by Tim Rayborn
Eventually it became a complex religion with rites and ceremonies, initiations and rituals. These often involved veneration of nature and natural cycles and included generous amounts of wine. Euripides’s Bacchae, written in the fifth century BCE, contains perhaps the best-known descriptions of Dionysian worship, but these scenes are almost certainly embellished for dramatic effect. Nevertheless, lurid tales of the cult’s activities circulated widely.
It was said that the worshippers’ goal was to induce trancelike states (called bakcheia, hence “Bacchus”) and even divine madness and ecstasy through the use of wine, music, drumming, and dance. This would eliminate inhibitions and social mores and return the revelers to a more primal and natural state of being. Whatever happened at this point was up to the worshipper: singing, dancing, laughter, gluttony, drunkenness, free sexual activity, even primal screaming, animalistic behavior, and violence. Indeed, Dionysus was also known as “the Liberator” (eleutherios) because he freed one from the artificial bonds of everyday life. Musicians were on hand to play the aulos and drums to help usher the participant into this state. It was believed that the goddess Athena invented the aulos but threw it away when she realized how ridiculous she looked while playing it, which made it a perfect instrument for revelry and making a fool of oneself.
Not surprisingly, these celebrations caught on with ordinary citizens, especially women, who generally did not have a high social status. It gave them a sense of empowerment, the chance to be free in defiance of almost constant oppressive social constraints, and to have a direct relationship to their god. Also not surprisingly, some authorities were not happy about this freedom. However in cities like Athens, Dionysian theatrical dramas were staged at certain times of the year, especially winter and spring, to celebrate the god’s death and rebirth respectively.
Concerned about the stories that were circulating and seeing Bacchic rites as a political threat because they were free of government control, the Roman senate issued a decree in 186 BCE that limited the cult’s size and scope, seeking to reform it into a state-approved religion; it also ordered the death penalty for those that disobeyed. This harsh new law was not completely successful and illicit worship continued, especially in southern Italy. Anyway, who were mortals to decree that a god’s will should not be done? In fact, Dionysus was an acceptable god to the Roman authorities; it was just the ways of worshipping him that were questioned. The new legislation was worded so as not to offend him by outlawing his worship completely.
Salacious rumors naturally followed the cult wherever it went, and people were always eager for titillating stories; tabloid journalism has been around as long as civilization. Some of the women initiates, known as maenads, were said to run screaming and dancing through the forest, naked except for the grapes and vines they draped about themselves—get your minds back on topic. They were, so the stories say, mad with divine drunkenness, attacking and eating live animals, some said even humans. Eating the animals alive and drinking their blood was a way of inviting the essence and power of Dionysus into their bodies, a form of divine possession; it’s also pretty gross. Poor Orpheus, as we saw earlier, was torn asunder by these wild ladies, according to one account. These stories are almost certainly exaggerated, if not completely made up; the actual rituals were generally far more sedate.
Related to the Dionysian cult (and often depicted as being in the god’s retinue of revelers) was the presence of Pan, the goat-footed god famous for playing his syrinx, or panpipes. Syrinx in fact was the name of one of the nymphs he was chasing in his lustful pursuits; he had a never-ending appetite for them! In order to escape him, she asked for help from the water nymphs, who transformed her into a clump of reeds. Not happy at being denied his prize, Pan nevertheless fashioned a set of pipes from these reeds, which he played as he roamed the countryside.
The music—said to be haunting, even unsettling—could arouse whatever feelings the god intended. Indeed, our word “panic” derives from the effects of Pan’s music on his mortal listeners. He could induce wildness and ecstatic behavior in his followers, just like Dionysus, and his wanton sexuality (among other attributes) would later lead to his demonization by the Christian Church. The goat god became the devil, and later depictions of the Prince of Darkness often resembled the mischievous piping faun of the ancient Greek woodlands.
Music and magic in the chilly north
In Scandinavia and Finland, Russia and the far north, the magical properties of songs have long been known, praised, and feared—though when you consider how long the winters are up there, there really wasn’t that much else to do! From ancient times, music and singing were thought to have great power and were used by shamans for ceremonial and ritual purposes.
The Saami (Lapland) people of northern Sweden and Norway have a singing tradition known as joik (pronounced “yoik” and often spelled that way) that is highly personal to each singer. Somewhat resembling Native American chants and likely deriving from ancient shamanic practices (a Saami shaman is called a noaidi), perhaps with roots in Siberia, it seeks to bring the essence of its topic into the song itself. In other words, one does not joik about a bear, one joiks the bear; the bear is depicted in the song, a magical way of viewing the interaction of sound and essence. This can be done by imitating natural sounds and using onomatopoeia, practices that may originate with Siberian shamans. It can have words, but doesn’t need to.
There are joiks for people, for animals, and for the land itself. Each person develops their own personal joiks, just as they have a name. The idea of joiking an animal or the land probably has its origins in ancient, even prehistoric, practices. Joik cannot be thought of in terms of western musical theory; it is not thematic, and it doesn’t have a specific beginning or ending point. There is little “stylistic” difference in a joik for a person and one for the land or a wolf. This lack of distinction springs from the belief that all things are of the same essence.
