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):

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.

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.

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.

‘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 short paper can give but a glimpse at the life of a professional musician who worked in London for over half a century. Baptised Domenico Carlo Maria, Dragonetti was born in the poor parish of St. Gervasio and St. Protasio (called St. Trovaso), Venice. As with most details of his early life, there are conflicting reports as to his date of birth. Vincent Novello gives 10 April 1763, but Caffi, the musical historian and friend of Dragonetti, gives 7 April. Other dates that are variously given include 1755 (a date which also appears on one of Dragonetti's bows, now in the author's possession), ‘1762 or 1764’, and 1771.

‘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.

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.

This article examines the employment of brass instrumentalists in German cities around 1500, as a reflection of the political circumstances of the epoch, where rivalry between the distinct components of the social hierarchy encouraged the assertion of power and status through musical patronage. Archival records and contemporary chronicles provide invaluable insights into the performances of civic brass instrumentalists, whether in the provision of signals (by the city watchmen or those who played alongside the cities’ troops) or for the entertainment of the citizens and their guests (within the civic instrumental ensembles – the Stadtpfeifer (‘town pipers’)). Although the use of ambiguous nomenclature in contemporary records can hinder a definitive understanding of the instruments used by these musicians, the musicians different duties within the city walls can often be inferred. Important insights can thereby be gained into the extent of the patronage of these civic brass instrumentalists, their roles within everyday city life, and their resultant contribution to the communication of civic strength to the populace and their guests.

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.

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.

This article uses the case study of the Revue musicale, founded by Jules Combarieu and Romain Rolland in 1901, to analyse the shape of French musicology at the outset of the twentieth century and, in particular, how social issues surrounding research in the social sciences had an important influence on the orientation of the discipline in subsequent decades. Occupying a position at the heart of French musicological activity in the early years of the century, the project was quickly challenged, leading to the creation of the Mercure musical in 1905, which would eventually become the Revue musicale SIM, published by the Société Internationale de Musique (Section de Paris), in November 1909. After an initial presentation of the journal's editorial project, the article then analyses the founders’ intellectual objectives and explores the links between the journal's structure, its anticipated objectives and the evolution of the discipline through the various publications that followed.

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 argues that songwriting can be an autobiographical activity. I trace a long-standing mistrust of self-expression in popular music through a branch of scholarship fixated with performance and personification, demonstrating its underlying affinities with post-structuralism and modernist dreams of impersonality. What we have lost as a result of this undue insistence on mediation is an awareness of the two-way traffic between life and lyrical craft. A poetics of song should pay increased attention to this intricate relationship – not reducing lyrics to biographical contingencies, but rather viewing autobiography itself as a complex process of self-reading, a public act of autobiographical making. My argument is illustrated with reference to three contemporary singer-songwriters who have interpreted aspects of their lives through song: Vic Chesnutt, Sun Kil Moon (Mark Kozelek) and Anohni (formerly of Antony and the Johnsons). Their work ultimately traverses and obscures the interstices between experience and imagination.

This article reveals the source for two major themes in Madama Butterfly – one associated with Butterfly herself, the other with her patrimony. The assumption has been that Puccini based these themes on Japanese melodies, but his source was actually a Swiss music box playing Chinese tunes. Specific moments in the opera indicate that Puccini was aware of the titles of these tunes. The sound of music boxes in Butterfly and Turandot suggests previously unnoticed connections between these operas. The music-box melodies may be traced to Fritz Bovet's transcriptions. Puccini encountered ‘Jasmine Flower’ on these boxes, and in Turandot reaffirmed its status as the token of Chinese music.

The purpose of this paper is to describe some aspects of the agenda of listening in the Western tradition. Ancient and modern versions of some of the myths of listening (Orpheus, the Sirens) are compared to illustrate what might be at stake in the activity of listening. A basic contrast is drawn between ancient rhetorical ideas of the power of music to affect the listener and the demand of instrumental music, from the late eighteenth century on, that we understand what the music wants of us. The paper continues with a discussion of some ancient ideas about philosophical listening, which precludes talking and is directed both inwards and outwards, and it ends with some suggestions about themes that a history of listening might pursue.

The story that Mozart was commissioned to write three piano quartets for publication in Franz Anton Hoffmeister's subscription series has proved to be remarkably resilient in the Mozart literature. According to the account that first appeared in Georg Nikolaus von Nissen's biography (1828), Hoffmeister gave Mozart an advance payment for the works, but decided to withdraw after the first quartet, K.478, was poorly received. The article exposes a series of flaws in this narrative by locating Hoffmeister's edition of K.478 in a wider contextual and bibliographical framework than has been hitherto attempted. A revised chain of events, based on a new understanding of Hoffmeister's business, suggests a more complex narrative for Mozart's dealings with the publisher. It also prompts us to reconsider the circumstances surrounding Mozart's composition of his two completed piano quartets and the reception of his chamber music in Vienna before 1791.

Spain was a latecomer to the cyclic Mass, which began to develop there in the 1490s or late 1480s. A number of different strands in this process – free single movements, mix-and-match Masses, ferial Masses, imports, three-voice Masses, Missae sine nomine and the six cycles of Francisco de Peñalosa – can usefully be separated and laid at least tentatively onto a chronological framework on the basis of manuscript date and composer biography. The surviving evidence seems to show a tradition that arose with particular energy in the decade or so after 1500 and reached maturity within a single generation.