Arts from Ohio University.
He has recorded multiple albums, toured throughout the United States and Europe,
and composed music for multiple television and radio programs. Ottum is currently
Professor of Commercial Music at Bakersfield College.
BRYAN C. PIJANOWSKI is Professor of Ecology at Purdue University in the

Department of Forestry and Natural Resources. He specializes in spatial modeling and
analysis of land use/cover change. Grounded in the theoretical framework of complex
socio-ecological systems, his research employs advanced technologies and methodologies
from a wide array of disciplines. His current research focuses on the use of soundscape
recordings to assess the health of ecosystems around the world.
xvi MUSICultures 45/1-2
JENNIFER C. POST is Senior Lecturer in Music at University of Arizona. She is

an ethnomusicologist who has specialized in Central and South Asian music and in
musical instrument study. In Mongolia, she conducts fieldwork on music and other
sound practices of Kazakh pastoralists in the western region whose lands and lifestyles
are currently impacted by climate change and other environmental disturbances. She
is currently completing a monograph titled, Wood, Skin and Bone: Musical Instrument
Production and Challenges to Local and Global Ecosystems (University of Illinois).
JOHN E. QUINN is an associate professor in the Biology Department at Furman

University. His research focuses on conservation and sustainability challenges in coupled
human-natural systems; in particular, identifying the impacts of local and regional
landscape and soundscape change on biodiversity (defined broadly) and ecosystem
services while providing actionable data for key decision makers.
ALEXANDER R. SCHINDLER is a graduate of Furman University. His undergraduate

thesis focused on identifying the effects of anthropogenic noise disturbance on the
structure of soundscapes, avian vocalization, and avian behavior. Schindler is currently
a master’s student in wildlife and fisheries biology at Clemson University and member
of the South Carolina Cooperative Fish and Wildlife Research Unit, where his current
research focuses on using quantitative methods to assess upland game bird population
and community ecology.
DR. JUHA TORVINEN is a researcher at the Sibelius Academy of the University of

the Arts, Helsinki, and holds the title of Docent (habilitation) at the Universities of
Helsinki and Turku. In 2014, he was awarded a five-year Academy Research Fellowship
by the Academy of Finland for his project on Music, Nature, and Environmental Crises:
A Northern Perspective on Ecocritical Trends in Contemporary Music.
SUNMIN YOON holds a PhD in ethnomusicology from University of Maryland at

College Park, and currently teaches at University of Delaware. Her research on the
Mongolian folk song genre of urtyn duu focuses on its relation to ecology and rural/
urban spaces, and its involvement with ideological politics during the socialist and post-
socialist eras. Her work previously appeared in Musicology Research, IIAS Newsletter,
Smithsonian Folkways Magazine, and Journal of Mongolian Studies.
Introduction
Allen, Aaron. 2018. One Ecology and Many Ecologies: The Problem and Opportunity of Ecology for Music and Sound Studies. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 1-13.
One Ecology and Many Ecologies: The Problem and
Opportunity of Ecology for Music and Sound Studies
AARON S. ALLEN
T he “problem of ecology” for music and sound studies, as I see it, is the
invocation of ecology to mean something other than what ecological
scientists mean by it. At the same time, however, this “problem” is an
opportunity because, since its 19th-century development as a biological science,
ecology has informed other realms of inquiry that resonate with music and
sound studies. With this special issue of MUSICultures, we aim to address that
problem and take advantage of the opportunity. In particular, we aim to help
in understanding ecological science and to begin distinguishing the richness of
the many ecologies that make useful contributions to music and sound studies.
Given the diversity of definitions and uses of ecology already displayed in
scholarship writ large (including those presented and not presented in this special
issue), disagreements will surely persist, and individuals (myself included) will
continue to use ecology in denotative and connotative ways that are understood
harmoniously and discordantly in various scholarly communities. The upshots
will be consternation and confusion but also creativity and even collaboration
— that is, definitions will both hurt and help, and invoking the term ecology
without clarification can be both detrimental and useful. My hope is that music
and sound scholars will be aware of the distinctions and thus be able to choose
wisely the appropriate definition, to studiously avoid such definitions, or at the
least, to be cognizant of the implications of both approaches and be aware that
not everyone understands equally the various uses of ecology. Such a diversity of
possibilities would not solve the problem, and that diversity is simultaneously
the source of the opportunity.
The 3rd edition of Ecology by Robert E. Ricklefs (1990) begins Chapter 1
with the following paragraph:
2 MUSICultures 45/1-2
The English word ‘ecology’ is taken from the Greek oikos, meaning
house, the immediate human environment. In 1870 [1866], the
German zoologist Ernst Haeckel first gave the word its broader
meaning, the study of the natural environment and of the relations
of organisms to each other and to their surroundings. General use
of the word came only in the late 1800s, when European and
American scientists began to call themselves ecologists. The first
societies and journals explicitly devoted to ecology appeared in the
early decades of this [the 20th] century. Since that time, ecology
has undergone immense growth and diversification, so much
so that persons devoting their professional lives to ecology now
number in the tens of thousands. With the dual crises of rapid
growth of human population and accelerating deterioration of the
earth’s environment, ecology has taken on the utmost importance
to everyone. Management of biotic resources in a way that sustains
a reasonable quality of human life depends upon wise ecological
principles, not merely to solve or prevent environmental problems
but to inform our economic, political, and social thought and
practice.
Ricklefs gives appropriate emphasis to one of the founders of ecological science,

Ernst Haeckel (1834-1919), and paraphrases his 1866 definition of “oecologie.”
Haeckel is a controversial figure (see Egerton 2013), and he was but one of many
individuals who formulated the modern science of ecology, the ideas for which
Egerton (2012) has traced to antiquity. Nevertheless, Haeckel’s first definition
of ecology has had considerable influence, so it is worth considering his original
formulation as presented in the chapter “Oecologie und Chorologie” in Volume
2 of Generelle Morphologie der Organismen (1866):
By ecology, we mean the whole science of the relations of the

organism to the environment including, in the broad sense, all
the “conditions of existence.” These are partly organic, partly
inorganic. ... Among the inorganic conditions of existence to
which every organism must adapt itself belong, first of all, the
physical and chemical properties of its habitat, the climate (light,
warmth, atmospheric conditions of humidity and electricity), the
inorganic nutrients, nature of the water and of the soil, etc.
As organic conditions of existence we consider the entire
relations of the organism to all other organisms with which it comes
Allen: One Ecology and Many Ecologies 3
into contact, and of which most contribute either to its advantage

or its harm. Each organism has among the other organisms its
friends and its enemies, those which favor its existence and those
which harm it. The organisms which serve as organic foodstuff
for others or which live upon them as parasites also belong in this
category of organic conditions of existence. ... The extraordinary
significance of these relations does not correspond in the least to
their scientific treatment, however. (qtd. in Egerton 2013: 226)
Among many possible connections to make between this definition and

this special issue of MUSICultures, three stand out. First, the term ecology
originates in the biological sciences. Haeckel coined the term “oecologie,”
which was translated into English as “ecology.” Since the 19th century, ecology
has spread into a great variety of scholarly and popular pursuits; it has taken on
new meanings in those realms, a situation furthered by its morphing through
translations. But Haeckel’s original definition has been particularly influential,
as were a number of his other important scientific neologisms, such as ontogeny,
phylum, and phylogeny (Egerton 2013). Second, context is an important part
of Haeckel’s definition: the context for an organism involves organic and
inorganic relationships that range from light, chemistry, and temperature
to food, friends, and predators. Although apparently simple, it is worth
emphasizing that the idea of context involves a complex multiplicity of variables
and factors rather than a simplistic relationship between part and whole, which
was characteristic of the science of physiology that Haeckel was critiquing.
Such contexts were both biotic (Haeckel’s “organic”) and abiotic (“inorganic”)
— i.e., they concerned both the organism and other living organisms as well
as the non-living features of the environment surrounding those organisms.
(In chemistry the categories of organic and inorganic, with carbon atoms and
without respectively, are fundamental, but they do not necessarily translate to
Haeckel’s distinctions.) That leads to the third important point: environment
and ecology are not synonyms (see Titon’s Afterword). The study of ecology
considers organism(s), organic and inorganic environments (i.e., contexts),
and their many relationships. Thus, Haeckel uses “environment” as a part of
ecology, not an equivalent.
Haeckel’s definition is over 150 years old, but it is still useful, as indicated
by its regular citation (in the many dates of Haeckel’s publications with
continually refined definitions). A fourth edition of Ricklefs’ book, from 2000,
is available. One could also consult the 8th edition of his other ecology textbook,
Ecology: The Economy of Nature (2018), or of course one could consult any of the
other myriad textbooks on the subject. The discipline of ecology has changed
in the past 30 years, yet Ricklefs’ nearly three-decades old statement is still valid
as I write in 2018. Why cite it rather than a newer one? My goal in part is to
show the enduring power of the meaning of ecology. But more particularly, I
cite the 3rd edition of the Ricklefs because it is the ecology textbook I studied as
an undergraduate at Tulane University, and it has informed my understanding
of ecology. I took other ecological classes (restoration ecology, ecological
anthropology, etc.), but the ecology class I took in the fall of 1997 with Thomas
Sherry ingrained in me a conception of ecology that is fundamentally rooted
in the Haeckel definition. Haeckel may have had his own contextual influences
that prompted him to define ecology in the 1860s, just as the Ricklefs approach
to ecological science came about in the period when humanity has taken heed
(or has been forced to take heed — or is still in the process of taking heed) of
the increasingly problematic pressures we place on our home planet: pressures
that impact human societies, other life forms, and the systems that provide for
us all. Therefore, ecology, for me, is “the study of the natural environment and
of the relations of organisms to each other and to their surroundings” (Ricklefs
1990: 3) done “in a period of environmental crisis” (Titon 2013: 8).
Jeff Titon has also influenced my thinking with regard to ecology, not only
because he is my co-editor for this special issue and because we have collaborated
previously (Allen, Titon, and Von Glahn 2014; Allen et al. 2015; and Allen and
Dawe 2016), but also because his writing was an early source for me regarding
the cultural approach to sustainability and music (Titon 2009a, 2009b,
2009c; see also Titon’s Afterword). Titon and Ricklefs, among others, have
informed my ideas about ecomusicology. Sustainability relates fundamentally
to environmental crises and ecological principles, in addition to social justice
and appropriate economics, a point I elaborate elsewhere with a particular
emphasis on the inclusion of aesthetics (Allen 2019), and that many others have
made as well (Orr 2010; Brundtland et al. 1987; Titon 2009c, 2015). Titon
has extensive experience with the science of ecology, which comes across in his
long career: from his studies in college and lifetime as an organic gardener to a
course he co-taught at Tufts called “History and Ecology in America;” and from
his Powerhouse for God (1988) chapter on “Land and Life” (discussing culture,
agriculture, and ecology in the northern Blue Ridge Mountains) to his recent
essays in the second decade of the 21st century. In a handful of Titon’s most-cited
approaches (1984: 9, 2009a, 2009b, 2009c) he drew from ecological thinking
to formulate powerful ideas for music study and cultural policy. To state that
differently: rather than dealing with ecological science and environmental issues
directly, he found useful and insightful frameworks to apply to the sustainability
(or preservation) of music and music cultures (something he continues in his
Afterword to this special issue). Beginning particularly with his appeal for a
sound commons for all living creatures (Titon 2012), his subsequent writings
on music and sustainability began incorporating considerably more ecology
and environmental issues (in addition to his Afterword, see Titon 2013, Titon
2015, and Allen 2019).
Others in music and sound studies have proceded as in that handful
of Titon’s work which used ecology as inspiration for approaches to music
sustainability. For example, Schippers and Grant (2016) drew on the cultural
sustainability discourse and invoked the ecological idea of networked systems
(see also Titon’s Afterword). But Schippers and Grant did so without engaging
the relationships to environmental crises and the non-human and abiotic
contexts that are fundamental to ecological science (see my critique in Allen
2017, which is contextualized further in Allen 2019). This approach (what I am
calling the “problem of ecology” for music and sound studies) has precedent in
ethnomusicology: Archer (1964) sought to draw out the ecological metaphor
by arguing for the study of the social contexts for music. Surely Archer’s goal
was an improvement over studying music as if it were a thing unto itself
divorced even from human context (and I particularly appreciate Archer’s idea
to take into account raw materials for musical instruments, as have others
including Allen 2012, Trump 2013, Dawe 2016, and Smith 2016). Of course,
very few scholars were approaching music as ecology in the 1960s. At the time,
musicology and ethnomusicology were predicated on considering music in
context: with musicologists emphasizing biographical, historical, stylistic, and
textual (editorial) contexts and with ethnomusicologists emphasizing social
and cultural contexts (and those two broadly delineated disciplines were not
necessarily mutually exclusive). Archer’s contribution was to think about such
contexts also as ecological (see also Titon’s Afterword), yet we seem not to
have been able to fully expand on the implications of his call: we may study
music and sound in human context, but, notable exceptions notwithstanding,
we still have not expanded well enough to the planetary, non-human, and
abiotic contexts that make that human context possible. (To make a parallel
to Haeckel’s organic and inorganic: we are still working on considering the
organism in its organic context but have not managed to fully integrate our
study into inorganic contexts and into the linkages between organic and
inorganic contexts in relation to the organism.) The 2010 conference of the
Society for Ethnomusicology was entitled “Sound Ecologies,” during which
many participants used “ecology” to mean “connection”; rather than “ecology,”
the term “network” (or even “social networks” or “cybernetics”) would have
been more accurate, because the abiotic/non-human/environmental/natural
contexts were largely absent in the abstracts and papers in Los Angeles that
year (despite a few notable exceptions, such as Katharine Payne’s presentation
on whale song, “Why Listen to the Other Animals?”). While I recognize

Keogh and Collinson’s (2016) concern about the “abuses” of ecology in music
and sound studies, I find their reading of ecomusicology to be incomplete
and their own conceptions of ecology problematically lacking the pluralistic,
dynamic, and diversified approaches that characterize broader engagements
with the concept.
In general, then, this is what I see as the “problem of ecology” for music
and sound studies: the invocation of ecology to mean something other than
what Haeckel and Ricklefs — or any of those “tens of thousands” of professional
ecologists (Ricklefs 1990: 3) — would understand as ecological. This “problem”
relates fundamentally to the three points I made above about Haeckel’s
“oecologie” definition. First, despite (or perhaps because of ) the 19th-century
coining and definition of ecology that remains current today, the term has
evolved into much more, particularly in the humanities and in the disciplines
of philosophy and literature. Second, when incorporated into music and sound
studies, the term ecology has often lost touch with the complex contexts (i.e.
those both organic and inorganic) and is instead re-simplified to focus only
on the human organism. And third, it is necessary to disambiguate ecology
and environment in order to more accurately and carefully study, understand,
advocate, and promote preservation and change with regard to human (musical)
cultures, non-human and human soundscapes, and the interactions between
them and other biotic and abiotic contexts (see also Titon’s Afterword). Thus,
the “problem of ecology” is essentially about how we use the term — about
how the term has been defined, co-opted, used, misused, and reused in various
contexts with and without explanation.
This “problem” as I have outlined it, however, is not insurmountable and
indeed may be an opportunity. For example, there are numerous ecologically
inspired fields in the humanities and social sciences; these fields have developed
disciplinary communities who understand the term ecology in particular ways
distinct from, and also related to, Haeckel and Ricklefs. Ecomusicology is one
such field (although it also represents a panoply of other fields and disciplinary
influences, and one may also find in ecomusicological work uses of ecology that
Haeckel and Ricklefs would recognize). The authors of Current Directions in
Ecomusicology dealt with about a dozen other ecological fields that are defined
concisely in that book’s “Glossary of Keywords” (Allen and Dawe 2016: 288-
292). The CFP for this special issue of MUSICultures invoked those and other
ecologies: conservation ecology, soundscape ecology, cultural ecology, ecological/
environmental psychology, human ecology, political ecology, acoustic ecology,
deep ecology, ecocriticism, ecomusicology, ecophilosophy, environmental
humanities, sacred ecology, etc. The resulting contributors in this special issue
address many of these. Having one person define and attempt to disambiguate
them would be a cumbersome (and boring) venture, subject to failing before
even beginning. The point nevertheless remains: many fields of inquiry and
practice have taken on the mantle of ecology, and while their diversity and
distinctions can be confounding, many are useful and productive partners for
music and sound studies.
But the “problem of ecology” is only part of the motivation for this
special issue. To be sure, this “problem” is grounds for defensive reaction,
critical engagement, and attempts at clarification. Nevertheless, there are
also reasons to promote what we might call “the opportunity of ecology” for
music and sound studies, particularly with regard to ecomusicology. I defined
ecomusicology (after a lengthy community vetting process) as “the study of
music, culture, and nature in all the complexities of those terms. Ecomusicology
considers musical and sonic issues, both textual and performative, related to
ecology and the natural environment” (Allen 2014). Ecomusicology could
be seen as part of the “problem” and as a path of “opportunity”: it references
ecology, and some ecomusicological literature engages the science, yet much in
the literature does not directly relate with the science of ecology and instead
deals more with vague concepts of nature or general environmental issues. The
prefix “eco-” in the portmanteau ecomusicology can certainly be understood as
“ecological,” and there is increasing evidence that such a use is the case as in, for
example, the first “direction” of Current Directions in Ecomusicology (Allen and
Dawe 2016). (The other three directions are fieldwork, critical, and textual.)
In fact, as Dawe and I described the field of ecomusicology, it is “the coming
together of music/sound studies with environmental/ecological studies and
sciences” (Allen and Dawe 2016: 2). But it is important to call out the eliding
that happens in that sentence because there are at least four distinct (inter)
disciplines/fields at play in the latter half of that definition (to say nothing of
the diversity of the first part regarding music and sound studies): environmental
studies, environmental sciences, ecological studies, and the science of ecology.
The “problem of ecology” in ecomusicology comes from the historical influence
of literary studies on musicology in general and from the particular influence
on ecomusicology from the literary field known as ecocriticism (see Allen
2014 and Allen et al. 2011). Hence ecomusicology as “ecocritical musicology”
(“ecological critical musicology”) is at least one step removed from the science
of ecology (similar concerns could be brought to bear on the relationships of
literary studies, ecology, and ecocriticism, but this is not the place for such
an excursus). That removal seems to have resulted in the loss of some of the
original, scientific aspects of ecology, but for ecomusicology what remained is
decidedly environmental (see Titon 2013 and the introduction to Allen and
Dawe 2016). Therefore, for ecomusicology at least, it is important to distinguish

the key environmental (and/or nature) themes into those that are oriented to
the specific scientific discipline of ecology and those that are oriented to the
interdiscipline (or transdiscipline) of the more general environmental studies.
We would benefit from a more careful use of language that clarifies our use of
ecology (the science) from any of a variety of other ecologies, including those
that mean environmental more generally and those that offer little apparent
connection with the non-human or abiotic elements of human contexts. Titon
furthers this distinction in his Afterword, and we hope this special issue is a
solid step toward greater clarity (or at least to recognizing the problem).
Titon and I sought out articles for this special issue that illustrated the
plurality of ecologies but that simultaneously engaged more with ecology than
the more general ideas of environment or nature. Of course, a special issue of
a journal cannot be comprehensive, and there should be no expectation that
what we provide here would be a comprehensive approach to the variety of
ecologies. What we propose with this special issue is to further develop this idea
of the plural ecologies as they are related to music and sound studies. Rather
than addressing directly the “problem of ecology” for music and sound studies,
we appreciate instead that the authors have decided on a more straight-forward
approach to the opportunities that ecologies offer for music and sound studies.
These are not limited to the scientific, and they are not unique to music and
sound studies. The science of ecology has been influential in many fields of
study in the social sciences and humanities, and we see much of that influence
in this special issue. A brief overview of the contributions shows some of that
diversity and influence.
Julianne Graper’s background in biology informs her multi-species
ethnomusicological research for “Bat City: Becoming with Bats in the Austin
Music Scene,” in which she draws on the ecological science of conservation biology
as well as science and technology studies to “argue for a new understanding of
ecology as a process that does not seek to separate the human from the non-human,
but rather evaluates and values interspecies interactions of all types, searching for
ways that humans and non-humans can (and already do) productively coexist in a
rapidly shrinking world.” Historian of science Alexandra Hui focuses on another
flying non-human species in “Imagining Ecologies through Sound: An Historic-
ecological Approach to the Soundscape of the Mississippi Flyway.” Hui considers
the changing sonic environment for ducks, or more properly duck calls and duck
callers (including but not limited to hunters), draws on the history of ecological
science and ecosystem thinking, and argues for the idea she calls “imagined
ecologies,” which involves “an individual’s or community’s understanding of
themselves as part of an ecological system.”
Ecologist John E. Quinn and his colleagues Anna J. Markey, Dakota

Howard, Sam Crummett, and Alexander R. Schindler present the results of their
research on noise in pine forests and at a zoo in “Intersections of Soundscapes
and Conservation: Ecologies of Sound in Naturecultures.” This article may be
quite different from the usual format and style of articles familiar to readers
of MUSICultures; it is a scientific article, reviewed by ecological scientists and
written primarily for other scientists but with an overture to the necessary
interdisciplinarity that characterizes soundscape ecology. Ethnomusicologist
Jennifer C. Post and soundscape ecologist Bryan C. Pijanowski address directly
the necessity of that interdisciplinary approach in their essay “Coupling Scientific
and Humanistic Approaches to Address Wicked Environmental Problems of the
Twenty-first Century: Collaborating in an Acoustic Community Nexus.” Post
and Pijanowski argue for close collaboration between scientists (as represented
by an ecologist) and humanists (as represented by an ethnomusicologist) to
address biodiversity and other environmental challenges as related to sound
in human and non-human communities. Post and Pinjanowski have, both
separately and together as part of a larger team, done research in Mongolia,
where another of our contributors has also done research. In her essay “What’s
in the Song? Urtyn duu as Sonic ‘Ritual’ Among Mongolian Herder-singers,”
ethnomusicologist Sunmin Yoon considers a ritual approach to representing
ecocentric worldviews. Ecocentrism — as promoted by philosopher Arne Naess
in his ecosophy of deep ecology, which is opposed to the human-centeredness
of anthropocentrism — is a worldview that does not privilege one component
of a system but rather finds balance among the components of a system. Yoon
argues that the act of singing is a way to transcend the separateness of humans,
non-human animals, and their environmental context of earth and sky.
In “Haiti, Singing for the Land, Sea, and Sky: Cultivating Ecological
Metaphysics and Environmental Awareness through Music,” ethnomusicologist
Rebecca Dirksen reflects on the traditional ecological knowledge in the
spiritual ecology of Vodou. As a country particularly vulnerable to the
impacts of climate change, Haiti has much to lose but also much to offer.
Dirksen considers a selection of songs that illustrate “the deleterious effects of
imbalance between the visible (human) and invisible (spiritual) worlds, and
that play with tensions between precarity and resiliency” and reflects on the
ways Haitians are navigating their environmental crises musically. On another
island on the other side of the world, ethnomusicologist James Edwards
chronicles how a different culture is confronting environmental problems in
“A Field Report from Okinawa, Japan: Applied Ecomusicology and the 100-
Year Kuruchi Forest Project.” Edwards has written a “state-of-the-field” report
not for a discipline or academic field but rather for his on-going fieldwork,
which puts theory and practice in ecomusicology into dialogue with regard to
an effort to increase the population of an ebony tree (kuruchi or Ryūkyūan
ebony, Diospyros ferrea or Ryūkyū kokutan) that is the preferred material for
the necks of the sanshin (a three-stringed lute). Edwards offers a potential
political ecology approach to understanding what is essentially a restoration
ecology project.
Musician and scholar Laura Chambers considers the idea of restoring
Western Art Music through the lens of Jeff Titon’s theories of sustainability,
which draw on concepts from the science of ecology. In her “Feed the Soil, Not
the Plant: Case Studies in the Sustainability of Ontario’s Regional Orchestras,”
Chambers considers how arts administrators and musicians managed two
at-risk ensembles to keep them afloat. In another, quite different approach
to Western Art Music, musicologist Juha Torvinen considers a song cycle
based on poems in the Northern Sámi language by a Finnish composer. In
“Resounding: Feeling, Mytho-ecological Framing, and the Sámi Conception
of Nature in Outi Tarkiainen’s The Earth, Spring’s Daughter,” he argues that
Tarkiainen uses “mytho-ecological framing” — adaptations of Sámi mythology,
cyclical conceptions of time, and motifs related to nature — in order to reflect
changes in Sámi culture and concerns about contemporary environmental
issues. With a different approach to environmental imagination, Joshua Ottum,
a professor of commercial music, considers how two composers of New Age
music (Will Ackerman and Steven Halpern) imagine the natural world in the
context of environmental crisis, particularly regarding the sublime, wilderness,
and climate change. In “Between Two Worlds: American New Age Music and
Environmental Imaginaries,” Ottum provides contrasting views of how New
Age contexts understand nature, the environment, and ecology.
Music theorist and organist Randall Harlow’s article “Ecologies of
Practice in Musical Performance” offers a model for understanding performance
based on ecological psychology and actor-network theory. Harlow draws on the
literature around the work of James Gibson and Bruno Latour to consider the
ecological relationship of embodied gesture that governs musicians and their
instruments (particularly organists). In offering an “ecology of practice” for
musicking, Harlow draws attention to an abstract understanding of ecology.
Composer and musicologist Daryl Jamieson also relies on Gibsonian ecological
psychology in his article, “Uncanny Movement through Virtual Spaces: Michael
Pisaro’s fields have ears.” Jamieson argues for understanding Pisaro’s series of ten
compositions as taking an ecological approach to composition because of the
way the location of sound producer and listener is more important than the
timing of the performer. Both Jamieson and Harlow take us far afield in our
exploration of ecologies for music and sound studies.
If there is a takeaway message from this diverse collection of essays, I

would suggest that it is an encouragement to take a “both/and” rather than
an “either/or” approach to the problem and opportunity of ecology for music
and sound studies: there are both established views of ecology and a variety of
other interpretations of it, all of which are valid. Such a pluralistic approach
could cause confusion if not done well, but it would also contribute to the
diversification and development of teaching and research approaches for music
and sound studies in general and for ecomusicology in particular. This pluralistic
approach resonates with what Dawe and I called “ecomusicologies” (Allen and
Dawe 2016) and would serve to connect the related but often disparate areas of
soundscape ecology and acoustic ecology, biomusicology and zoomusicology,
environmental studies and environmental humanities, and others. Another
potential upshot from this pluralistic approach could further Mark Pedelty’s
move “Toward an Applied Ecomusicology” (2016: 255). Such a result would
build on the longstanding efforts in applied ethnomusicology (for which Jeff
Titon has been such a seminal figure), connect them with the burgeoning field
of ecomusicology, and create a stronger engagement with the problem and
opportunity of ecology.
Ecologies matter for music and sound studies. Given the challenges
that humans and the entire planet face, it is imperative that we give more
fundamental importance to ecology as we seek to preserve, engage with,
disseminate, and participate in our sounding world. As the scientist John
Kricher pointed out, “Ecology is no longer the arcane study of natural history.
Ecology, in the twenty-first century, may be the key to human destiny in
the twenty-second century and beyond” (2009: x). Music and sound studies
scholars and practitioners would do well to take heed of such advice, and we
look forward to reading, hearing, seeing, and talking about how these diverse
conversations continue.
References
Allen, Aaron S. 2012. ‘Fatto Di Fiemme’: Stradivari’s Violins and the Musical Trees
of the Paneveggio. In Invaluable Trees: Cultures of Nature, 1660-1830, 301-315.
Ed. Laura Auricchio, Elizabeth Heckendorn Cook, and Giulia Pacini. Oxford:
Voltaire Foundation.
———. 2014. Ecomusicology. The Grove Dictionary of American Music. New York:
Oxford University Press.
———. 2017. Review of Sustainable Futures for Music Cultures: An Ecological Per-
spective. Ethnomusicology Forum 26 (3): 400-405.
———. 2019. Sounding Sustainable; or, The Challenge of Sustainability. In Cultural

Sustainabilities: Music, Media, Language, Advocacy, 43-59. Ed. Timothy J. Cooley.
Urbana-Champaign: University of Illinois Press.
Allen, Aaron S., and Kevin Dawe, eds. 2016. Current Directions in Ecomusicology:
Music, Culture, Nature. New York & London: Routledge.
Allen, Aaron S., Daniel M. Grimley, Alexander Rehding, Denise Von Glahn, and
Holly Watkins. 2011. Colloquy: Ecomusicology. Journal of the American Musico-
logical Society 64 (2): 391-424.
Allen, Aaron S., Jeff Todd Titon, and Denise Von Glahn. 2014. Sustainability and
Sound: Ecomusicology Inside and Outside the University. Music and Politics 8
(2): http://dx.doi.org/10.3998/mp.9460447.0008.205.
Archer, William Kay. 1964. On the Ecology of Music. Ethnomusicology 8 (1): 28-33.
Brundtland, Gro Harlem and The World Commission On Environment and
Development. 1987. Our Common Future. New York: Oxford University Press.
Dawe, Kevin. 2016. Materials Matter: Towards a Political Ecology of Musical Instru-
ment Making. In Current Directions in Ecomusicology: Music, Culture, Nature,
109-121. Ed. Aaron S. Allen and Kevin Dawe. New York & London: Routledge.
Egerton, Frank N. 2012. Roots of Ecology: Antiquity to Haeckel. Berkeley: University of
California Press.
———. 2013. History of Ecological Sciences, Part 47: Ernst Haeckel’s Ecology. The
Bulletin of the Ecological Society of America 94 (3): 222-244.
Haeckel, Ernst. 1866. Generelle Morphologie der Organismen: allgemeine Grundzüge
der organischen Formen-Wissenschaft, mechanisch begründet durch die von Charles
Darwin reformirte Descendenz-Theorie. 2 vols. Berlin: G. Reimer.
Keogh, Brent and Ian Collinson. 2016. “A Place for Everything, and Everything in Its
Place”: The (Ab)Uses of Music Ecology. MUSICultures 43 (1): 1-15.
Kricher, John C. 2009. The Balance of Nature: Ecology’s Enduring Myth. Princeton:
Princeton University Press.
Orr, David W. 2010. Hope Is an Imperative: The Essential David Orr. Washington,
D.C: Island Press.
Payne, Katharine. 2010. “Why Listen to the Other Animals?” presented at the Society
for Ethnomusicology, Los Angeles, November 13.
Pedelty, Mark. 2016. A Song to Save the Salish Sea: Musical Performance as Environ-
mental Activism. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press.
Ricklefs, Richard E. 1990. Ecology. 3rd ed. New York: W. H. Freeman.
Schippers, Huib and Catherine Grant, eds. 2016. Sustainable Futures for Music Cul-
tures: An Ecological Perspective. New York: Oxford University Press.
Smith, Alex. 2016. New Musical Contexts for More Sustainably-Made Marimbas.
Percussive Notes Online Research Edition 1 (December): 32-42.
Titon, Jeff Todd, ed. 1984. Worlds of Music: An Introduction to the Music of the World’s
Peoples. New York: Schirmer Books.
———. 1988. Powerhouse for God: Speech, Chant, and Song in an Appalachian Baptist
Church. Austin: University of Texas Press.
———. 2009a. Economy, Ecology, and Music: An Introduction. the world of music
51 (1): 5-15.
———. 2009b. Music and Sustainability: An Ecological Viewpoint. the world of
music 51 (1): 119-137.
———, ed. 2009c. the world of music, special issue on Music and Sustainability 51 (1).
———. 2012. A Sound Commons for All Living Creatures. Smithsonian Folkways
Magazine Fall/Winter 2012: http://www.folkways.si.edu/magazine-fall-winter-
2012-sound-commons-living-creatures/science-and-nature-world/music/article/
smithsonian.
———. 2013. The Nature of Ecomusicology. Música e Cultura 8 (1): 8-18.
———. 2015. Sustainability, Resilience, and Adaptive Management for Applied
Ethnomusicology. In The Oxford Handbook of Applied Ethnomusicology, 157-195.
Ed. Svanibor Pettan and Jeff Todd Titon. New York: Oxford University Press.
Videography
Allen, Aaron S., Mark Pedelty, Jeff Todd Titon, and Denise Von Glahn. 2015. Music
in a Changing Climate, Recorded Lecture. University of Minnesota. https://
vimeo.com/127103673.
Trump, Maxine, dir. Musicwood. 2013. Brooklyn, NY: Helpman Productions. http://
musicwoodthefilm.com.
Bat City: Becoming with Bats in the Austin Music Scene
JULIANNE GRAPER
Abstract: In the 1990s, Bruno Latour contested the idea that modern societies are defined by
their separation from the natural world. In this essay, I offer a case study from Austin, TX,
examining how human-bat relationships have blurred the lines between the natural and
the cultural in a process that I term “becoming with,” following Donna Haraway. I begin
by discussing negative stereotypes about bats drawn from both colonial history and anti-
Graper, Julianne. 2018. Bat City: Becoming with Bats in the Austin Music Scene. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 14-34.
immigrant narratives. I then explore the development of Austin into the “Bat City,” a process
which radically revised these colonial preconceptions. Finally, I explore a musical case study
that exemplifies Austin’s relationship to its local bat colony: horror-surf band the Bat City
Surfers, who describe themselves as evolutionary descendants of bats.
Résumé : Dans les années 1990, Bruno Latour contestait l’idée selon laquelle les sociétés
modernes se définissent par leur séparation du monde naturel. Dans cet article, je présente
une étude de cas à Austin (Texas), en examinant la façon dont les relations entre êtres
humains et chauves-souris ont brouillé les lignes de démarcation entre le naturel et le culturel
au cours d’un processus que j’appelle « devenir-avec » (becoming with) à la suite de Donna
Haraway. Je commence par exposer les stéréotypes négatifs au sujet des chauves-souris, issus
tant de l’histoire coloniale que des récits anti-immigrants. J’analyse ensuite la transformation
progressive d’Austin en « Bat City » (la ville des chauves-souris) au cours d’un processus qui
a radicalement revu et corrigé ces idées reçues colonialistes. Enfin, je propose une étude de cas
musicale qui illustre la relation d’Austin avec sa colonie locale de chauves-souris : le groupe
horror-surf des Bat City Surfers, dont les membres se décrivent eux-mêmes comme le produit
de l’évolution des chauves-souris, leurs descendants.
I n 1991, Bruno Latour claimed that modernity is not defined by separation

from the natural world, thus destabilizing cultural anthropology’s rigid
delineation between the natural and the cultural. In so doing, he established
a precedent by which “hybrid” problems that fell somewhere between the
realms of scientific inquiry and social or political studies could be examined.
Graper: Becoming with Bats in the Austin Music Scene 15
His work led to an outpouring of research by authors such as Donna Haraway

(2008), Anna Tsing (1995), John Hartigan (2015), and Eben Kirksey and
Stefan Helmreich (2010), who have been transformative in breaking down
the neat divisions between “nature” and “culture” in ways that address the
social construction of scientific thought as well as the discursive and material
impacts of biology on cultural thinking and political policy.1
In this essay, I examine a case study that conforms to Latour’s notion
of the cultural-scientific hybrid — the “nature-culture” as he describes it —
of Austin, Texas (Latour 1993: 7). In particular, I focus on the relationship
between human beings and Mexican Free-tail Bats (Tadarida brasiliensis)
in the city’s music scene. While studies examining human beings’ aesthetic
relationship to animals are far from new in anthropology or ethnomusicology
— Steven Feld’s iconic Sound and Sentiment (1990 [1982]) being one of the
earliest examples; Simonett and Seeger’s contributions to Current Directions in
Ecomusicology (2016) are two more recent examples of a rather extensive body
of literature on the topic — what I wish to emphasize by invoking Latour is that
expressions of the so-called “natural” world in musical practice are not solely
features of what have been dubbed “traditional” cultures. Rather, as Latour
argues, we interact with the “natural” in the form of non-human animals
in Western, urban, 21st-century environments daily, and they are not mere
symbols: their presence affects and alters our cultural life, often in ways beyond
our control. Furthermore, rather than devaluing multispecies interactions in the
urban sphere as environmentalism’s emphasis on wilderness and conservation
has done (Cronon 1996: 7), I argue for a new understanding of ecology as a
process that does not seek to separate the human from the non-human, but
rather evaluates and values interspecies interactions of all types, searching for
ways that humans and non-humans can (and already do) productively coexist
in a rapidly shrinking world.
The essay begins in Austin, TX in the early 1980s, and examines the
arrival of what was to become the largest urban bat colony in the world.
After delving into colonial and nativist narratives that form the basis for fears
about bats, I briefly discuss the work of conservationists aimed at turning this
narrative upside down — much as a bat might — particularly focusing on the
use of photography. I then close with a musical case study of “horror surf ” band
Bat City Surfers, who describe themselves as evolutionary descendants of bats.
I particularly focus on album artwork and elements of their live performances.
Their acceptance of bats as identity markers and their subsequent imitation of
them demonstrates not only the complete revision of cultural attitudes about
bats in Austin, but also the complex interspecies web of the city’s music scene,
which situates humans and bats as part of a connected ecosystem.
The close connection achieved between human beings and bats throughout
this essay can be conceptualized, following Donna Haraway, as a process of
“becoming with” (Haraway 2008: 15). Haraway argues that living entities do not
exist prior to their interactions with others, but are created through processes of
relationality, particularly focusing on the transfer of cellular information through
touch between, for example, a human body and the bacteria that inhabits its
digestive tract, its pets, its families, and the fungi, animals, protists, and plants in
its immediate environment. This perpetual, co-constitutive becoming with other
species breaks down “the culturally normal fantasy of human exceptionalism. … [Or]
the premise that humanity alone is not a spatial and temporal web of interspecies
dependence” (11). In other words, just as Austin’s close-knit relationship with its bat
colony shows us that “we have never been modern,” similarly “we have never been
human,” but are rather hybrid assemblages, human-dogs, human-fungi, cyborgs
(Latour 1993: 46-47; Haraway 2008: 1).
Haraway’s work radically reconsiders not only our relationships with other
species, but also the very nature of the self by focusing on the human body as a
tactile interface with the surrounding world. However, by drawing on conventional
physical understandings of the senses, Haraway’s theories can be extended to
include sonic representations. In other words, just as the sciences conceive of light
entering the eye as a form of tactility, sound waves are also material: a vibrating
body compresses molecules in the air that travel across space to result in sympathetic
vibrations in another body. Therefore, by reinstating what Veit Erlmann has called
the “materiality of perception” we can understand both image-making and listening
as constant processes of physical contact, and thus “becoming with” (Erlmann
2010: 17). In this way, not only are we in processes of becoming with the species we
encounter through touch, we are also constantly made by and remaking other bodies
through the production and reception of light and sound. We form assemblages not
only with beings we directly encounter but also with those we hear and see.
In the case of Austin, the tactile relationships between humans and
bats are sometimes visual, sometimes sonic, but always result in the kinds of
“becoming with” theorized by Haraway. Because bats are difficult for humans
to see or hear up close, bat-human relationships are almost always mediated
by the use of technology. Therefore, in the case study that follows, the fact
that “becoming with” bats occurs within the aesthetic realm of the city is
not arbitrary, but is in fact necessary to the process. While close connections
between humans and animals have traditionally been theorized as occurring
solely in non-urban environments or in so-called “pre-modern” cultures, bat-
human relationships in Austin are unequivocally a result of 20th- and 21st-
century technological advancements. They thereby blur and destabilize the
notion that the natural world is somehow separate from the urban present.
Fear of a Bat Planet
The title of this section of my essay, taken from the Bat City Surfers’ 2015
album, seeks not only to highlight Latour’s emphasis on the interplay between
cultural narratives and the so-called “natural” world, but also to offer a
theoretical framework within which to retrospectively understand the history
of Austin’s relationship to its bats. The Bat City Surfers’ album title plays with
Public Enemy’s 1990 album title Fear of a Black Planet, lauded not only as an
exemplar of a golden age of hip hop, but also for its critical approach to race
relations in the United States (Rand and Muerto, interview with author, April
6, 2017). While the title is more an example of the group’s off-beat sense of
humour than intentional political commentary, the substitution of “bat” for
“black” nonetheless clearly articulates how the delineation of what “counts” as
human is the basis not only for species divisions but also for the formulation
of racialized and other culturally-oriented fears. In other words, the delineation
between the human and the non-human has led not only to an artificial divide
between nature and culture, but has also acted as the basis by which human
groups have divided themselves from one another.2 Therefore, understanding
the biases implicit in extant cultural narratives about bats can also offer insight
into the dynamics that exist between groups of people. By the same token,
understanding non-human species’ resistance to cultural narratives can lead
to the revision of cultural perceptions which affect not only animals, but also
people.
In the case of Austin, the Otherization of bats is central to understanding
the city’s coevolution with its bat colony. Initially, the city rejected the bat
colony as “invaders,” a process linked not only to colonial narratives dating back
to the conquest of the Americas, but also to more contemporary concerns about
immigration. Cultural negotiations by conservationists, government officials,
and artists in the Austin area were so successful that they converted Austin into
what is now known as “Bat City.” This process began in the early 1980s, when
the first large colony of Mexican Free-tailed Bats took root under the newly
remodelled Congress Avenue Bridge. The then 70-year-old downtown bridge,
which crosses the Colorado River, underwent reconstruction that included the
addition of ¾-inch wide by 16-inch deep expansion joints (Civil + Structural
Engineer, n.d.; Murphy 1990). Unbeknownst to the architects involved, the
size of these joints was ideal for Mexican Free-tailed Bat roosting. Because the
Congress Avenue Bridge colony is a maternity colony, the bats prefer tightly
enclosed spaces like the expansion joints, which help to keep the hairless bat pups
warm when they are born in early June.3 The damming of the Colorado River in
the 1930s and 1940s, in addition to rapid increases in human population, also
Fig. 1. Tourists gather to watch the nightly emergence of Mexican Free-tailed Bats from atop the
Congress Avenue Bridge. Photo by author, 2014.
Fig. 2. Mexican Free-tailed Bats flying in front of the iconic Frost Tower in downtown Austin. Photo by
author, 2017.
meant that bats had to find new roosting sites as their traditional habitat, caves,
became less available. By 1984, hundreds of thousands of bats had colonized
the bridge; there are an estimated 1.5 million when the colony reaches its
annual peak, a number startlingly similar to the Austin area’s 2 million human
inhabitants.
The Austin public’s initial panic and call for extermination is based not
only in negative depictions of bats in popular media, but also in a longer
history associated with the colonization of the Americas. In the early 1980s,
Austin newspapers ran headlines such as “Bat colonies sink teeth into city”
(Banta 1984) and “Mass Fear in the Air as Bats Invade Austin” (United
Press International, 1984?). These images are drawn from invasion narratives
common to horror films, which often depict bats as vicious, but are also
perpetuated by pest control companies and disease prevention researchers
seeking greater profits (Tuttle 2017a: 50, 2017b). Petitions were circulated to
eradicate the colony and local officials declared a public health crisis, citing
reports of a larger than usual number of citizens treated for potentially rabid
bat bites in 1984 — despite the fact that rabid bat bites are extremely rare
(Murphy 1990; Tuttle 2015: xi).4
Fear about bats, however, also has deeper roots in colonial fears of
Otherness dating back to the European conquest of Central America and
Mexico, evident in cultural associations between bats and vampires. According
to Wasik and Murphy, the increased association between vampires and bats
derives from colonial-era discourses about the supposed primitiveness of
Central American peoples, in which depictions of half-human monsters
expressed European anxieties about the native inhabitants of the Americas who
were perceived to be backward, animalistic, and not quite human (2012: 71).
These “monsters” are first described in accounts by Spanish colonist Hernán
Cortés and his chronicler Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, who wrote of strange
animals drinking the blood of horses and soldiers during their first night in
Veracruz (Romero Sandoval 2013: 18). Having never encountered vampire
bats prior to his arrival in the Americas (they are only found from Mexico to
Argentina), Oviedo’s accounts greatly exaggerated the dangers of bat bites, and
included graphic descriptions of blood and disease. These stories made their way
back to Europe and influenced existing vampire lore, which until that time had
not been characterized by biting, sucking blood, nor shapeshifting into bats
(Wasik and Murphy 2012: 86). Bat-vampire associations achieved widespread
dissemination with Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel Dracula — interestingly, an
anecdotal theory suggests that Stoker may have added bats to his story after
reading Oviedo’s accounts of bats in Mexico (Medellín, interview with author,
September 4, 2017).
While, by the 1980s, most vampire stories had been purged of Central
American associations, fears of Otherness remained present not only in pop
culture descriptions of bats, but also in the form of anti-immigration anxieties.
Similar cases in which “invasive” species have been described within the
framework of nativist politics have been discussed by such authors as John
Hartigan (2015), Jean and John Comaroff (2001), Hugh Raffles (2011), and
Anna Tsing (1995). Helmreich (2009) also goes into great detail about the use
of the term “alien” in describing invasive species — a term that has also notably
been used by proponents of strict immigration policies (Mehan 1997: 258).
In a state like Texas, known for its tenuous relationship with the Mexican
border and historically strained relationships with Mexicans themselves (Paredes
1958: 15, among many others), fears about invading Others are never far from
residents’ minds. Since immigration reform became a major topic in US politics
of the early 1980s,5 it is perhaps more than a coincidence that widespread panic
occurred on the arrival of the Congress Avenue Bridge colony, which happened
at the same time (Manchaca 2011: 281). Just as in the case described above,
the heightened concerns over illegal immigration in Texas may have been
the subconscious origin of Austin’s initial panic regarding its “invading” bat
colony. Though Mexican Free-tailed Bats are not truly “immigrants,” having
migrated seasonally to and from Texas for what is believed to be thousands
of years, the discourses surrounding the initial arrival of the Congress Avenue
Bridge colony reflect fears of invasion rooted in political concern over the rise in
illegal immigration at the time. Therefore, while Austin residents may not have
recognized or consciously considered the relationship between the Free-tail
colony’s twice annual migration across the Mexican border and rising concerns
about human immigration, the similarity in the discourses used to describe
them both emphasizes that Otherizing processes are founded on delineating
what counts as “human” and what doesn’t.
Anna Tsing’s case study is particularly relevant because it demonstrates
the lack of specificity that results from the Otherizing processes of invasion
narratives. Her article examines the imposition of racial stereotypes in discourses
about so-called Africanized or “killer” bees, which were then retrofitted to pre-
existing anti-immigration narratives of the time (1995: 129). The allegedly
hyper-aggressive “African” bees in Tsing’s case study resulted in such drastic
actions as the US Department of Agriculture’s construction of a barrier across
the Texas-Mexico border to prevent bees from entering the United States, which
Tsing describes as a combination of “fears of Mexican immigrants creeping over
inadequately patrolled borders and fears of Black-White racial miscegenation”
(1995: 134). On one hand, the stereotypes imposed on the bees were related
to prejudices about Africans and Afro-descendants, but at the same time, they
Fig. 3. Album artwork for Fear of a Bat Planet (2015) drawn by Joey Muerto.
were characterized as invading Others, reflecting concerns about immigration

from Latin America.
Austin musicians of the 1980s noted and capitalized on these exaggerated
fears and their relationship to Otherization, most notably, glam rock band
The Bats. In particular, front man Bevis Griffin, the self-proclaimed “Black
Rock Maverick of Texas,” used bats to comment on his own experiences with
discrimination as an African-American glam rock performer in a scene he
describes as a place of “literal cultural schism”6 in which “you could literally
get harassed for just having long hair if you are Caucasian. If you are a black
musician, it’s times ten” (Griffin, interview with author, March 26, 2017). When
Griffin came up with the name The Bats, he sought to draw attention to this
Otherizing by acting as an exaggerated version of the fears that were projected
onto him by members of the Austin public. He chose the name “The Bats”
because he had heard that his musical idol, Jimi Hendrix, was sometimes referred
to by his side musicians as “the bat” since he often slept by day. He had also
read a passage in a book where the term “bat” was used as a racial slur towards
African-Americans (Griffin interview with author, March 26, 2017). For Griffin,
the fear associated with bats as represented in horror films demonstrated the
kinds of irrational fears directed towards musicians at the time, and particularly
towards himself as a black glam rock musician, which was a complete anomaly
in the scene. As a member of The Bats, he drew on these cultural associations
by utilizing horror tropes in his performances. He had also hoped to eventually
build a bat-shaped stage on which to perform. For Griffin, bats exemplified the
fears — racialized, interspecies, musical — that pervaded Austin in the 1980s.
Returning to the present, these dynamics are clearly articulated in the
album artwork for Fear of a Bat Planet, illustrated by band member Joey Muerto.
Drawn in comic book style, the album cover depicts a giant bat terrorizing a
city, simultaneously clawing through a building, squeezing a person to death,
stepping on both a person and a car, and vaporizing another person with a green
ray (Fig. 3). The city appears panicked, as a group of (notably white) women
run, lament, and attempt to retaliate against the giant monster. The excess of
the image seems to make the fears articulated above ridiculous, moving them
out of the realm of real-life colonialism and into the world of fantasy through
the process of artistic negotiation.
Becoming the Bat City
Austin’s coevolution with its bat colony was slow, largely instigated by the work
of conservation biologist Merlin Tuttle and his then-fledgling organization, Bat
Conservation International. Tuttle’s strong emphasis on education and his work
with local media, community organizers, and schools sought to bring together
human beings and bats, which were normally inaccessible due to their nocturnal
nature. Most notably, he employed what he termed “ambassador bats,” or
domesticated fruit bats to show the public that their negative preconceptions
were unfounded.
Additionally, Tuttle is lauded for his innovative approach to photography,
which offered some of the first images of bats in which the animals did not
appear to be tense or aggressive. As Michael Taussig discusses (following Walter
Benjamin), the mechanical reproduction of images through photography is a
form of tactility that not only articulates relationships of alterity, but creates new
entities by redefining subject-object relationships (1993: 24). Notwithstanding
complex theories about the image itself, Tuttle redefined those relationships
by taking the time to get to know bat behaviours before photographing them,
much as anthropologists are now expected to do field work to try to understand
the cultures that interest them before depicting them in visual, sonic, or written
media. Therefore, the mimetic practice of taking pictures was deeply related to
the structures of power that existed between bat and human, not only in the act
of image-making itself, but also in the process that underlies the images.
Tuttle’s campaign was largely successful, as evidenced by the fact that
the bat colony’s nightly emergences have now become a popular tourist
event. It draws both locals and visitors from around the world and is listed
as a “top experience” on travel websites such as Lonely Planet (lonelyplanet.
com) and TripAdvisor (tripadvisor.com). In fact, it took Tuttle only four years
of campaigning for Mayor Lee Cooke to declare Austin as “the bat capital of
America” (Tuttle 2015: x). The bats themselves have also benefitted from the
tourist boom, as it means they are protected from eradication attempts. Even
pest control companies in Austin now practice safe bat removal techniques,
which involve exclusion from certain human-inhabited spaces, rather than
elimination by poison.
Mexican Free-tailed Bats now generate an estimated $12 million annual
income for the city of Austin through ecotourism; they are featured in items
ranging from posters for local rideshare companies to purchasable souvenirs,
bat statues, and music venues such as the 6th Street Bat Bar (Tuttle 2015: xi).
The official drink of Austin, determined in an annual competition as part of
the city’s summer Bat Fest, is the “batini” (Smith, telephone interview with
author, June 19, 2017; Sayre 2015; Alarcón 2006). Additional examples of
Austin’s bat fervour include: businesses such as Bat City Bartending; Bat City
Awards; celebrations in honour of National Bat Day; the mascot of Austin’s
former hockey team the “Ice Bats”; and Austin Community College’s mascot,
the “Riverbats” (Kimble, n.d.; Eventbrite, n.d.; Bat City Awards & Apparel,
n.d; Cohen 2001; Austin Community College, n.d.).
The association between bats and music is particularly important,
however, because it links Austin’s two most popular nicknames: “Bat City” and
the “Live Music Capital of the World.” Both these nicknames emerged in the
early 1980s during a time when policy shifts geared towards increasing tourism
were being enacted by local government. As Barry Shank describes in Dissonant
Identities (2011), following a period of economic growth that peaked in 1984
— the same year the Congress Avenue Bridge colony reached its peak size —
the Austin Chamber of Commerce turned its eye to promoting Austin as a
friendly city. The Texas Music Association, working in conjunction with the
Chamber of Commerce, started a major campaign to increase the presence of
the professional music industry in Austin, marketing it as a key element that
defines what “makes Austin special” (Shank 2011: 197, 199, 200). The success
of the television program Austin City Limits was key in marketing this element
of Austin identity to the broader public. The fact that both Austin’s identity as a
music city and its identity as a bat city emerged precisely when Austin became
a popular tourist destination means that they became conflated.
Furthermore, it is worth noting that this recourse to the natural has a
long history in the Austin Music Scene. In particular, Travis Stimeling points
out that the progressive country scene of the 1970s utilized natural and pastoral
imagery to articulate a sense of both local identity and geographic distance
from the mainstream music industry located in urban areas like New York City
(2011: 9). This pastoralism was linked to the nostalgia of the “back to the land”
movement, which sought to combat the pressures of modern development by
a return to nature.
However, as Latour notes, the idea that there could be a modernity

disconnected from the natural world is a fallacy, and the same is true for Austin’s
construction of a type of authenticity predicated on a return to the natural.
As Stimeling points out, the rise in Austin’s status as an alternative mecca also
coincided with the arrival of major companies like Texas Instruments, IBM,
and Samsung, which contributed to the massive population and economic
growth that the city continues to experience in the present day (2011: 9). The
simultaneous development of a mainstream culture and its counterculture
locked them into a relationship of co-dependence that has become increasingly
visible as the city has aged. It is perhaps no accident, then, that the bats at the
Congress Avenue Bridge — which quite literally links the urban development of
downtown with the countercultural South of the city — have come to represent
Austin in its current manifestation.
Bats are not the first animal species to be marketed as symbols of
Austin’s alternative identity. Most notably, the nine-banded armadillo (Dasypus
novemcinctus) was the mascot of the Armadillo World Headquarters in South
Austin, famous for its role in the progressive country scene of the 1970s. The
venue drew its name from the ubiquitous mammal with “ears like those of a
rhinoceros, a tail like that of an opossum, a proboscis somewhat like that of an
anteater, and a hard, protective shell around its vitals that scrapes against rocks as
it waddles along” (Reid 2004: 64), known around Texas for their “total disregard
for automobiles” (Patoski 2015: 8). While on one hand the animal’s “armoured”
body plan paralleled the building’s history as an armoury, its reputation as a pest
species also appealed to the founders’ perception of their venue’s location in
South Austin, the source of the city’s countercultural movement. Interestingly,
while armadillos do not undertake seasonal migrations as bats do, the gradual
movement of their populations north into the United States from Mexico in the
19th century also marks them as “border crossers” in a certain sense.
The rise of the armadillo as a representation of Austin counterculture
is largely indebted to Jim Franklin, who was to join Eddie Wilson and Mike
Tolleson as one of the founders of the Armadillo World Headquarters, though
cartoonist Glenn Whitehead had previously used the armadillo in the university
satire publication, The Ranger. Franklin was already known for his “fetish” for
depicting armadillos on posters at the time of the venue’s formation (Patoski
2015: 7-8). His first poster, created for a benefit at Woodridge Park in 1968,
featured an armadillo smoking a joint and was geared towards aiding those
in the local music scene who had been incarcerated for drugs (Patoski 2015:
8). It became a symbol of the Austin underground because it “embod[ied] the
plight of the Texas hippies — reclusive, unwanted, scorned” (Reid 2004: 64).
The response of UT Board of Regents head Frank Erwin, widely despised by
the hippie community, to these images as a symbol of a “leftist plot or cult”

further spurred the proliferation of armadillo imagery (Wilson and Sublett
2017: 7). Franklin also acted as master of ceremonies at the Armadillo World
Headquarters, which involved wearing an armadillo mask along with a five-
foot cowboy hat and Planters Peanut suit, thus establishing the armadillo as
an element of the counterculture’s performative identity in a more literal sense
(Reid 2004: 62).
Franklin’s images and the music created at the Armadillo World
Headquarters serve as points of contact between the human and non-human
animal worlds, contact predicated on aesthetic representation, and therefore a
kind of “becoming with” as discussed by Haraway. By reproducing images of
the armadillo, members of the Austin Music Scene negotiated their relationship
to the natural world, seeking to know their place within it through the act of
image-making.
However, sonic forms of representation were even more suited to this type
of negotiation in the music scene, and thus, bats were an even more suitable
point of negotiation than armadillos due to their associations with sound. Of
the many currently existing bat-themed musical groups (The Bat City Rhythm,
The Bat City Six, The Bat City Bombshells, Echo and the Bats, to name a few),
many cite not only bats’ close association with Austin as a motivation for their
band name and aesthetic, but also bats’ propensity for echolocation. Kathleen
Houlihan, of the all-librarian, youth literacy-oriented band Echo and the Bats,
described it in the following way:
The bat is sort of the unofficial mascot of the city of Austin.

