Music Education

Music Education
The future is a funny thing. Everyone would like to know it. But, no one
can. We can only deal with the present based on our knowledge of the
past and the projection of our vision of the future. We know that at this
point in the first part of the 21st Century information and technology are
driving the pace of change and discovery at an unprecedented rate. This
knowledge should affect the way that we as humans interact with the
world including how we engage with music, and more importantly the
teaching and learning of it. Music Education: Navigating the Future is
written by both (1) authors who were at the time of this publication
ambitious early career professors trying to earn tenure and receive promo-
tion, and (2) veteran scholars and researchers who have paved the way
for the present generation of leaders in music education. Through their
combined efforts the authors were able to well articulate what the profes-
sion now needs as it moves forward. The end result—the coming together
of past, present, and future—is a work that will be held in high regard by
the profession for years to come. Music Education features chapters on
music and leisure, new forms of media in music teaching and learning, the
role of technology in music learning, popular music tuition in the expan-
sion of curricular offerings, and the assessment of music education research.
As such, it is an excellent reference for scholars and teachers as well as a
guide to the future of the discipline.
Clint Randles is Assistant Professor of Music Education at the University of

South Florida, USA.
Routledge Studies in Music Education
1 Music Education
Navigating the Future
Edited by Clint Randles
Music Education
Navigating the Future
Edited by Clint Randles

First published 2015
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Music education : navigating the future / edited by Clint Randles.
pages cm.—(Routledge studies in music education ; 1)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Music—Instruction and study. I. Randles, Clint, 1978–
MT1.M982413 2014
780.71—dc23
2014017949
ISBN: 978-1-138-02258-4 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-1-315-77700-9 (ebk)
Typeset in Sabon
by Apex CoVantage, LLC
This book is dedicated to Bennett Reimer. Thank you, Professor
Reimer, for enriching our lives with your work in music and
words. Music education is better off as a result of your efforts.
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Contents
Preface xi
Acknowledgements xiii
PART I
Working Within the Domain
History
1 Music Education History and the Future 3
MICHAEL L. MARK
Perspective
2 In Response to Michael Mark 13
BENNETT REIMER
Philosophy
3 Difference and Music Education 16
LAUREN KAPALKA RICHERME
4 A Proleptic Perspective of Music Education 29

BRENT C. TALBOT
Perspective
5 The Virtues of Philosophical Practice in Music Education 43
WAYNE BOWMAN
viii Contents
PART II
Making Sense of Our Tools
The New Media Era

6 The Shifting Locus of Musical Experience from
Performance to Recording to New Media: Some
Implications for Music Education 63
MATTHEW THIBEAULT
7 Inter/Trans/Multi/Cross/New Media(ting):
Navigating an Emerging Landscape of Digital Media
for Music Education 91
EVAN S. TOBIAS
8 Is It the Technology? Challenging Technological

Determinism in Music Education 122
ALEX S. RUTHMANN, EVAN S. TOBIAS, CLINT RANDLES,
AND MATTHEW D. THIBEAULT
Perspective
9 The Technology-Music Dance: Reflections on
Making Sense of Our Tools 139
DAVID BRIAN WILLIAMS
10 Understanding the Tools: Technology as a Springboard

for Reflective Musicking 155
FRANK HEUSER
PART III
Visualizing Expansion
Music for Life

11 Liminal or Lifelong: Leisure, Recreation, and the
Future of Music Education 167
ROGER MANTIE
Popular Music
12 Seeking “Success” in Popular Music 183
GARETH DYLAN SMITH
Contents ix
Early Childhood
13 “Pssst . . . Over Here!” Young Children Shaping the
Future of Music Education 201
ALISON M. REYNOLDS, KERRY B. RENZONI, PAMELA L. TUROWSKI,
AND HEATHER D. WATERS
Teacher Education
14 Identity and Transformation: (Re)Claiming
an Inner Musician 215
KAREN SALVADOR
PART IV
Guiding Researchers
Research Snapshot
15 Methodological Trends in Music Education Research 235
MICHAEL S. ZELENAK
Qualitative Approaches
16 Critical Ethnography as/for Praxis: A Pathway
for Music Education 253
MARISSA SILVERMAN
17 Application of Sound Studies to Qualitative Research

in Music Education 271
JOSEPH MICHAEL ABRAMO
Perspective
18 Commentary on Research Snapshot
and Qualitative Approaches 292
RICHARD COLWELL
Quantitative Approaches
19 Structural Equation Modeling and Multilevel Modeling
in Music Education: Advancing Quantitative Research
Data Analysis 299
NICHOLAS STEFANIC
x Contents
Perspective
20 Reflecting on Guiding Researchers 314
PETER R. WEBSTER
PART V
Plotting a Course of Action
Conceptualizing Change
21 A Theory of Change in Music Education 323
CLINT RANDLES
Perspective
22 The Role of Subversion in Changing Music Education 340
JOHN KRATUS
Names and Addresses of Contributors 347

Index 351
Preface
From my perspective, we can best prepare students for the future by

enabling them to deal effectively with the present.
Elliot Eisner
It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.
REM
The future is a funny thing. Everyone would like to know it. But of course
no one can. We can only, as Eisner states, deal with the present. We know
that at this point in the first part of the 21st century, information and
technology are driving the pace of change and discovery at an unprece-
dented rate. This knowledge should affect the way that we as humans
interact with the world, including how we engage with music and music
education. Technology is not in the driver’s seat, though; we are. We choose
how we will act based on our goals and values as human beings. Of course,
we have a history of how we have behaved and performed in the past to
guide our theory and practice. This book is about bringing together voices
of experience with some of the voices who will play a role in steering the
ship—Music Education—as it moves into the future.
Few things that are worth our considerable time are easy. This project
was no exception. The Suncoast Music Education Research Symposium
IX (which I chaired), with the title Navigating the Future, is where the
idea for this book started. The event was held at the University of South
Florida in February of 2013. It brought together many of the scholars
that have written for this text. In fact, many of the chapters were first
projects that were accepted for presentation at the symposium. That being
said, this collection of chapters is not a conference proceedings. The work
took on a much larger form when I invited many scholars and research-
ers from around North America to read, respond, critique, comment, and
sometimes provide entirely new insights on the topics that surround the
initial chapters.
xii Preface
RISING STARS
Many of the chapter writers were at the time of this publication ambitious
assistant professors trying to earn tenure and receive promotion. However,
all of them had spoken at many of the premier national and international
conferences in music education. They were chosen to be a part of this
project as I felt they represented some of the most promising newer voices
in the profession. Of course no one can ever be sure of these things.
Hopefully time has been kind to my earlier predictions.
EXPERIENCED VOICES
Figures like Richard Colwell and Bennett Reimer have been around in the
field of music education for the better part of 50 years. They can speak
well about what the profession needs as it moves forward. What better
writers for their respective sections? There was not a template for what
each of the experienced authors’ perspectives were supposed to look like.
I left the decision for what each section needed up to the writers. This
ambiguity going into the writing stage has resulted in a very unique book,
one that we hope will be useful to the profession as it represents the desires
and intuition of not one younger voice or even many younger voices, but
that of younger and more experienced voices working as one.
COMING TOGETHER
The most striking quality of this book is the juxtaposition of newer gen-
eration thinkers and older generation thinkers laboring side by side to
conceptualize the future of the profession. It is no small feat to gather such
a diverse group of writers. Throughout the project there was a common
bond that united all—the belief that the very best manifestations of music
and music education should and must survive and thrive in the lives of
the citizens of the world. I am pleased with the resulting product. The
work that we have accomplished here will benefit generations of music
educators to come and will serve as a time capsule for this point in the
history of the profession.
Clint Randles
Tampa, Florida, 2014
Acknowledgements
A warm thank you to my colleagues and members of the Center for Music
Education Research at the University of South Florida for their support of
this work. Most of all I would like to thank Jack Heller for fighting with
me during this my first four years in higher education. You have made me
stronger my friend. As long as I am living and working in music education
I will remember our time together fondly. The world needs more scrappy
old academics to hone the younger generation. (I’m smiling as I write this,
Jack.) Together, we represent the DNA of this book—the coming together
of groups of minds for the good of the whole. I hope that some day I can
do for someone else what you have done for me.
I would also like to thank my graduate and undergraduate students here
at USF for inspiring me to work diligently on projects that have the poten-
tial to make music and music education better for future generations of
students. It makes all of this work worthwhile when I think that these
ideas will be in the hands of such wonderful musicians and teachers who
will help change the music education world for the better. You have made
it a joy to get up every morning. I wish all the best for you in all of your
future endeavors. Know that you will always have a special place in my
heart.
Part I
Working Within the Domain

1 Music Education History
and the Future
Michael L. Mark
INTRODUCTION
This chapter describes four historic rationales that supported music educa-
tion during certain periods of American history and how they were made a
real part of American life. Taken together, they describe a history of success
for music education in a changing world. The four rationales illustrate how
music education has adjusted to social, political, and economic change and
how it became an integral part of those contexts. This brief review of the
role of music education in American life shows that it has historically been
tied closely to the greater society, and that music teachers have been valued
since the early times of our nation.
As times changed, so did music education. But some things do not
change because they are right and because they work. An instructive
example of something that has not changed throughout Western history is
the contribution that music education has always made to the society that
sponsors it. Another example is the joy of learning and making music in
school settings. Music has existed in schools throughout Western history,
often for religious purposes, at other times for a variety of other cultural
reasons.1 These are historic truths that music educators might convey to
administrators and other decision makers who influence the role of music
in schools.
A simple, basic principle that is probably known to most music educa-
tors expresses what it is that has made music education so successful for
so long: education follows society. Society establishes new needs and new
goals and music education adjusts. We, the music educators, lead from the
rear, not the front, and this is how it has to be. It is why certain important
planning symposia have been held periodically. For example, the primary
purpose of the influential 1967 Tanglewood Symposium was to identify
the role of music education in a society already undergoing such rapid
change that it was no longer possible to predict needs beyond the next few
years. A character in the novel Gone Girl (Flynn, 2012, p. 9) said it well:
“We had no clue that we were embarking on careers that would vanish within
4 Michael L. Mark
a decade.” And the speed of societal change becomes faster and faster to
this day.
FOUR RATIONALES FOR MUSIC EDUCATION
The four rationales are derived from the principle that education follows
society. They serve as a backdrop for a look at the broad scope of American
history during the last 175 years. These are the rationales:
Cultural Elevation. It was a common belief in the young United States

that European culture was supreme. The other side of that coin,
of course, was that American culture was immature and not yet
ready to advance to a higher level. From Lowell Mason’s time in
the 1830s, American music education perpetuated an Americanized
version of the elite European musical tradition. It was really only
during the second half of the 20th century that we finally began
to shed our inferiority complex about our own music. American
conductors were expected to train in Europe until well into the
20th century, and the music education profession did not officially
recognize jazz in the curriculum until the Tanglewood Symposium
of 1967 sanctioned it.
Cohesive Society and Immigration. The music education profession
played an important role in helping immigrants adjust to their
new country while performing a valuable service to itself by spon-
soring a songbook that appealed to the masses, both children and
adults.
Commercial Prosperity. This rationale has to do with the prosper-
ity of business and industry, a key component in the evolution of
school bands. It illustrates how the music business analyzes the
needs of the music education profession and finds ways to satisfy
those needs.
Social Justice and Multiculturalism. This rationale briefly reviews the
history of segregated schools and the effects of the civil rights revolu-
tion on them. Multicultural education began to influence the music
education profession during this time.
The narratives that follow illustrate how music education has supported
national goals and even helped further them at times. Each rationale had impli-
cations for classroom practices. They influenced the day-to-day work of music
educators in one way or another. These four rationales—cultural elevation,
cohesive society, commercial prosperity, social justice—are points of reference
for a look at the broad scope of American history during the last 175 years.
Each rationale had a place in American history and each had a role in shaping
music education.
Music Education History and the Future 5
THE FOUR RATIONALES IN AMERICAN LIFE
Cultural Elevation: The Industrial Revolution

and Music Education
Music was not taught in most public schools before the Industrial Revolution
of the early 19th century. Instead, itinerant music teachers traveled to villages,
towns, and cities to teach music reading and singing to adults and children.
Their popularity was an indication that music instruction was valued early in
American history. Many of the teachers composed the music that they taught,
and some of their music still lives today in church hymnals. The best known of
the composers/teachers was William Billings. The music of these New England
composers was strong, robust, and enjoyable to sing, but their training was
minimal and their music crude in comparison to that of European composers.
A profound occurrence took place in 1838, when the new American nation
was only 62 years old. In that landmark year, the Boston School Committee
[board of education] became the first school authority to approve music as
a curricular subject, meaning that its status in schools was equal to reading,
writing, and arithmetic. Although music had been taught in some schools
before 1838, at that time it was an extra activity rather than a curricular
subject. To put this in historical perspective, when music was first adopted
as a curricular subject in 1838, European classical music creativity was
thriving. Mendelssohn and Schumann were actively composing. Schubert
had died only ten years earlier and Beethoven one year before that.
As the expanding Industrial Revolution began to replace hand labor with
machine production, manufacturing increased, as did the size of the upper
and the middle economic classes. The proliferation of new wealth made
it possible to realistically envision a new American cultural life. Affluent
Americans wanted their country to resemble Europe’s more cultured nations.
To do this, the old musical offerings of itinerant singing masters had to be
replaced with music on par with European music. That transition would
only be possible if the schools provided music education to the masses.
Returning to the year 1838—from the humble beginning of music educa-
tion as a curricular subject in Boston, music education spread throughout
the rest of the 19th century to other schools and to other cities. By the begin-
ning of the 20th century, school music was well established. The Industrial
Revolution was a catalyst for profound change in American society, and one
of its side effects was the remarkable transformation of music education.
A Cohesive Society: Immigration and Community

From about 1880 to 1918, a huge wave of immigration brought millions
of people seeking better lives to the New World from Eastern, Central, and
Southern Europe. These new Americans—Hungarians, Czechs, Italians,
Slovaks, Poles, Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Russians, Ukrainians, Romanians,
6 Michael L. Mark
Greeks, and others—changed the demographics of the United States and
its schools dramatically. These immigrants took advantage of their New
World opportunities and they were welcomed by the owners and managers
of American mills and factories. As hard as they had to toil, their living and
working conditions in their new country were generally better than what
they had left behind in their homelands.
The well-known term, “the Melting Pot,” was created in this milieu. The
melting pot was a metaphor for the “Americanization” of the new arrivals.
The term originated in a play of the same name that Israel Zangwill wrote
in 1908. A line in the script read, “America is God’s Crucible, the great
Melting-Pot where all the races of Europe are melting and re-forming”
(Zangwill, 1908). Ideally, immigrants would be expected to shed their old
national identities and live as Americans. This indeed happened over the
course of the next generations. Succeeding generations spoke English, they
lived in communities with neighbors from many countries, they belonged to
the same labor unions, they served together in the military, and their chil-
dren attended schools with the children of immigrants from other countries.
There was an amusing example of this melting pot ideal in Henry Ford’s
automobile factory. Recognizing the value of an educated work force, Ford
founded a school for immigrant workers in his factory. The students pre-
sented a play about the melting pot in which immigrants were disembark-
ing from the ship that carried them from the Old World to the New. They
were dressed in threadbare immigrant clothes and carrying their tattered
immigrant luggage. They climbed into a huge melting pot, a crucible. Their
teachers stirred the contents of the pot with long ladles and when it began
to boil over, out came the immigrants, now dressed in their best American
clothes and waving American flags. As trivial as this play might have been,
it effectively demonstrated the ideal of the melting pot metaphor.
It so happened that music educators were organizing their professional
association during the massive surge of immigrants. The creation of the
Music Supervisors National Conference in 1907 provided a framework for
music educators to actively participate in the immigration phenomenon. In
1913, only six years after MSNC’s initial organizing activities, a commit-
tee of its members compiled a pamphlet of eighteen songs that all Ameri-
cans should know. 18 Songs for Community Singing was intended for both
adults and children and it helped many new Americans become familiar
with American culture. The eighteen songs provided music that all immi-
grants could share with each other and with already established Americans.
The pamphlet also helped Americanize children when it was used as a school
songbook. The booklet’s introduction explained:
This pamphlet represents a movement which will be encouraged by all

interested in Education in the United States—that the whole country
shall know by heart and unite in singing the words and music of some
of the best of the Standard Songs.
But of a much deeper significance than the mere singing of these
few songs is the animating idea back of such performance, which is the
spread of community feeling voiced in a better understanding, good
will, a real brotherhood.
The singing, in its larger significance, is extended as a means of
stimulating a feeling of solidarity which should exist in a community
between man and man. For when a country becomes one in lifting its
voice in singing the same good songs, a note is struck for harmony of
understanding, mutual good-will, and similar ideals.
(18 Songs, 1913, inside cover)
These are the 18 songs in the pamphlet:
• America
• Annie Laurie
• Auld Lang Syne
• Blow, Ye Winds, Heigh-Ho
• Dixie
• Drink to Me Only with Thine Eyes
• Flow Gently, Sweet Afton
• Home, Sweet Home
• How Can I Leave Thee
• Love’s Old Sweet Song
• My Old Kentucky Home
• Nancy Lee
• Old Folks at Home
• Round: Row, Row, Row Your Boat
• Round: Lovely Evening
• Star Spangled Banner
• Sweet and Low
• The Minstrel Boy
18 Songs was so popular that it underwent numerous revisions during its

first few years. It evolved into a collection called 55 Songs for Community
Singing, then Twice 55 Songs. It aided the nation’s efforts in 1918 during
World War I by providing songs for civilian and military community sings.
There were thousands of military song leaders and Twice 55 Songs was the
songbook of choice for many of them.
Americans recognized the need for music education partly because music
was a normal participatory element of community life through the 1930s
and even later in some fortunate places. Industries sponsored choruses,
bands, and orchestras. Community singing was popular. Between double
features, movie audiences followed “the bouncing ball” on the screen as
it skipped from one syllable of a familiar song to the next. Communities
employed paid music directors as late as the 1950s, even later in some cities.
8 Michael L. Mark
They were often assigned to departments of parks and recreation, and many
of them were also school music educators. Parents appreciated the value of
preparing their children to be adults who would actively participate in the
musical life of the community.
The End of an Era

