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Technology is ubiquitous. Thus it is hardly surprising that it has had a profound influence on the art of music in the twentieth century. It has altered how music is transmitted, preserved, heard, performed, and composed. Less and less often do we hear musical sound that has not at some level been shaped by technology: technology is involved in the reinforcement of concert halls, the recording and broadcast of music, and the design and construction of musical instruments. Many church organs, for example, now use synthesized or sampled sounds rather than actual pipes; instruments are now available that have what look like piano keyboards and make what sound like piano timbres, but which are actually dedicated digital synthesizers; virtuoso performers whose instrument is the turntable are now part of not only the world of disco but also the world of concert music (John Zorn, for example, has written a piece for voice, string quartet, and turntables).1 Technology is changing the essence of music, although many musicians still do not appreciate the extent of its influence.
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Technology came to music with the advent of recordings. Thomas Edison invented a crude cylinder phonograph in 1877. By the end of the nineteenth century, companies in the United States and England were manufacturing disc recordings of music. Prior to recordings, home consumption of all music-whether composed for keyboard or not-was by means of private piano performance. The possibility of preserving musical performances by recording utterly changed the social and artistic meanings of music. The invention of the tape recorder a half century later made sonorities not only reproducible but also alterable. The resulting techniques allowed recorded sounds to be fragmented, combined, distorted, etc. Such manipulations could affect not only sound qualities but also timespans. By changing recording speeds, for example, a composer of musique concr?te could compress a Beethoven symphony into a single second or make a word last an hour.
Consider Hal Freedman's composition Ring Precis, from the mid '70s. Freedman has taken a recording of the entire Ring cycle of Wagner-some eighteen hours of music-and arbitrarily cut it up into three-minute segments, all of which are played simultaneously.2 The resulting sound is, doubtless, utterly unlike anything you have ever heard, but I am more interested in the temporal implications of Freedman's compositional procedure. He has compressed by superimposition eighteen hours into three minutes, and thereby created a new piece out of an old one.
An earlier example of the new sound and time worlds opened up by electronic technology. The composition U 47, written in 1960 by Jean Baronnet and Francois Dufrene,3 is one of several compositions that use as their sole sound source a brief spoken utterance. In this case a voice says, in French, "U 47." The composers have fragmented this sound, so that we hear the tiniest segments of the spoken text. Occasionally the voice is elongated. As in Ring Precis, the sounds are fascinating, but so is the idea of isolating in time brief instants of speech.
Today, because of electronic technology, we listen to unaltered music only rarely. The sounds we hear have been not only performed by musicians but also interpreted by audio engineers, who have reinforced the acoustics of concert halls, spliced together note-perfect recorded performances, created artificially reverberant performance spaces, projected sounds across the world via satellite broadcast, greatly amplified rock concerts, and created temporal continuities that never existed "live." The audio engineer is almost as highly trained as the concert performer, and can be just as sensitive an artist.
Recording technology has forced us to reconsider what constitutes a piece of music. It is unreasonable to claim that the printed score represents the musical sounds. The score usually gives no indication of how the audio engineer should manipulate his/her variables. Two differently mixed, equalized, and reverberated recordings of the same performance can contrast as much as two different performances of the same work.
We might think conservatively of recordings as means to preserve performances, but recordings are far more than that. They are art works themselves, not simply reproductions. Thus people who buy records and cassettes rightly speak of owning the music. "Vivaldi's Mandolin Concerto is yours for only $1.00," says an advertisement for a record club.
