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Nerd time

3 Mar

I currently have THREE academic papers in the works. Well, the ideas are set, anyway. I like to start with a title and then allow that to guide my writing direction.

Here they are.

No Reason to Get Excited: Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” as Myth, Leitmotif, and Metaphor

Free Man in Paris: Joni Mitchell’s “Court and Spark” as Folk Music Watershed

This last one doesn’t have a title yet, but the gist is that it’s about gender roles in brass instrument development in 19th Century Paris (where all the brasses were refined, thanks to the trend towards orchestral expansion).

Sublime to the ridiculous, indeed.

I actually emailed composer Bear McCreary about the first one, hoping to get 15 minutes to pick his brain about it.


I don’t know how much original research has been done on AATW in recent years, but I’m hoping I’ll be the first to get a paper out on it that also addresses the BSG stuff, the Dave Matthews Band covers, etc.

The Joni Mitchell paper has been on my mind since my undergrad days. I realize it’s a bold statement I’m making, that this album helped kill folk music, but the title COULD be more inflammatory than it is. 🙂

For a decent piece of scholarship with an EXTREMELY inflammatory title, check out a book called How the Beatles Destroyed Rock & Roll by Elijah Wald. He argues his case. Not sure how much I agree with him, but it’s a fresh perspective.

Any thoughts? I know the first two are sort of mainstream, like rock journalism, and the last one more “New Musicology.”


It must have skipped a generation or two…

14 Dec

In July, I went to upstate New York to visit my grandfather as he was undergoing surgery to have two tumors removed from his brain. The operation went well and he was doing much better almost immediately. He is still undergoing some radiation treatments and has his ups and downs, but the surgery seems to have been a major factor in his survival to this point.

While I was there, we stayed in the spare apartment attached to my grandfather’s house. In that apartment were boxes and boxes of newspaper clippings, family photos and the like. My mother and I were determined to acquaint ourselves with the family heritage, so we dug through the boxes over the course of a day and found some fascinating stuff – we were able to trace one side of my grandfather’s family tree all the way back to 1780.

The coolest find, however, was made by yours truly. The high school yearbooks of my great-grandmother were in one of these boxes. Leafing through the yearbook from 1916, I came across an essay titled “Our National Music.” That, of course, piqued my interest. So imagine my surprise when I discovered who wrote it: my great-grandmother, Loleta Hoxter.

Yes, my great-grandmother was an amateur musicologist. My mind was understandably blown when I made this discovery, and I still get goosebumps thinking about it – not only was my ancestor a budding music historian, but she had chosen to write about American music, and music by American women. I am an American music scholar and study gender in music. It was just uncanny, and I spent the remainder of the trip gushing about the discovery to anyone who would listen.

I would like to reproduce her article here, for the rest of the world and for myself of course. I have both the yearbook and her type-written draft. The paper is yellowed, but it’s in remarkable shape for being close to 100 years old. So, enjoy an article written by my ancestor about American music.


Our National Music

Music was introduced in America in New England during the seventeenth century. It was known as psalmody and originated with the Pilgrims. The puritans soon made an advance in music; and slowly psalmody grew into sacred songs, gathering strength with each onward step until it gradually entered upon new conditions which led to its present high plane of art endeavor and achievement, of universal cultivation and diffusion.

Many writers on American music have sneered at the emphasis placed upon early music but it is nothing to sneer at. The early writers had a very hard and difficult struggle, composing and publishing music. Now, it is for us to contrast the present and the past and to rejoice over the marvelous advancement, which such comparison illustrates. In the preface of George Hood’s “History of Music in New England,” he says, “All things must have their beginning and this, though small, is important.” He adds that at first our music was low and mean; but if we hope to have a history of the art worth preserving, we should not lose the past but carefully gather it up and place it with the future that the latter by contrast may appear the more bright and beautiful.

Of course it would not be just to pass over the composers of this most beautiful art; therefore I shall mention a few of the many writers. The first that comes to my mind and one that was among the earlier writers is Lowell Mason. To this man is due great gratitude for his efforts to found American music and to encourage its progress. He spent his time mostly on church music and did much to promote correct of established church hymns. He began the study of music when a boy; and because of diligent efforts, he was soon master of his great art and a teacher of music. Public concerts were given; and he with a few friends founded the Boston Academy of Music.