This topic begins the transition from the end of an era to the beginning of
a new one. The emergence from the Great Depression and World War II
as the leader of the free world revealed new, unforeseen conditions for the
United States. The emphasis on community singing gradually became less
relevant in the emerging society. Clearly, technology was going to bring
changes to society that would have implications for music education, but
no one knew what those implications would be. Music education leaders
were concerned that their profession did not have a credible philosophical
foundation to meet the needs of the time. Visionary leaders like Allen Brit-
ton of the University of Michigan and Charles Leonhard of the University
of Illinois helped lead music education into a new era. They steered the
rationale toward the inherent properties of music itself and away from its
ancillary outcomes. That was when we began to use the term “aesthetic
education.”
At the same time, psychologists were beginning to analyze how stu-
dents learn and how teachers teach. Benjamin Bloom’s Taxonomy of
Educational Objectives, published in 1956, helped educators shape new
curricula and teaching methods. In 1960, Jerome Bruner presented a new
theory of cognitive development in his book, The Process of Education.
Psychologists were advancing new education theories as philosophers
were working to relate aesthetic philosophy to the music curriculum.
Their synergy helped music educators build a strong justification for cur-
ricular acceptance.
Commercial Prosperity and School Bands

Business and industry were key factors in the growth of music education. The
transportation industry is a good example because it played a central role in
the evolution of school bands, which helped solidify the place of bands in
schools throughout the country. Frederick Fennell, renowned director of the
Eastman Wind Ensemble, describes the process by which it took place in his
book, Time and the Winds (Fennell, 1954, pp. 37–9, 48). Fennell explains
how a business-oriented economic interest aligned itself with music educa-
tion to help establish school bands throughout the country.
America loved bands. At the turn of the 20th century, professional con-
cert bands played under conductors like Sousa, Herbert, Gilmore, Pryor,
Creatore, and Conway. These bands were the models for community and
school bands. America also loved amusement parks, where the professional
bands played concerts on weekends. The parks were always located outside
of a city, and since people did not have cars yet, they relied on traction
companies (streetcars) to get to amusement parks. Not having the means
to go elsewhere, they were a captive audience. But when Henry Ford made
it possible for the average American to own a car, this newfound mobility
gave people the freedom to go anywhere they wished. People bought cars
and sought recreation in new places. Of course, attendance at amusement
parks declined.
The automobile was only the first nail in the coffin of the professional
concert bands. Another was the changing taste of the public. A large part
of the bands’ income came from playing for dances. They played the gallop,
waltz, polka, and the two-step, but by the 1920s those dances were no lon-
ger popular. The public had fallen in love with new dances—the lindy hop,
the Charleston, the jitterbug, the black bottom. Small jazz bands played for
these dances, not large concert bands. As if it weren’t challenging enough
to contend with the new dances, the concert bands also found themselves
in competition with the new technology of the time—radio, talking movies,
and recorded music. And the Great Depression of the 1930s might well have
been the bands’ kiss of death. By the early 1930s the professional concert
bands were no more, victims of the changing times. The bands epitomized
the past when people needed to look forward. This is an example of 19th
century Social Darwinism—the survival of the fittest. The American profes-
sional concert band did not survive because it was no longer the most fit
entertainment medium.
The music industry had a lot at stake where bands were concerned. It
was accustomed to doing a thriving band business that became even stron-
ger during World War I because the army created a great number of mili-
tary bands that needed to be equipped. But most of them were disbanded
at the end of the war. The military bands disappeared as the concert bands
were dying. The music industry needed a new source of income. It turned
to the schools by promoting the band contest movement, which proved to
be one of the most significant events in the history of school music. The
contests solidified the place of bands in American education and it guaran-
teed a thriving market for instruments, music, uniforms, accessories, and
all the other paraphernalia needed to support band programs.
All over the country, communities equated high school band contests
with athletic events. As bands became commonplace in schools, support
from communities sometimes depended on how well students entertained
their communities with concerts, football halftime shows, and parades.
Contests often dominated the scene and students were expected to repre-
sent their communities well, especially in communities where success in
music contests were judged as if they were athletic events. A winning band
was a source of community pride, especially during the Great Depression
years of the 1930s, when community spirits needed uplifting (Mark, 1980,
p. 13).
10 Michael L. Mark
School bands were permanently bonded to their communities during the
contest movement. They exemplify the relationship between music educa-
tion and the greater society. They are the legacy of the old professional bands
and a product of American industry.
Social Justice and Multicultural Music Education

Music educators began to include multicultural music in the curriculum in
the late 1960s after the Supreme Court and Congress created civil rights
laws that led the schools to expand their curricula to include the minor-
ity populations of the United States. The story of multiculturalism in the
schools goes back to the 1896 Supreme Court decision, Plessy v. Ferguson,
which created the infamous doctrine of “separate but equal” (Plessy, 1896).
“Separate but equal” made racial segregation the law of the land for almost
six decades. The races were separated in schools, public facilities, and
almost every other venue of American life. Equality did not exist for African
Americans. They had little or no opportunity to advance economically or
educationally in American society.
Finally, the Supreme Court handed down a momentous decision in 1954:
Brown v. Topeka (Brown v. Topeka, 1954). This law mandated that school
segregation was unconstitutional,2 and twelve years later, Congress passed
civil rights laws that ended legal segregation in all of the nation’s public
facilities. This led to the recognition of the rights, traditions, and values
of every culture and to consequential changes in curricula throughout the
country. One of those changes was the adoption of multicultural music edu-
cation, which finally released music educators to explore an incredibly rich
new vein of cultural studies and musical styles and practices. The many
minorities of the United States finally achieved recognition and respect in
the music education curriculum.
AN ERA OF REFORM
We deviate from our focus on music education to comment on the broader

subject of education reform. This is necessary because reform created the
environment in which music education has existed from the 1950s to the
present. Every new reform effort that has come along since then has had
implications for music education.
The 1950s saw the beginning of a radical overhaul of education. It was
only in 1953 that the federal government became involved in curricular
issues when it created the cabinet level Department of Health, Education,
and Welfare. Notice that Education was bracketed by Health and Welfare.
The creation of the federal Department of Education as a discrete govern-
mental agency was still decades away.
It is discouraging to realize that the issues the government addressed
in 1953 still challenge American education to this day—substandard stu-
dent performance in reading, mathematics, and foreign languages, as well
as urban education problems and juvenile crime. For sixty years we have
sought ways to solve these problems and the search still continues. Think
Race to the Top and the Common Core Curriculum. The education writer
Irving Kristol articulated the reason for our lackluster reform efforts. His
first law of education reform is this: “Any reform that is acceptable to the
education establishment, and that can gain a majority in a legislature, fed-
eral or state, is bound to be worse than nothing” (Kristol, 1994).
WHAT IT ALL MEANS
Knowledge of the three critical periods in American history and the story
of school bands could assist in the professional planning process and in
advocacy efforts. Music educators involved in these activities might build
a knowledge base of how music education has served the United States for
almost two centuries. Realistically, however, one must ask, “Do planners
really take long ago events into account?” Probably not, but, historical prec-
edents do exist. They are an important part of American history and music
educators should know their own professional history, just as all Americans
should know American history. It helps us understand how things came to
be as they are now, and it is a source of professional and national pride.
Despite the many historic and current complications associated with declin-
ing budgets and ever-changing curricula, school music has contributed to
American culture for close to two hundred years. Recognizing the profes-
sion’s vibrancy, vision, and vitality, it would be unrealistic to deny its influ-
ence on American life beyond the walls of academia.
It is especially important for music educators to keep in mind that while
their work is shaped by events beyond the schools, they themselves exert
their own cultural influences outward to society. Cultural elevation, societal
cohesiveness, commercial prosperity, social justice—these are all important
aspects of a society that depends in substantial, meaningful ways on the
music education profession. Because music education benefits the individ-
ual, the school, the community, and the nation, music educators have a wide
range of opportunities to examine relationships between societal need and
music education.
We hope that future generations of music educators will take the time
to understand our era and its social, economic, and political contexts so
that we will help them as they plan for their future. We hope that they will
look back and affirm that we, the first new generation of music educators
of the 21st century, advanced both our profession and American society in
meaningful ways.
12 Michael L. Mark
NOTES
1. See Mark, Music education: Source readings from ancient Greece to today, 2013.
2. Although the Court decided that school segregation was illegal, it did not
require them to be integrated. This has been the cause of much confusion and
dissension since that decision was handed down.
REFERENCES
Bloom, B. (1956). Taxonomy of educational objectives. Retrieved from http://

hs.riverdale.k12.or.us/~dthompso/exhibition/blooms.htm.
Brown v. Topeka. (1954). Retrieved from http://caselaw.lp.findlaw.com/scripts/getcase.
pl?court=us&vol=347&invol=483.
Bruner, J. (1960). The process of education. Retrieved from www.infed.org/thinkers/
bruner.htm.
18 Songs for community singing. (1913). C. C. Birchard & Company: Boston, MA.
This pamphlet appears to have been regarded as a minor project of MSNC. It is
not even mentioned in the minutes of the MSNC Board of Directors.
Fennell, F. (1954). Time and the winds. Kenosha, WI: Leblanc Publications.
Flynn, G. (2012). Gone girl. Crown Publishing: New York.
Kristol, I. (1994, April 18). The inevitable outcome of “outcomes.” The Wall Street
Journal.
Mark, M. L. (1980, Fall). William D. Revelli: Portrait of a distinguished career.
Journal of Band Research, 16(1).
Mark, M. L. (2013). Music education: Source readings from ancient Greece to today
(4th Ed.). New York, NY: Routledge.
Plessy v. Ferguson. (1896). Retrieved from http://plessyvsferguson.com.
Zangwill, I. Retrieved from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiii/Melting_pot/Zangwill.
It should be noted that the Melting Pot ideal did not include African Americans,
whose struggle for assimilation and equality has continued for many decades.
2 In Response to Michael Mark
Bennett Reimer
Professor Mark’s overview of four rationales for music education is a

thoughtful and useful guide to important ways that music education has
been engaged with the larger culture of America. Each of those ways reveals
an initiative our profession has both responded to and offered contributions
to. His treatment of them reminds us of how central to our existence these
cultural contexts have been and will no doubt continue to be. “Education
follows society” is a strong message he offers, one that requires us to exam-
ine, as times change, whether and to what degree we are attending to the
culture as it exists at various times, and whether and to what degree we are
succeeding or failing with the obligations the cultural milieu demands of us.
Mark is extremely positive about our accomplishments in these regards,
claiming “a history of success for music education in a changing world.”
Given his expertise in our profession’s history, I hesitate to offer an alterna-
tive or perhaps complementary view. But I do feel it necessary to temper,
somewhat, the accolades he bestows, in particular for music education over
the present quarter century or so.
As we dig deeper into what music in our society has become during this
period in which we have lived, and compare it with what music education
in the schools has been before our time, I am led to emphasize not that our
status has been one of being tightly entwined with the great variety of musi-
cal beliefs, practices, and enthusiasms of our present culture, but more as
being uncomfortably distanced from them. Also, music education has not
provided leadership toward deepening and broadening the musics so vital in
the lives of most people, especially school-age people in America, but rather
has largely ignored them. The gap, in present times, between the flourishing
musics of the people and the limited musics in schooling cannot be disre-
garded. I suspect that Mark’s view of that gap and mine are only partially
disjunct—if that. Whatever the size of that gap, it is useful to dwell a bit on
it to give credence to the view that our relation to the larger musical culture
in our times is, at the least, not optimal.
The out-of-school and in-school gap, at least recently if not longer, has
been caused in large part by the swift, dramatic growth of music making and
taking technologies that have burgeoned in our society. Those technologies
14 Bennett Reimer
enable musically creative activities and responding activities (also creative)
of a variety of sorts to be immediately accessible to youngsters, with little if
any reliance on formal teaching contexts. Adding to that freedom has been
the growth of small group ensembles in which composing and improvising
are the prerogative of the group members themselves, now both owning
the creativity and presenting it to eager recipients. Being more and more
crowded out is the formal teacher/student interdependence that schools have
traditionally relied upon, thereby marginalizing the music educator’s role as
we have known it for centuries.
Not entirely, of course. There remain, in the musical world, many musics,
classical being the most obvious, that still require a good deal of teacher/
learner interdependence if those musics are to be understood and imple-
mented successfully. Whether band, orchestra, or chorus, these being the
mainstays of past and present music programs in schools, teachers steeped
in those traditions continue to be needed, much to the relief of those who
have spent their careers preparing for and providing those programs. Some
music education thinkers now seem to want to abandon those programs on
the grounds that they are obsolete or fast becoming so. Others are devoted
to saving those programs, not only as relics of music history but as vital,
growing, changing, and necessary involvements if music in its broad rather
than narrow sense is to be known and experienced genuinely in any and all
musical lives.1 Many music educators have intimated that “saving” classi-
cal musics from abandonment is the major, even sole, obligation of music
education.
Which leads directly to Mark’s delineation of four rationales for music in
American life, an insightful and productive contribution. The first, cultural
elevation, is the basis of the desire to keep the classical tradition alive and
well, for, in this view, if any music can be deemed to “elevate,” it is that of
the masterworks of the eighteenth through twentieth centuries. Clearly, it is
claimed, much or at least some of the musics now dominant among young-
sters can in no sense be deemed as uplifting. Instead, we are told, gangsta rap
and other genres of that sort are instead demeaning our children’s morality
and musical taste. It is difficult to argue, then, that all children should be
led to study, relate to, and internalize that sort of counterculture music, as
they “should” be doing with the claimed higher-order musics of the classics.2
Or, on the other hand, that sort of deeply grounded protest music can
be understood as a necessary confrontation with the failings of our society
to offer comparable quality of life, including comparably relevant musical
education of any sort of music that has achieved substantial popularity.
Issues related to the role of music as “moralizing,” as “uplifting,” and as
“wholesome” for even younger children, and whether and how music edu-
cation might deal with the tangled controversies that such ideas are certain
to bring to attention, will no doubt remain important, even essential, in our
profession for an extended time. Our world has been complexified far more
deeply than in our earlier history. We are left with whole new meanings
In Response to Michael Mark 15
of “cultural elevation” and with conceptual and ethical challenges difficult
enough to require our best thinking and acting if we are to represent hon-
estly the existing plethora of musics, and construals of music, of our times.
In short, the gap between the realities of music outside of school and inside
of school has become wider than ever before. Not encouraging, I’d suggest.
The second rationale Mark offers has to do with the cohesive effects music
has had on our earlier culture, a description of deep insight and interest. I
was delighted to be reminded about the songs that the Music Supervisors
National Conference put together in 1913 as, in essence, the content of the
music curriculum in schools. One can only shake one’s head in wonderment
at the simplicity, naivety, sentimentality, and similarity of that repertoire,
as different from today’s popular musics as can possibly be imagined. Our
work would surely be far easier if we could return to those halcyon days. But
clearly that is not only impossible but also regressive. We should revel in the
complexity of our present needs for musical diversification, which, however
challenging, makes our work more, not less, necessary to the health of our
musical culture. If we fulfill its promises, that is.
The business side of music, especially as it interfaces with the needs of
school bands, adds another useful dimension to the story of our profes-
sion, as does the discussion of our burgeoning interests in joining the larger
movements toward emphasis on social justice in education. We are helped
immeasurably to see ourselves, in these aspects of our growth and change
and need for continuing change, more clearly and more deeply in light of
Mark’s scholarship. Our history tends to fade into the background against
the rich tapestry of present events. Mark reminds us forcefully that we can-
not do full justice to our work without a basis in what led us to the present.
History, especially as forthrightly as he deals with it and clarifies its power,
is an essential element in a healthy music educator’s diet.
NOTES
1. According to a consumer profile by the Recording Industry Association of

America in 2012, encompassing data by gender, age, race, ethnicity, and
“favorite genres,” the three most preferred musics (the higher the number the
higher the preference) are 3: Alt. Rock, Modern Rock, Indie Rock, and Classic
Rock; 2: Pop, Top 40 Hits; 1: Rap, Hip-Hop. The population covers the total
of Internet users; 13+ in age; music buyers; CD buyers; digital buyers; PnP
downloaders; music streamers; and paid subscribers.
2. For a fascinating panoply of positions in regard to the life or death of clas-
sical music in our present musical culture, see, online, http://artsjournal.
com:deathwatch: “Is Classical music really dying?” Also, Death of Classical Music
archive (50+ stories) at www.artsjournal.com/artswatch/aw-deathofclassical.
htm.
3 Difference and Music Education
Lauren Kapalka Richerme
Do you recall the worksheets for children that ask them to distinguish
between similar and different objects? For example, one might include a
row of three apples and one banana preceded by the question, “Which one
is different?” Children learn early on to identify similarities and differences.
In fact, for thousands of years, such distinctions have enabled humans to
survive, doing everything from recognizing edible plants to finding their
way back to shelter. At first glance, difference seems like a straightforward
concept, and the statement “we need to think differently about music educa-
tion” appears simplistic and obvious.
Yet, with the advent of supermarkets, GPS systems, and smart phones,
humans may find themselves spending only minimal time and energy recog-
nizing differences between items and places. In a world of replication, rapid
growth, and ongoing change, perhaps there might exist alternative ways of
understanding difference. For example, perhaps one could focus on how the
apples on the worksheet differ from each other and from themselves over
time.
In order to examine the concept of difference, I begin by analyzing how
Western philosophers commonly understand difference. Next, I investigate
how the twentieth-century French philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Félix
Guattari posit an alternative conception of difference. Third, I show how
Deleuze and Guattari’s philosophical figuration of a body without organs
adds nuance to Western philosophers’ writings about difference. Lastly, I
draw on Deleuze and Guattari’s emphasis on continual difference rather
than discrete differences to posit the possibilities of examining to the ques-
tions “When is music?” and “When is education?”
IMAGINING DIFFERENCE DIFFERENTLY
Before explaining how one might conceive of difference in a new way, I will
first examine how humans have traditionally articulated the concept of dif-
ference. The concept of difference implicit in a children’s similar/different
worksheet actually dates back a couple of millennia. Exploring how humans
Difference and Music Education 17
conceive of difference involves investigating our explicit or implicit under-
standings about the nature of human perception. In The Republic, Plato
(1973) conceives of worldly objects and qualities, such as love and good-
ness, mimicking what he termed Forms, or archetypes or essences, of those
objects and qualities. In other words, people perceive a fellow human as
“good” by comparing her to an ideal Form or archetype of “goodness.”
Using Socratic dialogue, Plato articulates the notion of absolute beauty,
writing:
Then those who see the many beautiful, and who yet neither see abso-
lute beauty, nor can follow any guide who points the way thither; who
see the many just, and not absolute justice, and the like,—such persons
may be said to have opinion but not knowledge? . . . But those who see
the absolute and eternal and immutable may be said to know, and not
to have opinion only?
(p. 173)
This conception results in a dualism between the world of Forms and the
world of perception; beauty exists in the world of perception, but “absolute
beauty” exists only in the world of Forms. Although apples exist in a seem-
ingly endless number of variations, Plato asserted the existence of a single
ideal Form of an apple that transcends time and space and that all apples
mimic. These ideal Forms allow humans to distinguish between everything
from apples and cookies to goodness and justice.
While Western philosophers such as Aristotle have critiqued Plato’s divi-
sion between perception and Forms,1 a conception of existence based on
similarity and stability continued to dominate Western philosophy for hun-
dreds of years. For example, in Critique of Pure Reason, Kant (1781/2007)
espouses a philosophy based on similarity and stability rather than differ-
ence and fluctuation. Describing his principle of the unity of apperception,2
Kant states:
It must be the case that each of my representations is such that I can

attribute it to my self, a subject which is the same for all of my self-
attributions, which is distinct from its representations, and which can
be conscious of its representations.
(pp. 131–2)
Kant defines humans as separate, stable, reasoning beings, focusing on

how humans differ from their surroundings rather than how they differ
from themselves over time.
Music education discourse and practice revolves largely around the con-
ceptions of similarity and difference that have dominated Western philoso-
phy from the time of the Greeks to the Enlightenment. For example, teachers
often ask students to categorize orchestral instruments. Just as students
18 Lauren Kapalka Richerme
completing a similar/different worksheet must distinguish between a bicycle
and a pencil, so might music students distinguish between a flute and a
trumpet. Likewise, music educators often write about difference between
music genres and forms of musical engagement. For instance, the first two
National Standards for Music Education are “singing, alone and with oth-
ers, a varied repertoire of music” and “performing on instruments, alone
and with others, a varied repertoire of music” (Consortium, 1994). In both
of these standards, the phrase “a varied repertoire of music” centers upon
a certain conception of difference. Teachers utilizing such standards might,
for example, ask how a choral piece written in nineteenth-century Europe
differs from one composed in twentieth-century America. The authors of
these standards, like the creators of similar/different worksheets, emphasize
differences between various musical selections.
Such categorization of musical pieces into genres relates to Plato’s Forms
as well as other philosophies emphasizing the stability of existence. For
example, music educators might look for similarities between the elemen-
tary school band’s performance of “Ode to Joy” and Beethoven’s Symphony
No. 9 in D minor, and the high school jazz band’s rendition of “Sing, Sing,
Sing” and Benny Goodman’s iconic recording. Just as Plato might contem-
plate the ideal Form of an apple which all real apples mimic, so do music
teachers maintain an idealized version of Holst’s 2nd Suite in F, “Little Sally
Waters,” or “C Jam Blues,” which they attempt to help students attain.
The National Music Standards also enumerate different types of musical
engagement that teachers might implement including singing, performing on
instruments, improvising, composing, reading notation, listening, and eval-
uating (Consortium, 1994). Again, music education discourse defines differ-
ence in terms of distinct categories. Like those following the instructions on
the similar/different worksheet, music educators focus on how these types
of musical engagement differ from each other. How does composition dif-
fer from performance? How does performance differ from listening? While
these musical endeavors do differ from each other, might they also differ in
other ways?
The poststructuralist philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari offer
an alternative way of conceiving of difference. Although Deleuze and Guat-
tari (1980/1987) acknowledge the aforementioned types of “numerical,”
“discrete” differences, they emphasize a conception of difference as “quali-
tative,” “fusional,” and “continuous” (p. 484). In other words, they imply
the question, “How does a person, place, object, or idea differ from itself
over time?” While readers following Plato’s (1973) philosophy might ask
how an apple is like the ideal Form of an apple and different from other
fruit, those drawing on Deleuze and Guattari’s (1980/1987) writing might
wonder how the apple differs from itself with each passing moment.
People and objects clearly change over time. For example, a look at a
person’s high school yearbook pictures or changing Facebook profile pic-
tures usually evidences noticeable variations in his or her appearance. Yet,
Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) implore readers to look more closely at
existence’s continual fluctuation. For example, how have you changed since
you began reading this chapter?
A musical example might further illuminate Deleuze and Guattari’s
(1980/1987) alternative conception of difference. I once asked music educa-
tion scholar Elizabeth Gould how she speaks about Deleuze and Guattari’s
work with her undergraduate music education students. She replied that
she places a tenor saxophone on a table at the front of the room and then
asks the students how the saxophone has changed since they entered the
classroom. Gould continued that the students would sit in silence for some
time before one might offer, “Well, maybe it has a bit more rust on it.” Sub-
sequently, other students would add varied ideas about the changing status
of the familiar instrument (personal communication, September 22, 2011).
Such an examination of difference clearly contrasts the more typical practice
of defining the tenor saxophone as different from the flute or piano. Instead,
the viewer focuses on the continually altering status of an instrument.
The tenor saxophone does differ from other instruments while simulta-
neously differing from itself over time. Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987)
distinguish between two types of difference, the first numeric, discrete, and
homogenous and the second qualitative, continual, and heterogeneous.
They summarize this notion, writing:
There are not, therefore, two kinds of languages but two possible treat-
ments of the same language. Either the variables are treated in such a
way as to extract from them constants and constant relations or in such
a way as to place them in continuous variation.
(p. 103)
Conceiving of difference as continual variation rather than constants

diverges from long-standing Western philosophical beliefs, enabling an
alternative conception not just of difference, but of the nature of the world.
Deleuze and Guattari do not just assert the existence of this second type of
difference; they posit an ontology of existence based upon it.
TIME AND DIFFERENCE
In order to detail Deleuze and Guattari’s ontology of existence based on dif-

ference, it may be helpful to understand their conception of time, in particular,
their explanation of the essence of the present moment in time. According to
Deleuzian scholar Todd May (2003), Deleuze utilized Bergson’s image of the
past as a cone to envision variegated histories integrally linked to, and in turn
enveloping, each ephemeral moment. May elaborates: “The cone’s point is
the present with the past enlarging itself behind it. At each cross-sectional slice
of the cone—including its point in the present—the entirety of the past exists,
Figure 3.1 Visualization of Bergson’s Time Cone
but in more or less ‘contracted’ state” (pp. 145–6). Figure 3.1 visualizes Berg-
son’s cone for a fifteen-year-old person, with the cone’s point representing
the present. At each passing present moment, illustrated by the continually
moving point of the cone, a person’s entire past exists and grows as the cone’s
point moves forward in time. For example, when a person reaches fifteen
years of age, she experiences each minute of her fifteenth birthday as both the
present moment and as a compressed version of every moment from the past
fifteen years. The present and the past exist concurrently.
According to Deleuze and Guattari (1991/1994), the past does not exist
exactly like the present but rather as “virtual.” They explain the “virtual”
as the chaos “containing all particles and drawing out all possible forms,
which spring up only to disappear immediately,” elaborating that the “vir-
tual” denotes not only the past but also the future that actualizes in the
present (p. 118). Each passing moment consists of the present as well as the
“virtual” past and future. Similarly, in his chapter, Talbot uses the cultural
mechanism of prolepsis to offer a detailed explication of how music educa-
tors draw on their own pasts in order to project futures onto students.
We cannot choose what parts of our past and future influence our present
thoughts and actions. A teacher’s early exposure to everything from artistic
activities to reading inevitably affects her current engagement with music
education. Our entire history and future resides in every new moment. Such
a conception of time contrasts the notion that time exists purely linearly and
that each present moment relates little to others.
So how does this conception of time relate to difference? In short, May
(2003) asserts that for Deleuze, difference comprises time’s essence: “The
content of time, since it cannot come in the form of identities or samenesses,
must be difference” (p. 146). Since the past constitutes an integral part of
the present, even repeated actions occur differently each time. For instance,
my performance of a B flat scale is never the same; each time I repeat it, I
actualize every prior experience of that scale, as well as the entirety of my
past and future, in the present moment. I therefore experience the scale
as a singularity with each repetition. Time not only enables difference, it
demands it. Returning to the example of the saxophone, equating time with
difference necessitates acknowledging that the saxophone changes with each
passing moment. The saxophone differs not only from other instruments
and objects, but also continually differs from itself. Likewise, the student
perceiving the saxophone perpetually alters along with his or her evolving
observations and experiences.
While philosophers such as Plato and Kant posit an ontology of existence
based on sameness, Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) assert an ontology of
existence based on difference. As May (2005) explains, Deleuze inverts the
traditional relationship between identity and difference, writing, “It’s not
identity that captures what things are; it’s difference that does it” (p. 81).
Rather than centering the stability of people, objects, practices, and ideas
over time, Deleuze and Guattari challenge readers to seek out the diverse
chaos that constitutes existence.
Imagine if we approached the National Music Standards through Deleuze
and Guattari’s (1980/1987) ontology of existence. While Deleuze and Guat-
tari’s philosophy does not contradict the notion of exploring “a varied rep-
ertoire of music” (Consortium, 1994), teachers drawing on their writing
might emphasize how each piece or musical endeavor changes from moment
to moment and day to day. For example, within such a framework, music
educators might exert less energy contemplating how “Ode to Joy” or “Sing,
Sing, Sing” matched prior renditions of those pieces and instead focus on
how they differed from previous articulations and from themselves over
time. They would abandon aiming for “ideal” musical experiences, instead
seeking out diverse ones. Rather than differentiating between categories of
practices such as composing or listening, music educators seeking qualita-
tive difference could ask how they and their students could engage in such
endeavors differently. They would view standards and curricula as continu-
ally evolving and foreground the temporal processes of singing, performing
on instruments, improvising, composing, reading notation, listening, and
evaluating, emphasizing their integration and variability over time.
Understanding Deleuze and Guattari’s conception of a world constitu-
tive of difference means envisioning existence as ongoing motion rather
than stability. As Colebrook (2002) writes, “Deleuze insists that we need to
begin from a mobility, flux, becoming or change that has no underlying
foundation” (p. 52). May (2005) echoes this notion, explaining that for
Deleuze, “Difference is not a thing, it is a process. It unfolds—or better, it is
an unfolding (and a folding, and a refolding). It is alive” (p. 24). Difference
exists as constant movement, resisting all efforts to grasp, limit, or define it.
Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) emphasize the temporal, changing nature
of an existence composed of difference.
BODIES WITHOUT ORGANS
According to Deleuze and Guattari (1991/1994), artistic, scientific, and

philosophic thinking constantly confront this underlying difference, tempo-
rarily organizing it in order to produce new concepts and products (p. 197).
One such concept is the body without organs, which Deleuze and Guattari
(1980/1987) create to emphasize their ontology of existence based on differ-
ence and process. Deleuze and Guattari assert that the body without organs
makes up the body; the body orders the body without organs in order to
serve its needs (p. 159).
Perhaps the primordial soup that comprised the Earth shortly after its
formation can serve as a useful metaphor for the body without organs. At
that time, the Earth’s oceans consisted of nutrient-rich molecules chaotically
mixing together. Just as organisms organize the body without organs, so did
early life occur as a result of the ordered combinations within the primor-
dial stew. While disorder and ongoing processes constitute a body without
organs, organization and stability compose a body or organism.
Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) spend less time explaining the
body without organs than they do offering how one might move towards
attaining a Body without organs. They explain that humans can begin
becoming bodies without organs by thinking differently about their bod-
ies: “The BwO [body without organs]: it is already under way the moment
the body has had enough of organs and wants to slough them off, or loses
them” (p. 150). Humans traditionally view organs or body parts as serv-
ing individual, predetermined functions—the mouth eats, the legs walk,
the hands grasp, and so forth. For instance, using Socratic dialogue, Plato
(1978) asserts, “Can you see, except with the eye? . . . Hear, except with
the ear? . . . These then may be truly said to be the ends of these organs?”
(p. 38). In short, Plato argues that each body part has a single, immutable
function.
In contrast, Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) posit that humans attain
a body without organs when they realize the restraints of perceiving each
organ as only having the capacity for one action. They explain that bodies
without organs occur when people “place elements or materials in a rela-
tion that uproots the organ from its specificity” (pp. 258–9). Offering an
example, Deleuze and Guattari write:
Is it really so sad and dangerous to be fed up with seeing with your

eyes, breathing with your lungs, swallowing with your mouth, talking
with your tongue, thinking with your brain, having an anus and larynx,
head and legs? Why not walk on your head, sing with your sinuses, see
through your skin, breathe with your belly.
(pp. 150–1)
The body without organs contrasts concepts and principles, such as Kant’s
unity of apperception, that define humans as stable and stagnant beings. The
images of walking on your head or singing with your sinuses challenges the
notion that organs and bodies serve single purposes and prompt alterna-
tive thinking about default assumptions regarding our ways of being in the
world.
It is important to note that the body without organs is a philosophical
figuration and not a metaphor. St. Pierre (1997) distinguishes between philo-
sophical figurations and metaphors, asserting:
A figuration is not a graceful metaphor that provides coherency and

unity to contradiction and disjunction. . . . A figuration is no protection
from disorder, since its aim is to produce a most rigorous confusion as
it jettisons clarity in favor of the unintelligible.
(pp. 280–1)
The body without organs serves to complicate long-standing ideas about

existence.
Although Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) offer the above suggestions
for moving towards a Body without organs, they also explain that the body
without organs is never completely realizable. Deleuze and Guattari argue,
“You never reach the Body without Organs, you can’t reach it, you are for-
ever attaining it, it is a limit” (p. 150). Given the restrictions of the human
condition, one can never completely return to the fluctuating chaos that
composes existence. Yet, the process of attempting to become a Body with-
out organs can alter thinking and action. Rather than asserting the body
without organs as an achievable goal, Deleuze and Guattari use the notion
to promote ongoing divergent thinking about bodies and life, emphasizing
the difference and process that constitute existence.
Deleuze and Guattari (1980/1987) challenge us not just to acknowledge
how objects, people, and ideas differ from themselves over time, but to ques-
tion how we might look below patterns of organization to embrace the
difference that constitutes life. They write, “How can we unhook ourselves
from the points of subjectification that secure us, nail us down to a dominant
reality?” (p. 160). Just as we can envision our bodies and their functions dif-
ferently, we can imagine how music education experiences might occur in
new ways. For example, Deleuze and Guattari ask, “What do you have to do
in order to produce a new sound?” (p. 34). Moving towards a body without
organs means transitioning from the organism to its constitutive difference.
Likewise, we can move from the organized musical experiences with which
we have familiarity to the difference that underlies them.
WHEN IS MUSIC? WHEN IS EDUCATION?
Deleuze and Guattari’s ontology of existence based on difference inspires

two questions relating to music education: “When is music?” and “When
is education?” A brief story from my time as a middle school music teacher
may elucidate the importance of the question “When is music?” When teach-
ing my eighth grade general music students about John Cage, I would always
begin by “performing” “4’33” ” and then asking my students whether or not
what they heard was music. Although I almost always received a resounding
“no” along with confused and frustrated explanations, I found the process of
having students define music engaging, educative, and enlightening for both
them and me. Yet, as such an exercise demonstrates, any attempt to define
music almost always leads to a definition too narrow to encompass the great
wealth of human musical endeavors or too broad to be useful in anything
other than a philosophical argument. Asking students to label “4’33” ” as
music or non-music reverts back to prior conceptions of difference. ‘4’33” ”
is either similar to or different from other music in preset categories. Instead,
drawing on Deleuze and Guattari’s (1980/1987) concept of continual differ-
ence, I might have asked how “4’33” ” differs from itself over the course of
its three movements and how one’s experiences of it differ over time.
Changing the question from “What is music?” to “When is music?” yields
drastically different results. Nelson Goodman’s (1978) famous question,
“When is art?” inspired my choice of the question “When is music?” Good-
man asserts, “The real question is not ‘What objects are (permanently) works
of art?’ but ‘When is an object a work of art?’—or more briefly . . . ‘When is
art?’ ” (pp. 66–7). This emphasis on the ephemeral and variable functions
of art aligns with Deleuze and Guattari’s (1980/1987) key principles of time
and difference.3 Asking “When is music?” accentuates temporality and the
idea of existence as continual processes, drawing attention to musical expe-
riences rather than artistic works. Answers to “When is music?” tend to
diverge into narratives shaped by our prior experiences, future aspirations,
and current time and location.
As noted above, as a person’s cone grows with the passage of time,
Deleuze and Guattari (1991/1994) posit that the past and future actualize
in each present moment. Humans’ experiences with music in the present
occur in integration with their past musical endeavors. As Dewey (1934)
explains, “To see, to perceive, is more than to recognize. It does not identify
something present in terms of a past disconnected from it. The past is car-
ried into the present so as to expand and deepen the content of the latter”
(p. 24). The question “When is music?” allows a student to not experience
a performance of “4’33,” Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 in D minor, or an
Ewe drumming piece as music one day, only to find herself immersed in such
performances or sections of such performances on another day.
Focusing on the temporal and fluctuating nature of music highlights stu-
dents’ continually evolving musical experiences. Similarly, in her chapter,
Silverman articulates how critical ethnography can “create a space where
teachers and students can conceptualize music class as a social act of becom-
ing; where through music, teachers and students can go beyond what is to
what can be.” As renowned pianist Glenn Gould once stated, “I believe
that the only excuse for being musicians, for making music in any fashion,
is to make it differently, and to perform it differently, and to establish the
music’s difference vis-à-vis our own difference” (Hozer & Raymont, 2010).
Such diversity exemplifies Deleuze and Guattari’s (1980/1987) assertion
that flux and change rather than stagnation underlie existence and centers
the dynamic nature of musical experiences.
Asking “When is music?” is not enough; one can imagine a classroom with
much music and little education. I posit that music educators also explore
the question “When is education?” Think of a moment when you have had
an educative experience. Of the many moments that come to my mind, all
occurred as a result of prior experiences. As evidenced by May’s (2003)
aforementioned explication of Bergson’s time cone, education does not occur
absent the actualization of our entire past. For example, how has your concep-
tion of difference changed since the beginning of this chapter?
No formula exists for determining whether or not students have engaged
in an educative experience. I have sat through numerous classes and at times
whole courses without experiencing education only to have later educative
experiences made possible by those classes and courses. The question “What
is education?” like the question “What is music?” elicits singular answers
either too specific to encompass all educative experiences or too broad to
distinguish educative experiences from other experiences. In contrast, the
question “When is education?” emphasizes a dynamic view of reality, in
which developing individuals in changing places can engage in continually
evolving educative experiences.
Deleuze (1990/1995) argues that educative materials and practices have
value for a given person at a specific place and time. He asserts that when
confronted with a book, “The only question is ‘Does it work, and how does
it work?’ How does it work for you? If it doesn’t work, if nothing comes
through, you try another book” (p. 8). Educational experiences, like musical
ones, continually develop, occurring differently for every person.
A SHORT ANECDOTE
A short anecdote about a student teacher I observed illustrates how empha-

sizing the questions “When is music?” and “When is education?” might play
out in music teaching and learning. During our scheduled visit, I watched a
student teacher try to maintain “order” in a large middle school band class
as she taught the students tunes from a method book. Many students sat
still as she corrected the rhythm of the flute players or went down the line
of eight trombonists to make sure that they could play the written starting
pitch, spending three minutes with a single student who never hit the cor-
rect note.
As I sat there observing, I made my usual list of things she could do differ-
ently. I, like a student circling the apples on the similar/different worksheet,
saw her teaching in terms of similar to or different from my conception
of effective teaching. I planned to begin our post-observation meeting as I
always did and as my university supervisor had done when I student taught,
by asking what she would have done differently. In my head, I had defined
her entire lesson in terms of discrete differences. I do not doubt the value of
such questions or concrete suggestions. Discussing discrete differences is a
necessary part of reflecting upon and improving practice. Yet, as I sat there
watching, I was struck by a different question.
After the lesson, I asked her, “When was music during that rehearsal?”
She looked confused and responded that she wasn’t sure there was any.
I then asked her, “When was music for those students?” and she discussed
sections of rehearsals in which she had musically engaged various students
as well as posited how she might further facilitate such processes. She
emphasized the temporal and variable nature of musical experiences, view-
ing them as continual and evolving. While I certainly do not attribute her
later improvement solely to that conversation, our future dialog led me to
believe that she had begun reflecting on continual differences in addition
to discrete ones.
I, of course, have continually changed since that observation. Looking
back on it now, I can think of the other questions that may have helped fur-
ther emphasize ongoing differences: How did you (the teacher) differ over
the course of that class? How did your lesson plan change as a result of your
interactions with the students? How did students’ cognition, emotions, bod-
ies, and social interactions evolve in integration with their musical experi-
ences? How did each of the students differ from themselves throughout the
lesson? Similarly, in his chapter, Talbot posits the importance of engaging
students in flexible, contextually situated learning processes that draw upon
their current resources.
In order to facilitate the student teacher’s understanding of education
as an evolving process, I would have also focused on questions about the
interrelationship of continual difference and education. For instance, I might
have asked the following questions: When were those trombone players
experiencing education? When was the rest of the band experiencing edu-
cation? How was each of those students changing as a result of his or her
educative experiences? How did these changes relate to students’ past and
future educative experiences?
Through the philosophical figuration of the body without organs, Deleuze
and Guattari (1980/1987) challenge readers not just to acknowledge ongo-
ing difference, but to ask how they might seek out existence’s underlying dif-
ference. In other words, how might embracing continual difference enable
unique, evolving reordering of that difference? As I sat there thinking of
what suggestions I could offer the student teacher, I realized that at least
half of them had come not from classes I took or observations I made, but
rather my own experimentation and explorations. Through these endeav-
ors, I complicated students, music, and education, seeking out difference
rather than similarity. As a teacher, I observed that my students seemed most
engaged in musical and educative experiences when I dropped everything I
knew about music and education, moving away from my prepared lesson
plans and curricula to embrace the chaotic unknown.
How might the concept of a body without organs encourage preservice
teachers to move from their preconceived notions about music and educa-
tion to the disorganized, fluctuating essence of life? Music teacher educators
might consider how we can facilitate preservice teachers’ explorations of
and experimentations with difference. Starting from a place of complexity,
teacher educators might assist preservice teachers in a continual reimagining
of new possibilities for facilitating given curricula as well as for rethinking
music education practices in general.
The body without organs may also help inspire changes in teacher educa-
tion. For example, the music education profession might ponder questions
such as: How can teacher educators develop dispositions towards continual
difference and how can we assist preservice and practicing teachers in devel-
oping such dispositions? How can music educators move from our current
forms of institutional organization to explore the underlying, fluctuating
nature of music and education? How might the questions “When is music?”
and “When is education?” help music teacher educators in reimagining our
courses, content, and practices at the undergraduate and graduate levels?
The music education profession might consider drawing on Deleuze and
Guattari’s (1980/1987) concepts of continual difference and the body with-
out organs in order to challenge assumptions about boundaries, values, and
actions.
I return to my opening statement: “We need to think differently about music
education.” Discrete, numeric, homogeneous differences still hold an impor-
tant place in twenty-first century life. Humans still need to distinguish between
the edible and inedible and the written starting note of a middle school band
piece and a random note. Yet, in order to survive, companies such as Apple
and Google must think not just about new products but about how existing
ones, like smartphones and search engines, can evolve to meet the possibilities
of changing people and societies. We live in a rapidly evolving world in which
people must realize how we change through and adapt to technological inno-
vations, multiplying global connections, and ever-increasing diversity.
In addition to utilizing discrete differences, the music education profes-
sion might consider emphasizing how continual difference might function
in our classrooms and in the lives of teachers and students. Music educa-
tors might also embrace the difference underlying all music and education,
diving into the disorder again and again to build new, temporary forms of
organization. As we navigate our ever-evolving world, ongoing engagement
with these questions and ideas may help bring about continually different
music education theories and practices.
NOTES
1. See, for example, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.

2. Pereboom (2009) defines apperception as “the apprehension of a mental state,
a representation, as one’s own.”
3. Goodman’s (1978) further explications of the question “When is art?” contrast
Deleuze and Guattari’s philosophy of difference in at least three ways. First,
Goodman answers his question by offering five “tentative symptoms of the
aesthetic,” all of which assert the importance of symbols (pp. 67–8). In con-
trast, Deleuze and Guattari (1991/1994) emphasize the difference and unique-
ness of art, arguing against symbols and definition. Second, while Goodman
acknowledges that asking “When is art?” necessitates ongoing questioning
about an object’s function, he maintains the categories of art and non-art, writ-
ing, “The Rembrandt painting remains a work of art, as it remains a painting,
while functioning only as a blanket; and the stone from the driveway may not
strictly become art by functioning as art” (p. 69). Conversely, Deleuze and
Guattari (1980/1987) argue against all stable identities, instead positing the
constant fluctuation of all existence. Lastly, Goodman’s elaborations revolve
around artistic objects rather than processes. While his writing does not strictly
contradict the notion that “When is art?” could apply to performers, com-
posers, and listeners, he does not acknowledge such possibilities. In contrast,
Deleuze and Guattari’s (1980/1987) philosophy of art highlights composition
and ongoing engagement with artworks and artistic processes.
REFERENCES
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Deleuze, G. (1995). Negotiations: 1972–1990. (M. Joughlin, Trans.). New York,
NY: Columbia University Press. (Original work published 1990)
Deleuze, G., & Guattari, F. (1987). A thousand plateaus: Capitalism and schizophre-
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work published 1980)
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New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. (Original work published 1781)
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Cambridge University Press.
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4 A Proleptic Perspective
of Music Education
Brent C. Talbot
INTRODUCTION
Cultural psychology and sociocultural approaches on identity formation

offer great potential for music education and music teacher education—
specifically a cultural mechanism known as prolepsis (Slattery, 2012;
Cole, 1996; Stone, 1993; Stone and Wertsch, 1984). Prolepsis is “the rep-
resentation of a future act or development as being presently existing”
(Merriam-Webster). In this paper I argue that, like parents, we, as music
educators, use information derived from our own cultural pasts to project
a probable future on our students (often assuming that the world will be
very much for our students as it has been for us). By explaining this cul-
tural mechanism through examples of my own teaching, I posit that all too
often educators’ and teacher educators’ (purely ideal) recall of our pasts
and imagination of our students’ futures become fundamentally material-
ized constraints on our students’ life experiences in the present. This paper
explores the following questions: How can understanding perspectives in
cultural psychology reshape our communities of practice? What happens
when projected futures are embraced, disrupted, and/or rejected? What
barriers do we (un)consciously create for our students, ourselves, and
our field? How can we use this knowledge to navigate the futures of our
profession?
I draw upon my experience as an eighth grade general music teacher
to illustrate how approaches in cultural psychology have transformed my
own understanding of teaching and learning. I use a narrative form of
representation (Clandinin & Connelly, 2000; Barrett & Stauffer, 2009,
2012) in order to allow the reader a more intimate lens from which to
view these approaches. Narrative, according to Connelly and Clandinin
(2006):
. . . comes out of a view of human experience in which humans, indi-

vidually and socially, lead storied lives. People shape their daily lives
30 Brent C. Talbot
by stories of who they and others are and as they interpret their past in
terms of these stories. Story, in the current idiom, is a portal through
which a person enters the world and by which their experience of the
world is interpreted and made personally meaningful.
(p. 477)
NARRATIVE
In spring of 20071 I was hired to take over an eighth grade general music
class in a suburban school in upstate New York in order to reduce the disci-
plinary conflicts a choir director had been experiencing with his large eighth
grade all-boys choir. The school’s administration, district music coordinator,
and the middle school music teachers strategized that they could better man-
age the students’ behavior by dividing the 70-member choir and using the
eighth grade general music teacher as a second choir director. They hired me
to cover the one section of eighth grade general music that met during the
same period as the choir.
Coming into a classroom in mid-March posed three main challenges.
First was establishing myself in a community of practice (Lave & Wenger,
1991) in which the participants had preestablished roles, identities, rou-
tines, rituals, and governing rules for teaching, learning, and behavior in the
classroom setting. Students filled out worksheets and performed tasks on
instruments for the teacher that were evaluated by the teacher and measured
based on completion of the tasks assigned. Therefore, a second challenge for
me was trying to introduce the class to a constructivist approach with which
my philosophy of teaching was more closely aligned. Like Jerome Bruner
(1990), I find constructivism in cultural psychology to be a profound expres-
sion of democratic culture:
It demands that we be conscious of how we come to our knowledge and

as conscious as we can be about the values that lead us to our perspec-
tives. It asks that we be accountable for how and what we know. But it
does not insist that there is only one way of constructing meaning, or
one right way. It is based upon values that, I believe, fit it best to deal
with the changes and disruptions that have become so much a feature
of modern life.
(Bruner, 1990, p. 30)
A third challenge was trying to help the students reconstruct their class
narrative and identity (Bruner, 1990; Cronon, 1992; Middleton & Brown,
2005; Mishler, 2004; Vygotsky, 1987), which they had appropriated (Rog-
off, 1998; Wertsch, 1998) from various students, teachers, and administra-
tors, as being “bad” (McDermott, 1993; O’Connor, 2003).
A Proleptic Perspective of Music Education 31
The district curriculum I inherited mandated that I cover a musical the-
atre unit, explore the “Star-Spangled Banner,” and continue with perfor-
mance tasks on various instruments before the end of the year. I did not feel
comfortable continuing with the previous teacher’s agenda before having
the opportunity to get to know the students with whom I would be work-
ing and decided—with permission from the district coordinator—to put the
curriculum on hold for a few weeks to better understand the individuals in
the class. After our initial introductions I asked the students to participate
in a music identity project (Talbot, 2013), where we explored various genres
of music and their relationships to the students’ identities. I wanted to find
out the students’ musical preference(s), explore what role(s) music played in
their lives and identities, and provide them an opportunity to articulate and
perhaps reconstruct their class narrative away from one that was “bad.”
From this project we explored stereotypes, identities, and narratives, apply-
ing them to larger constructs like group, class, and nation. We extended this
thinking through a world music unit that turned our focus to the music of
the Caribbean and Latin America, looking specifically at how musical prac-
tices, including dance and musical styles and performance, in the Caribbean
and Latin American countries are used to define whole nations (Austerlitz,
1997; Averill, 1997; Duany, 1994; Hobsbawm, 1990).
At the beginning of May, the eighth grade general music class and I had a
significant transformative moment, in which myself, the participants, and the
physical space dramatically changed as a result of a series of events. After six
weeks of being off the curriculum, I decided a nice transition would be to take
our discussion of group, national, and ethnic identity and show how these
concepts were represented in musicals like West Side Story. Not only were
the students able to draw upon the mambo and salsa stylistic features and
dance steps from the Caribbean music unit, they also began to see musicals as
a genre in which our nation tells its own narrative (Cronon, 1992). The next
time we met, the class made an extensive list of all of the musicals we could
recall, naming about forty ranging from South Pacific to Wicked. We then
looked at this list and tried to identify various categories in which the titles
could be placed. The students categorized them into five genres: religious ori-
ented (Jesus Christ Superstar), gang related (West Side Story), rock musicals
(Hair), period pieces (Ragtime), and movie musicals (High School Musical).
During our brainstorming session someone suggested that we make our
own musical. To begin the process, we brainstormed what defined a musi-
cal (storyline, music, acting, dancing, singing, staging, etc.) and all of the
various roles needed to develop and execute a musical production (script
writer, lyricist, composer/arranger, choreographer, director, music director,
set-designer, costumer, make-up specialist, lighting designer, sound engineer,
actors, dancers, and musicians). Each one of us chose and encouraged each
other into roles which we were most skilled in or interested in learning. In
the end there were two screenplay writers, one composer/arranger, one pia-
nist, one guitarist, two percussionists, a sound engineer, a lighting designer,
32 Brent C. Talbot
a person to operate the camera, a director, a critic, a set and poster designer,
and nine actors—one of whom requested adamantly that his character have
a dramatic death scene. Many types of leaders emerged and I found myself
most useful in facilitating equipment needs or mediating creative disputes
among group members.
Once the roles had been established, we grouped ourselves in different
areas of the room. The creative and organic nature of this lesson changed
both the atmosphere and the physical space of the classroom. The screen-
writers got together at a table in the back of the room. The actors moved
a table to create more space for the nine members of that group. The com-
poser went to the piano and started playing a familiar piece by Mozart; she
then deconstructed the piece and began changing the meter and arpeggiat-
ing the chords to make it her own. The percussionists pulled out chairs and
began playing along with congas and auxiliary percussion.
The director, who was encouraged into that role by the group because
he was “the loudest,” pulled me aside and said, “I think this is cool.” The
group in charge of lighting, sound, and video asked what they should be
doing. I asked, “Who is in charge of the audio/visual equipment in the build-
ing?” They responded, “Mr. Jones.” I replied, “Guess you need to go find
Mr. Jones.” One of the three said, “I think he’s in room 120.” They checked
the directory on the wall and hurried out the door, returning ten minutes
later with a boom poll, mics, headphones, and a video camera.
I went to check on the writers to see how they were doing with their
plot. They said, “OK. All we’ve got so far is that there’s a henchman who is
paid by one mob family to take out the son of another mob family’s boss.
The cops are tipped off by someone close to the henchman, and it all goes
down at a warehouse on the outskirts of town.” “Good,” I replied. “Now
start writing for nine characters. We’ll need at least one page by Monday.”
“Yeah,” one of them said, “we can get together over the weekend and write
a ton.” One student, who had not spoken all term, was sketching a horse on
some notepaper. The director came up and said, “Hey T-Bot, look at Amy’s
drawing. It’s awesome.” I suggested to Amy—who had initially not wanted
any role—that she consider creating the poster for the show. She smiled
and said, “OK.” The bell rang and the students reluctantly gathered their
belongings. A sense of disappointment was felt in the air.
INTERPRETATION
The beliefs and philosophies exposed in this music-learning environment

reveal two approaches towards transmission in the field of music education.
The first approach, which I label direct teaching, orientates individuals and
the world as fundamentally separate, viewing the world as objective and
knowable. Knowledge about music is acquired through learning an objec-
tively knowable repertoire and taken to underlie and enable behavior in
concrete contexts, which are assumed to have a determinate character apart
from human activity and interpretation. In this view, learning is a matter of
building up “standard knowledge” in the minds of individuals, which can
then be transferred to other times and other contexts to be “applied.” This
view replaces learning with teaching, one where transmission of knowledge
is paramount, where creativity and exploration are restricted, where iden-
tity is moved to the margins, and where hierarchical stratifications reign
supreme.
The second approach, called situated learning (Lave & Wenger, 1991),
orientates individuals in a fluctuating world. In this view, people flexibly
and contingently contextualize their ongoing activity (Lave, 1993; Miller &
Goodnow, 1995). “Activity is partially structured through the use of mate-
rial and semiotic resources that have evolved within and are associated with
particular practices” (O’Connor, 2003, p. 71). Meaning is therefore not
determined by the use of objectively knowable resources associated with
particular practices or methodologies, but instead is indeterminate, situated,
and co-constructed, requiring an evaluative process of ongoing reflexive
judgments in which all participants position themselves in the activity and
the broader forms of social organization.
Lave and Wenger (1991) challenge us to rethink what it means to learn
and understand. The common element they use is the premise that meaning,
understanding, and learning are all defined relative to actional contexts, not
to self-contained structures. William Hanks, in his forward for Lave and
Wenger’s Situated Learning, offers this interpretation:
Learning for Lave and Wenger is a process that takes place in a par-
ticipation framework, not in an individual mind. This means, among
other things, that it is mediated by the differences of perspective among
the co-participants. It is the community, or at least those participating
in the learning context, who “learn” under this definition. Learning is,
as it were, distributed among co-participants, not an action of one per-
son. . . . [Similarly], understanding is not something a person does in his
or her head, nor does it ultimately involve the mental representations of
individuals. Understanding is not seen to arise out of the mental opera-
tions of a subject on objective structures. Instead, Lave and Wenger
locate learning [and understanding] not in the acquisition of structure,
but in the increased access of learners to participating roles in expert
performances.
(p. 15)
Learning and Teaching Curricula

With this understanding of learning and teaching, I want to return to the
transformative experience in the general music class. As mentioned in
my narrative, one of the challenges the class and I faced was orienting
34 Brent C. Talbot
our group to a learning curriculum from a teaching curriculum (Lave &
Wenger, 2002):
A learning curriculum consists of situated opportunities (thus including

exemplars of various sorts often thought of as “goals”) for the impro-
visational development of new practice. A learning curriculum is a field
of learning resources in everyday practice viewed from the perspective
of learners [italics in original]. A teaching curriculum, by contrast, is
constructed for the instruction of newcomers. When a teaching cur-
riculum supplies—and thereby limits—structuring resources for learn-
ing, the meaning of what is learned (and control of access to it, both
in its peripheral forms and its subsequently more complex and inten-
sified, though possibly more fragmented, forms) is mediated through
an instructor’s participation, by an external view of what knowing is
about. The learning curriculum in didactic situations, then, evolves out
of participation in a specific community of practice engendered by ped-
agogical relations and by a prescriptive view of the target practice as a
subject matter, as well as out of the many and various relations that tie
participants to their own and to other institutions.
(pp. 114–5)
A learning curriculum, therefore, is one that acknowledges, values, and

finds use for the experiences, the histories, and the cultural, linguistic, and
musical tools and resources each participant brings to the classroom. A
learning curriculum uses the “funds of knowledge” each participant brings
from outside the classroom to develop a “participatory partnership” within
the classroom (Moll et al., 1992, p. 139).
Moving from one structure of understanding to another required the par-
ticipants and myself to unlearn part of our previous socialization and to begin
recreating a new classroom culture and narrative. This required providing the
opportunity to explore identity so that the participants and I could recon-
struct our personal and group narratives. Reconstruction involves the active
sequencing and appropriation of past events to recreate our past in order to
fit our current situation. As Middleton and Brown (2005) point out, memory
is a socially constructed experience and a key site where questions of personal
identity and social order are negotiated. Middleton and Brown draw upon
the work of William James (1890/1950), who suggests that memory:
is to be approached in terms of the ability to connect together aspects

of our experience as they appear in the ongoing flow of awareness. This
implies some form of selectivity, we must exercise choice in relation to the
nature of the connections to be made in order that our recollections can be
best fitted to our current concerns and activities. Hence “in the practical
use of our intellect, forgetting is as important a function as recollecting.”
(p. 679)
NARRATIVE PRODUCTION AND A NEW
CONCEPTUALIZATION FOR TEACHING
By exploring their musical identities, I had asked the participants of the class
to produce their own narratives by drawing upon the cultural resources
and tools they draw upon in and out of school. As other writers, anthro-
pologists, philosophers, and psychologists have pointed out (Bakhtin, 1981;
Bruner, 1990; Vygotsky, 1987), our cultural resources and tools invariably
have a history of use by others; they are always half someone else’s. This
lead to questions about how our identities and narratives in and of the
classroom are built into the very cultural resources and tools we employ as
learners and teachers. I began to wonder how we could coordinate these
resources and tools to help shape our learning environment.
In order for our class to shift from a teaching curriculum to a learning
curriculum, I—as the teacher—had to first critically examine and recon-
struct my own understanding of learning and teaching and (re)interpret
what it means to be a teacher, a learner, and part of a classroom cul-
ture. I began by recalling what Bruner (1990) offers about participation
in culture and our ability as humans to construct individual and group
understanding:
It is man’s participation in culture and the realization of his mental pow-

ers through culture that make it impossible to construct a human psy-
chology on the basis of the individual alone. . . . To treat the world as an
indifferent flow of information to be processed by individuals each on
his or her own terms is to lose sight of how individuals are formed and
how they function. Or to quote Geertz, “there is no such thing as human
nature independent of culture.” . . . Given that psychology is so immersed
in culture, it must be organized around those meaning-making and mean-
ing-using processes that connect man to culture. This does not commit
us to more subjectivity in psychology; it is just the reverse. By virtue of
participation in culture, meaning is rendered public and shared [italics in
original]. Our culturally adapted way of life depends upon shared mean-
ings and shared concepts and depends as well upon shared modes of dis-
course for negotiating differences in meaning and interpretation.
(pp. 12–13)
Drawing upon this view of culture, I attempted to conceptualize teach-

ing in a way that could infuse Lave & Wenger’s ideas on learning. This
view makes room for both transmission and transformation (Heath, 2004)
and bridges the dichotomous gap between teaching curricula and learn-
ing curricula to accommodate the need for teachers to adhere to curricu-
lar demands while at the same time providing opportunities for flexible,
situated, and transformative moments of learning. This reflection process
helped me expand my view of teaching as a relationship created through
36 Brent C. Talbot
active partnership with a group of participants in a community of practice—
in a sense it views each classroom as its own culture.
This view of classroom culture acknowledges that:
1. The appropriation and establishment of roles, routines, rituals, and

rules for the individual and group shift over time, as members join or
leave the group.
2. Participants place expectations upon themselves from both outside
sources and internalized beliefs, and that these beliefs influence the poten-
tial one believes he or she possesses within and across various settings.
3. The ongoing (re)interpretation, (re)negotiation and action upon/reaction
to these expectations informs behavior(s).
4. Future projections in terms of relationships and aspirations lend sig-
nificance to past and current events and their interpretations; and
5. This complex intersection of past, present, and future plays a signifi-
cant part in informing the ways in which both teachers and students
simultaneously facilitate and limit potential pathways for themselves
and others.
Prolepsis
I draw upon Michael Cole’s (1996) cultural approach to viewing ontogeny
and the idea of prolepsis to get at this idea of past, present, and future
pathways.
PAST
ST FUTURE
Geological Time
Phylogeny
1 2
History (Culture)
Ontogeny: Mother
3
Ontogeny: Child
Microgenesis
Cole (1996) explains:
[That on this illustration,] the horizontal lines represent time scales cor-
responding to the history of the physical universe, the history of life on
earth, (cultural-historical time), the life of the individual (ontogeny),
and the history of moment-to-moment lived experience (microgenesis).
The vertical ellipse represents the event of a child’s birth. The distribu-
tion of cognition in time is traced sequentially into (1) the mother’s
memory of her past, (2) the mother’s imagination of the future of the
child, and (3) the mother’s subsequent behavior.
(p. 185)
Cole suggests in this sequence that the ideal aspect of culture is transformed into
its material form as the mother and other adults structure the child’s experience
to be consistent with what they imagine to be the child’s future identity.
This is easier to understand through an exercise I do with students in their
first year on campus. At the beginning of each year, I ask them to close their
eyes and ponder the following questions about themselves:
1. Who am I? How did I come to be in this particular place, in this par-

ticular time?
2. Was the decision entirely mine?
3. What factors, what individuals, what groups helped shape who I am
and how I came to be in this particular place and time?
4. Is how I see myself the same as how others see me? Is this who I want
to be?
To illustrate the point that our projected pathways may not be our own, I
discuss my own experiences as an emerging adult (Arnett, 2000).
Throughout my childhood, my parents’ future projection for me was to
become a businessman and marry a woman. This was experienced through
conversations, questions, and suggestions my relatives would make as to where
I should attend college and about whom I should find sexually desirable. I
discovered somewhere along my ontogeny/lifespan that I possessed a great
interest in music and teaching and I also came to understand my sexuality dif-
ferently. Because these projections of my identity conflicted with my parents’, it
was inevitable that a disruption of these projections would occur; and as such,
I forged a new identity and a new narrative for myself and my family.
Cole (1996) argues that prolepsis is an important process of socializa-
tion/enculturation, and is based upon the mediation of cultural values
and norms that are grounded in both the transmitter’s past experiences
and the expectations for the receiver’s future roles. The assumption that
the world will remain similar for future generations greatly informs the
38 Brent C. Talbot
developmental experiences to which adults expose youth (Wyn, 2005). By
being aware of prolepsis, music teachers can better understand the role
we play in projecting and mapping our own past, present, and future onto
our students.
The combination of the teacher’s past personal experience(s) coupled
with their future expectations set forth by adult role model(s) serves as pos-
sible catalysts for the constriction of the activities, knowledge, language,
beliefs, and behavior(s) used in the classroom setting (Cole 1996; Erikson,
1968). For example, as Slattery (2012) points out:
One of the most irritating comments that I often hear spoken at

graduations . . . and other ceremonies of passage is “You are the
future of the community” or “the future of the country.” It should
not be surprising that many young people refuse to engage in the
social, cultural, religious, and political life of the community or to
work for justice. The language of adults tells them to delay their
participation until they are adults in the future. But we need the
insights and energy of our young people now. It should also come
as no surprise, then, that most students are bored in classrooms,
and many drop out of school when subject matter is not mean-
ingfully connected to current events, life experiences, and personal
autobiographies.
(p. 86)
Teachers diminish meaningful learning when they tell students to study

aspects of music not because they are interesting or applicable at the present
moment, but because they may need it for classes or work in the future. It is
counterproductive to separate the future from the present. I posit we might
be better off engaging our students in a learning process that (1) draws upon
the cultural, musical, and linguistic resources of the participants in our class-
rooms, (2) is flexible and contingent, and (3) situated in the moment and
context. In this way, every classroom construction can become an opportu-
nity for all participants, both youth and adult, to create new learning and
understanding of not only the academic content, but also one’s self and
group narrative and identity.
Narrative and Identity Shifts

To understand how Cole’s idea of prolepsis can be applied to classroom
contexts, let us return to the narrative of the eighth grade general music
class and look at how the classroom narrative changed when a new
teacher/adult model entered the group dynamic. Before I arrived at the
middle school, the eighth grade boys’ choir at the school had developed
a reputation for being “bad.” The students in the choir appropriated and
internalized (Penuel & Wertsch, 1995) this label, drawing power from it
as a result. For the choir to re-center and relocate power in the teacher, the
adults in the community divided the group. This action sent clear messages
to all the students of the eighth grade. First it acknowledged that students,
especially adolescents, have power (Giroux, 2003), and second it indicated
to students that when they resist, adults will do as much as possible to
regain and maintain the power. Because such a large group of eighth grad-
ers were in the choir, the entire grade appeared to have appropriated and
internalized this label, such that when I replaced the former eighth grade
general music teacher, the class told me within the first few minutes that
they were “bad” and that I was “not going to be able to manage” them.
After our introductions, one of the students asked me to tell them more
about the various contexts in which I participated outside of our class. At
that time I was a PhD. student in music education and a teacher in the city
school district. I explained that I performed in a community gamelan, con-
ducted different generational community choirs, and taught music tech-
nology and production at a local community music school. The context
that generated the most interest among the students was my city school
teaching. When they learned I was a teacher for a different population of
students their age, their perception of themselves dramatically changed.
Because of my identity and participation in a different context that they
saw as “really bad,” their own identity and narrative shifted.
We can see in this example how learning implies becoming a different
person with respect to the possibilities enabled by the systems of relations
within a community of practice (Lave & Wenger, 1991; O’Connor, 2003);
and that the introduction of one context into another can change perspec-
tive. As O’Connor (2003) suggests:
Participants bring with them a history of participation in different con-

texts, and they will participate in still other contexts in the future. Actions
performed and words spoken by a participant in the past, and identities
adopted by or ascribed to them, can be made relevant in the present interac-
tion, and the present interaction can in turn be made relevant in the future.
It is important to note, furthermore, that these various contexts are not
necessarily easily embedded within one another, and this introduces poten-
tially destabilizing elements into social practice. This makes close attention
to the dynamics of contextualization and identification important.
(p. 71)
The revelation that I taught in different school environments was a

catalyst that enabled us to explore our identities and narratives in relation
to each other. It was through this moment that I became hyper-aware of
the importance each persons’ identity—enabled through their historical,
cultural, linguistic, and musical resources—plays in all the learning pro-
cesses of each music classroom. All too often our identities as musicians,
improvisers, composers, performers, listeners, learners, and teachers are
40 Brent C. Talbot
pushed to the side due to an emphasis on objectively knowable material
and methods of efficient content delivery in our music classrooms. Instead,
we may want to share and promote our identities and draw upon the cul-
tural, linguistic, and musical resources and tools we all bring to the table.
Perhaps then our classrooms can become sites of transformation as we
share and co-construct knowledge and engage in participatory practice
tied to our current contexts.
CONCLUSION
In conclusion, I suggest through this paper that we draw from approaches

and tools in cultural psychology (Barab & Duffy, 2000; Cole, 1996; Keith,
2011; Kirshner & Whitson, 1998) and identity research (Arnett, 2000;
Erikson, 1968; Mishler, 2004; Penuel & Wertsch, 1995; Rymes, 2001;
Vygotsky 1987) to help examine how we learn and teach music in order
to shape a new future for music education. By providing space for iden-
tity formation and narrative reconstruction in our music classrooms and
music teacher education programs, stakeholders have agency and oppor-
tunity to create new narratives of ourselves and our musicking practices
as individuals, as groups, and as a profession. When we acknowledge that
power, knowledge, identity, and narratives are not objects bestowed on
others, but are shared, shaped, and distributed through activity with each
other and with our world, we are given agency to disrupt the projections
that may not fit how we want to see ourselves, and instead we open our-
selves and our profession up to projecting new futures and sharing new
narratives. In this way, music education can become creative, collabora-
tive, and responsive to our identities, to our communities, and to our cur-
rent contexts.
NOTE
1. During this time, I was also employed in the Rochester (NY) City School
District and found teaching in both settings to be significantly different in
terms of demographics as well as approaches to curriculum and teaching. To
help understand the changes in my teaching and in my own identity, I jour-
naled regularly and kept video and audio of my classrooms.
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5 The Virtues of Philosophical
Practice in Music Education
Wayne Bowman
A philosophical problem has the form: “I don’t know my way about.”