Austinites feel really protective and passionate about and love their
bats. And it’s a weird thing to have as a mascot, so it embodies all
of those wonderful things, it’s a little edgy and a little kooky. There
are also elements of it in a band, sound and participatory songs.
(interview with author, March 24, 2017)
Echo and the Bats seek to literally embody bats in their performances by not
only dressing up as them, but also by including call and response elements in
their songs, which they conceptualize as similar to echolocation. This seeks to
literally embody the relationship between bats and rock music as markers of
Austin identity.
However, just as the Armadillo World Headquarters largely drew its
symbols from visual art, Austin now abounds in images that literally depict
bats in musical performance. Some of these images merely show bats and
musical symbols together, such as the mural on South Congress Avenue
depicting a cloud of bats surrounding the statue of music icon Stevie Ray
Vaughn, or bats flying around Santa Claus on the program for the annual
Holiday Sing Along and Downtown Stroll. Others more literally depict bats
as musical performers, such as the logo used for radio station KMFA’s “Listen
Local” series, which shows a bat wearing headphones, or a cardboard cut-
out at the downtown Trader Joe’s Grocery, which allows shoppers to assume
the dual identity of musician and bat by placing their face in the frame of a
cardboard cut-out of a bat wearing cowboy boots and playing a guitar.
However, the relationship between bats and music in Austin is more
than just symbolic. Each year, the city holds its annual Bat Fest on the Congress
Avenue Bridge, combining the spectacle of the Free-tail colony’s nightly
emergence with musical acts and vendors. Now in its 14th year, the festival
has gradually shifted its focus to strongly emphasize music, though initially
Bat Conservation International was deeply involved in the production of the
event, including setting up an information booth and receiving a portion of
the proceeds from ticket sales (Smith, telephone interview with author, June
19, 2017).7 Though a few vendors feature bat-related products and there is
still a bat costume contest, for the most part, the festival is focused around
musical performances at stages on the Congress Avenue Bridge, which stop in
time for the nightly emergence of the bats.
What is striking about Bat Fest is that the combination of the music
festival and the nightly emergence of the Mexican Free-tailed Bats serves to
transform the latter into a performance event. Though the bats can be seen
on almost any night of the summer from many locations in the south of
the city, the festival involves blocking off the entire Congress Avenue Bridge,
including a designated “viewing area” on the south side near the parking lot
of the Austin American-Statesman.8 Festival visitors must purchase tickets in
order to access these locations, which on any other night would be accessible
free of charge. In fact, according to the event’s promoter, French Smith,
the central idea of the festival has to do with the location, not so much the
bats themselves (Smith, telephone interview with author, June 19, 2017).
However, he amends this statement by pointing out that at the time of the
festival’s initial creation, viewing the bat emergence was not as popular a
tourist event as it is now, thereby promoting it as part of the music festival was
seen as a way of engaging with the emergence. Whether the festival helped to
promote the popularity of viewing the nightly feeding emergence is debatable;
however, the large number of participants in the 2017 festival speaks to the
effectiveness of the event’s promotion.
Bat City Surfers
The extent to which Austinites have internalized both music and bats as
markers of identity is exemplified by “horror surf ” band Bat City Surfers, who
not only use bat imagery in their performances, but whose very brand carefully
demarcates their relationship to Austin as a city. They chose their moniker for its
straightforward description of their style and locality, which has unintentionally
led them to be frequent ambassadors for the Congress Avenue Bridge bat colony,
answering questions for curious tourists. They also find that their merchandise
sells because of their depiction of iconic buildings, such as the Frost Tower, the
Texas State capitol, and the UT Tower. However, rather than merely being of
geographical interest, the Bat City Surfers use bats to symbolically reject both
Texas conservativism and the national music mainstream in a manner similar to
that of the Armadillo World Headquarters.
The horror aesthetic is more than just a costume or a cartoon: the Bat City
Surfers have developed a mythology to explain their origins as the descendants
of bats. As their website states, “We come from a world where man-kind evolved
from bats and, after joining forces to create the ultimate surf-punk experience,
we accidentally transported ourselves into this dimension during a recording
experiment gone horribly wrong!” (Bat City Surfers, n.d.). The close biological
alignment with bats constructed by this mythology suggests not only a deep
internalization of Austin’s relationship with its bridge bats, but also a sense of
identity as formulated through inter-species relationships. Therefore, bats are
not adopted as mere symbols but are acknowledged, however humorously, as
contributors to the formation of the group’s ethos in its present form.
Because surf music is characterized by a lack of vocals (in contrast to the
so-called “surf pop” of the Beach Boys), the Bat City Surfers rely on visual and
sonic references to convey their relationship to bats, rather than lyrics. Drawing
from the likes of surf guitar legend Dick Dale but infusing their musical style
with grungier, thrashier sounds more akin to metal or punk, Bat City Surfers
utilize an aesthetic drawn from horror tropes. Sometimes these references are
overt, including screening classic horror films while they perform, or excerpting
audio from public domain horror films on their recorded albums (Magenheimer
2016). Visually, they wear fake blood as a “gimmick” to differentiate themselves
from other surf bands, and wear bat hats, Batman belt buckles, and other
symbolic representations of bats that link them to the city’s countercultural
identity.9
Perhaps most notable of these images is the band’s logo, which shows three
iconic Austin buildings (the Frost Tower, the UT Tower, and the state capitol)
over two giant bat wings. However, unlike similar images from other bands or
media that show bats and the city as separate entities, the Bat City Surfers logo
appears as if the buildings are substituting for the bat’s head, creating a techno-
hybrid bat city. The all-encompassing hybridity (or perhaps coltishness) implied
by the image is echoed in the group’s oft-spoken mantra following their title
song in performances: “We are all bat city surfers.”
The group’s sound can also be read as linked to their self-identification
as bat descendants. While reverb is generally considered a key characteristic of
surf music, used to evoke a “wet” sound arguably relating to the experience of
“catching a wave” (Rand and Muerto, interview with author, April 6, 2017;
Cooley 2014: 52), it is also used as a way of evoking spatiality, something that
has been discussed by authors such as Peter Doyle (2005: 7). In the case of the
Bat City Surfers, the spatiality implied by the use of reverb and other echoic
electronic effects can be seen as imitating the process of echolocation, further
emphasizing their identification with bats. They also utilize octave-shifting
effects which, though not immediately obvious to the listener, are reminiscent
of tools known as “bat detectors,” devices that scientists use to pitch shift
echolocation calls into the audible hearing range of humans.
Blurring the lines between truth and (science) fiction allows the Bat
City Surfers to align themselves genetically on a continuum with Chiropteran
Fig. 4. Bat City Surfers logo.

species. This genetic relationship is articulated through the use of technology in

both visual and sonic image-making that results in a kind of “becoming with”
bats as conceptualized by Haraway. In the act of image-making, the Bat City
Surfers more literally adopt bat-like personality elements themselves — thus
subverting the relationship of symbol and signifier, emphasizing the complete
integration of both bat and human species in the formulation of their identity,
and negotiating a place in a complex natural-cultural world.
Conclusions
The Congress Avenue Bridge colony has become, for many, synonymous with
Austin’s identity as a city. The process by which this has occurred is complex,
involving both human and non-human actors. It has resulted in major revisions
to cultural narratives surrounding bats themselves, but also to the ways in which
Austinites negotiate their relationship to the natural world through music. The
examples discussed in this essay are only a small sampling of the types of bat-
related artistic production currently occurring in Austin, but they are also some
of those that most thoughtfully consider human-bat relationships.
The story of Austin’s bridge bats is important not only because it helps us
to reconsider the relationships between humans and non-human species but also
because it helps us to recognize that these relationships are present in all kinds
of environments, not simply those considered “traditional” or “indigenous,” as
early writings by Steven Feld or studies in ecomusicology might tend to suggest.
In fact, the presence of non-human species in the Austin area has been crucial
to its identity as an urban, 21st-century city. Such interspecies ties not only
clarify and help establish its locality, but also articulate a form of alterity in the
face of the globalizing present. As Latour pointed out in the early 1990s, the
fluid relationship between nature and culture is a feature of the antimodern
present throughout the world. While we might characterize modern, urban
environments as lacking the influence of the “natural” world, we really “have
never been modern,” but remain deeply connected parts of the ecosystems that
surround us (Latour 1993: 46-47).
Most importantly, in the case of Austin, these complex negotiations
are drawn from processes of “becoming with” that result from mimetic
representations of bats in visual and sonic media. Thus, the relationship
between Austin’s music scene and bats is not arbitrary, but is in fact necessary
for understanding how human beings and non-human animals are situated
within complex nature-cultural ecosystems. It is through aesthetic practices that
these relationships are negotiated, defined, and revised.
Notes
1. Recent years have seen a rise in interest in the question of animals and music,
particularly, and perhaps surprisingly, among music scholars. On one hand, pro-
ponents of biomusicology (a term coined by Nils L. Wallin in 1991) have sought
the origins of human aesthetic practices using techniques derived from evolutionary
biology, while zoömusicologists (a branch of zoösemiotics) have applied techniques
from the early years of ethnomusicology to animal sounds in an attempt to under-
stand them culturally (e.g., Martinelli 2009). These approaches, while not without
some problems, are valiant attempts at interdisciplinary exploration; however, for the
purposes of this essay, I draw more directly from science and technology studies.
2. Ochoa Gautier (2014) has delved into this issue with great clarity and sophis-
tication.
3. The Congress Avenue Bridge has become such a successful bat habitat that the
Texas Department of Transportation initiated a program to design similar structures
around the state to provide habitat in other urban environments.
4. Though bats can contract rabies and pass it to humans, the notion that they
are asymptomatic carriers of the disease is incorrect. Only about one in a thousand
bats contract rabies (approximately the same rate as other animals) and those that do
seldom become aggressive enough to attack another animal, simply dying instead.
Between 1997 and 2006, there were only 17 reported cases of humans contracting
rabies from bats in the United States, and there has never been a documented case of
someone contracting rabies from the bat colony under the Congress Avenue Bridge.
In fact, early studies that suggested that bats carried rabies without showing symptoms
may have in fact been pointing to the Rio Bravo virus, which affects neither humans
nor bats, but does affect mice — who were the test organisms used in the study.
While no one other than a trained professional should handle wild bats, the
fear generated by misinformation campaigns (often perpetuated by extermination
companies and news organizations) are far more dangerous than the bats themselves,
as they often lead to panic situations in which people try to eradicate bats from their
homes or cities. These panic situations lead to drastic increases in bat bites simply
because the terrified bat colony is trying to find a way to escape. See, for example,
Vogel (2014); Bacardi Imports brochure, “The most famous bat in the world,” (1984);
Tuttle (1988); The Center for Disease Control, “Learning about bats and rabies”
(2011).
5. The United States held some of its most stringent anti-immigration policies
from the mid-1960s until the late 1970s. As Manchaca discusses, policy shifts in the
1980s, culminating in the Immigration Reform and Control Act in 1986 by President
Reagan, were largely motivated by depleted labour forces and concerns over U.S.
security, rather than by altruism (2011: 277).
6. It is worth noting that Griffin performed at the Armadillo World Headquarters
with a previous group, the Skyscrapers, so he is relevant not only for his relationship
to bats but also for his involvement in the aforementioned “armadillo scene.”
7. When Merlin Tuttle retired from BCI in 2008, the organization became less
involved with Bat Fest. In recent years, they have also shifted focus away from educa-
tional projects and have begun to emphasize research. The Bat Loco Bash, held in San
Antonio each year, still includes BCI involvement, perhaps because of the close prox-
imity of Bracken Cave, a BCI-owned property that houses the world’s largest colony of
Mexican Free-tailed Bats (roughly 15 million at its peak). In 2017, the Bat Loco Bash
included a bat costume contest, visits from the “Bat Man of San Antonio” and the bat-
mobile used in the 1960s Batman television series starring Adam West, and bat-themed
activities for kids, including a “bat dance” that symbolically re-enacted echolocation.
8. Incidentally, the viewing area offers a somewhat obstructed view of the emer-
gence, which begs the question as to what politics were involved in its designation as
such.
9. The band members all use stage names humorously derived from horror or sci-
ence fiction tropes, each with his own backstory: lead guitarist Omega Rand is “a man
out of time; hailing from a bleak, distant future ruled by machines”; rhythm guitarist
Joey Muerto is “the only dead man with insomnia”; bass guitarist Vampire-Hunter
Hunter is “the legendary slayer of all vampire killers”; and drummer Korn Rolla is
“descended from a long line of ancient, tentacled sea beasts” (Bat City Surfers, http://
rer623.wixsite.com/batcitysurfers/biography-of-bat-city-surfers).
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Imagining Ecologies through Sound: An Historic-
ecological Approach to the Soundscape of the
Mississippi Flyway
ALEXANDRA HUI
Abstract: This paper documents an example of the development of what I term “imagined
ecologies,” an individual or community’s understanding of themselves as part of an ecological
system. An examination of game call instructions and training records offers a strategy for
understanding the soundscape of the Mississippi Flyway. I show that the sounds made and
ways of listening to them — by humans and non-humans — was critical to the formation of
an imagined ecology that saw nature as, paradoxically, a resource that could be managed and
harvested but not quite replicated.
Résumé : Cet article documente un exemple du développement de ce que j’appelle les « écologies
imaginaires », à savoir la perception qu’ont d’elles-mêmes les personnes ou les communautés en
tant que parties d’un système écologique. Un examen des enregistrements d’instructions et de
formation aux appeaux constitue une stratégie pour comprendre le paysage sonore de la voie
de migration du Mississipi. Je montre que les sons produits et la façon de les écouter — par les
êtres humains et non humains — ont été essentiels à la formation d’une écologie imaginaire qui
considérait la nature comme, paradoxalement, une ressource qui pouvait être gérée et récoltée,
mais qui ne pouvait pas tout à fait être reproduite à l’identique.
“I believe if it were possible to give the average hunter the vocal

organs of a wild duck, it would be about as difficult for him to
simulate the duck’s calling as it would be for him to sing some
difficult selection from an opera which he had never heard, even if
he could have given to him the voice of Caruso.”
— Tom Turpin, “How to Call Ducks” (1931)
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I n 1936, the ducks began to sound different along the Mississippi River
Flyway. Or actually, duck calls began to be heard differently by hunters.
Dr. Harold Glenn, Thad McCollum, and Verne Tindall of Stuttgart, Arkansas
founded the National Duck Calling Contest, the first of its kind, held on
November 24, 1936. The competition marks the birth of the “contest call,”
performed in a built environment for evaluation by human judges, distinct
from the “meat call,” which was used in a marsh or on the water to draw
down ducks to hunt. The same small reed instruments were used in both
settings. In its second year, Little Rock (KARK) and St. Louis (KSD) radio
stations began broadcasting the competition. A listener described “a wildness
in these sounds” made by these men hunched over the microphone with their
calls, and wistfully noted that the duck-callers “must be interesting men to
know” (Fletcher 1989 [1947]: 302). Over radio, the audience could be heard
whooping and cheering on the callers. Other than baseball, football, and the
horse races of Oaklawn Park, the National Duck Calling Contest was the
only other live sporting event broadcast in the state.1 Competitors would call
directly into the radio microphones, performing for each other, the other
festival-goers crowded around the competition stage, and far-flung radio
audiences. Participants in the early years competed in imitating the three
main calls of the wild duck in quick succession: the flying call, the feeding
call, and the mating call. Presumably, the ducks dabbling around the nearby
flooded rice fields heard the competition calling as well, but those sounds
were not, for the first time, intended for their ears.
Still held annually in Stuttgart, Arkansas, the National Duck Calling
Competition has, over the last 80 years, expanded significantly (now it is
titled the World’s Championship Duck Calling Contest). Sponsors include
Under Armour, Bud Light, Ducks Unlimited, Walmart, Riceland, various gun
manufacturers, and several local businesses. The prize for first place is valued at
over $15,000. The event is now a week-long affair that includes Clay Shooting,
the Queen Mallard Pageant, a carnival, a collectibles show, a fun run, and a
gumbo cook-off. The sounds have expanded too. The competition call is now a
90-second demonstration of virtuosity on the duck call instrument. The caller
usually begins with a series of long, loud blasts that descend in a series of steps
to liquid, mumbly chatter, interspersed with regular squawks and an additional
descending series of honks.2 Instead of the whoops and shouts of encouragement
of the early years, the audience now politely applauds.
What can the duck sounds made and heard by humans and non-humans
in the Mississippi Flyway over the last century tell us about the environment?
A lot. The way in which people both made and listened to sounds reflected and
reinforced a specific understanding of the environment. In this paper, I examine
Hui: Imagining Ecologies through Sound 37
how the sounds of the Mississippi Flyway were made and heard through a close
reading of sources related to the development and use of duck calls from the
1930s to the 1960s, specifically, duck-calling instruction manuals and training
records.
Listening to this archive of duck sounds allows us to track the development
of what I term “imagined ecologies.” I understand imagined ecologies to be
an individual’s or a community’s understanding of themselves as part of an
ecological system. This builds on Benedict Anderson’s “imagined community,”
in which individuals become aware of and develop an affiliation with strangers
in this same community (1983). Imagined ecology, as I conceive of it, is the
moment in which individuals or communities recognize that they are part of a
multi-species ecological commons. In a recent article about imagined ecologies,
Emily O’Gorman draws on Donna Haraway and Anna Tsing in defining the
term as the world-making possibilities and consequences of situated, partial
understandings of the environment as a temporal and spatial web of interspecies
dependence (2017). I suppose in these terms, I diverge from O’Gorman’s use of
the term through my interest in the process by which individuals or communities
become aware that they are part of this web of interspecies dependence. That is,
in the spirit of Benedict Anderson, I focus on the history of the imagining itself.
I am particularly interested in the role played by listening and sound
in the development of imagined ecologies. So, I rely as well on Jeff Titon’s
conceptualization of the “sound commons” and Steven Feld’s “acoustemology”
to think about the acoustic epistemology of a multi-species ecosystem (Feld
1982; Titon 2012, 2016). Again, my interest is in better understanding the
process by which ecological ways of thinking are formed and stabilized. It is
related to the concept of ecological imagination that Aaron Allen developed in
his examination of 19th-century Italian music publications; Allen shows how
the music community understood aesthetics, politics, and the environment to
be intertwined. He describes an ecological imagination that is separate from
the imaginer’s reality but founded on experiences of reality (Allen 2016: 274).
Methodologically, I have taken an approach similar to Allen’s, treating instruction
manuals and training records as sources to plumb the perceptual frameworks of
past people. But we differ in that I would claim that the imaginer’s reality is the
only one we can know.
The imagined ecology of the hunting community makes the exercises
of sounding, listening, and judging duck calling competitions possible. The
divergence of the “meat” and “competition” calling, to the point that the sounds
are intended for different species’ ears and values, is further evidence of the
historicity of duck sounds. The duck hunting community has conceived of the
environment, their place in it, and their relationship to other organisms in it in
a very specific way. A close reading of sources related to the development and
use of duck calls shows how hunters saw themselves as fulfilling many roles in
wetland systems. A straightforward, anthropocentric reading shows that they
functioned as natural resource managers both directly (as hunters) and indirectly
(as financial supporters through duck stamp purchases and ammunition taxes).
Approaching instructional manuals and training records as evidence of a sound
commons reveals a more sophisticated acoustemology. I argue that the hunters’
imagined ecology was one in which humans not only toggled between the tasks
of harvesting and conserving natural resources, but also moved between species.
That is, humans (at least) could don and shed the sonic identities of others.
The material and intellectual culture of early 20th-century waterfowl
hunting is unfortunately a mostly unexplored topic among historians. Hunters
devoted an enormous amount of time to engaging directly with nature and,
in doing so, fashioned their own frameworks for understanding what was
natural and wild. The sources related to the hunting community are varied and
rich. To better understand the formation and maintenance of the imagined
ecology of the Mississippi Flyway, we could also look at traditional materials
such as correspondence, print media, sportsmen’s trade journals and catalogues,
changes in wildlife and game management practices, the campaigns of various
interest groups, land use maps, Wildlife Radio scripts, the game calls themselves,
oral histories of the callers and call-makers, descriptions and illustrations of
hunting, and more. In this essay, I focus on duck calling instruction manuals
and training records because they are both compelling and challenging sources.
In what follows, I will briefly discuss the larger cultural and intellectual
shifts that made the mid-20th-century imagined ecology of hunting possible.
Through an analysis of duck calling instructional manuals and training records,
I will show how the duck hunters’ imagined ecology was developed and what
form it took. I will then discuss the sounds themselves and how they were heard
by ducks and humans, which will bring us back to the duck calling competition
and some concluding remarks.
The Cultural and Intellectual Watershed of the

Mississippi River Flyway
The Mississippi River Flyway extends from the headwaters of the Mississippi,
from Minnesota to Ohio, southward to the Gulf of Mexico. In the first decades
of the 20th century, the federal government initiated several projects to channel
and stabilize the river basin. In 1917, the US Army Corps of Engineers completed
Lock and Dam No. 1 of what would eventually be a system of 29 locks and
dams. The larger goals were to create a permanent navigable waterway for
commerce, drain arable land, aid flood control, and store irrigation water. This
national effort was coordinated with regional ones such as the rehabilitation of
the Grand Prairie of Arkansas (where Stuttgart is located). The introduction of
rice farming to the state in 1904 and related innovations in irrigation benefitted
from the new national interest in wetlands management. Enormous numbers
of wintering ducks were drawn to the region which was, in turn, promoted as
a sportsman’s paradise.
The images of flooded fields and wetlands blanketed with birds, circulated
by local boosters on postcards and in newspapers, were striking because they were
new (Mosenthin 2015: 85). Lack of hunting regulations, wetlands destruction,
and a series of droughts in the Midwest had contributed to a steady decline in
the nation’s waterfowl population by the first decades of the 20th century. In
response to the impending crisis and pressure from the Audubon Society, the
US Congress passed the 1918 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which granted the
federal government the power to establish and preserve wetlands as waterfowl
refuges. The 1929 Migratory Bird Conservation Act built on the Treaty and in
1934, the Migratory Bird Hunting and Conservation Stamp Act, usually called
the “Duck Stamp Act,” provided a vehicle for funding wetlands conservation
through the required purchase of an annual federal hunting stamp for every
waterfowl hunter over the age of sixteen. Subsequent wetlands restoration
and conservation helped the waterfowl population to rebound. The sale of the
annual Duck Stamp continues to be a significant source of wildlife conservation
revenue.
Currently, more than 325 bird species pass through the region to migrate
between breeding grounds and wintering grounds. By the 19th century, hunters
were using sound to lure down the passing birds. The Mississippi River Flyway
has been and continues to be the dominant region of game call development.
The earliest North American duck call design was documented in 1854. The
first duck call patent was issued in 1870, and print advertisements for hand-
turned duck calls can be found in documents from the 1880s. In the 1930s, the
production of duck calls both fueled and was facilitated by wetlands restoration
as well as by innovations in mass manufacture. Calls were made of wood, plastic,
hard rubber, and cane. Reeds were made of metal (copper, brass, tin), rubber,
plastic, and cane. A revivalist interest in American folk traditions in the 1970s
prompted a reintroduction of wooden calls.
In addition to shifts in wetland policies, agricultural innovation, and
material culture, naturalists and scientists were developing new ecological
concepts. In 1935, the botanist Arthur Tansley introduced the concept of
“ecosystem” as a basic unit in nature that included organisms and biomes.
In subsequent decades, biologists proceeded to carve up the unity for which

Tansley advocated, focusing instead on specific communities (e.g., “plant
community,” “insect community”) or relationships between species (e.g.,
parasitic, etc.). Others, such as Victor Shelford and Frederic Clements, worked
against this splitting impulse and instead focused on the relationships between
animal and plant communities. In their co-authored book Bio-Ecology (1939),
Shelford and Clements explained that the separate studies of plant and animal
ecologies had distorted the science of ecology. They asserted that nowhere were
there habitats “in which both plant and animal organisms are able to live, in
which both do not occur and influence each other” (1939: v). In a landmark
paper on cyclic plant succession, Alexander Watt explicitly called for a return
to Tansley’s holistic approach (1947: 20-22). Paraphrasing T. S. Eliot’s essay,
“Apology for the Countess of Pembroke,” Watt argued that scientists must
know all interrelations and parts in order to know any of it. For both practical
and scientific reasons, he called for a return to the perhaps idealistic goal of
studying ecosystems as wholes.
The practical application of the concept of an environment as a system
of mechanically interrelated organisms, processes, and biomes was already
underway in natural resource management fields. In Game Management
(1933), for example, Aldo Leopold was already describing a complicated
interrelationship between natural resources, wildlife especially, and humans. He
saw the need for a new ethic for natural resource management, one he would
develop more thoroughly in subsequent writings as the “land ethic” (2013
[1949]: 171-89). His recommended techniques and strategies for wildlife
conservation ensured that Game Management had far more direct impact on
federal wildlife management policy and practices than Sand County Almanac.
He explained that “every head of wild life still alive in this country is already
artificialized, in that its existence is conditioned by economic forces” (1989
[1933]: 21). Leopold’s point about the economic value of wildlife shows that,
by 1933 already, features like “wildness” could be understood as a commodity
value. The perspective of the land managers, the policy-makers, and even the
hunters enabled them to toggle between thinking of wild creatures as part of
a separate, wild place and as part of their own human political economies,
to be manipulated for human benefit. I find this switching of perspectives,
together with the shedding and donning of identities (such as using duck
calls to sonically masquerade as ducks), especially compelling. I propose some
rhetorical hand-waving here to underscore my larger argument in this essay:
The hunters’ imagined ecology made it possible for them to swap between meat
calling and competition calling as well as between the sonic identity of humans
and the sonic identity of ducks.
How to Call Ducks
As the production of duck calls industrialized in the 1930s, marketing materials

both expanded the consumer base of duck call companies and standardized the
practices and sounds of duck calling. These marketing materials offer hints about
how hunters conceived of their relationships with these animals, and the role of
sound in navigating these relationships. The opening epigraph of this paper, for
example, from Tom Turpin’s contribution to Field and Stream (1931), instructed
readers in the construction, tuning, and use of duck calls. Turpin insisted that the
most important part of mastering duck calling was to learn the bird’s language.3
That is, good calling consisted of not only accurate imitation broadly speaking,
but also the accurate imitation of specific and appropriate calls.
The beginner, Turpin explained, should start with vocal grunting exercises,
without the duck call. After several weeks he may actually take up the duck call
and place it to his lips and work on grunting through it. Once the novice is able
to grunt into the call and “change the pitch of tone in the musical scale,” Turpin
felt he could undertake a simple quack (1931: 30-1). Then, Turpin advised,
he should slide with a few quacks into the feed call, “thinking intently [of ]
every note and change of tone to be made” (30-1). Do not, Turpin insisted,
move onto any other call until the feed call is mastered. If the caller found
himself slipping out of the grunting position, then it was back to grunting
exercises again. After the feed call, Turpin recommended practicing the chatter
by grunting “taker-taker-taker” very slowly in perfect time and rhythm without
breaking for breath. This was to be done for several weeks. The novice caller
was then ready to speed up his chatter call. At this point, Turpin instructed his
readers to contact him directly for fuller instructions.
The caller also had to train his ears. In his 1928 piece, “The Neglected
Duck Call,” Nash Buckingham explained that most novice duck hunters only
heard ducks saying quack (1943 [1928]). The differences between the wood
duck’s yodel; the sprig’s lilting, two-note quip; the gadwall’s croak; and the
teal’s “tee-hee-tee-ho” were all lost on untrained ears. Buckingham encouraged
novices to “study ducks, study tone, and learn to apply their measured tonal
characters” (1997 [1933]: 163). If possible, they should eavesdrop on live
ducks during feeding time at dawn and dusk and then try to reproduce “their
conversational exchanges in quality of tone that blends and sets them off into
gladsome refrains” (164).
Two decades later, Herter’s Inc., the sporting goods juggernaut based in
Waseca, Minnesota, recommended a technologically updated version of this
eavesdropping. In their Complete Professional Duck and Goose Calling Manual
(1951), they recommended combining the manual with their phonograph
records of expert callers (more on these records in a moment). The instructions

for mallard calling included photographs of the proper way to hold the call
and position the mouth, as well as several diagrams of the pitch and timing
of various calls (see Fig. 1). Those familiar with the early diagrams of bird
songs used by naturalists and ornithologists will see similarities here. Pitch is
represented on the y-axis and time on the x-axis. This graphic representation,
however, includes a feature I have not seen in any other bioacoustics context:
sound made and sound heard are represented separately. The smaller print
indicates what the sound the caller should be saying into their call: “Hoot.” The
larger print indicates the sound heard: “QUACK.” “DugawDugawDugaw” is
apparently the same sound in both production and reception.
The discussion devoted to mallard calls in Herter’s manual is so lengthy
partly due to the diagrams but mostly due to the number of calls described.
Turpin refers to a feed call and a chatter call. Herter’s manual includes two kinds
Fig 1. Highball and Feeding Call, Complete Professional Duck and Goose Calling Manual. Herter’s
Inc., 1951.
of highball calls (used to draw in passing birds at long distances), two kinds
of greeting calls, two feed calls, a comeback call, chatter call, cluck call, the
(regional) Paducah call, grass feed call, surprise recognition call, the lonesome
hen or straight call, the drake mallard call, the exercise call, and the alarm call.
In the 20 years following the introduction of both mass-produced game calls
and wetlands management policies, an explosion in the number and types of
calls occurred. Certainly, the Mississippi Flyway got louder. Additionally, the
training process became infused with the trappings of science and the goals
of standardization. Turpin’s “Eh, just come find me and I’ll show you” advice
gave way to a perceived need for formal training resources such as diagrams,
exercises, and records, to which we now turn.
Sound-training Recordings for Humans
I refer here to recordings made to train listening and/or mimicry skills, so as to

both perceive and generate sound. These can be organized into two overlapping
forms, both of which continue to be used by birders and hunters today. The
story of the development of the first form, recorded nature sounds, is a better-
known narrative (Bruyninckx 2018). It traditionally begins with the 1931
release of Bird Songs Recorded from Nature, a series of field recordings made
by Albert Brand and M. Peter Keane of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. The
sound quality of previous attempts to record birds in the wild was poor for two
main reasons: first, the wild birds refused to sing when caught and placed in
front of a phonograph horn; second, when the studio equipment was trundled
out-of-doors to record a bird in situ, the bird’s song was often difficult to
distinguish from the other sounds of nature picked up in the same recording.
Brand and Keane’s great innovation was to use a parabolic reflector with their
microphone to isolate the targeted bird’s song. Over the following two decades,
recordings of nature sounds were mostly generated by scientific institutions and
Folkways Records.4 The first generation of these records consisted mostly of a
series of tracks, each showcasing a single species. Later records, in part due to
innovations in sound editing, began to include tracks of entire soundscapes.
These were used for additional ear training and as decontextualized background
music.5 This latter use was part of an explosion of non-music sound records in
the 1950s and 60s that included nature sounds as well as anthropogenic sounds
of trains, typing pools, race cars, and so on.
The second form of sound-training records, which feature human-made
nature sounds, predates recordings of animals in the field. Mimicry records
date back to the late 19th century, with human imitations of bird sounds
produced by whistling, voice, or device, emerging to meet the need for sound
effects for live vaudeville shows, radio broadcasts, and early silent film.6 These
records capture a separate turn-of-the-century performance whistling trend that
professional practitioners framed as representations of nature precise enough to
be considered legitimate scientific and pedagogical tools.7 Charles Kellogg and
Edward Avis, who dominated the mimicry records market and also toured as
performers through the 1920s, were accepted as naturalists and made regular
appearances at Audubon Society meetings.
Several outdoorsman and hunting companies began to generate their
own calling records with the express purpose of training the listening and
sound-mimicry skills of hunters.8 The first of these, Hofmeister and Miller’s
Duck and Goose Calling, was released in 1947 by Herter’s, Inc. Several game call
companies soon introduced their own instructional records.
P.S. Olt expanded the sonic enterprise. His son, Phil Olt Jr., was considered
a “Master Caller.” In 1950, Phil Jr. recorded five separate instructional and
demonstration records, each devoted to a different game animal (mallard, goose,
crow, diver duck, and squirrel, respectively). Within a decade, the company also
released an instructional record for predator calling, fox calling, and moose calling.
The accompanying jacket explained that Olt’s calling was distinctive for “its
extreme simplicity and its element of TRUE tone” (Olt c.1950). Records could
be purchased à la carte, in sets of three or five, or in a kit with the accompanying
Olt Call (see Fig. 2). The narration included general hunting tips, instructions
on the most effective use of the calls, and demonstration tracks for the hunter to
“hear exactly how his call should sound when correctly operated” (c. 1950).
Herter’s, Inc. in turn introduced additional calling records for crow, deer,
predators, and elk. The company promoted their records as compilations of all
the greatest callers (a possible jab at Olt Jr.) and just as important as a hunter’s
gun. Certainly, money spent on shells and additional equipment was wasted on
a poor caller. Further, the promotional material explained, the easiest and best
way to learn calling was from a record (Herter 1951: 5).
In this same period, bioacousticians and ethologists studying the hearing
sense in animals had redefined their criteria for the sensory perception of sound.
The experimental standard became the measurement of biologically significant
sound (Moulton 1956). That is — reflecting the dominant behaviourist
psychological theories of the time — an individual animal’s perception of a
sound could only be claimed if the sound resulted in a behavioural effect in the
animal. We can use this measure (behavioural effects) to consider how birds
might have listened to the sounds issuing from the hunters’ blinds, some made
by hunters employing game calls, while others were actually the recorded and
replayed voices of their fellows.
Fig 2a. Olt’s Instruction Records and Kit, Olt Hunting Manual. P.S. Olt, c.1950.
Fig 2b. Olt’s Instruction Records and Kit, Olt Hunting Manual. P.S. Olt, c.1950.
Anecdotally, the birds behaved as if they were increasingly suspicious towards

the end of their migration.9 Turpin noted in his 1931 article, “How to Call Ducks,”
that while the duck call language for mallards changed little between Minnesota
and Louisiana, the language for successful hail calls varied geographically among
the large open lakes of the north, the pin-oak flats of Arkansas, and the swamps of
Louisiana (82). By the 1950s, Herter’s manual included a description of “call-shy”
ducks. These birds had heard so many hunters’ calls that nothing would bring
them in, not even the voices of their fellow wild birds “until they [got] over their
case of shell shock and jumpy nerves” (Herter 1951: 11). The regional variation in
hunters’ calls remains today: the Arkansas and middle Tennessee calls are higher
pitched than the raspy low ones of the Mississippi and Louisiana bayous. The
sounds of the northern end of the flyway altered the way the sounds in the south
were heard by birds and made by humans.10 For methodological fun, we can
reverse-engineer this: mapping the historical and regional variation in game call
sounds can give us insight into the ducks’ changing sounds and maybe even ways
of listening. Maybe the ducks really did sound different a hundred years ago, not
just to hunters but to each other too.
Let’s look at another example of effective nature-imitating technologies. In
the early 1960s, Wightman Electronics, Inc. introduced a rugged portable record
player with loudspeaker attachment that ran on twelve D cell batteries (see Fig. 3).
Hand-cranked, portable record players to be used out-of-doors had existed since
the 1920s, but these original devices were intended for the novelty of playing back
music out-of-doors. Recall that animals, birds especially, could not consistently
be recorded in the field until the 1930s. The Wightman Electronics’ “Call of the
Wild” game and bird caller was intended for use by hunters. Wightman also sold
a variety of 45 RPM records of duck, goose, crow, and predator calls.11 These were
recordings of animals made in the wild. The first hunting season demonstrated
these decoy sounds to be far too effective. Maryland Fish and Game, for example,
reported that in only four shooting pits, hunters were able to take down 1,285
geese in one day (Gilmore 1963: 155). The device was subsequently banned
by federal law for goose and duck hunting but remained legal and enormously
popular for crow hunting until the introduction of cassette tapes in the following
decade.
The ducks and geese, as we know, heard their fellows and descended
towards the hunters’ shooting pits. The mimicry was too good. Conservation
groups petitioned the government to enact restrictions, which it did. Hunters
appeared to acknowledge that this was an unsportsmanlike practice.12 J. Ellis Orr
himself, the president of Wightman Electronics, Inc., explained that the company
was in complete agreement with the federal law banning the use of the Call of the
Wild device for duck and goose hunting (Orr 1963: 10).
Fig 3. Call of the Wild advertisement in Guns (December 1964).
This ethic did not apply, however, to pest and predator species, and sonic
decoys remained legal for crows and varmints. A Guns article (“Caws in Hi-Fi”) on
the use of the field recordings of actual animals rather gleefully noted that after a
heavy shooting, the decoy sounds would temporarily lose effectiveness in an area:
“Crows that have been gunned require several weeks to recuperate from the Judas
treatment” (Gresham 1964: 59). The birds appeared to avoid “the most natural
sounding crow talk,” unable to trust each other (59). For the surviving crows, it
was a devastating behavioural change — they could not trust their own voices
— and likely they listened much more attentively. The implications of the use of
sonic decoys are especially cruel: in standardizing and broadcasting the flock’s own
voices back to them as decoys, the bird learns to fear its brethren and is, in turn,
alienated from its own voice. If we are keeping track of changing bird sounds,
mostly in the form of new listening and mimicry practices among hunters, here is
another: the birds heard their own voices in a new and disturbing way.
Some Conclusions
In thinking about the changing soundscape of the Mississippi Flyway, I’d like
to point out a couple of specific sonic shifts that may have been facilitated
by the human-made nature sound industry. First, there was a proliferation of

manufactured nature sounds, such as the mass-produced calls and training
records discussed in this article. Second, calling was increasingly standardized,
which suggests that there was also a belief — among call manufacturers, hunters,
competition judges, etc. — that there was an ideal call (tone, rhythm) that could
be humanly mastered. But this ideal call was not expected to sound exactly like
a duck (or goose or turkey) — otherwise, the use of “Call of the Wild” recorded
duck sounds (made by ducks) would not have been so swiftly outlawed. That
is, the goal of game calling does not appear to have been exact mimicry. The
game calling instructional records, complete with demonstration tracks of the
game calls in use, were released well after field recordings of animals in the wild
were possible. Hunters didn’t train from field recordings of actual animals. They
trained from records of other hunters using game calls. I would hazard that this
shows that call training, despite the modern trappings of science (the training
records, the design and manufacture of the calls themselves, the graphs charting
various calls), was more an extension of the established tradition of learning
from other human callers.
And so, we return to the World Duck Calling Championship. Those
90-second performances would not be heard in a marsh, whether made by
a duck or a hunter. Documentation of the competition’s early years is scant
but in its current form, duck calling competitions are currently adjudicated
by three human judges. These judges, in a strange inversion of hunting
practices, are hidden behind a screen, unable to see or be seen by the audience
or the callers. The callers are judged based on volume and pitch as well as
creativity of the routine. They are rewarded for pushing the sonic limits of
their instrument. Nearly a century of duck calling contests has standardized a
specific anthropocentric aesthetic. This contest-calling is, it should be noted,
not what a duck sounds like to a duck hunter. These callers are deliberately
not mimicking ducks. This is what a duck sounds like to human judges at a
duck-calling contest.
In my effort to situate my work in the scholarly landscape at the beginning
of this paper, I described my methods as similar to Aaron Allen’s work on
ecological imagination. I presume, however, that the perceptual frameworks
revealed by instruction manuals and training records were the realities for the
individuals. We cannot hear the ducks of 1936 and even if we could (via time-
traveling duck?), we would bring all sorts of present values, skills, and biases to
the exercise of listening to them. Blowing a 100-year-old duck call or playing
a 50-year-old training record might bring us a little closer to the soundscapes
of the past, but these objects are also highly mediated by both time and form.
I’ve tried to show in this article that instruments of mimicry, whether or not
they were poor imitators, are a worthy means of accessing lost soundscapes and
documenting the formation of an imagined ecology. Using sound as a means
to explore the past can be rich and fruitful, but our claims are circumscribed.
If we can only know the imagined ecology of the Mississippi Flyway through
hunters’ training materials, then we must be open to the possibility that this was
their sonic reality. I have explored how these materials facilitated and enforced
this imagined ecology.
It was and is a very specific one. Placing sound — its creation and its
listening — at the centre of an analysis of the waterfowling community reveals
a sophisticated ecological sound commons. Outdoorsmen and hunters spent
and continue to spend an enormous amount of time outside, eavesdropping
on birds and refining their mimicry skills. They recognize that in order to call
down their quarry, they must imagine themselves conversant with other species,
however briefly. They imagine a series of shifting sonic engagements in which
species can change sonic identities. The ducks’ sound making, the hunters’
mimicry of these sounds, and the hunters’ ways of hearing these sounds were
all changeable. The ducks began to sound different in 1936 because the hunters
changed them.
Notes
1. KSD AM St. Louis continued to broadcast the competition into the 1950s.
2. I have observed several duck calling competitions, including a regional quali-
fier for the World Championship Duck Calling Contest. I encourage readers to visit
youtube.com for some examples of recent competitions.
3. This discussion of the language of animals has a layered history. In the 19th
century, animals were increasingly anthropomorphized in children’s literature. By
the beginning of the 20th century, stories like The Little Red Hen were incorpor-
ated into school readers as morality tales in the US. In 1934, The Little Red Hen
was made into a Silly Symphonies cartoon by Walt Disney studios. The character of
Donald Duck was featured for the first time, refusing to help the Wise Little Hen
plant or harvest corn. He both quacked and spoke (with a heavily quack-accented
voice). It is difficult to know, absent a much more in-depth study, the extent to
which the cartoon-watching population overlapped with the duck-hunting popu-
lation and the nature of the cultural and intellectual exchange that potentially
occurred.
4. Some noteworthy examples: An Evening in the SapSucker Woods (Cornell
University Laboratory, 1958); Sounds of a Tropical Rain Forest in America (Folkways
Records, 1952); Songs of the Humpback Whales (CRM Records, 1970).
5. Asch explained the popularity of his 1953 Sounds of a Tropical Rain Forest in
America as follows: “After guys come home from a frantic day in the office, they put
on the rain forest, lean back, and soothe their fevered brows.” (qtd. in C. P. Gilmore
1963: 155).
6. The earliest I can find is W. M. Clark’s 1895/1896 70 rpm disc, Whistling Mock-
ing Bird (Berliner 403).
7. Craig Eley argues that, despite later deference in popularity and scientific cred-
ibility to the field recordings of “real” animals in “real” environments, the enormously
popular whistling recordings and performances should be treated as representations of
nature (2014).
8. Most of these were released as both 45 RPMs and 78 RPMs.
9. To become “suspicious,” of course, implies conscious thought. Contemporary
behavioral ecologists might say instead that the ducks were evolving as those whose gen-
etic programs enabled them to distinguish truthful sound signals (made by other ducks)
from deceptive ones (made by duck callers) survived and spread their genes to successive
generations, while those who could not make those distinctions were killed by hunters.
A rapid evolutionary adaptation, in other words.
10. But we cannot presume that the birds’ listening necessarily changed over their
migration and should consider the possibility that the hunters experienced an auditory
confirmation bias (and anthropocentrically assumed their quarry was aware of their
presence).
11. Smith’s and Acto also made 45s to be played on the “Call of the Wild” device,
including turkey and various distress calls.
12. This is not unlike current birdwatching ethics. The use of recorded bird call
playback apps to draw the attention and response call, which helps the birder locate
the individual, is known to alter birds’ behaviour and is therefore frowned upon. The
National Audubon Society has an official statement on the ethics of using playback apps
while birding (http://www.audubon.org/news/how-use-birdcall-apps), based on David
Sibley’s statement, posted on the website for his enormously popular bird guidebooks
(http://www.sibleyguides.com/2011/04/the-proper-use-of-playback-in-birding).
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Intersections of Soundscapes and Conservation: Ecologies
of Sound in Naturecultures
JOHN E. QUINN, ANNA J. MARKEY, DAKOTA HOWARD, SAM CRUMMETT,

and ALEXANDER R. SCHINDLER
Abstract: An ecosystem is a reflection of coupled human and natural systems. A key, and less
understood, interaction is with sound. Paralleling development in landscape ecology, soundscape
ecology provides a diversity of measures of spatial and temporal variation in sound. Here we
Quinn, John E., Anna J. Markey, Dakota Howard, Sam Crummett, and Alec Schindler. 2018. Intersections of
bridge disciplines to describe variation in soundscape measures across a gradient of novel to
natural landscapes. Soundscape measures studied varied as a function of forest area but not
Soundscapes and Conservation: Ecologies of Sound in Naturecultures. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 53-70.

matrix type, and season but not time. Results suggest future directions and allow practitioners to
better identify management options that mitigate the impacts of noise on natural and human
systems.
Résumé : Un écosystème est un reflet de l’appariement d’un système humain et d’un système
naturel. L’une des interactions essentielles, et des moins bien comprises, se fait au moyen du son.
Se développant parallèlement à l’écologie du paysage, l’écologie du paysage sonore procure une
diversité de mesures de variations spatiales et temporelles du son. Ici nous établissons un pont
entre les disciplines pour décrire la variation dans les mesures du paysage sonore le long d’une
graduation allant des paysages nouveaux aux paysages naturels. Les mesures du paysage sonore
étudiées variaient en fonction de la région forestière, mais non du type matriciel, et de la saison
mais non du temps. Les résultats indiquent des orientations futures et permettent aux praticiens de
mieux identifier les options de gestion qui atténuent les impacts du bruit sur les systèmes humains
et naturels.
M ost ecosystems are a reflection of interactions between human and

natural systems (Liu et al. 2007; Ellis 2011). A key, albeit often less
explored and thus less understood, interaction between systems is via sound.
All environments are noisy, as sound is a perpetual, dynamic property of
landscapes (Pijanowski et al. 2011). However, humans have altered much
of the world’s acoustic characteristics with anthropogenic sounds, even in

our perceived remotest areas (Buxton et al. 2017). These are sounds that
are different in pitch, amplitude, acoustic structure, and distribution, and
are often more continuous than sounds produced in natural environments
(Pijanowski et al. 2011; Slabbekoorn and Ripmeester 2008). These noise
levels, particularly human-made noises from automobiles, industry, urban
living, etc. (Blumstein et al. 2011), have been shown to be detrimental to
the overall health and well-being of humans and wildlife (Goines and Hagler
2007; Quadros et al. 2014; Rodriguez et al. 2014; Ernstes and Quinn 2015;
Oden et al. 2015; Roca et al. 2016; Shannon et al. 2016).
While the scope of research regarding ecological responses to variation in
noise is expanding, these assessments have largely focused on a narrow definition
of noise pollution: power, or the intensity of a sound often measured in decibels,
and acoustic masking, or the overlap of sounds at a given frequency, where
human noise overlapping natural sounds are most frequently of interest (Barber
et al. 2011). However, paralleling the evolution of indices in landscape ecology,
such as edge density, perimeter-area ratio, and total core area (McGarigal and
Marks 1995), soundscape ecology has developed various measures of spatial
and temporal variation in sound (Villanueva-Rivera et al. 2011; Fuller et al.
2015). Thus, similar to the value of considering multiple landscape indices in
species management, studying a suite of soundscape measures will provide a
better understanding of broader ecological processes and changes associated
with sound. Extending from simple measurements of power, acoustic sound
indices provide multiple ways to quantitatively measure the soundscape and
more fully understand concurrent biophysical and human processes. Central
to the soundscape is biophony, geophony, and anthrophony. The biophony,
or non-human, biologically-generated sound, is created by birds, insects, and
other ecological communities. These sounds vary by season, hour, and in the
moment of species interaction. Geophony refers to environmental sounds not
created by living creatures, such as thunder and wind. Anthrophony, or human-
generated sound, is more consistent than biophony as an outcome of the
sources of noise (e.g., vehicles, heavy machinery, or the general noise of a city),
though there can be emergent patterns in anthrophony as well; for example,
an increase in traffic noise during a city’s morning rush hour traffic. A full
assessment of the soundscape captures this complexity with different measures
more fully described in the methods below. Across these measures, a change in
the level of anthrophony, or a shift in the ratio between human and biological
noises, can suggest a broader shift in the ecosystem as wildlife species lose the
ability to communicate or interact in urban and rural spaces. In response,
some species have apparently adapted to the increased noise by vocalizing
Quinn et. al.: Intersections of Soundscapes and Conservation 55
louder and at higher frequencies (Roca et al. 2016), though a response is not
consistent (Brumm and Zollinger 2013). Similarly in humans, the relational
value of nature — that is to say, particular preferences, virtues, and principles
implicated in particular relationships with natural soundscapes (Chan et al.
2016) — decreases as anthrophony replaces nature’s complex acoustic space
(Krause 2012). Consequently, soundscape measures can be used as indicators
of ecosystem health.
Recently these acoustic indices have been used to look at local habitats
(e.g., Lake Michigan [Gage and Axel 2014]), community diversity (Gasc et
al. 2013), landscape configuration (Fuller et al. 2015), and avian phenology
(Buxton et al. 2016), but more work is needed across ecosystem types with
varied levels of human interaction and at different spatial and temporal scales
(Fuller et al. 2015). While there is no objectively correct scale at which to study
and manage ecosystems (Levin 1992), including the soundscape, consideration
of multiple scales has proven valuable in research and practice (e.g., Quinn et
al. 2014). The spatial and temporal scale of research in acoustic and soundscape
ecology varies, including studies on small populations at local scales (e.g.,
Grace and Anderson 2015), snapshots at larger scales at a given time and place
(e.g., Rodriguez et al. 2014; Oden et al. 2015; Buxton et al. 2017), and longer
monitoring efforts (e.g., Frommolt and Tauchert 2014).
Given the increasing accessibility of sound data and deeper understanding
of sound’s ecological impacts, it is essential that we be able to connect soundscape
data to scale-specific practitioner needs. For example, city and regional planners
or conservation practitioners may be most interested in aggregated data over
broad spatial scales with sampling targeted towards key times of day or year
(e.g., breeding season, for avian conservation biologists). These data can also
be used to understand broader ecological change including climate shifts or
habitat loss. Though these data can provide a general measure of potential
impact on a specific area, a more focused sampling effort would be of greater
value to someone at a specific conservation easement or natural area with a small
geographic extent. Similarly, the frequency of sampling within a timeframe may
vary. For example, the morning is well known as the period of the avian dawn
chorus but human noises may peak at different times of the day, resulting in
different effects on disparate communities.
To better connect with and consider how soundscape measures can be of
practical value to decision makers, we analyze and discuss two nested datasets,
reflecting spatial management at different scales (a large county vs. a small zoo)
and compare variation in soundscape measures between spatial and temporal
scales. We discuss how these data may be useful for management efforts at each
scale.
At the larger county scale, we bridge soundscape and landscape ecology

(Villanueva-Rivera et al. 2011) to concurrently describe variation in multiple
soundscape measures in natural, managed, and novel (i.e., an ecosystem that
is different in structure when compared to natural conditions [Hobbs et al.
2006]) landscapes. We use two key measures of landscape structure: patch area
and matrix type. Patch area refers to the total area of a contiguous type of
habitat (e.g., forest patch) and matrix type refers to the dominant land use
or land cover around a patch. These data enable a broader understanding of
how future land use change could shape the soundscape, allowing researchers
and practitioners to identify management options that mitigate the impacts of
noise on natural and human systems. We also describe acoustic data collected
within a small, urban zoo (our smaller scale context), specifically, how daily and
seasonal changes affect the noises heard by zoo animals and visitors.
Methods
Study Sites
We sampled the soundscape at multiple spatial and temporal scales. At the

broader scale, we sampled at 33 pine patches (Fig. 1) in Upstate South Carolina,
USA. Study sites were widely spaced (≥ 400 metres apart) along an urban-
rural gradient from protected forest patches in the north, through residential
and urban development in the middle, and agricultural land in the southern
portions of the county. At the smaller scale, we sampled within the Greenville
Zoo in Greenville, South Carolina. The zoo is in a semi-urban area of the city
adjacent to a large urban park and a commercial area with a major roadway
(Fig. 2). We placed five recorders across the zoo: at an exhibit by the main
entrance, in the middle of a walkway lined with various primate enclosures, at
the entrance of the African savanna exhibit, in an exhibit that contained a mix
of different species, and between a water feature and several bird enclosures
(Fig. 2).
Data Collection
At both scales, we used SM2+ Automated Recording Units (ARUs; Wildlife

Acoustics Inc., Maynard, MA, USA, 2013) to record the soundscape. Gain
settings were set at 48 dB, a high pass filter was set at 3 Hz, and noise floor was
-54dB on all ARUs. We hung the recorders between one and two metres off the
ground, and files were processed in WAV file format. At the county scale, we
gathered acoustic data from May through July of 2013. Each ARU was set to
record at a sampling rate of 16000 Hz for 10 minutes on the hour for every hour
between 0600 and 1000 EST, mimicking sampling protocols for avian ecology.
Each ARU was left at the study site for a minimum of four days, but no longer
than a week. To classify the landscape metrics of patch area and matrix type for
the county-scale assessment, we used ArcGIS tools to conduct spatial analyses
Fig. 1. Distribution of sampling sites in Greenville Co. SC (A, B) with placements of recorders within
municipal and protected boundaries (C), and across county land use and land cover variation (D).
Fig. 2. Location of the Greenville Zoo within Greenville Co. SC and the city of Greenville (A) with
placements of recorders within the zoo (B), and showing street and building layout in relation to land
cover within and around the zoo (C).
of matrix type and patch area. We used the spatial analyst tool in ArcGIS to
calculate the area of each pine patch. We followed Wood and Quinn’s (2016)
classification of matrix type as Forest, Cultivated, Urban Developed, or Urban
Residence, following the SC GAP classifications (SC DNR).
For the local zoo scale, we recorded at all five sites for one week in winter
(November-December 2016) and one week in summer (July 2017). During the
winter sampling, we recorded 10-minute intervals between 6:00 to 16:00 and
20:00 to 0:00 for a total of 17 hours of the 24-hour day, coinciding with the
operating hours of the zoo and possible nocturnal activities of species. During
the summer, we recorded for 10 minutes on the hour for a full 24 hours. Our
recordings captured the auditory stimuli caused by humans, infrastructure, and
the animal species located in the zoo.
Data Analysis
The soundscape indices we focus on are Biophony, Anthrophony, Normalized

Difference Soundscape Index, Acoustic Entropy, Acoustic Complexity Index,
Acoustic Diversity Index, Acoustic Evenness Index, and Bioacoustic Index
(reviewed fully in Fuller et al. 2015):
1. Biophony is non-human, biologically-generated sound;

2. Anthrophony is human-generated sound;
3. Normalized Difference Soundscape Index (NDSI) is the
proportion of biophony to anthrophony in the soundscape,
calculated as (biophony - anthrophony) / (biophony +
anthrophony) (Kasten et al. 2012);
4. Acoustic Entropy (H) is a function of temporal energy dispersal
and spectral energy dispersal (Sueur et al. 2008);
5. The Acoustic Complexity Index (ACI) is a function of the
amount of variation in the intensity of sounds (Pieretti et al.
2011);
6. The Acoustic Diversity Index (ADI; Villanueva-Rivera et al.
2011) measures the diversity of sounds; it is the proportion
of signals in each bin above a threshold, with the final value
calculated with the Shannon diversity index;1
7. The Acoustic Evenness Index (AEI) measures the equality/
inequality of distribution of sound power in different frequency
ranges (Villanueva-Rivera et al. 2011) and is calculated in the
same way as the Acoustic Diversity Index, but with the Gini
index of evenness;2 and
8. The Bioacoustic Index (BAI) is a function of both the power

and frequency range of sound generated by wildlife; it is
calculated as the area under each curve, including all frequency
bands associated with the dB value that was greater than the
minimum dB value for each curve (Boelman et al. 2007).
We used the tuneR package3 (Ligges et al. 2017) for Program R (R

Development Core Team 2008) to read the sound files. We then used the
soundecology (Villanueva-Rivera and Pijanowski 2015) package to obtain values
of Anthrophony and Biophony. For each sound file — and following Kasten
et al. (2012), who used a large number of samples to determine Anthrophonic
frequency — we defined Anthrophony as sound occurring in the 1-2 kHz range
while we defined Biophony as sound occurring in the 2-8 kHz frequency range.
We also used the soundecology package to obtain values of the Normalized
Difference Soundscape Index, Acoustic Entropy, Acoustic Complexity Index,
Acoustic Diversity Index, Acoustic Evenness Index, and Bioacoustic Index for
each recording. To avoid pseudo-replication4 in statistical analyses, we averaged
all values for each index for each site (forest patch or point in the zoo). Thus, a
point within a given forest patch or the zoo was the unit of study for subsequent
statistical analyses. Data were tested for normality with the Shapiro test;5 if non-
normal, they were log-transformed.6 We used linear models (used to understand
and predict the behaviour of complex systems) estimated in Program R to test
if each measure (Biophony, Anthrophony, H, BAI, ADI, NDSI, ACI, and AEI)
varied as a function of landscape context (specifically patch area), the matrix
within which the patch was embedded, or the time of year. All alpha values (aka
significance values) were set a priori at 0.05.
Results
Landscape Scale: Greenville Co.
At the county scale, Biophony, Anthrophony, ACI, and NDSI were non-
normal (p<0.05), and subsequently log-transformed for analyses. ADI
decreased (F1,31 F=6.58, p=0.015) and AEI increased (F1,31 F=5.53, p=0.025) as
a function of forest patch area (Fig. 3). Surprisingly, there was a negative trend
between the size of the patch area and the Biophony (Fig. 3, top left) though
the relationship was not significant (F1,31 F=0.70, p=0.41). The relationship
between the other soundscape indices and patch area were not significant
(p>0.10). Similarly, there was no effect of matrix type on any soundscape
index (Fig. 4, p>0.10). As with area, patterns are suggestive, but variability
in sound over time may add sufficient quantitative noise to limit statistical
inference of averaged values.
Local Scale: The Zoo
At the local zoo scale, Anthrophony (F1,8 F=40.24, p<0.000) varied between
seasons, but Biophony did not (F1,8 F=3.39, p=0.103) (Fig. 5). Across a 24-hour
period (Fig. 6), there was clear variation between indices and seasons, though
the small sample size makes statistical inference less valuable. Biophony was
less varied across the day during summer than winter, though it is interesting
to note that Biophony increased for only one recording site during the winter.
During the winter, Anthrophony was relatively constant. In contrast, during the
summer Anthrophony peaked in the early afternoon (~1300), though there is a
clear differentiation in the two groups. Lastly, during the winter, as Anthrophony
increased, there was a clear decline in Biophony (Fig. 7). In the summer, there is
a slight negative relationship between Biophony and Anthrophony.
Comparison Between Scales
The greatest Biophony was recorded at the Greenville Zoo (Fig. 3), but the range
of Anthrophony did not differ between scales. The zoo had a narrower range of
Acoustic Complexity, but the other indices were similar in range, though the
median BAI and AEI are notability lower.
Table 1. Summary statistics from two scales of analysis, Greenville Co. and the Greenville Zoo.
Fig. 3. Variation in soundscape index as a function of area (log-transformed) where AEI increased
(p=0.025) and ADI decreased (p=0.015).
Fig. 4. Variation in soundscape index as a function of matrix type.

Fig. 5. Variation in in Biophony (p>0.05) and Anthrophony (p<0.05) between fall/winter and summer
sampling periods.
Fig. 6. Daily variation between sites and seasons. Best fit loess7 lines plotted by recording site and
season.
Fig. 7. Relationships between Anthrophony and Biophony across sites and season.
Discussion
Landscape ecology and soundscape ecology overlap in terms of their questions,

tools, and consideration of scale (Villanueva-Rivera et al. 2011; Fuller et al.
2015). Moving between and applying concepts across disciplines stimulates
novel insights (Ledford 2015) and can enhance the translation of science into
policy (Haider et al. 2018). As the field of soundscape ecology evolves it should
continue to engage not only other natural sciences, but also disciplines that
use tools from economics, policy, and the study of values. Here we show how
regional and local soundscapes, across a gradient of human land-use intensity
(i.e., protected forest watersheds, residential developments, zoos) shaped by
human and ecological actions, vary over space and time, as well as how the
landscape and interactions of humans with the environment can affect these
patterns — perhaps in unexpected ways. These data could in turn be used to
determine the extent of the willingness to pay8 for greater biophony along an
urban-rural gradient or the preference for policy that prioritizes quiet spaces.
Larger patches are often identified as better for species conservation, given
that they tend to host greater diversity and abundance of species (Shaffer 1981).
Greater acoustic diversity does suggest that larger patches may have a larger
variety of vocalizing species. We found greater acoustic evenness was suggestive
of better habitat quality, specifically a larger forest patch, though Fuller et al.
(2015), showed that acoustic evenness declined with improved biocondition.
Though only suggestive, the decline in Biophony within larger patches was
unexpected, implying perhaps reduced abundance in larger patches. There is
also clear literature showing that the land use and land cover around patch (i.e.,
the matrix) affects diversity and abundance within a patch (Ricketts 2001).
For example, Wood and Quinn (2016) demonstrated that the Brown-Headed
Nuthatch was more abundant in the same pine forest patches when the patch
was surrounded by urban residential landscapes compared to patches embedded
in other forest types. Though not significant, the reduced values of Biophony
in the more urban environments is consistent with our understanding of the
effects of urbanization on noise. Future work at these scales should consider
sampling on a 24-hour schedule to better understand how the soundscape varies
throughout the day; this is a data set we did not collect because the focus of the
study was to match the morning sampling efforts (within four hours of sunrise)
typical of active field sampling for birds. Other variables more explicitly linked
to sources of noise along the urban-rural gradient, including the proximity to
roads (Riitters and Wickham 2003), would be valuable to include as research
and practice work to limit the impact of noise on ecosystem (Pater, Grubb, and
Delaney 2009) and human health (Goines and Hagler 2007). Likewise, year-
round monitoring can add additional insight, for example on the differences
between responses to noise in the summer and winter, as was seen at the local
scale within the zoo (Oden et al. 2015).
The soundscape of the Greenville Zoo varied across seasons and time.
By collecting data within the zoo, at a finer spatial and temporal scale than the
countywide project, we were able to provide a richer dataset for zoo managers to
consider. These data show that urban and suburban zoos may need to consider
variation between seasons when attempting to mitigate the effects of noise from
within and beyond the zoo, particularly in winter. This could improve the well-
being of the zoo animals as well as the visitor experience during the winter.
To date, the auditory stimuli present in zoos due to visitors, infrastructure,
and other species has been under-acknowledged despite the evidence that loud
levels of noise within the zoo can have negative impacts on the captive animals
living there as well as on visitors looking for an immersive experience (Quadros
et al. 2014; Robbins and Margulis 2016; Sherwen et al. 2015). Future research
in such novel ecosystems like the zoo should consider how noise in general, and
specific species vocalizations, vary as a function of human interactions, use of
space, and engagement with the ecosystem. Likewise, beyond the boundaries of
the area of interest, greater attention to noise from the external environment is
warranted (Newberry 1995). Indeed, greater attention to noise across landscapes
is necessary to mitigate anthropogenic noise and its subsequent impacts on
ecosystem health (Barber et al. 2011).
We have been working for many years with local conservation groups.
These data are now being used as part of the evaluation process for prioritizing
land acquisition and mitigating impacts of future urban development. Though
sound is only one measure considered, the novelty of the data and clear
connection to the relational value to nature has made it a valuable addition. As
an exploratory analysis, these results can help develop future a priori models to
evaluate the relationship between soundscape and ecosystem function. We have
shared the local data with the Greenville Zoo9 and are currently working with
zoo staff to design a sampling effort to understand and mitigate the impacts
of an approaching construction project on the soundscape of the zoo (and
consequently the animals in the zoo and human visitors).
Evaluating indices of soundscape change demonstrates multiple ways
that these data can benefit stakeholder decisions. Regional data may be more
useful to county governments and conservation groups working with broader
spatial scales and seeking to identify the best lands to protect. Intensive sampling
of forest and other habitat patches is time and resource intensive. Soundscape
measures may provide a tool for rapid assessment of habitat quality. Local data,
similar to the zoo, may be more valuable to those managing smaller properties
— for example, easements, parks, and neighbourhoods — and who therefore

are more interested in a finer scale of change. However, researchers need to
work on aligning research questions, study design, and sampling patterns
with the needs of data users. Ultimately, linking monitoring efforts at both
scales in hierarchical analyses and creating effective ways of sharing the data
(e.g., an interactive web-based data visualization app built with Shiny10) will
improve the application of soundscape data to local and regional conservation
planning.
Notes
1. The Shannon diversity index is a commonly used measure in ecology. It is a

mathematical measure of species diversity in a given area. Diversity indices provide
information about the relative abundance of various species present, rather than just
the number of species present. Such information is valuable for those scholars wanting
to understand community structures (see http://www.tiem.utk.edu/~gross/bioed/
bealsmodules/shannonDI.html).
2. The Gini index is used to measure the relative equality or inequality of distri-
bution.
3. “Packages” refer to computer programs and software designed to conduct vari-
ous types of analyses and calculate indices.
4. Pseudo-replication occurs when individual observations are heavily dependent
on each other; in such a case, replicates are not statistically independent. Pseudo-
replication is the artificial inflation of the number of samples or replicates, resulting in
unreliable statistical analyses.
5. The Shapiro test is commonly used in statistics to ensure that a data-set is well
modelled by a normal distribution. Non-normal data indicate that a test is inaccurate.
6. When data are determined to be non-normal, a transformation can be applied
to help them conform to normality. The log-transformation is perhaps the most popu-
lar among different types of possible transformations.
7. Loess refers to “locally weighted smoothing,” and is a popular tool used to
create a smooth line through a timeplot or scatterplot to clarify relationships between
variables and to predict trends.
8. Willingness to Pay is a tool from the field of economics used to estimate the
value of a resource by asking an individual how much they are willing to give up, or
pay, to see a change in that resource. In this application, it would be asking how much
people would be willing to pay to for a more natural or quiet soundscape.
9. https://dakotahoward.shinyapps.io/shinyZoo/
10. https://dakotahoward.shinyapps.io/shinyZoo/
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Coupling Scientific and Humanistic Approaches to
Address Wicked Environmental Problems of the
Twenty-first Century: Collaborating in an
Acoustic Community Nexus
JENNIFER C. POST and BRYAN C. PIJANOWSKI
Post, Jennifer and Bryan Pijanowski. 2018. Coupling Scientific and Humanistic Approaches to Address Wicked Environmental
Problems of the Twenty-first Century: Collaborating in an Acoustic Community Nexus. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 71-91.
Abstract: Addressing serious environmental challenges, or wicked problems, locally and
globally, we argue here that working collaboratively as scientist and humanist we are in
a strategic position to help address biodiversity crises. We outline synergies that combine
the strengths, tools, and fresh perspectives of soundscape ecology and sound studies in
ethnomusicology. Our unique collaboration places sound at the core of our process but utilizes
a community acoustics lens to bring both the sounds of nature and those of people together to
couple our epistemologies, methodologies, and deep commitment to addressing the ecological
needs today.
Résumé : Pour aborder les graves défis, ou sévères problèmes, environnementaux, aux niveaux
local et global, nous avançons ici qu’en travaillant en collaboration en tant que scientifique et
humaniste, nous nous plaçons en position stratégique pour contribuer à répondre aux crises de
la biodiversité. Nous soulignons les synergies qui associent les forces, les outils et les nouvelles
perspectives sur l’écologie des paysages sonores et les études sur le son en ethnomusicologie.
Notre collaboration unique place le son au cœur du processus, mais a recours au prisme
de la communauté acoustique pour rassembler tant les sons de la nature que ceux produits
par les gens ensemble pour apparier nos épistémologies, nos méthodologies et notre profond
engagement pour répondre aux besoins écologiques d’aujourd’hui.
A s we reach the end of the second decade of the 21st century, it has become
clear to many that the planet is facing unprecedented environmental
degradation. Several of the environmental challenges society must confront
have been labelled as “wicked problems,” as their solutions are likely to be
complex and require input from diverse perspectives (Rockström et al. 2009;
Wilson 2016). These issues include addressing the current global biodiversity
crisis, meeting the food and energy security needs of an ever-growing human
population, and confronting the water scarcity problem that impacts all life
on Earth (Koh et al. 2004; Schmidhuber and Tubiello 2007; Vörösmarty et
al. 2000). As a landscape ecologist and an ethnomusicologist — scientist and
humanist — our efforts to understand global change have been focused in
environments rich in biodiversity. Regrettably, our respective investigations
also reveal widespread biodiversity decline. Can our work, thus far conducted
separately, be refocused to produce meaningful collaborations that confront
this impending ecological and social disaster?
We argue here that two relatively new perspectives on sound — a
new science, soundscape ecology, and re-invigorated scholarship in eco-
ethnomusicology — offer the fresh perspectives needed. Soundscape ecology
is a rapidly developing scientific approach to studying sound that is closely
aligned with the discipline of landscape ecology, but also builds on the rich
knowledge of the fields of animal communication and behaviour, biogeography,
signal processing, data mining, and psychoacoustics (Pijanowski et al. 2011a,
b). Soundscape ecologists explore diverse ecosystems using remote sensing
technologies, such as passive acoustic recorders, to evaluate local biodiversity
through sound. Building from the interdisciplinary field of landscape ecology
means that investigations consider spatial variation of landscapes at different
scales as well as the interplay of spatial pattern and ecological processes (Wu
2007); these scientists have sought links between biophysical and social
scientific methods to address issues such as biological conservation. In contrast,
emerging from ethnomusicology and ecomusicology (Allen and Dawe 2015),
sound studies in eco-ethnomusicology address critical biodiversity issues
utilizing contemporary ethnographic methods that value observational and
participatory engagement with individuals and communities (Guyette and
Post 2015). Many eco-ethnomusicologists draw on knowledge from diverse
disciplinary areas, including the humanities, social sciences, and the sciences.
Eco-ethnomusicological sound study research is influenced by studies of sound
practice that address musical production and listening practices in social and
geographic contexts (Gallagher and Prior 2014), as well as acoustic ecology
(or acoustemology) of place (Feld 1996), political agency expressed in sound
(Sakakeeny 2010), and sound knowledge and listening (Kapchan 2017).
What are the collaborative spaces that will allow us to use our disparate
approaches to understand wicked environmental problems? We address this
with an application of soundscape ecology and eco-ethnomusicology in the
context of acoustic communities in which a set of diverse voices, methods,
Post and Pijanowski: Collaborating in an Acoustic Community Nexus 73
and epistemologies can be combined to comprehend biodiversity change. We

conclude this essay with a discussion of work in Mongolia, highlighting the
gains in knowledge if we were to adopt our acoustic community framework
collaborating together.
Defining Acoustic Community
We posit that an acoustic community can act as both a framework and context
for studying sounds — a nexus if you will. When we consider how both
ecologists and music scholars studying sound define acoustic community, we
recognize similarities despite their differing areas of focus. Ecologists define
acoustic community as “an aggregation of species that produces sound by
using internal or extra-body sound-producing tools” (Farina and James 2016:
11). In biological research, data from an acoustic community may be used to
gauge composition, identify characteristics, and determine functions in an
ecosystem; ecologists also consider acoustic communities as valuable sources of
information on habitats and vegetation (Gasc et al. 2013; Farina and Pieretti
2014; Farina and James 2016). In music, composer Murray Schafer defines
acoustic communities as social spaces bounded by what their residents hear and
interpret from within a given space (1994). For both sound and music scholars,
acoustic communities receive and create acoustic information and thus are
interactive and engaged with communication (Uimonen 2011).
If we combine the previous uses of acoustic community into a new
structure, defined by problems and desired outcomes, a collaborative framework
emerges (Fig. 1). Our research recognizes that a variety of drivers of global
environmental change (Fig. 1A) create the current biodiversity crisis (Fig. 1B).
However, planning and implementing collaborative scientific and humanistic
work is challenging. Our methods differ, basic values related to the roles
researchers play sometimes conflict, and analytical techniques and platforms
are seldom the same. The unique alliance we propose places sound at the core
of the discovery process, but within the lens of an acoustic community (Fig. 1C)
which brings both the sounds of nature and those of people together to couple
our epistemologies, methodologies, and diverse voices to address — and seek
solutions for — problems society faces. The synergies of these two transformed
disciplines (Fig. 1D) that we outline here combine the strengths, tools, and
fresh perspectives of a new science, soundscape ecology, and re-invigorated
scholarship in eco-ethnomusicology that has emerged from an integration of
contributing disciplines (Fig. 1E). Our approach also engages the very people
and places we wish to improve in a co-produced fashion (Fig. 1F) which we hope
will yield improved livelihoods (Fig. 1G). We describe the acoustic community
within this broad collaborative framework in more detail next.
Component 1: Diversity of Voices and Discourses
A critical component of our acoustic community is the collection of voices

and discourses. These include those that are studied (animals, landscapes, and
people) and those of researchers as well (scientists and humanists) which, when
combined, form synergies yielding co-produced knowledge. Recordings of
animal voices are key, as these provide us with knowledge about biodiversity
and animal activity patterns critical to our understanding of biodiversity loss.
Discourses between scientists and humanists need to be continuous, building
a sense of common ground and a shared vocabulary. We argue that discourses
need to focus on collaborative modes for research, such as using the inquiry style
of the eco-ethnomusicologist to address questions posed by scientists. There are
also inquiry spaces where scientists and humanists can work together; scientists
can, for example, participate in contextualized interviews and discourses with
local community members while digital recordings of sounds (and songs) can
be jointly analyzed by scientists and humanists. We argue that knowledge we
gain through this process also needs to be co-produced (Table 1). For example,
with the help of eco-ethnomusicologists, models and conclusions developed by
scientists could be corroborated by local people. These new discourses should
yield new insights into problems we seek to solve.
Component 2: Complementary Epistemologies
The differences in our scholarly pursuits epitomize the characteristic separation

between scientific and humanistic epistemologies, including approaches to
understanding human and non-human interchanges and to seeking answers
for environmental problems. Our contrasting research models are reinforced
by disciplinary expectations and paradigms. A scientific approach can be
characterized by greater detachment from the subject of study, and an objective,
quantitative, and predictive assessment, while a humanistic approach is more
subjective, uses qualitative methods and practices, and relies less on projecting
outcomes at the outset (Frodeman et al. 2017). However, many scholars
commonly work together and employ mixed methodologies that “integrate
the quantitative and qualitative research techniques, approaches, vocabulary
and concepts within the same study” (Johnson and Onwuegbuzie 2004: 17).