Another great composer of music was John Philip Sousa who is known throughout the world for his wonderful bands and band music. Many splendid bands were organized by this man and he also wrote many marches, which are based upon his own experience of the feelings of men who march together on the open field. While very young, Sousa was the conductor of an orchestra in a theatre. At twenty-six he became leader of the United States Marine Band; and this organization under his leadership developed into one of the best military bands in the world. Later, he took leadership of the band bearing his own name.

Another famous writer of music is John K. Paine. He is considered the most classic of our composers. He studied music under a local teacher and then went abroad for three years under Haupt and other great foreign musicians. Having returned home, he was appointed instructor of music at Harvard and shortly afterward was promoted to full professorship; he has held this position ever since with distinguished success.

There is a large number of other male composers; but I shall now turn to the feminine sex. There are famous women composers and writers of music. For instance, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, writer of “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” and Mrs. H. H. A. Beach, formerly  Miss Cheney, who is a great concert pianist as well as a composer of music in the largest forms. Not many living men can point to a composition of more maturity and more dignity than Mrs. Beach’s “Jubilate,” for the dedication of the Women’s Building at the Columbus Exposition. Besides there is Margaret Lang, who has written large works. Miss Lang has a harmonic individuality, too, and finds out new effects that are strange without strain.

Such being our achievements, I do not hesitate to match the high-hearted, electric-minded free people of our hills and prairies with the rest of the world, and to prophesy that in the coming century the musical supremacy and inspiration of the world will rest here overseas, in America.

– Loleta B. Hoxter, 1916

Vernacular and Tricksters

29 Nov

Hello, gentle readers. Before I get to the meat of this entry, please read this:

I think that little missive could be a great starting point for some of my upcoming research. Nicholas Payton is a terrific player and a searing intellectual mind (he’d probably smack me for calling him intellectual).

Jazz and hip-hop have two major things in common: they rely on the vernacular of a people, and both put stock in trickster characters – the unreliable, disingenuous narrators or principal players.

Vernacular, in fact, means “slave.” Its Latin root is a word that the Romans used to refer to people in bondage. So some scholar thought they were being really clever when they labeled the cultural milieu and language of African Americans as “vernacular.” These days the term is used to refer to the inner cultural workings of any distinguished group, from WASPs to goths to what scholar Adam Bradley eloquently terms “the NPR demographic.”

(As an aside, I don’t look down on NPR listeners; I do, however, feel that NPR is pseudo-intellectualism at its finest, and is very good at conveying talking points to an audience of white liberals who then regurgitate what they hear/read to seem tolerant and educated. I am a white liberal, but I also question everything I am told – especially if I agree with it. The NPR demographic seems blissfully unaware of institutionalized racism – white privilege. Ever heard a white liberal brag about how some of their best friends are black? You see my point. If you aren’t a racist, you don’t have to define your friends by their color.)

I participated in a Skype interview (seriously, that is the coolest thing for scholars – you can interact with people and have real-time, face to face discussions! I love it) with author/scholar Adam Bradley. Dr. Bradley holds a Ph.D. from Harvard and was a student of Cornel West. That fact alone is reason for me to worship the ground he walks on, as Cornel West is a personal hero of mine and a man with the brilliance to change the world. Dr. Bradley teaches English literature at the University of Colorado – Boulder, and is a Ralph Ellison scholar.  He’s also a hip-hop scholar and just completed work on a memoir with rapper Common.

Bradley told a very funny story about Jay-Z appearing on NPR to promote his memoir, Decoded.  It was quite surreal, Bradley said, to hear Jay-Z being interviewed by a white woman with perfect diction about what it was like “growing up in the ghetto.” And to emphasize his point, he over-articulated every syllable in “ghetto” in the style of the interviewer.

Bradley’s point was this – it was a bit of a rude question. And an obvious one.  Asking Jay-Z this question was like tripping an alarm – HEY! HE’S A RAPPER! AND A BLACK GUY! It’s as if the ghetto is this mythical place that people can visit, like on a vacation. Not a way of life for millions of people in our country. It just seems like a bit of a stretch – like NPR is trying to appear fascinated by how the “other half” lives. This sort of pseudo-intellectualism just reinforces cultural boundaries and perpetuates the myth of the Other. That, and anyone who has every listened to ONE Jay-Z album knows exactly how he feels about living in the ghetto.

I really liked Dr. Bradley. I might email him and pick his brain, since I am a budding young scholar of black music.

Read Payton’s essay, and you’ll understand what I do a bit better.

