by Tim Rayborn
Warlock was eventually found dead from gas poisoning in his Chelsea flat in London in December 1930. The official investigation kept the matter open. Suicide is suspected, of course, given his bouts of black moods. Investigators observed that his cat had been put out of the room into a yard, so maybe he wanted to save its life and only take his own. It’s also possible that it was simply a tragic accident, though most today accept the suicide explanation, since he was depressed and had little money and no prospects.
There is a third possibility, which is (of course!) that he was murdered. He had named Dutch composer Bernard van Dieren as his heir, and Warlock’s son, Nigel Heseltine, would later accuse van Dieren of murdering his father. This is doubtful, however, and no charges were ever brought. While suicide is the most likely explanation, the mystery of Warlock’s death remains unresolved.
Sins and Omissions
You may have noticed a few big names missing from Part I. Richard Wagner is absent, but he deserves a whole book to himself; in fact, there are several of them. Likewise with Stravinsky—the riot caused by the premiere of his ballet The Rite of Spring is legendary. Recent discoveries also suggest that Johann Sebastian Bach’s life both in youth and in old age was far from pleasant, though we did cover him a bit in the Baroque chapter. If your favorite composer wasn’t among those profiled, that might actually be a good thing; they escaped the clutches of various horrible fates, or at least led pretty good lives until the end.
One important point: you may also have noticed the depressing lack of female composers in the preceding chapters. On the one hand, that’s good news for them; they didn’t seem to have such horrific things happen to them! On the other, what it once again shows is the systemic exclusion of women from acknowledgment and credit in so much of artistic life (and other areas) throughout history, a worldwide problem. The women who lived in these times certainly wrote and played music. Vast numbers of them also sang and danced, often in the face of strenuous objections from religious authorities or disapproving fathers and husbands.
Unfortunately, far fewer achieved the fame and status of men until more recent years. The number of well-known female Western composers is terribly small compared to their male counterparts, despite the fact that they wrote many fine works over the centuries. From Hildegard of Bingen to Barbara Strozzi, from Fanny Mendelssohn to Clara Schumann, women have made important contributions to music across its whole history.
Likewise, this section featured composers of Western classical music, and so focused almost exclusively on Europeans, with a few American and Australian exceptions. There is literally a whole world of wonderful music out there, but in the interest of brevity, it’s just not possible to wander very far into it.
In Part II, we will venture into some non-classical genres, such as folk, rock, and jazz, while further exploring plenty of classical music oddities.
Part II
A Dark and Weird Musical Miscellany
1
Odd Musical Origins
When did we start making music? This is one of those questions thrown around on a regular basis, with all sorts of theories from the fields of anthropology, psychology, archaeology, and many other –ologies. Music-like sounds are certainly produced by other members of the animal kingdom, whether the chirping of birds or the haunting and mournful songs of the great whales. Do these constitute music in the way that we think of it? Or are they forms of vocal communication, and so more like languages? If we go back far enough in our own species’ family tree, is there even a difference between speaking and singing?
There are many books on these kinds of questions, and it would be difficult to summarize them here. So instead, let’s start off Part II by looking at a few of the theories, findings, and speculations about music in prehistory, as well as the bloody origins of music in some myths. From vocal fish to cavemen choirs to gods with anger issues, the distant musical past is a stranger place than we might imagine.
Biological origins: singing fish
Most of us use our voices every day, sometimes all day, with the exception of the mute and those who have taken vows of silence. Our incredible capacity to make sounds with our vocal cords, those vibrating membranes, is something most of us take for granted. Just about everyone has temporarily lost their voice at one time or another, whether from sickness or yelling too much at a concert, or wherever, and we all know how frustrating it is. It’s even more remarkable that these vibrations can be made into different pitches and types of sounds, and we associate meanings with them when they are combined. But the strangest thing of all is that we may have acquired this physiological feature from fish all those many millions of years ago.
Cornell University professor Andrew Bass (yes, that is his real name, and I’m sure that he’s quite sick of the jokes) has found fascinating evidence in a species of fish, the midshipman, that produces sounds for various purposes. Males make grunts and noises—a kind of humming—during mating season (of course), while females make grunting sounds at other times—probably due to their annoyance with the horny male fish. People have reported hearing low-level humming sounds coming from the water during the fish’s attempts to get it on.
Professor Bass and his team analyzed how the connection between the midshipman’s vocal muscles developed, linking this process to neurons between its brain and its spinal cord. In “higher forms of life,” including (allegedly) us, there are very similar neural pathways. What does that mean? Basically that this adaptation was useful to prehistoric fish very early on and remained with succeeding generations over eons, spreading to countless other life forms. In other words, we owe our ability to make sounds of all kinds to it. We also got our ears from these primeval ocean-dwellers, because they obviously had to be able to hear the sounds they were making.
So now we know that fish are still vocalizing up a storm under the waves, just as they’ve done for millions of years. It’s time to give them the recognition they deserve for getting it all started. How about a tribute concert featuring “Aquarium” from Saint-Saëns’s Carnival of the Animals, Satie’s The Dreamy Fish, and a rousing performance of Schubert’s Trout Quintet? The sea’s the limit!