The Christian missionaries to Saami lands naturally viewed joik as devil worship and thus banned it because of its pagan associations. They forcibly prohibited it when they could, into the early twentieth century. Nevertheless, the tradition survived and, having undergone a major revival in the past few decades, is now widely available on recordings.
Northern traditions of magic in song can also be found in Viking culture across several centuries of the early Middle Ages. Now, the Vikings are usually thought of as unkempt barbarians who spent their lives raiding, raping, and pillaging coastal villages and defenseless monastic communities, and while that’s true to a point, they also were traders, farmers, explorers, and magnificent storytellers. In fact, the unruly rabble who did the raiding, raping, and pillaging were sometimes the younger sons—who inherited nothing and had to seek their fortunes elsewhere—or troublesome reprobates that communities were happy to ship off (literally) to other areas and have them out of their long, braided hair.
Though there was a class of professional poets known as skalds that probably recited rather than sang their poetry, it is likely that certain epics and myths were sung and chanted, relaying ancient stories of gods and giants, dragons, and elves. Many of these myths were extremely dark and violent, reflecting the harsh culture in which they originated. Indeed, the original story of the ring of the Nibelung (Niflung in Old Norse) was well known in northern mead halls. It was from these tales of a cursed and coveted ring that Wagner would draw inspiration for his four colossal operas and J. R. R. Tolkien would form ideas for his own stories of an evil ring that brings ruin—desired by many, but truly possessed by only one.
The collection known as the Edda contains many accounts of gods and heroes that would have enthralled audiences on those long, cold winter nights. One, Völuspá, predicts that even the gods of the Vikings will eventually fight a final battle, known as Ragnarok, the “doom of the gods.” They will be killed, and the earth will be destroyed. Talk about depressing! There is hope though, for out of that destruction will come a new age, with
even mightier gods and a new earth to replace the old. This may have been a Christianizing of an older set of myths—the Eddic poems weren’t written down until Iceland had become Christian—but regardless, the tale warns that evil will remain. You just never seem to get rid of it.
There are several descriptions of the Vikings’ music making, generally from biased outside sources, but still enlightening and entertaining. The Arab merchant Ibrahim Ibn Ahmad Al-Tartushi traveled to Haithabu (Hedeby, near the modern Danish–German border) around the year 950. He heard some of the locals singing and remarked: “I have never heard any more awful singing then the singing of the people in Schleswig. It is a groan that comes out of their throats, similar to the bark of the dogs but even more like a wild animal.”
A fascinating story comes from the Danish theologian and historian Saxo Grammaticus (ca. 1150–ca. 1250). He noted an unusual performance by a lyre player for King Eric I of Denmark (ca. 1060–1103) and his court. Eric was a Christian, but he retained musicians in his hall in the ancient pagan custom. The story, here retold by philosopher and music theorist Marin Mersenne (1588–1648), notes that the lyre player boasted of his ability to arouse any emotion he wished in a listener, and he proved it in the following manner:
First, the musician poured into his hearers a certain sadness by means of grave sound; then by a better accompaniment, he changed the sadness to joy, so that they all but danced for merriment. Then in sharper modes of intensity he excited a certain indignation, and when it became strong the king and those around him were observed to rage. Presently the musician gave the signal … that they should enter and hold fast the raging king … but such was the strength of the man, that he killed certain of them with his fist.
Eventually the music-induced madness left the king, and in his remorse he paid compensation to the men’s families—I’m sure that made everything just fine.
Now this tale was probably a fabrication of Saxo’s to warn against the repeated intrusion of pagan customs into newly Christian territories, or it might be an embellished retelling of a drunken evening that got out of hand. It was also probably a useful way for Saxo to set up the story of the king’s pilgrimage to Constantinople; he obviously had something for which to atone. But underneath it is the fascinating account of a link between music and emotions, and the idea that a skilled player can manipulate and draw out certain feelings in the listeners, as if by magic.
Composers and magic
Many composers have immersed themselves in the study of magic, occultism, and esoteric practices. Secret societies were all the rage in Europe from the later eighteenth to the early twentieth centuries, including groups such as the Masons, the Illuminati, and the Rosicrucians. Composers were among the many kinds of intellectuals drawn to such groups for their unconventional ideas and the promise of hidden knowledge. This is a vast topic, but a few examples should illustrate the point.
We have already seen several cases: Mozart was a Freemason, and masonic ideas imbued works such as The Magic Flute. Satie was at one time active in the Parisian branch of the Rosicrucians, and Scriabin was deeply involved in esoteric philosophies and their relationship to music. Peter Warlock was attracted to the teachings of Aleister Crowley and seems to have dabbled in black magic while living in Ireland.
Beethoven was also interested in Freemasonry, along with Indian philosophy. He came to believe that “God is immaterial and transcends every conception,” a Hindu concept. He immersed himself so thoroughly in composing some works that he was oblivious to the world while writing. During these times, he felt that he was approaching the Godhead—becoming one with it—through music.