Cultural Critique FTW

14 Nov

I’m taking a class called Studies in Hip-Hop.  It’s the first time the course has been offered at my university, and I am pretty sure I am the only graduate student in the course, but I am constantly impressed with the insight and intelligence of the undergrads around me.  This is the first non-music course (and by that I mean, not taken as an MUS course designation in a School of Music; this particular class is taught under African-American Studies) that I have taken since my undergrad at Pittsburg State.  So, naturally, I’ve been carrying a bit of a bias against non-music students because my brushes with them in Gen Eds at PSU were…disappointing.

The kind of student who takes a college course on hip hop obviously has strong opinions about it, and the class is a very diverse group, both ethnically and educationally.  What I dig most about this class, though, is that generally speaking, everyone is well-read and intelligent when it comes to discussing and debating the topic at hand.  The professor is a literature expert, treating hip-hop as poetry.  Since I’m coming at hip-hop from the perspective of a music scholar, this attention to rap as literature is fascinating.

Some would argue that it’s not music.  I will stop short of saying you are wrong – but I fervently disagree.  Is it sound organized through time?  Yep.  Then it’s music.  Does it make you want to move your ass?  Then it’s music.  Is it a reflection of cultural mores, a snapshot of one individual’s perspective presented as art?  Then it’s definitely music, because music says something – even if there are no words.

(I will pause here to note that this may be a less-than-popular opinion among my fellow jazz scholars, many of whom take the Wynton Marsalis approach to all things hip-hop and declare that if it doesn’t align with several narrow criteria, it cannot be a true expression of the vernacular.  Well…sorry Wynton.  There’s no crying in musicology.)

Our midterm project in the course was to write an essay that investigated the cultural theories of one of the books we read.  I chose to write on Joan Morgan’s When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost.  This is a book by a self-proclaimed hip-hop feminist, one who sincerely grapples with the negative portrayal of women in hip hop and the racial identity it provides.  (If you don’t know what a chickenhead is, Google it.  Sorry mom, I didn’t name the book.)

I decided to post my essay, because Dr. B read a large section of it to the class and told them that it is good enough to be published.  He pulled me aside and told me this before reading it, and he was genuinely excited at the prospect of my writing.  It was a good feeling.  Rather than wait to try and go through the steps to get the essay published, possibly in a journal that no one can access outside of academia, I want to post it because everyone should be able to read it.

I reference another book in the essay – Confessions of a Video Vixen.  This is a book written by a woman who was famous in hip-hop and professional athlete circles for putting out.  That’s being polite.

I think you can get the point of the essay without having read either of the books.  So here it is, my first shot at cultural critique outside of musicology since I started my scholarly journey.


Joan Morgan’s Chickenheads

Joan Morgan’s book When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost is a study in paradoxes. It confronts intellectualism in a world of vernacular. It delves into the misogyny of a culture that eagerly consumes the hearts and souls of young women who want to belong. It deftly explores the treacherous social currents that women, particularly black women, must navigate in the era of in-your-face media, relentless hypersexuality, and impossible beauty standards. Morgan tackles a variety of issues all in relation to how they affect a feminist worldview.

Even amongst fellow African Americans, Morgan is met with skepticism and derision for sticking to her guns. She illustrates the manner in which hip hop culture exploits young women by offering them success and attention not for their individual worth, but for their willingness to take off their clothes and perform sex acts to satisfy the libidinous, virile rap star. With these actions done in the interest of “keeping it real,” this dichotomy disturbs her and causes her to question both herself and the idiosyncrasies of hip hop culture.

Morgan indicates at the beginning of her book that she was born to feminism – that it was a part of her life from the very beginning. Her mother, aunts, and the mothers of friends were all “black warrior women (35)” and their accomplishments and achievements were not considered extraordinary – simply routine. When Morgan reaches college, her feminist reality goes slightly askew, taking on a vanilla tinge. She comments that “feminism definitely felt like white women’s shit (36).” Black women, she observes, have bigger fish to fry in the discrimination department and don’t seem to be too interested in protecting their gender identities as much as their racial identities.

But Morgan’s main argument, articulated throughout the book, is made clear at this point – that black women, no matter how much misogyny they suffer at the hands of their brothers, cannot cross the color line. They cannot deviate from racial loyalties – even if these loyalties cause them harm. They must stay loyal to their race at all costs, even if this means giving up their identities as women. This is a dangerous and unfair position, yet it is where Morgan argues that black women are pressured to exist. This is the paradox and the thesis that drives Morgan’s book. She is seeking a means to gather all of these contradictory threads and spin them into something coherent, something that honors race as well as gender.

