Afterword

Extolling the virtues of interdisciplinary studies and the value of musicology to the readers of this journal might seem a waste of time, given that there was an article on music in the inaugural edition of American Nineteenth Century History.¹ Yet the crossover between history and music has been hesitant compared to that between other fields. There are two conventional reasons for this. First, music scholarship has evolved complex vocabularies and analytic tools that are challenging to employ for those without advanced training and difficult for those with training to set aside. Second, there remains a subtle insouciance when thinking about music, an attitude reflected in everyday life as much as in scholarship. Most people today value music and go to great lengths to ensure that they are never without it, yet they do not define it as a necessity of life or question why it is important to them. This attitude leads many historians to deemphasize the role of music in past cultures, which then encourages musicologists to accentuate the scope and consequence of their research. This polite dance inhibits what should be a mutually beneficial relationship with limitless possibilities.

In recent decades, we have seen the advantages that come from blending the topics and techniques of historical and musical scholarship. One need only look at how writers from multiple disciplines have revisited early Black American music, with seismic results.² Yet a gap remains between musicology and history. At the risk of overgeneralizing, musicologists fear that historians risk trivializing musical works, treating them as “mere” entertainment, and hence incidental to more tangible activities with documentable results. On the other hand, historians and others have rightly pointed out that musicologists can fall prey to a myopic treatment that isolates and elevates certain artworks or composers, and thereby distorts the historical narrative.

Both concerns are plausible but do not invalidate the results. Referencing a musical work that adorns a non-musical activity retains the intuitive and emotional environment of what could become a lifeless study without detracting from the primary topic under investigation. Technical analyses of musical works deepen our knowledge of past and present aesthetic comprehension, a necessary step in advancing our understanding of the role of art in society, and hence of society itself. Either way, we all must remember that what we think about the music of the past matters less than what people of the time felt about their music.

Unprofitable attempts at cross-disciplinary application by both musicologists and historians reveal an implicit constraint that comes from treating music primarily as a “thing.” Locating a fertile middle ground between music and history requires that scholars respect music as both an artifact and a process.³ Restricting music to something that is printed on a piece of paper wrongly privileges written over aural traditions, even as it eliminates music’s defining elements: listening and performing. Studying a score or lyrics is demonstrably useful, but only by examining the experience surrounding a musical event does one unlock the full potential of musical scholarship.⁴ The essays in this volume show how combining history and musicology to study music’s materiality and agency – and how all of these interact – exposes social practices and beliefs that might have been missed otherwise. Music may appear to be on the periphery of momentous historical events, but it was not peripheral to the participants.

That music functions as both an object of study and as a personal experience underlies Laura Lohman’s call for using music in the history classroom. Universal Design for Learning (UDL) is a useful blueprint for new and experienced teachers investigating ways to orient their classrooms toward engaging, productive pedagogy, and music is tailor-made for maximum impact with minimal investment of time or resources. Historical works of art are arguably the easiest primary sources to engage with, allowing students to not only read accounts of history but also personally interact with objects from the past. Artworks require participation; listening to a piece of music generates an aesthetic response, thereby fulfilling the artwork’s original purpose. A musical work becomes a synecdoche through which students can gauge their own aesthetic values even as they attempt to assimilate the thoughts and feelings of past generations.⁵

Maintaining music’s status as both object and process opens additional opportunities in the classroom that cross between past and present. Having students listen to Henry Bishop and John Howard Payne’s “Home, Sweet Home” might kick off some interesting discussions. Follow that up by reading reviews of Jenny’s Lind’s performance of the piece during her American tour, then compare those reviews to those of a recent Taylor Swift concert – the possibilities are endless. Using the artifact of music as a primary source in the classroom satisfies most pedagogical demands, but using the musical experience it triggers amplifies this potential and satisfies the goal of UDL (representation, expression, action), all from a single exercise.

Candace Bailey’s study of rare primary sources – music purchased and performed by free, middle-class Black women from Mississippi – is enlightening on many levels. A consideration of the musical practice and taste of these young women sheds light not only on how social class was performed but also what it meant publicly and privately. The variety of pieces collected in binder’s volumes force us to reconsider what music was popular, where it was enjoyed, and even how it might reveal divergent attitudes toward the American Civil War. As Bailey rightly argues, patriotic music may have dominated the streets, but art songs and genteel piano works remained a fixture of the parlor. The effort (and expense) involved in purchasing and binding this music is a palpable indication of what steps would be taken to attain, or at least display, higher social status. This is the practice of social class.⁶ In addition, the contents of the volumes are significant in themselves, indicating a fluidity of cultural exchange that crossed racial boundaries even as it projected economic class divisions. It is also noticeable what is lacking; there is no mention of “plantation songs” or other minstrel-based repertoire, perhaps a parallel to Kate Johnson’s curious comment about the war (and the lack of reference to slavery).

