When we use the term “Ancient Egypt,” a hazy picture of pyramids forms in the mind and we have a vague notion that it refers to a culture that reached an exceedingly high plane a very long time ago. How long ago, it is almost beyond the everyday mind to grasp. Our ideas of time are, after all, only relative; and when we speak of “six thousand years ago” it conveys little more to our minds than would “two thousand years ago.” Five hundred years is a very long time; yet if we enquire what was the state of music at that distance of time back, we should find things in a very primitive state. A thousand years ago we only find King Alfred burning cakes, and two thousand years ago we should see the Romans teaching our barbarous ancestors how to build roads, to dress themselves decently, and to take baths. Yet, when Greece was only just beginning to show her first promise of greatness later, the Twelfth Dynasty of Egyptian Kings was ruling a country that enjoyed a musical culture that must seem astonishing to us. We find evidences of musical activity as far back as the Fourth and Fifth Dynasties (ca. 4000–3500 b.c.), and the music made then, and the instruments upon which it was made, could not have been the result of a sudden inspiration and invention. A long era of development must have preceded these early evidences of music—and allowing for the inevitable periods of decline and decadence, we arrive at a date which is so remote that we could scarcely realise its meaning.

Analysis of the contents of Jānis Cimze's harmonized folksong collection A Garland of Songs (1872) and the cultural context in which it was published reveals its musical portrait of an emergent Latvian nation to be a synthetic construct. Drawing upon aspects of the German nationalist choral movement, the quasi-Herderian work of Baltic German folklorists and new opportunities for cultural expression afforded by mid-century Russian imperial reforms, Cimze's work inspired heated and increasingly xenophobic debate among his contemporary Latvians about the destiny of their community in pre-Revolutionary Russia.

Reacting to recent materialist developments in music studies and beyond, I argue for the value of dialectics in accounting for compositional orientations vis-à-vis their objects – be these objects sound-producing, non-human entities, such as musical instruments, or the object that is ‘sound itself ’. Engaging the compositional thought and practice of Busoni, Russolo, Varèse, Cage and Tudor by way of example, I highlight two intersecting tendencies: the first constitutes a presumed mastery over the object in question; the second is suggestive of an exploration of the object on its own terms. Interweaving aspects of post-Marxist and psychoanalytic theory, I argue that, ultimately, our orientation towards the object manifests a negotiation of the self in a changing material world.

Focusing on two influential broadcasts staged for British television in 1963–4, this article traces transatlantic attitudes towards blues music in order to explore the constitutive relationship between race, spectatorship and performativity. During these programmes, I claim, a form of mythic history is translated into racial nature. Ultimately, I argue that blues revivalism coerced African American musicians into assuming the mask of blackface minstrelsy – an active personification of difference driven by a lucrative fantasy on the terms of white demand. I ask why this imagery found such zealous adherents among post-war youth, situating their gaze within a longer tradition of colonialist display. Subaltern musicians caught within this regime were nonetheless able to ‘speak’ via sung performances that signified on the coordinates of their own marginalization. The challenge for musicology is thus to heed the relational syncretism arising from intercultural contact while acknowledging the lived experience of African American artists unable fully to evade the preordained mask of alterity.

This article explores the music of Yiddish theatre in early twentieth-century New York by considering multiple adaptations of Russian Jewish author Sholem Aleichem's 1888 novel Stempenyu, about a klezmer violinist, which was transformed into two theatrical productions in 1907 and 1929, and finally inspired a three-movement recital work for accompanied violin by Joseph Achron. The multiple versions of Stempenyu present the eponymous musician as an allegory for the ambivalent role of the shtetl – the predominantly Jewish small town of Eastern Europe – in defining diasporic Jewish life in Europe and America, and as a medium for the sonic representation of shtetl culture as it was reformulated in the memories of the first generations of Jewish immigrants. The variations in the evocations of Eastern European klezmer in these renderings of Stempenyu indicate complex changes in the ways Jewish immigrants and their children conceived of their connection to Eastern Europe over four decades. The paper concludes by viewing changes in the symbolic character type of the shtetl fiddler in its most famous and recent manifestation, in the stage and screen musical Fiddler on the Roof.

Possibly at no previous period in the history of our Art has so much been said and written about that very complex human faculty—the action of listening to music. We have only to take down the last of those comely little volumes of the Proceedings of this Association (which now begin to make quite a goodly show upon our bookshelves) to find that no fewer than three papers bearing more or less directly upon this subject were read last session. I refer, of course, to those by Messrs. Jacques, Banister, and Lake. The importance and interest, as well as the comprehensiveness of this absorbing topic must be pleaded as my excuse for venturing to bring it before you again this evening.

An opera so widely known and loved as La traviata may seem. a strange subject for musicological research. It was first performed in March 1853. From the following year onwards it enjoyed an uninterrupted reign as an international favourite. Throughout the nineteenth century it came second in popularity only to Il trovatore; while Verdi himself, when asked at one point which of his own operas he preferred, is said to have replied, ‘Speaking as a professional, Rigoletto, speaking as an amateur, La traviata’. In the period following his death many of Verdi's works now considered masterpieces sank for a while below the horizon—but not La traviata. Today it is not only Verdi's best-loved opera, but the most popular piece in the entire operatic repertory. What more could there be to find out about it?