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Fig 1. An acoustic community framework to address the biodiversity wicked environmental problem by combining the transformed disciplines of eco-
musicology and soundscape ecology. This framework connects global change drivers with a set of contributing disciplines through the lens of a multi-
component acoustic community, which we believe will produce solutions to improve livelihoods.
Post and Pijanowski: Collaborating in an Acoustic Community Nexus
75
Sound activity Effects Sound practice Methods Relationship to biodiversity Outcome (local)
Identifying Automating Sounds Sensors Determine SK Policy
(species Listening Narrative presence/absence of NK
recognition) (transects) species of concern
Causation Relating Soundscape Sensors Relate biodiversity to SK Policy
(disturbance to driver of change NK
acoustic diversity)
Rhythms Characterizing Sounds Sensors Determine temporal shifts SK Policy
temporal cycles Soundscapes Temporal in acoustic diversity NK
(diversity and and animal
communication) communication
Quantifying Sounds (animal) Soundscapes Sensors Acoustic diversity SK Policy
Diversity (species) Narrative correlates with species NK Knowledge sharing
diversity
Evaluating Using knowledge Soundscapes Sensors Evaluating data SK Scientific knowledge
Sounds Spatial Evaluating place NK Local knowledge
Listening Temporal EK
Narrative LK
Listening Aesthetic Listening Narrative Engaging with sound EK Valuing sound and
Spiritual LK soundscape
Transformative
Sounding Communicative Sounds Sensors Engaging in sound and EK Sharing knowledge and
Aesthetic Soundscapes Narrative place LK maintaining practices
Communicating Preserving Sounds Narrative Sharing knowledge in a EK Developing adaptive
lifeways Soundscapes Sensors community LK strategies
Economic success
Sharing
knowledge
Mapping Wayfinding Sounds Spatial Establishing locations EK Sharing acoustic
Place‐making Soundscapes Narrative Place‐making LK community network
Listening knowledge
Remembering Inspiring Sounds Temporal Reinforcing history EK Maintaining practices
Reflecting Listening Narrative Reflecting LK
Promoting Educational Sounds Sensors Teaching and encouraging EK Community support
Motivating Soundscapes Narrative action Transforming LK
Transforming Listening
Attributing Curative Sounds Narrative Wellbeing of individuals EK Individual and
Spiritual Listening Sensors and communities LK community valuing of
sound/soundscape
Table 1. Co-produced knowledge in acoustic communities offers information on sound activities and
their effects or purposes; the type of sound practice (sound, soundscape, listening); current methods
used for study (those linked to this essay include sensors, mapping, temporal patterns, and narratives);
relationships to biodiversity issues; the knowledge sound carries (scientific [SK], natural resource [NK],
ecological [EK], local [LK]); and examples of local outcomes of a sound activity. Information organized
in this way can be used to explore modes of engagement with sound and presents potential pathways
for collaborative research.
Biophysical scientists are now venturing into this field, often collaborating with
social scientists to understand coupled human-natural systems using mixed
method approaches, and these are yielding a better understanding of complex
systems like the ones we argue are needed by our collaboration (Liu et al.
2007). Many forms of knowledge can be explored, including local knowledge
(LK), ecological knowledge (EK), scientific knowledge (SK), and knowledge
for natural resource management (NK). We recognize that there are difficult
challenges to designing a humanistic-scientific approach, but they are not
insurmountable.
Component 3: Joint Methodological Spaces
Although not exhaustive, we present several methodological spaces that we

believe bring the scientist and humanist together to address many of the wicked
problems confronting society.
Digital and Human Sensors
Collaborative soundscape study in acoustic communities uses both digital

and human sensors as well as information exchange in discussions, interviews,
and participatory action. Soundscape ecologists’ recording devices measure
acoustic composition to address factors such as acoustic diversity, species
dominance, intensity, and acoustic partitioning, and some recordings identify
sound signals used for animal communication. In contrast, the soundscapes
and sound practices that eco-ethnomusicologists record are sources of
information on local lifeways. Recorded interviews and discussions are used
to learn how people evaluate and reflect on sound and soundscapes. Inviting
local community members to act as human sensors — agents for sensing and
reporting on sound and soundscape experiences — offers new opportunities
to link the remote sensing data of soundscape ecologists with soundscape
knowledge held by local peoples. When soundscape ecologists and eco-
ethnomusicologists make adjustments to their site selection, such as when
soundscape ecologists use an anthropogenic lens to concentrate on human
socio-economic activities in their recordings, they will engage with a new
range of sound sources. Similarly, when eco-ethnomusicologists engage with
broader acoustic communities, they will experience new understandings of
sound and space that they can discuss with local residents. Our collaborative
lines of inquiry could include: how do changes in biodiversity, as assessed
by passive acoustic recorders, compare to those shared narratively by a local
person? Based on eco-ethnographic analysis, can the scientist correlate

suspected causal factors (i.e., drivers) to biodiversity loss?
For data analysis, computational models in landscape ecology offer one
pathway for connecting quantitative data to both soundscape ecology and eco-
ethnomusicology. Techniques using signal, symbolic, and semantic analysis
have been used in conjunction with musicological and ethnomusicological
analysis, although current models for application in what is at present called
computational ethnomusicology are still in development (Gómez et al. 2013;
Tzanetakis et al. 2007; and Cornelis et al. 2013). A new model constructed
around a landscape ecology-ethnomusicology framework that enlivens
techniques with more in-depth and multidisciplinary methods will need to be
developed in order to successfully bridge our disciplines (Futrelle and Downie
2002; Clayton 2007; Abdallah et al. 2017).
Mapping Acoustic Communities
Sound mapping is another method that soundscape ecologists and eco-

ethnomusicologists can share. As geographic information systems (GIS) are
a principal tool of landscape ecologists (Turner and Gardner 2015) and, to
some extent, soundscape ecologists (Pijanowski et al. 2011b; Pekin et al. 2012;
Lomolino, Pijanowski, and Gasc 2015), we argue that the landscape, ecology,
and cultural components of the soundscape in each acoustic community
can be easily mapped and interfaced with information derived from both
soundscape ecologists and eco-ethnomusicologists. Sound mapping has been
adopted to describe the sound environment, demonstrate spatial variation,
and, when combined with other data and methods such as behavioural
observation, can contribute to understanding species’ responses to sounds
from different sources (Job et al. 2016). Sound mapping methods encompass
a wide array of activities in diverse areas from which eco-ethnomusicologists
draw. Computational methods may be used to correlate spatial and temporal
data provided by recorded media, which can also include soundscapes, sound
narratives, and song reproduction by local residents. References to space and
place may also be coordinated with GPS coordinates to locate recordings made
by soundscape ecologists. The collaborative mapping exercises we suggest could
involve digital (e.g., GIS) and analog (e.g., paper) spatial analysis where the
landscape and its features are associated with the information derived from
eco-ethnomusicological assessment. Our questions might include: where are
there biodiversity “hotspots” and how have these been managed historically
compared to areas that have experienced noticeable change? Where are there
environmental changes that have cultural significance?
Merging mapping tools such as geographical information systems (GIS)

with qualitative tools used in the social sciences (such as NVivo and Atlas.ti) will
lead to new ways to assess disparate datasets across space and time (Burrough
1986). Mapping these spaces and providing data on specific species of plants
and animals, as well as their environmental health over time, offers opportunities
for soundscape ecologists (with GIS and recorders), local residents, and eco-
ethnomusicologists (recording and engaging in interactive interviews with
members of the community) to create maps that take into consideration both
quantitative and qualitative data.
Temporal Patterns
For soundscape ecologists, temporal patterns in an acoustic community

are tied to biological events linked especially to time of day, season, and life
histories of organisms in a location (Pijanowski 2011a). Patterns are exhibited
at different elevations as well as during cycles of life, and can be extended to
include responses to environmental changes. For example, some ecologists
establish models of plant senescence connected to seasonal trends, which
are then compared to those for biological sounds to quantify plant-animal
interactions (Gasc et al. 2017). These are compared across sites that differ in
levels of disturbance (e.g., undisturbed/reference conditions vs. highly disturbed
locations such as areas that have been mined, are used to grow crops, or urban
centres). Other soundscape ecologists (e.g., Xie et al. 2016) have focused on
quantifying tempos exhibited by animals, such as tropical tree frogs, in an effort
to estimate population densities or specific activity patterns. Temporal patterns
on which eco-ethnomusicologists focus provide other significant applications to
sounds and soundscapes. For example, temporal patterns in sound and music
study are linked especially to perception and to other emotional and physical
responses to sound, including entrainment (Stevens 2012; Clayton 2007).
The groupings in sound that listeners perceive may have specific functions in
acoustic communities, whether it be the tolling of a bell or a rhythmic sound
of warning heard and used by residents at a site. Mapping responses to time in
sound and music can also include gestural and other physical actions. Mobility
and how movement shapes acoustic spaces and communities in connection with
sound is another area of interest in sound studies with potential applications to
soundscape ecology (Vannini 2012). Biodiversity loss frequently affects rhythms,
including the movement of wildlife, the growth of plants, and the ability for
peoples to use ecological knowledge to predict changes and warn of dangers.
The impact of biodiversity loss on the presence of wildlife and the health of
plant life also limits food support for both people and animals. Collaborative
research questions built with soundscape ecologists to address some of these

issues include: What specific biodiversity changes have the greatest impact on
life decisions for local residents? What patterns in the daily and seasonal lives
of local animals can be correlated between ecological and local resident data?
Soundscape ecologists employ a variety of tools to quantify temporal
changes, including time series statistical models such as Autoregressive
Integrated Moving Average (ARIMA), to understand rhythms that are
identified with specific organisms, times of day, seasons, and climates, as well as
their disturbances. Humanities and social science research tools for qualitative
data analysis (QDA), including NVivo and Atlas.ti, are used for transcription,
analysis, coding, and content analysis, while video and audio annotation software
(such as ELAN and ANVIL) are used for annotating and coding media. Mixed
methods research and data analysis is possible using all of these tools.
Collaborative Narratives
Many contemporary scientists associate narratives with the qualitative work of

social scientists with whom they sometimes collaborate. Yet the formative years
of ecology were marked by careful, qualitative observations by eminent 19th- and
20th-century naturalists like Darwin, Wallace, Humboldt, and Leopold, who
developed grand biological theories that explained mechanisms of evolution,
causes of species ranges, global patterns of plant species diversity, and the need
for people to have a conservation ethic. As modern-day ecologists, the necessity
to transcend “big data” analysis to seek deeper relationships with what the digital
data tell us about ecological processes, particularly the loss of species globally,
will require the scientific community to find ways to integrate the qualitative
narrative with massive digital data. Ecologists are traditionally poor analysts
of qualitative information, and so collaboration with experts in observations,
interviews, and exchanges will enhance their understanding of biodiversity
loss and its potential impact on humans. Eco-ethnomusicologists’ qualitative
research methods commonly use narrative approaches that have historically
been identified with anthropological studies in the 1980s (Turner and Bruner
1986; Geertz 1988). Ethnomusicologists explored narrative at this ethnographic
juncture and recognized its value for engaging in and reporting on fieldwork. Jeff
Titon suggests that when using narrative approaches, “ethnography becomes an
experience-weighted genre in which narrative includes background information,
interpretation and analysis, and above all one in which insights emerge from
experience” (2008: 34). Narrative practice in ethnomusicology demonstrates
that a researcher has maintained a dialogic approach, that the knowledge
shared is the result of a partnership between researcher and local community
in discussions about practices as well as mutual engagement in performance.

Narratives are also linked to history, and this provides the opportunity for
individuals to express their experience in connection with memory, values,
and interests. Since the acceptance of narrative as a widely-used approach in
ethnographic work, it continues to have a decolonizing influence on disciplines.
Exploring narrative as a collaborative tool, environmental policy scholar Raul
Lejano posits that climate change knowledge maintained in community stories
holds valuable information and can be employed strategically to encourage
local engagement in environmental action (Lejano, Tavares-Reager, and Berkes
2013). Performed events also, like music or sound practices, articulate ideas in a
socially and culturally structured format that can be employed for local projects
(Post 2017). Questions linking acoustic communities, narrative information,
and the research of both soundscape ecologists and eco-ethnomusicologists
could draw on values expressed by local residents, such as: Do local residents
feel a sense of responsibility as caretakers of the land? What does a collaboration
between big data conclusions and human interest affecting local decisions about
wildlife well-being look like? How does the ecological condition, as reflected in
biodiversity, affect human well-being?
When documenting sound and music, ethnographers typically use tools
that include audio and video recording equipment, recording face-to-face
interviews and events. When these tools are paired with particular equipment,
researchers and local partners can provide a wealth of documentary information
that provides context for any contact taking place in conjunction with research.
Engaging with narrative for collaborative work will involve merging disciplinary
strategies and techniques to combine face-to-face research with some of the
analytical tools used for spatial and temporal studies.
Discussion
We believe there are many potential places where the acoustic community nexus
can help us to determine how biodiversity loss is fundamentally connected
to human well-being through sound. Both authors have conducted sound-
related research in Mongolia, where the largest remaining intact grasslands in
the world can be found. The grassland biome is considered by ecologists to
be the most threatened of all Earth’s biomes because much of these lands are
used to produce food (e.g., crop and livestock use) and biofuels (Hoekstra et
al. 2005; Fischer et al. 2006; Jenkins and Joppa 2009). Less than 5 percent
of the planet’s grasslands are protected, which is the smallest amount of area
needed to be considered a biome (IUCN 2018). Iconic Mongolian mammals
that are impacted by grassland loss, such as Przewalski’s horses, Gobi bears,
saiga antelopes, snow leopards, Siberian ibex, and argali sheep, are seriously
endangered or near extinction (IUCN 2018). Many grassland birds are also
severely declining due to land use and climate change (IUCN 2018). As the
global human population is expected to reach 9 billion by 2050, we may need
to use more of our global grasslands to sustain these additional 2 billion people,
which in turn could lead to greater threats to the plants and animals that live in
this ecosystem. Understanding how Mongolian pastoral lifeways have supported
sustainable land use could provide useful solutions for addressing this current
wicked biodiversity crisis.
Here, we briefly summarize the work each of us has conducted in
Mongolia, within the context of how our proposed framework can address
wicked environmental problems at each of our research sites. The individual
work we present in this section can be used to determine how well we have
answered some of the fundamental questions we posed. In the future, with
opportunities to work in collaboration as scientist and humanist at these and
other research sites, we will be able to test and refine our acoustic community
framework more fully.
Mongolia’s grasslands are rich in biodiversity and its sounds and
soundscapes are key indicators of environmental health. Six major vegetation
zones provide habitats for plant and animal species that contribute to acoustic
communities of animals and people in each location where mapping these
spaces and sounds has begun (see Fig. 1). The multifaceted acoustic experiences
in communities of humans, animals, plants, and landforms occur as groups
of herders settle in locations, and as they move seasonally from place to
place seeking prime grazing land for their livestock. In their encampments,
soundscapes are also impacted by population density, ethnicity, and type of
settlement. Sound knowledge and production is adapted in response to the
changing climate, a major driver of global and local change. Within each
acoustic community, sounds are used in daily life as a form of communication
between animals and humans about significant events — an animal-human-
animal discourse — which provides information about temporal change
including seasonal changes, dangers to livestock, the character of the land, and
the social roles of family members. Sounds related to meteorological events
also provide information about changes and encourage herders to take action.
Sounds are also used to support the well-being of humans and animals, while
narratives explain or articulate an understanding of the world with shared beliefs
and values. Altogether, this use of sounds helps to maintain a balance in an
increasingly threatening environment characterized by unpredictable weather
and the intrusion of unwanted sounds, including acoustic disturbances that
mask valued and more “readable” sounds. Many local populations are extremely
vulnerable, and lifeways are exhibiting a breakdown of productive human/non-
human relationships. This crisis affects the ability of human actors in acoustic
communities to maintain constructive ecological practices using knowledge
transmitted from generation to generation, and thus to act supportively toward
their environment.
Scientists have been studying the relationship between landscape
condition, livestock pressures, and biodiversity in Mongolia for the last several
years and there is conflicting evidence on whether herders manage their pastures
sustainably (Fernández-Giménez et al. 2017). A 2015 soundscape ecological
study by Pijanowski in Mongolia was designed to determine whether grazing
intensities impacted the biodiversity of herders’ lands using acoustic sensors
as an indicator of ecosystem health. The three-month study was conducted
in Hustai National Park and the Tuul River Valley in cooperation with park
rangers and local herders, important voices that guided the research design.
Nine sensors were placed across the landscape: three in one area (Marmot valley)
serving as a reference condition (where Przewalski’s horses are being protected);
another three sensors at a water well installed at the edge of the park for use
by herders on an “as need basis” (moderately grazed); and a third set of three
in an area near the Tuul River where intense livestock grazing had occurred
the previous two years, but that was set aside during the summer of our study
to “rest.” These are currently being mapped to landscape conditions obtained
from satellite imagery from a Moderate Resolution Imaging Spectroradiometer
(MODIS). We calculated a variety of soundscape ecology metrics that quantify
biological sounds within temporal windows and within the acoustic breadth of
frequencies (Fig. 2). These boxplots show that grazing intensity may not reduce
biodiversity below that of reference sites. However, detailed information about
specific management practices and how these practices have been developed
require the narrative toolkit of the qualitative scholar along with discourses
about how biodiversity has changed in the park and in intensively grazed
areas. Such narratives should improve scientists’ understanding (i.e., expand
the epistemological depth and breadth) of critical cause and effect relationships
between drivers and problems.
Ethnomusicological research in Mongolia has focused in recent years on
musical production in both rural and urban communities. There is increasing
interest in the impact of the movement of rural peoples to semi-urban and
urban locations, especially Ulaanbaatar, the capital city that now holds
more than half the country’s population (Marsh 2006, 2009; Yoon 2011). A
significant number of pastoralists move to cities in response to changes in local
landscapes and ecosystems, and this new mobility has affected rural human and
Reference Medium Heavy
Fig 2. Three soundscape ecology indices for no grazing (Reference), a water well (Medium grazing), and at
the location of formerly heavily-grazed sites (Heavy). A=NDSIA, which provides a ratio of low frequency
sounds, like wind and traffic, to biological sounds; B=ACI or Acoustic Complexity Index, which measures
modulation patterns common in animal communication; and C=number of peaks, or the count of amplitude
peaks in a file.
environmental well-being (Post 2014). In the westernmost province of Bayan-

Ölgii, eco-ethnomusicological research by Post in pastoralist families reveals
the impact of climate change and other disturbances on music and sound
production (2017, 2018). Bayan-Ölgii is located in the Altai-Sayan Ecoregion,
a significant ecological site for biodiversity conservation that spans Russia,
Mongolia, Kazakhstan, and China. Alpine grasslands in Bayan-Ölgii near the
Mongolian Altai Mountains bordering China and the Saylyugem Mountains
on the Russian border are critical to the livelihoods and lifeways of Kazakh
and Tuvan herders who comprise over 90 percent of the provincial population.
Fieldwork in these and other regions conducted during the last 15 years uses
ethnographic methods that include engaging with family activities related to
herding and social/cultural production, recording musical performances and
local soundscapes, and asking open-ended questions about the significance of
music and sound in the daily lives of residents. The increasingly unpredictable
weather patterns and the subsequent difficulties herders have had maintaining
consistent practices are challenging, and some have chosen to leave the land for
urban places. While all pastoralists learn adaptive strategies, the current local
conditions that include extreme cold, drought, flooding, and other weather
events have made it difficult for residents to manage using skills transmitted
from earlier generations.
Post’s research addresses sounds, soundscapes, and sound practices
(including music) in and near alpine grasslands as herders evaluate and use
their acoustic environment and other sensory sources of knowledge to manage
and care for their livestock. How do herders settled near grasslands in spring,
summer, and autumn months engage with their acoustic communities? What
specific sound-related relationships do they have with their livestock, family
groups, plant life, wildlife, and weather events? What sound and music-related
strategies have they employed to address recent climate change events and other
disturbances? For example, herders’ sources of information about weather events
may come from birds, and discourse with livestock and wildlife may contribute
to ecological (and economic) well-being. Poor grasses and lower milk quantities
combined with severe winters and the loss of domestic animal herds have made
livestock more precious. In both Tuvan and Kazakh encampments, herders
listen for goats spitting loudly at night, a signal that wolves are nearby; a wolf
visit in the night can result in the loss of lambs and kids, a huge economic blow
to a family. Stylized sounds used to scare wolves away occur in response to the
goats’ warnings (Fig. 3), as Tuvan herder Olonbayar Urtnasan demonstrated at
the base of the Tavan Bogd Mountains with a call he learned in his family when
he was young (interview, June 21, 2017).
Responding interactively to an environment using sounds learned over
time offers herders some control over their circumstances and contributes to a
balanced set of human/non-human relationships. In another example, Bhaktjan
Köshen at Dayan Lake measures the height of grass and the speed of its growth
over time and notes that there has been appreciable change in recent years:
When I was young, we would throw a tree branch on the ground

and the grass would grow around it very quickly (in 3-4 days),
covering the branch. There were sounds of phssh. Now because
there is less rain and the weather is dry, it grows more slowly and I
can’t hear this sound of growing coming from the water inside the
grass. (interview, June 24, 2017)
He links changes in the sound, quality, and height of grasses to lower levels
of milk production in his livestock, and even to lower birth rates in his sheep,
evidenced by the diminishing presence of particular sounds made by sheep
Fig. 3. Tuvan herder Olonbayar’s call to scare away wolves at night in western Mongolia.
as they look for their lambs. While information about relationships between
herders and sounds is useful in eco-ethnomusicological research, correlating
acoustic data from science, ethnography, and local residents will contribute to
improved understanding of patterns in the daily and seasonal lives of animals
and plants that can then be applied more directly to research on biodiversity
loss.
As teams of eco-ethnomusicologists, soundscape ecologists, and local
pastoralists work together to address the drivers of change affecting Bayan-
Ölgii grasslands, selecting effective methods will require collaborative
teamwork among all interested groups. A good starting point is to employ
mapping strategies to join qualitative and quantitative information to
link remote and human sensor data with spatial data informed by human
perception and experience expressed in discussions and interviews. Mapping
will also help identify (1) correlations between human and ecosystem health
and well-being by drawing from the big data of soundscape ecologists to
establish one view of ecosystem conditions, (2) the sound and soundscape
recordings of ethnographers directed and informed by local community
members to provide additional spatial and temporal information on human
and nonhuman conditions, and (3) the narrative information from local
pastoralists offering in-depth case studies to evaluate and potentially add new
parameters for the team to consider.
We believe that in Mongolia — and in many other locations around the
world — some of the solutions for the biodiversity crisis can be found in acoustic
communities and their dynamic social, cultural, and ecological networks. It is

unfortunate that collaborative research of the kind we discuss in this paper is so
rare because scientist-humanist community partnerships, as we have described
in our acoustic community framework, are key to a better understanding of
biodiversity decline and for identifying solutions. Successful partnerships of the
kind we propose require agencies such as NSF and NEH to recognize the value
of this kind of research by offering their support, especially in areas of rich and/
or unique biodiversity. In our collaborative research plan, scientists will benefit
from discourse with local people who will share their ecological knowledge
based on their years of experience in a given location. Eco-ethnomusicologists
will add an ethnographic dimension to a project using digital and human sensor
data along with face-to-face interviews that focus on spatial and temporal issues
and draw on some of the research questions that emerge from collaborative
opportunities in the field. This is a chance for ethnomusicologists to become
more fully immersed in biological and geophysical aspects of the environment
— an experience that is a companion to, not a replacement for, in-depth
studies concerned largely with human systems. It is also a chance for ecologists
to embrace the important social and cultural relationships that occur when
the whole — the soundscape — is not simply an aggregation, but is instead
understood as sounds providing valuable information about their associated
landscape. We must emphasize the urgency of this collaborative work, however,
given the wicked problems confronting communities in many locations. Indeed,
not doing this work means that the local, place-based solutions we desperately
need to create a sustainable lifestyle may be lost forever. We need people to live
harmoniously with their environment and share their knowledge with all —
scholars, policymakers, and the rest of society.
Acknowledgements
Pijanowski received partial funds for this collaborative work from an NSF grant (BCS
1114945), the Office of the Executive Vice-President for Research and Partnerships at
Purdue, and from the USDA NIFA McIntire-Stennis Program (Accession Number:
1016730). David Savage (Purdue) assisted with the production of Fig. 2. Research
support for Post was provided by the US-Mongolia Field Research Fellowship Program,
sponsored by the American Center for Mongolian Studies (ACMS), the Council of
American Overseas Research Centers (CAORC), and the US Department of Education;
the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation; and the Center for Middle East Studies at the
University of Arizona.
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What’s in the Song? Urtyn duu as Sonic “Ritual” Among
Mongolian Herder-singers
SUNMIN YOON
Yoon, Sunmin. 2018. What’s in the Song? Urtyn duu as Sonic Ritual among Mongolian Herder-singers. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 92-111.
Abstract: While contemporary Mongolia experiences a rapid expansion of its global urbanized
culture, its rural nomadic culture remains central to its inhabitants’ traditional worldview,
albeit described using nationalistic and nostalgic imagery. Drawing on the essential ideas of
Naess’s Deep Ecology, and looking particularly at the folksong genre of urtyn duu, this article
examines regular events in the countryside, characterized by human interaction with livestock
and with the landscape, and their relevance to the performative, textual, and sonic elements of
urtyn duu. It suggests that the act of singing among herder-singers transcends the separateness
of the actors within the ecosystem, and so ritualizes the practice of urtyn duu as a way to
balance the environment. Considering recent ecomusicological approaches, this paper seeks to
understand urtyn duu within the ontological ecosystem through the lens of spirituality.
Résumé : Tandis que la Mongolie contemporaine connaît une expansion rapide de sa culture
urbanisée globale, sa culture rurale nomade reste au cœur de la vision du monde traditionnelle
de ses habitants, bien qu’on la décrive comme utilisant une imagerie nationaliste nostalgique.
À partir des idées essentielles de Naess au sujet de l’écologie profonde, et en examinant en
particulier le genre des urtyn duu, les chansons populaires, cet article examine les évènements
ordinaires en milieu rural, caractérisés par les interactions humaines avec le bétail et le paysage,
et leur pertinence pour les éléments performanciels, textuels et acoustiques des urtyn duu. Il
suggère que le fait de chanter, chez les chanteurs-gardiens de troupeaux, transcende la séparation
des acteurs au sein de l’écosystème et ritualise ainsi la pratique des urtyn duu en tant que moyen
d’équilibrer l’environnement. En examinant les approches ethnomusicologiques récentes, cet
article cherche à comprendre les urtyn duu au sein de l’écosystème ontologique à travers le
prisme de la spiritualité.
Mongol khün bol yeröösöö gazar delkhii baigal’ gazar delkhii baigal’
khün. … Mongol khünii gants gurvan khelkhee kholboo bol. …
Yoon: Urtyn duu as Sonic “Ritual” Among Mongolian Herder-singers 93
baigal’ delkhii mal khün gurav. Baigal’ deeree khün mal n’ am’draad
nögöö malaa khün n’ mallaad tegeel l yeröösöö malyg chin’ belcheerees
khot ruu n’ oruulakh, khotnoos n’ belcheert gargakh, aa ter belcheer
deerees zel ruu n’ duulakh ed nar chin’ dandaa duu aviagaar avdag.
Mongolians, basically they’re natural, they’re natural people. ...

Mongolians have these three relationships. … There’s the natural
world, animals, and people. People and animals live in nature,
people herd their animals, and so basically they take their livestock,
their sheep, from the pasture to the town, and then they turn their
livestock out into the pasture, so yes, they are singing from the
pasture to the market, they’re always singing. (Ts. Örlög, interview,
June 24, 2017)
In interviews,1 singers often pointed out to me that Mongolian herders’

worldview, their way of understanding life, is to see the world as consisting
of three parts: the binary of sky (tenger) and earth (gazar) as their natural
environment; the animals (am’tan); and human beings (khün). They see earth
and sky as their place of origin, and the natural environment as a companion
of humans and non-humans. While the sky and earth are portrayed as
the highest order,2 humans are not considered superior to non-humans.
Mongolian herders herd not only in order to utilize the livestock, but also to
build a relationship between themselves and the animals who provide for their
needs. Different from other types of nomadic pastoralists who, according to
Natasha Fijn, see “the animals as property, commodities, or as metaphors for
human behaviour,” in Mongolia’s nomadic environment, “the herd animals
[are] actors in their own right” and human and non-human relations are
regarded as equal; the non-human is, in fact, the focal point of Mongolian
cosmology (2008: 36-41). As I travelled through the Mongolian countryside,
it was common to see domesticated livestock taking a daily walk on their own,
without herders, knowing exactly when and how they should come back to
their homes.
Sound and songs are employed as a matter of course in these ecological
communities in rural Mongolia, and the sound-makers are also predominantly
herders, the people who best know their natural environment and their
animals. It is in this context that the urtyn duu tradition has existed, both
traditionally and in current practice. Urtyn duu, often translated as long-
song, is a folk song genre in which vowels in the song lyrics are elongated,
and often the consonants are manipulated by creating ornaments as a part
of improvisatory expression.3 This genre is still commonly practiced, even in
the lives of Mongolia’s contemporary nomadic herders, despite the country’s

political and social development over the course of the 20th century.4
Through a consideration of Arne Naess’s concept of “deep ecology”
(1995b, 1989) in which humans, non-humans, and the natural environment
exist holistically as equal actors of biodiversity in a given ecosystem, this
article presents case studies in understanding how Mongolian herder-singers
participate in the natural landscape through particular daily nomadic activities.
These include vocalizing to animals, milking, a horse racing chant-style song
called giingoo, and interaction with the rural landscape which all connect to
the basis of vocal techniques and musical ideas used in urtyn duu. The sound/
music-making of Mongolian herder-singers is, in this way, not simply an artistic
and performative expression of the singers. Rather, I have found that urtyn
duu singing is an act of connecting their living environment to their spiritual
realm through an economic and physical participation. This article suggests,
then, that urtyn duu singing becomes an emotional, spiritual, and practical
interconnection with Mongolians’ pastoral and environmental activities,
allowing them to pursue “ecotopia”5 (Anderson 2010).
This article specifically explores the interactions between Mongolian
herder-singers, non-human livestock, and their natural surroundings to explore
the meaning of urtyn duu singing. Based on ethnographic research — selected
interviews with singers, long-term observation of rural landscapes, and of
nomadic activities of living actors (including human and non-human) — I
investigate how singing functions as a critical, sensitive, and spiritual means to
create relationships that regulate environmental balance in the singers’ nomadic
lives. When singers are able to find the sensibility and echoes of their spirituality
in their nomadic living environment, the singing of urtyn duu can be seen as
a sonically ritualized process that makes possible what Titon calls “co-presence”
(2016: 72), in which herder-singers and animals connect with each other and
contribute to the vitality of Mongolia’s ecosystem.
Khün: Herder-singers
While I encountered numerous professional singers6 in Ulaanbaatar, I felt like

I had never found any singers per se in the countryside: rather I found herders
who sang. When I travel across rural Mongolia, I usually visit herders in their
ger (a portable circular felt tent used as a nomadic dwelling), far away from the
town centres. I am lucky if I find them in their encampments right away or
if I can catch them on the way back from herding, rather than missing them
while they are out taking their livestock to the steppe. Sometimes, I have found
them in the midst of herding, but many times I have missed them entirely
as they moved with their livestock or travelled to other towns. When I stay
overnight with them or stay with them for a couple of days in town, I am
able to witness more closely how they interact with their livestock and their
surroundings. Ranging from teenagers to elders in their seventies, the herders
all understand how and when to domesticate their livestock, and how to be
gentle and negotiate with them while respecting their personalities.
Herders learn how to ride horses at many different paces; from a young
age, they learn horse-related terminology, and as they ride out to pasture they
hear and learn the legends of their regions, local toponyms, and the paths that
connect specific places. These herders see and sense what non-nomadic outsiders
would not see: the landscape’s subtle colours and shapes distinguishing the
compass points and roads on the empty steppe. The singers I encountered in
the countryside are herders who are sensitive to others, people who are aware of
“the herd animals’ differing levels of sensory perception and recognize that some
of it is beyond the realm of humans” (Fijn 2008: 103).
Perhaps not all herders are singers, but the singers in the countryside, at
least the ones I met, were mainly herder-singers. I wondered why it was that
in Mongolia anybody could be a herder but only certain people could be long-
song singers. Long-song singers must be herders, or at least have had experience
herding in their youth. There are singers in Ulaanbaatar who have moved away
from their herding lives and are now focused on the performance aspect of their
careers as professional singers. However, these singers had, without exception,
been herders when they were younger. One of today’s best-known singers,
Sh. Chimedtseyee, was a herder and has spoken about her experience in the
countryside, but other younger singers nowadays have little herding experience.
What little herding experience they have is gained primarily from observing or
by constantly traveling back and forth to the countryside (Sh. Chimedtseyee,
interview, January 25, 2010; personal communication, October 23, 2013).
How then do herders become singers? Young singers in Ulaanbaatar become
trained professional singers through the conservatories7 but herder-singers
become singers through everyday activities with their livestock.
Reciprocity Between Herders and Their Livestock
Learned within Mongolia’s natural environment — whether open pasture,

mountainous ridges, scrubland, or desert — herders’ traditional knowledge is
abundant. Whether it relates to their livestock or to their environment, such
knowledge is an essential part of their survival; furthermore, it has become the
basis of their songs, poetry, legends, story-telling and, most of all, their sensibility
toward their habitat. Mongolian herders’ nomadic lives revolve around the life-
cycles of their livestock. Herders take their time, deepening their sensibilities
according to their interaction with their animals, and these sensibilities become
indispensable to their livestock and to others.
Some livestock are born to a herder’s family while others are adopted into
the family when lost or abandoned by their mothers and are then domesticated.
In the course of this domestication, both the herder’s family and the animals
go through a process of adjusting to one another. Mongolian herders have
developed detailed knowledge about the constitutions of their livestock and how
to deal with the process of domestication. These activities include watering the
livestock, grazing, milking, breeding, castrating them, helping the newborns,
slaughtering them, making by-products — dairy products and meats (including
bones and organs) — and using their hides and hair to make necessary clothing,
blankets, and so on.
Whether to co-exist or to affect the health of the greater ecosystem, all
those processes require interaction between herders and livestock. Sometimes
they communicate and forge relationships through sound, but also through
touch and sight, and perhaps through odour. Herders use an animal’s language
to speak with it. Rémy Dor defines humanly-produced sounds designed to
communicate with animals as “huchements” (qtd. in Levin 2011 [2006]: 135-
136). In Dor’s work, this includes “onomatopoetic words,” “nonarticulated
utterances,” and “articulatory speech.” The vocalizations that Mongolian
urtyn duu singers use in communicating with their livestock are called malyn
duu (animal vocalization/song) among singers. This vocalization functions to
comfort and call the animals in a variety of herding contexts: milking, making
them move, stopping or turning them, and so on. Ts. Örlög, a singer whom
I met in the summer of 2017 in Baganuur, a satellite town about 130 km
from Ulaanbaatar, mentioned how, when a human sings to an animal, it is
not to imitate but to communicate (khun maltai khariltsakh, literally: a human
communicating with an animal). She demonstrated with several huchements:
“zu-zu-zu-zu” (for goats), “tushu-tushu-tushu” (sheep), “tü-tü-tü” (camels),
“gurai-gurai” (horses), and “ü-u-ü-u” (cattle) (interview, June 24, 2017). She
noted that animal vocalizations vary from region to region. E. Khüürelbatar,
a singer from Nalaikh, a suburb of Ulaanbaatar, had been a herder in the
province of Gobi-Altai, in the far southwest. He recalled his youth in the
countryside where he had observed herding practices and told me that, without
understanding how animals make sound, and without knowing the way to talk
to them, it is hard to explain urtyn duu techniques such as tsokhilgo (glottal
vibrato). He emphasized that it is difficult to teach students who grew up in
the city since they are unfamiliar with the rural context (interviews, September
26 and November 24, 2009). When I visited L. Ragchaa in Darkhan, north
of Ulaanbaatar, she also illustrated how she honed her singing techniques by
demonstrating animal sounds:
horse: gurai-gurai (gurailakh as a verb)

cow: khör-khör
sheep: toil-go, toil-go (toiglokh as a verb)
goat: jig-jig-jig (jiilekh as a verb)
camel: khösöö-khösöö
She added that the horse vocalization, gurai-gurai was used to help mares that
rejected their foals (interview, December 15, 2009).
In demonstrating these sounds,8 singers usually extended or emphasized
one syllable more than the others. For example, singing to a cow, using the
syllable khör, L. Ragchaa sang khöö-r, emphasizing the vowel ö in order to
develop the throat, while the sound for goats, jig, was repeated without syllabic
extension or emphasis, in order to practice relaxing the lips. Such practices with
animals reflect the micro-rhythmic sense of urtyn duu (J. Enebish, n.d.), in
that, when the vowels are elongated, the syllables give the feeling, both of being
“drawn out” and also of regularity, conveyed through techniques developed
for and through such vocalizations. In fact, Ts. Örlög claimed that these
vocalizations are the basis of urtyn duu singing, demonstrating how she extends
the huchements into musical syllables, sometimes adding lyrics, developing
these improvisations into a simple song. She also illustrated the function of this
vocalization, singing to comfort and settle (jivekh) the livestock, and to help
them to accept their babies (interview, June 24, 2017).
The Mongolian language has two terms for the process of domesticating
horses, nomkhruulakh (to tame, or make peace) and surgakh (to instruct,
teach). Surgakh is the first step of domestication, which is breaking a horse
when the horse reaches two years of age. Mongolians use nomkhruulakh to
refer to the process of breaking a horse with an especially wild personality. The
second meaning of nomkhuurlakh, to make peace, accurately illustrates how
Mongolians try to calm their animals, how they listen to and sense their horses
before trying to mount. One of the Mongolian sports contests held during
the naadam festival in the summer measures how long a jockey can remain on
a wild horse and successfully calm it. As part of taming in this sport, herders
certainly use their strength, but they also communicate (khariltsakh) with all
their senses and control the animals by sensing their physical movements.
Milking
Milking in the nomadic landscape of Mongolia brings together and connects

sounds, songs, animals, and herders. On the way back from the countryside
to Ulaanbaatar, on my very first visit to Mongolia in summer 2006, my friend
wanted to get some milk. We stopped somewhere in the suburbs of Ulaanbaatar
and asked a woman if she would give us some. She took a bucket while her
husband brought a foal and had him stand beside a mare. The woman sat
next to the mare and started milking while singing a long-song. Milking is
a special process, not only for mares, but also for cows and goats, commonly
accompanied, as I noted, by singing in the presence of the foal (or calf, or kid).
The milking songs, which are meant to stimulate the flow (ivlekh) of milk, are
usually animal vocalizations which are elongated into a kind of song, but it is
also possible for a simple long-song to be sung during the milking.
Milk, süü, has a sacred symbolism in Mongolia. Milk is something that
Mongolians offer to the highest entities, such as Tenger (the sky) or Buddha.
They scoop up the milk and, flicking it, request good fortune. Milk also cleanses
sickness from animals and cleanses rivers, streams, wells, and springs when these
are felt to be polluted. One particular reason why Mongolians drop milk into
streams is to offer the milk to the water deity whom they believe to be angry
(bohirdoh, polluted) (G. Süld-Erdene 2014: 377). In fact, when I got extremely
sick with a high fever on the road, Mongolians constantly asked me to drink
milky tea (süütei tsai) and fed me fresh, baked animal organs.
When I stayed overnight in a ger, I often noticed that when the mother
woke up in the early morning, the first thing she did was sprinkle milk into the
sky, which dropped onto the land right outside the ger. Oberfalzerová explains
the way milk is used in expressions such as su’u o’rgo [süü örgökh], which literally
means “to raise up milk” or “to make an offering, to worship.” This expression
is used when the first drop of fresh milk is offered to the spirit of the earth after
milking. Another expression is su’u bariz’ zogso [süü barij zogsokh], which is used
when a mother’s children move away from her: she holds a bucket of milk that
she sprinkles after them (Oberfalzerová 2006: 102-103). When I left after an
interview, singers often sprinkled milk, wishing me a safe journey.
Respect for milk comes not only from the meaning that the milk itself
conveys, but more importantly from the process of milking, from the physical
interaction that happens between the milker and the animal. The importance of
the interaction is implied by the process of removing the foal prior to milking
(ürs gargakh), necessitating the milker’s sensitivity to the mare who is losing
her foal, and to the foal, who is not only losing its mother, but also needs
to be physically capable of surviving on grass alone. Fijn notes that “milk is
indeed of utmost importance in Mongolian pastoral society” and this is because

milking is “a crucial part of the one-to-one interaction necessary for an animal
to remain tame,” and possibly creates “a strong mechanism for the continuing
co-domestic relationship” (2008: 133). Thus, herders choose an auspicious day
(i.e. the “tiger day” before the summer returns) on which to remove a foal from
its mother and to start to milk the mare themselves (G. Süld-Erdene 2014:
485).
In my observation, herders continue to take the foal to its mare when
they milk, and the herders mimic the sucking noise made by a foal and make it
sound like a song. I heard such singing not only when herders milked mares, but
also when they milked goats and sheep on the steppe in summer. Fijn mentions
that “using young animals to stimulate the flow of milk is also practiced with
bovines in Tibet, Africa, and India, but using this method [i.e., utilizing the
sound] to obtain milk from mares may be unique to Inner Asia” (2008: 134).
As I noted above, herders direct sounds to their livestock in many different
circumstances, such as when they take them out, graze them, ride them, comb
them, catch them, feed them, and so on. The way Mongolian herders treat
their livestock is particularly sensuous. Herders become quite gentle and calm,
especially when they milk, and in that case, their voices change to become more
musical. When herders need to control their animals, their voices become harsh
(not necessarily loud), using words with “ch” or “kh” sounds such as “choo”
(go), “khui” (no), and so on, while their singing becomes more elongated when
they want to calm the animals down.
The importance of the milking process in nomadic life is, then, to
encourage physical contact between herders and their livestock while meeting
the herders’ need for food. The close physical contact between foals and
mares, as well as between the mare and the milker, is the basis of their close
relationships and motivates the participation of the actors, each sensing the
other’s smell, touch, taste, and sound. David Howes and Constance Classen,
drawing on sensory studies, use three examples — from Tibet, the Andes, and
the Amazonian rainforest — to introduce the concept of “cosmic and sensory
integration” as a necessary process connecting the human body with the
environment and with the universe, particularly in the healing process (2014:
57). They explain that “cosmic integration” is rooted in a belief system in which
the natural, human, and sacred realms merge, and “sensory integration” is
how “different senses are stimulated and interrelated in healing … deliver[ing]
complementary treatments and messages through a variety of sensory channels”
(57). The physical activity of the milking process, although it is not presented
explicitly as a healing process, achieves “cosmic and sensory integration”
through the milker’s physical stimulation, while the singing participates in,
or even reinforces, their sensory integration through their sonic stimulation.

The vocalization and singing, then, become instruments for transcending the
physical distinctions among humans, non-humans, and nature by connecting
them through sound, providing life-giving comfort and sensory connections
among all the agents who are participating in any given domestication process
involving humans and their livestock.
Giingoo
In the milking process, singers become mediums who seek to connect with
non-humans through their animal vocalizations, urtyn duu, and their
understanding of milk in their pastoral lives. Similarly, the prayer-chant style
of song known as giingoo, sung before a horse race, transforms a singer into a
medium able to connect with a higher entity. The race can be quite dangerous
for the young jockeys, and the giingoo is a song, or call, borrowed from Tibetan
Buddhist prayer, requesting protection from a horse-headed protector deity
called Tamdrin. I have frequently found in my interviews that singers also
refer to giingoo using the term (um)marzai, which I was frequently told has a
Buddhist origin. The meaning of the verb marzaikh is “to grimace,” suggesting
the terrifying grimace seen on wrathful protector deities (such as Tamdrin)
in Tibetan Buddhist iconography, used to scare off malevolent forces in a
dangerous situation such as a horse race (Hagin 1986: 306).
Among Mongolian livestock, horses have been most closely associated
with, and are indeed essential to, nomadic life. Mongolian horses are frequently
the subject of urtyn duu, whose lyrics often speak of the speed of a horse and
their different colours, gaits, and ages. Sometimes horses are personified in order
to describe nomadic life. Mongolian herders learn to ride a horse at a young age,
when they also learn to train their horses. After a horse is broken (surgakh) at
age two, it becomes a racehorse (khurdan mor’). These racehorses are trained by
skilled herders (uyach), and they are sent to race during the summer naadam
festivals, from the smallest district (sum) naadam, to the provincial naadam
(aimgiin naadam), to the national naadam in Ulaanbaatar. In these races, the
jockey is usually a child between 5 and 12 years old who also takes care of
the horse. In learning to ride a horse, and in taking care of horses, they learn
giingoo.9 Most urtyn duu singers were able to sing giingoo in my interviews,
but this song varies according to region, and even according to individual
households and people. Some exhibit slightly different melodic lines.
In my interview with D. Tömörsükh, I heard very different melodic
lines from those of other giingoo I had heard. She told me, “The giingoo you
hear nowadays is not real giingoo. It is not so much lengthened and nicely
ornamented. We learned from our mother and father, and now I am teaching
this granddaughter,” and she indicated one of four girls, who had been picked
to ride a racehorse. Then, she sung me the giingoo, saying that in her region,
it is called (um)marzai — “[um-] mar za - i-e-i-e, na-ma-sü- ü” — creating
elongated vowels and breaking consonants with slight pitch changes, glottal
vibrato, and vibrational movements (interview, July 12, 2017).
Traditionally this giingoo singing has been understood as the primary
means by which children are identified as long-song singers. Giingoo’s form of
melisma (nugalaa) is improvisatory, involving syllabic elongation and changing
timbres, which is also fundamental to urtyn duu’s ornamentation. Often a
young jockey who has a good voice, and who shows the ability to elaborate this
nugalaa, is praised for his chanting. Mongols often say that the horse listens
to the young jockey’s singing. I observed that, before a race, a pre-pubescent
jockey uses a “pressed” voice (kharkhiraa, khargiraa) to produce a particularly
clear and powerful tone, capable of echoing over a long distance. While milkers’
vocalizations and singing are gentle, calming, and soft, these young jockeys’
voices are forceful, creating a strong sonic vibration. Before a boy’s voice drops
at puberty (most jockeys are boys, although there are occasional girl jockeys),
the rather high, piercing sound of their giingoo expresses the strength of herders
in the harsh nomadic environment. Furthermore, as the jockey’s voice when
singing giingoo can easily resonate on the open steppe (tal) as well as in the
training space (uya), their strong vocal vibrations will resonate with the body of
the horse on which the jockey is riding.
After conducting a number of interviews, I also came to realize that
giingoo is a profoundly spiritual form of protection that connects the horse,
the child jockey, and the landscape through which they gallop. In a horse race,
the first-place award is not given to the jockey, but to the horse and its trainer.
The jockey, then, as the sonic body, is a medium that connects horse, landscape,
spirits, earth and sky, and even the other participants in the race. The jockey
connects them all, and the song sung at the beginning of the race becomes the
sonic ritual through which they are spiritually integrated:
In pre-communist Mongolia, the need to negotiate with nature

was fueled by the belief that it was inhabited by truculent master-
spirits that actively affected people’s everyday lives. The force or
power of nature (baigaliin hüch), and the spirits or gods that both
inhabited and comprised it, had to be placated with libations and
offerings and charmed with music, dance and song. (Pegg 2001:
100)
Landscape and Singing
Carole Pegg has shown that the topography of the Mongolian (Inner Asian
nomadic) landscape can be compared with the melodic contours of urtyn duu,
serving as a prime example of sonic mimesis (2001: 106). The subtle changes in
the mountain ridges on the open steppe are depicted in the melodic movements
of urtyn duu. Western Mongolia, with its mountainous topography, is reflected
in the undulating lines of local singers, accompanied sometimes by exclamations
with echo-like tone colours. Depending on the region, certain places are known
to produce many good singers, while some places seem to produce none. For
example, Dundgov’ province, about 600 km south of Ulaanbaatar, is famous
for having numerous good singers, especially in the eastern part of the province,
around Deren, Gurvansaikhan, and Bayanjarglan sum.10 Meanwhile, in places
such as Matdad sum in Dornod, about 800 km east of Ulaanbaatar, it is very
hard to find any singers at all (see Fig. 1).
When I met singers in eastern Dundgov’, they seemed to be convinced
that people from this area naturally had good voices, which is why so many of
Mongolia’s famous singers, such as N. Norovbanzad (1931-2002), are from the
area. Close to Gurvansaikhan sum, there is a place called Ikh Gazryn Chuluu,
which is famous for its granite rocks and relatively grassy steppe, in contrast to
the shrubby desert in the south and west of the province. Ikh Gazryn Chuluu
has a rich ecosystem, with its wild animals and birds, as well as mineral wealth.
One of the urtyn duu singing styles in this region, the Borjigin style, has many
small ornamentations and nasal sounds, reflecting this ornate granite landscape,
a landscape quite different from that of central Mongolia (see Fig. 2).
Fig. 1. Map of Mongolia

The Borjigin style of urtyn duu singing is highly ornamented and nasal.
Singers told me that the region’s topography, with its deep recesses and hollows,
is different from neighbouring areas such as that of western Dundgov’, which
is close to the Khangai area, and whose extended pastureland is reflected in an
extended, stretched, and strong vocality utilizing more of the back of throat
than the nose, as well as extended breathing techniques. Sükhbaatar province
to the east is different again, with a less sharp and less nasal sound, but with a
wider vocal range than that used in the Khangai area. Singers mentioned that
the rather distinctive singing techniques of the Borjigin style arise from the
regional topography, producing an echoing sound and intense resonance with
their busy and detailed ornamentation and their nasal timbre, as well as with
the relatively short breathing that marks phrasing and which is different from
the breathing practiced in other regions.
This echo of the landscape in a melodic line is frequently found in other
techniques used in the urtyn duu tradition. As herder-singers often mentioned
the sacredness of, and their respect for, their geographical landscape, they also
expressed this concept in their singing. For example, the urtyn duu technique
Fig. 2. Gurvansaikhan and Ikh Gazryn Chuluu seen at the bottom of the map. (Google Earth accessed
September 22, 2018.)
known as shuurankhai (falsetto on the highest note) is taken to symbolize the

sky or the highest point in a mountain ridge, since it is used to perform the
highest pitch of the song, and because it is employed in the most respected
category of long-song, aizam duu (extended long-song).11
Herder-singers’ connection to their land exists not only in their singing
practices and song structures, but also in particular words that they use in
place-names, lyrics, song titles, and local legends (domog). For example, some
Mongolian toponyms are sonically related to songs. The name Uliastai, in
Zavkhan province to the northwest, where I frequently saw poplar trees in
my travels, comes from ulias, which means “poplar tree.” When the wind
blows across a poplar tree’s branches, it makes a sound, which is rendered in
Mongolian by the verb ulikh (to howl), an onomatopoeia which informs the
geographical name (Legrain 2014: 234). There is a well-known long-song,
“Tungalag Tamir,” in which Tamir not only refers to a local river name but also
means “power.” Tungalag means “clear” and “transparent,” and it is often used
to describe sound as “bright and clear.” Thus, the first verse of this song portrays
clear and powerful waters, as well as the sound of water, contrasting with the
weakening autumn flowers, and the sound of the wind.
TUNGLAG TAMIR CLEAR RIVER TAMIR

Tungalag tamiryn zülgend ni In the meadows along the clear Tamir
züil olon tsetsgüüd grow flowers of many kinds.
namryn serüün senst salkhind In the fresh fanning of the autumn wind,
uitai gankhaj naigana they sadly sway and wither.12
(Kh. Sampildendev and

K. N. Yatskovskaya 1984)
Long-songs also relate local legends. For example, the song “Toroi Bandi”
is related to the legend of Toroi Bandi13 in the region around Dar’ganga in
Sukhbaatar province. In the story, when Toroi Bandi is escaping from the
authorities who are chasing him, he takes advantage of a hill in Dariganga called
Altan Ovoo, and successfully escapes (Ch. Namdag 2005: 40). The legend
details the paths around Altan Ovoo. For this reason, the song “Toroi Bandi”
is famous as a Dar’ganga regional song and is favoured by singers, such as Sh.
Chimedtseyee, who grew up in this area. Such long-song legends are common
and very often carry a specific regional name or involve dialect words relating to
the landscape. Sh. Chimedtseyee explained that the wind from Khentii province
to the north pushes down to Sükhabaatar province, to a place called Shilingol
and so to Altan Ovoo, mentioned in “Toroi Bandi.” She explained how that
wind’s energy merged with the power of their songs:
The fresh wind of the Khentii and Khangai ridges follows the
mountains down onto the steppe, and swirls in the direction of
Dar’ganga, where it meets with the warm and gentle winds from
the Himalayas, generating great strength. The concentration of
this great power across the area of Dar’ganga around Shiliin Bogd
and Altan Ovoo is the influence which produces songs of such
extraordinary energy and power. (2013: 94)
Singers engage with their geography through their embodied local legends
and ecological knowledge, which they express through their singing and in their
songs. Singers are more than just makers of music and makers of sound: they
play the role of recipients and communicators of the knowledge and wisdom
embodied in the local landscape.
Singers, Songs, Nature, and Sonic Ritualization
The Mongolian word duulah means not only “to sing,” but also “to listen”
and “to obey.” The connection, by which singing and listening exist together
in this one word, duulah, seemed to come alive in the practice of singers. I
learned this particularly through my conversation with S. Mönkhtuyaa, one
of the young urtyn duu singers, who had grown up in a herder family and was
now studying at the Music and Dance College in Ulaanbaatar after learning
songs from a local singer. I asked in frustration how I could produce a better
tsokhilgo (glottal vibrato). She said to me, “Listen; if you listen a lot, you will be
able to do it” (personal communication, September 27, 2009). The “listening”
that Mönkhtuyaa was talking about, which also appears in singing and through
humans’ expressive and performative response to the environment, refers to the
act of sensing and feeling the bodies surrounding her, along with that of the
entity initiating the sonic vibration.
What connects all the activities of the herder-singers described above
— vocalization, milking, giingoo, and the participation in the sonic landscape
— is that they all require great sensitivity, specifically with the ears, but also
with the body, as well as learning to experience and embody a large amount
of local knowledge from the environment. Knowledge is embodied in sound
and song. Laurent Legrain mentions that, depending on the location of their
encampment, Mongols hear different sounds, and that hearing different sounds
increases the variety of technical skills and musical expressions in their singing.
The perception of a variety of sounds is made possible through attention and
sensitivity:
All the attention of those with whom I spoke appeared directed

toward the perceived differences between the interpretation they
heard here and the numerous others which they had experienced.
The cause of these differences, often barely perceptible to an
inexpert ear — but yet at the same time well-presented — can
in the large majority of cases be attributed to the regional origin
of the singers. These are the nugalaa — a vocal inflection, the
pronunciation of a word, a slightly different melodic turn, the
melodic approach to a note from beneath as well as from above —
detected in the sonic material which reveals to those with whom
I spoke the reality of the usnyhan, the communities or “people of
the water,” an expression used to signify in a particular way those
families who place their seasonal encampments along the same
river. (Legrain 2014: 269)14
Close coexistence with the environment is essential, then, to Mongolians’

sound making. Building on Thoreau’s awareness of “resonance,” the “vibrating
body,” and the quality of “echoes” in Walden, Titon emphasizes the importance
of “co-presence,” arguing that, for Thoreau, “echo was not merely a reflection;
it was interactive, signalizing presence opening to co-presence” (Titon 2016:
72). Applied to urtyn duu singers immersed in a non-human environment, the
concept of “co-presence” refers to the singers’ sensing of other animals and their
surroundings. Co-presence is a fundamental experience in herders’ everyday
lives. When I asked herder-singers how they practice glottal ornaments, most
answered that they did not know (bi medekhgüi shüü dee). I asked where this
tradition came from historically, and they answered in the same way with a
smile: “I don’t know.” Then they unfolded stories explaining toponyms in the
lyrics, the legends of the songs, the landscape of their birthplaces — usually how
beautiful it is, how they endure the cold winter, how they enjoy their summer
pastures, and where they move for their summer and winter encampments.
So in fact it is not that they do not know, but that they do not know how
to explain, because the singing, the songs, and their history are all so deeply
embodied in them.
Because herder-singers are together on the steppe with their parents from
childhood, interacting with livestock both directly and indirectly, they learn
“a variety of modes of communication involving different senses such as visual
displays, physical contact, vocalizations, and social odours” (Fijn 2008: 106).
Moreover, their listening becomes attuned to the “resonance” and “vibration”
of their ecological system, so they become integrated with the environment
beyond mere imitation of sound. The role played by the human herder-singers
is to connect all that is present in “sounds originating in nature itself,” as Levin
notes: “The spiritual quality of acoustically resonant landscapes can be evoked
not only by human sound-makers but also by sounds originating in nature
itself ” (2011 [2006]: 38).
Anthropologists have begun to understand the relationship between
indigenous cultures, ideas, environments, and ecology beyond the socio-
political. Leslie Sponsel, an anthropologist of religion, suggests the term
“spiritual ecology,” encompassing indigenous ideas of spirituality and religion,
and contrasting with earlier anthropocentric religious understandings, in order
to conceptualize interactions between humans and their environment (Sponsel
2007, 2012). Taking spiritual ecology as a juncture between materialism and
mentalism, Sponsel believes that current environmental issues can be studied,
advocated for, and understood through the practice of spirituality, which covers
native values, philosophies, and moral traditions in close relation to their natural
environment: “the natural and the supernatural are not necessarily separate and
incompatible domains, but instead they are often interwoven into the very
fabric of human experience” (2007: 346).
In an earlier study that discusses the links between religion and nature,
Roy Rappaport examines a pig-slaughtering ritual among the Tsembaga
people of New Guinea. Rappaport explains that the ritual not only connects
with the supernatural and non-empirical agencies, but also, as he argues, is a
necessary act and mechanism for survival among humans, non-humans, and
the environment, as well as a mode of communication among the participants.
Thus, Rappaport’s study of the Tsembaga suggests that human behaviours are,
after all, empirically “operational” in adjusting to the natural environment,
although this process can present as cultural, or political, or religious (1984).
Rappaport’s observation of “empirical and operational” conservation in
an ecosystem in the form of ritual and Sponsel’s effort to investigate indigenous
spirituality/religion’s support of the values found in the natural environment
both connect with the main philosophy of deep ecology, emphasizing the
ecocentric as opposed to the anthropocentric. Furthermore, the empirical and
practical reasoning of ecological movements from Rapapport’s case study and
Sponsel’s approach closely reflect one early idea of deep ecology, that “reality as
spontaneously experienced binds the emotional and the rational into indivisible
wholes” (Naess 1989: 63). This “reality” is what underpins Arne Naess’s strong
advocacy of biodiversity (1995a).
Although urtyn duu might be seen as a skillful musical performance to

non-practitioners of this tradition, as a nomadic activity, it actually functions
in a similar way to the Tsembaga people’s ritual, as part of a conservational
ecosystem. Using a vocality that is close to non-human and singing urtyn duu
in the countryside are not simply about creating sound, but are rather ways
of being a part of the environment. In the act of singing the urtyn duu songs,
Mongolian herders “ritualize” everyday music-making and, to use Sponsel’s
definition of spiritual ecology, create an interweaving of natural and supernatural
“into the very fabric of human existence” (2007: 346).
In discussing how sustainable resources are balanced and conserved
through the interrelationship of humans, non-humans, and the environment,
Eugene Anderson discusses the need for morality, which requires tolerance
and respect for one another, and suggests that “emotion” is the basis on which
positive morality can operate within an ideal environment (2010).15 Urtyn duu
singing provokes emotions and connects individuals with their environment.
Anderson, Rappaport, and Sponsel illustrate, as with Naess’ understanding of
deep ecology, the relations between the ecological system, environmentally-
rooted spirituality, and the worldviews of actors in a given system, which are
essentially reciprocal and complementary to one another. This approach to
the interface between spirituality and ecology can be applied directly to the
worldview of Mongolian herders. Herder-singers are not so much mediums
for the religious or shamanistic world, but are instead empirical ecologists,
similar to Sponsel’s description of indigenous peoples as “original spiritual
ecologists” (2007: 346), who best understand their ecological environments
through their herding lives, and who are able to yield to, negotiate, adjust,
and control their environment without recourse to “scientific sobriety” (Naess
1989: 63).
Herder-singers’ technical prowess goes far beyond simple sound
imitation and sound-making: it expresses and embodies their environment as
a whole. Each becomes “a deep listener and a deep learner,” who “often can
have near-religious transcendental experiences” (Becker 2004: 2) and who
has embodied experiences not only with the physical body and the “inner
mind,” but also by being “involved with other bodies in the phenomenal
world, that is, as being-in-the-world” (8-9). Although they may not know
technical musical terms, and although they may be unable to explain what
they do, they still make an enchantment of song that, through their nomadic
sensibility, transcends the individual and sound. In this way, the songs, which
emerge from the minds and the physical sounding bodies of herder-singers,
function as an “energy” (enyergi) (Ts. Örlög, interview, June 24, 2017). This
“energy” is itself the spiritual sensibility they feel and which is interwoven
with their natural surroundings through the sound of their singing. It does
not exist for some elevated religious purpose or particular spiritual intention,
but rather simply exists as part of their everyday lives, celebrating who they
are with what they have. In this act of singing, the essential and the spiritual
conjoin, while for outsiders, their song is simply a beautiful and unique sound
of “exotic” nomadic culture.
Notes
1. This article is based on extended fieldwork undertaken in Mongolia between

2007 and 2017. A list of singers’ names and the dates and locations of the inter-
views can be found at the end of this article. The fieldwork was conducted, generally
between May and August, in 2007, 2012, 2015, 2017 and for six months (basically
between September and February) during 2009-2010, and 2013-2014. I travelled to
both the Mongolian capital Ulaanbaatar, and to the rest of Mongolia’s rural provinces,
including Sükhbaatar, Dornod, Khentii, Dornogov’, Töv, Bulgan, Övörkhangai,
Arkhangai, Bayankhongor, Khövsgöl, Zavkhan, Gov’ Altai, Uvs, and Khovd.
2. In Mongolia, there is also a spiritual belief in the sky as a deity, to whom Mon-
golians pay respect through certain rituals. This spiritual practice, often described as
“tengerism,” is found broadly in Inner/Central Asian regions.
3. The audio example is available here: https://youtu.be/Wjc9g3wKefQ
4. The changes in the ecological aspects of the urtyn duu tradition due to the
transformation of contemporary Mongolia is beyond the scope of this article.
5. E.N. Anderson coined the term “ecotopia” in 1973, suggesting ideal, ecologic-
ally advanced societies. Anderson emphasized “ecotopia” as “a process goal” providing
many means of pursuing this ideal, rather than offering it as a single ecological move-
ment and view (2010).
6. Here “singers” means those performers who sing professionally or make a liv-
ing from singing.
7. There are two main conservatories that produce professional urtyn duu singers
in Ulaanbaatar. One is SUIS (Soyol Urlagiin Ikh Surguul’/ University of Culture and
Art), and the other is Khögjiim Büjgiin Surguul’ (Music and Dance College).
8. The audio example is available here: https://youtu.be/0KcFamNqDNs. Please
note that the demonstration of camel call is not included in this example.
9. Musically speaking, this chant-style song is a combination of call and singing.
The singer shouts out the chant style of a call, followed by a melody of elongated syl-
lables.
10. Smaller administrative district of a province (aimag).
11. Aizam duu is the most respected form of long-song both because of its longer
length and because of its philosophical poetry. It can be contrasted against jiriin duu,
suman duu (both denoting regular long-song), and besreg urtyn duu (abbreviated to
urtyn duu). Pegg considers tügeemel urtyn duu to be the most common long-song
category (Pegg 2001: 44) while I more frequently heard jiriin duu in the field.
12. Translation by author
13. Toroi Bandi was a bandit who helped the poor, in the manner of Robin
Hood.
14. Translation from French by the author.
15. Anderson, furthermore, addresses “caring” as an aspect of emotion neces-
sary to move morality and rationality towards an “ecotopia” (Anderson 2010). This
concept had already been suggested by Naess (1989), who suggests that “the activ-
ism of the ecological movement” is not “a ‘mere’ emotional reaction” and “irrational”
compared with “the rationality of a modern Western society.” Rather it is the possible
basis for valuing thinking that embraces “strong feelings, but with a clear cognitive
function” (Naess 1989: 63-67).
References
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Traditional Societies for the Human Ecology of Our Modern World. Santa Barbara:
ABC-LIO, LLC/Praeger.
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Indiana University Press.
Chimedtseyee, Sh. 2013. Dar’ganga Duuny Yaruu Narigiin Ontslog (The Charac-
teristics of Dar’ganga Song Lyrics). In Dar’gangyn Tüükh Soyol, Baigal’ Ekologi
(Dar’ganga’s History, Culture, and Ecology), 84-106. Ulaanbaatar: MACP
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urtyn duuny khemneliin togtoltsoo (The Rhythmic System of Urtyn Duu and
the Role of Syllables within Lyrical Structure in the Singing of Long-song). In
Mongol Undestnii Urtyn Duu (Mongolian People’s Long-song), 39-44. Ed. N.
Urtanasan. Ulaanbaatar: Bembisan.
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golie (Singing, Connections and Transmission among Darhad Mongolians).
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Levin, Theodore. 2011 [2006]. Where Rivers and Mountains Sing: Sound, Music, and
Nomadism in Tuva and Beyond. Bloomington: Indiana University Press.
Lubsanjav, Ch. 1974. Mongolyn Nüüdelchnii Mal Aj Akhuin Kholbogdoltoi Ner

Tom’yoo (The Livestock Herding Terminology of Mongolian Nomads). Ulaan-
baatar: State Publishing.
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Deep Ecology for the 21st Century, 151- 155. Ed. George Sessions. Boston and
London: Shambhala. (Reprinted from Inquiry. 1973. 16. Oslo.)
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Dirksen, Rebecca. 2018. Haiti, Singing for the Land, Sea, and Sky: Cultivating Ecological Metaphysics and Environmental Awareness through Music. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 112-135.
Haiti, Singing for the Land, Sea, and Sky: Cultivating

Ecological Metaphysics and Environmental Awareness
through Music
REBECCA DIRKSEN
Abstract: Vodou drummer Jean-Michel Yamba echoes a refrain that has been reverberating
through Haitian society for some time: the Earth is dangerously out of balance, and the
world’s people are the cause. Scientific studies support this uneasy realization: the 2018
Global Climate Risk Index ranks Haiti as the single most vulnerable country to the effects
of extreme weather events related to climate change. This article reflects on how humanity’s
responsibility toward the environment has been deeply encoded as traditional ecological
knowledge (TEK) within Vodou spiritual ecology, which is expressed through songs and
interactions with the lwa (spirits).
Résumé : Le percussionniste vodou Jean-Michel Yamba fait écho au refrain qui résonne depuis
quelque temps dans la société haïtienne : la Terre est dangereusement en train de perdre son
équilibre et c’est la population mondiale qui en est la cause. Les études scientifiques corroborent
cette difficile prise de conscience : en 2018, le Global Climate Risk Index (Index des risques
climatiques mondiaux), pointait Haïti en tant que pays le plus vulnérable aux effets des
évènements météorologiques extrêmes liés aux changements climatiques. Cet article se penche
sur la façon dont la responsabilité humaine envers l’environnement a été profondément encodée
en tant que savoir écologique traditionnel au sein de l’écologie spirituelle du vodou, ce qui
s’exprime à travers les chansons et les interactions avec les lwas (esprits).
O Èzili malad o (x2)

Nanpwen dlo nan syèl o
Solèy boule tè o
O Èzili malad o
Nou pa gen chans mezanmi o1
This article has an accompanying video on our YouTube channel. You can find it on the playlist for MUSICultures
Dirksen: Haiti, Singing for the Land, Sea, and Sky 113
Oh, Èzili is ill, oh!

No rain falls from the sky
The sun scorches the earth
Oh, Èzili is ill, oh!
We have no fortune, my friends. (Traditional)2
T he Vodou lwa (spirit) Èzili is a deity of love, at least in simplistic

imaginings of her essence.3 More accurately understood as a family of
spirits, some of Èzili’s manifestations are syncretized with the Virgin Mary, and
her sèvitè (those who serve the spirits)4 often borrow the Catholic iconography
of Notre Dame du Mont-Carmel or the sorrowing Mater Dolorosa. Other
aspects of her character are represented through chromolithographs of the
Mater Salvatoris or the Black Madonna of Częstochowa. This beloved and
powerful lwa is a complex and conflicting figure, associated at once with
beauty, femininity, generosity, and empathy; with fierceness, jealousy, rage,
and possessiveness; and with luxury and excess.5 Through the ancestors of
those who seek her guidance today and as a representation of “collective
physical remembrance,” Èzili suffered forced uprooting from her Dahomey
homeland, a transatlantic crossing, the horrors of plantation slavery, and
repeated rape by colonial masters (see Dayan 1995: 56, 54-65). With Ogou,
deity of power and war, she was central to the 1791 Bwa Kayiman ceremony
that launched the Haitian Revolution and was committed to delivering her
people. Across the spectrum of her appearances, Èzili has come to symbolize
the Haitian nation,6 its history, its colonialist legacies, its liberationist spirit,
and its ecosystem as a whole. When Èzili is ill, so is Haiti. When she sorrows,
so do her sèvitè. When she mourns that no rain falls and the sun scorches
the land, the farmers know her song all too well. And when she complains of
having no luck — a frequent refrain she delivers in a doloroso manner — the
sentiment resonates strongly within the Haitian population.
Many songs within the vocal repertoire of Vodou convey similar fears,
warnings, and lessons about the Earth and humanity’s relationship with it. This
essay offers a brief exploration of the ecological metaphysics and environmental
awareness cultivated through music in Haiti. Its objectives are threefold: (1) to
demonstrate spiritual ecology as it is expressed through Afro-Haitian religious
practices and note how it relates to local models of traditional ecological
knowledge (TEK); (2) to cite a few (of many) song examples that illustrate
the deleterious effects of imbalance between the visible (human) and invisible
(spiritual) worlds, and that play with tensions between precarity and resiliency;
and (3) to reflect on musical navigations of environmental crisis, through
which adherents seek collective healing and rebalancing of the human body, the
community, and the land.
Vodou as Spiritual Ecology
In 2015, Pope Francis published an encyclical titled “Laudato Si: On Care for
Our Common Home,” in which he appealed to believers to hear the cries of
Mother Earth caused by “the harm we have inflicted on her by our irresponsible
use and abuse of the goods with which God has endowed her” (3). In his sharp
critique of human “plundering” of natural resources and “violence” against the
Earth — sins he locates as the root cause of the sicknesses of the soil, water, air,
and all forms of life — the Pope recalls his predecessor Benedict’s reprimand
that “the deterioration of nature is closely connected to the culture which shapes
human coexistence” (6). Synchronistically finding resonance with Èzili’s song
for the scorched land, which predates the Vatican’s most recent statement on
the environment by many generations, Pope Francis sees the Mater Dolorosa
present in the global condition:
Mary, the Mother who cared for Jesus, now cares with maternal
affection and pain for this wounded world. Just as her pierced heart
mourned the death of Jesus, so now she grieves for the sufferings of
the crucified poor and for the creatures of this world laid waste by
human power. (175)
While an ecologically informed movement of spiritual leaders from many

different traditions around the world has been building in recent decades (see
Vaughan-Lee 2016), this ecclesiastical letter did much to bring the notion of
spiritual ecology into mainstream public consciousness.
Spiritual ecology has been expansively explained as “the diverse, complex,
and dynamic arena of intellectual and practical activities at the interface between
religions and spiritual ecologies on the one hand, and, on the other, ecologies,
environments, and environmentalisms” (Sponsel 2012: xiii). Something akin
to this understanding lies at the core of Vodou metaphysics, which, though
not codified and thus flexible to deal with the specific needs of its practitioners,
revolves around ideals of equilibrium between the visible and invisible and
between the human and the natural world, as well as around a connection from
the past to the present to the future. In Vodou, for example, Harold Courlander
found “an integrated system of concepts concerning human behavior, the
relation of mankind to those who have lived before, and to the natural and
supernatural forces of the universe. It relates the living to the dead and to those
not yet born” (1985 [1960]: 9). In comparison, Zora Neale Hurston found
“a religion of creation and life. It is the worship of the sun, the water and
other natural forces” (1990 [1938]: 113). Even the instrumental ensemble —
which accompanies many rituals and most seremoni (ceremonies), at the heart
of which sit the sacred drums — is organized around the interactions of natural
and supernatural forces. As Lois Wilcken, long-time pupil of the late master
drummer Frisner Augustin, succinctly states, the “primary purpose [of the
ensemble] is to stabilize human interaction with ancestors (culture) and with
the elements (nature)” (1992: 48).
Reflective of the ecological metaphysics that undergird the Afro-Haitian
belief system, the imagery perhaps most central to Vodou is the tree. Through
its roots, its trunk that stands on the earth, and its boughs with leaves extending
upward, the tree signifies three levels of spirituality (and three corresponding
classes of spirits), from the underworld to the earth to the sky (Gilles and Gilles
2009: 83). Early on, this image was transposed to represent the soon-to-be
Haitian nation, as revolutionary leader Toussaint Louverture, while freezing to
death in a jail cell in France in 1802, legendarily wrote:7
En me renversant, on n’a abattu à Saint Domingue que le tronc de

l’arbre de la liberté des noirs. Il repoussera par les racines, parce qu’elles
sont profondes et nombreuses. (Madiou 1989 [1904], vol. 2: 327)
In overthrowing me, you have cut down in Saint-Domingue only

the trunk of the tree of liberty of the blacks; it will shoot up again
through the roots, for they are deep and numerous.
Great attention is paid to the rasin (roots) of Haiti and its culture, which
are defined in terms of the ancestors. While a sort of cosmic family tree is
perpetually being delineated, with its roots extending back to Africa and its
branches ki rive nan syèl (that reach to the heavens), Vodou’s foundational
symbolism emphasizes human integration within a broader ecological system
viewed across time (back and forward across generations) and space (between
the eco-scapes of the sacred homeland Ginen8 — Africa — and the New
World). Such a multi-dimensional ecology might be recast as “eternal arbors”
in relation to imaginings of the “original” humans created by Bondye (Good
God),9 implying a connection made with the ancestors through the roots of
heritage (Richman 2005: 153). This connection is achieved with the successful
transmission of ancestral wisdom. This process occurs, in part, as a person’s
gwo bonnanj (something like a soul or higher consciousness, “the repository of
a man’s history, his form and his force. … [a] valuable legacy”) gets transferred
after death to one’s descendants (Deren 2004 [1953]: 27, 24-33). Overseeing
the process of the reclamation of the “soul” (gwo bonnanj) are the oungan and
manbo (Vodou priests and priestesses), who are recognized as conservators
of tradition and heritage (Yamba, interview, November 16, 2016). At the
highest levels of practice, oungan may be awarded with the honorific Ati, the
symbolically rich Dahomean word for “tree” (Gilles and Gilles 2009: 82-83).
In fact, Kadya Bosou (Agadje), king of the Dahomey Kingdom from 1708 to
1740, was so aware of the power of memory that victims sold into slavery were
made, before boarding slave ships, to circle a “tree of forgetfulness” planted
in the ports of Wida and Dyenken to prevent their souls from returning to
Africa to seek revenge. It was evidently also an attempt to break the continuity
between generations (and, in turn, the gwo bonnanj) and the transmission of
history (106). And yet, memories, histories, and beliefs traversed the Atlantic
and took on new forms and significance in the colonies.
The topic of memory returns us to the introductory song example and
to Èzili’s concern with Haiti’s environment. While other lwa are more explicitly
tied to the regulation of natural phenomena — for example, master of the
crossroads Legba commands the sun and the powerful Agwe oversees the oceans
— Èzili approaches ecological dialogues on a meta level. An Afro-Caribbean
analogue for Gaia, her beauty symbolizes the possibilities of the land in all
its magnitude and grandeur; she represents fecundity, but in the sense of the
human “capacity to conceive beyond reality, to desire beyond adequacy, to
create beyond need” (Deren 2004 [1953]: 138). Her delight in luxuries and
demands for excess amidst poverty — namely, in insisting that her devotees
supply her with sweet-smelling Florida water, brand-new soaps, candies, silk
handkerchiefs, and jewellery on her arrival — reflect the human propensity for
callous disregard of the resources at hand.
When contextualized within centuries of aggressive extraction of Haiti’s
natural resources, this aspect of Èzili’s behaviour (making a show of extracting
riches from the poor) brings forth an unfolding critique of over-consumption
in a capitalist, neoliberal global economy.10 That is, this critique can be assessed
through Haiti’s trajectory from the colonial plantations that sent massive
quantities of sugar and coffee to Europe at immeasurable expense to the island’s
soil and to the enslaved Africans and Creoles who made production possible
(see Burnard and Garrigus 2016); to the export to North America during the
19th and 20th centuries of nearly all of the vast old-growth mahogany and
walnut forests — the (conveniently overlooked) basis for the country’s much
remarked-on deforestation crisis (see Bellande 2015); to today’s unregulated
and likely unlawful mining of minerals like gold, copper, uranium, and bauxite
by multinational corporations that is polluting the waters and scalping the

mountains (see Regan 2013). Èzili’s vindictive fury, which emerges whenever
she becomes jealous or feels she is not receiving sufficient love and attention,
might be read in conjunction with the hurricanes that have devastated the
Caribbean isles with increasing force and frequency in recent years (see Thiele
2017). Such metaphors may seem difficult to maintain, except for the fact that
(a) Èzili is expressly called on as a guide during such unsettling times, and
(b) more broadly, the lwa are themselves accretions of meaning, accumulating
histories, tales, encounters, disasters, and victories as though they are growing
archives of memory and experience. Those memories and experiences, whether
triumphant, traumatic, or mundane, have become part and parcel of each lwa’s
mythical identity, and are key to their power.
A more direct presentation of a Vodou spiritual ecology is offered by
Azaka, the lwa appointed as (mystical) Minister of Agriculture who oversees
the crops and who is a healer with deep knowledge of the medicinal properties
of plants.11 Syncretized with the Catholic Saint Isidore the Farm Laborer, the
patron saint of farmers, Azaka is likewise depicted as a peyizan (rural farmer),
dressed in denim with a woven straw bag (makout) slung over his shoulder
and a machete in hand. Thematically, his songs tend to address the planting
and harvesting of crops and the weather or climatic events that support or
impede their growth, as does this one, shared by drummer, Vodouizan, and
metaphysical thinker Jean-Michel Yamba:
Grenn tonbe, plan leve la

Grenn tonbe, plan leve vre
Azakamede men sezon di konsa
Fòk sa chanje o
Zakamede pote lapli o

Zakamede pote bèl fwi
Zakamede pote lapli o
Jaden sanba yo byen fre
Azakamede men sezon di konsa
Fòk sa chanje o. (interview, August 10, 2015)
A seed falls, a sapling rises

A seed falls, a sapling truly rises
Azakamede [lwa of agriculture], look:
A difficult season like this, this must change, oh!
Zakamede [the lwa] brings rain

Zakamede brings nice fruit
Zakamede brings rain
The sanba’s [a spiritual singer] garden is fresh [has a cool
breeze, is beautiful]
Azakamede, look:
A difficult season like this, this must change, oh!
While preparing her noted ethnographic portrait of Brooklyn-based

manbo Mama Lola, Karen McCarthy Brown encountered a similarly themed
musical devinèt — a riddle, a prominent form of Haitian orality especially
prized in the countryside — for Azaka. “Only a careful listener would have
realized that it was the ravaged earth who spoke in this song,” she noted:
M’malere, m’malere vre;

Se defòm m’genyen . . .
M’malere, m’malere.
Se pa achte m’achte;
Se Bondye kreye-m malere.
Moun-yo bale sou do mwen.
I’m unfortunate, I’m truly unfortunate;

It’s crippled I am . . .
I’m unfortunate, I’m unfortunate.
It’s not something I brought on myself;
God created me unlucky.
People sweep on my back. (Brown 2001 [1991]: 58-59)12
Such a riddle would have reverberated strongly in the diaspora of New York
City where this song was delivered, as many immigrants from Haiti over the
past several generations have in fact been environmental refugees, fleeing a land
that makes rural life and subsistence farming a punishing and often impossible
existence (see Myers 2002). Although Azaka is rumoured to be wealthy (but
excessively stingy), he has come to symbolize both the misery of the rural poor
and the often barren, environmentally degraded land. This, then, is a spiritual
ecology that often gets articulated in terms of lack and loss, even as it maintains
a lingering hope — as in Louverture’s declaration about black liberty “shoot[ing]
up again through the roots, for they are deep and numerous.”
Traditional Ecological Knowledge and Konnesans
Through practices and performances of Vodou, the sèvitè and lwa make
observations about their landscape and environment in ways that overlap with
traditional ecological knowledge (TEK). Intriguingly, TEK has been defined in
striking parallel to spiritual ecology as
the evolving knowledge acquired by indigenous and local peoples

over hundreds or thousands of years through direct contact with
the environment. … [It] is an accumulating body of knowledge,
practice, and belief, evolving by adaptive processes and handed
down through generations by cultural transmission, about the
relationship of living beings (human and non-human) with one
another and with the environment. It encompasses the world view
of indigenous people which includes ecology, spirituality, human
and animal relationships, and more. (Harrington 2015: vii)
Perhaps the most pronounced example of TEK in Haiti lies with the
traditional healing practices and herbal remedies guarded by the medsen
fèy or dòktè fèy (leaf doctors), who are frequently also oungan, manbo, or
other spiritual guides. Medsen fèy are “pharmacists” with strong ties to the
countryside who intrinsically (if not also through biochemistry) understand
the scientific properties of leaves, herbs, and roots for healing. Much of this
pharmacological knowledge dates back to the indigenous Taíno and African-
born enslaved people, and has, over many generations, been translated into
daily contemporary life through the drinking of homeopathic teas, tinctures,
and infused alcohols and the use of leaf-based rubs, compresses, and baths (see
McClure 1982 and Rouzier 1997).13
Many songs in the Vodou and traditional repertoires directly cite the
use of healing leaves and are used as healing incantations alongside therapeutic
baths and medications. The following example was recorded in Port-au-Prince
by Haitian-Canadian musicologist Claude Dauphin and was sung for me
decades later by Haitian journalist and Vodou adept Konpè Filo (interview,
January 5, 2018):
Mwen pral nan Gran Bwa

M pral chache fèy o (x2, with line above)
Lè m a retounen
Y a di m se wanga m pote. (Dauphin 1986: 136)
I’m going to Gran Bwa [mystical Great Forest; a corresponding lwa]

I’m going to look for leaves
When I return
They’ll tell me that I’ve brought poison / magic.14
Gran Bwa, as commemorated in this song, is both the mystical Great Forest and
a corresponding lwa. The mystical forest Gran Bwa holds symbolic ties to Bwa
Kayiman, the site of a ceremony said to have launched the Haitian Revolution,
thus making it an important historical reference point. The lwa Gran Bwa, linked
to the Catholic Saint Sebastian who stands tied to a tree, is a well-respected but
enigmatic spirit of the forests who owns the leaves and knows their magical and
medicinal secrets, for good and bad intentions. He is a symbol and protector
of the rich earth. Citing this lwa, Haitian-American psychologist and conflict
mediator Margaret Mitchell Armand traced the connection between TEK and
spiritual ecology when she observed, “The power of healing from Gran Bwa
lies in our connection to our higher self through nature” (2011: 95). Haitian
anthropologist Rachel Beauvoir expounded that much of the healing power
found in the forest revolves around playing with states of consciousness and the
science of transformation:
The forest draws together, regroups and vibrates with waves

that diffuse modality, a natural temple for all those determined
to go beyond. Its approach is operated under conditions where
transformation already has begun — enlightening the dreamlike
states induced by the prior crossing of Kafou [lwa of the crossroads].
Ordinary and subliminal consciousness meet, creating new time
and space, enhancing development. (1995: 169)
Often accompanying such natural healing practices, which endeavour

to transform the physical state of the body and one’s supernatural being, is a
knowledge base referred to as konnesans, which might be viewed as a spiritually
extended form of TEK. While the term in Kreyòl can be used to describe
knowledge or consciousness in a broad sense, this special form of konnesans is
acquired through initiation (Wilcken 1992: 121). Besides healing, konnesans
encompasses knowledge of Ginen (the spiritual homeland, Africa), the lwa,
history, ancestral wisdom, sacred song and dance, codes of morality, and the
proper manipulation of energies within the universe. Appreciation of the
power of konnesans to save lives appears in several favourite songs, such as
“Fèy o”:
Fèy o! Sove lavi mwen, nan mizè mwen ye o! (x2)

Pitit mwen malad, mwen kouri kay gangan Similò (x2)
Si li bon gangan, l a sove lavi mwen
Nan mizè mwen ye o!
Leaves! Save my life, I’m in misery, oh!

My child is sick, I hurried to oungan [Vodou priest and healer]
Similò’s house
If he’s a good oungan, he’ll save my life
I’m in misery, oh! (Traditional)15
Indeed, beyond their role as spiritual guides, oungan (such as Similò in this song)
and manbo frequently serve as critical community-based health practitioners in a
country that lacks adequate access to formal medical care (see Maternowska 2006).
A Vodou Take on Postcolonial Ecological Theory
Another beloved song about healing leaves and roots carries the added weight
of memory:
Twa fèy, twa rasin o

Jete bliye, ranmase sonje (Traditional)
Three leaves, three roots, oh

To throw down is to forget, to gather up is to remember.16
Beneath the literal sense of these lyrics, the deeper meaning points out
the choice to embrace or refuse one’s heritage, ancestors, and way of life. Jean-
Michel Yamba, who sang about Azakamede (above), may well have had “Twa
Fèy” in mind, when he told me:
Nou menm ayisyen nou rejte sa k pou nou. Nou pase tout sa k pou nou
anba pye, n al pran lòt bagay. Se nòmal pou n peye l. Se sa n ap peye
la. Nou pa ka yon bagay epi nou pè l, ou wè sa m di w? … Sa se sa yo
rele ratres la: tout moun ap fini avèk la nature just tan yon vin fè l cho.
Ou konprann? Tout nasyon viktim, e fè kraze la nature la. L’Europe en
premiyè kraze la nature, se kounyela yo tèlman wè yo kraze la nature
yo mande padòn. … Yo kraze tout bagay andann tè a, yo pran tout
bagay nan namn li. (interview, August 10, 2015)
We Haitians, we’ve rejected that which is for us. We trample

everything that’s ours beneath our feet and go take something
else instead. It’s normal that we pay for that. That’s what we’re
paying for now. We can’t be something and be afraid of it. You
understand? … So that’s what they call [global warming; literally,
“recession,” “shortening,” “diminishing”]. Everyone is “using up”
nature until they cause [the climate] to become hot. You see? Every
nation is a victim and is destroying nature. Europe first “broke”
Nature; now they see their destruction to Nature and are asking for
forgiveness. … They destroyed everything inside the Earth, they
took everything in its soul.
Yamba’s layered reflection mourns many Haitians’ rejection of their

culture, identity, resources, and memory. It is also an observation of the
heightened environmental precariousness the country’s citizens routinely
endure. This is no overstatement: the 2018 Global Climate Risk Index identified
Haiti as the country most vulnerable to the effects of extreme weather events
related to climate change during 2016, and the second most vulnerable over
the two-decade period from 1997 to 2016 (Eckstein, Künzel, and Schäfer
2017: 4-9). This is largely the cumulative result of extreme deforestation and
environmental degradation from centuries of aggressive overuse of the land.
As such, Haiti’s environmental precariousness gets magnified on multiple
inextricably intertwined fronts, from the effects of natural disasters compounded
by the despoiled land, sea, and sky; to the overreaching interventionist aid
and “development” efforts that often threaten the country’s sovereignty and
undermine local solutions; to the general weakness of the Haitian State, which
lacks adequate infrastructure and regulation to manage the fundamentals of
modern-day society, including policing, sanitation, energy, and education.
Yamba suggests that much of Haiti’s precarious state comes down to
Haitians failing to remember and hold dear the nation’s history, identity, and
values. Yet simultaneously, everyone is implicated: the Vodou metaphysicist
intuits postcolonial ecological theory, suggesting that despite recent Western
environmentalist concerns, this is a human problem initially driven by the
insatiable hungers of European colonialism that gave rise to the neoliberal
capitalist global economy, rather than a distinctly Haitian problem. Yamba’s
assessment is congruent with the globalization of consumptionism and dumping
(and the associated uneven repercussions and benefits) that postcolonial
ecologist Rob Nixon has denounced as slow violence: “a violence that occurs
gradually and out of sight, a violence of delayed destruction that is dispersed
across time and space, an attritional violence that is typically not viewed as
violence at all” (2011: 2).
Returning the formulation of the slow violence of environmental
degradation back to the Haitian case, Caribbeanist cultural studies scholar
Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert points out the world’s largely untroubled
obliviousness to the transnational history and politics that have led to Haiti’s
vulnerability, even as the country has become regarded by some aware observers as
“the canary-in-the-coal-mine of the Anthropocene” (2016: 65). One particular
concern is the mainstream Western media’s ubiquitous discourse of resilience
as a convenient and guilt-assuaging descriptor (from a Western perspective) for
the Haitian population, which is faced with the “fate” of chronic environment-
related tribulations including the 2010 earthquake, cholera, and successive
hurricanes. As Paravisini-Gebert indicates, the typical Western projection of
Haiti’s resiliency gets idealized and reduced as
strength gained from a history of confronting adversity. This

image of the Haitian people as Sisyphean heroes fated to roll their
immense boulder up the hill of poverty and privation separated
their sufferings from their history, relegating their poverty to a
natural condition. (70, emphasis in original)
In other words, the underlying political and structural processes that have led
to such chronic conditions of suffering get expediently whitewashed out of the
equation. Moreover, resiliency as a concept reifies a hierarchy of human value:
populations whose “plight” is to be an “endlessly resilient” people, versus those
who are privileged not to hold that burden.
Even so, notions of being that might be ascribed as resiliency (or perhaps
rather as the will to persist) exist widely within Haitian cultural expression. By
incorporating a well-known song from the traditional repertoire into their 1993
hit “Fèy” (Leaf ), politically engaged popular mizik rasin (roots music) band
RAM employed a different angle of the fèy trope:
Fèy yo gade mwen lan branch mwen

Yon move van pase, li voye m jete (x2, with line above)
Jou fèy tonbe nan dlo se pa jou a li koule
Leaf, they see me on my branch

A fierce wind comes along and throws me off
The day the leaf falls into the water is not the day it is submerged.17
The direct metaphor, also transliterated as “The day you see me fall is not the day I
die,” expresses the will to persist when faced with a destructive blow. Yet Haitian
listeners decoded a deeper meaning: the lyrics came to refer to the determined
popular resistance to the coup d’état that sent President Jean-Bertrand Aristide
into exile. RAM’s song, embraced by Aristide’s supporters, was censored by
the Raoul Cédras regime that supplanted Haiti’s first democratically elected
president.
While au courant assessments identify slow violence as a primary
underlying cause of environmental precariousness, historical roots of the
ecological crisis have also been located in the ideological formulations that
govern worldviews, which are equally useful when contemplating spiritual
ecology. In contradistinction to the Pope’s “Laudato Si” encyclical, which sees a
moral imperative in Catholicism to heal humanity’s relationship with the Earth
by healing human relationships and those with God (2015: 89, 159), historian
Lynn White, Jr. proposed that the Judeo-Christian tradition was the primary
source of the crisis. In White’s regard, Christianity, “the most anthropocentric
religion the world has seen,” initiated a stark human-nature dualism unknown
in pre-existing pagan and animist ethics, while encouraging believers that it
is “God’s will that man exploit nature for his proper ends” (1967: 1205).18
Thus, the conversation is brought back around to the realm of the sacred with
the recognition that “what people do about their ecology depends on what
they think about themselves in relation to things around them” (1205). Again,
Yamba matches White’s critique with his own complaint against the extremes of
colonial extractionism: “they took everything in [the Earth’s] soul.”
The Principles of Healing and Balance in a Precarious World
Vodou encourages tapping into konnesans (spiritual consciousness) to seek root

causes and appropriate responses to spiritual imbalances, which may manifest
as political, social, financial, medical, or environmental troubles. Ati Max
Beauvoir, a Sorbonne-trained biochemist and oungan (Vodou priest) of the
highest order, taught that Nan Ginen is “le jardin des ancêtres” (the garden of
the ancestors) (2008: 13). What happens when humanity fails to respect the
multi-dimensional sacred ecosystem of Ginen — measured across time (via the
ancestors) and space (to the spiritual homeland and back again, and between the
visible and invisible worlds) — is demonstrated through Beauvoir’s description
of the lwa Ayizan, keeper of the faith and guardian of the ounfò (temple, “the
place of spiritual birth”19), as
La Terre Sacrée, entretient chez l’homme le sens de la racine, c’est-à-dire

de la loyauté et de la fidélité à la Tradition ancestrale. Quand on décide
de faire abstraction d’un tel concept, socialement ou collectivement,
comme les terres ou les forêts où les arbres qui perdent subitement leurs
racines, elles se changeraient bien vite en déserts. (52)
The Sacred Earth, which nurtures within humans the sense of

their roots, that is to say, of loyalty and fidelity to the ancestral
Tradition. When one decides to disregard such a concept [as the
Sacred Earth], socially or collectively, just like the lands or the
forests where the trees have suddenly lost their roots, they rapidly
turn into desert.
The implication is that spiritual drought is at least as destructive as the physical

one that has led to desertification of land that was tropical rainforest just 500
years ago.
To assist with warding off spiritual drought (which subsequently might
encourage a more harmonious relationship with the natural environment), the
Lapriyè Ginen (Ginen Prayers), a mass or liturgy in four movements, may be
performed at the beginning of a Vodou service. It serves to assist those who offer
such sung prayers to “glide subtly” toward God while gaining moral grounding
and increased ability to address worldly problems (M. Beauvoir 2008: 58-59).
Ati Beauvoir’s interpretation of this practice is supported by ethnomusicologist
Rebecca Sager’s findings on Vodou chanson in the north of Haiti: Vodou singing
“places practitioners in proper relationship with each other, with nature, with
spirits, and with Bondye — God” (Sager 2009: 92-93). Sager goes on to describe
how Manbo (Vodou priestess) Marie Rose imparts lessons of respè (respect) and
kwayans (beliefs) while facilitating contact with the mistè (the “mysteries,” the
spirits of the invisible world). The mistè, in turn, have the duty to educate
people, although they do not intervene in human-made problems; they share all
necessary knowledge, but people must take responsibility for working through
the solutions. Today’s political, economic, and environmental challenges, Marie
Rose assesses, are “the consequences for not heeding the spirits’ guidance”
(Sager 2009: 107).
Seeking guidance from the lwa and mistè is an act often associated with
the lakou, a sacred yard or “vital space, a place of multidimensional life where
several families or, rather, an extended family shares all aspects of life (spiritual,
economic, cultural)” (Beaubrun 2013: 31). Dedicated to the primary functions
of preservation, protection, and renewal, lakou are crucial to resetting proper
relationships between people, nature, the spirits, and God. They are sites of
homecoming, where those born in the lakou, often having migrated to cities
or other countries, periodically return to seek rebalancing and reconnection
with their roots. They are conservatories, where collective history and memory
is held and passed down (Yamba, interview, November 16, 2016). They are
centres of healing, where medicinal teas, tonics, and baths of leaves, herbs, and
roots are prepared and administered to balance any misaligned properties in
one’s body or soul. In the lakou, regular dances, feasts, and ceremonies are
held for the lwa, who are said to “dance in a follower’s head” or “ride their
horse” (what might elsewhere be viewed as trance or possession; see Deren 2004
[1953]) as they pass along konnesans — literally embodying knowledge in the
sèvitè and dancing the Sacred.
Beyond everyday life in the lakou, special commemorative and restorative
annual events take place throughout the country, including fèt chanpèt or fèt
patwonal — the feasts honouring the patron saint of a town or community.
During each festival period, many Haitians at home and abroad, regardless
of whether they claim affiliation with Vodou, make annual pilgrimages to the
centuries-old lakou of Souvenance, Soukri, and Badjo (or to any number of
other smaller family-based lakou) on designated days of celebration. The here-
named trio of historic lakou, all located in the Artibonite region, are state-
designated sites of national patrimony, and thus the several days of intense
sacred ritual activity at each locale are permeated with discussions of heritage
and memory, and of respect — for self, for community, for history, and, as is
increasingly articulated in national discourse, for the sacred environment.
Haiti’s best-known and attended pilgrimage by far, however, is that of
Saut d’Eau (Sodo), which takes place each July in the Plateau Centrale town
of Ville-Bonheur and at a nearby 100-foot waterfall for Our Lady of Mount
Carmel and Èrzili. Local legend has it that in the area, the Virgin Mary appeared
on a palm tree that a French priest subsequently cut down, purportedly to
avoid superstitious practices from spreading. Rather than suppressing interest,
however, today tens of thousands of visitors flock to Fèt Sodo seeking sanctities
and blessings from the Virgin Mary and Èzili. Following a Eucharist Mass at
the Ville-Bonheur Catholic church, pilgrims attend Vodou rites at the waterfall,
where they bathe ritually with fèy to renew themselves spiritually. Devotees
discard their old clothing in the falls and depart with new white garments to
symbolize letting go of the old and dirty and embracing the new and clean.
In their idealized forms, the lakou and spiritual pilgrimages are about
collective healing, a rebalancing of the human body, community, and land.
The notion of balance itself is perhaps the most ubiquitous and potent of all
concepts in Vodou, even in its apparent simplicity. Balance (or the potential
for balance) is illustrated as kalfou (or kafou) — the crossroads. Taking the
symbol of the cross, which finds its most powerful point at the intersection of
its vertical and horizontal axes, kalfou represents the various decisions one may
make and paths one may take in life, as much as it represents the intersection
between the physical and spiritual worlds and between the visible and invisible.
The lwa Legba, who was present at the birth of the world and who is often
depicted as the sun, is understood as “the medium through which that primal
energy [‘the fire of life’; ‘divine creative power’] was funneled to the world, the
cord which connects the universe eternally with its divine origin” (Deren 2004
[1953]: 97). Legba is therefore the central pillar of the world, the master of the
crossroads, the translator who sees into the past and the future, and, ultimately,
who knows Life and its destiny (97-100).
When Vodouizan sing, “Legba, ouvri baryè pou mwen” (Legba, open
the gates for me), they are making a cosmic demand: they are asking for an
opening, to see the way, and for help navigating the crossroads of life. When
a lwa mounts a horse (or inhabits the body of a sèvitè, as possession might
be described), that event is a physical manifestation of the node between the
physical and the divine, where the human becomes divine and the divine
becomes human; it is a fleeting moment on the precipice of balance between the
visible and invisible. When filmmaker-ethnographer Maya Deren observed that
“for the loa [lwa] of cosmic forces, there is an end to labor in the achievement
of some natural cosmic balance” (2004 [1953]: 144), she suggested that the lwa
may always remain essential, at least until there is some understanding of what
a natural cosmic balance can be. Africologist and oungan asogwe (high-ranking
Vodou priest) Patrick Bellegarde-Smith follows in this direction: for him, the
crossroads are eternal and represent infinite choice and possibility (2004 [1990]:
29). By implication, finding a way past the current heated impasse in ecological
debates and remedying actions will not be possible without navigating the
crossroads that perpetually emerge in front of us. There are, however, if not
infinite solutions, infinite possibilities for finding ways forward.
At the Crossroads of Ecomusicology and Sacred Ecology
Ecomusicology has sought to draw together the discursive spheres of “music,

culture, sound, and nature at a time of environmental crisis” (Titon 2013: 9).
In many instances, this has meant demonstrating how environmental awareness
has been cultivated through music. The literature has largely focused on defining
and commemorating spaces and aural/performative experiences; examining
and promoting musical creation in the wake of environmental destruction and
climate change; and formulating “ecology” and “sustainability” as metaphors
inspired by their scientific origins to understand musical expression in an

environmentally, technologically, and economically evolving world (e.g., Allen
and Dawe 2016; Pedelty 2016; Schippers and Grant 2016).
Despite Lynn White’s paradigm-shifting demonstration of how
Western culture has forced a human-nature dualism on our treatment of the
environment — which has more recently been echoed in music scholarship
as a critique of ecomusicology’s tendency to “reaffirm” the divide between
“the cosmological and anthropological orders” (Ochoa Gautier 2016: 109) —
ethnomusicologists have infrequently considered the metaphysical conceptions
of the bonds between humanity and the environment. Notable exceptions
include the classic ethnomusicological studies of Steven Feld with the Kaluli
in the Papua New Guinea rainforest (2012 [1982]), Marina Roseman with
the Temiar in the Malaysian rainforest (1993), and Anthony Seeger with the
Kĩsêdjê (Suyá) of Matto Grosso, Brazil (2004 [1987] and in Allen and Dawe
[2016]). Through these studies, we learn how the sonic worlds of these cultures
are conceptualized and how, in each, living beings can seemingly occupy
multiple states of existence, as in the humanness of animals, or in the boy
who became a muni bird. More recently, Helena Simonett has written about
sentient ecology among the Yoreme in Northwestern Mexico where trancing
musical humans become birds (in Allen and Dawe 2016), and about Yoreme
cosmovision that sees “the world of the sun, the sea, the trees, the flowers, the
mountains, the rocks, and so forth [as constituting] the sacred environment”
from which “musical inspiration emerges” (2014: 116). But there is much more
we can do to reflect on sacred ecologies of the sort in this essay, and on the
interconnectedness between humanity, the divine, and the environment, as well
as on how shifting relationships between these three entities effect changes to
material and immaterial culture (see Dirksen 2019).
Presumably from its earliest configurations, Vodou has expressly
cultivated a metaphysics that binds together the visible and invisible within
the multi-dimensional sacred ecosystem of Ginen. The practice of developing
environmental awareness through Vodou and traditional chanson has permeated
Haitian culture in a broader sense, in that several popular music bands have
drawn Vodou themes and messages on sacred nature and environmentalism
into their repertoires, even appropriating mizik lakou (music that originated
in a lakou, often initially voiced by a lwa). While there are many examples,
including that of RAM cited above, one of the most haunting songs is sung by
Manzè (Mimerose Beaubrun) of the popular mizik rasin (roots music) band
Boukman Eksperyans. The song portrays the priest of Agwe, lwa of the sea,
mourning the loss and misuse of Haiti’s resources:
Imamou lele woy

—Kouman nou ye (x4, with line above)
Gade yon peyi k ap gaspiye
—Kouman nou ye, Imamou lele wo, kouman nou ye
Gad’ on solèy cho k ap gaspiye

Gade bèl tèt nonm k ap gaspiye la
Sa se enèji k ap gaspiye
Gade bèl gason k ap gaspiye
Gade bèl jenn fanm k ap gaspiye la
Sa se enèji k ap gaspiye
Gade ayiti k ap gaspiye la
Imamou [the sea lwa Agwe’s priest] cries out, woy [expression of
anguish]!
—How are you?
Look at a country that’s being spoiled
—How are you? Imamou cries out, woy, how are you?
Look at a hot sun that’s being wasted

Look at the [intelligence] that’s being squandered
That’s energy that’s being wasted
Look at the handsome boys who are being lost
Look at the beautiful young ladies who are being misused
That’s energy that’s being wasted
Look at Haiti that’s being wasted here! (Boukman Eksperyans 1998)20
Vodou ecological metaphysics recognizes that some of the most

profound crossroads people face today are questions about their relationships
with nature and their regard for the visible and invisible. For those who are
attentive, the lwa serve as guides to konnesans and the infinite wisdom of the
universe, but the responsibility for human-made problems, and the power to
act, lies exclusively in human hands. Despite the dire warnings of scientists
and the amplifying environmental concerns of many global citizens, a window
of possibility to respond remains in the Vodou cosmovision: Jou fèy tonbe nan
dlo se pa jou a li koule. The day the leaf falls into the water is not the day it is
submerged.
Acknowledgements
My sincere thanks to Jean-Michel Yamba, Konpè Filo (Anthony Pascal), Ati Max
Beauvoir, Rachel Beauvoir-Dominique, Zaka (Dieuseul Liberis), Elizabeth Saint-
Hilaire, and Lolo and Mimerose Beaubrun for leading me toward an understanding of
Vodou as sacred ecology; to the residents of Sodo (Saut-d’Eau) and members of the lakou
(sacred yards) Souvenance, Soukri, Badjo, and Villard for their always-gracious welcome
over many years; to Kendy Vérilus for long-term research and documentation support;
to Gage Averill, Jeff Todd Titon, and Aaron Allen for their discerning comments and
suggestions; to Heather Sparling and Nellwyn Lampert for their help in preparing the
final draft; and to my Diverse Environmentalisms Research Team (DERT) colleagues,
especially John McDowell and Sue Tuohy, for their encouragement and interest.
Notes
1. All transcriptions and translations from French and Haitian Kreyòl to English
throughout this text are the author’s unless otherwise indicated. Any errors are my
responsibility alone.
2. “Èzili malad” is one of the most frequently heard songs for Èzili. Haitian clas-
sical composer Werner Jaegerhuber transcribed and arranged it into a suite of folkloric
songs for voice and piano (1943), later rearranged by Julio Racine (2004). Racine’s
arrangement of “Èzili malad” may be heard on the CD Belle Ayiti by the ensemble
ZAMA (2007), which is listed in the discography.
3. Substantial descriptions of Èzili (Erzulie) and her many manifestations have
been published by Brown (2001 [1991]: 220-257), Deren (2004 [1953]: 137-145),
Guignard (1993: 113-122, 271-278), and Marcelin (1949, vol. 1: 73-98), among
others. Any of these should be read in tandem with Joan [Colin] Dayan’s contextual-
izing commentary (1995: 54-65).
4. The word sèvitè may also be used to connote the spiritual head of a lakou
(sacred yard).
5. The lwa are expressly not idealized figures; rather, they represent the entire pos-
sible range of human emotion, reflection, and behaviour. Among Èzili’s manifestations
are Èzili Freda, Èzili Dantò, Èzili Je Wouj (“Red Eyes”), and Marinèt, representing
both “hot” and “cold” Petwo and Rada aspects of the metaphysical practice. For more
discussion on distinctions between the Petwo and Rada branches of Vodou, see Guig-
nard (1993). Quoting Haitian historian Thomas Madiou, Dayan suggests that Èzili’s
polar opposites are a logical result of Saint-Domingue’s “unprecedented spectacles of
civility and barbarism” in which “transported Africans, uprooted French, and native
Creoles found themselves participating together” (1995: 58-59).
6. In striking parallel, the Virgin Mary was declared the patron saint of the island
rechristened Hispaniola, which was the first location in the Americas to be colonized
by the Europeans (Gilles and Gilles 2009: 98).
7. This statement for which Louverture is best remembered, which explicitly

draws on Afro-Caribbean spiritual symbolism, belies the complexities of other public
declarations. He also issued an ordinance against “le Vaudoux and ‘all dances and
nocturnal assemblies’” in 1800 and a constitution in 1801 that affirmed Roman Cath-
olicism’s place in public life (Ramsey 2011: 48-50).
8. Rachel Beauvoir-Dominique and Didier Dominique (1989 [1987]) offer a
nuanced treatment of Ginen, which metaphorically refers to the spiritual homeland
or the Isle Beneath the Sea while literally referring to the Gold Coast, or Africa, in its
broadest sense. Ginen is also a way of exploring a moral grounding.
9. Vodou is a monotheistic belief system at the distant centre of which stands
Bondye, or Good God, with a pantheon of lwa who intercede on behalf of the sèvitè
in their daily lives — a set-up much like the Catholic God and Saints. Many Vodoui-
zan see Bondye as the same God as the Christian God.
10. This assertion splices together my personal research encounters with the
lwa and their sèvitè with Dayan’s postcolonial reading of Èzuli (1995: 54-65) and
Paravisini-Gebert’s post-earthquake assessment of Haiti’s history of environmental
degradation using postcolonial ecological theories (2016).
11. Guignard (1993) profiles Azaka in several of his manifestations, including
Azakamede and Kouzin Zaka, as do Marcelin (1940, vol. 2: 83-96) and Brown (2001
[1991]: 36-78).
12. The transcription and translation of these lyrics are preserved as printed in
Brown (2001 [1991]). I suggest an alternate translation: “I’m in misery, I’m poor; I’m
crippled / deformed … I didn’t buy these troubles; God created me unlucky. People
trample over me.”
13. Such practical knowledge about ecological uses of natural resources is largely
valued across the spectrum of class and colour — making traditional healing practices
a rare unifying element of Haitian culture. Multinational pharmaceutical companies
have expressed great interest in local knowledge about the healing properties of plants
in the Caribbean and South America.
14. Wanga may be a charm, talisman, or spell.
15 “Fèy o” has been widely performed and commercially recorded, thus literally
transported from the Haitian countryside to concert halls around world. Férère
Laguerre’s choral arrangement for Choeur Simidor is classic (c. 1950), but I also direct
the reader to Issa El Saieh’s big band jazz version (c. 1950). More recent renditions by
Simon and Garfunkle, Azor (Lénord Fortuné) and Eddy Prophete, Leyla McCalla,
and numerous school and church choirs in Europe and North America make for good
comparative listening.
16. Julio Racine’s arrangement of “Twa fèy, twa rasin o” may be heard on the CD
Belle Ayiti (2007). Ti-Coca, Dadou Pasquet with Magnum Band, and Emeline Michel
have each recorded enlightening versions of the song.
17. This line is also rendered as “Jou ou wè m tonbe a se pa jou a m koule” (The
day you see me fall is not the day I die). The base proverb is phrased in ecological
terms: “Jou fèy tonbe nan dlo se pa jou a li koule” (The day the leaf falls into the water
is not the day it is submerged). This song is featured on RAM’s 1995 album Aïbobo,
and the music video is worth viewing for the depth of its symbolism: https://youtu.
be/HNe_PJebyi8 (accessed March 7, 2018).
18. Genesis 1:28 of the King James Bible reads, “And God blessed them, and
God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue
it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over
every living thing that moveth upon the earth.” This verse is echoed in the land, sea,
and sky formulation of this article. In his encyclical, Pope Francis declared that sin
had ruptured humanity’s relationships with God, our neighbours, and the earth, thus
distorting “our mandate to ‘have dominion’ over the earth” (2015: 48).
19. Deren (2004 [1953]: 148).
20. This song is featured on Boukman Eksperyans’ 1998 album Revolutíon. The
sea is the birthplace of all humans and the graveyard of all resting souls.
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A Field Report from Okinawa, Japan: Applied

Ecomusicology and the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project
JAMES EDWARDS
E comusicology was far from my mind when I met Miyazawa Kazufumi

at the 2016 International Small Island Cultures Conference in Naha,
Okinawa. Miyazawa, born in Yamanashi Prefecture, is famous throughout
Japan for the folk-rock ballad “Shima uta,” which he wrote in 1990 and
recorded with his band The Boom in 1992. A commercial and critical
success, “Shima uta” punctuates arena rock textures with a folkish melody
in the Ryūkyū (Okinawa) scale played on the sanshin, a Ryūkyūan plucked
lute. Miyazawa obliged the conference with a beautiful rendition of “Shima
uta,” self-accompanied on sanshin. However, he had not come to recount
his past musical triumphs. His aim was outreach for the 100-Year Kuruchi
Forest Project, a community-based music and natural resource management
organization based on Okinawa Island. Over the course of Miyazawa’s
lecture-performance, the concept of ecomusicology, to which I have
given much abstract thought, became both vividly concrete and viscerally
moving. This brief state-of-the-field report outlines the history of the 100-
Year Kuruchi Forest Project and concludes with some reflections on the
relationship between ecomusicological theory and practice, which I hope to
validate through fieldwork with the project.
The 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project is a multi-stakeholder endeavour
in Yomitan Village in central Okinawa designed to gradually increase the local
population of kuruchi or Ryūkyūan ebony (Diospyros ferrea; also known as
Ryūkyū kokutan). Ryūkyūan ebony is the preferred material for the neck of
the sanshin, a three-stringed lute distinguished by its resonating membrane of
snakeskin. An icon of local culture, the sanshin is descended from the Chinese
sanxian, and was likely carried via multiple economic and diplomatic channels
from Imperial China to the Ryūkyū Kingdom (a Chinese tribute state) during
the 14th and 15th centuries.
Edwards: A Field Report from Okinawa, Japan 137
Ryūkyūan elites proactively incorporated the sanshin into their creative

lives; in 1612, when the royal government appointed a magistrate’s office to
oversee the sourcing and production of high-value goods (the kaizuribugyōsho),
sanshin-makers were put on the payroll (Yano 2003: 394). Over time, it
disseminated to other social strata, as well as to other islands in the Ryūkyū
archipelago. Thanks to the cultural preservation efforts of tradition-bearers,
the sanshin and its repertoire survived the two great shocks of Ryūkyūan
modernity: Japan’s 1879 annexation of the Ryūkyū Kingdom and formation
of Okinawa Prefecture, and the 1945 Battle of Okinawa and subsequent 27
years of American domination.1 It was a traditional musicians’ association,
the Nomura School Classical Music Preservation Society (Nomura-ryū Koten
Ongaku Hozonkai), that first proposed cultivating Ryūkyūan ebony in Yomitan
Village. In 2008, the Society collaborated with village officials to begin planting
ebony trees in the northwest corner of the Zakimi Castle Ruins World Heritage
Site Park. However, young ebony trees are delicate, and maintenance proved a
challenge. The grove began to go to the weeds.
As Hirata Daiichi of the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project executive
committee tells it, this is is the point at which Miyazawa entered the story
(2015a). In March 2012, Miyazawa telephoned Hirata out of the blue to ask
for a meeting, then appeared in short order at Hirata’s office on the eighth
floor of the Prefectural Government Building in Naha, Okinawa (he was
Department Manager for Culture, Tourism, and Sports at the time). Usually
reserved, Miyazawa was in a talkative mood, and the conversation flowed
from his thoughts on the 20th anniversary of “Shima uta,” to the sanshin, to
the state of the Okinawan folk music scene —— until he suddenly paused,
thought a moment, and said “I’ve been thinking of planting kuruchi” (Hirata
2015a). Hirata was struck by Miyazawa’s earnestness, and worked to connect
him with the neglected kuruchi grove in Yomitan Village. By spring 2012, a
new executive committee had taken shape comprising Yomitan mayor Ishimine
Denjitsu as Chairman, Miyazawa as Honorary Chairman, and Hirata as
“principal advocate” (hittō sandōjin). A press conference was held on July 16,
and an inaugural tree-planting ceremony and concert were held on October 20.
In the several years since, the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project has
flourished. Its promotional materials proclaim:
People who want to watch the ebony trees grow taller each year
while drinking together, people who love the sound of the sanshin,
people who pray that Okinawa will enjoy peace for a hundred
years and beyond, and people who share such feelings: all these
people are members. (Hirata 2015a)
This inclusive attitude, combined with Hirata and Miyazawa’s tireless outreach,
have gained the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project a following both inside
Okinawa and across Japan. Every month, volunteers gather for rigorous
maintenance sessions conducted in consultation with ebony expert Taniguchi
Shingo (of the University of the Ryūkyūs Forestry Department). Once a year, on
the sixth day of the ninth lunar month, a tree-planting ceremony and musical
celebration are held. In 2013, the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project received
prizes from Daikin Industries and the Bank of the Ryūkyūs, and it won the
Japanese National Land Afforestation Promotion Organization’s Presidential
Prize in 2016. The project has also forged a relationship with students in the
Environmental Engineering Program at Nanbu Agricultural and Forestry High
School. In 2016 and 2017, participants gave presentations at the University of
the Ryūkyūs and several other schools and universities, as well as at academic
conferences such as the International Small Island Cultures Conference (Hirata,
Facebook correspondence, Sept 21, 2017).
For Hirata, it is precisely these successes that have driven home “the
gravity of the words 100 years” (2015a). As some of his more sceptical associates
have reminded him, it is unlikely that any of the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest
Project’s current contributors will live to see it through. This is because only
the dense core of a mature ebony tree is sufficiently hard to yield a sanshin neck
with ideal acoustic qualities. Ebony is slow-growing and, after being cut, the
wood must be dried naturally in a storehouse for 15 to 30 years before finally
being carved. All in all, the journey from seedling to sanshin can take 150 years.
Of course, it is possible that some young participants will follow this journey
to its completion. By way of proof, Hirata invited an 89-year-old local woman
to the stage during the 2015 celebration (Hirata 2015b). His aim in doing so
was twofold: first, to forge ties between the generations and cultivate a sense of
care for the future; second, to bind this sense of care to the recognition of past
challenges. Yomitan locals in their eighties and nineties survived the horror of the
United States’ 1945 invasion of Okinawa, which began near the village. Hirata
points this out in a Facebook post about Irei-no-hi, the day of remembrance of
the Battle of Okinawa (Kuruchi no mori 2017). One cannot readily imagine
the ecological and human devastation that Yomitan residents would have seen
during the battle. Performing arts scholar Yano Teruo stresses that “it would
not be an exaggeration to say that neither a single tree nor blade of grass was
left standing” after the battle (1974: 366). Yano goes on to describe how, in the
months that followed the Battle of Okinawa’s conclusion, “the sound-color of
the sanshin, mingled with the roar of the sea at night, flowed through refugee
camps, turning peoples’ thoughts toward the good old days and toward hope
for the future, gradually opening their spirits” (370). It is striking to think that
this lifesaving sound-colour resonated through 150-year-old hearts of kuruchi,

grown twice as dense as cedar “precisely because they had survived in a stormy
and difficult-to-endure environment” (Hirata 2015b). Here we feel the force
of Hirata’s “gravity of the words 100 years”: a resonant legacy of hardship and
perseverance, flowing through trees and humans, and spanning the ages as song.
This is the gravity that impelled Miyazawa Kazufumi to write “Shima
uta,” the lyrics of which describe the final parting of two friends implied to be
fleeing the devastation of the Battle of Okinawa. For a mainstream hit, “Shima
uta” is jarringly intimate and raw, and Miyazawa has spoken candidly about
whether he, as mainland Japanese, should be the one giving global voice to
the hard-earned Okinawan narrative and musical tradition (Gillan 2009: 190).
His concerns are couched in awareness of a history of structural violence: since
Japan annexed the Ryūkyū Islands, it has consistently pursued exploitative
policies of combined and uneven development that have rendered the islands
economically precarious, while simultaneously subjecting or abandoning
them to a series of undemocratic systems of governance (cf. Matsumura 2015;
Okinawa Rekishi Kenkyūkai 1977). Okinawa is still the poorest Japanese
prefecture, and Okinawans, as a rule, still have less of a voice in mainland
discourse than vice versa. This asymmetry conditioned Miyazawa’s rise as a de
facto ambassador of Okinawan sounds in mainland Japan. Miyazawa is well
aware of this fact and seeks to make the best of it by using his platform to
empower local colleagues through projects such as an ongoing effort to record
aging folk singers (Miyazawa 2016a; cf. Utakata Project 2017).
For Miyazawa, the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project is first and foremost
another such expression of gratitude to Okinawa. However, it is also a method
of negotiating unanticipated cultural and economic transformations in which
he played a role. As he explains it:
Several years ago, I was drinking with some sanshin makers, who
told me: “Thanks to you, the sanshin has spread across Japan, and
that’s good. But you know, you’re also the reason that sanshin
materials have disappeared from Okinawa and have to be imported
from abroad now!” Of course, it was said as a barroom joke, but I
found that I couldn’t laugh. It’s important to broaden [traditions],
but if you go too far, you end up spreading yourself thin. I realized
how frightening that was and decided to do something to protect
the core. (2016b)
The context here is the so-called “Okinawa boom” phenomenon. The

first Okinawa boom refers to an upswing in travel to Okinawa, made possible
by its 1972 reversion from American to Japanese rule. The second boom refers
to a surge of enthusiasm during the 1990s in media representations of Okinawa,
as exemplified by the nationwide success of Okinawan folk-rock bands like
Champloose, Nēnēs, and Rinken Band, as well as of Okinawan-inspired songs
by Miyazawa and others (Roberson 2001: 212).2 Whereas the 1970s boom
was primarily touristic, the 1990s boom inspired active appropriation of
Okinawan culture. Perhaps disillusioned by the collapse of the 1980s bubble
economy, certain young people saw in Okinawan culture an alternative model
of Japanese-ness grounded in pre-capitalist solidarities and traditions. Interest
in the sanshin exploded: third-generation Okinawan-American Wesley Uenten,
who was studying in Kawasaki at the time, recalls that “from around 1991,
the number of Yamatunchu ([mainland] Japanese) students seeking sanshin
lessons would sometimes overflow the [Okinawan] sensei’s house” (2015; cf.
Cho 2014).
While it would be hard to verify the half-joking assertion that it was
Miyazawa who inspired such “Okinawaphiles” (Okinawazuki), it is certainly
true that demand for sanshin has increased over the past few decades, and that
as a result the centres of manufacturing and material sourcing have moved from
Okinawa to China and Southeast Asia, where labour is cheap and ebony is more
abundant. Whereas a Chinese sanshin can be purchased for a few hundred
dollars, one crafted in Okinawa using indigenous ebony will run into the
thousands (Gillan 2012: 35). It is hard to see how this state of affairs could be
sustainable for local makers or ebony producers, whose global competition has
forced them to the high end of a larger but still limited market.
This dilemma recalls discourses on resilience and adaptive management,
which originated in systems ecology but have since migrated into music
scholarship. Prior to the 1970s, the dominant paradigm in ecological science was
the “balance of nature,” which holds that variables within ecosystems, like plant
and animal populations, tend toward stable equilibria. Under this paradigm, the
aim of sustainable management is to minimize or compensate for disturbances
and maintain a stable state. Longitudinal studies, however, show that many
ecosystems in fact move between multiple semi-stable states or “regimes.” Such
“regime shifts,” which rebalance populations without necessarily eliminating
them, can be cyclical (e.g. in response to climactic oscillations) or non-cyclical
(e.g. in response to disasters or human interventions). The aim of sustainable
management under this paradigm is to enhance resilience: “the ability of these
systems to absorb changes of state variables, driving variables, and parameters,
and still persist” (Holling 1973: 17).
Jeff Todd Titon proposes resilience and adaptive management as
paradigms for applied ethnomusicology that are better suited to contemporary
cultural dynamics than the old paradigm of conservation (2015: 158). Rather
than attempting to return a given music culture to an older, ostensibly natural
equilibrium — for instance, by creating incentives for traditionalist performers
while withholding them from syncretic performers — adaptive cultural
management fosters mechanisms of resilience such as flexible, bottom-up
social networks bound by diverse spectra of interests. The 100-Year Kuruchi
Forest Project spontaneously manifests this principle. Annexation by Japan,
domination by the United States, reversion to Japan, and the “Okinawa boom”
of the 1990s were “regime shifts” (in both the political-economic and ecological
senses) that disrupted the balance of variables such as demand for sanshin
and sustainable ebony yield. The 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project, however,
does not aim to roll back these shifts (e.g. by discouraging sanshin-playing by
mainland Japanese or delegitimizing the musical fusions that help drive popular
interest). Quite the opposite: the Project does outreach nationwide, has hosted
not only mainland Japanese but also Hawaiian musicians at its festivals, and
welcomes everyone to its maintenance sessions. By proclaiming that “people
who love the sound of the sanshin … all these people are members,” the Project
nurtures precisely the type of multilateral social networks that make music
cultures resilient.
In a recent correspondence, Hirata expressed interest in the concept
of ecomusicology, which has not yet bridged into Japanese music scholarship
(Facebook correspondence, Sept 21, 2017). It is certainly conceivable that
the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project could find inspiration and practical
guidance in the paradigms of resilience and adaptive management proposed
by Titon. By way of a conclusion, I would like to speculate as to other ways in
which ecomusicological principles and resources might be applied to support
sustainable music practitioners. One potential contribution would be to
amplify the resonance between likeminded endeavours, whether by liaising
them directly or merely by providing a shared conceptual vocabulary. Aaron
Allen and Kevin Dawe, for example, offer sophisticated accounts of the political
ecology of musical instrument manufacturing that fit the Okinawan case as well
as the communities they study (violin-makers and sustainable guitar-makers,
respectively). As Allen argues, the “sharing of local knowledge and histories”
between such communities could help them learn from each other’s successes
and mistakes (Allen 2012: 314; cf. Dawe 2015). Connecting the 100-Year
Kuruchi Forest Project with geographically distant but ideologically consonant
organizations like the International Pernambuco Conservation Initiative and
the African Blackwood Conservation Project might enable such an exchange of
best practices — or even catalyze partnerships capable of achieving heightened
brand equity and economic leverage.
Another potential contribution would be to open new perspectives on

the complex cultural politics behind the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project. Here,
critical ecomusicology and political ecology can provide insight. Okinawa
presents a case in which a musical ecosystem has globalized at a rate that outstrips
the capacity of the local biological ecosystem to supply its most iconic artifact.
As uneven Japanese development policies have long worked to keep Okinawa
poor, an ironic side effect is that Okinawans may be on average less likely than
mainland Japanese enthusiasts to be able to afford indigenous ebony sanshin.
Which is to say, an asymmetrical “human metabolism with nature” has colluded
to deprecate Okinawan ecosystems while simultaneously inhibiting Okinawans’
access to the material and sonic signifiers of their very indigeneity (cf. Foster
2000: 141). Adopting a critical theory framework makes the concurrence of
such musical, economic, and environmental dispossessions clear. This is crucial,
as Japan continues to pursue antidemocratic policies that threaten Okinawan
ecosystems, communities, and soundscapes alike. For example, witness the
current Japanese-sanctioned United States effort to develop Cape Henoko into
a military air station, thereby destroying an invaluable marine ecosystem while
also subjecting indigenous communities and entombed ancestors to continual
“low frequency noise and the thunder of military aircraft” (Yoshikawa 2016;
Urashima 2016). Ecomusicology, understood as ecocritical thinking about
music and sound, offers a theoretical and methodological toolkit with which to
trace such intersections and advocate new solidarities.
Setting aside questions of strategy, placing the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest
Project into discourse with academic ecomusicology is also worthwhile for the
intellectual pleasure and inspiration it gives. At first glance, the critical strain
in ecomusicology can appear unrelentingly pessimistic: it is premised, after all,
on the recognition of systemic crisis (Edwards 2015a: 153). However, it also
presumes care for the future: why theorize —— or musick, for that matter ——
into a void? Hirata’s powerful phrasing, “the gravity of 100 years,” illuminates
two crucial parallels between music and sustainable development. First, both
are methods of negotiating with time and the existence of the Other, who is
subject to the same conditions of finitude as the self; and second, both are
grounded in hope. Neither Miyazawa nor Hirata labour under the illusion that
the 100-Year Kuruchi Forest Project will singlehandedly undo the asymmetries
of modernization and return Okinawa to a mythic state of prelapsarian
equilibrium. However, they do hope eventually to expand their planting efforts
from Yomitan across the prefecture, and dream of “a future in which sanshin
made with Okinawan ebony are the standard” (Miyazawa 2016a). The words
“100 years” certainly echo with gravity, but also with the earthy romance of
such hopes and dreams (Hirata 2015a).
Notes
1. In the immediate aftermath of the Japanese annexation of the Ryūkyū

Kingdom, both mainland Japanese authorities and a faction of Japanese-educated
Ryūkyūan elites aggressively attempted to suppress many aspects of indigenous cul-
ture, including some musical customs and traditions. However, a fraction of the old
class of courtly performers remained committed to the private propagation of classical
music and dance, while another fraction sought to carve out a new social niche by
adapting them to the commercial stage. Likewise, in many villages, non-courtly trad-
itions remained deeply embedded in everyday life (cf. Edwards 2015b).
2. This is not to say Okinawan-inflected rock and pop were entirely new in main-
land Japan: Kina Shōkichi of Champloose and China Sadao, manager of the Nenes,
had both been on the scene since the late 1970s, while Hosono Haruomi had covered
the iconic Yaeyaman song “Asadoya Yunta” on his 1978 album Paraiso.
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tsunaide iku — sonna omoi no moto Miyazawa Kazufumi ga torikumu futatsu
no purojekkuto to ha? (Continuing Okinawan Songs and the Sanshin for Many
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Feed the Soil, Not the Plant: Case Studies in the
Chambers, Laura. 2018. Feed the Soil, Not the Plant: Case Studies in the Sustainability of Ontario’s Regional Orchestras. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 146-166.
Sustainability of Ontario’s Regional Orchestras
LAURA CHAMBERS
Abstract: Although Western Art Music (WAM) may not (yet!) be classified as a music-culture
“at risk,” many of Ontario’s professional regional orchestras operate under increasingly unstable
and difficult conditions. Using the theories of Jeff Todd Titon — whose evolving scholarship on
the sustainability of musical cultures explores sustainability through a relational epistemology
with the science of ecology — I examine the institutional health of two organizations within
the WAM landscape of Ontario: The Niagara Symphony Orchestra and the ensemble previously
known as Orchestra London.
Résumé : Bien que la musique classique occidentale ne puisse pas (encore!) être qualifiée de culture
musicale « en danger », de nombreux orchestres professionnels régionaux de l’Ontario connaissent
de grandes difficultés et une instabilité grandissante. À partir des théories de Jeff Todd Titon —
dont les recherches en constante évolution sur la viabilité des cultures musicales explorent cette
durabilité sous l’angle d’une relation épistémologique avec la science de l’écologie — j’examine la
santé institutionnelle de deux organisations du paysage de la musique classique en Ontario : le
Niagara Symphony Orchestra et l’ensemble connu auparavant sous le nom d’Orchestra London.
S ustainable Futures for Music Cultures examines a diverse group of musical

cultures using models of musical and cultural sustainability that are based
in principles from conservation ecology (Schippers and Grant 2016). While
the editors caution that “there will be no simple solutions to understanding
or influencing the sustainability of specific music practices” (333), they
suggest that “examining forces of music sustainability through an ecological
perspective may help identify and clarify the vibrancy, strengths, and
weaknesses of a music genre, and the ways in which the factors in its vitality
and viability interrelate” (340).
In the academic discourse surrounding the sustainability of musical
Chambers: Case Studies in the Sustainability of Ontario’s Regional Orchestras 147
cultures, scholarship examining Western Art Music (WAM) is limited. When

it is included, it has been presented, for the most part, as a thriving tradition
(Schippers 2015: 147). When I first encountered this viewpoint, I was struck by
its difference from my own experience as a professional musician who performs
primarily WAM repertoire. Questions about the sustainability of the art form
that is the basis of my livelihood persist in my thoughts and frequently inform
discussions with my musician colleagues and personal community. Changes to
WAM culture in North America within the last decade have been significant
and widely experienced: bankruptcy is increasingly common and has started
reaching some of the genre’s most prestigious institutions, including the Detroit
Symphony and the New York City Opera Company (Robin 2014). Several
major orchestras are reducing their concert offerings, lacking the funds to
support a traditional full season. Musicians are increasingly confronted with the
decision to accept salary cuts or go on strike, and a disturbing air of normalcy
has been established around the large operating deficits run by many of Canada’s
symphony orchestras (interview with a member of the Canada Council for the
Arts, March 28, 2016). These changes suggest that recent shifts in our cultural
value system are significant enough to truly threaten the survival rates of these
organizations.
Within the collection of case studies in Sustainable Futures for Music
Cultures, John Drummond examines the strength of Western Opera.
Drummond’s work is large in scope. It includes sixty-five interviews across four
continents and, as such, it allows Drummond to examine the larger economic
theories with which these operatic institutions interact. Drummond finds
challenges to sustainability that are similar to those revealed in the case studies
below, despite the difference in scope. For example, Drummond notes that
the high costs of most opera productions cannot be sustained by audiences
alone. Most opera, therefore, relies on potentially volatile government and
private funding bodies (Drummond 2016: 181). He also highlights opera’s
institutionalized training system (universities and conservatories across the
globe) that is producing too many highly skilled performers “than can expect to
find employment” (186). Finally, Drummond identifies a “sense of entitlement”
felt by many participants and performers, who are surprised that “opera is
not automatically supported by society” (183). I found these same issues —
unsustainably high production costs, an over-saturated talent market, and a
disconnection between practitioners and society in general — confronting the
groups I chose to study in my own investigation of Ontario’s regional orchestras.
The challenges for opera described in Drummond’s study deepened my
disagreement with Schippers’ assertion that opera is thriving (2016: 4). My
reaction to this statement prompted me to delve further into the existing
literature on the sustainability of musical cultures, leading me to Jeff Todd