Bailey is correct that it could be dangerous to project too far from these individual examples; musical training, recitals, and purchases were indeed cultural performances, but it was personal taste that determined which pieces were selected for binding. The intimacy of musical experience is both a power and a limitation for scholars; popular music can reflect communal values, but identifying a person’s preferences offers insight into that person first and foremost. In such cases, music becomes a lens we turn upon the performer. Musical preference is an irreplaceable window into the aesthetic and emotional interiors of real individuals from the past, showing us how they saw themselves from within and from the outside. It is a necessary foundation upon which broader societal observations must reside if we are to avoid recreating the misleading narratives that Bailey has successfully disrupted.

There are many stimulating paths leading to and from Katherine Preston’s examination of female theatrical producers. For example, her investigation raises the important issue of stylistic and genre divisions within music. For generations, a somewhat arbitrary and misleading separation between “high” and “low” art – a result of nineteenth-century canon formation – shaped musicological scholarship and distorted our view of past musical practice. Focus was given to notated European concert music by “great composers” at the expense of improvised or oral traditions, popular music, and most any music created by Americans.⁷ Examining the impact of European concert music in large cities is worthwhile in many ways, but it represents only a small portion of American musical activity, one that was limited to specific social groups. A close look at operatic productions and performers across the United States clearly shows that Americans were democratic in their tastes, and they wanted that democracy reflected on stage.

In terms of historical reassessment, Preston’s examination of the music theatre industry reveals that proscriptions against women as entrepreneurs were not uniform, which raises interesting questions. Why did these women excel in the arts? Was the entertainment industry a less threatening arena to male hegemony? Clearly, the audiences that flocked to these performances were indifferent that a woman was running the show.⁸ It might be argued that the business of art was a minor consideration when compared to other booming industries of the time, but its impact on the economy and its relation to the quality of life make it an important factor when considering the general outlook and stability of a community at any given time. In addition, the entertainment industry reflects social norms even as it shapes public taste. A community’s choice of what public entertainment it favors is deeply telling of current outlooks as well as a useful indication of public values. As Preston notes, Kellog’s “recipe for success” during the Panic of 1873 was simple: “she was popular, had low ticket prices, sang in English, and – in a time of increased xenophobia – was not European.” In other words, middle-class Americans valued the performer as much as the work performed (and preferred American performers), they were willing to pay for their art but preferred a bargain, and they wanted art that met them at their level. The public chose to attend these performances, and in so doing they broadcast their class, their nationalism, their politics, and of course, their taste in music.

Protest songs are one of the clearest examples of music’s dual nature as object and process, and of the benefits that come from balancing a historical and musical perspective.⁹ A radical lyric can set forth grievances, question authority, mock opponents, and so on. But the moment the song is performed it becomes an act of resistance in itself. Christopher Smith’s study demonstrates how interrogating the subversive potential of creating new words for a “borrowed” tune reveals acts of resistance that move in surprising directions. Such is the case with “Old Dan Tucker” and “Get Off the Track,” where a “wholesome” celebrity group appropriated a piece from blackface minstrelsy to sing of abolition to the gentry. Context ranks with content; a casual observer might assume that “Get Off the Track” is simply the same melody with different words, but the full impact is lost without knowing who was performing and who made up the audience.

Musical cross-fertilization is inevitable in these situations, as labor disputes usually arise between those of different social classes, ethnic backgrounds, and religious affiliations. Using politics or labor to reappraise songs reminds us that neither political activism nor musical influence are unidirectional. Recycling the tune “Yankee Doodle” is predictable in terms of both its widespread popularity and its political potential. But choosing a minstrel tune, religious hymn, or popular song for political ends complicates the communicative potential even as it promotes the dissemination of musical styles between groups for which crossover may have been unlikely.¹⁰ Ideas collide and styles merge when the musical stage becomes a political battleground. These songs may have catered to distinct audiences with particular agendas, but their radical protests remain a defining characteristic of nineteenth-century American political life and a key factor in the evolution of an American musical style throughout the long nineteenth century.

It is tempting to fall into a metacritical abyss when examining the relationship between history and musicology, but doing so runs of the risk of skipping the obvious, namely reexamining what music and history we think we already know from a fresh angle or with a different goal in mind. Christopher Lynch’s illuminating essay is an excellent case in point. We have a good grasp of regional politics during Reconstruction, and we thought we knew how the music and memory of Stephen Foster endured into the twentieth century. But placing these two profiles side by side upends those preconceptions. To learn that Foster’s music was not as widespread as we believed, that his iconic status was in no small part manufactured, and that at least a partial motivation for this memorialization served political goals is a game-changer. Historians and musicologists have no difficulty accepting that musical practice influences and is influenced by politics, but to learn of such a targeted situation with such lasting results is frankly unsettling. At what point do we replace the word “memorialization” with “manipulation” or “propaganda?” Far from clarifying Foster’s views on abolition and the place of his plantation songs, the situation is now even more complicated. This is as true for modern listeners as it was for those of previous years. The shift in musical and lyrical meaning that depends to some extent on Foster’s social views directly alters how we listen, and, more importantly, what we hear.