two versions were done. It was originally scored for the Beatles and flutes, and recorded in the key of A at a tempo of about 92 beats per minute. After listening to the lacquers, Lennon decided it sounded 'too heavy' and wanted it rescored and performed faster. A second version, with trumpets and cellos, was recorded in the key of B-flat at about 102 beats per minute. Lennon liked the beginning of the first version and the ending of the second, and asked the engineer to splice them together. When the speeds of both tapes were adjusted to match the pitch, the tempos of both were fortuitously the same at 96 beats per minute. The two portions were edited together. . . . This procedure gives Lennon's vocals an unreal, dreamlike timbre, especially in the second, slowed-down portion of the song.4
Here is another example: I have been told of a rock record made by the following unusual procedure: first the solo musicians were recorded as they improvised; then an arranger studied the taped improvisations and composed an instrumental accompaniment, which contained direct references to the recorded music. Interestingly, this material appears in the accompaniment before it does in the improvised solos. We listen to a paradox: the soloists seem to improvise spontaneously music that we have just heard! Furthermore, the record consists of a composed accompaniment that fits the improvised solos too well to have taken place in live performance.
A recording was released a few years ago of George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue (1924). The composer is piano soloist and Michael Tilson Thomas conducts the orchestra.5 What is odd is that Thomas was born four years after Gershwin died! Gershwin had recorded the piano solo, and Thomas conducted the jazz band to coordinate exactly with the solo recording, which he monitored through headphones. The performance is somewhat strained, since the soloist never reacts to the ensemble, but the aesthetic behind the recording is fascinating. Technology has created a collaboration between two artists who could never have known each other.
In the song Another One Bites the Dust, as recorded by the rock group Queen, there is a specific verbal message which can be heard only when the recording is played backwards.6 Part of the title line, which is sung repeatedly throughout the song, comes out backwards as "marijuana." This phenomenon depends on the particular pronunciation of "Another one bites the dust." What we have is a hidden message, known only to initiates, which is embedded within the music by means of a quirk of technology. There is a clue that we should listen backwards. Certain musical sounds are recorded backward. For example, we sometimes hear first a gradual crescendo, then a sudden cut-off-the reverse of a sharp attack followed by a gradual decay.
Actually, the use of backward recording in rock music to embed hidden messages or to create special sounds was apparently quite prevalent for a time. Some rock fans were forever listening to their tapes backwards in search of camouflaged meaning.
At their inception, these examples represented extraordinary expansions or even redefinitions of the musical art. But they pale in comparison with the potentials and challenges of sampling. Sampling is the digital recording of sound, which-once it exists in computer memory-is capable of all manner of appropriation and manipulation. By means of sampling any found sound can be incorporated into a performance, composition, or recording. This was true of musique concrte as well, but the flexibility and excellent sound quality of sampling are making its use far more extensive-and, in the view of many, insidious -than the use of prerecorded tape..
Sampling has been prevalent in the world of rap music since around 1987. The inclusion of sampled material into rap songs has been called "ancestor worship." There is an excellent article on the subject in the May 1992 newsletter of the Institute for Studies in American Music.7 Author David Sanjek points to the far-reaching aesthetic and legal ramifications of using sampling to appropriate other music. Sampling artists engage in what is called "versioning," which Sanjek defines as "the practice of taking a given recording and using its constituent elements to create new material." Thus sound becomes democratic. Although copyright lawyers as well as ASCAP and BMI may object, the time may be upon us when no one can own a sound, although the courts are not likely to reach such an opinion without a careful recasting of existing laws.
Most musicians using sampling have played it safe, legally speaking, by distorting their sound bites or keeping them brief, and by not crediting their sources. Some people estimate that the majority of pop music recordings released today include some sort of sampling. Canadian composer/producer John Oswald, on the other hand, has made sampling not a surreptitious activity to enhance recorded sound but his artistic credo. Oswald's use of sampled sounds has created massive legal difficulties. In 1989 he produced a compact disc called Plunderphonics, which includes 24 "revisions," as he calls them, of well-known works, many protected by copyright.8 Although there are imaginative and artistic alterations, the sources are recognizable, because the quotations are quite long and because the sources are from mainstream popular and classical music-the Beatles, Michael Jackson, Captain Beefheart, Bing Crosby, Elvis Presley, James Brown, Franz Liszt, Count Basie, Stravinsky, Beethoven, Bach, Over the Rainbow, and Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.
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