Wagner’s operas were known for their rich mythological content, and his own philosophies resembled those of the Theosophists, the fashionable esoteric movement led by Madame Blavatsky in the later nineteenth century. Wagner came to believe that “imagination creates reality” and hoped that his music would induce trancelike states in the audience. His use of Norse and Arthurian magical imagery in his operas was hugely effective and influential on the generation of composers after him.
Debussy apparently hobnobbed in occult circles in Paris, and at least one other composer, Cyril Scott, proclaimed that Debussy was channeling the music of Atlantis for the modern age. It is difficult to pinpoint what Debussy’s activities were, which is probably exactly what he wanted. However, in an 1893 letter to Chausson he called for music to be sequestered away from the masses and given its rightful place among esoteric subjects:
Music really ought to have been a hermetical science, enshrined in texts so hard and laborious to decipher as to discourage the herd of people who treat it as casually as they do a handkerchief! I’d go further and, instead of spreading music among the populace, I propose the foundation of a “Society of Musical Esotericism.”
This is a remarkable attitude from one who eventually wrote more than 140 pieces, taught piano, and was in demand as a conductor. Perhaps related to the idea of keeping music as a hidden art, he wished to separate his own music from concrete interpretations, saying, “Let us at all costs preserve this magic peculiar to music, since of all the arts it is most susceptible to magic.” One wonders if he meant “magic” in both a poetic and a literal sense.
3
Plague and Penitence: the Rather Awful Fourteenth Century
Modern-day people often hold some very pointed views and prejudices about the Middle Ages. The term frequently takes on a derogatory tone, such as when we call someone’s old-fashioned or offensive views “medieval.” There are so many assumptions about the time period that simply aren’t true, but that’s another whole discussion. Unfortunately, the calamities and disasters of the fourteenth century in Europe tend to play right into those misconceptions.
Up until the early 1300s, things had been reasonably good across Europe. Perhaps not what we would think of as good, but the weather had been stable for some time and food supplies were fairly reliable, and as a result, the population was growing, as were towns and cities. Yes there were also wars, crusades, the Inquisition, and other assorted atrocities, but civilization in Western Europe seemed to be on a winning track, with the growth of universities and commerce, the proliferation of new music and poetry in everyday languages, advances in art and architecture, and other signs of flourishing culture.
So what happened? It may have started with the weather, or rather shifts in climate, in the first decade of the 1300s. This instability led to a reversal of the warmer pattern and therefore more unpredictable weather. By 1315, storms had become more severe, and crops failed across the continent. This was probably the starting point to what became known to modern climatologists as the Little Ice Age, a period of colder weather that persisted on and off until the mid-nineteenth century.
In addition to storm damage, there were also food shortages and full-on famines. Large populations were suddenly faced with problems over which they had no control—and neither did the Church, royalty, or anyone else. Prayers went unanswered, and things became increasingly bleak. It wasn’t a meltdown of civilization and a descent into anarchy; it just meant that life, which was already tough for the lower classes, got that much tougher. Of course, this led to political instability and (literal) saber-rattling. The biggest of these conflicts erupted into what became known as the Hundred Years’ War between England and France. It really lasted from 1337 to 1453, which is actually 116 years, but that doesn’t sound as catchy. Obviously it wasn’t a full-on battle that entire time, but rather a series of smaller wars and skirmishes over territorial disputes and who owed whom what homage and how much.
While this head butting raged, Europe was hit by a much bigger, or rather smaller, problem: rats carrying fleas (some now say gerbils—yes, gerbils) that harbored a particularly nasty bacterium, Yersinia pestis, also known as bubonic plague. The plague itself seems to have originated in China (at least this particular strain, now thankfully believed to be extinct) and migrated across Asia via trade routes. Once ships re
ached ports in Italy, southern France, and elsewhere in 1347– 1348, the rats jumped ship and went off to their new vacation homes, bringing a nasty surprise with them.
Later historians gave the outbreak the charming name of the Black Death; at the time it was often just called the “Great Mortality.” Its deadly effectiveness was probably exacerbated by a population that was weakened because of the food shortages, poor sanitation, and weather changes, as well as war. Death came swiftly and mercilessly. Lodewijk Heyligen, a musician and cantor of the St. Donatian’s Cathedral in Bruges in 1348, described the symptoms and noted that there seemed to be a type of plague that attacked the lungs (now known as pneumonic plague). He wrote that sixty-two thousand had already died in the area of Avignon in southern France, with eleven thousand of them buried in one place.
At this time, of course, no one had any clue as to the real cause. Explanations ran the gamut (itself a musical term, interestingly)—from foul air to the wrath of God to the poisoning of well water by Jews—with all the ugly and tragic persecutions that went along with these ignorant beliefs.
The plague eventually subsided by the mid-1350s, but the devastation it wrought changed Europe forever. Some have argued that the social breakdown it caused brought about the rise of the middle class and even helped contribute to the Renaissance, the Reformation, and the weakening of the Catholic Church’s absolute power.