Lynch succeeds by focusing on the composer’s milieu, not the music. This choice is precisely what enabled him to uncover what he did; by not starting from the musical work and reconstructing its legacy, he reveals that the legacy we took for granted is open to question. Now we have a platform from which to reexamine specific pieces, and hopefully clarify Foster’s relationship to politics and abolition in particular. This information will likely lead to a reconsideration of the intended audience for Foster’s songs, how future generations received his music, and the sociopolitical role of popular songs in the early twentieth century.

The pervasive role of music in the lives of individuals and communities is self-evident, but understanding past practice requires not only knowing how social traditions and institutions have changed but also interpreting music as it existed without modern subliminal filters. Nineteenth-century Americans might write things in a letter that they could not say, say things that they would not write, and in both cases perceive subtexts behind the communication as well.¹¹ The same was true for music. Before the advent of recording and broadcast technologies, song was primarily an interpersonal discourse. You experienced music with others, not through earbuds, and the recollection of a song brought back an image of the singer and the setting as much as the lyrics. To grasp the complexities of the musical experience (including the musical work, the creative process, and all the agents involved in performance and reception) alongside its unique place in history requires balancing traditional and idiosyncratic approaches. The essays in this volume skillfully demonstrate the value of a blended perspective and provide templates for future investigations of the intersection between nineteenth-century American culture and society.¹²

Such attempts are not easy; indeed, it is concerning if no problems arise. The editors of the first issue of the Journal of Interdisciplinary History foresaw this possibility over 50 years ago:

We will guard against faddishness, the all-too-easy appropriation of inappropriate techniques merely because they arouse current interest; the confusion of technical mastery with the effective use of such mastery; the use of complex ideas and techniques in an elementary fashion; the hubris of those engaged in new procedures who forget that they stand on the shoulders of their predecessors; the temptations of jargon; and the tired imitation of genuinely original works.¹³

Interdisciplinarians often smooth over the rough edges and stress the compatibility between disciplines. But there is something to be said for celebrating the friction as well. For there to be genuine interdisciplinary discourse requires the existence of different disciplines with different goals, methodologies, and critical apparatus that may not fit comfortably together. There should be moments of uncertainty, otherwise the scholar may not be adhering to the original missions of the disciplines interacting. Instead of treating such points of conflict as faults, however, they can be viewed as potential revelations. The situation is reminiscent of Thomas Kuhn’s paradigmatic anomalies or Paul de Man’s moments of rhetorical blindness.¹⁴ Instead of dismissing points of conflict as weaknesses, they should be treated as crucibles. Identifying methodological incompatibility between disciplines shows potential instability in those methodologies; finding something that has been overlooked points toward perspectival predispositions that generate misconceptions of the landscape of history. Embracing those moments of friction, and examining their cause and what they reveal, ignites the next generation of research.

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No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Notes on contributors

James A. Davis

James A. Davis is SUNY Distinguished Professor of Musicology at the State University of New York in Fredonia, New York.

Notes

1 White and White, “At intervals I was nearly stunned by the noise he made.”

2 Graham, Spirituals and the Birth of a Black Entertainment Industry; Lott, Love and Theft; Thompson, Ring Shout, Wheel About.

3 Dipert, Artifacts, Art Works and Agency.

4 This point has been made for many years and from many perspectives; for example, see DeNora, Music in Everyday Life; Dewey, Art As Experience; Ingarden, The Work of Music and the Problem of Its Identity; Small, Musicking; Turino, Music As Social Life.

5 Performing historical works opens even greater opportunities for empathy; see Mancini, “‘Because It Is My Culture’”; Strandberg, “Music History Beyond the Classroom.”

6 Popular music studies in particular have exploited performativity and sociocultural positioning; see Díaz-Santana Garza, Between Norteño and Tejano Conjunto; Edwards, Johnny Cash and the Paradox of American Identity; Linn, That Half-Barbaric Twang; Rose, Black Noise.

7 Broyles, Music of the Highest Class; Horowitz, Classical Music in America. Successful efforts to locate and rectify oversights include Locke and Barr, “Patronage”; Rodger, Champagne Charlie; Shadle, Orchestrating the Nation.

8 The impact of women entrepreneurs on nineteenth-century British theatre is examined in Bratten, The Making of the West End Stage; see also Ingalls, Unexceptional Women.

9 Recent contributions include Brewer, Singing Sedition; Coleman, Harnessing Harmony; Goodman, “Transatlantic Contrafacta”; Lohman, Hail Columbia!.

10 Musical blending between disparate communities is deftly examined in Roberts, Blackface Nation and Smith, The Creolization of American Culture.

11 Carmichael, The War for the Common Soldier, 100-31; Decker, Epistolary Practices, 4–6.

12 In addition to the topics addressed in this volume, a few areas of musical and historical research that seem ripe for a combined perspective include nostalgia, immigration, health science, and humanistic geography.

13 Editors, “Interdisciplinary History,” 5.

14 De Man, “The Rhetoric of Blindness: Jacque Derrida’s Reading of Rousseau,” in Blindness and Insight, 102–141; Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions.