THIS, in a letter to Mary Anne Wood dated 7 February 1842, is the earliest specific mention of Bennett's last piano concerto, which was never published and for many years was missing. Only a ‘tantalising fragment’ of a two-piano reduction made by the composer's son and biographer, J. R. Sterndale Bennett, was known to researchers. Autograph manuscripts of two versions of the work, and two sets of orchestral parts copied for different performances, have recently come to light during the present author's research on Bennett. The discovery enables a fresh assessment to be made of an ‘unpublished work of outstanding importance’ by a composer of relatively few large-scale pieces, composed at the end of his most creative period and when he was arguably at the height of his powers. It also presents the possibility of the concerto's performance and publication, 150 years after its conception. A summary of all the sources now known is given in Table 1.

It so happens that almost all the music which Schenker edited had previously appeared in editions by Hans von Bülow. On each occasion, Bülow's edition provoked from Schenker what he himself described as his ‘frequent and energetic criticism’. Examining the basis of these criticisms may lead us to a better understanding of Schenker's own editorial work – work which had an importance within Schenker's total output that theorists, if not musicologists, have tended to underestimate. For Schenker, editing meant restoring the masterworks of the past to their authentic state (the title-page of his edition of the Beethoven sonatas describes it as a ‘reconstruction’) and thereby ensuring their survival in a world that, in Schenker's eyes, had lost the capacity to appreciate their significance. And such editing called for respect for the masterworks and a profound understanding of them; hence the extraordinary virulence with which Schenker attacked editors such as Bülow, who in his view lacked these qualities. In his study of the G minor Symphony, Schenker wrote: ‘Editions of Mozart's works no longer have anything in common with the original manuscripts.’ And he added: ‘Then is Mozart dead?’ This extreme sense of the editor's responsibility – a responsibility that extended to the life and death of the masterworks – informed everything that Schenker did. I would go so far as to say that Schenker's theory of levels was conceived as, more than anything else, a decisive contribution to editorial method. And to say this entails a considerable revision of the image of Schenker prevalent today.

In England more than in any other country, music has been constantly associated with the performance of stage plays. There is very early evidence of this. In the Miracle Play (1512) the minstrels are asked “to do their diligence” before the prologue and at the end “To give us a daunce.” Shakespeare relied on music to emphasize certain dramatic situations. No fewer than some three hundred times do his stage directions demand the employment of music. I do not speak of references to music on the part of his characters; these are frequent, always correct, and often jocular, but to actual demand for music,—such as “Music plays “—“Soft music within,” and the like. Dr. Naylor in his interesting little work “Shakespeare and Music” declares that such stage directions as these appear no less than forty-one times, music during speeches seven times, and that eighteen times a march is required. Of songs—catches—dirges—trumpets—hautboys, countless examples are to be found in the plays. Very often Shakespeare makes quite subtle distinctions to suit the situation in his directions for music. In “King Lear” there are some interesting examples of this. The first appearance of Lear in regal state is heralded by a Flourish of Trumpets. Later on, in Scene 4, Horns are directed to be played before his entrance. This is no doubt done with a view to denoting his lessened state. He has also just returned from hunting. This shows, I think, that more than a casual thought was given to the matter. Again, in “Lear,” in Act 4, we find the direction “Soft music playing.” Lear is on a bed asleep. That Shakespeare intended the music to continue through the scene and dialogue is evident, as the doctor refers to it in his lines “Louder the music there.” At this point the dramatist no doubt' felt that the beautiful words of Cordelia, “O my dear father ! Restoration, hang thy medicine on my lips,” would be greatly helped by the musical support. The very next scene opens with drums beating and soldiers marching, music very different in character from the “Soft music playing” of the previous scene This I feel sure was not mere accident, and that Shakespeare well knew the value of this contrast which at the same time connects the two scenes.

The year 1911 was in many respects a landmark in Prokofiev's early career as a composer. He was then twenty years old and a student at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, where his studies at the time included classes in conducting with Nikolay Cherepnin, and an intensive piano course with the famous Anna Nikolayevna Yesipova. He was already known in St. Petersburg as an exponent of his own piano music and had frequently appeared in this role at Nuvel's Evenings of Modern Music as well as at student concerts. He had also performed his works in Moscow, and the enthusiastic reviews of his compositions which Myaskovsky and Boris Asafyev contributed to the avant-garde magazine Muzyka had further promoted his reputation in the more musically-conservative capital. In 1911 his music appeared in print for the first time, when Jurgenson published the First Piano Sonata and the Four Piano Pieces of Op. 3. The same year saw the beginnings of the First Piano Concerto, Op. 10, which was to have its successful premiere in Moscow the following summer with the composer as soloist. By 1911 also, Prokofiev had composed the Sinfonietta, Op. 5, and the two short symphonic poems. Dreams, Op. 6, and Autumnal Sketch, Op. 8.

One of the most important poetic forms in Java is inseparably connected with melody: the form known as tembang. Tembang have always been sung, never spoken. The word ‘tembang’ itself is used in two senses: it refers both to a broad category of verse-forms and to the various melodies associated with them. There are very many different types of versification which come under the general heading ‘tembang’, but the three most important are tembang gede, tembang macapat and tembang tengahan.

One of the more nefarious generalizations of popular musical history is that which asserts a change from ‘modality’ to ‘tonality’ around the year 1600. The old canard is nowadays scarcely met with in its pure form, but it is surprising how much it still influences even sophisticated discussions of tonality both before and after that date. Lowinsky in his epoch-making Tonality and Atonality in Sixteenth-Century Music is largely concerned with the ways in which sixteenth-century music foreshadows the tonal procedures of the baroque and classical periods. In his articles on ‘Tonality’ and ‘Harmony’ in The New Grove, Carl Dahlhaus, while offering a series of widely-ranging definitions of tonality, and while recognizing also the capacity of melody to be tonally organized, nevertheless regards the major and minor scales as the essential pre-requisites of ‘harmonic tonality’, and its growth as a phenomenon of music composed since 1600. I find myself in sympathy only with the wider definitions of tonality there given, principally that of Fétis, and it will be the function of this paper, first, to argue against the retention of narrower definitions, and, secondly, to put the case for recognizing that the development of harmonically controlled tonality occurred much earlier than 1600. A reading of Dahlhaus's articles (which I take to be an authoritative digest of his considered standpoint as well as an informative summary of the points of view expressed by many theorists down the centuries) has also reminded me how much I am opposed to theories of melody and harmony which depend on acoustic absolutes, and to functional theories of harmony, principally that of Riemann, which assert a rigid hierarchy of chords, or fail to recognize the historical development of harmony from counterpoint. Some of these prejudices will surface in this paper, but they are not its primary purpose.

In 1975 the Wozzeck sketches were examined and commented on by Ernst Hilmar, having been made available to him by the composer's widow. Subsequently they were catalogued, along with all the manuscripts in the Berg legacy, by Rosemary Hilmar. It might appear surprising, then, that neither George Perle nor Janet Schmalfeldt makes more than passing mention of them in their important recent studies. In a sense the omission is not unduly sinful – not surprisingly, the majority of the sketches show Berg at work on constructional features of the opera which are already well known, and there is no evidence of hitherto undiscovered esoteric planning.

The assumptions that lie behind what have variously been called ‘realizations’, ‘completions’, ‘restorations’ or ‘reconstructions’ of unfinished works are generally unarticulated. Over the last few years such ‘realizations’ have become media events that threaten to blur the line between scholarship and public relations. Since for most of the general public these projects represent the sole contact with the discipline of musicology, the issue of ‘realizations’ is one that affects all members of our scholarly community. If you look to The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians or any other standard music reference work for guidance on the subject of ‘realizations’ or ‘completions’, ‘restorations’ or ‘reconstructions’, you will find no such article. Indeed, I am not aware of any study that examines the conceptual basis of ‘realizations’ in the arts.

‘The evidence now accumulating indicates that a true picture of English style has long been delayed by incredulous editorial pens.’ ‘Such evidence as we have … tends to the conclusion that accidentals should be added, in cases of difficulty, rather than subtracted.’ These two remarks, both made during the last decade, indicate the increasing concern over the correct performance of musica ficta. Both writers express degrees of dissatisfaction with the evidence available, although it is the interpretation of the evidence that has so far proved inconclusive, the evidence itself having remained largely unchanged for several years. The immediate question is whether the main body of evidence lies in the contemporary theoretical treatises or in the music as preserved in contemporary manuscripts; if it proves to lie in neither, then the problem must be regarded as insoluble. Yet the surviving treatises are written in (reasonably) plain English which must surely defy more refined interpretation than that to which they have already been subjected, and we are therefore left with the music. By carrying out a careful study of musica ficta as demonstrated in the accidentals which appear in the manuscripts of the period, we should be able to arrive at a series of rules which were well known by the contemporary musicians, and which should therefore form the basis for modern performance.

The Tudor anthem in its earliest stages of development has generally been considered in the light of the English Reformation, of which it is both a product and a characteristic form. Many of its most distinctive features result directly from the new theological attitudes of the Protestant reformers: the use of Biblical texts, in English rather than Latin; a less strictly prescribed function than that of the ritual music of the Sarum liturgy; and an emphasis both upon sobriety of musical language and clarity of text-declamation. There can be little doubt that the development of features such as these can be attributed more to the changing attitudes of theologians than of composers; but it is equally possible to view the early history of the anthem within the wider context of the evolution of English musical style, an evolution in which the Reformation, however important, acted only as a catalyst. To achieve a deeper understanding of the anthem as a musical phenomenon, it is necessary to set aside those useful but sometimes unrealistic distinctions generally adopted by historians between secular and sacred, Catholic and Protestant, Henrician, Edwardian and Marian: for composers of the period, the sense of connection and continuity was almost certainly as strong as that of distinction and change.

The Pacific seaboard which bounds the territory of British Columbia on its west side is marked by frequent inlets backed by high mountain ranges and fringed with numerous islands, whose rocky heights, crowned with spruce and cedar, testify to their having at one time formed part of the mainland itself. Scattered along this coast in a territory about a thousand miles long by one hundred and fifty miles wide and separated from the inhabitants of the interior by natural barriers of hill and forest are certain Indian tribes of a peculiar and distinct character. Not only are their complexions surprisingly light coloured, — in some instances almost as fair as those of Europeans and in no way due to recent intermixture with white races—but in customs and laws, in arts and handicrafts, they show themselves superior to all other existing Indian tribes.