Biological origins: cavemen choirs
Though our knowledge about our ancestors and hominid cousins increases with each year, many questions remain, and of course there are still some silly misconceptions. The very term “caveman” is so loaded with incorrect images and ideas that it’s useless. Generally when we’re talking about our immediate forebears, we are speaking of Cro-Magnons and our extinct cousins, Neanderthals. We don’t know if these folks made music, though researchers have found some intriguing clues in recent years.
Most people are aware of the amazing cave art in southern France and Spain; the network of tunnels at Lascaux in France is the most famous and spectacular example. Made by our direct ancestors (Homo sapiens sapiens) during the Upper Paleolithic Age roughly fifty thousand to twelve thousand years ago, these paintings deep inside caverns often depict remarkably lifelike animals, hunting scenes, and other imagery.
Iegor Reznikoff of the University of Paris X in Nanterre specializes in very old music. He has discovered that in many of the caves, the areas with the most paintings also offer the best acoustics. Since the shape of these caverns would not have changed much, if at all, since those times, it stands to reason that the markings were made in these locations deliberately, and that sound accompanied whatever rituals were conducted there.
Further, given the incredible difficulty in navigating the tunnels in darkness, these people probably used echolocation, relying on the reflection of sound to determine where they were. Vocals would make the most sense, though bone flutes and whistles have been found in some caves, suggesting that they may have been used for this purpose and maybe also for various rituals. Studies of several of the tunnels in a number of caverns have revealed that wall markings were placed at exactly the points where sound would carry the farthest and be heard best. The sou
nd of sustained notes at various pitches would have traveled well through the caves, which indicates that they may have used primitive melodies, whether sung or played. Did they sing songs as part of hunting rituals and initiations in those dark caves, lit only by flickering fire? We don’t know for sure, but given how universal singing and chanting are throughout the world, there is reason to believe that our direct ancestors did the same.
Steve Mithen, a professor of archaeology at the University of Reading in England, has recently made a case that melodies were not merely the invention of our close ancestors, nor some useless evolutionary byproduct, but rather were wired into us from the time that we first started walking upright. Over millions of years, the larynx in proto-humans descended farther down as the neck got longer, allowing them to produce longer, more sustained sounds in greater varieties than chimpanzees or other apes could.
Tones and vocalizations were essential to early hominids for expressing primitive emotions, engaging in mating rituals, connecting to their young, and a multitude of other functions, and probably actually predated language. These sounds were very useful for surviving the harsh conditions that our ancestors encountered wherever they ended up, which is why we still use them in our complex languages—being able to yell loudly while being chased by a hungry lion definitely had some advantages, even if we don’t have to do that very often these days. Mithen is not without his detractors, but if he is right, we have been musical creatures for a very long time. Perhaps the term “early music,” as used to refer to music from about 1000 to 1750, is no longer the most accurate label.
Mythic origins: the Egyptian music goddess with a violent past
Before there were disciplines like archeology or science, our ancestors had to devise their own explanations of how the world was made, how they came to be, and how everything began: from music to sex, from agriculture to wombats. In ancient Egypt, Hathor was the goddess of love, fertility, beauty, motherhood, dance, and music. She was enormously popular, especially revered by women, and her worship extended beyond Egypt and Nubia into present-day Libya, Somalia, and Ethiopia. As a patron of dancers, Hathor was associated with percussion instruments—especially the sistrum, a kind of metal rattle—and her priests were frequently artists and musicians of various kinds.
Egyptian gods and goddesses often had associations with each other or had different names and identities during different periods. Hathor once was said to be the Eye of Ra, a feminine counterpart to the sun god that acted as his protector and was known for violence. Indeed, one myth relates that when Ra ruled early Egypt as its pharaoh, his enemies plotted against him. He sent his protector in the form of the lion-headed goddess Sekhmet to deal with them, and with those mortals who had forgotten him and spread evil. But Sekhmet was bloodthirsty and she unleashed wholesale slaughter, killing people by the thousands and destroying cities. After the other gods objected, Ra implored her to cease, fearful that she would murder everyone on Earth, but she was overcome with blood lust and continued her rampage.
In order to stop her, Ra had large quantities of beer dyed red and poured over the land. Sekhmet eagerly drank this beer, thinking it to be blood. In time, she consumed so much that she became intoxicated and fell into a drunken sleep. When she awoke, she had calmed and transformed into the gentle Hathor, thereafter the loving patron of music, artistry, and joy. The greatest threat to humanity had become its greatest benefactor. Both Hathor and Sekhmet were worshipped in ceremonies that included copious amounts of beer and wine to remember the goddess’s bloody history, and probably in acknowledgment of entertainers’ fondness for large amounts of alcohol.
Mythic origins: the god who made a lyre from a turtle
The Greco-Roman heritage is particularly important to us not only for its myriad beliefs, but also, as far as Western music is concerned, for its discoveries and theoretical writings. The Greek myths and their Roman counterparts are embedded in our consciousness in ways we don’t often consider. The names of the planets in our solar system immediately come to mind. A few months of the year have mythic connections: January, the month of the god Janus; February, the month of a purification feast; March, the month of the god Mars; and June, the month of the goddess Juno. One day of the week, Saturday, is named for the old titan Saturn.