—Ludwig Wittgenstein
I should not like my writing to spare other people the trouble of thinking.
But, if possible, to stimulate [them] to thoughts of [their] own.
—Ludwig Wittgenstein
Despite its centrality to informed professional practice, music education

philosophy has long been treated as a collection of esoteric ideas, prepared
by a select few for consumption by the rank and file. Its primary purposes,
we appear to believe, are rationalizing and securing support for the things
music educators take pleasure in doing: philosophy is inspirational rheto-
ric devoted to the justification of customary activity. Philosophy may be
interesting, then, or even professionally useful, but “practical” (how-to)
skills and knowledge are what music educators most need.1 And philosophi-
cal skills, conceived as they have been, are decidedly impractical. Accord-
ingly, we expose2 prospective music educators to philosophy primarily to
make them aware of available options, so they can choose one when (or if)
needed. Philosophy is a special (albeit peculiar) commodity to which we
can turn if the going gets tough. It consists of truth claims to be deployed
in defense of our actions when public support wanes. Ready-made answers
are its stock in trade.
Understood this way, philosophy’s importance stems from its capacity to
make us feel good and its political utility. It exists to inspire us and to keep
the dogs at bay; and if the dogs appear to be sleeping, there is little need
for it. Because our reasons for studying music education philosophy are
primarily to familiarize consumers with available options (should a need
unfortunately arise), a brief introductory survey is all that is required. For-
tunately (from a perspective I do not embrace), this requires little in the way
of curricular time or resources. Nor is developing philosophical expertise
particularly important for most music educators: its study and practice are
44 Wayne Bowman
rarely prominent components of postsecondary music education programs,
even at the PhD level. Most music education philosophers are autodidacts.
The neglect of philosophical inquiry in the professional preparation
of music educators has yet another disturbing consequence: the separa-
tion of philosophical proficiency from musicianship and “educatorship.”
This is hardly an auspicious state of affairs for a field devoted to educating
musically.3
In short, music education has expected rather little of philosophical
inquiry, and that is pretty much what we have gotten in return. Our teacher
education curricula are bloated with how-to courses, largely without consid-
eration of such crucial issues as whether-to, under-what-circumstances-to,
when-not-to, and why—to say nothing of foundational issues like the nature
and value of music or education. Our disregard for philosophical inquiry amo-
unts, I submit, to professional negligence, and stems from serious misap-
prehensions about what philosophy is, what differences it should make, and
how or by whom it should be done.
Philosophy is not advocacy, nor is it particularly well suited to advo-
cacy’s purposes; nor is it a commodity for consumption, a set of ready-made
answers to questions no one is asking. What I will propose here is that
philosophy is, like music, a practice. Like all practices, its health depends
on its continued service to the goods it exists to serve. And yet, also like all
practices, those goods are multiple, fluid, and variable. They change over
time and from place to place. Philosophy’s precise nature and value, then—
the actions appropriate or inimical to it—are subject to ongoing dialogue,
dispute, and refinement by its practitioners. Its purpose and worth are “cre-
ated, contested, modified, and recreated amid human social interaction”
(Bowman & Frega, 2012a, p. 25). Vital philosophical practice (as distinct
from its occasional residues—its “products”) is a dynamic process. Its most
characteristic results are not answers but better questions.4 It does not seek
so much to eliminate problems as to clarify and transform them into other,
better problems: problems more compelling, more relevant to practice,
richer in implications for action.
What are the goods of philosophical practice? What are the ends it exists
to serve? And what are its rivals—activities that resemble but weaken it
by threatening to sever the nerve at its heart? Upon what kinds of actions,
habits, attitudes, and dispositions is philosophical practice reliant? These are
this brief chapter’s primary concerns. My intent, however, is not so much to
answer these questions definitively as to urge their centrality to professional
practice in music education: the importance of approaching them in ways
that maximize their practical benefits.
I will begin by extending what I have already begun to do: deliberating
about what philosophy is and is not, about what distinguishes philosophical
inquiry from endeavors that are often mistaken for it. I hope to do this in a
way that respects the importance of debate, dispute, and dialogue to phil-
osophical practice, characteristics often wrongly regarded as weaknesses.
The Virtues of Philosophical Practice in Music Education 45
I will argue that practices take their guidance from ethical dispositions,5
guided by thoughtful engagement and critical reflection, without which their
practical nature is rendered merely technical. And finally, I will undertake a
cursory and preliminary survey of the virtues upon which it appears to me phil-
osophical practice is reliant: the habits, dispositions, and values demanded
of those who engage in it with the intent of assuring its advancement and
maximizing its benefits.
WHAT PHILOSOPHY IS NOT6
I have already made some fairly strong assertions about what philosophy is
not. But what interests me here are not the numerous things-not-philosophy
that make no claim to philosophical status. My concern is, rather, the things
commonly mistaken for philosophy: endeavors that resemble certain of its
features while compromising its most promising potentials. I believe that
inspirational rhetoric and advocacy are prominent among the endeavors
most commonly mistaken for philosophy. But what others might we iden-
tify? What are the rivals of responsible philosophical practice in music
education?
One notable rival is discourse that is deliberately inscrutable, that uses
linguistic complexity to impress or obfuscate rather than to clarify or illu-
minate issues.7 In music education’s particular case we should probably
add discourse that is devoid of discernable implications for practice. To be
sure, philosophy often wrestles with issues that are complex, abstract, and
theoretical. But as has been aptly observed, “For every complex problem
there is an answer that is clear, simple, and wrong.”8 Those who criticize
philosophical inquiry for its failure to provide catchy aphorisms that fit on
bumper stickers, then, are looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place.
Complex questions require deep answers that draw careful distinctions,
seek precision, and respect the complexity of reality. However, complexity,
accuracy, and precision do not mean opacity or indifference to the practical
concerns at the heart of music education. Responsible philosophical practice
steers clear of language and ideas that are gratuitously complex; it shuns
distinctions that do not make differences. Philosophy is not needlessly dense
or impenetrable, nor does it dispense simplistic slogans. Nor is it merely
theoretical: indeed, good theory is probably among our most practical pro-
fessional assets.
Second, philosophy is not a merely personal theory of this or that: phi-
losophy is not the assertion of personal beliefs. It does not consist of deeply
held conviction. Although everyone has beliefs and opinions, and usually in
abundance, few of these amount to philosophy in a disciplined sense. The
notion that everyone is somehow entitled to his or her own “philosophy”
is deeply misguided, then: a symptom of the devaluation of philosophical
knowledge. Unexamined opinion and unsubstantiated belief may be things
46 Wayne Bowman
to which everyone is entitled in some way or other, but they are not philo-
sophical. “My philosophy is that the best musicians make the best music
educators”; “My philosophy is that music makes people aesthetically sen-
sitive”; “My philosophy is that children have to be taught what to think
before they can think for themselves”: claims like these operate on roughly
the same level as “My philosophy is that a woman’s place is in the home,”
which is to say they are better considered prejudice than philosophy. Phi-
losophy involves systems of warranted belief: accounts developed with care,
in light of competing alternatives, and subjected to rigorous critical scrutiny.
At its best, its claims tend to take the form of hypotheses: of positions pre-
sumed valid yet open to ongoing analysis and, when warranted, revision.
Unlike mere opinion, philosophy carefully incorporates mutually accepted
ways of testing the merits of competing views. Without these, belief systems
become ideological turf wars in which victory is more important than truth
and the victors are those who shout louder or are better able to harness
institutional channels to disseminate their views. Responsible philosophi-
cal practice submits to analytical and discursive standards. The notion that
all such standards are purely arbitrary and that, therefore, all philosophical
perspectives are equally valid—that anyone is entitled to his or her own
“philosophy”—is not unlike the silly claim that everything is beautiful in its
own way. This kind of anything-goes relativism is anathema to philosophi-
cal inquiry.
Third, philosophy is not synonymous with logic and reason. While
many of its accomplishments stem from adherence to rational principles,
it should not be equated with strict adherence to logical argument or posi-
tivistic proofs. Philosophy is not a knock-them-dead affair with logical
tools and rational strategies capable of conferring upon its practitioners
insights that magically transcend all perspective or point of view. While
committing to the pursuit of truths through reason—and while embracing
things like clarity, precision, and accuracy—philosophy does not consist
in technically adept applications of logic. Nor does responsible philoso-
phy presume itself capable of revealing “the” truth, of attaining ultimate
insights into the innermost essences of the things upon which it is brought
to bear. It seeks to enhance understanding without presuming itself a pur-
veyor of absolute truths. In other words, good philosophy is fallibilistic:
it acknowledges its potential shortcomings, and advances its positions as
working hypotheses. It is a perspectival affair, always situated and invari-
ably partial in its purview; and yet it embraces principles of rational dis-
course, rejecting things like obfuscation and deceit. Philosophy respects
reason and seeks to be reasonable, but logic and consistency are not the
sole measures of its worth.
Fourth, philosophy is not purely intellectual or theoretical, an introspec-
tive undertaking isolated from the “real world” and devoid of practical sig-
nificance. As I said earlier, it does not pursue distinctions that do not make
practical differences. Because music education is defined by its achievement
of right results—musically and educationally—music education philosophy
is necessarily and especially concerned with the connections between beliefs
and actions. It is not unique in this regard: the ancient Greeks conceived of
philosophy not just as the pursuit of “wisdom” in the abstract or for its own
sake, but rather as the pursuit of answers to questions about how best to
act, how best to live, what kind of person to be. Philosophy in its original
sense was not a highly specialized, introspective affair, but an undertaking
with broad practical significance, and essential to living well. The trajec-
tories of music education philosophy have too often run in quite different
directions, consisting of “mind trips” by and for philosophers—not unlike
Babbitt’s (1958) infamous notion of musical composition as a practice by
and for composers.9 Philosophical practice that ignores its connections to
what Dewey called ends-in-view quickly becomes marginal, failing to deliver
the goods it exists most fundamentally to serve.
Fifth, philosophy is not fashion.10 By this I mean that philosophy does
not consist in trends embraced for their novelty, popularity, or “currency”
(viewpoints-du-jour), only to be tossed aside in pursuit of the next new thing.
While it seeks to acknowledge and accommodate shifts in musical and edu-
cational practice, responsible philosophy is not notable for abrupt lurches
this way or that. It does not casually discard previous findings in pursuit
of mere novelty. Its history is progressive, and does not consist of arbitrary
successions of unrelated interests and agendas. In other words, noteworthy
philosophical innovations draw their nourishment from roots that extend
into previous efforts and ways of thinking—things that delineate what kinds
of future contributions count as genuinely philosophical. For this and other
reasons, genuinely philosophical expertise is, like musical and instructional
expertise, acquired through extensive periods of practical immersion devoted
to learning and refining appropriate habits, attitudes, and inclinations. Good
philosophy does not emerge ab initio or change with the seasons, in no small
part because what constitutes responsible practice is determined by relation-
ships with others who are similarly engaged and whose engagement is impor-
tantly shaped by the achievements of predecessors.
The last misconception I will mention here is the assumption that philo-
sophical inquiry is a mere “research methodology”11—one set of research
techniques and procedures among many; simply an alternative way of
organizing and analyzing “data.” Philosophy’s purview is far more exten-
sive, comprehensive, and foundational than that, and its fabric much more
intricate. Whatever its similarity—as a mode of inquiry—to research tech-
niques in general, engaging in philosophy differs in important ways from
conducting case studies, developing multiple regression formulas, or testing
hypotheses by isolating and manipulating independent variables. Philosoph-
ical practice typically deals in abstract, rational reflection, and is concerned
with what can be known through different kinds of inquiry. And because
it is, as suggested earlier, devoted to the identification, formulation, and
analysis of problems—which are fundamental to all research—it is not so
48 Wayne Bowman
much a method or technique as a foundational practice.12 It contributes in
crucial ways to how any and all research is conceptualized, executed, evalu-
ated, and applied to practice. Construing it as a mere research methodology
significantly underestimates philosophy’s aims, purposes, range, and utility.
WHAT PHILOSOPHY IS
I have identified a number of misconceptions that compromise philosophi-

cal inquiry’s contributions to music education, leading us to neglect of a
tremendously valuable professional resource. Characterizing these miscon-
ceptions as I have shows clearly that I have strong convictions about what
philosophy is or should be: what distinguishes good philosophy from the
not-so-good, or the just plain bad. It might reasonably be expected, then,
that I would devote the remainder of this essay to explaining how best to
separate philosophical wheat from chaff. However, that is not exactly what
I propose to do here. Instead, I want to propose a way of thinking about
philosophical inquiry that accommodates the striking diversity actually
found in the field and helps correct some of the misconceptions I have just
described—as well as others that space does not allow me to address here.
There are many different ways to approach the question of what distin-
guishes good from bad philosophy, each (my own included) with its advan-
tages and disadvantages and each grounded in different beliefs about what
philosophy is and should do. These differences often lead to disputes that
non-philosophers mistakenly regard as pointless and professionally embar-
rassing. The why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along criticism of philosophical argu-
mentation involves at least two deeply troubling assumptions: first, that the
ways we conceptualize things like music and education are not really all that
important (they are not really worth arguing about); and second, that unity
is more professionally important than truth. In the first place, what concepts
mean are matters of the utmost professional importance; and in the second
(and for that very reason), disputes and differences are not liabilities but
potentially valuable professional resources, affording opportunities to revise,
refine, and extend both our ideas and their attendant actions. To capitalize
on these opportunities, however, requires that we think carefully about the
nature of philosophical argumentation, the ends it serves when done well,
and how best to distinguish its successes from its failures. Because there are
no simple answers to these questions, we need different understandings of
philosophy than those to which we have grown accustomed: understandings
that accommodate difference and debate, and view philosophy as a usefully
contested process. Philosophy, I want to argue, is—precisely like music—a
practice. Or, more accurately, a diverse human practice.13
Does the idea of philosophy as an open and contested process mean that
no one’s claims are better than anyone else’s? Does that mean in turn that
music education philosophy is anything anyone wants it to be, so long as
he or she can drum up enough support from like-minded others? I do not
believe this is the case, any more than the existence of musical differences
renders pointless any discussion of quality. However, it does point us toward
issues that warrant our very careful consideration: What are human prac-
tices? How do they differ, say, from mere activities? What makes and keeps
them vital or enables them to thrive, and what threatens their vitality or
sustainability? And how might the idea that philosophy is a practice alter
how we understand, engage in, and criticize it (what we expect of it)?
THE DISTINCTIVE NATURE OF HUMAN PRACTICES14
On a basic level, practices consist in human actions: they are things people
do. However, people do many things, and most of these do not warrant
being considered practices.15 This section will seek, therefore, to identify
what I mean when I assert that practices—like philosophy, I am suggesting,
but also like music—differ in important ways from mere activities; why
practices are not reducible without significant loss to techniques; and why
distinctions among practices, technical endeavors, and mere activities are
worth drawing carefully.
How do practices differ from other modes of human activity? In the first
place, practices involve actions not mere activity: practical activity is inten-
tional, devoted to the pursuit of ends-in-view. Authentically engaged prac-
titioners embrace means that are intimately related to the practice’s proper
ends—ends acknowledged by fellow practitioners as the reasons their
actions, and embraced by them as the proper way of carrying them out.
There is an intimate and dialectical relationship between the ends a practice
serves and the ways true practitioners may be expected to pursue them. This
relationship is not rule governed, but a consensual, intersubjective affair
where what constitutes right or authentic action (action that pursues the
right ends, in the right way, to the right extent, and so forth) is subject to
interpretation, critique, and continual modification. Accordingly, which of
a practice’s numerous ends distinguish and define it (which are the ones
without which it could no longer exist) and what kinds of action (or whose)
most faithfully represent the practice are open questions.
Practices are habitual modes of collective action guided by ethical, as
distinct from technical, considerations.16 They are intentional, cooperative
modes of activity devoted to the attainment of ends whose priority and
means of attainment are not set in stone. What constitutes the nerve of a
given practice is thus necessarily subject to critical scrutiny and debate; and
the resultant dynamic tensions are crucial to a practice’s vitality as a prac-
tice. A practice, Higgins (2012) explains, is a
socially rooted, complex, coherent, and cooperative activity that grows