Titon’s recent scholarship on the sustainability of musical cultures, which
explores a relational epistemology with the science of ecology.
When I first engaged with Titon’s work on sustainability, I was attracted
to the parallel he draws between what is necessary to achieve ecological
sustainability and what is necessary to achieve cultural sustainability (Titon
2009, 2010, 2013, 2015). I could immediately see its relevance to WAM, and
its ability to open up new ways of thinking about long-standing problems
within various local WAM communities. The idea that WAM communities
must personally engage with the larger communities surrounding them to
ensure the continued viability of their art is not new. It is my hope that this
descriptive case study, explored in relationship with Titon’s theories, will reach
my orchestral musician colleagues in the WAM community and ignite much
needed dialogue around these ideas.
Using Titon’s evolving theories, I examined the institutional health of
two organizations within both my own professional experience and the WAM
landscape of Ontario: The Niagara Symphony Orchestra and the ensemble
previously known as Orchestra London. I focused on these two orchestras
because they represent two divergent situations in which regional orchestras in
Ontario find themselves today. I began substitute work with Orchestra London
in 2013, at a time when the orchestra was being invigorated by a dynamic
music director and the impending development of a new concert hall in the city.
Over two years of regular substitute work, I watched this enthusiasm quickly
crumble and, despite a valiant effort, the organization fell (very publicly) into
bankruptcy in December of 2014. Now, the group #WePlayOn, The Musicians
of Orchestra London (#WPO) is endeavouring to rebuild. In contrast, the
Niagara Symphony Orchestra opened its 2015/2016 season in a brand-new
performing arts centre (similar to the one planned in London), deficit free, and
with a growing $1 million operating budget (Turner-Smith interview, March
30, 2016).1
As a part-time member of the communities examined in my case
studies, I am aware that personal experience has influenced my research and
analysis. Many of my interviewees are also members of my professional and
personal circles. These relationships enabled a level of trust that I believe led to
greater candor on many subjects. Several of my questions were difficult for my
colleagues to hear, but they were also important and necessary. Ultimately, I
believe this insider perspective has enriched my data.
As my primary methodology, I conducted interviews with members of
the orchestras’ administrative and artistic staffs,2 a renowned member of the
arts management sector, and a member of the Canada Council for the Arts.3
I also sought information from local newspapers, the websites and blogs of
the Niagara Symphony Orchestra and #WPO organizations, and various other
web pages specific to these regions and their artistic communities. This paper
summarizes a larger project that took place over several months. In this paper, I
limit my investigation to these two orchestras, and while I do not generalize my
findings to comment on Canada’s — or even Ontario’s — WAM culture, I do
hope that these case studies will contribute to a larger conversation about the
sustainability of Canada’s WAM landscape.
Titon’s Theories of Sustainability
“Sustainability” is in vogue in contemporary society. Theories on how best to

achieve stable viability in areas such as business, the environment, and the economy
are numerous. Scholarship on generalized theories of cultural sustainability,
however, is limited (see Throsby 1995, 2005; Shockley 2004); even fewer focus
specifically on music culture (e.g., Titon 2009; Schippers 2015). The world
heritage organization UNESCO has developed a system for intangible cultural
preservation, which includes music, but as Titon points out, “safeguarding” greatly
differs from sustainability (2009: 129). Titon’s work, and that of the few scholars
who have expanded on it, are the basis of research dedicated exclusively to the
development of a sustainability model for musical cultures. While it is true that
some research in areas such as community music-making (Schippers and Letts
2013; Nethsinghe 2013), musical diasporas (Grant 2011), and isolation within
music cultures (Grant 2010) also deals with sustainability, given the scope of this
paper, Titon’s work has proved the most fruitful in examining the sustainability of
the WAM subculture of orchestral music. Although his idea that musical cultures
behave as ecosystems first appeared in his seminal 1984 text, Worlds of Music,
his linking of ecology and cultural sustainability was not expressly articulated
until his 2009 article, “Music and Sustainability: An Ecological Viewpoint.” In
the eight years that have followed, Titon has revised and expanded his thoughts
(2010, 2013, 2015).
Connecting with and engaging the participation of a community whose
musical culture is at risk is a persistent tenet of Titon’s model of sustainability
(2009: 121-122). This observation has led Titon to identify four transferable
aspects of “New Conservation Ecology” that are applicable to the intangible
cultural sphere:
1. The encouragement of diversity

2. The fostering of interconnectedness
3. The importance of stewardship

4. The establishment of limits to growth (2009: 123-124)
These concepts have remained touchstones in the evolution of Titon’s

sustainability scholarship.
Nature possesses no agency, and therefore cannot privilege a certain
organism because of its intrinsic “value.” For expressive cultures, diversity
generates greater numbers of performers, participants, and audience
members. A diverse natural environment means the presence of more
species; within expressive culture, a diverse environment means the presence
of more arts organizations and more art. Diversity increases the likelihood
of an interconnected network forming between like-minded organizations.
This network can help these organizations gain strength by sharing expertise,
collaborating, and pooling resources.
Brent Keogh, one of the few scholars to comment critically on Titon’s
work, suggests that Titon has failed to reconcile nature’s lack of agency
in his relational epistemology to ecology, and that the act of sustaining
a specific culture (or organism) would never occur in the environment
naturally (2013: 5). However, although the origins of Titon’s theories are
extracted from observations of ecosystems unaffected by humans, the bulk
of his research is inspired by the field of ecological management. There,
biologists intervene in systems to counteract intentional or unintentional
human impacts. They do so as efficiently and minimally as possible. Titon
hopes that the actions inspired by his model of sustainability will be adopted
by ethnomusicologists and members of musical communities in a similar
vein, helping to sustain musical cultures through the engagement of these
members with minimal intervention on the part of the ethnomusicologist
(2009: 121).
In “Nature’s Economy” (2010), Titon builds on his four principles,
steering them toward applied ethnomusicology and the cultural worker’s
role in achieving sustainability. The paper’s title and core idea reference a
principle drawn from organic farming: “agriculture should wherever possible
imitate nature” (Titon 2010). From here Titon sets up the following design
and management strategies for culture workers acting in stewardship of the
public interest:
1. Observe patterns in Nature that connect all living beings and

design with these in culture. Do not impose form; in Nature
form follows function. Manage for whole systems; do not offer
single solutions.
2. Encourage cultural and biodiversity as a strategy for

sustainability through adaptation and dynamic change.
Encourage revitalization movements that recycle tradition and
know that in order to survive, tradition must be dynamic.
3. From organic agriculture to culture, apply the principle “Feed
the soil, not the plant.” Do not intervene to bolster specific
expressive cultural genres — these will come and go naturally,
and today in the internet age all are capable of staying in
one form or another. Direct support to the social, political,
and economic conditions or the cultural soil under which
expressive cultures flourish and upon which they depend.
4. Nature rewards cooperation and demands local expertise;
culture workers should partner with local scholars and
practitioners, ascertain their desires and goals, and work
towards mutual ends and rewards. (Titon 2010)
Two Regional Orchestras Explored Through Titon’s Theories
Titon’s ecological approach to sustainability emphasizes the importance of

considering all aspects of an expressive culture’s “ecosystem” — the political,
social, and economic — in one’s assessment (Titon 2009). Therefore, in the cases
of Orchestra London and the Niagara Symphony Orchestra, it is important to
broaden beyond the arts organizations themselves to include their respective
cities.
Demographically, the London and Niagara regions share many
commonalities. Both regions amalgamate a number of smaller cities and have
a similar overall population size of approximately 400,000 (Statistics Canada
2011). Poverty and unemployment rates have historically hovered around the
same levels in both cities (slightly above the national average) (City of London
n.d.; Niagara Region 2006a). Each region is home to several of Canada’s
wealthiest 1 percent (Statistics Canada 2011). The median age for both regions
is around 40 years (Statistics Canada 2011). The most distinctive demographic
difference is that approximately twice the percentage of London’s population
identifies as a visible minority (16.5%) (City of London n.d.), compared to the
population of the Niagara Region (6.3%) (Niagara Region 2006b).
Ontario’s regional orchestras are directly affected by changes in their
surrounding political and economic climates. While they do have the ability to
indirectly impact these aspects of their environment, their greatest, most direct
and immediate impact is made socially, at the community level. Therefore, I
will primarily focus on this element of the soil in which these organizations
have been planted in the analysis that follows.
Case Study #1: The Niagara Symphony Orchestra
In 1978, The St. Catharines Civic Orchestra changed its name to The Niagara
Symphony Orchestra in order to “reflect its increased regional responsibilities”
(Niagara Symphony 2015a). Currently, a modest administrative staff (a
24-member volunteer board and 7 paid general staff members) and average-
sized artistic staff (associate conductor, operating director, librarian, and per-
service 44-person orchestra) are run through the combined leadership of
managing director Candice Turner-Smith and artistic director Bradley Thachuk
(Niagara Symphony 2015a).
The Niagara Symphony opened its 2015/2016 season with an operating
budget of $1 million and a modest endowment of approximately $200,000
(with a goal to grow the endowment to $1 million within the next four years)
(Niagara Symphony 2015b). Its 2015 season saw its total revenue increase
by approximately $250,000, with an income breakdown of 32 percent
earned revenue, 52 percent private sector revenue, and 15 percent public
sector revenue (Turner-Smith, interview, March 30, 2016). In comparison to
other Ontario orchestras with similar operating budgets (between $800,000
and $1.5 million), Niagara’s earned revenue falls very close to the mean;
however, the percentages of their funding from the private and public sectors
fall, respectively, at the high and the low ends of the scale (Canada Council
member, interview, March 28, 2016). The organization’s predominant
reliance on private sector funding is acknowledged by the managing director
as “not her ideal of 33 percent, 33 percent, 33 percent” (Turner-Smith,
interview, March 30, 2016). Her current goal is working toward this “more
stable” ratio (interview, March 30, 2016). The Niagara Symphony Orchestra’s
2015/2016 season opened in St. Catharines’ new $65-million, state-of-the-art
performing arts centre. This venue, the FirstOntario Performing Arts Centre,
is unanimously seen as an acoustical upgrade and is thought by many to
add prestige to the orchestra’s public image (Turner-Smith, interview, March
30, 2016; Mackenzie, interview, March 25, 2016; Canada Council Member,
interview, March 28, 2016).
The facts above describe a relatively healthy arts organization on a growth
trajectory both financially and artistically, but this has not always been the case.
In the fall of 2010, the organization was faced with the decision to either declare
bankruptcy, or for the board to help support the symphony through the rest
of the season and hope that the orchestra could fight its way back to financial
health. At that time, the Niagara Symphony had also lost its artistic direction,
with the sudden departure of its music director (Turner-Smith, interview,
March 30, 2016). The organization’s turnaround is impressive and remarked
on by those in the regional orchestra community (Eck, interview, March 28,
2016). Its critics note, however, that a large part of this revival was funded by
a relatively small number of philanthropists, which leaves questions about its
permanency.
The turnaround of the Niagara Symphony, as well as the hopes of the key
players in the organization for its future, demonstrate many of Titon’s principles
of cultural sustainability, most notably: a strong understanding of the orchestra’s
role within its community; a concerted effort to maintain interconnectivity
with other regional ecosystems through shared work and local expertise; and
a stewardship of the organization that privileges the interests of a common
community trust. The necessity of placing limits around the organization’s
growth has also been considered by both the symphony’s Music and Managing
Directors (Turner-Smith, interview, March 30, 2016; Thachuk, interview,
March 28, 2016).
To improve soil, one must understand its composition and what it
lacks. An arts organization’s role in its community can be seen in an analogous
way: to effectively engage with and improve the surrounding community, it
must understand the community’s makeup and what is lacking. In 2010, at
the Niagara Symphony Orchestra’s most perilous point, the organization knew
very little about the community that supported it. “The orchestra didn’t know
who its audience was, who its subscribers were, who the single ticket buyers
were, who went to which show,” noted managing director Candice Turner-
Smith when expressing her incredulity over learning in 2009 that the orchestra
lacked a comprehensive database (interview, March 30, 2016). Creation of such
a database was an important first step in the orchestra’s rightsizing.4 Knowing
the orchestra lacked the information necessary to understand the makeup of its
audience, one can presume that even less was known about the larger regional
community.
The composition of the community soil that surrounds the Niagara
Symphony is varied, with some areas more hospitable to the arts than others.
A large part of the region’s arts activity takes place in Niagara-on-the-Lake,
which is home to the Shaw Festival and the Niagara Jazz festival, as well as
numerous art galleries and small performance spaces. Brock University, located
in the Niagara Region city of St. Catharines, is home to a competitive theatre
program (Rogers Media 2015). However, very few of the other cities in the
region possess facilities necessary to host a large symphony orchestra, and until
the recent campaign to revitalize St. Catharines’ downtown core, the area was
regarded as a bit of a “ghost land” (Thachuk, interview, March 28, 2016).

Once the orchestra identified its current audience and how to best serve
them, the next step was a strategic effort to increase its visibility and engagement
with the region as a whole. In 2010, a permanent position was offered to Candice
Turner-Smith, a 35-year resident who possessed an extensive knowledge of the
community. Turner-Smith credits this knowledge with giving her the ability to
gather board members who are largely representative of the region’s industries,
communities, and political sphere (interview, March 30, 2016). This expertise
also helped the orchestra engage the support of key philanthropists from the
Niagara Region. Western Art Music might be a passion for these philanthropists,
but they also see their gifts as an “investment in their community” and in the
arts culture of the Niagara Region as a whole (Turner-Smith, interview, March
30, 2016). The orchestra’s reliance on a few wealthy donors for the majority of
their support is not a financially stable model. One can speculate that greater
engagement with the community will be necessary to secure the organization’s
continued health. Titon’s model would recommend this increased investment
in the community in accordance with the adage “nothing comes for free.”
The orchestra’s artistic director also acknowledges the importance of his
own personal investment in the region. Originally splitting his time between
multiple cities, Maestro Thachuk quickly realized that this needed to change for
the orchestra to be successful:
I feel one of the turnaround points for [the orchestra] is when I

gave up my Toronto residence and fully began living in Niagara ...
I got to Niagara and I realized if we’re going to properly serve the
arts and make WAM relevant in Niagara, I have to spend more
time here and create a climate in which that is possible. You have
to figure out the community. (interview, March 28, 2016)
Thachuk has made it his priority to become an “identifiable artistic

leader in the community” (interview, March 28, 2016). He attends local OHL
hockey games, participates in city hall town meetings, and grabs drinks at the
local pub in hopes of striking up an informal conversation with a concert goer
(or concert goer to-be).
In addition to the leadership team’s community-centric ideology, the
organization continues to actively develop relationships within the region.
Currently, orchestra members are teaching at Brock University, and the
symphony plans to add to its existing outreach programs with a full-time string
quartet (Turner-Smith, interview, March 30, 2016). This quartet will perform
over 50 concerts in the community next season. Being part of a network of
regional ecosystems has provided a key source of support during the turnaround.
As Artists-in-Residence at Brock University, the orchestra was given access to
their previous performance space (the university’s theatre) for free (Turner-
Smith, interview, March 30, 2016). Currently, they are utilizing this network
to garner the collective strength needed to ensure the continued feasibility of
their residence in the new FirstOntario Performing Arts Centre in downtown
St. Catharines. As Turner-Smith states, “We have a very strong arts community
surrounding the orchestra. Now we [the arts organizations that are current
tenants of the FirstOntario Centre] are all trying to fight the fight of the cost
of the new performance centre. If we are going to be in that building, we need
to go in as a collective group” (interview, March 30, 2016). By creating this
informal collective, the community has empowered itself. This investment in
interconnectivity, another tenet of Titon’s sustainability framework, has proved
advantageous.
As opposed to drawing in the community with flashy popular repertoire,
Thachuk has focused on introducing the community to the collective musical
identity of the orchestra:
[As] an orchestra our evolution is to stop apologizing for [playing

classical music]. I think that is what we have done in Niagara ...
our Pops offerings haven’t expanded at all, our tickets sales are
purely based on WAM offerings. I’ve got Brahms and Beethoven.
My innovators are in house. (interview, March 28, 2016)
In Canada’s symphonic environment, where “pop” concert programs — such

as “red hot weekends” and “Friday night at the movies” — are often seen as the
fastest way back to black, Niagara’s ability to generate its highest revenues from
WAM offerings is perhaps the most convincing argument that their investment
in the community soil has allowed them to thrive.
The organization’s leadership also understands Titon’s important
distinction of stewardship vs. ownership. A difficulty the orchestra currently
faces is managing the balance between outside players and local players. No
professional symphony orchestra membership is entirely born in its local
community. Because the Niagara Symphony is unable to provide full-time
living wages that would allow its musicians to live in the region, a certain
percentage of talent must be drawn consistently from elsewhere, a decision
not unanimously supported by its members (Mackenzie, interview, March
25, 2016). However, as Thachuk states, “it’s not their orchestra, it’s not my
orchestra, it’s not Candice’s orchestra, it’s not the board’s orchestra, it’s the
community’s orchestra” (interview, March 28, 2016).
The Managing and Music Directors also articulated their goal for the
organization’s continued health beyond their tenures and have thought carefully
about plans for a smooth and viable succession (Thachuk interview, March 28,
2016; Turner-Smith, interview, March 30, 2016). In addition to the personal
pride they take in their work rebuilding the symphony, this management team
also sees securing the continued success of the symphony as a task entrusted
to them by their region. This added dimension to their approach may have
allowed them to make decisions that otherwise might have resulted in a less
viable outcome.
Perhaps the most personally surprising discovery of how this organization
embodies Titon’s framework was the strategic limiting of its growth and the
choice to add depth to the organization over continued expansion. Currently,
the organization is attempting to “slow the [rate of ] growth” compared to its
development over the last five years (Thachuk interview, March 28, 2016). In
a performance-based field, ego can drive continued, unchecked expansion.
Conversely, careful analysis of the amount of nutrients present in all aspects
of the community soil (social, political, economic) provides a determinant for
growth, and protects against the resource depletion that so commonly results in
an organization’s failure to thrive.
The outlook for the Niagara Symphony Orchestra is bright. If managed
well, it will avoid the crippling cycle of deficits that can destroy an organization.
This recent period of stability has also allowed the orchestra to begin to
transition from a reactive style of management to an adaptive one, with a focus
on resilience. It is important to acknowledge that a large part of the Niagara
Symphony’s recent funding has been from large, unpredicted philanthropic gifts
that arrived at the final hour. Without this infusion of funds, the symphony
would not have existed long enough to experience its turnaround, as impressive
as it has been.
Case Study #2: Orchestra London, #WePlayOn
Orchestra London’s recent history sharply contrasts the one experienced by

the Niagara Symphony Orchestra. Orchestra London was formed in London,
Ontario in 1937. At that time, it was known as the London Promenade
Orchestra. Similar in its roots to the Niagara Symphony, the organization started
as a community orchestra. It began its transition to professional status in 1957
and achieved full-time professional status in 1971. The orchestra made its final
of several name changes in 1981 to Orchestra London. In its last operating year
(2014), Orchestra London performed a 28-week season with a professional core
of approximately 40 musicians. That year also marked the difficult departure of
its last full-time music director Alain Trudel (Baldwin and Novak 2015).
This history of Orchestra London is one of considerable financial instability, with
cycles of budgetary issues dating back to the 1950s (Eck, interview, March 28,
2016). This cycle was ultimately broken in December 2014 when the orchestra
declared bankruptcy. In its final year of operation, Orchestra London opened
its season with an operating budget of $2.5 million, with an income breakdown
of 15 percent private sector funding, 37 percent earned revenue, and 48 percent
public sector funding (Canada Council Member, interview, March 28, 2016).
Approximately $300,000 of the organization’s revenue remains unaccounted
for in its available financial statements (Donate 2 Charities 2014). In its final
year, the orchestra had also accrued a debt of approximately $1 million (Donate
2 Charities 2014). The orchestra’s mix of public and private income puts it at
the opposite end of the funding spectrum from the Niagara Symphony. The
large amount of public funding Orchestra London received from municipal,
provincial, and federal sources perhaps indicates that arts councils made it a
prioritized cultural institution. Yet, comparatively low numbers in earned
revenue (ticket sales) and private sector funding (charitable donations and
corporate support) seems to indicate the organization’s inability to connect
directly with its immediate community.
Since the organization declared bankruptcy, the musicians who have
remained in the London community (who are the majority) have reformed
under the name #WePlayOn, the Musicians of Orchestra London. This group
has incorporated, achieved charitable status, and secured a modest amount
of municipal funding through the trust of the London Arts Council (Lanza,
interview, April 1, 2016). In its new formation, the ensemble has presented
eight sold-out concert programs and a variety of smaller pop-up shows
throughout the London region (Musicians of Orchestra London n.d.).
The fall of Orchestra London has been linked to many causes, which
change depending on which member of the organization or community you
speak with. These include: the sudden withdrawal of an integral and promised
financial gift, a long history of poorly managed finances, poor leadership,
a lack of accountability and communication, and inflexibility within the
organization. A deeper analysis of the orchestra’s final year shows that Titon’s
indicators of cultural sustainability are also conspicuously absent.
The London region’s community soil includes a level of artistic
enrichment equal to, if not greater than, that of the Niagara Region.
Musically alone, evidence of this richness is reflected in a strong choral
presence, the second-largest Kiwanis music festival in the province, and a
robust Suzuki movement. As one musician commented, “a disproportionately
large number of musically inclined families live there” (Orchestra London
Member, interview, March 26, 2016). Despite this seemingly fertile cultural
soil, Orchestra London had difficulty taking root.
In the years before bankruptcy the orchestra was featured in the local
paper a maximum of twice a year. In its last year, over four dozen articles
about the orchestra were published in the London Free Press. These articles
featured headlines such as “Orchestra London rocked by massive budget
shortfall” (Maloney 2015a), “No plan, No matter” (Maloney 2015b),
“Orchestra’s pitch to city falls flat” (Maloney 2014), and most presciently,
“Orchestra revival looms” (Maloney 2015c). Most articles were negative about
the orchestra’s situation, although the odd article extolling the orchestra’s
value to the community — such as “Without orchestra, city’s music scene
suffers” (Robinson 2014) — was also part of the media coverage. Some of the
orchestra musicians expressed surprise and hurt over the negative sentiments
dominating both the articles and the comment pages that accompanied them.
Others felt these articles reflected a disengagement that had been developing
for some time:
Trouble started brewing [within the organization] long before

things hit the media, and as that stuff starts people become more
and more focused on their own stuff, and less connected to those
people in the hall ... Near the end, absolutely there was a disconnect.
(Orchestra London Member, interview, March 26, 2016)
This disconnect with the community was also present in the organization’s
operational management in the years leading up to bankruptcy. Instead of
focusing on fundraising in the community — one of the most integral tools
arts organizations use to establish relationships with residents — the orchestra’s
CEO, Joe Swan, directed the organization’s primary focus towards building a new
hall. Swan may have had personal reasons for this shift: he made an ultimately
unsuccessful run for mayor of London in 2014 and construction of a new hall
would have bolstered his profile as a candidate. A $1 million gift to the orchestra
made it possible for Swan to shift his focus: “[the gift] was really just so that the
orchestra manger could focus on the new hall, and not worry about fundraising
for a couple of years” (Lanza, interview, April 1, 2016).
Although the orchestra had a small but strong core of committed
supporters whose contributions allowed the orchestra to “go on as long and
as strong as it did,” the orchestra’s isolation from the surrounding community
had been long standing (Orchestra London Member, interview, March 26,
2016). This isolation was in place at least as long as concert master Joe Lanza
had been an orchestra member: “I never felt like Orchestra London anywhere
near reached its potential in terms of integration into the community. It always
seemed to be a falling down point” (Lanza, interview, April 1, 2016). In the
years immediately preceding bankruptcy, the orchestra’s failure to prioritize
community was reflected in cuts to its outreach budget, as well as the cancellation
of “run out” concerts in smaller regional communities, such as St. Thomas and
Chatham (Eck, interview, March 28, 2016). These changes were intended to aid
the organization’s immediate bottom line. Some members of the orchestra felt
there were barriers, both administrative and budgetary, preventing them from
reaching out to the community on a more grassroots level. Musicians also created
their own barriers to outreach: concerned that any exception made to the terms
of their hard-fought collective agreement would eventually lead to larger and
more permanent concessions, musicians refused to go beyond the terms of their
contracts, which extremely limited opportunities to reach out to the community
through new programs or venues (Orchestra London Member, interview,
March 26, 2016). The orchestra’s situation became worse both economically
and emotionally as it focused less on the community. At the organization’s most
precarious point, focus became “minimal on all levels, at best. ... The players,
the board, the musicians, whatever, [were] not taking a serious look at how they
[could] participate in their region” (Eck, interview, March 28, 2016).
In direct contrast, the musicians of #WePlayOn have actively taken a
Titon-style approach to building their connection with the community. Perhaps
negative reactions from the community over the end of Orchestra London
brought a focus to the deficit of community engagement that some of the
musicians had not noticed or had felt powerless to change previously. Many of
the members felt as though they had let their community down: “We had the
most generous grant per capita from the city of London in the entire country ...
it’s shameful” (Lanza, interview, April 1, 2016).
The tag line on #WePlayOn’s home page, “The people behind the music”
(Musicians of Orchestra London, n.d.), attempts to put a decidedly relatable face
on an organization that had previously been seen as set apart from its community
base (Orchestra London Member, interview March 26, 2016; Lanza, interview,
April 1, 2016).5 The orchestra musicians admit this is a conscious rebranding:
Well, it’s all that we’ve got left; the idea of #WePlayOn is that it is
running on determination, and commitment to the community,
and that a lot of us who live there [London], who bought houses
there, are just like other members of the community, we have our
roots there and we care about the quality of life. (Lanza, interview,
April 1, 2016)
#WePlayOn has taken to social media, using Twitter, Facebook, and their blog,
which features regular entries that read like personal letters to their supporters.
They have moved their concerts off the stage into community spaces: churches,
malls, schools, and parks. Concerts regularly feature a shared meal or drinks,
and personal interaction with audience members is paramount (Mackenzie,
interview, March 25, 2016). All these efforts to enrich the depleted soil of the
community around them appear to be taking effect. The image of the orchestra
presented by the media is shifting, observable in recent headlines such as
“Spectators give standing ovation to Orchestra London members at a concert
to make up for cancelled shows” (Brown 2015), and “Besieged orchestra
musicians resolve to play on” (Cornies 2015). The overall tone of the public’s
comments is also becoming more positive, with some finding new ways to relate
to the musicians, such as through the artists’ experiences of losing their primary
income. As one Londoner commented to the Free Press:
I have never understood or been a patron of the musicians of

Orchestra London, but I do understand what it is like to lose your
job, and admire their determination, I’ve never been to a concert
before, but I will go to stand by a group of my neighbours and
offer my support. (Brown 2015)6
How long this new support will last and whether it eventually translates into a
larger permanent audience remains to be seen.
The #WePlayOn orchestra is also cultivating another aspect of Titon’s
framework of sustainability: interconnectivity. This aspect was severely lacking
with Orchestra London:
By the time the orchestra declared bankruptcy, the breakdown

of its surrounding networks was so deep that even the musicians
themselves were divided. The trauma of the bankruptcy and lack
of transparency within the organization had affected these artists
deeply and decisions around how best to handle things, and which
face to present to the media caused a split in the orchestra ... a
certain degree of polarization, which in the end played a role in
… important relationship[s] disintegrating. (Orchestra London
Member, interview, March 26, 2016)
In contrast, #WePlayOn is actively seeking to make inroads with the many

locally based cultural and community institutions that exist in the London
region through cooperative projects and shared music-making. #WePlayOn is
reaching out and recognizing the value of relationships that Orchestra London
had previously neglected:
The youth orchestra, New Horizons Band, we reached out to the

community orchestra. We’ll have a potluck, playing a performance
at the airport, these things are really important and I don’t think
they should ever be lost. What’s wrong with the old model is these
things were seen as the ancillary activities that you are supposed to
do. Rather than this is what we have [to] build our orchestra on,
and it’s through these activities, and the community that we build,
that makes playing of Pictures at an Exhibition and these Haydn
symphonies possible. That’s how we grow the support to play the
art music. (Lanza, interview, April 1, 2016)
It remains to be seen whether or not these changes in #WePlayOn’s approach

will allow for a more sustainable orchestral organization to grow. Titon might
predict that although #WePlayOn might not successfully take root, the efforts
the group is making to enrich the soil around them and to increase connectivity
to their environment will eventually allow for something to grow again. Titon
might also caution the ensemble against rapid growth. It is advisable for
#WePlayOn to carefully evaluate just how much support the soil around this
new ensemble can provide as they rebuild their organization.7
From Sustainability to Resilience
Titon’s later scholarship incorporates recent developments in the adaptive

management of complex systems, biological as well as cultural. In a recent
article, he defines a new concept of “resilience,” describing it as “a system’s
capacity to recover and maintain integrity, identity and continuity when
subjected to forces of disturbance and change ... [neither] simply ‘learning
to live with it’... nor ... hunkering down in a defensive stance” (2015: 158).
Adaptive management cultivates resilience through the proactive creation of
strategies to manage future threats. Analysis of #WePlayOn and the Niagara
Symphony Orchestra shows that neither organization can be said to be complete
examples of Titon’s more resilience-based model, perhaps because it is difficult
to focus on resilience when you are faced with imminent demise. In the Niagara
Symphony’s new state of stability, one can observe the initial stages of Titon’s
model of adaptive management emerging. The symphony sees the issues with
receiving the majority of their funding from a limited number of large donors.
They are actively working to diversify their private sector donations by securing
corporate sponsorships and more individual donors from the region.
When speaking with members of both organizations, a common thread
was the acknowledgment of the elitist image that orchestral music carries.
Another common thread was the paramount goal of creating a high-quality
artistic product. Some would argue that this goal is what has saddled them with
the elitist image. While de-emphasizing the importance of the artistic product
does not seem to serve anyone, it might be time for Western Art musicians to
acknowledge that it is no longer possible to privilege the integrity of their art
above all else.
A common conclusion that Schippers and Grant draw from the research
of several scholars within Sustainable Futures for Music Cultures, including
Drummond, is that a sense of “local ownership” and a community’s valuing
of a musical genre are key factors in that genre’s sustainability (Grant 2016:
23). Musicians must put forth an effort to invite, engage, and invest in their
community, and must reconcile these activities as part of their artistic integrity,
or as one London musician put it, “they [the community] have been coming
to listen to us for a long time; perhaps in order to connect, we must start
listening to them” (Orchestra London Member, interview, March 26, 2016).
Certainly, from Titon’s viewpoint, the resilience of these organizations and the
sustainability of the art they produce depend on it.
Notes
1. I have worked as supplementary musician with the Niagara Symphony

Orchestra since 2011.
2. Because Orchestra London’s bankruptcy is fairly recent and is still in legal
proceedings, many records of the orchestra’s previous seasons are not public. Both the
former CEO and music director of Orchestra London were unavailable for comment
due to these ongoing legal procedures.
3. The interviews conducted with the member of the Canada Council for the
Arts and select members of Orchestra London were conducted in confidentiality, and
the names of interviewees are withheld by mutual agreement.
4. “Rightsizing” is a colloquial term for an organization’s restructuring efforts to
improve its efficiency and cost-effectiveness.
5. When asked about their feelings, the interviewees from the ensemble previ-
ously known as Orchestra London stated openly that they felt disconnected from the
London community (Orchestra London Member, interview, March 26, 2016; Lanza,
interview, April 1, 2016).
6. Anonymous. January 14, 2015 (00:45), comment on Dan Brown, “Specta-
tors give standing ovation to Orchestra London members at a concert to make up

for cancelled shows,” London Free Press, January 15, 2015, http://www.lfpress.
com/2015/01/14/some-1400-squeeze-into-pews-and-give-standing-ovation-to-
members-at-a-free-concert-to-make-up-for-cancelled-shows
7. Since my research concluded in 2016, the ensemble known as #WePlayOn
has continued to evolve. In January of 2017, the orchestra rebranded as the London
Symphonia. At this time, the orchestra’s $300,000 operating budget was drawn from
a mix of funding sources. The orchestra was receiving approximately 48 percent of its
funding from the public sector, 21 percect from a newly cultivated donor base, with
the remaining 30-40 percent of funds generated through ticket sales (Chung 2018).
London Symphonia’s inaugural season featured six main series concerts by 28 core
musicians (London Symphonia 2018). By the end of 2017/18 the orchestra’s budget
had increased to approximately $400,000 with an income breakdown of 22 percent
private sector funding, 30 percent public sector funding, and 47 percent ticket sales
and sold services (Chung 2018). The structure of payment for the musicians has
shifted entirely from salaried employment with Orchestra London, to a per service
contract format. Additionally, the organization’s artistic staff consists of a three-
member artistic advisory council chosen from its musicians (London Symphonia
2018). Its administrative staff is composed of a four-member administrative team
and an eight-member volunteer board of directors (London Symphonia 2018). The
orchestra has yet to appoint a musical director, and instead invites a variety of guest
conductors to work with the organization throughout its season.
The orchestra appears to be taking both a conservative and community-rooted
approach to growth. In 2017/18, the organization’s main concert series remained
at six performances, with the organization instead expanding its presence in the
community through the addition of a chamber series (with concerts taking place
in various new locations throughout the municipality), and special event concerts
which featured collaborations with other organizations and corporations from the
London area such as the London Pro Musica Choir and Budweiser Gardens (Chung
2018). Further research might examine this new effort in light of ideas of cultural
sustainability.
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Torvinen, Juha. 2018. Resounding: Feeling, Mytho-ecological Framing, and the Sámi Conception of Nature in Outi Tarkiainen’s The Earth, Spring’s Daughter. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 167-189.
Resounding: Feeling, Mytho-ecological Framing, and
the Sámi Conception of Nature in Outi Tarkiainen’s
The Earth, Spring’s Daughter
JUHA TORVINEN
Abstract: The song-cycle The Earth, Spring’s Daughter by the Finnish composer Outi Tarkiainen
(born in 1985) is based on poems in the Northern Sámi language by Nils-Aslak Valkeapää and
Rauni Magga Lukkari, among others. This ecomusicological and cultural musicological article
analyzes the musical-textual ways the work portrays Sámi culture’s changing relationship to
nature and addresses today’s environmental concerns. Typical for the work are musical motifs
with nature-related meaning, representations of the cyclical conception of time, and adaptations
of Sámi mythology for communicating environmental(ist) messages. The distinctive way the
work grounds the sense of nature in feelings is called “mytho-ecological framing.”
Résumé : Le cycle de chants The Earth, Spring’s Daughter, du compositeur finnois Outi
Tarkiainen (né en 1985), s’inspire de poèmes rédigés en langue sami du nord par Nils-Aslak
Valkeapää et Rauni Magga Lukkari, entre autres. Cet article en écomusicologie et musicologie
culturelle analyse les différentes manières musicales et textuelles par lesquelles cette œuvre
représente la transformation de la relation de la culture à la nature chez les Samis et évoque des
inquiétudes environnementales contemporaines. Cette œuvre a pour caractéristique de renfermer
des motifs musicaux dont le sens est lié à la nature, des représentations de la conception cyclique
du temps et des adaptations de la mythologie samie destinées à communiquer des messages
environnementalistes. La façon distinctive dont cette œuvre enracine la perception de la nature
dans le monde des sentiments s’appelle « formulation mytho-écologique ».
“I see the best music almost as a force of nature, which can flood
over a person and fill a person and even change entire destinies.”
Outi Tarkiainen (qtd. in Mellor 2016)
This article has an accompanying video on our YouTube channel. You can find it on the playlist for MUSICultures volume
45, available here: http://bit.ly/MUSICultures-45. With the ephemerality of web-based media in mind, we warn you that
our online content may not always be accessible, and we apologize for any inconvenience.
T he philosopher Bryan E. Bannon has suggested that environmentalism

begins with a feeling (2014: 1). This means that any action for nature’s
benefit would require a pre-existing sentiment of care as its basic motivation.
Because music is often considered to have a close relationship to our emotive
life, the idea that feeling frames eco-sensitivity could prove promising for an
ecocritically oriented study of music (ecomusicology). But it is obvious that
not all music relates to feelings in the same way, and seeing environmentalism
as dependent on feelings risks having it dismissed as a subjective matter.
Nevertheless, the environmentalist implications of Bannon’s insight could be
maintained in ecomusicological study if we consider feeling to be a shared
phenomenon and if we understand the term “ecology” in a broad sense,
reflecting both interconnections in a specific environment and a critical
attitude towards human impact on the environment (Feisst 2016a: 293).
In this article, I will discuss how music represents the ways human
relationships with nature can be framed with and grounded in feelings. Crucial
to this are notions of “feeling” that follow the post-Husserlian phenomenological
tradition, drawing on such terms as “attunement,” “Stimmung,” “immersion,”
and “atmosphere” (see Heidegger 1993 [1927]; Merleau-Ponty 1968 [1964];
Schmitz 2014; Vadén and Torvinen 2014; Böhme 2017). In particular, I
draw on Tim Ingold’s (2007) idea of “ensoundment”: feeling is an indication
of the existential-ontological precondition according to which we are always
immersed in the world — in this case in sound — before isolation of body and
mind, subject and object, or hearing and the object of hearing can take place.
Therefore, my main focus is not on how music arouses personal immersive
experiences. Instead, my perception of music’s ability to represent the ecological
function of feeling comes close to what the artist and writer Salomé Voegelin
has called “critical immersion” (2014: 60, 62-63, 82). Critical immersion is a
matter of “living in the actuality of the work as a real possible world and, from
this complicity, to work out meanings and consequences for an actual reality”
(60).
I will illustrate these ideas by analyzing The Earth, Spring’s Daughter
(originally in Northern Sámi: Eanan, giđa nieida; in Finnish: Maa, kevään
tytär) by the Finnish composer Outi Tarkiainen. I propose that, by addressing
traditional and contemporary understandings of nature in Sámi culture, this
composition embodies how and under what conditions the human-nature
relationship can begin with feeling. The most prominent form of this in
Tarkiainen’s work is “mytho-ecological framing” by which I mean the application
of mythological conceptions of nature for communicating environmental(ist)
messages in musical and other artistic practices for contemporary audiences (see
more below).
Torvinen: Outi Tarkiainen’s The Earth, Spring’s Daughter 169
Regarding the term “ecology,” I contribute to the ever-widening use of

the term as an ideology and metaphor, and like many others, I see ecology and
environmentalism as closely related (see Boyle and Waterman 2016: 25; Feisst
2016a: 293; Titon 2016: 72). A broad definition of “ecology” is important
especially when dealing with imagined, mythological, or virtual places that
represent realities outside common natural scientific and socio-political
categories. Methodologically, I draw on ecomusicological and other ecocritical
studies of music and place (Ramnarine 2009; Allen 2011; von Glahn 2013;
Feisst 2016b), topic theory (Välimäki 2005; Monelle 2006; Mirka 2014), and
ecophenomenological philosophy (Brown and Toadvine 2003; Dillon 2007;
Toadvine 2009; Bannon 2014).
Feeling, Nature, and the Music of Outi Tarkiainen
Outi Tarkiainen (born 1985) is a Finnish composer living in Finnish Lapland.

After studying at the Sibelius Academy in Helsinki, the Guildhall School of
Music in London, and the University of Miami in Florida, she worked in the
metropolises of Paris and Berlin, but also amidst Arctic fjords and Lapland
villages. She is educated in both classical and jazz composition (see Tarkiainen
2017b). Although not of Sámi descent herself, Tarkiainen is familiar with the
indigenous Finno-Ugric Sámi culture and its changing relationship to nature;
in fact, nature is one of the most important topics in and sources of inspiration
for her artistic work. She has even described music as a “force of nature which
can flood over a person and fill a person and even change entire destinies” (qtd.
in Mellor 2016; see also Torvinen 2017).
According to the philosopher Alan Badiou there are two main orientations
to the notion of nature that form dominant traditions of thought in the West
(2006: 123-129). One is based on the Idea in a Platonic sense, submitting all
presence to “matheme” (i.e. scientific procedures) and occurs today, for example,
as theoretical constructions and natural scientific ideals. The other is based on
what is believed to be the origin of the term “nature,” namely, the ancient Greek
conception of physis. Physis was not the name given to the universe’s ultimate
constituents and their laws of interaction. Rather it designated the way in which
the most important or meaningful things and moments in the world present
themselves to us (see Dreyfus and Kelly 2011: 237-239). In Badiou’s words,
nature as physis is “the appearing, the bursting forth of being itself, the coming-
to of its presence” (2006: 123).
If, in Tarkiainen’s words, “nature” is considered something that can “flood
over,” “fill” and even “change” a person, then we are dealing with nature in the
sense of physis. Indeed, Tarkiainen’s description of the relationship between

music and nature comes strikingly close to Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance
Kelly’s discussion of physis manifesting in today’s world and culture through
extraordinary, overwhelming moments, when something seems to “well up and
take us over, hold us for a while, and then, finally, let us go” (2011: 236-238).
Their prime example is exceptional sports performances, but it is easy to see
powerful musical experiences in this context as well. Badiou sees physis as a
form of “originary thought” that occurs especially in poetics. The “letting-be of
appearing” is proven by the “immemorial character of the poem and poetry”
and its “established and constant suture to the theme of nature” (Badiou 2006:
125). We can extend Badiou’s point to music by recalling the frequency with
which nature is referenced in musical practices of all eras.
The philosopher Gernot Böhme has pointed out that understanding nature
as the way reality reveals itself means that nature is necessarily characterized by
its perception. For Böhme, perception does not only belong to the one who
perceives, but also applies to an object’s likelihood of being perceived. The
feeling of presence (of a subject) and the felt presence (of an object) amalgamate
(Böhme 2017: 89, 92). Feeling, in this sense, is neither subject nor object but
something in-between. Such an understanding of feeling resonates with, first,
the new phenomenological idea of “atmosphere” as something that emanates
from things and human beings and fills space with emotional nuances (Griffero
2014; Schmitz 2014; Böhme 2017; on atmospheres in music, see Vadén
and Torvinen 2014; Riedel 2015; McGraw 2016; Abels 2018). Second, this
understanding resonates with the imperatives of postmodern thought, in which
processes, borders, and other labile phenomena have become equally important
objects of research as fixed objects and presumed entities have been historically
(see Abels 2016: 137). Therefore, feeling, connected to the way reality presents
itself, can indicate the quality and the manner of coming-to-presence of the
ecological whole in question. Not only environmentalism, but also different
ecologies can be understood to begin with feeling. If nature is understood in the
sense of physis, feeling becomes a form of ecology.
Along with environmental awareness, Tarkiainen’s work is guided by
themes of strong societal, feminist, and cultural awareness, all of which come
together with her interest in Sámi traditions:
The Sámi minority has been in Lapland for thousands of years,

before Finnish and Swedish people came and started to take taxes
from them so they lost their land and almost lost their culture. ...
That touches me. It gives me this fuel, this longing. The Sámi are
a minority voice and in a way I am too because I’m a woman in
a world made for men. It’s more complicated than that feminist
statement of course, but I do feel united with the Sámi. (Outi
Tarkiainen, qtd. in Mellor 2016; see also Torvinen 2017)
Understanding northern cultural and natural environments as a source

and model for novel or alternative ways of thinking, acting, and experiencing
has been an issue addressed by many musical artists, such as Glenn Gould, John
Luther Adams, and Anna Thorvaldsdottir (Mantere 2005; Cowgill and Scott
2018; Torvinen and Välimäki, forthcoming; see also Grace 2001; Davidson
2005). The Sámi worldview, cultural heritage, and living environment can
provide a fruitful vantage point for understanding and commenting on cultural
and ecological issues of wide significance. This is especially because they
are the only indigenous people in the European Union with a long history
of being under Finnish, Swedish, Norwegian, and Russian colonization and
because they inhabit Arctic areas that are extremely vulnerable to climate
change and its impacts.1 The history of the Sámi being colonized is complex
and cannot be discussed here in detail. However, as Tina K. Ramnarine has
pointed out, Sámi music has played a notable role in reflecting territorial
politics, changing discourses on social justice, and developing new histories.
Sámi popular musicians have entered global markets, while popular music and
new communication technologies have become the means of transforming
traditional dichotomies between centres and peripheries as well as identities
defined by modern nation-state borders (Ramnarine 2017: 278-279). Similarly,
aspirations for decolonization and for better global futures motivated by local
cultural and environmental concerns are among the key matters articulated in
The Earth, Spring’s Daughter.
Transforming a single cultural impulse or a concrete natural phenomenon
into a communal, shared experience is indeed a central feature of Tarkiainen’s
music. One could even call her compositional ethos “glocal”: she is equally at
home in urban environments as in the wild, and she draws on more or less
global cultural factors (Western music, environmental and societal problems,
established venues of performing and publishing, and so on) that are, however,
created, disseminated, and interpreted more or less locally (see Latour 2006
[1991]: 186-190). Just like the American women “nature composers” in Denise
von Glahn’s analysis (2013: 3-4), Tarkiainen’s concerns and understanding of
nature are fundamentally global and universal. The special natural formation
in her saxophone concerto Saivo (2016), for example, affords a vista of
mythological history and fuses contemporary musical elements from modernist
devices to live electronics and jazz (“Saivo” is a Finnish translation of a Sámi
word, “sáiva,” meaning a sacred fresh water lake believed to have two bottoms
[Kulonen, Seurujärvi-Kari, and Pulkkinen 2005: 374]). The monodrama

Metsän hiljaisuuteen (Into the Woodland Silence, based on poems by Sirkka
Turkka and Eeva-Liisa Manner, 2010/2012), having both chamber and big
band versions, mirrors individual growth against the backdrop of nature. Other
works in Tarkiainen’s oeuvre addressing nature include Siimes (A shade in the
forest, 2017) for wind quintet, and Beaivi (a Northern Sámi word for “the sun,”
2016) for flute, cello, guitar, and piano.
Eanan, giđa nieida — The Earth, Spring’s Daughter
The Earth, Spring’s Daughter (2014-15) is a song cycle for mezzo-soprano and
chamber orchestra that includes a prologue, seven songs, and an epilogue.
The 45-minute work was commissioned by the Lapland Chamber Orchestra
(Finland), the Norrbotten Chamber Orchestra (Sweden), and the Arctic
Philharmonic (Norway). It premiered in Rovaniemi, Finland, in September
2016, performed by the Lapland Chamber Orchestra, conducted by John
Storgårds, and featured the mezzo-soprano Virpi Räisänen. The Northern
Sámi text was compiled by the composer and consists of poems by Rose-Marie
Huuva, Rauni Magga Lukkari, Timo Malmi, Aila Meriluoto, Leena Morottaja,
and Nils-Aslak Valkeapää.
According to Tarkiainen, the work’s central themes include the Sámi
worldviews of a cyclical conception of time, matriarchal socio-cultural systems,
a mythical relationship to nature, the Sámi people under colonization, and the
devastating effects of climate change on northern regions of the globe (Torvinen
2017; Tarkiainen 2017a). Mainstream Westerners are typically used to different
perspectives: a linear conception of time, patriarchal systems, seeing nature as
a resource to be extracted or used, and being the ones who colonize. The Sámi
culture’s mythical relationship with nature acts as a model for novel ways of
thinking about the environment, and it is especially through this theme that the
work’s message can gain cross-cultural significance.
One important element in the work is the application of musical
motifs with a specific meaning. This element — essential to Tarkiainen’s
composer profile and in line with a long history of musical rhetoric as well
as more recent research on musical topics (see Välimäki 2005; Monelle 2006;
Mirka 2014) — is exemplified in musical renditions of the poetic text in the
Baudelaire Songs (2009-2013) and in expressive gestures in the string quartet
Trois poèmes (2013). The Earth, Spring’s Daughter has three prominent musical
motifs publicly identified by the composer: the motifs of Earth, Eternity, and
Longing (Torvinen 2017; Tarkiainen 2017a). In my analysis, I complement
these motifs with my own identification of another three musical devices: the
motif of Time, the motif of Mystery, and the extensive use of pedal points in the
composition. These devices charge specific topics with feeling and often precede
the introduction of the topic in the sung text or the narration of the work. In
this regard, the use of pedal points is especially important. At least since the
18th century, pedal points and other static textures have been a commonplace
musical means for depicting nature, eternity, and other realms greater than the
human. They signify something that is stable and, thus, opposed to the changing
and ephemeral lives of humans (Dahlhaus 1989 [1980]: 307; Torvinen and
Välimäki, forthcoming). In Tarkiainen’s work, pedal points are usually written
in intervals of fourths or fifths. This relates to her knowledge of modal jazz,
but such open intervals also thicken the orchestral tone with strong, “natural”
overtones.
Another important element in The Earth, Spring’s Daughter is the cyclical
conception of time represented in the overall symmetrical structure: the work
begins and ends with similar music, the turning point being in the middle
of the fourth song, which itself is composed in an ABA form. Musically, the
prologue and epilogue, the first and seventh songs, the second and sixth songs,
and the third and fifth songs form pairs with shared musical characteristics
(for another element in the symmetry of the work, see below). The cyclical
structure of the work relates to the Sámi way of life, which historically has not
been dependent on measurable time, but rather on the weather and nature
conditions with which the Sámi divide the year into eight seasons (Kulonen,
Seurujärvi-Kari, and Pulkkinen 2005: 415-416).
The Feeling of Mytho-ecological Framing
The work’s prologue begins with a pedal point on a perfect fifth in the strings,
above which we hear the soloist’s recitation. Spoken text emphasizes the cultural,
societal, and environmental message of the work and reminds listeners of the
difference between linguistic and other forms of knowing. The latter aspect
becomes evident in the ways the composition introduces many of its subjects in
the orchestral parts before they are mentioned in the text. This is also how the
main subject of the composition, the birth of the Earth, is introduced.
The spoken text of the prologue reads as follows:
Soai vácciiga buohtalaga

eadni ja nieida
vuostebiggii mii sojahalai sieđggaid
loktii muohttaga ja sudno helmmiid

Guoldu sázai ratti
Ii lean šat velojaš jurddašit geasi ja cizážiid
Fáhkkestaga goappašagat nolliheaigga
ja riegádahtiiga rabasnjálmmat nieidamánáid
They walked side by side,

mother and daughter,
against a wind that made junipers bend
and the snow and their hemlines rise,
wind lashing their chests
One could no longer think of summer and birds.
Suddenly they both squatted
and gave birth to gaping baby girls.
(Rauni Magga Lukkari, Trans. Kaija Anttonen)
In bar 17, after the words fáhkkestaga goappašagat nolliheaigga (“suddenly they
both squatted”), we hear the Earth motif for the first time (see Fig. 1). This
motif is immediately followed by the text referring to the birth of the baby girls.
The music clarifies that the newborns are the Earth.
In Tarkiainen’s melodies, chromatic undulations often avoid particular
notes, for example by including only 11 tones of the 12-tone chromatic scale. In
other words, these melodies revolve around hubs that are themselves unheard,
as if focusing on something that exists, but is essentially inexpressible. The
yearning for the unattainable is also reflected in the frequent motifs that make
use of acceleration, deceleration, or a shrinking interval, all of which are gestural
ideas capable of, in principle, continuing ad infinitum. The musical expressions
of the unattainable may call to mind Kaija Saariaho (on Saariaho see, e.g.,
Hautsalo 2008; Howell, Hargreaves, and Rofe 2011; Välimäki 2015). In The
Earth, Spring’s Daughter, the topic of unattainability is represented on many
levels, most concretely in the musical motif fittingly called “Longing.” This
upward-stretching motif appears for the first time at the end of the prologue
(bar 27; see Fig. 2). The corresponding text, however, does not refer to the
topic of longing. Musical motifs that are not given specific meanings by textual
elements often gain their meaning either through the structural ways they are
used in the course of the work or through historical associations, that is, by
being interpreted as musical topics. For example, ascending musical motifs,
like those of Longing and Mystery (see below), are commonly used to represent
heaven, transfiguration, higher forms of reality, and everything desirable.

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Fig 1. Outi Tarkiainen, The Earth, Spring’s Daughter, Prologue, bars 15-20. An excerpt from the score.
The Earth motif starts in bar 17 in the English horn part. Copyright: Edition Wilhelm Hansen. Used
with kind permission.
As discussed above, music is what signals the birth of the Earth. Similar
anticipatory and specifying functions characterize the musical motif of Longing:
in the end of the prologue it is accompanied by a short phrase from the Earth
motif, suggesting that what is longed for is the Earth itself (see Fig. 2). This
interpretation is further supported by the prologue’s instrumental symbolism.
One example of this is found in bars 21 through 24, including the words ja
riegádahtiiga rabasnjálmmat nieidamánáid (“and gave birth to gaping baby
girls”). The first half of this spoken phrase is followed by a solo violin melody.
Solo violin is commonly used in classical music to signify a human individual.
Because the words rabasnjálmmat nieidamánáid (“gaping baby girls”) are recited
after the violin phrase starts, it is the music that first delivers the message: the
newborn is a true individual. Beats on the tam-tam and crotales (in bar 23)
emphasize the message. The tam-tam signals eternity, as its sound includes
all possible pitches and the potential of eternal vibration, while the crotales,
antique cymbals, are a symbolic echo of a distant past. When the music and
words are combined, they articulate the overall significance of The Earth,
Spring’s Daughter: the newborn female, given birth in the prologue of the work,
is an individual, but not an ordinary one. She is the Earth that will always be
and that has always been, and whose eternity a human being can long for, but
never obtain.
If music — especially wordless music — has a close relationship to
feelings, the prologue of The Earth, Spring’s Daughter exemplifies on many levels
and in many ways how feeling precedes intellectual and linguistic understanding.
The work begins with a pedal point background representing the all-embracing
presence of nature. As mentioned, many central themes in the prologue —
earth, longing, individuality, and eternity — are presented first in musical
motifs using symbolic instrumentation. This is reminiscent of Böhme’s views on
the two-step process of experiencing atmospheric feelings discussed earlier: first
we affectively and unconsciously sense the presence of atmosphere, and only
thereafter do we comprehend it as something specific involving psychological
emotions and intellectual interpretations.
The epilogue serves as the prologue’s counterpart in the cyclical form
of the work. The text is the same, but in the epilogue it is sung, not spoken.
Again, we hear a story about a mother and her daughter giving birth to baby
girls, the Earth. But here the text continues, relating how the women now cover
the babies with snow to shelter them. The women are also joined by a deceased
grandmother, who appears mysteriously and lies down beside them in the snow.
The music is again characterized by constant pedal points. Instead of the
Earth and Longing motifs, the music in the epilogue is built around Suvivirsi, a
Finnish hymn praising spring and summer. Suvivirsi’s melody is recognizable in
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Fig 2. Outi Tarkiainen, The Earth, Spring’s Daughter, Prologue, bars 27-33. An excerpt from the score.
The Longing motif in the first violins (bars 27-29 and 31-33) and a phrase from the Earth motif (bars
31-32). Copyright: Edition Wilhelm Hansen. Used with kind permission.
the musical texture but is not necessarily obvious. First, the melody is heard in
the solo cello’s accompaniment to the vocal line (bars 60-84) which comprises
approximately the first half of the epilogue. In the prologue, there are no musical
allusions to the hymn. However, a short cello gesture in bar 17 of the prologue
can be understood to anticipate it. Furthermore, as this gesture leads straight
to the Earth motif in the prologue (bar 18), the cello rendering of Suvivirsi and
the Earth theme become connected. In the epilogue, the hymn assumes the
meaning of the Earth motif.
In bar 89 of the epilogue, Suvivirsi moves to the solo violin. Here, too,
the solo violin represents individuality, but together with the tam-tam in bar
95, it shifts the focus from individuality to eternity. In bar 115, where the
text announces the appearance of the grandmother and her joining in the
singing of Suvivirsi, the solo violin is doubled by another violin. Although
the joint singing of Suvivirsi is mentioned in the text, the hymn’s melody
is played only by the violins. This further emphasizes the everlasting nature
of the Earth: communication between the living and the dead takes place
outside time and linguistic knowledge. The work ends on the lowest note
of the double bass accompanied by very high flageolets in the other strings,
while the celesta repeats the opening phrase of Suvivirsi so distinctly that
this time it is easily recognized. While the cello rendering of Suvivirsi in the
epilogue echoes the prologue’s Earth motif, the violin version leading to the
shimmering celesta resembles the upward-stretching motif of Longing, which
now reaches its goal, as it were, in eternal bliss. The orchestration at the end
of the work creates a sense of vast space associated with many of the text’s
themes, including a mystical connection to nature, which is here, in the end
of the work, associated with a connection to previous generations.
An obvious reason for quoting Suvivirsi in the work is that the hymn is
mentioned in the poem on which the epilogue is based, a poem by the Sámi
poet Rauni Magga Lukkari. The hymn represents Christianity’s colonization
of the Sámi people. Thus, are we to interpret the covering up of the baby
girls — the Earth — with snow as a gesture of giving up, a symbol of
the destruction of a people and their land in the face of colonization and
environmental concerns? This interpretation is supported by the fact that the
Earth motif is given to the English horn, a traditional symbol of death. Or
is the newborn Earth something that has to be protected? Covering a baby
with snow could ultimately be about warming it up: snow insulates well,
and northern animals often cover themselves with snow when the weather
gets cold. The incorporation of Suvivirsi in the work is relatively concealed
and even a bit distorted. Is the message, then, that the Western-Christian
conviction is ultimately unable to overcome the Sámi worldview? The
poem also represents a matriarchal social order, another element that resists
Christian ideals. All in all, the epilogue has a strong ecofeminist undertone
(see also Ramnarine 2017: 288).
As mentioned earlier, the work starts with the soloist reciting, not
singing. A similar function in the epilogue is given to a video meant to be
shown during this part of the work. The video Kasvojen vaihdos (Change of
Faces) by the filmmaker and visual artist Elina Oikari bolsters the themes
of colonization and climate change addressed in the music (Oikari 2016).
The black-and-white video is a combination of new material and archival
films, and it mirrors the history of the Sámi people with staged scenes and
pictures of the mining industry, for example (see Tarkiainen 2016a, from
4:56 onwards). The video offers an explanation of the more feeling-based and
metaphorical renderings of the work’s themes as expressed in the music.
Together, the prologue and epilogue make up only about one-fifth
of the work’s duration. Still, they form its most essential sections in many
ways. First, they create mytho-ecological frames: the interpretive context in
which the work is meant to be understood and listened to. Second, they
affirm the composition’s cyclical form: after reaching its end, the work could,
theoretically, start again from the beginning, musically. Third, their music
suggests a vision of reality in which everything connects with everything
else in a profound way possible only in myths. Fourth, the prologue and
epilogue introduce musical mechanisms and strategies that represent how
ways of feeling a thing, entity, or event precede intellectual understanding.
This happens on the level of individual musical motifs and is also evident on
the level of the whole work: musical and textual strategies in the prologue and
epilogue create an overall feeling through which the work and its messages are
to be experienced and interpreted further.
As an in-between phenomenon, feeling in The Earth, Spring’s Daughter
can be considered an outcome of complex connections between the
composition, composer, listeners, Sámi culture, nature, and so on. Textual
and performative practices of Western classical music form yet another
element in this relationality. Feeling in this sense comes close to what the
ethnomusicologist Birgit Abels has called the “meaningfulness” (Ger.
Bedeutsamkeit) of music. In contrast to fixed meanings (Ger. Bedeutung),
meaningfulness refers to the totality of the possible historically and culturally
conditioned interpretations (meanings) of or within a single musical piece or
practice. Meaningfulness appears as a feeling-like atmosphere that provokes
and calls for affective, bodily, and intellectual interpretations (Abels 2018:
223-224). Thus, meaningfulness is another way to characterize what I have
called the feeling of mytho-ecological framing.
Mystical Assimilation with Nature
Between the prologue and the epilogue, the composition portrays other forms
of nature relationships relevant to Sámi culture. The further the work is from its
prologue and epilogue frames, the more concrete, mundane, and individual the
messages of the songs become. The nature experience represented in the first song,
Eanan, giđa nieida (“The Earth, Spring’s Daughter”), and the seventh song, Mun
sárggun dáid govaid (“I inscribe these images”), highlights the individual’s mystical
assimilation and immersion in nature. While the epilogue and prologue present
a mythological and universalizing narrative about the Sámi’s nature relationship,
the first and seventh songs shift the focus to a human subject.
Like most sections of the work, the first song builds on the firm ground
of a pedal point. The composition’s title song introduces the third musical motif
identified by the composer: that of Eternity. Its first appearance is in bar 47,
scored for celesta and vibraphone. The motif consists of a sequence of triads
whose root notes are an interval of a second apart. It appears three times in
the song, each time in a slightly different shape, and each time retaining its
identifiable character. After its appearances, it is followed either by the Longing
motif, the Earth motif, or both. Tying these motifs together in the first song
affects their signification in the whole work: Eternity is the object of Longing,
and Eternity is ultimately the Earth.
The song’s text is about time and how a human conception of measurable
time does not exist in the eternity of Earth. The song introduces yet another
distinguishable motif, which appears in this song only: Time. It is heard first
as a vocal melisma on the words oavddolaš eallima máihli (“the wonderful sap
of life”; beginning in bar 43) and is imitated immediately by the flute and
later by the solo violin. The text that follows, áiggiid gihppu, loažža giesastuvvon
oktii (“the bundle of times, loosely wound together”), puts the motif in a
context, asserting that time is always and forever. The interval structure of the
Time motif is reminiscent of the Earth motif in an inverted form. Formalist
observations aside, these motifs are related through their meaning: Longing
for the Earth understood as Eternity is always about dismissing (inverting)
traditional conceptions of time.
The seventh song parallels the first in the cyclical structure of the work.
The text here is by Nils-Aslak Valkeapää. While the temporal climax of the
work is in the middle of the fourth song, the seventh song forms the dynamic
and dramaturgical pinnacle. Once again, the piece begins with a pedal point on
the low strings supported by a timpani tremolo. Whereas the first song is about
the non-existence of chronological time, the seventh song is about the non-
existence of measurable space as well. The protagonist of the poem inscribes
images, leaves her mark in time and place in concrete and metaphorical ways,
and finally becomes one with nature, resonating with the vibrations of the
whole of existence. The text of the seventh song is as follows:
mun sárggun dáid govaid

geađgái gárrái
áigái
iežan govat
mu eará hámit
ja soapmásin jáhkán
ahte mun dat lean
dáid govaid
ja mus nu olu hámit
ja dál, dál de iežan sárggun

ollisin, easka
čavddisin
ja mun čuojan go dat čuojaha mu
ja jávkkan bosastaga mielde
áiggi ábii’e
ja dan govas
in boađe ruoktot
šahten
I inscribe these images

on the stone, on the drum
in time
my images
my other shapes
and sometimes I believe

that this is me
these images
and so many shapes of me
and now, now I draw myself

whole, finally
complete
and I resound when it plays within me

and I disappear with the gusts of wind
into the sea of time
and from this image

I will not return
again
(Nils-Aslak Valkeapää, Trans. Ralph Salisbury and Harald Gaski)
When the text reaches the words ja dál (“and now”), a rising timpani glissando
launches a continuous, canon-like contrapuntal upward movement in an echo
of the Longing motif. Scored for the entire ensemble and combined with the
text ja mun čuojan go dat čuojaha mu, ja jávkkan bosastaga mielde, áiggi ábii’e
(“and I resound when it plays within me, and I disappear with the gusts of wind,
into the sea of time”), this section creates the most powerful effects in the whole
work. The music is like the collapse of reality into a wormhole (Tarkiainen
2017a). The text indicates the relativity of the categories of time and space.
Music becomes a mass of sound and noise without identifiable musical agents.
This introduces another element in the cyclical nature of the work. A similar
musical “wormhole” occurs in the exact middle of the work, in the fourth song
(bars 62-69), forming a counterpart for something that is quite literally outside
spatiality and temporality: the imaginative void between the ending and the
(new) beginning of the work. As noted earlier, after reaching its end, the work
could, music-wise, start again from the beginning quite seamlessly. Finally,
the seventh song recedes towards silence, and the last words are whispered
repetitions of the words in boađe (“I will not [come]”) and šahten (“again”). The
human subject has quite literally lost her voice.
The seventh song of The Earth, Spring’s Daughter represents humans’
immersive relationship with nature. As such, it is a representation of what
Ingold calls “ensoundment” (2007: 12). It tells of the existential precondition
of our being immersed in the world before we can develop any perceptions or
interpretations of it. Seen and heard immediately after the seventh song, the
video Kasvojen vaihdos, discussed above, becomes an interesting concretization
of the ravishing experience of immersion in nature through inscribed images.
It suggests that the images of Sámi culture and its destiny, which audiences see
on the screen, are actually images of themselves, their own shapes. Again, the
work focuses on the feeling of being one with nature first (the seventh song),
and thereafter presents the same idea in more conceptually accessible ways (the
video).
Disturbances in the Local Ecology: Colonialism, Environmental

Disasters, and Mourning of Losses
The remaining five songs focus on colonization and environmental problems.

