Since the late nineteenth century, the “Indian” as symbol has been a recurring trope in the art music of Mexico and the United States. Composers in both countries have often turned to representations of Indigenous Peoples as symbolic of nature, spirituality, and/or aspects of the national Self. This article seeks to place James DeMars's opera Guadalupe, Our Lady of the Roses (2008) in the context of two major cultural trends: Indianism in the U.S., and the representation of Mexico by U.S. composers. DeMars's use of Indigenous instruments in Guadalupe, including Mexican pre-Hispanic percussion, and flutes performed by famed Navajo-Ute flutist R. Carlos Nakai, continues the Indianist tradition of associating the Indigenous cultures of both countries with nature, spirituality, and authenticity. Similar associations emerge in the development and reception of both “world music” and the Native American recording industry since the 1980s, as exemplified by Nakai's career. DeMars uses these instruments in combination with Plains Native American features and generic exoticisms to represent both the Mexican Indigenous Peoples and the spiritual message of the opera. The sympathetic treatment of Indigenous cultures in Guadalupe nevertheless exists in tension with their exoticism and Otherness; in this the work is representative of U.S. cultural responses to Mexico stretching back throughout the long twentieth century.

In 1981, Bernice Johnson Reagon gave a talk at the West Coast Women's Festival, challenging the group of mainly white feminists to embrace coalition politics—a political praxis theorized and advocated by Black and Israeli feminists that sought to build coalitions only after distinct group identities were embraced and nurtured. Long before she articulated this concept as the future of the Movements within which she worked, Reagon piloted it in her post-Civil Rights Movement music making. In her work with the Harambee Singers and the Southern Folk Cultural Revival Project between 1966 and 1974, Reagon developed a musical coalition politics that would inform her later interventions. Not only were Reagon's musical coalition politics during this period a musical embodiment of the vanguard of feminist theory, but they also shed light on how one of the most important musician-scholar-activists of the twentieth century approached the crafting of a new political identity in conversation with the shifting front of the Black Freedom Movement in the immediate wake of the classical phase of the Civil Rights Movement. This little-known period of Reagon's output offers scholars of Black music, scholars of American music, feminists/Black feminists, and activists much to contemplate and incorporate into our work.

This essay examines how racial discrimination operates under the surface and through the guise of preserving musical excellence, as exemplified through the 1969 lawsuit filed by double bassist Arthur Davis and cellist Earl Madison charging the New York Philharmonic with racial discrimination in hiring practices. Analyzing the narratives that emerged during the 1969 hearings around artistic merit, racial discrimination, and screened auditions, I argue that the New York Philharmonic weaponized musical excellence as a pure entity abstracted from race and other social categories in order to claim that its sanctity required protection from societal charges of discrimination. Notably, these same legal arguments were used in a subsequent case in which timpanist Elayne Jones charged the San Francisco Symphony with discrimination on the basis of race and sex following her tenure denial in 1974. Placing these two cases in conversation not only illuminates the tenacity and power of discriminatory ideas and practices in U.S. orchestras, but it also demonstrates how the experience of fighting legal battles reverberated personally and professionally for Black classical musicians. These lawsuits exacted a significant toll on Davis, Madison, and Jones, each of whom was sacrificed at the altar of change that, decades later, has yet to come.

During the nineteenth century, many heard the afterlife before they could see it. These clairaudient forays took place in the context of spiritualism, a religious movement that facilitated communication between the living and the dead. Although the senses were important to spiritualism, sound was especially crucial for developing cosmologies of the afterlife. Sound can have powerful affective effects, especially in the realm of religion. In the case of spiritualism, however, notions of sound are complicated because of the inclusion of clairaudient and acousmatic sounds. This article analyzes spiritualist soundscapes in terms of acoustemologies, using personal narratives and instructional materials to demonstrate how spiritualists developed a sense of space through sound. Not only does my analysis demonstrate the importance of sound to these spiritual communities, but it also shows that spiritualist conceptions of sound require a special understanding of the nature of sound.