Many of the pieces in Matthew Locke's seven sets of consort music, whose principal source is the great score-book in the British Museum, Add. MS 17801, were subjected to a process of careful and repeated revision. The changes Locke made were sometimes extensive, involving the restructuring of an entire movement, the introduction of new material, or the substantial modification of that existing already. The editor of such works must decide whether he is going to present a single version—in this case presumably the composer's final revision—or to embody the variant readings in a textual commentary, or to print such readings in their entirety as parallel texts. The usefulness of a textual commentary tends to be in inverse proportion to its length: the more variants there are to be listed the less easy it becomes to perceive the overall shape of that version of the text embodying them. In the case of Locke's music ‘For Several Friends’ and the movements of the Flat Consort which were subjected to much change the ideal solution is obviously to print both first and last versions in full. But Locke is after all not Beethoven, and in the recent Musica Britannica edition only the composer's final versions have been presented, with a few examples of movements from the early version of the Flat Consort to illustrate the extent and nature of the modifications. Nevertheless, Locke's revisions are worth considering in some detail, for they reveal a composer with a mind both restless and fastidious. The best point of departure is the autograph score-book itself which Locke entitled ‘Compositions for Broken, and whole Consorts, of two, three, Fower, Five, and Six Parts, made by Matthew Locke, Composer in Ordinary to his Majestye’.

Your Council have done me the honour of inviting me to read a paper before you this evening, and have suggested as a subject “Fugal Structure.” It gives me very great pleasure to accede to their request. I presume that the choice of the subject proposed to me is due to my having recently published a book on Fugue, in which I have ventured to express views differing considerably in some respects from those to be found in most other text-books; and I think I may probably take it that I am virtually invited to explain and justify the position I have taken up. If this be so, I most willingly accept the challenge; for my only object is the truth, and there is everything to be gained by full and free discussion. I fear, however, that for those who have already read my book on Fugue, the present paper will present but little novelty; for it will necessarily be little more than an abstract of the contents of my volume. There is one advantage at least; it will furnish an opportunity for thrashing the subject out thoroughly; and I think it very probable that the discussion which I hope will follow my paper may prove to be the most interesting and profitable part of this evening's proceedings. In order to leave as much time as possible for discussion, I shall endeavour to condense what I have to say, as far as I can do so without sacrifice of clearness.

With no startling incidents or striking events to mark its course, the life of Sterndale Bennett will yet be always interesting to every one who likes to trace the progress and development of a truly artistic genius. It will be my endeavour to put before you plainly and simply the salient features of a career highly important in the history of musical art in England. The Bennett family were of Derbyshire orgin. Sterndale Bennett's grandfather, John Bennett, was born in the picturesque village of Ashford-in-the-Peak in 1750. Whilst still a youth he left for Cambridge, where he was appointed lay clerk at King's. He married, and had a numerous family. Robert, one of the elder sons, father of Sterndale Bennett, studied the organ and composition with Dr. Clarke. He became a musician of ability, and settled in Sheffield, where he took an excellent position and held the office of organist at the parish church. Amongst his many friends were Mr. William Howard and Mr William Sterndale, the latter a man of literary tastes, some of whose verses were set to music by Robert Bennett and published by subscription. In 1812 he married Elizabeth, daughter of James Donn, curator of the Botanical Gardens, Cambridge, and author of a classified catalogue of plants. He had two daughters and a son— William Sterndale Bennett—who was born on April 13, 1816, in Norfolk Row, Sheffield. Little Sterndale was not fated to know for long a father's care or a mother's love. He lost his mother when two years old, and his father died a year afterwards. Thus he was doubly orphaned in tender age. Happily his grandfather adopted him, and Mr. Howard took charge of the child until he could be sent to Cambridge. Here he was placed, when eight years old, as chorister at King's College, and had the educational advantages afforded to the boys of the various choirs.

The earlier part of the nineteenth century is considered a ‘bad’ period of English music. It has been labelled, like the earlier period discussed by Dr. Sadie at our last meeting, a ‘Dark Age’. It is interesting to see on what basis these judgments are held. How much music written by English composers in the years 1800–1860 is still generally known? I have compiled a rough list of works that are still in current use, apart from occasional revivals. It is based on recent programmes, chapel lists, publishers’ catalogues, and so on.

Ralph Vaughan Williams's father died when Ralph was two years old; his mother took her three small children to her own parents' house, Leith Hill Place, near Dorking, and brought them up much as she had been brought up herself. Besides the children, the household consisted of grandparents and a maiden aunt, and a staff of servants, mostly local people. Judging from a photograph of a group of them, none was young, and all were slightly eccentric.