over time into its own ethical world. . . . What distinguishes a practice
50 Wayne Bowman
from other activities is the way it becomes home to a distinctive set of
answers to the basic ethical questions: What is it excellent to achieve or
become? Through participating in a practice, we learn how to appreci-
ate and realize the “internal goods” of the practice, internal because
their value can only be articulated in the terms of the practice, can only
be appreciated by those who have apprenticed themselves to it, and can-
not be cashed out in instrumental terms.
(p. 224)
Dunne’s (2005) account focuses on the intricate relationship between the

integrity of a practice and its distinctive “ecological” needs—needs accord-
ing to which it succeeds or fails in “being true or false to its own proper
purpose.” A practice, he explains, is
a coherent, complex set of activities that has evolved cooperatively and

cumulatively over time, that is alive in the community who are its prac-
titioners, and that remains alive only so long as they remain committed
to sustaining—and creatively developing and extending—its internal
goods and its proper standards of excellence.
(p. 368)17
Which goods are internal to a practice, and which are external—which

are essential to its integrity as a practice, and which serve ends that, despite
their importance, are primarily personal or institutional—are pivotal con-
cerns here. For a practice to remain viable as a practice, its external goods—
those not constitutive of the practice—must not be permitted to eclipse
those that are. The protection and preservation of a practice’s internal goods
are thus crucial if it is to continue faithfully serving its characteristic ends.
Technical skills, competencies, or proficiencies are clearly important. How-
ever, whether these are put to use in service of the practice’s characteristic
ends or are devoted instead to the pursuit of external goods like money
and status depends on practitioners’ virtues of character. Character virtues,
Dunne (2005) observes, are “qualities acquired and exercised by practitio-
ners through their apprenticeship into the practice, their answerability to its
standards of excellence, and their submission to the demands of achieving
its characteristic ends” (p. 368).
A musical example may help clarify these admittedly abstract claims: dis-
putes as to what constitutes “proper” or “authentic” jazz practice. Among
its ardent devotees are many who believe that real jazz practice earns its claim
to authenticity through its continuity with its “classic” forbears. To them,
tradition has established what all jazz deserving of the name must do and be,
and players not steeped in or deferential to tradition are poseurs: engaged
in something jazz-like yet not jazz. Others, however, contend that the nerve
of all authentic jazz practice consists of novelty, innovation, or creativity—
things that necessarily entail departure from norms and conventions. To
them, practice rooted in classics is derivative: again, activity resembling jazz,
but not the “real” thing. The ends jazz practice exists to serve and the proper
ways to act in their service (the nerve of jazz practice and how best to remain
true to it) are open and sometimes contentious issues, with opposing sides
concerned to protect what they regard as authentic practice from each other’s
influence. The dialectical push and pull between and between adherents of
these rival perspectives is an important part of what keeps jazz practice liv-
ing, growing, extending itself, while at the same time resisting the notion that
anything and everything counts as jazz.
Traditions in which tensions like these have been definitively resolved—in
which ends are universally accepted and in which the sole concerns involve
the most efficient technical means of achieving them—are practices that are
either dying or dead. They are modes of human activity in which specifically
practical know-how has been reduced to technical know-how. To be an
authentic practitioner, then, is to engage in appropriate actions, intelligently,
responsibly, and in light of desired or anticipated consequences. However,
in practices—as distinct from technical activities—what “propriety” and
“responsibility” involve (by what proper ends they are gauged) are ques-
tions whose answers are not set for all times. To become a practitioner is
to enter into particular kinds of relationships with contemporary and past
practitioners, relationships rooted in shared ethical commitments to sustain-
ing, creatively developing, and extending the practice’s proper ends—while
what constitutes its proper ends remains an open question.
There are obvious tensions at play here. Practitioners can resist the corro-
sive and erosive influences of things that threaten to subvert a practice only
where there is clarity about its nature. And yet, precisely because practices
are complex, and cooperative modes of action whose ends and means require
constant adjustment (precisely because practices are dynamic affairs), clarity
of purpose cannot be prescriptive or doctrinaire. Practices are not fixed but
moving, toward futures that, if they are to be, will emerge from their pasts
(and from pasts that will be redefined by their futures). When a practice
is healthy, then, it is always and necessarily constituted in part by argu-
ments about (a) the ends it exists properly and fundamentally to serve; about
(b) which means do so most effectively; and about (c) the kind of person
a practitioner must be in order to contribute to the continued health of
the practice. A living practice, writes MacIntyre (1984), is “an historically
extended, socially embodied argument precisely about the goods which con-
stitute [it].” Vital practices “embody continuities of conflict” (p. 222).
A thorough explanation of this understanding of practices would require
considerably more space than I have here,18 so this sketch will have to suffice
for now. Let me speak, however, to some of the reasons I think it a poten-
tially useful refinement of what we understand music education philoso-
phy to be. First, our infatuation with technical rationality (our shortsighted
assumption that technical knowledge is the gold standard of professional
know-how) has led us to technicize philosophical practice. To technicize
52 Wayne Bowman
a practice, Dunne explains, is “to make it over in such a way that control
over its key operations is maximally assured by a method whose success-
ful implementation can be monitored systematically and unambiguously”
(2005, pp. 374–5). The technicization of philosophical practice reduces
something properly regarded as a complex, coherent, cumulative, and coop-
erative mode of ethically guided action to a mere set of techniques and pro-
ficiencies, answerable neatly to determinate criteria and nicely amenable
to dispensation in brief instructional units. Where practices are reduced to
techniques, concerns about ends are set aside in the interest of perfecting
means. The result is an undertaking in which the character and practical
judgment of the practitioner are replaced by method, creating in effect a
practitioner-proof mode of knowing and action. Music education philoso-
phy is not a set of technical skills, but a practice: it cannot be rendered tech-
nical without compromising many of its most important potentials.
Second, acknowledging philosophy’s practical nature helps establish
that its characteristic debates and disputes need not be signs of professional
weakness or sources of professional embarrassment. They are utterly crucial
to its vitality, integrity, and utility as a practice. Nor do philosophy’s answers
need to be unequivocal, absolute, or final to be useful: the ability to ask
better questions is a more characteristic and often more useful outcome of
philosophical practice.
Third, since the distinctions between a practice’s internal and external
goods (between what it truly means to excel as a practitioner and the accrual
of benefits that are merely personal or institutional) can easily elude those
who have not been inducted into the distinctive ways of being that constitute
a given practice,19 it is imperative that initiation into philosophical practice
involve sustained apprenticeship. The habits, dispositions, and abilities cru-
cial to practical know-how are more caught than taught. They are not so
much sets of skills to be deployed as manifestations of the kind of person
one has become through sustained immersion in the practice and relation-
ships with others who are similarly immersed. Where casual exposure and
technical acquaintance are presumed adequate to initiation, the result is
ersatz philosophical activity: inspirational rhetoric mistaken for philosophi-
cal sophistication; big words and complex sentences mistaken for important
philosophical insights; rhetorical flourishes mistaken for practical discern-
ment; activity that benefits the careers of philosophers more than music
education. Where the expression of personal opinion is the presumed basis
of philosophical inquiry, the results are equally meager. One finds one’s phil-
osophical voice not by mastering techniques or through personal introspec-
tion but by reading and engaging with philosophers and the philosophical
traditions of which they are a part.
Fourth, the viability of philosophical practice in music education (its
achievement of the ends on which its existence is predicated; inquiry into
how what we know can be used to more fully achieve the future musical
and educational needs of society; the creation of a place welcoming and
rewarding to those with philosophical propensities) is threatened by anti-
rational tendencies within the field and society more broadly. Skepticism
toward logic, reason, analysis, and our ability to render rival views commen-
surable; the reduction of truth to political power; the willful fragmentation
of a field fundamentally reliant upon coherence and continuity: each of these
undermines the integrity of philosophical practice, diminishing its potential
to make discernable and durable differences not just to music education but
human flourishing.
Fifth, and in what might wrongly be taken to contradict what I have said
about the centrality of debate to vital practices, it is essential that argumen-
tation be undertaken in ways that serve goods internal to philosophical
practice. Since, as I have suggested, practices are built around relationships
and concerns about the kinds of action that enhance relationships of the
right kind, creating and maintaining a culture that welcomes new voices
and treats differences in ways that assure they support rather than under-
mine the sustainability of the practice are crucial concerns. It is imperative
that we distinguish between disputes that advance the practice and those
that undermine it. In philosophy’s case, “being right” and attaining “truth”
are not ends that justify any and all means. Debates are not battles in which
prevailing over others is the primary objective; indeed, philosophical “vic-
tories” achieved in service to a practice’s internal goods are by their nature
successes that benefit all practitioners by enriching philosophical practice as
a whole.
In short, the viability, integrity, and sustainability of practices depend
fundamentally upon the habits, attitudes, dispositions, and ultimately the
character of its practitioners. Practices take their guidance not from rules or
codes of conduct, but from ethical concerns about what kind of actions serve
their internal goods, and how—and, in turn, about what kind of person it
is important to be within the context of the practice at hand. The vitality,
relevance, and sustainability of philosophical practice (delivery on its claim
to basic status among the kinds of knowledge and action that render music
education professional) depend upon the quality of practitioners’ contribu-
tions. The actions of practitioners, after all, construct practices. And yet,
as Dunne (2005) asserts, there is an even greater sense in which practices
construct their practitioners (p. 382). To enter into a practice is to enter into
particular kinds of relationships with fellow-practitioners, and the goods by
which we define those relationships (that are, in turn, constitutive of that
practice) are virtues.
PRACTICE, RIGHT ACTION, AND VIRTUES
Williams (1985) defines virtues as “excellences of character”: internalized

dispositions of action, desire, and feeling that are “central to the life of prac-
tical reason”(p. 35). This relationship between virtues and practices is made
54 Wayne Bowman
even more explicit by MacIntyre (1984), who defines virtue as “an acquired
human quality the possession and exercise of which tends to enable us to
achieve those goods which are internal to practices and the lack of which
effectively prevents us from achieving any such goods” (p. 191). Thus, vir-
tues are central to practices, and where they are not valued not only do prac-
tices fail to flourish, they become corrupted: their internal goods become
confused with and displaced by external ones. Institutions created to serve
internal goods become ends in themselves. As we have said, practices rest
upon the acceptance by individuals of certain features of particular kinds
of social life, and through them the creation of distinctive relationships to
other practitioners who are similarly engaged. It is these ways of relating
that assure the continued integrity of a practice as practice (as distinct from
an institution, a set of techniques, or mere imitative activity). Practices thus
require that practitioners remain attuned to ethical questions about what
kind of person the relationships definitive of the practice necessitate that
they be: what kind of action habits they must cultivate and which they
must avoid.
What kind of person must a philosophical practitioner be in order to
contribute authentically to the ends philosophy exists to serve? What are
these ends? And why do they matter? What kinds of habits, dispositions,
and (excellences of) character are required of those who practice philosophy,
and how may they best be cultivated? What are the virtues of philosophical
practice in music education? Daunting though these questions are, and elu-
sive though their answers undoubtedly may be, they are central. The ques-
tion how to do philosophy well cannot be adequately addressed with lists of
criteria, in no small part because the actions it involves are situation-specific.
“Right” and “wrong” here take their guidance from the kind of person
one is, or, more accurately, from the kind of person one must be to engage
in actions that are genuinely philosophical—and, in the case at hand here,
educational and musical. Techniques and criteria are unacceptably blunt
instruments by comparison.
My earlier claims about things philosophy “is not” may have sounded
black and white. I think, though, that closer scrutiny will show that most
of the misunderstandings I criticize tend to lie at opposing ends of spectra
ranging from too much of a given tendency to too little. Saying what good
philosophical work “is” is considerably easier than doing it in precisely the
right way—to the right extent, with the right ends in mind, and so on. Iden-
tifying unacceptable extremes and deciding upon an apt verbal description
for the desired alternative is one thing; but action is another matter. Because
we cannot identify the best path between unacceptable extremes in any but
a general way, such generalizations are not terribly useful or reliable for
choosing the right course of action in particular circumstances. Unlike the
temperature of the three bears’ porridge (too hot, too cool, or just right),
what counts as “just right” in practical human realms like philosophy (or
music, or education) is seldom neatly determined.
My criticisms of misguided philosophical activity gravitated toward
what might be described as vices of excess and deficiency; but I was delib-
erately evasive about what the “real thing” might be. Good philosophy is,
for instance, neither inscrutable (too much complexity) nor simplistic (too
little); it is neither purely novel (too little engagement with the insights of
others) nor merely derivative (too much reliance upon them); it is neither
a slave to logic (too dependent) nor indifferent to rational considerations
(too independent); it is neither purely theoretical nor wholly practical;
it is neither purely personal nor does is it splash along with the current
of common knowledge. But what, in each of these instances, constitutes
the optimum solution: the one that most successfully avoids the ways of
going wrong? Determining the best course of action in specific situations
requires something more reliable and closer at hand than rules and gener-
alizations. That “something,” I am suggesting, is character-based ethical
judgment.
I make no claim to originality in this claim. Aristotle considered vir-
tues “means” between vices of deficiency and excess.20 The virtue of
courage, for instance, is situated somewhere between vices of cowardice
and recklessness. Yet, what constitutes the most courageous course of
action in a particular situation cannot be decided in advance, by abstract
deliberation: courageous actions are much more easily labeled than done.
Similarly, the virtue of generosity lies somewhere between the vices of
wastefulness and stinginess; magnanimity lies somewhere between van-
ity and pusillanimity; temperance lies somewhere between overindul-
gence and self-abnegation; and so on. What I am suggesting here is that
practitioners develop virtues of this kind through their engagement in
practices—and more particularly, that practices are the primary places
where such development occurs. It is through conscientious engagement
in practices that we develop the kind of character that enables us to
determine right courses of action on the fly. And with specific regard to
the practice of philosophical inquiry my point is that what constitutes
right action is always a pressing concern, even—perhaps particularly—
for those who are most proficient.
To pursue the right thing, in the right way, with the right intent, to the right
extent (etc.) requires making highly sensitive action decisions in domains
without set tolerances. And yet this is precisely what expert practitioners do,
often with remarkable precision and consistency. They do so, I submit, not
because of supernatural endowments or adherence to codes of conduct, but
because of who they are: because of their intimate acquaintance, through
the practice and through relationships with other practitioners, with virtu-
ous courses of action.
With all this as background let me propose a very tentative list of what
might be considered philosophical virtues, each followed by the vices of
excess and deficiency between which it seems to me the actions of philo-
sophical practitioners must often navigate.
56 Wayne Bowman
Philosophical Virtue Vice of Deficiency Vice of Excess
Rigor (precision, accuracy) Carelessness, sloppiness Pedantry