Renowned for its 400-year-old Ottoman/Turkish/Armenian past and produced by “America's oldest family-run business,” the Zildjian cymbal is paradoxically rendered an unremarkable “humble object” in its assumed inclusion in orchestras and bands around the world. Tracing the lineages of the Zildjians and their cymbals through historical documentation, ethnography, and the materiality of the instruments themselves, I first discuss the cymbal's shifting musical contexts and functions in Ottoman Janissary mehter bands, European orchestras, American jazz bands, and many other ensembles over the past four centuries, as well as the role of the Zildjians in this musical expansion. Then, I examine how twentieth-century negotiations of Zildjian kinship emerged in contentions over the authenticity and ownership of cymbal production. Finally, I consider how the assimilatory pressures of nation-states shaped narratives of cymbal production as well as the Zildjians’ mobilities, particularly in the context of the ethnoracialization of minority populations in the late Ottoman Empire and Turkish Republic as well as the struggle of Armenian migrants to the United States to be recognized as valid U.S. American citizens at the turn of the twentieth century. By approaching the cymbal itself as the main interlocutor of this exploration, I aim to foreground the ways in which cymbals have sounded and resounded the mobility and kinships of its human creators. In doing so, I regard musical instruments as essential mediators of histories of cultural and musicological development as well as constructions of human identity and relationship, glimpsing how such objects may both reify and unsettle our epistemologies and the institutions of modern life.

The Ohio-based Black songwriter, Joshua Simpson, published two books of antislavery songs in the mid-nineteenth century, Original Anti-Slavery Songs in 1852 and Emancipation Car in 1854. Unlike most other known songsters, which were compilations of poetry from several authors, Simpson authored original lyrics for borrowed melodies, and he did so with extraordinary care, engaging the original song to enhance his activist messages. Employing the rhetorical practice of signification, his linkage of new lyrics with preexisting songs sometimes builds upon meaning from the original text, reusing it to add weight to the moral and political arguments against slavery. He also extends nature imagery and lyrics about the comforts of home and family in traditional ballads and contemporary sentimental songs to his new lyrics, but more often his signifying practice is ironic. He inverts the original song's sentimentality in deliberately discomforting ways that could persuade Americans to assist self-emancipating people and work toward wholescale abolition of slavery. Simpson's most radical songs talk back irreverently to the originals, especially minstrel tunes containing degrading caricatures and proslavery propaganda as well as patriotic anthems proclaiming hypocritical platitudes. Simpson did not simply write new songs; he transformed some of the most popular and beloved songs of his era, harnessing their renown to sharpen his activist messages.

This article examines the politics of music at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School, the flagship federal off-reservation boarding school for the compulsory education of Indigenous children, established in Carlisle, Pennsylvania, in 1879. By examining the music education and performance culture at the Carlisle School, this article considers the role of music both within boarding school discourses of “civilization” and in terms of the larger federal goal of dispossession of Native land. Based on original archival research and engagements with contemporary discourses in Indigenous music and sound studies, the article then considers a nationalistic comic opera titled The Captain of Plymouth performed by Native students at the Carlisle commencement exercises in 1909. It argues ultimately that, although music, dance, and expressive culture were a central concern for federal assimilationist policy, music making at Carlisle provided a groundwork for the emergence of an intertribal social formation that guided musical practices and self-determination movements of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.

Throughout the history of television, American audiences have participated in a tradition of programs that follow a consistent structure: Amateur musicians and entertainers are offered an opportunity to display their talent on stage, competing for audience votes to win first prize and a chance at stardom. This article contributes to a growing literature on the significance of televised talent shows, demonstrating how their remarkable longevity and representational power stems from their configuration as a “format,” the set of guidelines that structure and constrain the content of each broadcast—an aesthetic process grounded in exclusion. Through their formatting, I argue, these programs reify the notion of “talent” at the heart of talent shows, transforming a multidimensional and context-contingent assemblage of musical abilities into a seemingly stable object able to be recognized, rated, and ranked. Musical auditions offer a microcosm of formatting's role as a means of training audiences’ attention. They normalize the practice of eliminating whatever (or whomever) is deemed unworthy—on these programs and in the wider world. Through analyzing examples from Ted Mack and the Original Amateur Hour (1948), The Gong Show (1978), and The Voice (2017), the article demonstrates how beneath the widely discussed content of contestant demographics, judge commentary, or audience voting results, the talent show format serves to obscure the contradictions upon which meritocracy's cruel optimism rests.