The second song, Dáid galbma guovlluid mii johtit (“In these cold lands we
migrate”) is about the Sámi way of life (ja áiggi mielde mii šaddat oassin dán
eatnamii, gos min máddagat leabbájit — “and over time we become a part of
this land, where our roots spread”) in a land that has been colonized by others
(muhto go sii bohtet ... ja sii vázzet min čađa, oainnikeahttá, oainnat —“but
when they come ... they will walk through us without seeing”). The music is
characterized by rising figures. However, in comparison to the Longing motif,
the rising musical figures in this song are slower, less distinctive, a bit hesitant
— as if the anticipation of a secure future had become impossible. The third
song, Áhččamet opmodat lea odne juhkkojuvvon (“Our father’s estate has been
divided up today”) mourns the irreversible losses and the historic faith of the
Sámi people under colonization.
In the middle of the fourth song, Dát guhkes idjadiimmu (“The nightly
hour of the wolf ”), the text indicates a profound change. The first half discusses
the Sámi understanding of the way of life and nature: Mon šadden bajás
áhkuid rávvagiin, olgun luonddumánáid beaiveruovttun (“I grew up heeding
old grannies’ advice, out of doors in the nursery for nature’s young”), and the
cross-generational elements of this tradition become evident in the culminating
phrase, Mon dovddan mon lean eallán duhát jagi (“I feel as if I’ve lived for a
thousand years”). After this, the focus turns to nature under stress. In the context
of the previous songs, environmental and climate changes now become symbols
of colonization. The fifth and sixth songs are about mourning the degraded
Earth. The end of the sixth song repeats the Longing for the Earth by briefly
combining these two respective motifs. This song also introduces yet another
musical motif, which can be called the motif of Mystery. This rising arpeggio,
introduced in the celesta part in bar 2, characterizes the sixth song in various
ways; the song is about finding secret mystical and mythical knowledge anew
after colonization has ruined nature. What follows is the seventh song and its
depictions of the mystical process of becoming one with nature.
Conclusion: Feeling and Mytho-ecological Experience in Music
The philosopher Ted Toadvine has maintained that the “calculative rationality”
of the natural sciences cannot deal with problems in nature, because something
becomes a problem only when it is framed within the human lifeworld of
value and signification (2009: 3-4). Musical works and other artistic products
are obvious cultural sites for such framing. I have endeavoured to show how
Outi Tarkiainen’s The Earth, Spring’s Daughter serves this framing function by
representing three forms of ecology relevant to the Sámi: 1) a mytho-ecological
relationship with nature, conveyed in the prologue and epilogue of the work
and based on a cross-generational, non-individualistic, and cyclic-temporal
understanding of reality; 2) an immersive, mystical experience of becoming
one with nature, which is the subject matter of the first and seventh songs;
and 3) environmental problems as phenomena caused by colonization and
disturbances in the traditional Sámi worldview. In a way, the composition
is not a song-cycle but a monodrama, where the protagonist is nature itself,
undergoing change.
In my analysis, I especially wanted to show how music is able to
frame nature with shared feelings and thus functions both as a site for
environmental(ist) negotiations and as the means to inspire such negotiations.
This principle is at work in Tarkiainen’s composition from single musical
motifs to the overall structural and temporal unfolding of the work. While the
composition demonstrates the Sámi conception of cyclical time, as a listening
experience it, of course, follows chronological time. Therefore, the setting at
the end of the epilogue suggests that only cross-generational, mytho-ecological
knowledge can initiate a new spring and, consequently, a new Earth. It is as
if the music itself creates an experience of “critical immersion” with which
environmentalism can begin anew among audiences even after the music has
ended.
The theme of one specific nation’s changing relationship to nature
highlights the activist potential of the work. As Mark Pedelty has pointed out
(with reference to singer-songwriter Adrian Chalifour), an environmentalist
piece of music placed in a recognizable locale resonates better with listeners far
away, not because listeners can relate to the described locale but because they
too live in places with definite identities, meanings, and emotional connections
(2016: 4-5; see also Ramnarine 2017: 289). Accordingly, composing,
performing, listening to, and discussing The Earth, Spring’s Daughter is not
only about raising awareness of the Sámi and their nature relationship but
also about an environmentalist negotiation of the human-nature relationship
in any and every place or culture. A single musical composition might not be
able to solve environmental challenges on its own, but it may be able to charge
environmentalist messages with feelings that make our awareness of nature
more meaningful, regardless of where we are.
The Sámi are “internal Others” in countries in their region (see Locke
2009: 7). Therefore, any Finnish composition with a Sámi-related theme
necessarily represents musical exoticism and is, thus, open to criticism of being
a colonizing practice itself. However, The Earth, Spring’s Daughter respects
the Sámi tradition in many ways: texts by the Sámi poets are sung in their
own language and dialects, traditional Sámi wisdom is portrayed as exemplary
environmentalism, and all performances of the work (at the time of writing this
article) have taken place in the Sámi region or nearby. Furthermore, another
sign of cultural respect is that the composition does not include any allusions
to joik, the traditional Sámi form of music. Namely, applying such an “exotic
style” (see Locke 2009: 10) in “universal” Western musical practices could
appear as underrating joik’s value as an independent musical form.
It is not my intention to claim that the Sámi relationship to nature
is without its problems. At least two examples of “non-ecological” practices
characterize the traditional Sámi way of life: overstocking reindeer, made
possible with the aid of all-terrain vehicles and snowmobiles, which accelerates
erosion; and hatred and killing of predators thought to threaten the reindeer
(Heikkilä and Järvinen 2011: 69-74). The biologist Tuomas Heikkilä and
the ecologist Antero Järvinen have even pointed out that the belief in more
“ecological” and mythically nature-friendly ways of life among indigenous
peoples can be a myth in itself; as soon as indigenous peoples have enough
money and technology, they begin to oppress nature like any other group
of people (2011: 72). As Shepard Krech III attempts to show in his widely-
discussed book, The Ecological Indian (1999), peoples can behave in “non-
ecological” ways even without modern technology. In the final analysis, it may
be that the Sámi culture’s nature relationship forms a model for a globally eco-
friendly way of life primarily in its mytho-ecological form. And this is exactly
why environmentalism could benefit from starting with feeling, music, and
resounding.
Notes
1. About 60,000 Sámi live in Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia. Most
of the Sámi people are in Norway, and many of them live outside the traditional
Sámi regions. The biggest Sámi community in Finland, for example, is in Helsinki.
Depending on the terms of division, there are ten or more Sámi languages, which can
be very different from one another. For example, speakers of Northern Sámi — the
language in which The Earth, Spring’s Daughter is sung — cannot understand speakers
of Inari Sámi. There are still strongly disputed issues concerning the status of the Sámi
people, one of the most heated topics being the ratification of the ILO 169 Conven-
tion in Finland.
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Between Two Worlds: American New Age Music and
Environmental Imaginaries
JOSHUA OTTUM
Ottum, Joshua. 2018. Between Two Worlds: American New Age Music and Environmental Imaginaries. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 190-214.
Abstract: This article explores how American New Age music imagines the natural world.
Through the lens of releases by composers Will Ackerman and Dr. Steven Halpern, I argue
that the inherent flexibility and ambiguity of the New Age genre mimics the shifting positions
of environmentally-related concepts such as the sublime, the wilderness, and anthropogenic
climate change. By exploring two contrasting approaches to the genre, I will outline distinct
narratives that provide opposing views of how environmental phenomena function within
the New Age context.
Résumé : Cet article considère la façon dont la musique New Age américaine imagine le monde
naturel. À travers le prisme d’œuvres des compositeurs Will Ackerman et Steven Halpern,
j’avance que la flexibilité et l’ambiguïté inhérentes au genre New Age imitent les positions
changeantes des concepts liés à l’environnement tels que le grandiose, la nature sauvage et le
changement climatique anthropique. En explorant deux approches contrastées de ce genre, je
soulignerai des récits distincts qui véhiculent des conceptions opposées de la façon dont fonctionne
le phénomène environnemental en contexte New Age.
A listener unfolds a yoga mat on the living room floor. She has been suffering
unrelenting pain through chronic arthritis. Her Bay Area naturopathic
doctor has prescribed a strict vegan diet, an array of herbal supplements, yoga
three times per week, and Dr. Steven Halpern’s Self-Healing 2.0 (2012). In
the “Secrets of Relaxation and Sound Healing” portion of Halpern’s liner
notes, the ailing subject reads that “the body is a self-healing instrument.” The
listener is made aware of embedded messages such as, “You have the power,
ability, and desire to accelerate your own healing.” Finally, she is told to “take
a deep breath, close your eyes, and let the music carry you into your own
private oasis of serenity and inner peace” (2012).
Ottum: American New Age Music and Environmental Imaginaries 191
Across town, a listener uses Spotify, a music streaming service, to search for
releases on the Windham Hill label. He finds that only thematically organized
samplers and greatest hits collections appear on the service. The themes, curated
by label owner William Ackerman, are titled Relaxation (2004) and Summer
Solstice (1997) and appear with soft-focus pictures of idyllic environmental
scenes. Summer Solstice is familiar to the listener both visually and sonically:
reverberating, overdubbed tracks of digitally recorded acoustic guitar and congas,
glowing yellows and oranges emanating from the cover. He closes his eyes and
remembers fragmented moments from summers past.
The aforementioned hypothetical scenarios hear New Age music ecologies
at work as they transport listeners to places, and places to listeners. All along
the way, non-human environments maintain a central role, taking the place of
individual artists, and encouraging a sonically-engaged, communal relationship
with the natural world. This form of functional music offers a space for listeners
to grow, heal, or simply drift away.
In this article, I claim that the inherent flexibility and ambiguity of the New
Age genre mimics the shifting positions of environmentally related concepts such
as the sublime, the wilderness, and anthropogenic climate change. Through an
exploration of two approaches exemplified by Ackerman and Halpern, I outline
distinct narratives that provide contrasting views of how ecological connections
between the human and non-human function within the New Age context.
This exploration of the kind of environmental imaginary conceived by forms
of North American New Age music is driven by an overall dearth of attention
to the genre within music and sound studies. As scholars Omri and Marianna
Ruah-Midbar put it, “The absence of a significant body of research on such a
prevalent and influential phenomenon constitutes a political act of exclusion”
(2012: 77). New Age’s perennial exclusion from critical musicological inquiry is
further noted by another scholar who claims that “New Age music is somewhat
unique from other music genres in its overwhelmingly negative deployment as a
source of contrast from which authentic works are distinguished, as well as in its
representation of a perceived way of life” (Hibbett 2010: 283).
In short, this article is an act of inclusion, placing the New Age genre
in dialogue with conversations about the role of our species in a geologic age
in which humans are having significant impacts on the fate of the planet. By
listening to how this form of functional music imagines environments, I argue
that New Age reflects and thrives on anxieties of the Anthropocene through
its recurrent slippage between the amplification and erasure of the self. This
argument addresses the following questions: How do the spiritual dimensions
of New Age music harmonize with non-human environments as a means to
shape consumer subjectivity? What are the consistent sonic and visual aesthetics
of New Age? What are the consequences of New Age subjectivity as it represents
and consumes the natural world and its resources?
Studies in musicology and ecocriticism have converged in ecomusicology,
a field that “considers musical and sonic issues, both textual and performative,
related to ecology and the natural environment” (Allen 2011: 392). This article
presses toward these guiding themes of ecomusicology, particularly resonating
with ecomusicology scholar Jeff Titon’s emphasis on listening through the lens of
environmental crisis (2013). While neither approach to the genre clearly engages
with environmental fragility, it is necessary to consider the ways in which these
sounds reflect “how select composers understand the essential dynamic between
humanity and the rest of nature” (Von Glahn 2011: 403). I contribute to this
discourse by bringing specific New Age composers and their music into existing
ecomusicological frameworks with the intention of expanding the conversation
to include this oft-ignored, environmentally engaged music.
The first form of New Age I will explore, embodied through the music
and writing of Dr. Steven Halpern, positions the natural world as a kind of
vitamin to be figuratively ingested. The result is “sound health”: a balancing of
the chakras, a holistic medication for a frantic world. Halpern’s brand of New
Age speaks of a non-human environment placed in concert with cascading
Fender Rhodes keyboard arpeggios that press toward a reality in which nature
is there to be consumed. For Halpern, this musical medication fuels positive
growth of physical, spiritual, and even monetary gains.
The second form of New Age finds music figuring the non-human world
in reverse. The world of William Ackerman’s Windham Hill records presents an
environmental imaginary in which nature dissolves, or consumes, the human.
With artist anonymity and stock natural imagery as central promotional
components, Windham Hill presents an environment where music functions as
an escape into high-fidelity oblivion. While Windham Hill carries the wanderlust
torch of exotica and other forms of easy listening, their projects take it to a new
level: instead of escaping to an imaginary island populated by exoticized Others,
or blasting off in a spaceship to the moon, Ackerman & Co. open the field for
the listener to occupy a familiar but unknowable environment. It is the essence
of a stock photo of nature. It is somewhere you might have been or wish to
return to, but will never be able to find.
Healing Histories
We begin with a brief history of the genre. The sounds under analysis in
this article emerged after the second-wave of American environmentalism in
the 1970s. As we will see, the New Age genre builds on earlier and parallel
histories of music which emphasize utopian ideals of relaxation, inner-peace,
and ecological harmony. Idealized depictions of the natural world are often
used as visual, textual, and aural referents within the New Age context, drawing
boundaries and enforcing particular conceptions of the natural world. Since
its inception, the sonic system of New Age music has been loosely connected
to pseudo-Eastern philosophical and visual aesthetics. This unique musical
movement gained momentum in “alternative healing communities in the
USA in the late 1970s,” touting beliefs “in the ultimate cultural evolution of
human societies through the transformation of individuals” (Schreiner 2001).
The genre’s resulting sonic qualities include, but are not limited to, minimal
harmonic movement, reverberant studio production, and spare rhythmic
motifs. Based in northern California, Dr. Steven Halpern and Will Ackerman
released albums in 1975 and 1976, solidifying their roles as pioneering figures
of the genre. These artists are not only sonically related but also share aesthetic
connections in their marketing approaches through their consistent reference
to the natural environment. By self-releasing and self-promoting their records,
the artists spearheaded the sonic and visual aesthetics of the genre, developing
the template for the soon-to-be ubiquitous presence of New Age music through
the 1980s to the 2000s.
A decade before the experiments of Ackerman and Halpern, jazz
clarinetist Tony Scott collaborated with Shinichi Yuize and Hozan Yamamoto
to create Music for Zen Meditation (and other joys) (1965). This is often cited as
the first New Age record, in that it melds the functional purposes of relaxation
and meditation with ecologically oriented attributes of Zen practice. In the
liner notes, British philosopher Alan Watts proclaims, “Zen is a way of living
... through which people experience themselves, not as separate beings, but as
one with the whole universe, of which every individual is a unique expression”
(1964).
The New Age movement conceives of spirituality in environmental
terms, exemplified by Watts’ insistence that the Zen artist “puts both his skill
and his instrument ... at the disposal of the Tao, the Way of Nature, so that
his art becomes as natural as the clouds and the waves — which never make
aesthetic mistakes” (1964). Watts concludes by honing in on the sensation of
when the “separate ‘I’ gets rid of itself.” This emptying out of oneself intertwines
enlightenment with environmental phenomena, thus creating a listening state
wherein “hearing the sound of a flute ... lets the player play whatever tune he
likes” (1964). Watts instructs the listener, through anthropomorphic language,
to “[let] your mind go until there is no one to let go of it, but only Waters
flowing on and on by themselves; Flowers of themselves growing red” (1964). This
posture of surrender places an explicit faith in the forces of nature, dissolving

the human body and agency in the process.
Yet, as we will see, this meditational method of emptying oneself out is
not the only option. An alternative proposed by New Age music is to fill oneself
with musical sound, with particular musical intervals and timbres playing roles
akin to that of a vitamin supplement. This ability for New Age music to go both
ways underscores its salient characteristics of flexibility and multi-functionality,
its unique ability to flow in, out, and through contexts of spirituality and
commerce. Bound up in this dissonant counterpoint, the messages of New Age
music often conflict in intention: the only way to peace is to purchase. From
its earliest iterations, as heard and seen in Tony Scott’s Music for Zen Meditation
(and other joys), this form of functional music remains flexible, prescribing
specific uses as well as the opportunity for other joys.
Still, the term goes back even further, perhaps most famously emerging
in the early 19th-century work of William Blake. In his preface to “Milton: A
Poem in Two Books,” Blake writes in a prophetic mode, announcing that “all
will be set right” when the “New Age is at leisure to pronounce” (1997: 95).
As Ryan Hibbett notes, Blake’s argument for “the mythological and literary
supremacy of the Bible over classical literature,” works as a paradoxical call to
move forward by reaching back to the earliest texts of culture (Hibbett 2010:
284). In this way, “Young men of the New Age” will achieve true spiritual
insight (284).
These Blakean ideals of seeking spiritual truth through artistic expression,
free from the shackles of contemporary fashions — “Suffer not the fashionable
Fools to depress your powers” (Blake 1997: 95) — have resonated throughout
the New Age genre since its inception in the mid-20th century. Yet, New Age
music and its surrounding cultures have continually maintained a finger on the
pulse of the “fashions of the day,” innovatively adapting a diverse range of sonic
and visual styles into its ever-evolving identity. Indeed, as Hibbett rightly notes,
the concept of New Age as a broad system of aesthetics and beliefs has been in a
“centuries long dialectic — as a persevering attempt to recode existing bodies of
knowledge, such as religion and science, in a language that better suits a given
population’s needs” (2010: 287).
Record collector and visual artist Anthony Pearson illuminates this
paradox of bodily presence and erasure evident in the work of Halpern and
Ackerman:
Everybody holds back and creates this very even thing to sort of
extinguish the self. So, you don’t see the designers, and you don’t
see everything come to the forefront. Everything is kind of tapered
in this way. Which is very odd, because then the ideas behind it
are always about trying to tend to the self: self-improvement, self-
realization. There is this very strange conflation of the self and the
non-self, or obliterating the ego. (2011: 53)
This article builds on Pearson’s insights by considering how these multidirectional

processes create different moods associated with the construction of
environmental imaginaries.
As moods are central to all forms of functional music, we must consider
how these affective signs and codes work in the spiritual-consumerist sphere
of New Age music under examination. As Hibbett notes, “mood music ...
assimilated various strands of music, from classical and jazz to Broadway and
world music, to a mass American audience enjoying phonographs, televisions,
and international vacations in the postwar era” (2010: 292). Mood music
historically employs compositional tactics associated with Western classical
music such as “large string sections and strong thematic continuity across an
extended length of music” (Keightley 2008: 319). Alongside this tip of the hat
toward “high-brow” culture, mood music firmly rests in the middle-brow by
embracing a distinctly utilitarian, commercial aesthetic, generating LPs that
were “frequently conceived as background accompaniment for activities that
were highlighted and elaborated upon in the album’s title, artwork, and liner
notes” (319). Groups such as 101 Strings and The Ray Conniff Singers have
been placed alongside jazz artists Chet Baker and Gerry Mulligan and exotica
pioneers Martin Denny and Les Baxter to make up a wide definition of sounds
that produce temporary states of feeling.
The trajectory of New Age builds upon and inverts mood music’s
penchant for assimilation by eschewing familiar tunes in the name of originals.
In the process, it further domesticates the sounds of new electronic musical
technologies by infusing their presence into an acoustic instrumental dialogue.
This dialogue resounds with metaphorical overtones, touting promises of healing
and recovery from the world outside the living room, thereby naturalizing
relationships between technology, spirituality, and the environment in the
process. As Joseph Lanza notes:
Beautiful Music supplies ghost tunes of originals ... space music

[New Age] distills the ghost tune’s mood, its sound, and a smidgen
of its style and reprocesses it into an “original” composition once
again, this time unanchored to any distinct emotional or historical
context. (2004: 189)
Across the Atlantic, an equally spacious, more electronically oriented form

of functional music emerged alongside North American New Age. Ambient
music retains a focus on mood, erasure of human bodies, the presence of nature,
and the development of particular states of mind, yet maintains a deeper tie to
ambivalence. This is best summarized through Erik Satie’s emphasis of sounds
to be played in the background with his Musique d’ameublement (furniture
music), and Brian Eno’s coining of the ambient genre in the liner notes for
Ambient 1 (Music for Airports) when he famously noted that “it must be as
ignorable as it is interesting” (1978). While these genres contain a significant
number of sonic similarities, with general emphasis on spacious production
values and minimal harmonic movement, their distinguishing aesthetic
differences lie in their philosophical relationships to doubt and the role of
non-human nature. The playful and critical perspectives of composers like
Satie and Eno embrace a deeply critical distance from prescriptive relationships
with the natural world, whereas the general New Age environmental imaginary
eschews critical engagement with the complicated idea of nature in favour of a
utilitarian approach. The goal of making such music could be, for example, to
heal a particular physical or psychological condition, or perhaps to revel in the
melancholic nostalgia associated with the month of December.
The dislocation of the human from a stable physical environment into
a destabilized imaginary one has remained a characteristic of functional music
throughout the late 20th century. Brian Eno’s articulation of doubt along
with exotica artists such as Les Baxter and Martin Denny taking listeners
to imaginary lands and galaxies reflects such investments. While New Age
mimics the otherworldly experience of electronic ambient music in which “the
performer and the sense of music as performance are erased,” there remains a
crucial connection to everyday, domestic experience (Grove Hall 1994: 25).
Dr. Steven Halpern’s Sonic Supplements
As tones ring out across a pentatonic scale played on a Fender Rhodes piano,
reference to melodic hooks disappear. The steady pulse of pop music gives way
to a floating cascade of pitches that drape across a consistent harmonic key
centre. There is ample opportunity to relax to the sounds of Dr. Steven Halpern’s
Chakra Suite (2010), healing from the trappings of modern life, embracing and
consuming the natural world in the process.
Halpern is considered one of the forefathers of the New Age music
movement. His independently released Christening for Listening (A Soundtrack
for Every Body) (1975) offers listeners two contrasting views of the composer.
Side 1 is made up of seven colour-coded tracks in various keys: “Keynote C:

Red,” “Keynote D: Orange,” etc. Side 2 consists of jazz funk cuts with electric
bass, Fender Rhodes piano (an electric keyboard which emerged en masse in the
1970s and was embraced by pop and jazz fusion musicians alike), and minimal
harmonic movement, reminiscent of Miles Davis releases such as Bitches Brew
(1970) and In a Silent Way (1969).
As a transplant from New York to San Francisco, Halpern began to
experiment with intersections of music and healing by engaging with the New
Age communities that have long existed in the Bay Area. As an integral part
of the New Age infrastructure in the area, Halpern got his start in the genre as
a performing musician at Big Sur’s Esalen Institute, recording his pieces after
requests from guests began to flow in. These musical experiments were balanced
by Halpern’s master’s thesis in psychology at Lone Mountain College. His thesis,
“Towards a contemporary psychology of music,” provided the foundation for
the composer-author’s future work.
Throughout Halpern’s broad discography of over 70 releases at the time
of this writing, the composer has maintained a key investment in recycling
his material. For example, his debut release, Christening for Listening, has been
repackaged and retitled over ten times. This theme of recycling guides a brief
overview of Halpern’s career and figures as a central philosophical component of
Halpern’s approach to New Age music. By tying together spirituality, psychology,
and medical terminology, Halpern has made a career out of positioning his
Fender Rhodes drones as medicinal music. These tones are composed with
the intention of achieving a form of “sound health,” which, incidentally, is the
name of his second published book.
In Chapter 10 of Sound Health, Halpern takes up the subject of the
“sound imagination,” noting the “healing power of imagery” (Halpern and
Savary 1985: 101). As part of a guided exercise on “how to relax with inner
imagery,” Halpern prescribes a particular series of steps (107). After finding a
location and time to get in a comfortable position and close one’s eyes, Halpern
suggests one play music and “allow your imagination to visualize pleasant
surroundings — a beautiful meadow filled with flowers, a sparkling bubbly
stream, the beach and ocean, or your own favorite scene” (108).
In the introduction to The International Guide to New Age Music, Halpern
further articulates his image-centric visions of sonic health by braiding together
images of spiritual dissonance:
People … no longer believed the world could satisfy their personal

life visions because they observed how they increasingly lost
themselves in a loud chase for a very insecure future. Disharmony
ruled, interpersonal contacts became increasingly superficial,

and people experienced a notable spiritual lack. In search of a
counterbalance, an interpretation of life in which they could find
themselves, many individuals joined therapy groups or practiced
yoga and meditation. Here, too, New Age music was a balm that
salved the wound, so to speak. (Werkhoven 1998: vi)
Here, Halpern conflates imagery (life visions) and medicine (salve) with sound
(loud chase, disharmony). This nexus of multitextuality can be heard in the
flowing tones of Halpern’s composition “1st Chakra: Keynote C,” the opening
piece on his Chakra Suite album. This album contains the same pieces that
appear on at least ten different Halpern albums, including Christening for
Listening.
The piece itself opens with a low C that ascends via the fifth of G to an
octave and begins a stair-stepping sequence through a major pentatonic scale.
The warm tones emanate from his Fender Rhodes keyboard while a sustain
pedal remains depressed through the three-minute affair, as a thin, sweeping
synthesizer pad spans out through a heavily reverbed second track. The pad
simply oscillates between two different octave pitches of C until it incorporates
submerged chord tones of the third and fifth intervals at apparently improvised
moments.
This sonic experience is intended to encourage a positive mood. The
description above articulates, in theoretical terms, the sounds of contentment.
This mood became a sonic commonplace through consistent audiovisual
connections between major key tonalities and positive narrative moments
with the inception of cinema in the early 20th century. Add to this the timbral
character of the piece, with its shimmering echoes and vibrating pitches, and
the listener is firmly placed in an aquatic, womb-like atmosphere.
To the trained and untrained ear alike, this sonic imaginary conjures
up omnidirectional relationships to sound. As Western listeners have been
trained to anticipate the predictable changes of verse, pre-chorus, and chorus in
popular music, Halpern’s brand of New Age seeks to obliterate this progression
in the name of floating in all places at once. Though never acknowledged by the
composer, Halpern’s New Age works as a more consumer-friendly version of
the progress-through-stasis achieved in Terry Riley’s In C (1968). Additionally,
Halpern’s sonic supplements reflect psychoanalytic engagements with film
music, which connect to this aural state of being, as the listener is soaked in a
“bath or gel of affect” (Gorbman 1987: 5).
The 2010 Chakra Suite recycles 35-year-old compositions and presents
Halpern’s idiosyncratic brand of cover art. The album’s cover image features the
vacant, shadowy profile of a human figure in a meditative, cross-legged lotus

position with hands resting on knees opened to the sky. A vertical strand of seven
circles, each colour-coded to merge the seven musical keys with the colours of
the rainbow, is digitally overlaid on top of the body. A translucent treble clef
floats between the body and the circles, re-emphasizing the connection between
inner harmony and the apparently digestible tones which promise healing and
recovery.
Henk Werkhoven, editor of The International Guide to New Age Music,
who hired Halpern to write the introduction, considers New Age music as a
respite, giving “its listeners the opportunity to, for a moment, leave this hectic,
noisy world behind and enter a haven of tranquility and relaxation where
they can take time to catch their breath” (Werkhoven 1998: vii). Contrary to
Fig 1. Dr. Steven Halpern’s Chakra Suite (cover).

Halpern’s positioning of music and the environment as something to ingest,

Werkhoven positions the music as a “haven” to enter and where listeners can
recover, ultimately contributing to “an increase in the harmony within and
between people” (vii). In Werkhoven’s view, New Age music allows the listener
to escape the everyday world and enter a new reality through sonic immersion.
Halpern, on the other hand, constructs a reality in which music is applied to the
self as a topical salve or ingested like a vitamin. This idea of ingestion is further
clarified through Halpern’s articulation of New Age music’s branding: “Truth-
in-packaging is a concept that has worked well in other fields, including health
foods and herbal supplements” (ix).
This sense of musical sound as a medicinal supplement to daily life is
further expounded upon in another New Age music guide published ten years
before Werkhoven’s volume. The New Age Music Guide: Profiles and Recordings of
500 Top New Age Musicians by Patti Jean Birosik (1989) presents an exhaustive
list of various sects of the solidifying New Age genre as well as an introduction
by Halpern. In her preface, Birosik likens New Age to rock music’s cultural
influence, pointing out that rock “didn’t merely influence, it sledgehammered
its message” (1989: ix). She goes on to say:
New Age music is more subtle but no less effective; it is created by

conscientious artists who are knowledgeable about the effects of
sound on the mind of the listener. Instead of being taken as pure
entertainment, New Age music can be “used” to induce a wide
variety of mental and emotional responses. New Age music is the
ultimate blend of art and science. (ix-x)
In Halpern’s brand of New Age, this abstract notion of how to listen is

further complicated by a sense of where the listener is conceptually located.
The composer’s emphasis on blurring lines of inside/outside sonic binaries
is reflective of American experimental composer and accordionist Pauline
Oliveros’ “altered state of consciousness full of inner sounds” that inform her
concept of Deep Listening (2005: xv). From the start, Halpern claims that “it
is music that employs time, space, and silence as a sonic vehicle to get the
listener into closer contact with his/her spiritual nature” (Werkhoven 1998:
viii). Positioning the music as a vehicle applies a mobilized sense of the music,
promising a “closer contact” with “spiritual nature.” But where is this “spiritual
nature” and how does it relate to non-human nature?
Halpern sheds light on the possible relationship between these particular
human and non-human phenomena, quoting music critic Lee Underwood,
saying that New Age music functions to provide “emotional, psychological, and
spiritual nourishment. It offers peace, joy, bliss, and the opportunity to discover
within ourselves our own highest nature” (Birosik 1989: xv). Taking into account
this model, along with the attributes of Halpern’s expansive healing tones and
multilayered artwork, nature seems to be discoverable through ingesting proper
musical material, which, in turn, leads to nourishment, peace, and, as declared
in Tony Scott’s album title, other joys. In Halpern’s world, such other joys include
“this healing power that has brought New Age music into common use in both
hospitals and executive boardrooms” (Werkhoven 1998: xxi).
In this final turn of phrase, we find a strength particular to New Age:
strength as a form of functional music that sutures contexts of commerce and
recovery, healing, and upward mobility. As Halpern continues in Birosik’s
Guide, New Age is a special form of organized sound that “encourages personal
empowerment, earth connectedness, space consciousness, and interpersonal
awareness” (1989: ix). The consistent conflation of the physical, consumer, and
spiritual self steers Halpern’s vision of a form of music that, at every turn, leads
to growth, success, progress, and development. These “consciousness-changing
abilities can increase the mental and emotional health of those who listen to it,”
shaping listeners into ideal New Age consumers, consumers who wish “to make
educated, informed choices, and who are looking for a specific effect” (x).
In both Sound Health and Birosik’s Guide, Halpern prescribes the basic
tenets of how harmony, melody, rhythm, timbre, and texture are to be used
for maximum effect. Addressing the role of harmony, he notes that “most true
New Age music is based on harmony and consonance, rather than dissonance”
(Birosik 1989: xvi). Melodic content exists “without the sound ‘hooks’ that
characterize virtually all popular music. When we eliminate the straitjacket of
predetermined patterns, we open up new ways of organizing and experiencing
sound for ourselves” (xvii). Halpern strategically gives no mention of deep
histories of non-harmonic-based music from around the globe, such as ragas,
chants, and other forms of meditative sonic practice.
In talking about opening ourselves up, Halpern reflects New Age DJ and
record label owner Stephen Hill’s notion that listeners (and musicians) “enter
the space by allowing it to enter us ... such music takes us beyond ourselves and
through ourselves” (Birosik 1989: xvii). Halpern’s notions of rhythm, timbre,
and texture continue the recurrent trend of imagining environments as fluid
and consumable. The controlled timbres and predictable harmonic progressions
of this approach to New Age music are shared across the philosophical spectrum
of how this form of functional music is meant to function.
In this next section, I consider an altogether different, but no less
functional, form of New Age. This brand of New Age — and it is very much
a brand — takes Halpern’s spiritualized sonic remedies and turns them inside
out. Such an aesthetic flip reveals a whole host of equally compelling visions of
the non-human environment, ultimately figuring an ecological scenario devoid
of human figures altogether.
Disappearing on a Windham Hill
Just down the road from Steven Halpern’s Marin County studio, a Stanford
University dropout was recording and peddling his fingerstyle guitar music
to local New Age bookstores and friends throughout the San Mateo area. The
guitarist and fledgling label owner, William Ackerman, was consumed by the
innovative eclecticism of guitarists John Fahey and Robbie Basho, both of whom
released records on his nascent Windham Hill label.
Windham Hill’s initial release, The Search for the Turtle’s Navel (1976), finds
Ackerman laying out the aesthetic priorities of the label: reverberating acoustic
guitar vignettes, digital synthesizer drones, and a general focus on instrumental
music. Much of the label’s output can be heard as a distillation of the more
aggressively original sounds of Euro-American folk music. While Halpern has
emphasized the healing properties of music, Ackerman and his Windham Hill
artists take a different tack, retaining a more ambiguous posture. Intimacy,
anonymity, and the fantastical are key characteristics that inform the Windham
Hill experience. Song titles on a variety of Windham Hill releases reflect these
aesthetics, often taking on surreal qualities: “What the Buzzard Told Suzanne,”
“The Age of Steam,” “Dance for the Death of a Bird,” and “Slow Motion Roast
Beef Restaurant Seduction.” With this mutated sense of ethical naturalism
which binds together consumerism, wild nature, and machines, Windham Hill
embodies environmental historian William Cronon’s idea of the “domesticated
sublime” (Cronon 1996: 75).
The domesticated sublime maintains a sacred relationship with the
wilderness as defined by Thoreau and Wordsworth but replaces their notions of “a
grand cathedral or a harsh desert retreat” with a “pleasant parish church” (Cronon
1996: 75). The transcendentalists’ traditional, romantic sentiments about the
wilderness stand in contrast to John Muir’s musings on the Yosemite Valley.
As Muir is perched “humbly prostrate before the vast display of God’s power,”
fearless while drinking this “champagne water,” he reflects a view of the wilderness
as accessible and approachable (76). In this way, Cronon’s idea of the domesticated
sublime articulates the process of attempting to contain the unwieldy terror of
nature at its wildest in order to package it for mass consumption.
As the 20th century came into view, a number of national parks such as
Yosemite, Grand Canyon, and Yellowstone were established, drawing boundaries
and crowds alike. Along with this increase in tourism came increased levels of
comfort with environments that had formerly been received in states of awe
and piety. In short, the American environmental imagination was transforming.
Along with this transformation came new views on what to do with these havens
of the domesticated sublime. Were these spaces meant to be historically cast in
plaster, frozen in time for eternity? Or were they to be continually open for
consumption, regularly managed for planned use and renewal?
The former view mirrors historically preservationist views, a perspective
advocated by Muir and others. The latter view is summed up in the conservation
ethic, a call to produce from the forest whatever it can yield to man. At first
glance, preservation and conservation viewpoints stand at ethical odds with
each other. Preservation calls for an ideal of untouched authenticity, harkening
back to an imagined purity free from the clutches of humanity. Conservation
is explicit in its interest in environmental generativity for the sake of human
progress. Yet, what often goes unnoticed are the consequences of preservationist
approaches, consequences which historically displace large numbers of people
in the name of capturing an ideal for the privileged to consume. Conservationist
approaches, on the other hand, also speak to a perpetuation of anonymity
amongst non-human environments. There is no postcard-perfect tree to
behold. Instead, there are multiple trees to be filed into a cycle of growth and
consumption.
Forester and politician Gifford Pinchot pioneered the conservationist
perspective, and it is this approach to ecology that takes shape in the
imaginaries produced by Windham Hill. The label’s smoothed out visual
and sonic aesthetic presents an analog of Pinchot’s utilitarian ideals of
reconstructing nature. Through the creation of a dependably commodified
musical assembly line, Windham Hill conserves these comforting depictions of
nature for sustained commercial production. Ecomusicologist Brooks Toliver’s
observation on Grofe’s Grand Canyon Suite (1931) reflects a similar inversion
of tendencies of domestication “to celebrate wilderness and to dominate it
symbolically” (Toliver 2004: 342). The challenge posed by the Grand Canyon
to narratives of mastery, as Toliver points out, is that the canyon itself is
primarily viewed from above, in a state of immediate power. The shape of
Windham Hill environmental imaginaries adds equal complexity to the idea of
the domesticated sublime as the covers and sounds seem to derive their power
from a controlled set of environmental abstractions that connote promises of a
controlled evaporation of specificity.
The branding strategies and record production practices of the label
are congruent with the music’s sonic tendencies. Artist anonymity guides the
Windham Hill experience. The music and its extramusical components speak
to the importance of visually and textually framing sounds in ways that subsume
both the body and the musical content itself. Inevitably, the product for sale is
a lifestyle that seemingly contains musical sound within the envelope of visual
and textual components.
These ideas of sound as contained and image as container are contrary to
sound theorist and composer Michel Chion’s observation that sound is in fact
uncontainable. Unlike the filmic image, which is contained by an actual frame,
Chion argues that film sound, when listened to independent of the image, “feels
like a formless audio layer” (2009: 226-227). He goes on to note that the “frame’s
pre-existence with respect to the image is specific to film: it does not adapt its
format to what is shown” (227). This pre-existence of the frame “orients and
imposes hierarchy on images and results in the image, the image that the frame
has totalized and structured” (227). But imagery is always transcended by the
shapelessness of sound. By emphasizing sound’s uncontainable quality, we can
approach the framing devices used by Windham Hill as attempts to contain the
uncontainable.
Of course, Chion’s emphasis on the “dissymmetry between what we see
and what we hear” can be mapped into any multitextual sonic space (2009:
227). Yet, what interests me most in interrogating how this dissymmetry and
shapelessness is manifest within the Windham Hill imaginary are the ways
in which the label reverses the process, framing whole seasons and other
environmental phenomena. Through this process, the role of the image is
reversed. While filmic sound is often interpreted as working in the service of
the image, the cohesive packaging and abundance of natural imagery which
floods the Windham Hill experience positions the visual world as subservient
to sound.
This asymmetry of environmental imagery, new musical technologies,
and attention to intimacy places both the works of Halpern and Windham
Hill in unique positions as highly personalized forms of functional music.
While Halpern’s miniaturizations personalize non-human environments in
the form of sonic supplement, Windham Hill’s brand of personalization takes
shape through a kind of bodiless musical expression, a musical space opened
for the listener to enter and where she can imagine the music as her own. This
welcoming space is reflected quite literally in both uncluttered album covers
and record production techniques that embrace heavy use of spatializing effects
such as reverb and delay.
As media studies scholar Helfried Zrzavy points out, the cohesion of
album art amongst such a diversity of thematic content reflects innumerable
paradoxes inherent in the genre. The author notes five recurring characteristics
of New Age record covers: 1) Stark white, black, or brown covers, which leave
significant space around a framed image; 2) The image is most likely a landscape
photo or depictions of shrouded or out-of-focus urban or natural phenomena;
3) In lieu of a photograph, an abstract image which evokes natural phenomena;
4) Fantastical imagery evoking imaginary “scapes”; 5) The general absence
of the artist on the cover (1990: 41-46). These characteristics support New
Age music’s amplification of the general over the specific, such as the use of
stock footage of nature in place of particular locales, which reflects the genre’s
paradoxical homogenization of heterogeneous musical material.
This tendency to offer up imaginary “scapes” as spaces in which to exercise
the sonic imagination encourage the Windham Hill listener to move into the
label’s consuming aesthetic. Anne Robinson, CEO of Windham Hill, further
clarifies the label’s album cover philosophy:
Fig 2. Anonymous environments and artists (Windham Hill cover).

We look at the jackets as objects that are there to entertain — and

to create an atmosphere for the listener. They offer a beginning
illustration of what the record and what the music is all about. I
think putting an image of the artist on the cover keeps people from
being able to think creatively ... about the music. I feel our records
give the listener little vignettes — hints and suggestions — of the
world of the musician, of groups of musicians, sees [sic]. We are
really seeking to describe a mood with our records. (qtd. in Zrzavy
1990: 49)
By coupling a mood, or state of temporary feeling, with the ability to think
Fig 3. Climbing out of the frame (Windham Hill).

creatively, Robinson hones in on the need for ambiguity as a central tenet of

the Windham Hill experience. Label co-owner William Ackerman connects
this sweeping approach of “hints and suggestions” to the listener’s inner, or
emotional, landscape: “I personally feel that the range of human emotions that
are being attempted and communicated now are more subtle and intimate and
personal” (qtd. in Karpel 1984: 206). Such covers feature natural worlds and
even anonymous portions of human figures.
A particular tune that exemplifies these ephemeral characteristics of
anonymity is Ackerman’s own “Visiting,” originally released on his 1983 album
Past Light, and also featured on the 1985 sampler An Invitation to Windham
Hill. The piece fades in slowly with Ackerman droning on his unfretted sixth
string sounding as a C#. The composer takes cues from acoustic folk players
such as John Fahey and Robbie Basho by exploiting the timbral possibilities
of a non-standard guitar tuning. Tuned to BF#D#F#C#F# and capo’ed on the
second fret, the guitarist rolls through ascending arpeggios as his instrument
is lightly processed with digital reverb and chorus. After signalling the first
section with a series of overdubbed harmonics, Chuck Greenberg enters
on the lyricon, an electronic wind instrument which makes use of additive
synthesis and was co-designed by Greenberg along with others at Computone
Inc. Bathed in reverb, Greenberg’s main refrain descends from the fourth to
third to root scale degrees, opening the space for fretless bass pioneer Michael
Manring to provide an undulating foundation from the third to second to root.
After two minutes of cycling through the repetitive A-section, players move
toward the♭VII signalling a mixolydian quality. The piece then increases in
dynamic range cycling through an unstable IV-V-vii progression, avoiding the
I to increase anticipation. The piece concludes unresolved, emphasizing a new
centre, featuring the♭VII as root, cueing the listener to the ephemeral nature of
visiting particularly undefined keys, centres, and environments.
As displayed above, the Windham Hill aesthetic is paradoxical as it
aims for intimacy through close-mic techniques bathed in echoing delay while
shrouding the sounds in the infinite flexibility of stock imagery and song titles.
As such, recording technologies play a crucial role in infusing the Windham
Hill aesthetic with a technologized presence. These maneuvers obfuscate the
role of the human, highlighting a broader focus on anonymity, a concept which
challenges traditional postures of authorial domination. The following section
highlights the centrality of anonymity to the New Age sonic communities
under analysis. Michel Foucault’s work on the shifting role of the author sets up
a foundation from which to explore the explicit and implicit use of anonymity
in New Age marketing and compositional practice.
Making Space for Nobody
In reference to their unique marketing practices, Windham Hill executive

Anne Robinson states that “with no people or specific places on our covers,
these packages ask more questions than they answer” (qtd. in Zrzavy 1990:
49). This approach articulates the importance of avoiding specificity in order to
free up listeners to immerse themselves in the personalized sonic environments
designed by the label. The concept of anonymity is central to Halpern’s work
as well as to the Windham Hill catalogue as a whole. But before exploring the
specific ways in which anonymity figures into the works of the artists and labels
under investigation, I will briefly address how the phenomenon of anonymity
has taken shape and been interrogated in broader contexts of content producers
and consumers.
Building on Samuel Beckett’s Stories and Texts for Nothing (1967) and the
insistent question of why it matters who is speaking, Michel Foucault’s essay
“What is an Author?” (1969) tackles romantic ideals of individual expression
through writing. He argues that this necessity of individual expression and
credit is reversed through the transformation of writing into “an interplay of
signs.” This interplay is “regulated less by the content it signifies than by the
very nature of the signifier.” Such flexibility within the signification process
forgoes “exalted emotions” in the name of “creating an opening where the
writing subject endlessly disappears” (Foucault 1977: 115).
This “endless disappearance” is followed by an acceptance of anonymity.
As Foucault notes, literary texts have maintained oscillating relationships with
authenticity based on the age of the manuscript. Basically, the older the text,
the more its authenticity is related to the tracelessness or unknownness of the
author. This shape-shifting obsession with authorial identity takes on a different
form depending on historical and topical contexts.
Foucault points out how changing societal relationships and priorities are
manifest within the history of scientific texts. In the Middle Ages, the legitimacy
of texts hinged on knowing their authorship. Yet, during the Enlightenment,
scientific texts were “accepted on their own merits and positioned within an
anonymous and coherent conceptual system” (1977: 126). Different eras are
marked by different associations between authorial identity and authenticity.
Within the realm of Western Art Music, the historical picture is much more
rigid, reflecting a culture of continued obsession with marking, coding, and
cataloguing composer output and generic boundaries.
Foucault next criticizes the obsession within literary studies to locate the
author at all costs to maintain the traditionally authoritative structure of author-
reader. This one-way contract enforces a hierarchical relationship to content
production and reception. As an alternative, Foucault builds on Romantic era

ideas of communally creative folk cultures, prompting us to “imagine a culture
where discourses could circulate without any need for an author” (1977: 138).
And it is here, in these European, folk-like sonic-cultural spaces, that the New
Age entertainment complex resonates. The concept of anonymity is crucial to
the production and reception of the New Age music here under analysis.
New Age music marketing practices hold paradoxical relationships to the
role of the self. As record collector Anthony Pearson writes:
The idea of New Age is also a very social idea, and there is a strange
conflation that goes on between “the self,” which you are supposed
to get rid of, and “the self,” which is the constant preoccupation of
the New Age movement. (2011: 50)
New Age records remove the current body in favour of opening a natural space
in which an idealized body can be inserted. This subsumption of the human
body within a nondescript, more-than-human sonic space indicates that New
Age does the utilitarian work of reclaiming lost impulses, effectively bringing
the garden into the machine (Marx 1964). The listener, then, is formed as a
subject capable of transporting and being transported. This, in turn, speaks
to the synthesizing function of New Age music to simultaneously dissolve the
human into nature and nature into the human.
Fading Out
Intertwining environmental text and imagery with spacious, comforting sounds

finds the aim of both forms of New Age explored herein solidifying vague notions
of ecological abstractions. Such abstractions share equally anonymous traits with
the role played by stock imagery and music, PowerPoint templates, and model
homes. In each approach, whether painstakingly prescribed or encouraged to
disappear, the New Age subject is pressed to embrace an ecological scenario of
anonymity and spaciousness.
In a 1997 issue of Billboard Magazine, these aesthetics of artist anonymity
are explored directly through how they relate to marketing practices (See Fig. 4).
Throughout the issue, label owners and radio hosts give voice to the prevalence
of artist anonymity as a marketing technique. Stephen Hill, president of Hearts
of Space Records notes that “it has to do with perceived risk … from a listener’s
point of view, a compilation based on a concept they are already familiar with is
a safer buying choice” (Diliberto 1997: 39). This “safer buying choice” provides
a comfortable space to first purchase then sonically immerse oneself. With no

threats to specific bodies (of a specific sex and ethnicity), the listener can fully (dis)
engage and trust their consumptive relationship with sonic environments.
Key to the New Age ethos is the delicate balance of emphasizing the
personal and individual through anonymity and predictable musical choices.
The aesthetic advocates mystery by way of maximum security. Music scholar
Fig 4. Foregrounded environments, erased bodies.

Helfried Zrzavy notes that an “examination of the New Age phenomenon is

hampered by a general unfamiliarity with New Age artists whose names, unlike
those of pop or rock n’ roll stars, largely remain subordinate to the record labels
for which they perform” (1990: 35). Through a general lack of physical visibility
on record covers, New Age artists on the Windham Hill label essentially dissolve
into a bodiless environment.
A notable exception to artist anonymity in the New Age environmental
imaginary is the Windham Hill pianist, guitarist, and composer George
Winston. Along with artists such as Yanni, Enya, and Vangelis, Winston has
been a top-selling New Age artist for the better part of four decades because his
recordings and concerts attract listeners who associate a certain kind of music
with him in particular. Yet Winston’s compositions share the New Age sound
aesthetic. As Bob Doerschuk writes:
Despite their many differences in style and sound, all these artists
[including Winston] share a love of soft textures and silent spaces,
and a tendency to take a static approach — without a sense of
movement toward cadences or of operating within traditional
structure, where verse leads to chorus, and free of the tensions that
these cadences resolve. (1989: 94)
This sense of moving but never arriving is found in consistent attempts to reflect
particular times and spaces free from their broader contexts.
Winston expounds on these impressionistic tendencies in his album
Autumn (1980):
The important thing about Autumn is that it’s about the autumn,
not that it’s a piano record. It could have been a painting, or a
guitar piece; it’s the autumn idea that I’m really into ... what I’m
doing now with the seasons albums is sort of impressionistic — it’s
music describing some idea or picture — and a lot of the music I
listened to as a kid was impressionistic too ... they’re mood pieces.
I’m trying more to create an impression of something than to
produce an absolute piece of music that somebody might want to
transcribe or analyze. (qtd. in Doerschuck 1989: 97)
It is this erasure of the artist and listener which founder and flagship Windham
Hill artist William Ackerman touts as a central component of bringing people
together, and which, despite Winston’s name-recognition, makes him a New
Age musician. Ackerman notes: “We’d stumbled onto a sensibility. The wall
of sound [of rock music] was shutting people off ... Our careful miking [sic]
... and uncluttered recording technique restored a sense of intimacy between
performer and listener” (qtd. in Karpel 1984: 200). Here Ackerman attempts
to speak to the complicated balance held by the label in constructing a dialogue
between performer, listener, and the broader environmental imagination.
As we have seen, the task of this article has been to interrogate how New
Age music conceives of the environment as something to be consumed, yet which
has the power to consume. Attempting to achieve this balance embraces and
challenges long-held, white male-dominated narratives of how an awe-inspiring
but controllable nature circulates in North American environmental imaginaries.
The music under investigation presents acts of multitextual representation which
attempt to make analogies to the natural world. In the process, the listener is
shaped into an environmentally-attuned subject, hinging on circular philosophies
of commerce and spirituality. The construction of this complex subjectivity is
contingent on repeated interactions with such analogies, thus solidifying particular
relationships to environments. Whether through specific, prescriptive means or
generalized scenarios, New Age music’s processes of domestication naturalizes the
co-presence of technologies alongside seemingly natural phenomena. In this way,
New Age makes manifest its unique brand of ambivalence, a brand reflective of
attitudes toward the current environmental crisis.
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Discography
William Ackerman. 1976. The Search for the Turtle’s Navel. Windham Hill Records
WHS C-1001. LP.
———. 1983. Past Light. Windham Hill Records WD 1028. CD.
Miles Davis. 1969. In a Silent Way. Columbia Records CS 9875. LP.
———. 1970. Bitches Brew. Columbia Records GP 26. LP.
Brian Eno. 1978. Ambient 1 (Music for Airports). EG Polydor AMB 001. LP.
Ferde Grofe. 1931. Grand Canyon Suite. Columbia Masterworks M-463. LP.
Dr. Steven Halpern. 1975. Christening for Listening (A Soundtrack for Every Body).
Sound Principle Records MAP 2003. LP
———. 1975. Chakra Suite. Inner Peace Music IPM 8000. LP.
———. 2012. Self-Healing 2.0. Inner Peace Music IPM 2046. CD.
Terry Riley. 1968. In C. Columbia Masterworks MS 7178. LP.
Tony Scott. 1964. Music for Zen Meditation (and other joys). Verve Records V6-8634.
LP.
George Winston. 1980. Autumn. Windham Hill Records. WHS C-1012. LP
Various Artists. 1997. Summer Solstice. Windham Hill Records. 11239. CD.
Various Artists. 2004. Relaxation. Windham Hill Records. Sony 42942. CD.
Ecologies of Practice in Musical Performance
RANDALL HARLOW
Abstract: This article presents an ecological model of musical performance drawn from
the field of Gibsonian Ecological Psychology and the techniques of Actor-Network Theory
as explicated by Bruno Latour and others. Citing a wide body of empirical research, it
is argued that musicians and their musical instruments exist in an ecological relationship
at the level of embodied gesture. Furthermore, it is proposed that every act of musicking
amounts to a construction of a network of actors that define an “Ecology of Practice,” a thick
description more fully encompassing the complexities of musicking than traditional notions
of performance practice.
Harlow, Randall. 2018. Ecologies of Practice in Musical Performance. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 215-237.
Résumé : Cet article présente un modèle écologique de l’interprétation musicale inspiré du
champ de la psychologie écologique gibsonienne et des techniques de la théorie de l’acteur-
réseau telle que définie par Bruno Latour et d’autres. Sur la base d’un large corpus de recherche
empirique, il avance que les musiciens et leurs instruments existent dans une relation écologique
au niveau du geste incarné. En outre, il propose que chaque acte consistant à jouer de la
musique corresponde à la construction d’un réseau d’acteurs qui définissent une « écologie de la
pratique », description dense qui englobe plus pleinement les complexités du fait de jouer de la
musique que les notions de pratiques performancielles.
“He sits on the bench, engages the pedals, and pulls out the stops,
he sizes up the instrument with his body, he incorporates its
directions and dimensions, and he settles into the organ as one
settles into a house.”
Maurice Merleau-Ponty (2012 [1945]: 146)
W riting in 1945, Maurice Merleau-Ponty’s description of the

psychological state of an organist familiarizing himself with a new and
unfamiliar organ is notable not only as part of a work whose objective in
breaking down the dualisms of subject and object, perception and cognition
holds striking similarities to that of his American contemporary, psychologist
James J. Gibson but also as an early foray into the study of the psychological
complexities of musical perception and performance (Sanders 1993: 289).
Merleau-Ponty describes the organist settling into an environment, a habitat,
for whom the gestures of interaction are ingrained gestalts, wherein a “direct
relationship” is established between the organist’s body and the organ (Merleau-
Ponty 2012 [1945]: 147). The parallels with Gibson’s work are undeniable, a
musical analogue to Gibson’s concept of “direct perception” by an organism
of the affordances of an environment forged through cycles of perception
and action (Gibson 2002 [1972]: 77). Following Merleau-Ponty’s early
insight, engagement with “musicking”1 as a Gibsonian ecological situation
has recently begun to be explored more thoroughly, including the semiotic
dimensions of ecological listening (Clarke 2005), the confluence of ecological
listening and ecological psychology in the construction of the opposition of
music and noise (Windsor 2016), and the constraints of musical instruments
on the act of performance (Windsor and de Bezenac 2012).
The rich and complex act of musicking has been and continues to be
examined from several perspectives: from the cultural factors shaping, and
shaped by, the practice of performance, to the social dimensions of the musical
situation; from the politics and economics of a cultural practice, to the empirical
psychological or cognitive picture of the performer in action. Among these
diverse approaches, performance is often, even if inadvertently, presented in a
sort of Cartesian Dualism: the cultural and social dimensions of “performance
practice” seem to be independent from the embodied cognition and action of
the individual performer. For example, many culture-centred approaches offer
a top-down perspective, evaluating a performance tradition as a whole. Such
approaches may offer a picture of what an individual musical situation may have
been like by contextualizing new primary source material within the context
of stabilized social collectives. On the other hand, many cognition-centred
approaches tend to offer a bottom-up perspective, gathering empirical evidence
from individual musical acts to build a broad and predictive model of the human
mind during performance, a model from which the social collective is more
or less an emergent property. This is not to say that scholars have not sought
to cross this divide. Indeed, practices in ethnomusicology and, more recently,
performance studies2 connect the social and cognitive in compelling ways,
examples of which will be discussed below. As such, this paper does not seek to
solve a specific problem or argue that a social-cognitive divide is prevalent across
all areas of music studies. Rather, it attempts to present a new, more systematic,
and comprehensive framework with which to connect the two.
Harlow: Ecologies of Practice in Musical Performance 217
The gulf that can sometimes be found between social and cognitive studies
of musicking is analogous to what Philippe Descola calls the “anthropological
dualism” of cultural vs. nature-centred approaches in his field (2013: 27).
Social and cognitive approaches to performance studies may each be left alone,
their respective epistemologies borne of conflicting ontologies — as Descola
says about anthropology, “Each one ends up at a point from which the other
believes to be departing” (54). However, one can reconcile these approaches
by stepping back from this dualism to find new ways with which to allow
these perspectives to inform and shape one another (54). This paper presents
a Gibsonian ecological3 model that draws upon empirical research and the
techniques of actor-network theory as explicated by Bruno Latour. I present
musical performance as a network of “actors” constructed ecologically by an
individual through gesture. In this view, individuals construct and embody what
I call “ecologies of practice.” Though this paper primarily takes the viewpoint of
a performer in action, this theory is generalizable to any individual situated in
the act of musicking, including performers, composers, listeners, or participants
of all kinds and across all cultures.
Performance as Ecology
Over the span of a quarter century, Gibson presented a new model of perception
which rejected a linear computational and abstract symbol-processing model of
the mind (Goldstein 1981: 191). Rather, Gibson postulated that organisms
directly perceive what he calls the “affordances” for agency in their environment
(Gibson 1979: 18). As mentioned above, Gibson’s perspective was symbiotic
with Merleau-Ponty’s contemporaneous deconstruction of the dichotomies
of subject and object, organism and environment, perception and action.
From the moment of birth, an organism moves, reaches, and grasps. Every
action precipitates new perceptual stimuli, which in turn shape decisions for
future actions and construct the organism’s environment as an assemblage of
affordances. That is, an organism’s environment, as defined from an ecological
perspective, is a reality specific to the individual organism as perceived through
the lens of affordances assembled from the individual’s unique experiences.
In considering an ecological model of performance analogous to Gibson’s
ecological model of perception, consider the musical counterparts to the three
pillars of Gibsonian Ecology: perception and action, perceptual learning, and
adaptation. A performing musician can be said to enact cycles of perception
and action much like an organism in its environment. The relationship between
perception and action can be represented by a continuous feedback loop (Fig.
Fig 1. Perception and Action, Perceptual Learning, and Adaptation in a Gibsonian ecological model of
musical performance.
1). Consider a performer playing a familiar piece of music. She sees the music
on the page and immediately conjures up an aural sound concept, an “auditory
image” (Highben, Zebulon, and Palmer 2004: 64). She knows what this
passage sounds like, the result of an unmediated cognitive realization of the
notes on the page, the accuracy of which is a function of musical skill and level
of experience with the given piece. As she is seeing and “hearing” the music
on the page, she musters up her carefully honed technique and operates the
mechanics of the instrument using kinesthetic action to generate the desired
sounds. As the music emerges from the instrument, it is immediately fed
back into the performer aurally and haptically. This feedback influences both
decisions relating to the past, “Is this the sound I intended to make?” and future,
“How should I play the following passage given what I just heard?” or “Should
I change what I had originally intended to do as a result?” This stage might
simply be described as music cognition, the ecological dynamics of which will
be thoroughly considered below. Despite the visual mapping in Fig. 1, this so-
called “psychohaptic” feedback loop is not a linear process with stages moving
in one direction or another. Rather, it is constantly moving in all directions at
once at many conscious and unconscious levels.
The process of perceptual learning is evident in the development of the
performer from beginner to expert. It is borne out through countless cycles
of perception and action during practice, lessons, and formal performance.
Returning to our hypothetical performer, from the first moment she picked
up her instrument she has honed her abilities at kinesthetic action, sharpened
her aural perception, and developed an increasingly sophisticated cognition of
music. Through cycles of perception and action, perceptual learning achieves an
increased “resonance” to the affordances of the instrument and music at hand;
a symbiotic relationship develops between aural perception, kinesthetic action,
and cognition. To quote Gibson, “the orienting of the organs of perception is
governed by the brain so that the whole system of input and output resonates
to the external information” (1966: 5).
The last pillar of Gibsonian Ecology, adaptation, can be traced through
the evolution of musical instrument design, schools of performance techniques
and pedagogy, and shifting cultural musical aesthetics in the time and place of
the performer. How these factors evolve and interact of course encompasses
whole fields of study. However, the fact of their interaction, and the specific
ways in which they shape perception, action, and perceptual learning is central
to the thesis of this paper and will be elaborated upon below.
Gibson’s theories garnered skepticism early on regarding their
epistemological veracity. However, as theoretical and neurological cognitive
science has advanced over the past quarter century, Gibsonian ecological
psychology has been found to be remarkably symbiotic with empirical research.

On the other hand, regardless of whether Gibson’s model of perception is
physiologically supported, it has been argued that Gibsonian ecology can serve
as a powerful tool for discourse on metaphysics and epistemology (Sanders
1993: 293). One can thus argue for an ecological model of music performance
on its own merits as a means to untangle the intersecting and often conflicting
ontologies of music discourse.
Empirical support for Gibsonian ecology can be found in the back-
propagating, connectionist model of the brain and its applications in machine
learning software. This model is remarkably isomorphic with the Gibsonian idea
of “direct perception” and the process of perceptual learning through feedback
cycles of perception and action. Other evidence for the empirical veracity
of Gibsonian ecology can be found in common coding theory in cognitive
neuroscience, a model that is also highly sympathetic to Gibson’s and Merleau-
Ponty’s approaches. Furthermore, current theories of a mind centred on
embodied cognition are consistent with Gibson’s principle of direct perception.
In the connectionist model of the brain, the process of back-propagation
accounts for learning in both perception and action through the construction
of neural networks stabilized through repeated reinforcement (Churchland
1995). First introduced by Werbos (1975) in the period between two important
works by Gibson (2002 [1972] and 1977), the back-propagation model offers a
physiological grounding for Gibson’s theories of direct perception and perceptual
learning, eschewing intermediary representations in the cognitive process. More
recently, this model has been applied toward so-called “deep learning” as a
means for software to network connections within data sets through recursive
refinement, compelling novel solutions from such connections without
intermediary logics (LeCun, Bengio, and Hinton 2015).
Turning to common coding theory, numerous studies support Gibson’s
model of perceptual learning formed through cycles of perception and action
and the ecological model of performance presented here. Common coding
postulates that action perception, action imagery, and kinesthetic action share
a common cognitive domain (van der Wel, Sebanz, and Knoblich 2012:
102). Studies supporting this hypothesis show, for example, that observers
are better able to predict the outcome of kinesthetic action when observing
their own past actions vs. those of others (Knoblich and Flach 2001: 471), or
when observing actions in which they have considerable first-hand expertise
vs. those where experience is primarily observational (Aglioti et al. 2008).
One brain study showed that dancers exhibited similar brain activation when
observing dance patterns for which they had trained physically or visually, but
different activation when observing patterns for which they had not trained
at all and thus had no prior gestural perceptual learning (Cross et al. 2009).
Additionally, the discovery of so-called “mirror neurons” has offered a possible
physiological explanation for these results. Such neurons fire during both action
and perception, suggesting that the common coding of perception and action
may be hardwired in the brain. However, the specific theoretical implications of
mirror neurons, and indeed their existence in humans, remains hotly debated
(Kilner and Lemon 2013).
Connecting common coding to the music field, Bruno Repp and Günther
Knoblich postulate an “action-identity hypothesis” linking auditory perception
and kinesthetic action. They present a study in which pianists were able to
recognize their own performances months later and could identify recordings
altered to leave only nuance in timing (Repp and Knoblich 2004: 607). In a
later study, Repp and Knoblich show that higher levels of performance expertise
can shape pitch perception accuracy, both positively and negatively, depending
on the mapping of perception with the action of procedural memory (Repp
and Knoblich 2007: 7). In sum, empirical evidence seems to support Gibson’s
model based on perceptual learning through cycles of perception and action.
Other similarities to Gibson’s theories can be found in embodied
cognitive theories of mind. Conceptual metaphor theory, as developed by
Mark Turner, George Lakoff, and Mark Johnson, among others, argues that
much of human communication and signification is constructed through
mappings of concepts across domains. The foundations of such mappings
trace back to our embodied experience of the world, structured through pre-
conceptual image schemas. The concept of image schemas is roughly analogous
to Gibson’s catalog of so-called “invariants” in the environment that govern
new mappings in direct perception. As humans encounter new signifiers, they
are interpreted through similarities in the underlying image schemas, much as
an organism identifies invariants in stimuli during novel perceptual situations
to construct a meaningful environment. Applications of conceptual metaphor
theory to music can be found most notably in the work of Lawrence Zbikowski.
Utilizing the principles of cross-domain mapping, Zbikowski demonstrates
how we construct, through established signifiers, new musical hermeneutics
grounded in the invariants of abstract, generic conceptual space (Zbikowski
2005). Music theorist Steve Larson identifies three metaphorical forces central
to the syntax and semantics of common Western music: magnetism, gravity,
and inertia (Larson 1997-98). Each provides a tool for mapping musical
sound to kinesthetic experience, providing an embodied cognitive foundation
for a large part of the musical hermeneutic process. Additionally, scholars
in evolutionary psychology postulate that music itself may have evolved not
for mating, but specifically as a means for embodied cross-domain mapping,
increasing the human mind’s capacity for abstract thought and paving the way
for the development of language (Cross 2005: 37).
Gesture in the Ecology of Performance
It may be all well and good to claim that one can map the act of musical
performance onto a Gibsonian ecological model, but how exactly do these
pieces connect? How does embodied music cognition founded on conceptual
metaphor connect with aural perception, and how exactly are they both shaped
by and shaping the kinesthetic act of performance? Furthermore, precisely
how do pedagogical schools, culturally-defined performance practices, and
musical instrument design influence all three parts of the perception and action
psychohaptic feedback loop? In other words, where does the “rubber meet the
road”? I argue that the element uniting all these diverse processes is gesture. I
refer to gesture in a literal sense — as kinesthetic action, i.e., patterns of tension
and release in the human musculature system — but also in the metaphorical
sense, defined generically by Robert Hatten as an indivisible “energetic shaping
through time” (2004: 287).
In practice, it can be difficult to pin down exactly where a gesture begins
and ends in both physical and metaphorical domains. Hatten’s general definition
of gesture provides a cogent basis from which to reason about gesture’s role in all
domains of perception, action, and cognition. Most of the studies cited above
can be seen as pertaining to gesture. For instance, effects of common coding
theory are primarily observed in a gestural context, illustrating physiological
and behavioural connections between the “energetic shaping through time” of
action perception, action imagery, and kinesthetic action. Embodied metaphor
theory and Larson’s musical forces offer the means by which gesture is mapped
from the physical to the aural and up the semiotic ladder.
Empirical support for the primacy of gesture in action, perception, and
perceptual learning in music is vast. In examining spontaneous hand gestures,
Rolf Godøy provides insight into what he calls “motormimetic cognition”:
the idea that motor imagery and perceived or imagined musical sound run in
parallel (2009: 205). Godøy argues that hand gestures have a “privileged role
in motormimetic cognition of musical sound,” in that they “trace the geometry
(i.e. elements such as pitch contour, pitch spread, rhythmic patterns, textures,
timbral features), as well as convey sensations of effort of musical sound” (205;
emphasis in original). Following the latter point, Jan Schacher and Angela
Stoecklin demonstrate that inertia, rather than absolute spatial position, is the
central carrier of emotion in dance gestures (2011). Additionally, Marc Leman
and Luiz Naveda examine the ways in which musical cues embody dance
gestures (2010).
There is also a body of research connecting physical gesture with
musical expression. Sofia Dahl and Anders Friberg studied how subjects rate
the emotional intentions of performers based on full and partial views of
their performances. Specific gestural geometries from one performer to the
next differed greatly, being unique to the physicality of their instruments, but
invariants in the physical gestures of each were perceived as associated with
sadness, happiness, and anger (Dahl and Friberg 2007). Bruno Repp sought to
define the constraints of expressive timing in a study that asked listeners to rate
the expressive timing of one specific gesture in Robert Schumann’s “Träumerei.”
The most experienced listeners rated parabolic temporal shapes the highest
(Repp 1992). This suggests certain optimal energetic shapings through time
within specific cultural musical practices.
Evidence suggests that there is a very deep connection between the
gestures of performance and the perception of musical meaning. I have
demonstrated how in organ performance specific Baroque fingering patterns
and figures generate unexpected variations in note lengths, and hence construct
idiomatic musical gestures (Harlow 2013). Similarly, Joel Speerstra argues,
with regards to Baroque keyboard figures and clavichord technique, that for a
meaningful understanding of baroque keyboard aesthetics one cannot separate
the rhetorical figure from the subtleties (the energetic shaping through time)
of the physical gesture at the keyboard, and one cannot separate the physical
gesture at the keyboard from the resulting musical rhetoric (2004). Music
teachers regularly utilize the cross-domain fluidity of gesture. They exert a great
deal of energy coaxing students to execute a musical passage with precisely the
right kinesthetic action (i.e. physical gesture) toward specific musical ends.
Pedagogues often unconsciously utilize arm gestures, body gestures, and vocal
gestures to influence the kinesthetic actions of the pupil at the instrument.
It follows that musical gesture and kinesthetic gesture are not only the
fundamental gestalts underlying the cognition of most musical meaning and the
performance of musical expression, but are also in fact one and the same from
an ecological perspective. In connecting gesture from the domain of physical
action on an instrument to its role in music cognition, I reject Jonathan De
Souza’s delineation, following the work of David McNeill, between the gestures
of musical interpretation (such as spontaneous hand gestures and swaying of
the body) and those used to operate a musical instrument (De Souza 2017: 2).
In an ecological model of performance, gesture is gesture.
The central role of gesture, both physical and metaphorical, in musical
performance is clear. Listeners perceive musical meaning directly at the level of
embodied gesture, performers define their own “action identities” at the level
of physical gesture, and perception and execution of gesture occupy the same
cognitive domains through common coding. Consequently, performers and
their instruments can be said to exist in an ecological relationship exactly at
the level of embodied gesture. Performers exhibit direct perception of musical
meaning at the level of gesture, but at the same time play their instruments
at the level of physical gesture through what one might call “direct action,”
the common coding mirror to Gibson’s direct perception. The idea of direct
action is akin to Merleau-Ponty’s description of the organist settling into the
habitat of the instrument, wherein meticulous, conscious control of every
minute action gives way to gestalt, well-practiced gestures which “discover
emotional sources, and … create an expressive space” (Merleau-Ponty 2012
[1945]: 147). De Souza examines how Martin Heidegger’s concept of zuhanden
predates Merleau-Ponty’s account and appears to anticipate an ecological view
of music performance. According to Heidegger, an object “withdraws” from
one’s awareness and becomes zuhanden following significant experience with
its manipulation — a process akin to perceptual learning (De Souza 2017: 20).
What Heidegger misses in the zuhanden process is a cohesive exploration of the
agency of cultural norms, and of an individual’s history of perception and action.
While the cultural dimensions of this process are taken up by Merleau-Ponty,
he neglects to explain the construction of the gestalts of object manipulation.
Ecologies of Practice
Having demonstrated the essential and central role of gesture in the ecology of
music performance, let us revise the diagram of this model to illustrate where
gesture fits into perception and action, perceptual learning, and adaptation (Fig.
2). In the psychohaptic feedback loop of perception and action, the performer
engages the affordances of the instrument through direct action at the level
of physical gesture. That is, she does not simply “play the right notes at the
right time” as Bach is said to have quipped,4 since there are often too many
notes and nuances going by too rapidly to consciously control every one in a
linear computational manner (Wolff, Mendel, and David 1998: 412). Rather,
a performer, through practice and years of guided pedagogy, engages groups of
notes shaped through complex physical gestures that correspond to the desired
musical gestures. During this act of performance, the intended and perceived
musical gestures continually mediate the direct action of physical gesture, and
vice versa, through aural perception, haptic feedback, and proprioception. The
performer is able to directly execute the instrument’s affordances for musical
Fig 2. The role of gesture in a Gibsonian ecological model of musical performance.

gesture through countless cycles of perceptual learning, developing cognitive

and kinesthetic gestural competencies along the way from beginner to expert.
The principles of perceptual learning grounded in musical and physical gesture
are illustrated in Repp and Knoblich’s action identity hypothesis, as well as in
Palmer and Meyer’s research suggesting that the physical gestures and schemas
of instrumental performance become more abstract as expertise increases
(Palmer and Meyer 2000).
While the psychohaptic feedback loop of performance and the process
of perceptual learning are locked in a reciprocal relationship, this dynamic is
set up, or assembled, through what Gibson calls adaptation. The ecology of the
performer and instrument is a symbiotic relationship forged through evolution,
much as the ecology of an organism in its environment. The coevolution of the
ecology of the performer and instrument relies on many factors, including the
evolution of musical instrument design, performance techniques, pedagogical
schools, and cultural musical aesthetics.
This last segment of the Gibsonian trivium, adaptation, has far reaching
consequences in the context of the ecology of performance. Factors, or “actors,”
in this category construct the process of perceptual learning and the perception/
action feedback loops of each performer. It is here where the social meets the
psychological, where forces outside the performer’s control shape his or her
individual development, abilities, and musical traits. And again, it is gesture
that connects these forces with the ecology of the performer in situ. Gestures
in the form of kinesthetic action and response shape the evolution and design
of musical instruments themselves. Patterns of gesture and metaphor define
and shape the evolution of instrumental technique and schools of pedagogy
and performance. Gestures from other social domains shape the physical
embodiment of the individual, from socially constructed communicative
gestures, posture, and walking gaits, to embodiments of gesture in dance, and
the vocal cadences of language. There is a growing body of research studying
the broader role of gesture in the construction of social dynamics, and the very
foundations of human cognition. Michael Corballis (2003) offers a provocative
exegesis on the gestural origins of human language itself, while Jessica Phillips-
Silver, C. Athena Aktipis, and Gregory Bryant (2010) offer an evolutionary
account for what appears to be our hardwired propensity for conveying meaning
through embodied physical and metaphorical gesture.
The gestures that form the foundation of perception and action cycles and
the process of perceptual learning in the individual are themselves mappings
of the gestural discourse of adaptation. Exactly how gestures in other social
and developmental domains map onto the domains active in performance is
a question which is only beginning to be addressed. Naveda and Leman have
developed sophisticated analytical means with which to measure and analyze

spontaneous physical gestures in response to music using the mathematics of
topology (2010). Guerino Mazzola has applied analyses of the geometry of
gesture to the study of collaborative improvisation (2009), while Friberg has
built complex computer models to generate simulations and reconstructions
of the expressive gestural nuances of performance (2006). Additionally, I have
argued that the dynamic “inertial discourse” of gesture, rather than topology,
forms the invariants which compel mappings across domains (Harlow 2016).
Regardless of exactly how gestures beget gestures across domains, the
simultaneous social and psychological gestural construction of perception and
action and perceptual learning in an individual compels approaches in music
studies that eschew both a top-down analysis of the performer as arising from the
social, and a bottom-up picture of the performer as psychologically determined.
Such approaches would side-step Descola’s “anthropological dualism.” As such,
I contend that every act of musical performance is a construction of what I call
an “ecology of practice.” To gain a thick description of any given performance
situation, or to generalize about a genre of performance synchronically or
diachronically, one must “follow the actors,” to quote Bruno Latour, that
brought the performer’s ecology of practice into being. It is not enough to simply
posit casualty between a cultural or social dynamic and the act of performance,
nor is it enough to gather empirical data on the act of performance without
considering the social fabric. As Latour and other scholars of actor-network
theory (ANT) posit, one must trace the mediators networking these actors and
agents.5 In the case of music, we must trace them to the point where the social
meets the physical. That point, I contend, is at the level of musical and physical
gesture in the context of a performer’s ecological situation of performance,
or ecology of practice. While each performance situation represents a unique
ecology of practice, some can be said to be variations of another, or tokens
of a type, if the actors are stabilized, as in a defined performance genre or
“performance practice.”
When examining a performer’s ecology of practice, one must trace how
mediators shape the gestures underlying the perception and action feedback
loop of the performer in action, culminating in the ecology of practice at hand.
Such mediators, actors, and agents may include all the physical, psychological,
pedagogical, aesthetic, and social — both human and non-human — factors
underlying adaptation. In tracing and normalizing the diverse actors that are
constructed through direct action by a performer, we effectively give equal
weight to the two poles of nature and culture as described by Descola. We eschew
anthropological dualism by tracing the construction of the ecology of practice
— that is, by operating a “kind of triage,” to quote Descola’s evocative summary
of ANT methodology (Descola 2013: 69). In his analysis of microtiming in

African-American music, Vijay Iyer utilizes both embodied and situated
cognition, tracing the actors shaping the practices under discussion through
each framework (2002). However, in an ecologically grounded ANT analysis of
musicking — that is, the tracing of a particular ecology of practice — embodied
and situated cognition form two sides of the same coin. Consequently, the
concept of ecologies of practice grounded at the level of gesture unites the actors
and mediators constructing a musical practice in a more universal and inclusive
manner, flattening the ontologies of the social and physical — a multiplicity in
the manner of the rhizome of Deleuze and Guattari (1987).
Other scholars have employed the techniques of ANT for musicological
discourse. Notably, Benjamin Piekut examines American experimental music
by tracing the actors networking to construct diverse practices, arguing that
experimentalism is best understood not as a movement but rather as the result
of convergent aesthetic, political, and physical forces (2011). Piekut discusses
Charlotte Moorman’s performance of John Cage’s 26’1.1499, of which the
composer was highly critical. Rather than fail within Cage’s experimental
aesthetic, a view which would necessarily posit a definition of Cagean
experimentalism antithetical to the assemblage of experimentalism in practice,
Piekut argues that Moorman uses the work to “reapproach her corporeal
relationship” with the cello (2011: 149). In doing so, she redefines her
subjectivity of self in a Foucaultian sense of experimentalism. In the language
of the framework proposed in this paper, Cage’s work becomes a disruptive
agent within Moorman’s ecological relationship with her instrument. The act
of grappling with the work forms an essential part of the cultural and physical
construction of Moorman’s ecology of practice. Moving beyond music, Carrie
Noland offers a theoretical account of the role of gesture as a means for
individual agency in constructing the cultural collective (2009). This process
is analogous to Piekut’s example of the construction of Moorman’s gestures,
mediated by Cage’s score, as part of the networking of experimental music
practices.
Other examples of ANT can be found across ethnomusicology, including
Harris Berger’s ethnography of heavy metal, rock, and jazz in Cleveland (1999).
Relying on extensive interviews with practicing musicians, Berger offers a
phenomenological perspective of practice. Matthew Rahaim traces nuances
of Indian vocal practice through the pedagogical lineage of performative hand
gestures, connecting the kinesthetics of performance with the construction
of cultural practices (2012). Connecting the cultural and kinesthetic in the
opposite direction, Deborah Wong traces the cultural agencies constructing
bodily practice in Asian-American musicians (2004). Such approaches eschew
the Cartesian dualism discussed earlier, though they do not offer the same
degree of ontological flattening as the ecologically-mediated model of ecologies
of practice, a model that provides a framework with which to potentially trace
the construction of practice from the level of the neuron through the cultural
and political.
From a philosophical standpoint, my concept of ecologies of practice
has kinship with Isabelle Stengers’ term “ecology of practices.” Stengers’
concept concerns the ontology of patterns of thought; in her sense, an ecology
of practice is a “tool for thinking” (2005: 185). It refers to the networking of
actors that construct human epistemologies, politics, and ethics.6 Similarly, my
concept of ecologies of practice concerns the construction of individuals’ states
of being, but in the domain of kinesthetic action (or the cognitive mapping
thereof, in the case of composers and listeners). In this respect, my concept also
holds similarities to David Kirsh’s concept of “enactive landscapes,” illustrating
how the design of tools and the affordances they present compel specific modes
of usage and shapes the development of new practices of kinesthetic action
(Kirsh 2013). However, Kirsh does not offer an explanation for exactly how
tools compel modes of usage, or, as in the case of Heidegger’s zuhanden, how
the cultural dimension fits into the construction of such modes. The concept
of ecologies of practice and the ecological model of performance presented
here account for the reciprocal ways in which individuals manipulate objects
(musical instruments) and how the design of these objects and the mediators
of culture shape their usage, namely at the level of gesture. Rather than an
inactive landscape, an ecology of practice in my sense can be thought of as an
“enactive gesturescape.” Alternatively, whereas Stengers’ ecology of practices
may be said to be an enactive landscape of the ethical/political and of the
construction of value, my concept of an ecology of practice can be said to be
an enactive landscape of gesture in the construction of a musical hermeneutic.
An ecology of practice is not a defined, stable entity, nor is it a field
for agency. Rather, it is process; it is a means of coming into being. It is an
act of musicking. As opposed to a musical performance, which is an event in
time and space, an ecology of practice is a fragile, temporal “thing” in Latour’s
sense (2004: 233). It is forever being assembled and can only be examined as
long as the mediators can continue to be traced. Two performers might play
the same piece of music in two entirely different ways, constructing two very
different ecologies of practice. The fundamental gestural identities of these
two ecologies may be the result of differences in the materials and designs of
their instruments, or the metaphors and schemas of the pedagogical schools
in which they were trained, or their respective cultural traditions of dance and
social kinesthetic action, or all these and more, at the same time.
I will conclude by briefly exploring two examples of musical performance

to further illustrate how ecologies of practice are constructed, and how this
concept can help illuminate crucial mediators connecting the social and
physical which might otherwise be overlooked, connections which may lead
to unexpected new insights. From the time of Heinrich Scheidemann in the
early 17th century through Johann Sebastian Bach, the improvised organ
chorale fantasy remained an essential and pinnacle skill for keyboard players
and composers in central and northern Germany (Belotti 1995). Consisting of
the contrapuntal and highly varied elaboration of each line of a hymn melody,
a masterful chorale fantasy would offer a hermeneutic exposition of the sacred
text through the practice of musical rhetoric (Dirksen 1999). Furthermore, the
chorale fantasy compelled the organist, more than in any other genre, to utilize
to the widest expressive capacity the vast tonal, textural, and haptic affordances
unique to the particular organ at hand. The combined affordances of the specific
organ’s physical action, corpus of finger-scaled musical rhetorical figures, and
culturally-bound application of these figures for hermeneutic expression — all
examples of affordances co-evolved through adaptation and made available
through perceptual learning for direct action by the performer — define the
organ chorale fantasy’s “ecology of practice” in an individual. It is an ecology
within which the improvising performer, through the reciprocity of perception
and action and perceptual learning assembled by adaptation, is equipped to
direct consciousness through the creative act. In other words, when the organist
sits at the organ console, he or she is immersed in an ecological situation, as in
Merleau-Ponty’s example, that can only be mediated through direct perception
and action, not through a linear computational/analytical model of mind and
performance.
Through years of perceptual learning — including haptic/embodied
experience on a variety of individual organs, a pedagogy of embodied metaphor
and contrapuntal practice shaping the use of musical figuren, and knowledge of
the Lutheran Catechism and chorale texts — the organist is able to improvise
with musical gestures, select deliberate and symbolic stop combinations, and
shape sound through architectural space across the numerous keyboards and
pedal boards through direct action, saving the conscious level of attention
for shaping the larger rhetorical and music structure. The ecological situation
of the chorale fantasy links together the cultural and physical actors which
shape the genre. At the same time, by examining adaptation in the ecology of
practice, further questions arise as to how these actors and agents are themselves
formed and mediated. For example, what does the shape of musical figuren
owe to the design and weight of the organ action in North Germany — that
is, the mechanical connections between the keys and pipe valves? And what
does the tradition of action construction among the organ building guilds in
that time and place owe to the economic and raw material realities of the day?
Furthermore, how does the mean-tone temperament of the organ shape the
contrapuntal sequences and “patterns of invention” of these musical figures
(Dreyfus 2004), and how do these tonally constrained contrapuntal affordances
shape the larger structures and rhetorical-theological discourse of the chorale
text?
The Baroque organ chorale fantasy provides a very rarefied and clear view
of a solo performer in action, constructing a mediated network of actors and
agents through an ecology of practice. But what of collaborative performance?
Consider a string quartet, jazz combo, or free-improvisation ensemble. Each
performer occupies his or her own ecology of practice with his or her own
instrument. These practices, similar to those of the Baroque organist, have been
shaped through Gibsonian perceptual learning by the embodied metaphors of
schools of pedagogy, musical aesthetics, and the haptic properties and affordances
of the instrument. But how are these individual ecologies of practice shaped
by and further shaping the ensemble dynamic and aesthetic identity? Again,
it is because of perceptual learning through cycles of perception and action
— cycles which take place aurally and verbally during rehearsal, individual
practice, email, and even casual social interaction. Over time, the members
resonate in an ecological manner of direct action and perception, shaped by the
invariant underlying image schemas and embodied metaphors structuring the
gestures of these interactions. The subtle nuances in timing, the synchronous
aesthetic shifts and real-time decisions, the ineffable qualities of the ensemble,
are all the result of resonating and ever-shifting ecologies of practice among the
individual performers as assembled through the mediators of gesture. We must
follow the actors and trace the mediators shaping the ecologies of practice of
the performers — that is, shaping direct action in the physical gestures of each
performer.
A particularly instructive example of the convergence of the cultural and
cognitive in the construction of a performance practice can be found in Iyer’s
analysis of rhythmic fluctuation in jazz and popular music (2002). Taking as
a starting point Samuel Floyd’s 1995 study of the ring shout ritual among the
African diaspora as the foundation for much of the stylistic practices of African-
American art forms, Iyer traces physiological connections between the stomp
and clap gestures of the ring shout and the subtle shaping of backbeat pulse and
swing (Iyer 2002: 406-411). In connecting the tendency in African-American
musical practices to play behind the beat with gestural practices found across
the African diaspora (a common hermeneutic of such practices, and universal,
human physiology constraints), Iyer is following the actors constructing these
diverse ecologies of practice. The resolution of the picture resulting from such
an ANT approach is proportional to the number of actors and mediators being
traced. Questions remain: how and where did individual performers absorb such
practices? How do the physical affordances of the instruments at hand shape
the temporal dimension of such gestures? What inertial dynamics are common
between the associated gestures of the ring shout, African-American musical
gestures, and the physical gestures of performance? Piekut (2011) and De Souza
(2017) address the former two questions within their respective inquiries, while
I address the latter in my inertial theory of gesture (Harlow 2016).
Furthermore, Iyer states that he offers examples from African-American
musical practices because they particularly value “deliberately asynchronous
unisons, subtle separation of rapid consecutive notes, asymmetrical subdivision
of a pulse, and microscopic delays,” elements he claims are distinct from
those commonly studied in the practices of Western classical art music (Iyer
2002: 411). However, all these elements can be found in the Western classical
tradition. To name but one example, the practice of notes inégales in the French
classical tradition offers a rough analogue to Iyer’s examples of swing in jazz,
albeit the specific realization and actors behind the construction of each are
entirely different. ANT approaches to the study of notes inégales include the
comparison of prose found within treatises (Douglas 1995) and the irregular
pinning of mechanical organs from the period (Moelants 2011: 449). Of
course, Iyer does not deny that these elements can be found elsewhere and
claims that such techniques “are found to varying degrees in all world music”
(Iyer 2002: 411; emphasis in original). Similarly, the crux of this paper is the
claim, illustrated in the diverse examples above, that physical and cultural actors
and mediators converge at the level of gesture to ecologically construct the act
of musicking among individuals across all cultures.
One key issue that remains to be addressed is the role of consciousness
in the construction and realization of ecologies of practice. This is of course
a complex topic that intersects many fields of inquiry, and as such is beyond
the scope of this paper. However, I suggest that Iyer offers a key insight in this
regard. On the topic of conscious choices presented to an improvising musician,
he proposes that such conscious action decisions “may be understood partially
as a dialectic between formal/symbolic and situational/embodied constraints”
(Iyer 2002: 409). Not only does this apply to all types of performance,
improvisational or otherwise, but I also propose that Iyer’s idea of a dialectic
suggests that the consciousness of performance is not an agent or mediator in
and of itself but is rather an emergent property of the interaction of cultural
and physical agencies. For a phenomenological account of such of dialectic, see
Sudnow (1978).
In summary, the act of musical performance is an inherently ecological

situation. Performers engage with their instruments and music through cycles of
perception and action, shaping and shaped by perceptual learning. This process
is assembled through the mediators and actors of adaptation and is coordinated
at the level of embodied gesture. In this manner, every act of performance
amounts to the construction of an ecology of practice. Considering the act of
musicking as an ecological situation is not only empirically demonstrable, but
the concept of ecologies of practice also unites musical performance ontologies
across disciplines and cultures, from historical- and ethnomusicology to
cognitive- and neuropsychology, operating as a triage between the poles of
music musicking and music musicked, to borrow from Spinoza, compelling us to
reconsider the construction of every act of musicking.
Notes
1. Throughout this paper, I will borrow Small’s term, “musicking,” in reference

to music as process and as action — as something which is performed, composed, or
perceived, rather than an object which is (Small 1998).
2. The term “performance studies” throughout this paper refers to the Anglo-
European field that emerged from the confluence of empirical musicology, structural
theory, and psychology, rather than the North American field of the same name that
emerged from theatre, dance, sociology, and anthropology.
3. My use of the terms “ecology” and “ecological” are distinct from their general
use in the field of ecomusicology (Allen and Dawe 2016) and in the scientific disci-
pline of ecology. My work is an extension of ecological psychology, focusing on the
influences shaping the specific actions of a situated individual.
4. From a quote anecdotally attributed to Bach, dating later than 1776 by Johann
Friedrich Köhler (Wolff, Mendel, and David 1998: 412).
5. For a thorough overview of the techniques, origins, and epistemology of actor-
network theory, see Latour (2005).
6. For a thorough presentation of Stengers’ concept of “Ecology of Practices” see
Stengers (2010).
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Uncanny Movement through Virtual Spaces: Michael
Pisaro’s fields have ears
DARYL JAMIESON
Jamieson, Daryl. 2018. Uncanny Movement through Virtual Spaces: Michael Pisaro’s fields have ears. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 238-254.
Abstract: Michael Pisaro’s fields have ears is a series of ten pieces that embody an ecological
approach to composition. The guiding idea behind the series is that the location of a sound is as
(or more) important than its timing, and that how a listener understands a sound is affected by
both the listener’s and the sound’s position in space. This paper uses the series as an exemplary
example of James Gibson’s ecological thought in composition through its foregrounding of
motion and space, and its creation of uncanny virtual worlds combining musical sounds, noise,
and field recordings. It also explores the idea that Gibsonian perception has significant affinities
with Kyoto School aesthetics, and analyzes Pisaro’s music utilizing methodologies from both
disciplines.
Résumé : L’œuvre fields have ears, de Michael Pisaro, est une série de dix morceaux qui
incarnent une approche écologique de la composition. L’idée maîtresse de cette œuvre est que la
localisation d’un son est aussi importante (voire davantage) que sa situation temporelle, et que
la façon dont un auditeur comprend un son est affectée par la position dans l’espace à la fois de
l’auditeur et du son. Cet article considère cette œuvre comme exemplaire et représentative de la
pensée écologique de James Gibson au sujet de la composition, car elle met au premier plan le
mouvement et l’espace, et crée d’étranges mondes virtuels en combinant des sons musicaux, des
bruits et des enregistrements de terrain. Il explore également l’idée que la perception gibsonienne
présentait des affinités significatives avec l’École esthétique de Kyoto, et analyse la musique de
Pisaro en utilisant des méthodologies issues des deux disciplines.
T he seminal work in the application of James and Eleanor Gibson’s

ecological approach to perception in the field of musicology was Eric F.
Clarke’s 2005 book Ways of Listening. In the decade following its publication,
the ecological approach has made significant inroads within musicology. The
shift toward a focus on how music is perceived by a listener or listeners was
Jamieson: Michael Pisaro’s fields have ears 239
a necessary corrective to structuralist, score-based approaches to the analysis

of music. Focusing on the individuality of each listener and the unique set of
abilities each brings to his/her understanding of a piece of music has led to
significant musicological insights, while having the great virtue of being more
true to the actual lived experience of music in most people’s lives.
The developing field of ecological musicology is listener focused, often
(deliberately) excluding composers’ and performers’ intentions, intuited or
known. This is an admirable stance from the point of view of listeners who
seek to understand more about how music is perceived and interpreted by
other listeners or communities of listeners. However, it sometimes seems to
forget that both performers and composers are also listeners whose individual
perceptions of and reactions to the music contribute to the experience of each
audience member. In this paper, I will explore what it might mean to perceive
music that has been consciously written in light of the composer’s awareness
of the possibilities of ways and locations in which the piece might be heard,
music in which a sound’s location in time is less important that its location in
space. In doing so, I also make a case that a Zen (or Kyoto School) approach
to perception has significant features in common with a Gibsonian ecological
approach, while also adding extra dimensions of potential meaning that Gibson’s
western scientific standpoint does not address.
Subjects and Objects
The concept of ecological perception as promulgated by Gibson is largely

unrelated to the similarly-named concepts of ecomusicology (defined by Aaron
S. Allen as “the study of music, culture, and nature in all the complexities of
those terms” [qtd. in Boyle and Waterman 2016: 25]), environmental (eco)
musicology (musicology from an eco-activist political standpoint), and the
ecology of musical performance (an apolitical musicology adapted from scientific
methodologies developed by ecologists for field work) (Boyle and Waterman
2016: 36). W. Luke Windsor comments that Gibson’s key psychological insight
was “the idea that much of perception is ‘direct’ and unmediated by social or
cultural cognition” and that experimental evidence has been found to support
the idea of unmediated musical perception (2016: 166). This emphasis on
unmediated perception — and its logical corollary, the idea that each individual
will perceive the same input differently — is remarkably congruent with the
founding figure of Kyoto School philosophy Nishida Kitarō’s concept of pure
experience.1 Nishida’s introductory illustration of this concept in his 1911 work
An Inquiry into the Good is with colour and sound:
The moment of seeing a colour or hearing a sound, for example,

is prior not only to the thought that the colour or sound is the
activity of an external object or that one is sensing it, but also to
the judgment of what the colour or sound might be. … There
is not yet a subject or an object, and knowing and its object are
completely unified. (1990: 3-4)
A Gibsonian ecological approach to musicology emphasizes sound above

scores, and listening above reading, but above all, it always “presents perception
as a mutual relationship between organism and environment, so that every
description of perception is therefore specific to an individual’s capacities and
perspective” (Clarke 2005: 156). This concept of the “mutual relationship”
is important; in this account of perception there are no absolutes, every
perception being intimately and inextricably connected to the perceiver. The
complete unification of subject and object erases the distinction between them,
so one cannot exist without the other. This aspect of Gibsonian perception
echoes Mahāyāna Buddhist philosophy, specifically the doctrine of dependent
origination (Pratītya-samutpāda), which denies that any one thing can be said
to exist independently — that is, without a perceiver.2
Mahāyāna Buddhists believe that there are “two levels of truth: the
conventional and the ultimate” (Abe 1997: 51). Nothing can be proven
to exist without being perceived by something; that is, nothing can exist
independent of a perceiver, no object can exist without a subject. Dependent
origination means that “nothing whatsoever in the universe [is] independent
and self-existing” (140). All things, being made up of parts, and being without
independent existences, are empty. The ground of reality, then, is nothingness:
there is perfect emptiness at the root of everything; the ultimate truth is
nothingness (a nothingness conceived of — to the extent that it is conceivable
at all — as ripe with potential, more blank canvas than nihilistic lack). Being
in a world which has two levels of truth — the everyday, conventional truth
and the ultimate reality of absolute emptiness — is what Ueda Shizuteru
(a third-generation Kyoto School philosopher) calls “a two-fold being-in-
the-world” (2011: 769).3 Only religion and art have the potential to bridge
the gap between these two worlds and reveal the contingent transience of
all we perceive to be permanent and existing in conventional reality. One
work which, in my opinion, exhibits this potential is American composer and
guitarist Michael Pisaro’s fields have ears.
fields have ears
Fields have ears is a series of ten pieces composed between 2008 and 2016,
written for vastly different ensembles from 1 to 80 musicians (including
electronics or field recordings in five of the pieces), and lasting anywhere
from 10 minutes to over an hour (Fig. 1 shows the basic details of the ten
pieces). The title is a reworking of a German saying, “Das Feld hat Augen, der
Wald hat Ohren” (fields have eyes, forests have ears) (Pisaro 2012). Exploring
a single conceptual or musical idea through a series of works is much less
common in music than in art, but is a common way of working within the
Wandelweiser collective of which Pisaro is a prominent member.4 While
there are multiple ways in which the series can be understood, Pisaro writes
that fields have ears grew organically as “an open-ended investigation which,
after the first work, seem[ed] to need to continue” (qtd. in Saunders 2011:
499). James Saunders notes that this open-ended way of working means that
Fig. 1. A breakdown of the key features of all ten pieces in the fields have ears series.
each new piece can be based on elements of any of the previous works in
the series, making the web of relationships between different works quite
complex (500). Two of the most important concepts that emerge from this
web are explorations of (1) the idea that the performers are listeners, and (2)
that the location of a sound in space is as important as its location in time.
These ideas lead to what might be called an ecological approach to
composition — that is, an approach to compositional praxis which draws
on Gibsonian ecological perception in its awareness of how listeners might
perceive the performed work. Pisaro has written about the importance of
each individual audience member’s perceptions in connection with fields have
ears:
I find the implication that there are “ears” everywhere, at every

point in a world, a fascinating concept, even if it is rather hard
to imagine. It implies that position might be more important
than time in hearing; and that the sounding configuration of a
world can be understood (differently) from an infinite number of
points. It says that what is audible to any one person is unique,
but at the same time contiguous (and therefore directly related) to
what is audible to others. So the series is about creating (or rather,
imagining) configurations of sounds in a “field.” (2012)
This passage shows both his awareness of — and sensitivity to — an ecological

approach in conceptualizing how the audience perceives his work, as well as
the importance of the location of sound sources in relation to perceivers in
articulating those individual, connected experiences. His way of composing in
fields have ears is predicated on several ideas: that both he and the performers
are listeners as much as the audience is, that the same sound from different
locations will afford5 different (but related) responses, and that every perceiver
will hear and understand the music differently. This awareness is built into the
conception and structure of each separate piece in the series. What fields have
ears amounts to is a series of musical experiments, exploring how variables of
space and location affect perceivers.
This experimental hypothesis is not explicit in any of the scores or
program notes, but the importance of location is in evidence in the texts
which accompany the series. More importantly, from an ecological perception
perspective (in which the interpretation should rely as little as possible on
outside concepts), it is evident in the structure of the music itself.
Motion
Location asserts itself as a structural principal in fields have ears through motion.
The movements of sounds around the performance space in different ways —
ways which vary from piece to piece within the series — are likely to draw a
listener’s attention to that element. In fields have ears (2) for a pianist and four
performers, Performers 1 and 2 each play a single “full, but quiet, and relatively
static noise of their own choosing. … The two sounds should be as close (in
color) to each other as possible” (Pisaro 2009a: 1). They sit across from one
another, with the piano between them, alternating (never overlapping) their
sounds according to a time schedule set out in the score. The two sounds may
not initially be perceived as a pair, but their similar timbres and alternating
pattern will quickly differentiate them from the piano sounds and the sine tones
being played by Performers 3 and 4. This pair of sounds affords being perceived
as a single moving sound as listeners compare the two similar sounds, one
coming from their left, and the other on their right (and/or one close and one
far; and/or one in front and one behind). The relative locations of each audience
member and each performer are not knowable in advance, of course, which
is why the virtual motion (the listeners’ perception that a particular sound or
sound source is moving in space) is crucial in highlighting the parameter of
location. Eric F. Clarke defines the key musical properties which signify the
virtual motion of sounds in a musical context as “rhythm (rate and manner of
motion), dynamic (approach, withdrawal), pitch (direction), and articulation
(weight, force)” (2005: 184). By keeping all four of these properties static,
Pisaro emphasizes the actual physical location whence the sound originates; by
not sounding simultaneously, and by sounding in separate locations, the noise
itself can potentially begin to be perceived as moving back and forth across the
piano.
Fields have ears (7) enacts actual movement in a more theatrical way. In
this piece, a 5x5 grid is laid out in the performance space. Over the course of the
piece, the five musicians move to different squares in the grid at set times. There
are four different positions; the four corner squares each have a speaker and the
middle square of the twenty-five is never used. The emptiness of the central
location has a very Buddhist feel. Unlike traditional Western art in which lesser,
background things surround a substantial central figure (consider, for example,
God and his Host, the solar system, an atomic nucleus), the central position
in Eastern art and philosophy — and, as Barthes pointed out, in Tokyo’s city
planning (1982: 30) — is often empty. The musicians change instruments each
time they move, so there is not a sense that the performed sounds are moving
between sections, only that the locations from which sounds are coming are
changing. Similarly, the final three pieces take advantage of much larger groups
(80, 49, and 63 musicians respectively) to move sounds around the performance
grid without the performers themselves having to move. This focuses attention
even more on the properties of very similar sounds occurring in different
locations, giving a sense of depth and texture to the field.
The subtlest signification of motion in the series is fields have ears (4)
for four or more musicians, recorded on the Another Timbre disc fields have
ears (Pisaro 2012). In this work, the musicians collectively agree to enact “a
slow change in the environment,” with possible examples given in the score
including “it starts to rain … or to clear …” and “the last day of summer with
the first feeling of fall in the air” (Pisaro 2009b: 1). The musicians each choose
two sounds, one that suggests the first state and one that suggests the second,
with the proviso that the sounds should be largely similar, and always extremely
quiet. There are 17 timed sound events, lasting from 4 to 158 seconds each, with
timed silences between the sounds. Each musician plays the first sound only,
until he/she changes to the second sound (he/she cannot then return to the first
sound), and each can individually decide when to make the change. This results
in an incredibly dense and rich virtual sonic world where, as the piece progresses
and some players change and some do not, the gradations of gradual change
become perceivable. It is rather like putting a single change under a microscope
to examine its properties on the most minute level available, including the sense
of sublime wonder that often accompanies a glimpse into the minutely small or
the enormously vast.
Uncanny Virtual Worlds
Eric F. Clarke maintains that “motion in music is neither real nor metaphysical,
but fictional” (2005: 89), however I would argue that metaphysics can and does
enter into our perception of music and motion. There is a sense throughout
Pisaro’s work in general that he is interested in creating conditions for something
akin to a spiritual experience through sound — or in more secular language, a
sense of wonder or amazement at the unexpected.
Sounds heard on recordings (which include electronics or field recordings
presented in a live situation) and, to a lesser extent, sounds produced live in front
of audiences suggest a virtual world from which they emanate (Clarke 2005: 70).
Our minds perceive these sonic signals and we mentally construct an image of
the world which might have produced them. This idea of a virtual world builds
on Stephen McAdams’ work on virtual sources, i.e.: “fictional” sound sources
suggested by music or recordings (Bregman 1990: 460). The more detailed
the recording, and the more sounds that are immediately identifiable with
those in our actual environment, the more detailed this fictional virtual world
will be. Experiments suggest that spatialization and the perceived movement
of sound are necessary for listeners to believe in and identify with a virtual
musical space (Västfjäll 2003: 86). If the sounds that suggest the virtual world
are reasonably close to how the actual, conventional world sounds — if the
perceived or suggested movement and environment are familiar enough — the
listener can hear it as emanating from a believable fictional world. If, however,
the sounds suggest movement which does not correspond to how the listener
expects sounds in the actual world to behave, this affords being perceived as
metaphysical movement, a glimpse into another world.
Speaking about a pair of earlier pieces, ricefall (2004 and 2007), in
which performers create a rain-like soundscape by dropping grains of rice onto
various objects, Pisaro says: “Sometimes people actually hallucinate. There’s
something about it that I think is a bit like a dreamlike state because you’re
being conditioned all the time by these sounds and the activity that you’re
doing” (Banff 2017). The activity of listening to this music, whose virtual
source affords being perceived as rainfall, while watching performers dropping
rice on objects affords a hallucinatory response. In more spiritual language, it
encourages a moment of understanding that the world as perceived is not the
true world, that our perceptions (including our perception of ourselves) are
convenient fictions we construct in order to exist in the so-called actual world.
Pisaro also acknowledges the similarity of performing a work like ricefall to the
act of meditation, which he attributes to the quality of focus both activities
require and the fact that “you kind of retreat a bit into yourself even when you’re
performing” (Banff 2017).
In terms of Buddhist philosophy, both the performers’ meditative
experience and the metaphysical movement I perceive in the shift from realistic
to virtual world are glimpses into the true emptiness of existence. They are
mental shifts from actual to hollow (in Ueda’s terminology), or from a perception
of conventional to ultimate truth (in Abe’s). It’s important to note that the
potential transcendental effect is afforded by perceiving ricefall and fields have
ears as a listener, performer, or even composer. It is also worth restating that
the music affords this interpretation; it is one possible response among many.
Some sounds are better suited to transcendental responses, however, and my
argument is that Pisaro is clearly aware of these kinds of responses and seems to
deliberately compose in a way that affords them.
Ricefall precedes the fields have ears series, and has clearly influenced the
way Pisaro creates soundscapes that afford these kinds of spiritual experiences
when listened to in a focussed manner. The most obvious relationship is with
fields have ears (8), in which up to 80 performers perform in an 8x10 grid,

57 of them playing a radio with white noise (either low or high pitched) and
23 dropping beans on one of four types of objects (ceramic, metal, plastic, or
stone). I have not had the chance to personally hear this piece live, and it has
not been recorded on CD nor is any recording available online, so I cannot
accurately comment on how it sounds. The approach is obviously similar to
ricefall, but with the addition of white noise (which affords being heard as
both wind and waves, depending on its quality and the individual listener’s
experience), and likely has a similar effect. What happens in each part of the grid
is — predictably, given the focus of the series on location — more controlled
in fields have ears (8) than in ricefall, in which parts (indicating intensity) are
distributed randomly. Fields have ears (8) is a refinement of ricefall’s conceptual
experiment, which introduces an important new variable (space) into ricefall’s
virtual field.
Actual, Virtual; Non-fictional, Fictional
Four pieces of the fields have ears series use field recordings in some capacity.
Pisaro’s treatment of field recordings bring together all the elements I have
discussed so far: the Gibsonian ecological perception-influenced approach to
composition; location and perceived movement; and uncanny virtual worlds.
From an ecological perception perspective, what is interesting in analyzing a
work that incorporates field recordings (with or without instruments) is that
what you are hearing is an already listened-to artefact of sounds first made
in the past. A composer has taken found sounds, recorded them, listened to
them, and interpreted them. Composing, especially with found environmental
sounds, becomes an activity which can be interpreted as just another way of
recording an experience of focused listening, analogous to a written analysis
in language. The method of interpretation takes as many forms as there are
composers, but at the very least there is an element of interpretation in choosing
a starting and ending point (a frame). In the case of most composers, unless
the recordings they are working with were made by another (though that just
adds a second interpreter) there is likely also a careful consideration of which
microphones to use and how and where to set up them up. Not all, but a
great number of composers also interpret the material by using some of the
many tools and tricks of the electronic music studio to edit and manipulate the
recorded track. This could be done to clarify certain sounds which the composer
wishes to emphasize or bring to the listener’s attention — possibly the sounds
that caught the composer’s attention when they were in the field, which their
ear focused on to the exclusion of other sounds that end up masking the desired
ones in the recording (Westerkamp 1996) — or to deliberately obscure or make
the soundscape more abstract (Pisaro 2010).
The way I listen to and interpret field recordings is quite different from
music performed on instruments especially made and played with the intention
of creating musical sounds, regardless of the culture or tradition they come
from. Field recordings are, by definition, recordings of the actual world; they
are a record of sounds that actually existed, were captured, and are presented to
an audience in a different time and place. If the virtual space created by music
is a fictional one, the virtual space implied by field recordings is non-fictional,
or at least readily affords being interpreted as such. That seems logical when
sounds that are familiar from everyday life are heard on a recording, especially
sounds that are rich in believable background detail. In other words, not just
the song of a specific bird in isolation, but that song accompanied by the sound
of wind, other animal or insect noises, or human sounds as you would expect
to hear if you were out in the sort of place where this birdsong is normally
heard. The ease with which the sounds on a field recording can be mapped
onto our expectations about the actual world — whether we have personal
experience of hearing these kinds of sounds in reality or not — lends itself to
this illusion. It also lends itself to manipulation which can be used to mislead,
as with photoshopped advertisements or selective editing of documentary film
footage. But manipulation can also be used to create a frisson of the unexpected
or uncanny, which is how I hear Pisaro’s interventions on this ostensibly non-
fictional material in the fields have ears series.6
Field recordings are the dominant sonic material in fields have ears (1),
cover at least two-thirds of the sonically denser piece fields have ears (3), and are
heard less frequently in pieces (6) and (7). The treatment of the recordings differs
in each case, but in no cases are the field recordings presented unaccompanied
by other sonic material for any significant length of time. Along with the field
recording, there is always simultaneously or in close temporal proximity a non-
field recording sound. These sounds might be noise produced live by instruments,
pitch produced by instruments, white or pink noise produced electronically, or
sine tones. All of these afford vastly different interpretations, and their regular
juxtaposition creates interesting disturbances and a feel reminiscent of magical
realism. The virtual scene appears realistic on its face, but the deeper you look
or listen, the more preternatural it becomes.
In order to further elucidate these ideas, I will end with a reading of fields
have ears (1) which goes into more depth than I have hitherto gone in discussing
the series as a whole. The following description relates my experiences of listening
to fields have ears (1). As such, it is unique to me and my way of perceiving,
which is both shaped by the ideas outlined above and dynamically shaped in
the moment by the material being heard. Other listeners will undoubtedly
have different reactions, but I have included this close reading in order to show
in practice how attention to Gibsonian perception and Mahāyāna ontology
simultaneously enriches my experience of Pisaro’s music.
fields have ears (1)
Fields have ears (1) begins with a quiet hiss, some unidentifiable white noise.
This could be wind or an ocean, but suggests microphone noise to me. Though
I am listening on stereo headphones — to Philip Thomas’s 2012 recording
on the Another Timbre label — this noise would, in the concert hall, come
from speakers. My perception of the sound as mechanical noise lends a rough
authenticity to the piece: I know that a field recording is coming — from
the subtitle of the piece, which reads “for piano and four-channel playback
(field recordings + noise and sine tones)” — and the noise gives me the
reassuring impression that the sound I’m hearing hasn’t been “cleaned up”
or manipulated too much. I feel I can trust the virtual world I’m imagining
behind the speakers as a true documentation of the actual one.7 The noise
soon begins to vary in intensity, however, which leads me to wonder if it is
actually wind. Seven seconds into the piece, bird calls ring from both stereo
tracks (they are clear and distinct, but I lack the knowledge to place them by
name; however, they sound to my ears like small songbirds mixed with the
croaking sound of a larger bird such as a crow). The initial feeling of trust
doesn’t fade. I believe in this virtual world now; it affords being interpreted as
a non-fictional documentation of a real place.
The piano enters at 0:18, with a quiet, moderately low single note,
toward the bottom range of a singing male human. The piano’s second
intervention in the soundscape is at 0:32 on this recording, a softer dyad
repeating the previous note and adding a note a minor third above it. The
birds and white noise obliviously continue around these piano notes, which,
though quiet, are undeniably not a part of the virtual field I’ve constructed in
my head. They are an unexpected sound; if I didn’t know any more about the
piece, listening to it on a CD where everything comes out of headphones or
speakers might tempt me to construct a virtual world which includes a piano
in a meadow. However, in a concert hall (or knowing how the piece would be
presented in one), I can still hear the field recording as a “natural” document
and the live piano as a separate, complementary element, a human comment
on the “natural.”8
That is how I hear the first 40 seconds or so unfold. There is not space to
detail all the small changes in texture of the full 20 minutes, but gradually over
the next four minutes, a low-pitched, very quiet sine tone (which rises in pitch
every minute) becomes apparent, fading in and out of my consciousness. There
are more varieties of bird calls — some insistently repetitive, and therefore
memorable — and buzzing insect noises, as well as distant noises of what
might be traffic or perhaps a helicopter. The field becomes a more complex
environment, touched with the human (only a revelation when I allow myself
to forget the necessary human presence in making the recording in the first
place, and the noise that may or may not be a relic of the recording process),
and occasionally inflected by delicate piano sounds which span the full range of
the instrument and a variety of intervals. The sine tones sound alien, intrusive,
and unnaturally still (sine tones being sounds with the most regular possible
soundwaves). This is the virtual world set up, in my hearing at least, by the
first five minutes. This virtual world might be all I ever hear, if I continued as
a casual listener, not giving attention to the details of the recording: a field,
distant human sounds, a rising sine tone fading in and out, and a piano in the
auditory foreground. In this reading, the piano and the sine tones seem like
musical elements imposed on a documentation of a natural soundscape, the
eponymous “field.”
However, a closer listening9 reveals the extent to which the initial
impression is a manipulation, reflecting the essential hollowness of the
apparently solid virtual world. Presaged by 30 seconds of pink noise, there is
a momentous but almost undetectable change at the five-minute mark. What
happens is extremely subtle, but happens again at 10 and 15 minutes: the field
recordings playing on the four speakers repeat from the beginning, but rotate
to a different speaker. Different listeners will catch on to what is happening at
different points over the four rotations — the four repetitions — and some may
not consciously figure it out at all. For me, the previously mentioned repetitive
bird calls were what first made me realize that I was hearing the same material
presented again and again. The reuse of the same fragments of tape rotates
the listener in the imaginary/hollow space or field without them moving. It
also shifts them back in time, to an alternate, slightly different version of the
same past. Without moving, the virtual sonic world we thought we were in
is suddenly shifting each listener in four dimensions. The “repetitions” of the
five-minute field recordings, however, are not exact; they fade in and out and
are otherwise manipulated differently each time. There are, for instance, times
when the field sounds — the wildlife, the wind, even the distant helicopter and
airplane sounds which are now a part of nature in the modern world — are
stripped away, leaving only sine tones, piano, and isolated bird calls (around
7:25 is the first time this happens). This again reveals the hollowness and the
artificiality of the virtual “field.”
Pisaro has written that the pianist in this piece is meant to be an ear
(Pisaro 2012). The performer, then, is explicitly also a listener, a perceiver of
the virtual field of sounds created by the four speakers. The placement of the
piano’s notes in time is fixed by the composer, but their volume is relative to
the performer’s perception of the field recordings. In other words, aspects of
the performance are explicitly informed by a perceptive human presence, with
a human ability to respond to and interpret the world around him or her. This
is another aspect of Pisaro’s awareness of ecological perception in composition.
By the final part of the piece, I began to hear the sine tones — the only
sound source which does not physically move in either space or time and which
felt intrusive upon the “natural” virtual world in the first minutes — as the most
stable element of the piece. At first seeming somewhat alien in their purity and
menacing in their low-register quietude, I came to perceive them as signals of
stability in a shifting universe; the waveform of the sine tone is as regular as a
waveform can possibly be, and their steady and regular rise over 20 minutes is
one of the most easily identifiable and understandable elements of the piece.
Thus, a piece which begins with a seemingly non-fictional aural portrait of a
virtual world intruded on by human and mechanical presences ends with the
human as the unmoving axis around which the virtual world uncannily rotates,
while the mechanical sine tones shift from menacing to reassuringly predictable.
Expectations I had as the piece started were overturned as it enacted a subtle
opening of its seeming non-fictional (“actual”) virtual world into a hollow one.
Location and Space
Fields have ears (1) invites us to imagine a richly textured, highly detailed image
of its virtual source, and then gently, slowly shows how this is a hollow fiction.
The piano, however sympathetic its tones are to the recording (jibing — or not
— with the sine tones, accompanying the bird calls), is not a natural part of the
scene; it points to the artificiality from the start. But as the recording progresses,
from its first tape hiss, to the four-fold variation and rotation of the virtual
space, through the dropping out of most naturalistic sounds in favour of isolated
birdcalls over droning sine tones, and finally to the increasing prominence of
the very artificial-sounding sine tones (gradually rising out of the background
into the foreground), the environment’s virtual source is increasingly made to
seem hollow, unreal, or not possibly within what we call the “actual” world. It’s
a sophisticated aural paradox, which, like a zen kōan,10 points at a deeper truth
about the limits of human perceptual capacities by exposing how our minds
construct virtual spaces which we believe in as if they are objectively true.
The ten pieces of the fields have ears series explore space in different ways,
but are linked by a concept at the heart of ecological thinking about aural
perception: every listener will perceive the same sound(s) differently, and we
all construct our own subtly different virtual spaces from the same sounds. By
making each sound’s location the principal compositional element of the music,
Pisaro has created aural experiences which offer the listener opportunities to
question how much wider, deeper, and empty/hollow reality is compared to the
convenient fictions our minds create for us to navigate what we call the “actual”
world. The shifting virtual worlds of these ten pieces reveal how contingent our
perceptual faculties are, and simultaneously how unique to each of us our own
perceptions are.
The Gibsonian ecological approach to perception posits an inter-
connectedness of perceiver and perceived, denying that any two organisms could
perceive the same stimulus in precisely the same way. The Mahāyāna Buddhist
approach to percepion similarly emphasizes the unity of all things, leading to a
conclusion that there can be no ultimate truth, no prime mover, and nothing
but absolute nothingness. Through an understanding of Gibsonian psychology
and aesthetics rooted in millennia of Mahāyāna philosophy and art, listeners
at all stages of the creation of an artistic experience such as fields have ears can
more deeply comprehend the uncanny soundworlds they are perceiving. In this
way, they will be able to better explore the “hollow” virtual worlds that are
being dynamically created in the perceivers’ minds — whether this be from the
ceaselessly-shifting standpoint of listener, performer, or composer.
Notes
1. The Kyoto School is a group of philosophers based at Kyoto University and centred
around Nishida and his students. Very roughly, they aim to bring Buddhist philosophical
and metaphysical ideas into a critical dialogue with Western philosophy, especially the
continental/German tradition. See Davis (2017) and Maraldo (2011) for more detailed
introductions to the School.
2. For a detailed description of this concept and its various interpretations, see Buck-
nell (1999).
3. For a more detailed description of the Kyoto School conception of dependent
origination, see Davis (2017), §3.2.
4. The Wandelweiser collective is a loose group of composers and musicians founded
by Antoine Beuger and based in Germany. As a group, they run a score and book publish-
ing house for the 21 member composers, a CD label which records their music, and a
website which promotes their concerts, among other activities (Barrett 2011; http://
www.wandelweiser.de).
5. “Affordance” is Gibson’s term for the range of possible interpretations or
responses conceivable resulting from a given object or source. For instance, in differ-
ent circumstances and to different individual organisms, a plastic bag might afford
being filled with shopping, being folded up and stored, being recycled, or an existen-
tial threat (if one was a sea turtle at risk of choking on it) (Gibson 1979: 129).
6. Windsor offers a social, rather than spiritual, model of interpreting acousmatic
music which takes as its material recordings of identifiably everyday acoustic events
(2000: 21).
7. This impression is afforded by what seems to be a technical error, similar to
the illusion of authenticity given by deliberately shaky handheld filming in cinema or
video work.
8. This is my interpretation, but the piano in a meadow interpretation is also pos-
sible, and quite intriguing.
9. By a “closer listening” I do not mean in any sense a kind of listening open only
open to musically-educated listeners or those familiar with Pisaro’s musical world. I
simply mean paying close attention and to a certain extent remembering key elements
of the musical material (especially characteristic birdsongs) (see also Krueger [2011:
71-2] on what he calls “deep listening”). This kind of listening is in fact encouraged by
the nature of the material itself; a quiet whisper draws a listener close, while a shout
pushes them away.
10. A kōan is a type of Zen Buddhist paradoxical riddle that is used to help
trainee monks or laypeople break away from thinking logically about causes and
effects and instead perceive reality directly.
References
Abe Masao. 1997. Zen and Comparative Studies. Ed. Steven Heine. London: Macmil-
lan Press.
Barrett, G. Douglas. 2011. The Silent Network: The Music of Wandelweiser. Contem-
porary Music Review 30 (6): 449-470.
Barthes, Roland. 1982. Empire of Signs. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Hill and
Wang.
Boyle, W. Alice and Ellen Waterman. 2016. The Ecology of Musical Performance:
Towards a Robust Methodology. In Current Directions in Ecomusicology: Music,
Culture, Nature, 25-39. Ed. Aaron S. Allen and Kevin Dawe. London: Routledge.
Bregman, Albert S. 1990. Auditory Scene Analysis: The Perceptual Organization of
Sound. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.
Bucknell, Roderick S. 1999. Conditioned Arising Evolves: Variation and Change in
Textual Accounts of the Paṭicca-samuppāda Doctrine. Journal of the International
Association of Buddhist Studies 23 (2): 311-342.
Clarke, Eric F. 2005. Ways of Listening: An Ecological Approach to the Perception of

Musical Meaning. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Davis, Bret W. 2017. The Kyoto School. The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philoso-
phy (Spring 2017 Edition). Ed. Edward N. Zalta. https://plato.stanford.edu/
archives/spr2017/entries/kyoto-school/ (accessed September 29, 2017).
Gibson, James. 1979. The Ecological Approach to Visual Perception. Boston: Houghton
Mifflin.
Kondo Jo. 2013. Kikuhito (homo audiens): ongaku no kaishaku wo megutte (The Listen-
ing Man: On the Interpretation of Music). Tokyo: Artes Publishing.
Krueger, Joel. 2011. Enacting Musical Content. In Situated Aesthetics: Art beyond the
Skin, 63-85. Ed. Riccardo Manzotti. Exeter: Imprint Academic.
Maraldo, John C. The Kyoto School: Overview. In Japanese Philosophy: A Sourcebook,
639-645. Ed. James W. Heisig, Thomas P. Kasulis, and John C. Maraldo. Hono-
lulu: University of Hawai’i Press.
Nishida Kitarō. 1990. An Inquiry into the Good. Trans. Masao Abe and Christopher
Ives. New Haven: Yale University Press.
Pisaro, Michael. 2010. Ten Framing Considerations of the Field. The Experimental
Music Yearbook. http://www.experimentalmusicyearbook.com/ten-framing-con-
siderations-of-the-field (accessed September 28, 2017).
———. 2012. Some Thoughts on the “fields have ears” Series (and a Few Remarks on
the Current Gravity Wave release). Gravity Wave. http://michaelpisaro.blogspot.
jp/2012/03/some-thoughts-on-fields-have-ears.html (accessed January 29, 2017).
Saunders, James. 2011. Testing the Consequences — Multipart Series in the Work of
the Wandelweiser Composers. Contemporary Music Review 30 (6): 497-524.
Ueda Shizuteru. 2011. Language in a Twofold World. In Japanese Philosophy: A
Sourcebook, 766-84. Trans. Bret W. Davis. Ed. James W. Heisig, Thomas P. Kasu-
lis, and John C. Maraldo. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press.
Västfjäll, Daniel. 2003. The Subjective Sense of Presence, Emotion Recognition, and
Experienced Emotions in Auditory Virtual Environments. CyberPsychology &
Behavior 6 (2): 181-8.
Windsor, W. Luke. 2000. Through and Around the Acousmatic: The Interpretation of
Electroacoustic Sounds. In Music, Electronic Media and Culture, 7-35. Ed. Simon
Emmerson. Farnham: Ashgate.
———. 2016. Nature and Culture, Noise and Music: Perception and Action. In Cur-
rent Directions in Ecomusicology: Music, Culture, Nature, 165-175. Ed. Aaron S.
Allen and Kevin Dawe. London: Routledge.
Musical Scores
Pisaro, Michael. 2009a. fields have ears (2): for a pianist and four performers. Haan:
Edition Wandelweiser.
———. 2009b. fields have ears (4): for an ensemble of at least four musicians. Haan:
Edition Wandelweiser.
Discography
Pisaro, Michael. 2012. Fields have Ears. Another Timbre at47. Compact disc.
———. 2012. Fields have Ears (6). Gravity Wave gw 007. Compact disc.
Various Artists. 2012. Wandelweiser und so weiter. Another Timbre at56x6. Compact
disc.
Westerkamp, Hildegard. 1996. Kits Beach Soundwalk. On Transformations. Empre-
intes DIGITALes IMED 9631. Compact Disc.
Videography
Banff Centre for Arts and Creativity. 2017. Creating a Rainy Landscape Inside a Con-
cert Hall. YouTube video. https://youtu.be/Eq6b3NCfiI8 (accessed August 17,
2017).
Afterword
Ecomusicology and the Problems in Ecology
JEFF TODD TITON
In our call for articles for this special issue, we announced our goal to “bring
into conversation the diverse yet interconnected fields and disciplines that bring
ecological approaches, methods, and thinking to considerations of sound and
music.” By bringing them into juxtaposition, we intend to highlight recent
cross- and inter-disciplinary ecological conversations that have been occurring
among musicians, scholars, and scientists (e.g., Post and Pijanowski, this
Titon, Jeff Todd. 2018. Ecomusicology and the Problems in Ecology. MUSICultures 45 (1-2): 255-264.
issue) over the places, roles, and meanings of sound and music in our time of
environmental crisis. This intellectual ferment has created a new subject area:
music and sustainability. It has also created a new and (to an extent) related
field: ecomusicology (see Allen’s Introduction). In this special Ecologies issue
we explore aspects of the “eco” in ecomusicology, as each author engages with
ecologies in one form or another. Ecomusicology brings artists, scholars, and
scientists together to share perspectives and insights on sound, music, nature,
culture, and the environment at a time of environmental crisis,1 while it also
stimulates these thinkers to enlarge their own inquiries by crossing academic
disciplines and working inter-disciplinarily.
In the public arena, ecology is often confused with environment, but
they are not the same. Not all ecologists consider themselves environmentalists,
much less activists. Many prefer to think of themselves as nonpartisan, objective
scientists. In popular discourse we read, for example, of “ecological grief ” and
“ecological loss” (Ellis and Cunsolo 2018). Ecology is a science; it cannot be lost
any more than physics or chemistry can be lost. Ellis and Cunsolo are thinking
of habitat loss or ecosystem collapse, not ecological loss. As my co-editor Aaron
Allen wrote in the Introduction to this issue, ecology refers to the discipline
of ecological science begun by Ernst Haeckel, while ecologies (pl.) include its
subfields such as behavioural ecology, and related fields such as cultural ecology,
ecological psychology, and so on. In the broad sense, ecology has come to mean
the study of individuals, groups, and their relations to one another and to their
environment. Environment is therefore one of the objects of ecological inquiry,
not ecology itself.
When people think about our environmental crisis today, most think
about atmospheric carbon and the greenhouse effect, global warming and climate
change, energy alternatives, species endangerment and extinction, ecojustice,
and the like. As we worry about intensifying storms, earthquakes, and floods,
and their impacts upon habitat and biodiversity, on pollution and the spread of
hazardous waste, and especially on environmentally and economically vulnerable
populations, music and sound seem like an afterthought. Music is thought to
be an art, a pastime, not a mainstream activity like agriculture, manufacturing,
trade, law, medicine, media, transportation, government, national defense, or
foreign policy. Yet Brazilian rosewood and pernambuco are endangered woods,
overused in making guitars and violin bows, and ivory, once common in piano
keys, can also be found in some fittings of stringed instruments. When the full
range of endangered species is considered, animals as well as plants, musical
instrument materials make a small but significant contribution (Allen 2012;
Trump 2013; and see Edwards, this issue). Beyond the environmental impact of
music on endangered species, in the biosphere sound itself is a signal of species
presence, as Rachel Carson’s title Silent Spring suggests (1962).
Ecological approaches to human musicking, to use Christopher Small’s
neologism for music-making, promise an understanding of music as a human
activity within a larger sonic space. Soundscape ecology, or the study of sounds
in the landscape — sound makers, sound production, sound communication
and reception — involves not only plant and animal soundings (Pijanowski et
al 2011) but also ways in which humans communicate with one another in and
about a given environment. Ethnomusicologists and anthropologists have long
noticed ways in which indigenous peoples’ songs and other sonic productions
are meant to influence the environment and make it more productive (e.g.,
Turnbull 1961). More recently, especially in light of the environmental crisis,
we have begun to consider how soundscapes provide indigenous ecological
knowledge (Lewy 2017; see Post and Pijanowski, Yoon this issue) that may,
in turn, be helpful in the global efforts at adaptation and sustainability,
especially in confronting the effects of rapid climate change (Pierotti 2010).
In this effort, interspecies communication and eavesdropping on animal sound
communication plays an important role (Titon 2016). In this issue, Yoon as well
as Post and Pijanowski write about sounds and songs of nomadic pastoralism in
Mongolia and their adaptation within a modernizing nation.
Interspecies communication, real and imagined — also themes in articles
by Hui on ducks and Graper on bats in this issue — offers an opportunity to
Titon: Ecomusicology and the Problems in Ecology 257
consider humans along with other animals along an evolutionary continuum,

and music along an evolutionary continuum of sound. Like Kafka’s The
Metamorphosis, about a person who wakes up one morning to find himself
inside the body of a cockroach, both these articles are written from an
anthropomorphic perspective. We do not quite know how bats experience
human sounds. Whereas Thomas Nagel (1974) famously claimed that bat
experience is impossible for a human to grasp, recent research in mirror neurons
suggests that some non-human animal experience is closer to human experience
than previously thought (Ferrari and Rizzolatti 2014).
Ecological considerations of music enlarge the scope of musical
scholarship. Like ecocriticism in the study of literature, ecocritical approaches
to music foreground the relationships of humans with the environment: the
more or less natural environment, disturbed environments (Dirksen, this issue),
artificially built natural environments such as zoos (Quinn et al, this issue), and
environmental imaginaries (Ottum, Hui, Graper, this issue). The minimalism
of guitarist and composer Will Ackerman (Ottum, this issue) offers a musical
equivalent of an ecosystem’s climax stage, in a gently oscillating, dynamic
equilibrium.
Ecologies also inform musicking from the standpoint of perception
(Harlow, this issue). While Gibsonian ideas concerning perception have helped
shape ecological psychology, they are also useful in the study of animals, where
perception of sound signal vibrations plays a crucial role and allows for the
possibility of a phenomenological approach to animal sound communication,
something that has previously seemed problematic. In this area of ecology, an
important precursor is the Baltic naturalist Jakob von Uexküll, whose idea of
umwelt anticipated Gibson’s key notion of affordances (Von Uexküll 2010
[1934]). Just as affordances (Harlow, this issue) are possibilities for action
within a given environment, so umwelt is the environment or perceptual field
enabling an animal to express its particular being, including the possibilities for
sound communication. Interestingly, Gibsonian perceptual ecology also appears
useful for ecocritical musicology (Jamieson, this issue). More directly, ecologies
offer a platform for consciousness-raising interventions in the environment in
order to mitigate the effects of climate change (Pedelty 2016) and habitat loss
(Edwards, this issue).
* * *
Sixty years ago, I grew up, as most in my generation did, thinking that the
environment consisted of life in the midst of inert matter: beings like animals
and plants were alive, surrounded by non-living things like rocks and tables
and automobiles. In high school chemistry I learned that, as a rule, living,

organic matter contains carbon atoms, whereas non-living, inorganic matter
does not. And when on Christmas Day, 1972, I saw the famous “blue marble”
photograph of the Earth from space I understood that Earth doesn’t just contain
life — it is alive, a complex, biological whole. I learned an ecological lesson: that
at different levels of scale, different understandings emerge.
One of the oldest and most persistent music-ecological ideas is that the
universe, governed by natural, mathematical laws, is a harmonious whole. This
is another way of expressing the metaphor of natural balance. Readers may
recall the music of the spheres — a theory attributed to Pythagoras which states
that the motions of astronomical bodies and consonant musical intervals are
governed by the same mathematical ratios, and that therefore these heavenly
bodies must make pleasing music (although the sounds were beyond human
hearing). Less well-known is that a harmonious universe was important to the
ancient Chinese as well. They, too, had developed a pitch system based on the
mathematics of the overtone series, one that was accompanied by a legendary
tale of the discovery of the musical notes or lus and their correspondence
to nature as represented by birdsong. According to the ancient book of the
Chunqiu2 (Ch’un Ch’iu), in the 3rd millennium B.C.E. the Yellow Emperor
Huangdi sent one of his courtiers, Lin Lun, to the western mountains to
“make music” — that is, to invent or discover music. There he gathered hollow
bamboo and made twelve pipes of “superior and inferior generation” producing
the same twelve tones as the Pythagorian scale (qtd. in Sachs 1943: 114). These
were said to match the pitches Lin Lun heard in the harmonious singing of the
mythological fenghuang birds.3 The Chunqiu goes on:
Since he heard the male and the female bird Phoenix sing at the
foot of the Yüan Yü mountain, he accordingly distinguished the
twelve notes. He made six out of the singing of the male Phoenix,
and also six out of the singing of the female Phoenix, which all
could be derived from the main note huang-chung. (qtd. in Sachs
1943: 114; see also Picken 1957: 93-4 and Liang 1985: 37-8)
It was also believed that in a new dynasty the Emperor would order the
fixed-pitch instruments to be readjusted in order to bring them back in tune
with the universe (Lai and Mok 1981: 26). The idea of a harmonious universe
was essential to medieval and Renaissance European music philosophers, and
to educators who made the study of music a required part of the quadrivium.
But the Enlightenment consigned these ideas to literature, magical thinking,
and Aeolian harps. Since the 19th century, most Euro-Americans have thought
of music as an ennobling aesthetic experience, or as a pleasurable diversion, or

both. Yet it is still recognized that music can drive people to ecstasy or madness.
To my knowledge, the first scholar to make a connection in print between
ecology and music was William K. Archer, in a brief excerpt from a 1962 lecture
before the International Congress on Music and Its Public, held in Rome. He
wrote that:
Music is especially amenable to an ecological approach in which

a mobile, fluid, dynamic interrelationship with every other
social aspect exists. … It may be as fruitful to consider sources
of raw materials for instruments, patterns of leisure, technological
developments, musical “listening-spaces” and the like, as to
consider the music itself. … This peculiarly rich “information
bearing system” [i.e., music] is, I suggest, largely formed and
changed (and appreciated) because of factors utterly outside itself.
(1963: 13)
Nowhere did he use the term ecosystem, ecology’s dominant concept

at the time he wrote. Rather, he was more likely influenced by cybernetics,
specifically in his idea that music is a rich, information-bearing system.4
Unfortunately, beyond this published lecture he did not follow up, in print,
on this insight; he was the kind of thinker who was happier making bold
connections than developing them.5 Ethnomusicologist Daniel Neuman,
acknowledging Archer’s pioneering work as inspiration, concluded his book
on the social organization of Hindustani music with a chapter he described as
leaning “obviously and heavily on … cultural ecological theory,” considering
music producers, consumers, contexts, and technology (1980: 26). Perhaps the
first time the ecosystem concept appeared in print as an explanatory framework
for people making music occurred when this author wrote that “Each world [of
music] can be regarded as an ecological system, with the forces that combine
to make up the music-culture … in a dynamic equilibrium” (Titon and Slobin
1984: 9).6 There, I drew on ecological scientist Eugene P. Odum’s understanding
of ecosystems as not only interrelated but also dynamic.7 For Eugene Odum,
and his brother and colleague Howard T. Odum, ecosystems were driven by
energy exchanges; my thought was that music was the energy that drove the
exchanges in a music culture. I developed this idea further in the “four circles
model” involving affect, performance, memory, and history (Titon and Slobin
1992), and in writings on musical and cultural sustainability (Titon 2009a,
2009b, 2009c, 2015a).8 Just as conservation biology makes it possible to restore
and maintain the health of an ecosystem, so its principles may be applied to
manage the health of and develop resilience in organizations and institutions

within music cultures, and in the music cultures themselves (Chambers, this
issue). Huib Schippers has employed the ecosystem idea to develop a detailed
taxonomy of “factors that influence musical vibrancy” and their relationships
which, when taken in particular combinations, are important considerations
for sustainability (Schippers 2019: 133; Schippers and Grant 2016).
In his Introduction, Allen calls attention to the “problem of ecology”
when ecological insights are borrowed and developed outside of the natural
sciences without due consideration of the physical environment. I would also
call attention to two related “problems in ecology,” each of which also has
implications for music and sound studies. The first problem is the change, during
the past half-century, in ecological science’s paradigmatic view of nature; the
second problem is the division among ecological scientists between ecosystem
ecologists and population ecologists. Among ecological scientists in Europe
and North America, the balance-of-nature paradigm gave up its dominance to
the disturbance-and-change paradigm in the last half-century or so. Today, the
consensus is that there is no single balance point, only temporary equilibria,
and that tumult and disorganization is more “natural” than balance. No doubt,
there were also pressures from outside of ecological science on the balance-of-
nature paradigm, not to mention on the Western concept of “nature” itself —
pressures notably from deconstruction, the science wars, feminism, postmodern
anthropology, and cultural studies, including sound studies. Nonetheless,
because the balance-of-nature metaphor retains its perennial hold in the popular
imagination and in much of the environmental movement, many ecologically-
inclined scholars in ethnomusicology, ecomusicology, environmental
philosophy, and other fields have overlooked the altered paradigm and as a
result, their work is open to charges of outmoded idealism.
The second “problem in ecology” arises over internal differences within
ecological science itself, namely those between population ecologists and
ecosystem ecologists. Although both population and ecosystem ecology examine
organisms and their interactions with each other and with biotic and abiotic
environments, population ecology works from the bottom up and ecosystem
ecology from the top down. Most environmentally-inclined ethnomusicologists
have taken a bottom-up approach to people making music individually and in
groups (single populations), and in their interactions with the environment,
particularly among indigenous social groups where animals, plants, landforms,
weather, and so on loom large in traditional daily life. As noted earlier, a few
ethnomusicologists have taken a top-down, systems approach which tends to
be theoretical, comparative, and concentrated on complex music cultures as
ecosystems, rather than engaging robustly with the relations between populations
and the environment. Within ecological science, the holistic ecosystem

approach is identified, deservedly or not, with the balance-of-nature paradigm;
this is despite efforts by contemporary ecosystem advocates to modernize it for
applications to conservation biology, restoration ecology, and ecosystem services
by taking a resilience approach involving adaptive management in the face of
disturbance-and-change.9 These two “problems in ecology” render the “problem
of ecology” even more challenging for environmentally-inclined music scholars
who wish to engage with the various ecologies that Allen delineated in his
Introduction.
Music’s power is cultural but also corporeal and sonic. It turns out that
sound is very much at risk in the environmental crisis. Sound is indispensable
for communication among species; it is one of the most important means by
which animals and, we are learning, even plants signal each other (Gagliano
2013). Sound communicates critical things like the location of food supplies,
the danger of nearby predators, care of the young, interest in mating, and
maintaining order within social groups. Far from being inconsequential,
animal sound communication is vital for life as we know it (Titon 2012). For
that reason, a conversation that considers the relations among the merging
domains of sound, music, nature, and culture becomes necessary in a time
of environmental crisis. We intend that articles in this special issue make a
contribution to this conversation. We would be pleased to hear responses from
readers; we may be reached via email at our respective institutions.
Notes
1. Also a time of continuing cultural crisis, as the binaries music and sound,
nature and culture, human and non-human, living and non-living, are increasingly
inadequate to describe the world we live in.
2. Written by Lü Buweh in the 3rd century B.C.E. The music-making events
themselves were said to have occurred in the 3rd millennium B.C.E.
3. These were mythological, immortal creatures, sometimes called the Chinese
phoenix, representing both male and female elements (a yin-yang harmony). “Their
rare appearance was said to be an omen foretelling harmony at the ascent to the
throne of a new emperor” (Britannica Online, https://www.britannica.com/topic/fen-
ghuang).
4. In the 1950s, the ecosystem paradigm became dominant in ecological sci-
ence. As it developed in that decade, it was influenced by the new field of cybernetics,
another influential example of systems thinking.
5. A fuller version of Archer’s lecture was published a year later (Archer 1964).
6. By a music-culture I mean a social group’s total involvement with music —
that is, sonic materials, behavior, generative procedures or ideas, receptive procedures
or responses, material aspects of sound including mechanisms of sound production
and reception, material culture of music, and so forth (Titon and Slobin 1984: 1-2).
7. Although the ecosystem idea was introduced in 1935 by Arthur G. Tansley,
who coined the term, it was not developed into a systematic theory until E. P. Odum
did so in his extraordinarily influential textbook, Fundamentals of Ecology. In its first
edition he defined the ecosystem as “any entity or natural unit that includes living
and nonliving parts interacting to produce a stable system in which the exchange
of materials between living and nonliving parts follows circular [i.e., cyclical] paths
in an ecological system or ecosystem. The ecosystem … includes both organisms
(biotic communities) and abiotic [i.e., non-living] environment, each influencing the
properties of each other and both necessary for maintenance of life as we have it on
the earth. A lake is an example of an ecosystem” (Odum 1953: 9).
8. As I developed further the idea that music-cultures are ecosystems, I came to
think of affect as the energy, and music and sound vibrations as the material (matter)
of exchanges in a music-culture.
9. Population ecology characterized ecological science in the 19th and early 20th
centuries. Ecosystem ecology arose out of Frederic Clements’ idea of natural succes-
sion and climax, combined with Arthur Tansley’s invention of the term ecosystem in
the mid-1930s and the development, by Clements and Victor Shelford, of the biome
concept. It was not until 1953 with the publication of Eurgene P. Odum’s Fundamen-
tals of Ecology that ecosystem ecology became wholly paradigmatic within ecological
science. An entire generation of ecologists was educated to think of ecology in this
way. (I count myself among them, for the 2nd edition of Odum’s textbook [1959] was
key to my college education in ecological science.) The holism of ecosystem ecology
was compatible with the philosophy of the environmental movement, and ecosystem
models dominated in ecological research and funding from the 1950s through the
1980s. However, the mixed success of ecosystem models, coupled with the rise of
the disturbance-and-change paradigm challenged ecosystem ecology as well as the
balance-of-nature ideal, and by the 1990s ecological science had decentered ecosystem
ecology, as reflected in textbooks such as Ricklefs’ 3rd edition, which was foundational
for Allen’s education in the field. Today, however, ecosystem ecology continues to
influence the environmental movement, particularly through conservation biology
and restoration ecology; in their applied ecologies they advocate a policy of adaptive
environmental management based in resilience.
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Book Reviews / Comptes rendus de livres 265
BOOK REVIEWS / COMPTES RENDUS DE LIVRES
American Folk Music as Tactical might productively reframe folk music

Media. 2018. Henry Adam Svec. production, circulation, and consump-
Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press. tion as acts that engage meaningfully and
197 pp. deliberately with communications media
in ways that advance particular social and
TRAVIS D. STIMELING political agendas. Focusing principally
West Virginia University on canonic US folk music figures such as
Alan Lomax, Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and
Folk revivalism in the United States has Woody Guthrie, Svec’s study calls for a
always been intricately linked with political fundamental reconsideration of notions of
movements, both explicitly and implicitly. folk authenticity and situates communica-
Landmark studies by Robert Cantwell tions media — not artistic personae, public
(1996), Benjamin Filene (2000), and Ron- rhetoric, or pedagogical lineages — as vital
ald D. Cohen (2002, 2016), among others, tools for social change.
have traced these connections in great Drawing on the writings of Marshall
detail, offering nuanced discussions of the McLuhan, Harold Adams Innis, David
ways that individual musicians aligned Garcia, and Geert Lovink, among many
themselves with political ideologies and others, Svec argues that some of the most
social movements, often with a particular important figures in the mid-20th century
focus on left-leaning ideologies. Linking US folk revival were deeply concerned
politics and music-making has been a dis- with the ways that media might allow
course of authenticity that applies a sort them to share songs with a wider audi-
of purity test to participants in the folk ence, galvanize support for anti-fascist and
revival, requiring a constant signaling of pro-democratic ideologies, and build com-
one’s commitment to specific traditions munities that could reshape civil society.
and political ideologies. In American Folk Yet, as Svec convincingly argues, the folk
Music as Tactical Media, communica- revivalists were not always skilled users
tions scholar Henry Adam Svec pushes of these media technologies, nor were
readers to reconsider common notions of the media technologies they used always
folk revival authenticity by “consider[ing] well-suited for the revivalists’ broader agen-
certain folk revivalists as media theorists” das. Instead, folk revivalists often worked
(2018: 16) and “more precisely as tactical within the boundaries of their own limited
media theorists” (17; emphasis in original). understandings of media technologies and
Svec presents a theoretically dense “folk developed new tactics for using inherently
archeology” that seeks to “locat[e] and flawed tools.
amplif[y] diagrammatic machines wherein After outlining the core theoretical
both folk and media assemblages converge foundation for the study in the introduc-
and collaborate” (24). In so doing, he sug- tion, Svec first turns to noted folk song
gests that, rather than seeing the mediation collector Alan Lomax, arguing that Lomax’s
of folk music as an inherent problem, we career can be effectively understood as
divided into two “epochs”: “Phonographic ence as possible, an approach that at times
Lomax,” during which Lomax was primar- put him at odds with the mass media’s co-
ily concerned with recording and archiving optation of the folk revival (54).
sounds from around the globe, and “Com- Dylan, on the other hand, seems to
putational Lomax,” during which Lomax have embraced “noisy channels” of com-
developed his Cantometrics system for munication that lead not to community
correlating sonic and societal traits (32). solidarity but to a seemingly endless vari-
Although much of this history will be ety of individual interpretations of his
familiar to folk revival specialists, and music and image (88). In Chapter 3, a
ethnomusicologists more generally, Svec brief discussion of Dylan’s music (focusing
convincingly demonstrates that Lomax especially on his output from the 1960s)
deployed the media technologies at his highlights the dominant place of commu-
disposal (including microphones, radio nications media in his lyrics, suggesting
transmitters, and IBM computers) in an that communication and miscommunica-
effort to combat the dominance of mass tion were important concerns for him. But
media (see esp. 45) and to create new chan- Svec is even more interested in the ways that
nels for cross-cultural understanding. Dylan’s music and image were taken up by
Three chapters focus on musicians Apple co-founder Steve Jobs, who not only
whose lives were deeply entwined but who used Dylan’s music in the unveiling of key
might be seen as holding distinct — and, Apple products and took inspiration from
at times, contradictory — approaches to Dylan’s artistic personae, but was also an
communications media: Woody Guthrie, ardent Dylanophile. In taking up Dylan as
Pete Seeger, and Bob Dylan. In Chapter a symbol, Svec suggests, Jobs presented a
3, Svec takes up Seeger, whose long life, vision of individual creativity that would
ardent political activism, and frequent allow everyone to “become like Dylan …
discussion of media technologies makes with the transparent vessels of creativity
him a particularly useful case study for Apple offers” (86). This vision, Svec notes,
this project. Describing Seeger as “a DIY relies on a complex network of individuals
techno-nomad … [who] was willing to who create, manufacture, market, sell, and
take up any tool … fit for the task at hand” support Apple technologies.
(57), Svec uses Seeger’s magazine columns Chapter 5 focuses on Woody Guthrie,
and his disgust at Dylan’s infamous 1965 whose life and music served as an impor-
Newport performance as evidence that, tant formative force on Dylan and who
“despite his impatient critique of McLu- worked closely with Seeger as a member
han, Seeger himself had a working ‘medium of the Almanac Singers in the 1940s. Like
theory’ insofar as he was conscious of the Lomax, Seeger, and Dylan, Guthrie —
distinctive structuring capacities of what who diligently presented a down-home and
McLuhan called ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ media” folksy public persona — worked closely
(54). He notes that Seeger preferred such and deliberately with a variety of commu-
cool media as folk song collections, televi- nications media in an effort to engage in
sion shows (such as Seeger’s Rainbow Quest meaningful interpersonal dialogue. Svec
program), and even live concerts as a way highlights the Greenwich Village “hoot-
to “broadcast” messages to as wide an audi- enannies” in which Guthrie and Seeger
participated during the late 1930s as a + Design in 2014 and 2015, this chapter
vital communications medium that trans- suggests that the creation of “imaginary
formed folk songs into pro-democratic media” might be a valuable tool to help
and anti-fascist weapons. He notes that, individuals and communities develop ways
in the hootenanny, “voices and bodies can to address issues in their own communi-
meld and conjoin … forming a throbbing ties (97-107). Unfortunately, many of the
and propulsive ‘war machine,’ a steely rhi- practical details of these workshops were
zome of sonic solidarity” (121). Yet, even largely omitted from Svec’s discussion in
as the hootenannies became powerful tools favor of extended exegeses of the theoreti-
for social and political change, they also cal foundations for that work.
silenced viewpoints that did not conform In fact, throughout much of the
to the pro-democratic, anti-fascist ide- book, it is difficult to discern whether
ologies held by their organizers. Svec puts Svec is more interested in intervening in
these folk music performances in dialogue discourses around folk revivalism or in
with the “People’s Microphone” tech- those around tactical media. Readers inter-
nique used by participants in the Occupy ested in detailed case studies drawing on
Movement, noting that, unlike the hoot- new archival research, close readings of
enannies, the People’s Microphone requires particular performances and recordings,
that participants transmit all messages, or critique of folk revival scholarship will
even those with which one disagrees. As likely be disappointed by American Folk
such, Svec suggests that “the People’s Mic Music as Tactical Media. Svec spends the
is much more grounded than the Hooten- overwhelming majority of the brief text
anny had been in the liberal conception of presenting close readings and critiques of
free speech” (125). a wide range of media theorists. As such,
Chapters 4 and 6 turn away from Svec’s text, although insightful in a variety
iconic folk revivalists and shift attention to of ways, may be of more interest to com-
more contemporary tactical and strategic munications scholars and musical activists
uses of communications media. Chapter 6, seeking new ways to deploy media than
for instance, considers Canadian pop star to music specialists. This is not to dimin-
Justin Bieber’s rise to fame on YouTube as ish Svec’s work; the book maintains a very
a deliberate and strategic deployment of tight focus on a specific concern and pre-
social media that uses “folk media” such sents an often-convincing argument. But
as YouTube and Twitter to craft personal music specialists will undoubtedly wish to
narratives and brand identities and, in read this text only after having immersed
the process, build personal wealth (129). themselves in the historical scholarship on
Chapter 4, on the other hand, describes folk revivalism.
Svec’s own efforts to “map the creative uto- Taken on the whole, American Folk
pianism of the long American folk revival Music as Tactical Media offers some useful
more directly onto the problematics of insights into the ways that individual folk
media-archaeological design, in a perhaps revivalists used tactical media to advance
tactical way” (97). Focusing on a series of their agendas. But, as Svec’s own numerous
workshops he led with the New Brunswick caveats indicate, the book’s exclusive focus
Laboratory of Imaginary Media Research on canonic white male figures unfairly
privileges dominant perspectives. One Global Metal Music and Culture:

wonders, for instance, how a deliberate Current Directions in Metal Studies.
focus on Leadbelly’s engagement with com- Andy R. Brown, Karl Spracklen, Keith
munications media might have tempered Kahn-Harris, Niall Scott, dir. 2016.
Svec’s discussion of Alan Lomax. As well, New York, Londres : Routledge. 370 pp.,
the book’s sometimes impenetrable prose illustrations.
will undoubtedly make it difficult for some
of the powerful ideas that Svec presents to MEI-RA SAINT-LAURENT
filter into the praxis of musician activists Université Laval
and activist musicians. Consequently, it is
unlikely that Svec’s nuanced theories will Pour le champ d’études des metal studies
return to the folk communities from which formé en 20131, l’année 2016 est par-
they were derived. ticulièrement fructueuse. En effet, trois
ouvrages portant sur le sujet dans le milieu
académique sont publiés, soit Heavy Metal,
REFERENCES Gender and Sexuality : Interdisciplinary
Approaches (Heesch et Scott 2016), Heavy
Cantwell, Robert. S. 1996. When We Metal and the Communal Experience (Vara-
Were Good: The Folk Revival. Cam- Diaz et Scott 2016), ainsi que le livre qui
bridge, MA: Harvard University fait l’objet de cette recension. Comportant
Press. 20 chapitres, cet ouvrage est écrit tant par
Cohen, Ronald D. 2002. Rainbow Quest: des spécialistes établis que par des cher-
The Folk Music Revival and American cheurs débutant leur carrière et présente un
Society, 1940-1970. Amherst, MA: bel éventail de disciplines.
University of Massachusetts Press. L’introduction comporte deux chapi-
———. 2016. Depression Folk: Grass- tres, dont un écrit par la sociologue Deena
roots Music and Left-Wing Politics in Weinstein, souvent considérée comme la
1930s America. Chapel Hill, NC: première universitaire à s’être intéressée au
University of North Carolina Press. sujet. Plus spécifiquement, dans « Reflec-
Filene, Benjamin. 2000. Romancing the tions on Metal Studies », Weinstein tente
Folk: Public Memory and American de répondre à la question « How metal
Roots Music. Chapel Hill, NC: Uni- studies is possible? ». Puis, elle revient sur
versity of North Carolina Press. les concepts théoriques issus des disciplines
périphériques aux metal studies qui peuvent
aussi s’y appliquer, tel que le « bricolage »
de Levi-Strauss (29-30).
La section qui suit, « Metal Musico-
logy », présente trois textes. Ainsi, le choix
de débuter l’ouvrage par cette discipline
démontre bien la volonté des directeurs
de lui accorder davantage d’importance,
malgré qu’elle soit toujours sous-représen-
tée dans les metal studies. La contribution
de Dietmar Elflein (« Iron and Steel : For- cette région n’ont pas? (90) À travers une
ging Heavy Metal’s Song Structures or the étude historique et culturelle de cette ville,
Impact of Black Sabbath and Judas Priest Fellezs avance que San Francisco se caracté-
on Metal’s Musical Language ») portant sur rise par une ouverture culturelle, artistique
les éléments compositionnels qui influen- et ethnique (en raison de la forte présence
cent les structures des chansons des groupes d’immigrants), qui la désigne comme un
ci-haut mentionnés a retenu mon attention espace d’expérimentation musical (92-
(35). Exemples à l’appui, l’auteur explique 94). Ainsi, la popularité de Metallica (dont
que les chansons heavy metal se caractéri- certains membres ont un bagage ethnique
sent davantage par une mise en valeur de la distinct) à San Francisco s’explique par la
microstructure. Tout comme le blues, elles grande ouverture caractérisant ses habitants
sont constituées de successions de riffs qu’il (101). Ce faisant, l’auteur démontre le rôle
appelle « unité structurelle ». Au contraire, essentiel des immigrants dans l’élaboration
la structure des chansons hard rock met de du trash metal, remettant en question la
l’avant la macrostructure, construite sur une primauté « blanche » rattachée au dévelop-
succession d’unités périodiques se rappor- pement du trash metal.
tant au modèle traditionnel de la chanson Dans la troisième partie, portant sur
populaire de forme AABA (36). Le point la démographie et l’identité, on retrouve la
faible de cet article réside dans la représenta- contribution fort pertinente de Christophe
tion graphique que l’auteur privilégie pour Guibert et de Gérôme Guibert intitulée
illustrer ses analyses de la microstructure et « The Social Characteristics of the Contem-
de la macrostructure. Constitué à la fois de porary Metalheads : The Hellfest Survey ».
chiffres et de lettres, ce système de représen- Souhaitant dresser le portrait démogra-
tation est peu convivial et ne permet pas phique et social des fans du Hellfest (le
une compréhension rapide de la structure célèbre festival français de musique metal),
des chansons présentées. les auteurs soulèvent la question suivante :
Dans la deuxième section du livre, quelles sont les caractéristiques des ama-
« Music scenes », je porterai mon atten- teurs de musique metal? (167). Les auteurs
tion sur le chapitre de Kevin Fellezs ont donc distribué un questionnaire aux
intitulé « Voracious Souls : Race and participants du festival, qui portait princi-
Place in the Formation of the San Fran- palement sur le contexte démographique et
cisco Bay Area Trash Scene ». L’auteur y social, ainsi que sur la diversité des goûts
explique la manière dont les journalistes musicaux des amateurs de metal. Parmi les
ont sous-estimé les innovations musica- résultats obtenus, les chercheurs démon-
les vernaculaires ayant influencé le trash trent que, lorsque comparée à l’ensemble
metal émanant de la scène musicale de San de la population française, l’audience du
Francisco (89). En effet, Fellezs soulève Hellfest présente une proportion de per-
les questionnements suivants : pourquoi sonnes sans-emplois plus faible, ainsi qu’un
Metallica, en provenance de Los Angeles, niveau d’étude plus élevé (171). Cette
n’a d’abord pas été en mesure d’obtenir de étude permet donc de remettre en question
succès dans cette ville, pour ensuite devenir certains stéréotypes qualifiant les amateurs
très populaire à San Francisco? Que pos- metal comme étant peu scolarisés et non
sède San Francisco que les autres villes de intégrés socialement (186).
Dans la section suivante (dédiée aux employés pour qualifier l’engagement

études de marché en lien avec la musique des amateurs dans le death metal ne sont
metal), la contribution de Claire Barratt pas à même de bien expliquer l’attirance
« Death Symbolism in Metal Jewelry : des femmes pour ce style. À travers trois
Circuits of Consumption from Subculture enquêtes ethnographiques, elle cherche à
to the High Street » est particulièrement comprendre le rôle que joue le death metal
intéressante. En effet, ce chapitre porte dans la vie des femmes interrogées (246).
sur la manière dont la commercialisation Comme Patterson l’explique : « What
des bijoux présentant des symboles liés emerged first were deeply personal narra-
à la mort (e.g., le crâne) influence tant le tives of how these women had used death
marché de masse que celui de la sous-cul- metal instrumentally to instill a confidence
ture metal (227). Pour ce faire, l’auteure that enabled them to make choices that
présente deux études de cas portant sur improved their everyday conditions, which
les manufacturiers de bijoux The Great were often, though not always, connected
Fog et Alchemy (227). Barrat explique to marginalized and stigmatized gender
aussi l’importance pour l’amateur d’avoir constructions in their life histories » (246).
un bijou fabriqué par un manufacturier Dans l’avant-dernière section du livre,
ayant une grande légitimité au sein de la portant sur les études culturels, Simon
sous-culture, comme cela est le cas avec les Pool (« Retro Rock and Heavy History »)
bijoux The Great Fog. Par ailleurs, la dis- emploie la notion de palimpseste pour
tinction entre ce type de bijoux fabriqués expliquer comment l’histoire du heavy
par les manufacturiers de masse et celui metal devrait être considérée, non pas
par les manufacturiers spécialisés — tel comme fixée dans le temps, mais en recons-
qu’Alchemy — provient du fait que ce der- truction continuelle (297). L’auteur avance
nier propose une plus grande variété dans que l’emploi de diagramme servant à illus-
les représentations esthétiques de la mort, trer l’histoire de la constitution du heavy
démontrant une meilleure connaissance metal pose problème, puisque ce genre de
des codes sous-culturels (237). Ce chapitre représentation ne prend souvent pas en
démontre bien l’importance de prendre en compte les origines multiples du heavy
compte les relations complexes présentent metal (298). Ainsi, en appréhendant le
entre la sous-culture metal et la culture de heavy metal à la manière du palimpseste, il
masse (240). est possible de considérer la multitude des
Dans la portion suivante de l’ouvrage, écrits historiques sur ce genre et célébrer
trois auteures s’attardent sur la place des les nombreuses trajectoires et influences
femmes dans la musique metal, sujet (301). Chaque acte d’écrire les palimp-
n’ayant pas été traité abondamment dans sestes peut alors être compris comme
les metal studies jusqu’à plus récemment. un véritable discours rétroprogressif qui
Dans le chapitre intitulé « “Getting My redonne un nouvel intérêt au passé, tout
Soul Back” : Empowering Narratives and en mettant en lumière des éléments qui
Identities among Women in Extreme avaient jusqu’alors été négligés (308).
Metal in North Carolina », Jamie E. Pat- Pour conclure, Global Metal Music
terson utilise l’ethnographie pour expliquer and Culture : Current Direction in Metal
la manière dont les facteurs habituellement Studies demeure un ouvrage extrêmement
bien construit, où chacun des auteurs abor- L’enquête en ethnomusicologie.

dent les différentes facettes de la musique Préparation, terrain, analyse. 2015.
metal de manière approfondie. Par ailleurs, Simha Arom et Denis-Constant Martin.
le fait que cette nouvelle parution porte Paris : Vrin, coll., « Musicologies ». 284
un intérêt soutenu à la place des femmes pp.
dans le metal demeure un point crucial.
En contrepartie, aucun chapitre n’aborde MARIE-HÉLÈNE PICHETTE
directement les idéologies politiques tou- Ethnomusicologue indépendante
chant le metal, ce qui demeure surprenant.
L’ouvrage présente tout de même une « L’ethnomusicologie, quelle que soit la
grande diversité d’approches, de cadres conception qu’on en a, quels que soient
théoriques et de méthodologie, en faisant les domaines dans lesquels elle opère, sup-
une lecture extrêmement enrichissante, pose un “travail de terrain” » (Arom et
tant pour les chercheurs du champ des Martin 2015 : 9). Ce travail, essentiel à la
metal studies que pour ceux souhaitant le compréhension d’une pratique musicale,
connaître. est inévitable. Quelques ouvrages existent
déjà sur le sujet, mais celui des ethnomu-
sicologues Simha Arom et Denis-Constant
NOTES Martin se base sur leur expérience dans le
but de « nourrir d’autres expériences, de
1. Dès 2008, plusieurs chercheurs faire réfléchir ceux qui les vivent sur leur
(e.g., Brian Hickam, Gérôme Guibert, pratique, sur leur manière de “construire”
Jeremy Wallach) réalisent l’importance le terrain, sur les rapports qu’ils entre-
grandissante des travaux universitaires sur tiennent avec ceux qu’ils y rencontrent,
la musique metal et envisagent sérieuse- dans l’espoir que leur travail s’en trouvera
ment l’établissement d’un champ d’études facilité, que leur imagination en sera épe-
couvrant le sujet. Il s’officialise en avril ronnée » (12). L’ouvrage se divise en sept
2013, grâce à la création de l’Interna- chapitres précédés de prolégomènes et
tional Society for Metal Music Studies suivis d’un épilogue. Chacun de ces cha-
(ISMMS) (Brown et al. 2016 : 8, 10). pitres possède une bibliographie qui lui est
propre. Les auteurs y ont également inséré
RÉFÉRENCES quelques narrations d’expérience de terrain
pour illustrer certains de leurs propos.
Heesch, Florian et Niall Scott 2016, dir. Avant d’explorer les diverses facettes
Heavy Metal, Gender and Sexuality: de l’enquête de terrain, les auteurs offrent
Interdisciplinary Approaches. Londres, d’abord une définition du terme dans le
New York : Routledge. cadre de l’ethnomusicologie. Ils rappel-
Vara-Diaz, Nelson et Niall Scott, dir. lent que tout terrain est construit, pour
2016. Heavy Metal and the Commu- les biens de la recherche, à l’intérieur des
nal Experience. Londres : Lexington limites imposées et des interactions créées.
Press. Le terrain permet non seulement « l’expéri-
mentation et la vérification des méthodes »,
mais pousse également le chercheur à se
questionner sans cesse et à réévaluer ces bonne oreille, formation musicale pour la
mêmes méthodes (10). De par sa présence, transcription, connaissance de l’alphabet
le chercheur influence le terrain; il doit phonétique international. Une importante
donc être conscient des changements qu’il partie de ce chapitre se consacre à l’équipe-
provoque et en tenir compte dans ses ana- ment à emporter sur le terrain, équipement
lyses. fort nombreux et quelque peu encombrant.
Le premier chapitre aborde « l’eth- Les auteurs rappellent l’importance de sui-
nomusicologie d’aujourd’hui ». Arom et vre les lois du pays, mais aussi de travailler
Martin définissent l’ethnomusicologie comme s’il était impossible de revenir sur
« comme une manière d’approcher les le terrain.
pratiques musicales — quelles qu’elles Les questions d’éthique font l’objet du
soient — et non plus comme une disci- troisième chapitre. « Depuis le milieu des
pline consacrée à des genres particuliers de années 1960, des artistes et des producteurs
musique » (27). Ils soulignent que l’inté- de musiques commerciales ont exploré les
rêt qu’un étranger affiche pour une culture possibilités d’intégrer dans leurs créations
autre pousse parfois les musiciens à dire des éléments empruntés à des musiques
ce qu’ils croient que les enquêteurs veu- non occidentales » (119). L’existence de
lent entendre. À cause des contraintes de certains cas populaires cités dans l’ouvrage
temps, chaque terrain doit être organisé (Hugo Zemp 1996; Steven Feld 2000) crée
de façon à ce que l’enquêteur réunisse un la méfiance chez certaines populations qui
corpus représentatif et les informations s’imaginent que les ethnomusicologues
contextuelles essentielles au dépouille- s’enrichiront avec leur musique en la ven-
ment ultérieur. L’ethnomusicologue doit dant et en la réutilisant. Conséquemment,
se rendre disponible sur le terrain et savoir certains gouvernements ont élaboré des
tirer profit de situations inattendues qui lois « visant à contrôler l’utilisation des
peuvent s’avérer tout aussi sinon plus signi- musiques non-écrites pratiquées sur leur
ficatives que celles prévues au départ. « Il territoire » (125). Tel est le cas du Sénégal
n’y a donc pas de “recette” qui garantirait et du Brésil. Ces lois peuvent compliquer le
le succès d’une recherche, et ces pages n’en droit à la recherche des ethnomusicologues
fournissent aucune; elles tentent tout au et le droit à la propriété des musiciens, mais
plus de proposer des éléments de réflexion des solutions sont envisagées pour faciliter
quant aux modalités d’adaptation au ter- la résolution de ce problème. Frédéric Léo-
rain » (66). tar suggère, si ce n’est déjà fait, que l’on
Le deuxième chapitre se consacre à aborde la question des droits d’auteur et
la préparation au terrain. Comment se de l’éthique dans les cours de base d’eth-
préparer? Que lire? Quel matériel empor- nomusicologie. Anthony Seeger, quant
ter? Telles sont quelques questions que à lui, propose un nombre de recomman-
plusieurs ethnomusicologues en herbe se dations se résumant surtout à la signature
posent avant le départ. Arom et Martin d’une lettre de consentement détaillée. Il
recommandent d’abord la lecture d’ouvra- faut toutefois bien souligner que le rôle
ges d’auteurs reconnus pour initier la premier de l’ethnomusicologue est de
réflexion. Ils énumèrent ensuite les com- « collecter, décrire et analyser la musique,
pétences idéales d’un ethnomusicologue: les conditions de sa production et la place
qu’elle tient dans une société » (137). Les également les éléments à prendre en consi-
questions de publication d’enregistrements dération lors de la constitution d’un corpus
et de diffusion ne devraient en aucun cas le — le contexte dans lequel la musique
concerner. s’insère, la distinction entre les musiques
Le quatrième chapitre s’intéresse à cycliques (qui se répètent) et les musiques
l’enquête en soi. Dans la majorité des cas, à développement, la pertinence des musi-
les musiciens sont fiers que des étrangers ques collectées — et évoquent aussi le
s’intéressent à leur musique. Ils accueillent choix à faire dans la transcription des tex-
en général très favorablement les ethnomu- tes : une traduction littérale ou simplement
sicologues surtout lorsque les enquêtes sont un résumé du sens selon l’usage qu’on veut
menées dans un cadre universitaire. Une en faire.
même attitude de respect est requise chez Le sixième chapitre se consacre à l’ana-
l’enquêteur. Il ne faut pas oublier qu’ « une lyse musicale. Le chercheur ne devrait pas
enquête est ainsi toujours un échange, et attendre de rentrer à la maison pour com-
le premier bien que l’enquêteur doit pré- mencer son analyse : il doit la commencer
senter en contrepartie des connaissances sur place. Arom et Martin expliquent
qu’il espère recueillir est le respect » (150). leurs principes méthodologiques emprun-
Établir un dialogue, savoir échanger et tés à la linguistique structurale : les
donner en retour, voir le tout comme une concepts d’unité distinctive minimale,
collaboration au sein de laquelle tous ont de segmentation, de classe paradigmati-
à gagner ne sont que quelques attitudes à que ou paradigme, de commutation, de
prendre en considération pour bien mener classe d’équivalence. Selon les auteurs, la
une enquête. Dans certains cas, apprendre transcription est indispensable à la com-
à jouer d’un instrument facilite et le dialo- préhension du matériel sonore. Par contre,
gue avec les musiciens et la compréhension selon l’objectif recherché, elle peut aussi
de la musique. La présence d’une per- être remplacée par un schéma graphique
sonne-ressource sur place pour conseiller le permettant d’illustrer l’essentiel de l’orga-
chercheur dans ses démarches s’avère sou- nisation d’une pièce ou par une description
vent bénéfique. verbale bien détaillée. L’expérimentation
Le chapitre suivant parle de cueillette interactive entre le chercheur et le musi-
des données et de leur conservation. De cien joue aussi un rôle important dans la
l’enregistrement audio et vidéo, à la prise compréhension de la musique étudiée en
de photos, les auteurs donnent des conseils permettant de mettre à jour des éléments
sur la façon d’obtenir une qualité opti- qui auraient pu demeurer inconnus sans
male lors de ces collectes qu’il s’agisse de cette discussion.
l’origine des sources sonores, de l’emplace- Le dernier chapitre de l’ouvrage traite
ment des micros ou du choix du média à de validation et de vérification. Pour s’as-
utiliser. Au niveau des enregistrements, ils surer de bien comprendre la musique, il
peuvent se faire en et hors contexte, celui faut valider ses hypothèses par une variété
filmé dans le cadre de l’événement et celui de musiciens. Ces validations porteront
provoqué à l’extérieur de l’événement dans autant sur les enquêtes et les entretiens que
le but d’obtenir des éléments bien précis sur la substance sonore. Elles vérifieront,
pour l’analyse. Arom et Martin abordent entre autres choses, les circonstances dans
lesquelles les musiques sont jouées, la hié- lyse qui sont exposées comme les seules
rarchie des interventions et les effectifs des méthodes à suivre. Les auteurs n’abordent
formations musicales. ou n’effleurent malheureusement pas les
L’épilogue qui conclut l’ouvrage rap- méthodes autres que celle empruntée à la
pelle quelques éléments importants au sujet linguistique structurale. Pour donner une
du terrain. D’abord, l’étude de la musique meilleure vue d’ensemble de l’enquête en
permet de comprendre les sociétés. Elle met ethnomusicologie, il aurait été important
à jour les références culturelles et sociales et intéressant de puiser dans les exemples
qui laissent entrevoir les représentations de d’ethnomusicologues de diverses nationali-
cette société. Ensuite, le terrain est construit. tés afin de montrer qu’il existe plus d’un
Les pratiques musicales sont étudiées dans type d’ethnomusicologie et que l’enquête
un temps donné et selon un contexte par- de terrain varie selon les pratiques musica-
ticulier; elles sont donc représentatives de les étudiées.
ces circonstances. Enfin, Arom et Martin
terminent en affirmant que « le terrain »
ne peut plus être pensé comme le moment
où, dans un certain espace, un « chercheur Chinatown Opera Theater in North
vient observer des “Autres”, mais comme la America. By Nancy Yunhwa Rao.
situation dans laquelle se rencontrent des Champaign: University of Illinois Press,
personnes ayant des compétences diverses 2017, 440 pp. Photographs, Map, Music
qui décident de les mettre en commun pour Examples, Tables, Figures, Appendix,
mieux comprendre les phénomènes sur les- Bibliography, and Index.
quels ils ont décidé de se pencher ensemble »
(272). LEI OUYANG BRYANT
En général, l’ouvrage atteint son Swarthmore College
objectif : il fait décidément réfléchir sur la
façon d’aborder le terrain. Il contient une In the final paragraph of Chinatown Opera
bibliographie assez étoffée malgré quelques Theater in North America, Nancy Yunhwa
lacunes quant aux auteurs et à la diversité Rao writes, “To chronicle the history of
des perspectives de l’ethnomusicologie. Chinatown theaters is to recognize the
En fin de lecture, la question à se poser est complex history of many of these crea-
de savoir à qui s’adresse cet ouvrage. Par tive expressions today, and to recover the
moments, il semble s’adresser aux ethno- voiceless from its suppressed silence”
musicologues débutants, à ceux qui n’ont (320; emphases added). In the sentences
jamais fait de terrain, et propose des rensei- that follow she adds how the chronicle
gnements pertinents. Mais lorsqu’il s’agit of history must also “challenge,” “relo-
par exemple de l’équipement à emporter cate,” “hear and watch,” “reconstruct,”
et de la recommandation de trouver des and “build a bridge” (320). The theme of
assistants sur le terrain, ces propositions rehabilitation connects with an urgency
s’avèrent généralement financièrement et for visibility and recognition of China-
matériellement impossibles aux étudiants town opera theatre history. Earlier, in the
chercheurs. Un autre élément à souligner introduction, Rao speaks to gaps in cer-
se situe sur le plan des méthodes d’ana- tain historical accounts that are limited to
dominant narratives. While new accounts transnational and national, maintaining

are important additions to move beyond tradition and inspiring new forms. Further-
the exclusion, simply filling in the gaps more, she considers material culture with a
will not suffice (11). Indeed, Rao’s mobi- critical lens while never losing sight of the
lization of Chinatown opera theatres goes individuals and communities of individu-
far beyond filling in gaps, providing new als (practitioners, entrepreneurs, audience
details, or simple enrichment. Instead, members, and so forth) who engaged with
she “release[s] these theaters from their Chinatown theatres.
repressed silence and perpetual invisibil- In order to investigate the socio-
ity, as well as separate[s] them from the political, historical, musical, and cultural
myths about them” (8). While Rao may threads of Chinese theatres in North
or may not directly situate her work with America, Rao divides the twelve book
Asian American Studies per se, the per- chapters into five parts. The first two parts
spective bears a striking connection to set the stage for understanding the histori-
Cathy J. Schlund-Vials’ introduction to cal and aesthetic framework within which
the recent anthology Flashpoints for Asian the theatres operated. Part One takes on
American Studies, in which Schlund-Vials the circulation of peoples and culture
explains how a flashpoint “demands — in across Asia and North America (Chapter
the face of political calamity and systemic 1), the historical and political positioning
oppression — reflection, response, and of Chinese in 1920s America (Chapter 2),
recalibration” (2018: 2). Rao’s examina- and the never-ending immigration battles
tion of Chinatown theatres in North performers and merchants had to fight for
America is just this: an act of reflection, the theatres to exist and thrive (Chapter
response, and recalibration. It is a reflec- 3). Part Two then turns to performance
tion on American music in response to practice with an overview of the sights
the historic invisibility of Chinatown and sounds of Chinese opera performance
theatres and a recalibration to liberate the (Chapter 4) and a close look at and musi-
narrative from the myths and stereotypes cal analysis of a specific aria, “Shilin Jita,”
that surround it. including five-line staff notation tran-
Rao focuses on the 1920s as this was scriptions (Chapter 5). Parts Three, Four,
the “golden period” for Chinatown theatres and Five then provide detailed narratives
with increased performers, audiences, per- of regional scenes and the emergence
formances, and print culture as just some and development of the leading Chinese
of the evidence of a flourishing genre. Fur- theatres of the 1920s. Part Three includes
thermore, Rao places the rising prominence theatres in British Columbia (Chapter 6),
of Chinatown theatre within the socio- and developments across the United States
political context of the Roaring Twenties and Canada (Chapter 7), leading to the
and Chinese Exclusion Era. Herein lies the emergence of one of the two most vibrant
power of Rao’s interdisciplinary methodo- Chinatown opera theatres, the Great
logical perspective and meticulous historical China Theater in San Francisco (Chapter
research. Avoiding typical polarizations, 8). Part Four introduces The Manda-
Rao examines Chinatown theatre as some- rin Theater (the rival Chinatown opera
thing that is at once transient and local, theatre in San Francisco) and its opening
years of 1924-1926 (Chapter 9) followed to present the subject is but one of the
by the grand productions of 1927-1928 ways in which the text stands out to pro-
which included prominent actors (Chap- vide a transformative contribution to
ter 10). Part Five provides a glimpse of scholarship on American music. The sub-
what was happening on the other coast of ject matter of Rao’s text, on its own, is a
the United States with an examination of rich topic for exploration. Yet the insist-
two theatres in New York (Chapter 11), as ence on lifting “the silence” and undoing
well as a look at the broader “transnational “invisibility” results in an influential
network” of the golden period with con- recalibration of narratives on the history
sideration of three theatres in Honolulu, of American music (8). This book is a
Vancouver, and Havana (Chapter 12). valuable comprehensive text for scholars,
Readers should not miss the Intro- students, and readers interested in recog-
duction and Epilogue as they are both nizing and recovering the golden era of
necessary bookends to all that transpires Chinese theatres in 1920s North America
in the middle. In the Introduction, Rao’s and for those interested in critical move-
elegant writing provides insight into the ment beyond dominant narratives in
mind of a scholar and researcher when historical accounts.
she writes, “As I gingerly unfolded the
fragile paper and returned the two rectan-
gular scraps to their corner, my stomach REFERENCES
churned. What emerged were the lyrics
of a famous aria from a Cantonese opera” Schlund-Vials, Cathy J. 2018. Intro-
(1). The Epilogue presents significant duction: Crisis, Conundrum, and
ways that American artists, writers, and Critique. In Flashpoints for Asian
musicians took inspiration from the Chi- American Studies, 1-18. Ed. Cathy
nese theatres of the 1920s. J. Schlund-Vials and Viet Thanh
The critical perspective and detailed Nguyen. New York: Fordham Uni-
historical framework that Rao provides versity Press.
Recording Reviews / Comptes rendus d’enregistrements 277
RECORDING REVIEWS/
COMPTES RENDUS D’ENREGISTREMENTS
Hearing Place in “Location collection of performances, by contempor-

Recordings” ary artists, of songs that Hall recorded in
the 1930s. This essay is informed by my
The Bristol Sessions: The Big Band of experience as a musician who has listened
Country Music (BCD 16094). 2011. to, played, and written about the string-
Five compact discs and accompanying based vernacular music often called “old
book by Tony Russell and Ted Olson. time music.” Like others who style them-
Bear Family Records, Holste-Oldendorf. selves connoisseurs of this music, I have
120 pp. paid careful attention to the content and
context of recordings like those I consider
The Johnson City Sessions: Can You here. I am particularly interested in these
Sing Or Play Old Time Music? (BCD recordings since they are part of my current
16083). 2013. Four compact discs and local environment; I currently live near the
accompanying book by Tony Russell and sites of these recordings, my work as a per-
Ted Olson. Bear Family Records, Holste- former and teacher involves using these
Oldendorf. 136 pp. recordings, and I work with people who
were involved in the production of these
Old Time Smoky Mountain Music. collections. I chose these four collections
2012. Compact disc. Liner notes by because I am curious about what sense of
Michael Montgomery and Ted Olson. place they afford other aficionados of old
Great Smoky Mountains Association, time music. My experiences with these
Gatlinburg, TN. recordings lead me to consider the larger
question of how contemporary audiences
On Top of Old Smoky: New Old- and producers of old time music consume,
Time Smoky Mountain Music. 2016. engage, and create a sense of place through
Compact disc. Liner notes by Ted Olson. their music-making (listening, performing,
Great Smoky Mountains Association, mediating, etc.). As a participant-observer
Gatlinburg, TN. in old-time music-making circles, I have
observed that we seem very concerned with
LEE BIDGOOD place.
East Tennessee State University In addition to collections of recordings
that are grouped by performers, there are
This essay considers the Bristol, TN/VA many collections valued by music-makers
(1927-1928) and Johnson City, TN (1928- in old time revivalist circles that bear geo-
1929) Sessions recordings released by the graphic labels such as “Traditional Fiddle
Bear Family label, as well as recordings, Music of Missouri,” “Kentucky Mountain
made by linguist Joseph Hall in the 1930s, Music,” etc. What role do these place iden-
of musical performances by residents of the tifications play? How does a title like “The
Smokies in eastern Tennessee and west- Bristol Sessions” signal a geographic terri-
ern North Carolina. I also consider here a tory, and how might it establish a sense of
This review has an accompanying video on our YouTube channel. You can find it on the playlist for MUSICultures
difference from other places and perform- the performers who made recordings in
ances? How do we use elements drawn Johnson City in 1928 and 1929 travelled
from these recordings to conjure a sense of extensively to do so, giving the example of
place through our own musical efforts? a cadre of performers who travelled from
The Bear Family compilations of the Corbin, KY area.
recordings made in Bristol, TN/VA and A further challenge to a simplis-
Johnson City, TN are significant research tic or monolithic “hearing” of place in
and production efforts made by a team these sets is the wide range of geographic
intent on including all relevant facts and places about which the performers sing.
media (including advertisements, news- The verses of Clarence Green’s “Johnson
paper articles, photographs, etc.). The City Blues” take listeners to Chattanooga,
Bristol Sessions set compiles 124 record- Memphis, and back to Johnson City, using
ings made in 1927 and 1928 by the Victor a well-worn place-based narrative model
Talking Machine Company onto five CDs; used by many performers in the 1920s
The Johnson City collection includes four and 1930s, including the Allen Brothers in
CDs with 100 separate recordings made their lyrically similar “Chattanooga Blues.”
in 1928 and 1929 by representatives of The Bowman Sisters, although they were
the Columbia Phonograph Company. one of the local groups from the Johnson
Included as part of each box set is a book City area, performed material that ranged
(“liner notes” is a significant understate- far afield, including Stephen Foster’s “My
ment, each book is hardcover and more Old Kentucky Home” and “Swanee River.”
than 100 pages in length) in which Dr. They were clearly aiming to participate in a
Ted Olson (professor at East Tennessee music industry that was paying attention
State University in Johnson City, TN) and to the wide range of rural imaginaries that
veteran discographer Tony Russell provide were a part of the growing “hillbilly music”
interpretive text to accompany the record- industry of the late 1920s.
ings. Clarence “Tom” Ashley’s recordings
The producers’ notes balance cele- made in Johnson City in 1929 provide a
bratory and critical tones in discussing more concentrated sense of place through
the people, sounds, styles, locations, and limitations. His distinctively rural and non-
recording processes involved. They provide cosmopolitan vocality, focused banjo style,
careful readers with a complicated set of and mode of storytelling might have been
place-signifiers as we read, listen, and form absorbed through his childhood in Bristol,
a sense of “genius loci” for these sounds TN and his youth outside Mountain City,
and the people who made them. Place of TN. On the other hand, they also might
birth is a common way to create a context have been something that Ashley picked
for an old time performer, for example as a up from traveling minstrel or medicine
“Kentucky fiddler” or a “Piedmont North show troupes.
Carolina blues guitarist.” The musicians In any case, Ashley’s recordings evoke a
recorded in our current slate of four col- sense of rural, pre-modern existence, sketch-
lections were not always from the place ing a drama of simplicity with extremes of
where they were recorded. For example, bliss and tragedy juxtaposed. In an interest-
Russell and Olson explain that many of ing twist, Ashley’s “Coo Coo Bird” is one of
the recordings in this set that has had the playing of the record “Lindy” (Columbia
most active circulation. This is especially due 15533-D) by the Proximity String Quar-
to its inclusion in Harry Smith’s Anthology of tet (made in Johnson City in 1928), in
American Folk Music, a compilation (organ- which you hear not the traces of a modern
ized by theme and function, not location mastering studio, but the sound of this rec-
of recording) released by Folkways Records ord collector’s listening room.1 While this
in 1952 which was a key inspiration and video posting includes the “room noise” of
source of material for folk revival figures, this unprocessed modern video recording,
including Bob Dylan. Olson and Russell it also includes the sounds and motions of
inform us that Ashley’s musical work put the phonograph’s stylus coasting through
him, not in idyllic wilderness locales, but the grooves as the spinning slows. These
at the heart of the full-throttle industrializa- are the sounds that ignited this person’s
tion of the Tri-Cities region around Johnson passion for and connoisseurship of these
City, surrounded by factories, mines, and records. Unlike the conventions of “box
the ubiquitous call of passing trains. In set” collections, a different balance of
Ashley’s recordings, we hear an absence of technology, marketing, and experience
the modernization in which he lived, and is audible (and visible). In the past, Bear
to which his sounds were a balm, if not an Family sets might have provided the only
antidote. When old time music fans today access audiences would have had to rare
listen to his records without this context, we historical recordings; now, a huge num-
don’t hear this part of Ashley’s actual place ber of such recordings are available on
and time — the modern element that (per YouTube and other social media sites. On
T. J. Jackson Lears) is often entwined with these newer, networked media spaces, the
the anti-modern. recordings seem to have a different role,
One further note about technol- one bound less to commercial consump-
ogy: the sound quality of the Bear Family tion and more to individual engagement
releases is exceptional. Much care seems to with these recordings.
have been taken to preserve extant sounds Bear Family is not the only institu-
and to provide the cleanest and most listen- tion constructing larger narratives that
able example of what was performed into purposefully connect sets of recordings to
the microphones used by Victor and Col- locations where they were made. The Bear
umbia in the late 1920s. The recordings Family’s Bristol set, in codifying location
— as they are processed for this collection and sound, has supported a number of
— are in better shape than many historic initiatives, such as a Bristol museum that
recordings due to sophisticated, tasteful names the city as the “Birthplace of Coun-
clean-up processing that has made them try Music” and is dedicated to preserving
sound more like part of the sonic universe the legacy of the 1927 recording sessions.2
of the 21st century. In addition, a separate Bear Family release
Consider another way to experience of recordings made in Knoxville, Tennes-
the sounds on these Bear Family collec- see provided leverage for the “Knoxville
tions: navigate to the YouTube channel of Stomp: Festival of Lost Music” in 2016.3
a record collector like “Columbia1930” While Russell, Olson, and the Bear
who has posted a high-quality video of the Family production team have tried to
preserve, illustrate, and (perhaps) elevate Michael Montgomery and the above-men-
these sounds, they have also made them tioned Dr. Ted Olson. The producers have
into something different. Instead of dis- included a variety of musical material, ran-
crete discs, or even record sides, they are ging from solo sung ballads, instrumental
now tracks that are part of a larger pro- performances, and voices accompanied by
ject and the “Sessions” become framed as stringed instruments, including guitar and
the work of a single producer. Columbia fiddle.
A&R representative Frank Walker is listed The recordings are short (some shorter
as “producer” of the Johnson City set — than a minute) but give brief access to the
a somewhat symbolic move by the Bear music of the people who would be ousted
Family producers. This attribution makes from communities like Cataloochee, Cade’s
some sense, as Walker ran the sessions. Cover, and Allens Creek with the founding
However, this homage seems misplaced, of the Great Smoky Mountains National
since Walker is not responsible for the re- Park in 1934. Joseph Hall was hired by the
presentation of these recordings as a set National Park Service to record nuances of
— he sought to produce individual records. dialect, vocabulary, and folklore that would
In the Bristol set’s liner notes, Olson and be lost as human communities within Park
Russell state clearly that RCA Victor rep boundaries were removed.
Ralph Peer’s vision was not one of docu- Hall collected musical material inci-
mentation. In recruiting artists to record dentally, as part of his engagement with
for Victor in 1927 and 1928, he was try- individuals and families over several long
ing to cut profitable records, not represent recording trips to the region. The rapport
Bristol through these recordings. Label- between Hall and the musicians is evident
ing the recordings “The Bristol Sessions,” in performers’ relaxed (if somewhat nerv-
however, creates a marquee place-label that ous) introductions. These prefaces also
overshadows Olson and Russell’s careful include place of residence information that
work to describe the individual origins of the collection’s producers include in mul-
artists. While a single place designation for tiple places in the CD’s notes. In contrast to
these sets is much easier to understand (and the Bristol and Johnson City collections in
is perhaps more marketable), this kind of which the place of recording is paramount,
simplification doesn’t tell the whole story. the actual places where the recordings were
This “Catch-22” of place representa- made, while doubtless noted by Hall, are
tion plays out differently in the two sets not in the liner notes. The places to which
related to the Joseph Hall recordings. the performers were connected through
These were initially made not as com- their (soon-to-be dissolved) communities
mercial efforts (as was the case with those are of more symbolic importance here.
cut in Bristol and Johnson City), but as The musical material in these per-
field recordings in the Smoky Mountain formances, however, is seldom as tied
area that lies on the North Carolina-Ten- to place as the performers might be. The
nessee border. The 2010 collection “Old notes consistently show that many of these
Time Smoky Mountain Music” presents performances are of material that circu-
a selection of 34 recordings made by Hall lated as commercial “hillbilly” music of the
in 1939, with liner notes by linguist Dr. sort recorded and released by Victor and
Columbia. For example, the notes inform These 2016 notes, much more so than
us that while Hall credited the compos- those of the 2010 project, acknowledge the
ition of “That’s How I Got My Start” to problematic histories of community dis-
its singer, Bill Moore of Waynesville, NC, placement during the founding of the Park
it was actually written and performed by in the 1930s, as well as the more traumatic
cowboy-singer Gene Autry. Zeb and Win- removals of Native Americans from this
fred Hannah’s singing of “Conversation area a century earlier. The producers also
with Death,” the notes state, resembles make a statement about the socio-historical
the widely circulating 1920s commercial context of the music with regards to race.
recording by Vernon Dalhart, implying Although all the performers recorded by
that this couple learned their version from Hall seem to be white, “New Old-Time
this recording. This realization, rather Smoky Mountain Music” in 2016 includes
than dis-authenticating the musicality of performances by African-Americans as
these people or their environment, calls well. The presence of Amythyst Kiah and
for reconsideration of how listeners might Dom Flemons here aligns this project with
perceive them. Hall’s expedition hoped to narratives that seek to highlight the cul-
capture the linguistic practices of commun- tural diversity in American country music.
ities that were being dislocated and whose The track notes provide a vague sense of
voices were being changed. The music he where some of the performers hail from
recorded indicates that these people were but always list the recording location: the
already linked to a widely circulating campus of East Tennessee State Univer-
network of media (in written texts and sity, a top-of-the-line studio in Nashville, a
melodies as well as recorded and broadcast resort in Wyoming, a home in rural west-
media). This collection shows that in the ern North Carolina, and a town hall in
musical part of his work, Hall found not England. This globalized recording process
isolation, but connectedness. turns the idea of field recording on its head:
“On Top of Old Smoky: New Old- the place-bound material is celebrated but
Time Smoky Mountain Music” was also refracted through performances that
released in 2016 by the Great Smoky range far from the Smokies.
Mountains Association, the foundation In all four of the releases reviewed
that also backed the 2012 compilation of here, contemporary production teams
Hall’s recordings. This set of newly recorded work to capitalize on the connections that
music (23 tracks) draws, for the most part, bind a set of recordings to a particular
on material from the Hall recordings, with a place. In the case of the Bristol and John-
few others included as representative pieces son City Sessions, the place is perhaps not
of regional repertoire. This release casts important in and of itself, but the grouping
these songs as part of both old and new of the recordings can serve as a spatializ-
sonic, natural, and social environments. ing move that creates significance through
The inclusion on the disc of the song “Man the process of place identification. All four
of Constant Sorrow,” for instance, could collections include songs laden with sen-
be seen as a bid for the attention of poten- timentality, with wistful themes alongside
tial record buyers familiar with the film O those that, with frank bluntness, ache with
Brother, Where Art Thou (2000). the pain of loss. Through them, we enter a
historical soundscape as we listen to songs Roumanie : Musique du Maramureș,

about modernity and change, including Goupe Iza. 2017. Disque compact. VDE-
imitative performances of sounds endemic Gallo VDE CD-1497 / AIMP CXIV.
to urban work environments and to a land- Enregistrement (2013) : Renaud Millet-
scape laced with trains and their calls. We Lacombe. Livret, 39 pp., avec texte par
see maps of growing urban centres like Fabrice Contri, traduction d’Isabelle
Bristol and Johnson City, and hear about Schulte-Tenckhoff, photos par Fabrice
how the Smokies were connected to the Contri.
globalized industries of popular music.
These recorded traces of place and music SÉBASTIEN LEBLANC
reveal not a performance of an isolated and Université de Montréal
fixed rurality, but of a culture on the move.
Re-release projects can reinforce Avec le disque Roumanie, Musique du
romanticized, ambiguous accounts of Maramureș de Groupe Iza, les Archives
place; they can also provide more nuanced Internationales de Musique Populaire
and critical context of places, sounds, and (AIMP) renouent avec les origines roumai-
people. These painstakingly researched nes de leur fondateur, Constantin Brăiloiu,
and carefully contextualized recordings en présentant la musique du Maramureș,
don’t avoid all problems of representa- région située aux limites septentrionales
tion, but provide facts, figures, stories, and de ce pays. C’est à l’écoute des 14 pièces
other context essential to opening discus- de l’album enregistré par Renaud Millet-
sions (like this one!) that foreground the Lacombe, ainsi qu’à la lecture des 40 pages
importance of considering place in music- du livret bilingue signé Fabrice Contri et
making, especially in country music. Speranța Rădulescu, que l’auditeur est
amené à la découverte d’un univers musi-
NOTES cal surprenant. En effet, c’est dans les
vallées carpatiques du Maramureș, que
1. https://www.youtube.com/ l’on peut entendre l’une des plus originales
watch?v=fNNJo2C7_b8 (accessed Janu- musiques de Roumanie. Cette originalité
ary 12, 2018). résulte en partie d’un contexte historique
2. https://www.birthplaceofcountry- et géopolitique ayant contribué à l’isole-
music.org. ment des habitants du Maramureș et à la
3. https://www.visitknoxville.com/ conservation de certaines de leurs tradi-
event/knoxville-stomp%3A-festival-of- tions musicales relativement anciennes. Au
lost-music/2622. centre du projet de l’AIMP se retrouve la
figure emblématique de la culture musicale
de cette région, le musicien Ioan Pop, que
l’on retrouve accompagné de son ensemble
: le Groupe Iza. Le choix de présenter un
corpus musical entier par les productions
d’un seul ensemble découle de la double
orientation que l’AIMP a souhaité donner
au présent projet soit de « rendre compte
d’une recherche ethnographique tout en Cluj-Napoca.

servant un projet artistique » (livret : 6). L’opus de l’AIMP nous permet éga-
Multi-instrumentiste autodidacte et lement de découvrir certains instruments
virtuose, Ioan Pop baigne dès son plus et techniques de jeu caractéristiques de la
jeune âge dans les traditions musicales de région du Maramureș. La zongoră, guitare
sa région natale, traditions dont il déplore à trois cordes, s’unit à la dobă, tambour
l’impopularité actuelle. Depuis 1989, le coiffé d’une petite cymbale, pour offrir un
Maramureș subit de profondes transfor- support plus rythmique qu’harmonique à
mations : le mode de vie ancestral de type la ceteră, nom que l’on donne au violon au
pastoral se « modernise » à une vitesse Maramureș (pistes 1, 2, 4, 5, 9, 12 et 14).
incroyable, une bonne part de la popu- Ce même violon résonne également au sein
lation s’exile et les champs deviennent de ce qui pourrait être appelé « l’ensemble
silencieux. Parallèlement, les musiques à cordes » roumain (piste 6), formé de la
traditionnelles tendent également à dis- ceteră, du braci (alto à trois cordes et au che-
paraître conjointement à leurs contextes valet plat) et du bas (contrebasse également
d’exécution. Pour Ioan Pop, ces tradi- à trois cordes). La répartition de ce type de
tions se doivent d’être conservées « en les formation instrumentale dépasse largement
préservant de la folklorisation et des les frontières du Maramureș et même celles
mélanges sans discernement » (3). Toute- de la Roumanie alors qu’on le retrouve éga-
fois et comme le souligne Rădulescu, Ioan lement dans la campagne hongroise. Tout
Pop reste un conservateur modéré (3). aussi répandue, la tilincă (pistes 7 et 8) est
C’est que, selon lui, on doit ajouter une une flûte dite harmonique. Celle-ci ne pos-
touche originale et personnelle aux tradi- sède aucun trou de jeu; c’est en soufflant
tions si l’on souhaite qu’elles conservent avec plus ou moins d’intensité que l’on fait
leur vitalité : « si l’on s’évertue seulement à entendre les différentes notes de la série des
reproduire, on n’ajoute rien de particulier harmoniques. Si au Maramureș la musique
au modèle » (6). instrumentale est principalement l’apanage
Le panorama des musiques du des hommes, c’est la musique vocale fémi-
Maramureș offert sur le présent CD nine qui est la plus prisée (pistes 3, 11, 13).
recense les différentes catégories musi- Pour les habitants de cette région, le chant
cales constitutives de ce corpus régional. des femmes « possède une saveur particu-
Ainsi, on retrouve des musiques de danse, lière et est plus intime, plus lyrique que
quelques chants dits de table ou à boire, celui des hommes » (8).
diverses ballades (prière à la vierge, chant L’enregistrement de l’album, fait au
de deuil) et chants de berger. Une seule domicile même de Ioan Pop, contribue
pièce de l’album permet vraiment d’en- largement à la qualité de l’opus de l’AIMP.
tendre l’esprit créateur dont Ioan Pop fait En effet, Millet-Lacombe a usé de finesse
usage afin d’actualiser les traditions musi- pour créer chez l’auditeur la sensation
cales du Maramureș. C’est en ouverture de tangible d’être présent avec les musiciens
l’album que l’on propose cette pièce ingé- dans cette maisonnette du nord de la Rou-
nieusement composée par l’artiste pour manie. Cette impression est notamment
une adaptation moderne de L’Électre de renforcée par les légers déséquilibres entre
Sophocle jouée par une troupe théâtrale de l’intensité des instruments, par le mou-
vement des musiciens s’éloignant ou se répertoires, les contextes d’exécution, le

rapprochant subitement du microphone, texte des chansons, etc. Bien que l’équili-
par la présence de bruits « parasites », des bre entre chacune de ces parties soit plutôt
frappements de pieds, le tout sans que respecté, il eut été possible de développer
la clarté d’aucune partie ne soit jamais davantage autour des notions de systémati-
compromise. Bien que l’album n’ait pas que musicale et des critères d’appréciation
été enregistré in situ (mariages, veillées esthétiques des musiciens. Toutefois, la
funèbres, etc.), il laisse place à toute la critique la plus justifiée que l’on pourrait
spontanéité qui caractérise la musique du porter sur le texte du livret reste qu’on
Maramureș, comme on peut l’observer à n’y fait aucune mention de la singularité
l’écoute de certains passages où les rires, des musiques du Maramureș face à ce que
les gloussements et inflexions de voix l’on peut retrouver ailleurs en Roumanie.
accompagnant certaines improvisations Or, les Roumains eux-mêmes considèrent
contribuent à renforcer cette impression généralement le répertoire du Maramureș
globale de réalisme dont sont imprégnées comme « unique » et « différent » de ce
chacune des pièces de l’album. qui se fait ailleurs au pays. De plus, on
Le livret accompagnant l’album reste omet également de souligner l’ancienneté
somme toute bien fait et répond aux deux de certains procédés musicaux. C’est le cas
attentes que l’on pourrait avoir à la lec- par exemple de l’accompagnement harmo-
ture de ce type de document : il guide nique par quintes parallèles de la zongoră,
l’oreille du néophyte en plus de situer la procédé qui, autrefois très répandu en
musique dans le contexte plus général de Roumanie, ne subsiste aujourd’hui pra-
sa production. Suite à une courte préface tiquement qu’au Maramureș alors que
signée Rădulescu, Fabrice Contri divise l’harmonie tonale-occidentale a su impo-
sa présentation en quatre parties où il ser son règne quasi absolu dans le reste du
expose successivement la musique et son pays. Au final et outre ces deux points que
contexte : courte présentation du cadre l’on vient de mentionner, tout ce qui pour-
géographique et historique de la région, rait subsister d’omissions, de réductions
notice biographique des musiciens, ou d’oublis ne fera que stimuler l’intérêt
présentation organologique des divers de l’auditeur pour la culture musicale du
instruments et des techniques de jeu et Maramureș. Voilà ce qui en bout de ligne
résumé descriptif de chacune des pièces témoigne de la réussite de la présente pro-
abordant notamment la catégorisation des duction de l’AIMF.
COVER phOTO by JULIANNE gRApER

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M U S I C U LT U R E S

VOL 45 No.1-2 2018

ix FROM THE GENERAL EDITOR / MOT DE LA RÉDACTRICE EN CHEF

53 JOHN E. QUINN, ANNA J. MARKEY, DAKOTA HOWARD, SAM

71 JENNIFER C. POST and BRYAN C. PIJANOWSKI

112 REBECCA DIRKSEN

136 JAMES EDWARDS

146 LAURA CHAMBERS

167 JUHA TORVINEN

190 JOSHUA OTTUM

215 RANDALL HARLOW

238 DARYL JAMIESON

265 TRAVIS D. STIMELING

268 MEI-RA SAINT-LAURENT

271 MARIE-HÉLÈNE PICHETTE

274 LEI OUYANG BRYANT

277 LEE BIDGOOD

282 SÉBASTIEN LEBLANC

EDITOR / RÉDACTRICE EN CHEF

REVIEW EDITORS / RESPONSABLES DES COMPTES RENDUS

EDITORIAL ASSISTANT / ASSISTANTE DE RÉDACTION

EDITORIAL BOARD / COMITÉ DE RÉDACTION

ISSN 1920-4213 / eISSN 1920-4221

MUSICultures (formerly The Canadian Journal for Traditional Music / La Revue de

MUSICultures publishes original articles in English and French on a wide range of

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MUSICultures publie des articles originaux, en anglais et en français, sur un éventail

1. The article text should be typed, double-spaced (including explanatory endnotes,

A manuscript is assessed first by the journal editor, who determines if it is of sufficient

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Ce processus dure normalement entre quatre et cinq mois.

L’adhésion annuelle à la SCTM comprend :

Adresses non canadiennes

Il est possible d’envoyer un formulaire d’inscription dûment complété accompagné

From the Editor

Rickwood’s “Lament, Poetic Prayer, Petition, and Protest: Community Choirs

Mot de la rédactrice en chef

Avec la parution de ce numéro, j’ai le regret d’annoncer que notre rédacteur

Notes on Contributing Authors /

SAM CRUMMETT is a Furman University Class of 2018 graduate with a BS in

REBECCA DIRKSEN is Assistant Professor at Indiana University and was recently

JAMES EDWARDS is a social scientist with a deep interest in interdisciplinary and

JULIANNE GRAPER is a PhD candidate at the University of Texas at Austin, where

RANDALL HARLOW is Assistant Professor of Organ and Music Theory at the

in performance studies and hyper-acoustic musical instruments. He has published

DAKOTA HOWARD is an undergraduate student at Furman University in Biology

ALEXANDRA HUI is an Associate Professor of History at Mississippi State University.

JOSHUA OTTUM holds an MFA in Integrated Composition Improvisation and

BRYAN C. PIJANOWSKI is Professor of Ecology at Purdue University in the

JENNIFER C. POST is Senior Lecturer in Music at University of Arizona. She is

JOHN E. QUINN is an associate professor in the Biology Department at Furman

ALEXANDER R. SCHINDLER is a graduate of Furman University. His undergraduate

DR. JUHA TORVINEN is a researcher at the Sibelius Academy of the University of

SUNMIN YOON holds a PhD in ethnomusicology from University of Maryland at

Ricklefs gives appropriate emphasis to one of the founders of ecological science,

By ecology, we mean the whole science of the relations of the

into contact, and of which most contribute either to its advantage

Among many possible connections to make between this definition and

on whale song, “Why Listen to the Other Animals?”). While I recognize

Dawe 2016). Therefore, for ecomusicology at least, it is important to distinguish