Morgan opines, “I needed a feminism that would allow us to continue loving ourselves and the brothers who hurt us without letting race loyalty buy us early tombstones (36).” Demanding that black men defend their women with the same passion and determination that they defend their race, she sets a high bar for her “brothers.”

Racism, Morgan tells us, is by its very nature a force that requires a unified front in opposition (36). A black woman expressing disgust at her treatment at the hands of her brothers can be viewed as nothing more than a tool of the white establishment to undermine the cause from within. And Morgan encounters this sentiment, even from reasonably intelligent, educated black men.

As is a common tactic of anti-feminists, the man she mentions even lobs the accusation of “lesbian” at Morgan. She humorously counters these sort of statements: “For a second I couldn’t tell what pissed me off more, the assumption that any woman who is willing to call a black man out on his shit must be eating pussy or his depiction of me as a brainwashed Sappho, waving the American flag in one hand and a castrated black male penis in the other (42-43).”

She correctly observes that weak-minded men often resort to these tropes to combat any threat to their gender hierarchy, and that these same men see feminism as an effort by the white hegemony to turn loyal black women against men by transforming them into self-hating lesbians.

Morgan uses the “f-word” to refer to feminism, implying that it is tantamount to profanity by its very existence. And of course she does this sarcastically, poking fun at the very people who would write her off as an indoctrinated lesbian for daring to value herself as much as she values black men. The hip hop culture, particularly in recent years, has been notoriously reluctant to value women as human beings, depicting them with the same regard one would have for a piece of jewelry or a bottle of Courvoisier. So Morgan’s struggle to reconcile her self-worth with her racial and cultural identity – the street cred of the hood – overlaps very well with these hip hop trends.

That culture of sex and partying has as its poster child “a twelve-year-old girl whose titties and ass grew faster than her self-esteem (49).” Early in the book, Morgan relates a story about being taunted for daring to be well-groomed and articulate. The girl confronting her seems to believe that Morgan is not “hood” enough and therefore deserves a beating. These are powerful stereotypes that can consume even the very people who should fight them. Morgan’s book is a powerful testament to why black men and women should care about how the culture depicts females. It is far too easy for young girls to become saturated with images about tying their individuality and their worth up in hypermasculine thug culture.

The “chickenheads” in the title are Morgan’s antithesis, the women against whom she finds herself competing for men and success. Morgan laments those late nights when she is “tearful and frightened that achieving all our mothers wanted us to – great educations, careers, financial, and emotional independence – has made us wholly undesirable to the men who are supposed to be our counterparts? Men whose fascination with chickenheads leave us convinced they have no interest in dating, let alone marrying, their equals (58)?”

This underscores the plight of the “video ho” – valued only for her physical attributes and ability to shake her ass. A woman with an education, self-respect, ambition beyond Prada shoes is useless to the marketers of the hip hop aesthetic. What started as a means of unique self-expression has blossomed into a diamond-encrusted industry of sex, sin and good times.

Towards the end of the book, Morgan confronts her relationship with the chickenheads. She states her biases and her jealousy of the apparent ease with which women of little substance seem to snare men into their fold, while those women of color who “do the right thing” and make themselves into educated, ambitious intellectuals are simply not desirable. Far from being a position of elitism, Morgan’s statements seem to have a fascination about them. She expresses a genuine curiosity for the phenomenology of the chickenhead, and the cultural messages that are distributed to young girls in their formative years. Why does society publicize, but not respect, the chickenhead? And why does it openly reject, but profess to admire, the intellectual woman who uses her brain instead of her breasts to construct a life worthy of living?

The corporate values of hip hop revolve around sex, money, and power, and the effective marketing of all of these things. The power of the corporate state has always hinged upon the ability to convince average people that they, too, can someday have the Benz, the bling, and the Cristal. Never mind that this is a fantasy achieved only by those with the luck to conform to a corporate prototype. Hip hop culture depicts black men as gangstas dripping with chains and women, and these women as mere toys to be played with by the men.

Morgan is attempting to find traction for her intellectual views and self-worth in this world – where black authenticity is derived from ridiculous stereotypes and the images conjured up by advertising executives. This is a world where a black woman’s only value is found in her measurements and willingness to writhe for waiting cameras. Some women, like Karrine Steffans, find themselves eagerly absorbing this value system and willingly playing the role of the video ho.

To drag another paradox into the mix, let’s contrast the tragedy of Karrine Steffans with Morgan’s pained but ultimately optimistic book. Steffans’ book reads like a narcissistic train-wreck, with pure egomania driving every page. However, if we contrast the value systems of the two women, we can almost excuse the drastic differences in behavior and concept of worth. Morgan is raised among strong black women. She sees them as the rule, not the exception, and carries their strength with her as she matures into a woman, always feeding her intellect and herself first.

Steffans is raised by a woman who demonstrates to her daughter how to become a parasite, relying on men for succor and doing whatever is necessary to hold the attention of someone with money and power. In turn, Steffans grows up to seek out only those people with these attributes, even becoming sexually aroused by the thought of the tremendous clout held by some of her “conquests.” So the dichotomy of the stories doesn’t come as a shock. If anything, Steffans’ book completely underscores everything that Morgan is attempting to say, from the opposite side of the fence. Steffans is more of a “tool of the white man,” a plaything of the corporate agenda, than Morgan could ever be.

Comparing the books of these two women, we have a primer on the worst case scenario, and also on a faint glimmer of hope. Morgan is fighting to save the souls of black women from falling into the hands of the chickenheads – she is the anti-Karrine Steffans. She is not afraid to admit that race matters, but also that gender matters just as much; that how a woman views herself and other women is just as important as driving a Mercedes or flashing diamond earrings.

Steffans’ book is a disturbing cautionary tale, the chronicle of how the pressures and messages of the hip hop economy do lasting damage to young black women, and how too many of them are sucked into a spiral of sex, money, and authority. The reasons for this are clearly articulated by Morgan: the war against racism is the responsibility of both genders. It cannot be won if one side is demeaning the other through garish displays of skin. Feminism, far from being “white women’s shit,” is central to the pursuit of racial quality. Encouraging the sort of behavior that made Karrine Steffans famous truly does nothing more than widen the gulf between “society” and the “Other.”

It is much easier to see an individual as subhuman if all they are is a dancing video ho – as long as this kind of imagery stands and is part of the corporate agenda, there will always be issues of racism. That is the lesson of Morgan’s book, and the inadvertent lesson of Steffans’ book – self-worth is not a crime or a radical act. It is an essential component of human existence. Until corporate agendas stop stripping it away, there will be more books like these to underscore the emptiness.

Depressed Germans Have All the Fun

13 Nov

There’s a new Lars von Trier film out.  I don’t know if you follow Triers’ career at all, and I wouldn’t blame you.  His films are usually one step away from emotional snuff.  He’s probably best known for Dancer in the Dark, a film featuring Icelandic singer/artist/human freak-out Bjork as an immigrant who is gradually going blind.  She works ceaselessly (and in the end, futilely) to accumulate the money for her son to have an operation that will spare him a similar fate.  She is eventually framed for the murder of the cop who steals her earnings, and sent to the gallows.  Oh, and it’s a musical.

Needless to say, suffering and emotional torture are the binding ties of Trier’s characters.  Subtlety is not really a part of his bag of tricks, so it should come as no shock that his latest film centers on a similarly depressing outcome and is titled Melancholia.

This film is about the apocalypse, and the reactions of a chronically depressed woman and her slightly more put-together sister to the impending doom.  Something about a giant planet that is going to swallow up the earth.  I’m not writing a movie review; instead I’m focusing on one peculiar aspect of the film’s production and score.

That is the link to the first eight minutes of the film.  It more or less gives away the conclusion of the movie right away, so uh, SPOILER ALERT! I guess.  It’s called Melancholia.  It’s not likely to produce feelings of good cheer.  Watch it and come back to my blog.  I’ll wait.

So, what’s that music, you ask?  It sounds vaguely familiar.

It’s the Prelude to Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde.  It contains harmonic language that completely disrupted the security and foothold of tonality.  Marcel Proust wrote that the Prelude was the greatest work of art of all time.  Music theorists were beside themselves trying to explain how in the hell Wagner could justify using the chords that he did.  In the first 5 seconds of that clip, you hear a solitary string instrument playing three notes, and then suddenly there is a chord that sounds, well, kind of disturbing  – F, B, D# G#.  Maybe not so unusual to modern Western ears, who have soaked up the influences of Wagnerian harmony and Debussian extended techniques.  But to the listeners of Wagner’s day, that chord was WEIRD.

Attempts to analyze the chord using contemporary harmonic techniques were wholly inadequate.  So, they called it the Tristan chord.  Wikipedia (and really, who better to trust on this subject than Wikipedia!) accurately reports that “it can be any chord that consists of these same intervals: augmented fourth, augmented sixth, and augmented ninth above a root.”