In examining the relationship between Tchaikovsky and Balakirev, I shall investigate in some detail the influence upon the Moscow composer of the leader of the St Petersburg group or ‘mighty handful’ (which included, besides Balakirev himself, Cui, Borodin, Mussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov). Balakirev's group had been established before the St Petersburg Conservatoire of Music was founded by Anton Rubinstein in 1862; this, coupled with the fact that there were no textbooks on the theory of music in the Russian language, meant that Balakirev and his protégés had had no formal musical education, but had learned the technique of composition solely by studying the actual works of other composers, past and present. Tchaikovsky, on the other hand, had been a student at the Conservatoire from the time of its foundation till 1865, his graduation exercise taking the form of a setting of Schiller's ‘Ode to Joy’ which was performed at the end of that year and was torn to pieces by Cui in a typically vituperative article. By the time this article had appeared early in 1866 Tchaikovsky had already moved to Moscow to take up a teaching post at the new Conservatoire there. According to Rimsky-Korsakov, Balakirev's group knew Tchaikovsky only as having composed a Symphony in G minor (his First) of which the two middle movements had been performed at a concert of the Russian Musical Society in St Petersburg in February 1867. As a product of the despised Conservatoire, they viewed Tchaikovsky askance.

Since there is no standard description of the style of a Frescobaldi toccata, this study must begin by setting out the stylistic characteristics of these pieces, especially as manifested in what one might call the normal toccata type – the first eleven of Book I and the first, second and seventh of Book II. In this initial stage, the reader is referred for more detailed development of my points to my paper Ascoltare e guardare le toccate, soon to be published as part of the acts of the International Frescobaldi Congress, held in Ferrara in September 1983 to celebrate the quadri-centenary of Frescobaldi's birth. That paper illustrates the distinctive features of Frescobaldi's toccata style through close analysis of a single toccata (the ninth of Book I). I shall briefly lay out these features, proceeding from the make-up of the individual section to the make-up of the entire piece, and stressing not only what kind of things one finds in an individual section or entire piece, but also what gives those things coherence and shape.

When the subject of this address was decided upon, I had an idea that I might bring before the attention of this meeting many unfamiliar facts in connection with a most important, possibly the most important, branch of musical composition; but in the interim there has appeared the beginning of an article in Mr. Grove's Dictionary—which, although it is not yet signed, I guess from internal evidence to be the production of Mr. Rockstro—which anticipates many of the novelties I might have advanced, and sets those forth in the most clear, in the most interesting, and (I can say nothing short of the highest terms of eulogy) the most satisfactory and instructive light.

The problem of range-finding—i.e., finding the distance of an object—is generally reduced to that of finding the direction of the object from each of a set of base points. Usually the object ranged is in motion, and the necessary measurements must be made rapidly.

To build a bridge between the art of music and the physical and physiological sciences of sound was the task that Helmholtz set himself when he entered upon the classical work which has served ever since as the basis of all research in this field. How far he succeeded in accomplishing his object we need not discuss here, but he certainly laid the foundation of a very extensive practical science, devoted alone to the investigation of the laws of sound in all the varied forms in which we meet them in music. The phonologist, as he should be called who is occupied with this study, finds himself, however, in a somewhat isolated situation. The schools of experimental physics are generally too busy with electricity and kindred subjects to give much thought to sound, although the telephone and phonograph have to some extent forced their attention in that direction. Among physiologists, very few are occupied with sound, and the peculiar skill required in studying the vocal organs, which has necessitated the formation of a special branch of medicine, diminishes their number still further.

That the English style of the early fifteenth century was crucial to the development of later music seems undeniable. The oft-cited, passages from the writings of Martin le Franc and Tinctoris, whatever their obscurities of detail, are unequivocal in their placing of the English in general and Dunstable in particular at the head of a completely new style, and to set against this, we have a large and varied corpus of music, especially music for the mass Ordinary, which amply testifies to the richness of the insular tradition. Not only was this music considered distinctive in its own day, but it has also proved readily recognizable to modern scholars despite the relative dearth of ascriptions. Even so, one feels that any suggestion that it is the English style as such which is so obvious remains surprisingly premature. The main reason for this is not hard to find; in fact, nearly all the most convincing evidence for assigning English authorship to anonymous works has turned out to be either essentially non-musical (e.g. the presence of a piece in an insular source, the use of a distinctively English variant of a given plainsong, the presence of telescoping in settings of the Credo, the use of characteristic notational procedures) or concerned with relatively superficial aspects of style (e.g. the use of a standard mensural scheme, the appearance of one or more of a handful of melodic clichés). Since there are clearly much easier ways of recognizing English music than from the niceties of musical style, efforts at more specifically stylistic analysis have lagged behind somewhat, despite the important work of such scholars as Brian Trowell and Margaret Bent. Certainly, it has not proved possible to tease out that arcane quality, the contenance angloise, which has sometimes been assumed to infuse the entire repertory from the Old Hall Manuscript onwards.

There is probably no department of human industry wherein the predominating influence of a master hand has been more forcibly and continuously displayed than in the case of Antonio Stradivari; and although my remarks are chiefly intended to be directed to the period subsequent to his death, it may nevertheless be well to preface them with one or two observations concerning this extraordinary man and his work.