Almost everyone has heard of the Greek god Hermes, known as Mercury in Roman mythology. We might remember him as the messenger of the gods, with wings on his helmet and little wings on his sandals, and no concern for silly mortal things like lift, gravity, and aerodynamics. His reputation for swiftness even contributed to the naming of a metal after him, since it is quick and unpredictable in its liquid state.
In the myths, Hermes is the son of Zeus and Maia, one of the daughters of the titan Atlas, the one who held up the world; how Atlas managed to father children while constantly engaged in this task is another question entirely. Zeus found a way to have a secret rendezvous with Maia in a mountain, and the result was little Hermes, whom she wrapped in a blanket. Already being inclined to move quickly, he soon crawled away toward the cave entrance. Once there, he saw a turtle happily chewing on grass. Hermes was amused by this creature and decided to bring it back with him, but he wasn’t looking for a pet. The poor animal had a grisly fate in store for it. Taking a knife, he stabbed the turtle repeatedly until it was—cue dramatic movie music—dead. Using the shell, he attached two stalks of reed, covered the front in animal hide (presumably from some other poor victim), and attached seven strings made of sheep gut. Incidentally, this was the material used in the making of strings for lutes, violins, harps, and similar instruments well into the nineteenth century; it is still used in modern times for re-creations of historical instruments. Hey, if it was good enough for a god …
And so, Hermes invented the lyre. The lyres played by the Greeks were frequently constructed in a similar way (minus the infant god bit), so this tale would have made sense to those musicians who heard it. However, the ancient hymn that tells the story also records that Hermes wasn’t very talented, and that his first attempts at making music failed. He tried improvising and singing about the other gods and their deeds. How he knew of them as an infant we don’t know, but he killed a turtle and made a lyre, so we just have to go with it. After several attempts, he laid the instrument aside in his cradle and went off (quickly, we presume) in search of other adventures. You may be wondering just where his mother was during all of this. She comes into play shortly, so there’s no need to worry about her lax parenting skills.
At dusk, Hermes found a herd of cattle that belonged to Apollo, who was also a son of Zeus but by another titan’s daughter, Leto; so they were half-brothers. This did not stop Hermes from making more mischief, however, and he stole the herd. Apollo was not amused. Hermes fled back to his cave only to discover that his mother had bolted and chained the entrance, apparently to keep him in and away from causing trouble; that obviously didn’t work so well. Hermes, in an act that would make every teenager who has ever come home later than promised green with envy, turned into a mist and simply floated through the keyhole. He then curled up in his cradle and pretended to be asleep with his new lyre. Maia wasn’t fooled, though, and demanded to know what he’d been up to. Hermes was defiant that he would win them a place among the gods with his thieving skills.
Then Apollo came calling and demanded to know where his cattle were, already aware by his gift of prophecy that the infant had stolen them but apparently unable to use that same skill to locate them. Maybe he just wanted to shame the little godling. The argument became heated, and it was decided that Zeus must settle their dispute. Their father ruled that they had to settle their differences and told Hermes to show Apollo the location of his herd. Maybe Hermes thought he could charm them both, so he brought out his lyre and started playing. Apollo was intrigued and wanted to give it a shot. Hermes offered it to him freely, as a gift—probably because he wasn’t a very good musician, anyway—and to bury the hatchet, Apollo let him keep the cattle herd
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Apollo showed great skill with the lyre and thus became known as the god of music, poetry, and prophecy. There are two hymns dedicated to him (the Delphic hymns) that actually survive with music, dated from about 128 BCE. They are the longest-surviving pieces of music from the Classical world and offer a fascinating insight into the nature of composition and music making from the time. They are complex, in a meter of five beats, and have very unusual, almost modern-sounding melodies.
Apollo’s musical skills were challenged more than once. The goat god Pan boldly asserted his musical superiority due to his skill on the pipes (whence comes the name “panpipes”), but in a contest between the two, Pan lost badly. Apollo was so angered by the insolence of Pan’s only supporter, Midas, that he turned his ears into a donkey’s; talk about a way of dealing with your critics! A satyr, Marsyas, also challenged Apollo, thinking his musical skills to be better. The Muses judged the contest, and Marsyas lost, of course. In response, Apollo flayed the poor creature alive for being so conceited as to challenge him. He then nailed his skin to a tree as a warning to others who might think themselves musically superior. Apparently, Apollo was pretty touchy about his “god of music” role and had a lot of pent-up aggression he wasn’t dealing with. Perhaps it went back to that issue with the stolen cattle.
2
Magic in Music
Music holds great power over its listeners and performers. The mysteries of musical notes in a series or in harmony, and the effects that they have on us, have not been solved by science, religion, or philosophy. Music stirs the emotions, inciting love, anger, passion, calm, hope, and any other sensation you can imagine and feel. We’ve all experienced the amazing effect that a song can have on us when we’re in a particular state. It might instantly remind us of childhood or a lost love, or inspire us, or anger us, or make us horny. Everyone has their favorite songs and their favorite types of music; these are as unique as each individual.