So. It’s a tritone with an aug6 and an aug9 stacked on top.  It’s not actually all that unusual – respelling the pitches in the chord as G#, B, D, F# produces a rather pedestrian half-diminished seventh chord.  It’s the positioning of the pitches vertically – and their relationship to the surrounding IMPLIED key – that makes it so freaking weird.  In 1865, this was groundbreaking stuff.  As the melody progresses, it lands on a dominant chord – E, G#, D natural, B.  If you respell the pitches of the Tristan chord using their enharmonic equivalents, or treat the chord as some kind of appoggiatura, you kind of get something resembling conventional harmony.  But let’s be serious – this is a metric ton of chromaticism for music that was only 50 years removed from Beethoven.

What’s most significant is how long the orchestra sits on this unusual chord.  They practically build a parking spot on it.  Dissonances of this caliber, prior to this time, were typically used for color and brief moments of tension.  They were usually resolved rapidly and added a certain juiciness to conventional harmonic progressions.  Tristan is an extended exercise in the rapidly crumbling facade of tonality.  Less than 50 years later, Arnold Schoenberg would drive the final nail in the coffin and people like me would gnash teeth in mourning.

Wagner was kind of an asshole and a basket case.  Today, we’d call him a drama queen.  He was, after all, the harbinger of German Romanticism – the celebration of the dark recesses of the mind and the romance of suffering.  Read up on Hector Berlioz if you want to understand the zeitgeist of Romanticism.  Berlioz was French, but he embodied the characteristics of the cultural misunderstanding of psychology and the celebration of the tortured artist and his unrequited overtures of love.

Why do I bring all this up in connection to the film?  Well, Lars von Trier was quoted as saying, shortly before the release of Melancholia, that he “desired to dive headlong into the abyss of German Romanticism.”

Abyss…diving…melancholy…you get the picture.

I found it rather fascinating that we have a film about the Earth crashing into a giant planet, underscored by some of the most disorienting and fatalistic music of the age, written and directed by a man who makes no bones about the true nature of depression – of its dank corners and odd moments of implacable calm.  And this is coming during a period in our history where scores of us (myself included) are ingesting antidepressants to keep our heads above the water in a world that we seem to be floating away from – a world where ceasing to care about living is in itself a form of liberation and peace.

Couple this with the recent spate of apocalypse rhetoric spread by money-grubbing preachers, Mayan hack scholars, and the History Channel.  No wonder we all want the freaking world to end – that’s got to be better than this dreary existence of low-functioning, pill-popping uselessness.  No wonder Trier used the most famous piece of music from an opera where everybody dies.

I’m linking a decent Slate review of Melancholia at the bottom of this entry.  The reviewer seems to take exception to some of the heavy-handedness, but they praise Trier’s depiction of depression as experienced through the protagonists.

It’s fascinating how mediums cross over and infuse each other with meaning, even 150 years apart.  That’s why I do this.

Slate review:


7 Nov

My first milestone of doctoral school has been achieved – I got a B on my very first essay as a Ph.D. student.  It was a deserved B, and I expected this grade, so all is well.  The feedback I got from the prof was extremely worthwhile.  He is awesome.

This course is “The History of Music Theory.” So  it’s a music history course, and a music theory course, simultaneously.  It’s also a philosophy course, a primer on Greek intellectual currents, a textbook on how science relates to music, and probably the most intense (but enjoyable) class I have yet encountered.  The first several lectures touched on topics ranging from Nietzsche to Copernicus to Descartes to Guido of Arezzo.  The music stuff?  Oh, that’s in there, but we have to first tease out what “theory” actually means.

I freaking love hyper-intellectual classes like this, where you gloss over every conceivable speculative theory in existence before you get to the stuff we still use – and even then, there’s still an awful lot of speculation going on.

Music theory is a dynamic discipline, if you’ll pardon the pun.  Like musicology, it has out-grown its old trousers and there is a scramble underway to sew some new ones that fit better.  That’s what I dig about being a music nerd.  Our field is alive.  As long as science and math are around, we’ll have music.  It’s remarkable how well it can slot into both those categories.

More about this class later.  My essay was a bit too ambitious – I attempted to draw the speculative music theory tradition into an overarching graphical metaphor – but I am excited to keep working with this professor to see where I can go.

Now it’s time to proctor an exam, so I will update this post when I get home.