In the wake of the 60th anniversary of the 1961 film, the December 2021 release of a second film adaptation of the 1957 musical West Side Story sheds light on the continued cultural impact of this musical. Indeed, West Side Story permeates popular consciousness of the genre and has been celebrated over decades for its artistic integrity and achievement. Works with this type of canonical status often carry an expectation for a certain amount of fidelity when being adapted. Yet in the move from stage to screen, changes become necessary due to media specificity. More than that, the effect of time has much to do with several of the choices made in each of West Side Story's film adaptations. Drawing on adaptation theory, this article examines the adaptation approaches of the 1961 and 2021 films with a focus on the songs and how larger-scale changes affect the characterizations and dramatic arc each film. These changes reveal much regarding Hollywood's approach to the relationship between concepts of cinematic realism and the musical as genre.

Andrés Segovia's repertoire—the repertorio segoviano—has crucially shaped the guitar canon. Although some guitar scholars argue that these works helped rescue the instrument from the periphery of art music, others contend that, by commissioning music from minor, conservative composers, Segovia missed the chance to request pieces from the most influential twentieth-century modernists. This article questions the conservative homogeneity of the repertorio segoviano. Focusing on Segovia's collaborations with Heitor Villa-Lobos, I argue that it contains traces of coloniality: The perpetuation of colonial domination in Latin America. The relationship between Segovia and Villa-Lobos was more contentious than the official narrative suggests—tensions stemming from their dominant personalities, divergent approaches to guitar composition, and conflicting musical ideologies. Indeed, although Segovia's stance aligned with Francoist and European conservative aesthetics, Villa-Lobos embraced a transcultural approach to music shaped by, a response to, and exertion of the coloniality of power—discrepancies that were engraved in their collaborations and ultimately the repertorio segoviano. This article ultimately foregrounds that elite composers from the periphery played an essential role in the modernization of the guitar in the twentieth century, thereby questioning historiographies that detach the instrument from the social, political, and cultural messiness of colonial difference and the coloniality of power.

Since its organization in the mid-twentieth century, Colonial Williamsburg (CW) has been an important site for the consolidation of powerful narratives of American exceptionalism, patriotism, and the so-called consensus history of the American Revolution. This article looks at the role that music and performance has played in this historiography, taking as its primary texts two films produced by CW: The Story of a Patriot (1957) and The Music of Williamsburg (1960). With musical contributions by Bernard Herrmann and Alan Lomax, respectively, these films offer an opportunity to analyze the relationship between history and politics in the early Cold War era. Although The Story of a Patriot reflects a static and essentially conservative portrayal of American exceptionalism, the more liberal inclusiveness of The Music of Williamsburg showcases the fraught power dynamics of attempting to showcase historical Black music making in a patriotic context.

In its ruling on White-Smith v. Apollo (1908), the Supreme Court declared that the punched holes of a player piano roll did not constitute a form of writing, and thus fell outside the purview of copyright statutes. Because the decision was superseded by the Copyright Act of 1909, which extended copyright coverage to piano rolls and sound recordings, commentators have relegated White-Smith v. Apollo to the status of legal footnote. The case, however, deserves closer attention. It reveals much about the fault lines between the auditory experience of music and its visual representation at the beginning of the era of recorded sound. Witness testimony is notable for its disquisitions on the history of musical notation, exegeses of recently patented notation systems, and philosophical ruminations on the nature of a musical work in relationship to its visual representation and sonic instantiation. Trial proceedings show how the perforations of a piano roll, which were more evocative of traditional musical notation than soundwaves etched on a phonograph cylinder or disc, destabilized the mundanity of reading music. Moreover, this instability suggests an explanation for why the piano rolls figuring in the case featured the music of Adam Geibel. The composer was blind, and in a lawsuit about the textuality of music, his disability served to contrast musical sights and sounds. Moreover, White-Smith v. Apollo furnishes a means of bringing the player piano out of the shadow of the phonograph, giving it a place in the “separation of the senses” that media scholars identify with modernity.