It is well known that the first, and strongest, branch of the Schenker family tree leads from Vienna to New York City. One of Schenker's early pupils, Hans Weisse, emigrated to America and taught at the David Mannes Music School in the early 1930s; it is thanks to Weisse's efforts that the ‘Five Graphic Analyses’, with which most musicians make their first contact with Schenker, were published simultaneously in New York and Vienna in 1932. Schenker's death, together with the Nazi threat to Austrian Jewish life and culture, led to what seemed like a complete transfer of the Schenker ‘school’ from Vienna to New York by the late 1930s. Two of Schenker's pupils, Oswald Jonas and Felix Salzer – both of whom (like Schenker) were Jewish and both of whom had published important books in Vienna' – had by this time left for America; and Schenkerian theory, which had never been looked on as more than a cottage industry in the 1920s and 30s, apparently ceased to be practised in Europe altogether.

The main sources of sketches for Elgar's Second Symphony are the two Stuart-Wortley volumes in the care of the Elgar Birthplace Trust. Each is bound in black calf-skin, and measures 26 by 31.5 cm. They are entitled as follows, firstly, (S-W/B):

‘Bennett is a pianist above all things’ wrote Schumann. Of his compositions with opus numbers nineteen are for piano solo, and a twentieth is for piano duet. There are a further seven piano solos without opus number. He also published five concertante works for piano and orchestra, discarded a sixth and postponed publishing a seventh. The three chamber works all employ a piano, and the first of these, the Sestet op. 8, is virtually an eighth piano concerto with string accompaniment.

A certain amount, though by no means enough, has been written on Morley the composer and teacher. The work I want to discuss to-day illustrates two other aspects of his wide genius which so far have been little studied—Morley as editor and arranger, and Morley as innovator.

The subject which I have chosen for the consideration of the Musical Association presents to the most casual observer so many obstacles in the way of treatment that it will be easily believed I approach my task with feelings of diffidence. The largeness of the field for discussion, the difficulty of treating the musical or, to me, unfamiliar portion in a manner worthy of this Association, and the fear lest the medical portion may be tediously or too technically dwelt upon, have tended to render me distrustful of success. Were I not well assured of the generous forbearance shown by professional men to those who have real desire to contribute to our common knowledge, I had many times turned back from the plough to which I have put my hand.

With the exception of the libraries attached to such institutions as the Royal Academy and the Royal College of Music, the Students' Libraries at Oxford and Cambridge, the Henry Watson Library at Manchester, and Mr. Cobbett's Free Library of British Chamber Music, musical libraries, in the sense of libraries solely devoted to music and musical literature, can hardly be said to exist in this country. But the term Musical Libraries is short and convenient, and under it I propose to deal briefly with (1) Great Public Libraries which have (or should have) a special department devoted to music, and which can be used for purposes of both general instruction and special historical research; and (2) Smaller Libraries, where music can only form one of the many subjects for which provision has to be made. In this second category I include (a) Free Libraries and (b) Libraries of Institutions (such as Cathedrals and Colleges), into which for a variety of reasons a certain amount of music has drifted. Private collections, though they are often of considerable importance, hardly come within the scope of this paper.

Discussions of Dvořák's Sixth Symphony typically focus on its connections with Vienna. Dvořák wrote the symphony for the Vienna Philharmonic and dedicated it to Hans Richter. Its allusions to Brahms and Beethoven led David Brodbeck to describe it as a piece in which Dvořák ‘speaks German with an unusual degree of clarity’. Contemporary Czech critics tell a different story. After its 1881 Prague première, the work was dubbed the ‘Czech Spring Symphony’. One critic stated that it ‘speaks to us in pure Czech’. Indeed, the Sixth is Dvořák's only symphony to include a furiant, and Czech scholars have long sought to prove that the work's themes were derived from Bohemian folk songs. Can these narratives be reconciled? This article suggests that political tensions and Dvořák's growing international renown made Czech critics eager to claim him, giving Czech labels to a piece that could be interpreted as conforming to the Austro-German tradition.

This article takes a site-specific, interactive sound installation called Pleasure Garden as a space for thinking about contemporary forms of musical experience. I develop a relational account of the ‘co-reception’ of Pleasure Garden, not centred on listening subjects, but distributed across audience members, artists, researchers and the more-than-human assemblage of the installation itself. I also discuss the effects of several overlapping cultures of ‘audiencing’ associated with Western art music, sound art and other forms of cultural experience – variously individualistic, distracted and participatory – characteristic of late capitalism. Tracing how Pleasure Garden both responded to and was interrupted by these wider forces, I take this case as suggestive of a deep ambivalence: that musical experience is at once powerfully conditioned and generatively uncertain. Throughout the article, problems of method, interpretation and representation intertwine, raising questions about how to study forms of musical experience that evade conventional ethnographic enquiry.