Clarity (careful definition, Obscurity, equivocation, Gratuitous complexity
argumentation) enigma
Practicality (means guided Merely “theoretical” or Preoccupation with
by ends-in-view, ends academic (preoccupation perfecting means (without
related to means) with ends at expense of regard for ends)
means)
Adequate sense of relevant Arbitrary, radically Slavish adherence to past,
tradition, historically novel, willful, amnesic merely derivative
informed
Fairness, justice Deceit, distortion, Mindless tolerance, abject
dishonesty, relativism, indiscriminate
misrepresentation acceptance
Courage, bravery Cowardice Rashness, recklessness
Humility, recognition Arrogance, bombast, Diffidence
of one’s limitations or pretentiousness
ignorance
Respect Contempt Unwarranted veneration,
obsequiousness
Responsiveness Obduracy, aloofness Tractability, selflessness,
submissiveness
Reasonableness Logocentrism Irrationality, intemperateness
Consistency Lability, incoherence Rigidity, dogmatism
Cooperation, Isolation, recalcitrance, Blind conformity
interdependence, dialogue monologue, solipsism
Autonomy, self-reliance Manipulability, Insularity, alienation
dependence
Acting rightly amid concerns like these bears no relationship to painting

by numbers. Nor is it purely a matter of rational deliberation: of identify-
ing, refining, and following technical rules. Choosing and maintaining the
right or virtuous course among these vices in a particular action situation
involves the kind of person one has, as an ethical practitioner, become—and
aspires to be. Exactly what kind of philosophical actions are implicated by
commitment to any of these virtues singly, in a particular situation, involves
complex ethical questions whose answers rely upon: (a) one’s understanding
of the practice’s internal goods; (b) the kind of person the practice requires
authentic, responsible practitioners to be; and (c) the extent to which one
has become, through one’s engagement in the practice, that kind of per-
son. If acting rightly in light and of any single virtue is complex, interac-
tions among various virtues complicate it exponentially.21 My reasons for
stressing this complexity have been, first, that we not reduce philosophical
practice (or, for that matter, musical or educational practice) to techniques
or sets of skills, or confuse them with institutions created in their service;
second, that we ask more critically what conscientious philosophical prac-
tice in music education demands of those who engage in it; and third, that
we acknowledge richness and breadth of philosophical inquiry’s potential
benefits for the music education profession.
In what ways has music education philosophy fallen short of these
ethical challenges? That is a question well worth debating but one I will
not presume to answer conclusively. Let us examine it briefly, however,
through the lenses of two characteristics central to practices: cooperation
and coherence. Actions that are cooperative involve dispositions like shar-
ing, empathy, and reflexivity. Whether music education philosophy has
adequately embraced these is a question I will dodge for now in the inter-
est of posing a few others that show how enormously challenging philo-
sophical practice can be: Cooperation with whom? To what extent? And
to what ends? What does music education philosophy share, for instance,
with music philosophy (and philosophers)? With educational philosophy
(and philosophers)? With feminist theory (and theoreticians)? With phi-
losophy of “art”? With philosophical practice in general? In other words,
what is the proper range and purview of music education philosophy?
What internal goods do related philosophical practices share with music
education philosophy? To what extent and in what way, then, might music
education philosophers rightly be expected to engage cooperatively with
these others? What, if anything, does music education philosophy bring
to the table that these others do not? How diffuse can music education
philosophy become, how interconnected with these others, without com-
promising its own essential coherence as a practice? How does cooperation
clarify, and when might it obfuscate or even sever the nerve of the practice
of music education philosophy—the awareness essential to preserving its
own internal goods?
While these are not inconsequential questions, my primary reason for
posing them here is to illustrate their intricate connection to others that are
even more basic: What kind of person should a music education philoso-
pher be?22 Of what is he or she most fundamentally a practitioner and what
virtues do one’s answers to that question implicate? Whom, or what kind
of person, does the practice, as currently constituted, interest or attract or
deter? With what professional consequences?
It may be objected—in fact I will be surprised if it is not—that my claim
to practical status for music education philosophy is much ado about noth-
ing, and that this is altogether too “thin” a definition to be very useful. I
suppose that depends in part on what one expects definitions to accomplish.
I have not sought to offer a definition that satisfies technicist predilections,
explaining step-by-step and in practitioner-proof terms what philosophy
must do and how it must be done. What I have tried to do, rather, is to
show that a technical accounting of philosophical inquiry is inadequate. As
58 Wayne Bowman
a practice it involves not just persuasive skill; not just the ability to avoid
inferential fallacies; not just the ability to say what one means and to mean
what one says—crucial though these undoubtedly are. It involves fundamen-
tal considerations about what kind of person one needs, as a philosophi-
cal practitioner, to be, and how one’s practice of philosophy contributes to
those ends.
Doing philosophy well is not just a matter of successfully engaging in
logical argument, but is inextricably linked to the one’s character. This real-
ization confers additional benefits, not least awareness that philosophical
practice is an ethical and ethically guided affair. As such, disagreements are
not necessarily or invariably obstacles to be overcome: they may be impor-
tant features of who we are and of our relationships to others. Approached
rightly, disagreements can, as Williams (1985) has observed, shape both our
attitudes toward others and our understandings of ourselves: “In relation to
other people, we need a view of what is to be opposed, rejected, and so forth,
and in what spirit; for ourselves, disagreement can raise a warning that we
may be wrong, and if truth or correctness is what we are after, we may
need to reform our strategies” (p. 133). Understood this way, philosophi-
cal practice in music education is no mere technique, nor is it the spectator
sport or blood sport for which we have too often mistaken it. It is, rather,
an extraordinarily valuable professional process in whose success all music
educators have a stake.
NOTES
1. Please note the use of quotation marks here. I use them because “practical” is
commonly, but inappropriately, used in this way. “Technical” would be a more
fitting term, for reasons that will become clear in due course.
2. Exposure is often all we seek to accomplish: a strategy that resembles conven-
tional and largely unsuccessful approaches to “music appreciation.”
3. Among its many consequences: our casual substitution of philosophies of
“art” and “the arts” for philosophy of music education.
4. See Bowman (2005). It might be countered that “better questions” are them-
selves “products” in a manner of thinking. My point is that philosophical
action consists more fundamentally in framing and posing questions than in
answering them so as to bring an end to the process.
5. By “ethical” I do not mean “moral.” Although the differences between these
terms are both substantial and important, space does not permit me to explore
them here. See Higgins (2011, 2012) and Williams (1985) for illuminating
accounts of the distinction.
6. Clearly the claims I will advance here are normative in nature. Because philo-
sophical work clearly exists that contradicts these claims, some might pre-
fer to read these as assertions about philosophy done well, or responsibly. I
have written more extensively about some of these issues in Bowman & Frega
(2012a, 2012b).
7. This is the “baffle-them-with-BS” strategy.
8. Attributed to H. L. Mencken.
9. This title was not Babbitt’s, but that need not concern us here.
10. It might also be argued that it is not particularly fashionable, but if it’s not
fashion that seems to beg the point.
11. Of course, it can be and has been widely represented as such. My point is not so
much that it lacks a specific technique or “method”—although that might well be
argued—but that it is not properly understood as one kind or species of research
among many. Its roots penetrate deeply into all areas of research, and the shortcom-
ings of many a research project can be traced to neglect of philosophical issues.
12. A claim by Wittgenstein (1958, §133) may warrant consideration here: “There
is not a philosophical method, though there are indeed methods, like different
therapies.”
13. Or, perhaps more precisely still, a constellation of diverse human practices,
without a single unifying core.
14. The particular understanding of “practice” I advance here is neo-Aristotelian
in nature, with intimate connections to virtue ethics. Space constraints prevent
extensive elaboration here, but MacIntyre (1984), Dunne (2005), Higgins (2011,
2012), and Bowman & Frega (2012a, 2012b) offer more detailed accounts.
15. Misinformed criticisms of David Elliott’s claim that music is fundamentally
“something people do” (Elliott, 1995, p. 14) generally fail to grasp that his
broader concern lies with the distinctive kinds of doings musical practices
involve. That music involves human activity is but the beginning of an argu-
ment pursuing a much more significant point.
16. This is not to say that practices cannot draw upon technical considerations,
only that the latter are not constitutive. Please note once again my concern that
“ethical” not be equated with “moral.” See note 5.
17. That practices are cumulative pertains in important ways to my claim that
philosophy is not fashion. The claim to creative extension reminds us that
what constitutes right action differs between practices, changes over time, and
is necessarily open to criticism.
18. Fortunately, excellent explanations can be found elsewhere. See especially
MacIntyre (1984), Dunne (1997, 2005), and Higgins (2011, 2012).
19. These can also easily elude would-be practitioners whose engagement is techni-
cal rather than practical.
20. Although I will draw on this Aristotelian view in what follows, I do not embrace
the idea that virtues are “means” in any but a broad, metaphorical sense. The
right course of action in practical situations cannot be specified without care-
ful context-specific considerations, and the notion that right action consists
invariably in moderation is a depressing one.
21. Indeed, a three dimensional representation of these interrelationships and tensions
would better exemplify their ethical nature than my two dimensional chart.
22. Note that this question is less about how one should write than how one
should live; more, it might be said, about being than knowing.
REFERENCES
Babbitt, M. (1958, February). Who cares if you listen? High Fidelity.

Bowman, W. (2005). More inquiring minds, more cogent questions, more provi-
sional answers: The need to theorize music education—and its research. Music
Education Research, 7(2), 153–68.
Bowman, W., & Frega, A. L. (2012a). What should the music education profession
expect of philosophy? In W. Bowman & A. L. Frega (Eds.), The Oxford hand-
book of philosophy in music education (pp. 17–36). New York, NY: Oxford
University Press.
60 Wayne Bowman
Bowman, W., & Frega, A. L. (2012b). But is it philosophy? In W. Bowman &
A. L. Frega (Eds.), The Oxford handbook of philosophy in music education
(pp. 495–507). New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
Dunne, J. (1997). Back to the rough ground: Practical judgment and the lure of
technique. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press.
Dunne, J. (2005). An intricate fabric: Understanding the rationality of practice.
Pedagogy, Culture and Society, 13(3), 367–89.
Elliott, D. (1995). Music matters. New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
Higgins, C. (2011). The good life of teaching: An ethics of professional practice.
Oxford, UK: Wiley-Blackwell.
Higgins, C. (2012). The impossible profession. In W. Bowman & A. L. Frega (Eds.),
The Oxford handbook of philosophy in music education (pp. 213–230). New
York, NY: Oxford University Press.
MacIntyre, A. (1984). After virtue. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame
Press.
Williams, B. (1985). Ethics and the limits of philosophy. Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press.
Wittgenstein, L. (1958). Philosophical investigations (G. E. M. Anscombe, Trans.).
New York, NY: Macmillan.
Part II
Making Sense of Our Tools

6 The Shifting Locus of Musical
Experience from Performance
to Recording to New Media
Some Implications for
Music Education
Matthew Thibeault
When stories of music in the 20th Century are told, the importance of sound
recordings will be central to their plots. Certain concerts will, of course, also
be remembered, such as the 1913 Paris premiere of the Rite of Spring, Mar-
ian Anderson’s 1939 recital on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, and the
Woodstock Music and Art Fair of 1969. But it is impossible to think about
music of the past hundred years without an essential place for recordings:
Enrico Caruso’s 78s, Louis Armstrong’s Hot Five and Hot Seven recordings,
the ten thousand recordings made by Duke Ellington, and the Beatles and
the British Invasion. Recordings also afforded musical realms built from
recordings, such as hip-hop sampling and techno music. The more recent
extension of recordings into new media represents the latest extension of
the possibilities of circulation and creation via sound recording. One cannot
credibly tell the story of our century’s music without sound recordings, the
emergence of which is the central concern of the present article.
Recordings are not merely a way to store music and make it more acces-
sible; they are a catalyst for profound changes in music, musician, and audi-
ence. In this sense, sound recording is a blanket term meant to invoke both
media and the networks that constitute them—media such as the gramo-
phone, radio, and MP3; and the networks of each medium, assemblages
of people, practices, institutions, and technologies. This understanding of
sound media as contingent networks of recurring relations builds on work
in sound studies, especially Sterne (2003, 2012a). This particular approach
also resonates with educational efforts to study technological change from
a pragmatic philosophical perspective, a Deweyan approach with a strong
contemporary literature (Hickman, 2001; Waddington, 2010).
Before moving forward with an account of the shifting locus, it is impor-
tant to acknowledge the many other writers who have considered technolog-
ical shifts and their relationship to art, a rich intellectual heritage that informs
the present account. Benjamin (1935/1968) provided a Marxist accounting
of art in the rising age of technological reproduction, finding a withering
of works with aura and a rise in a doctrine of art for art’s sake. McLu-
han (1962/2008; 1964/2003) theorized that each era was dominated by a
64 Matthew Thibeault
particular sense, such as the dominance of the visual sense in the print age, or
our current audile-tactile “field of electronic all-at-onceness” (1962/2008, p.
63). Heidegger (1954/1977) presented technology as a framework for being,
within which humans were reduced to standing resources, with art as an
antidote to this reduction of being. Borgmann (1984), following Heidegger,
developed the device paradigm to convey the process by which technol-
ogy reduces once-rich focal practices such as playing the piano, to always-
available commodities—recordings provided by devices such as speakers.
Attali (1977/1985) provides a sweeping account of shifting networks in the
political economy of music, from the ritual and sacrificial origins through a
network of representation made possible by sheet music, then to the repeat-
ing network of recordings, finally heralding a coming network of composi-
tion that he relates to free jazz.
While many writers explore change as a progression wherein technologi-
cal changes and advances contribute to shifting practices, others, notably
ethnomusicologists, have discussed these innovations without such direc-
tionality. Nettl (2005) discusses modes of musical transmission: from aural,
to written, to printed, to recorded, noting, “These could even represent a
chronological order, valid for Western civilization, but it is also a continuum
of relationships, from close to distant, among composer, performer, and lis-
tener” (p. 292). Turino (2008) presents a four-field framework based on
Peirce’s semiotics: participatory and presentational musical fields within live
music practices, and high fidelity and studio audio art musical fields for
recorded music. Like Nettl, Turino stresses the possibility for all fields to
be present and active, to ebb and flow, while noting a progression in places
such as the United States and Zimbabwe, where the pressures of a capital-
ist system for commodification favor the easily commodified presentational
and high fidelity fields.
While each of the previous accounts provide tools and conceptions for
making sense of the profound changes in music over the past hundred years,
central to educators are the experiences of young people in their daily lives,
which are explored here through the gradual but profound shifting locus
of musical experience. Figure 6.1 provides a visual overview of the basic
argument. The ways that music was most commonly experienced in the
Western world shifted over one hundred years; from face-to-face live per-
formance, to recordings (which we might refer to today as analog media),
and currently to new media—perhaps most memorable when shortened to
a shift from performance to recording to data. Whereas nearly all musical
experience was once had in the physical presence of live performers, today
nearly all musical experience comes through sound recordings experienced
via new media. The Kaiser Family Foundation (Rideout, Foerh, & Roberts,
2010) estimates that school-age children in the United States spend nearly
eight hours of each day engaging with media, and a recent survey by Neilsen
Media (2012) found that “more teens listen to music through YouTube than
through any other source (64%)” (p. 1).
The Shifting Locus of Musical Experience 65
Figure 6.1 A conceptual visualization of the shift in the locus of musical experi-
ence over the 20th century from performance to recording to data. Former loci of
experience persist, but it is argued that musical habits are heavily influenced by the
dominant locus, an influence that changes the context and meaning of older loci.
What makes the shifting locus compelling for educators is the relation
of experience to habit formation in the educational process. Habit has been
a central concern for pragmatic philosophers and psychologists discussing
education, including James (1899) and Dewey (1938/1963). Turino uses
habit to discuss learning, proposing “a unitary framework for thinking
about the concepts of self, identity, and culture in relation to each other—a
framework based on the focal concept of habits” (p. 94). Habits both flow
from and are shaped by our experiences, and as Turino notes, habits are
central for the richer notions of self, identity, and culture.
As the locus of musical experience has shifted from performance to
recording to data, there has been a change in the ways in which musical
experiences were had and the subjective meanings of musical experience.
Attention to the locus brings attention not to the moment a technology
emerges, but to when that technology has become a widespread compo-
nent of experience. While sound recording can be dated back to the 1857
invention of the phonautograph, this paper focuses on the early 20th cen-
tury as the period when sound recording flourished, rapidly becoming more
ubiquitous over several decades through innovations in the gramophone,
phonograph, film, and broadcast radio. Technologies gain importance for
consideration by educators as they become a part of everyday life, as they
become a likely part of the experiences that beget habits.
The locus also reminds us not to focus on the technology in isolation, but
as part of a larger network of people, practices, institutions, and technolo-
gies. Just as Benjamin (1935/1968) wrote of an age of mechanical reproduc-
tion, thereby indicating changes that would reach perhaps all aspects of art
and not only the works that were reproduced, so we can find implications
for the locus in areas that appear less technological. Even a concert choir
should be understood as deeply enmeshed with the shifting locus: from new
competition for audience time outside and inside the concert hall; to audi-
ences who expect more of performers, having heard so much edited, per-
fected, and now Auto-Tuned music; and to the social significance of that
concert as the world around it changes. This kind of attention to the shifting
locus invites us to explore the implications of Marx’s famous words, “The
forming of the five senses is a labor of the entire history of the world down
to the present” (Marx & Engels, 1844/1988, p. 108).
The shifting locus provides a fit for music educators who need to come
to terms with technology without losing the social and educational dimen-
sions, and who require richer causal accounts of technology that go beyond
technological determinism (Ruthmann et al., 2015; Smith & Marx, 1994).
While there are many possible approaches to understanding the enmesh-
ment of music, technology, and education, the particular needs of educators
are here foregrounded by focusing on the enmeshment of people, practices,
institutions, and technologies as they become ubiquitous enough to form
the basis of habits. Whether one wishes to resist or embrace this shifting
locus, the conceptualization presented in this article can help music educa-
tors organize action and begin to make sense of the fact that to perform in
the world now involves different values and practices than to have done so
when performance was the locus of musical experience.
The view of the shifting locus is derived here from two short stories where
music plays a central but contrasting role, and the exploration of the careers
of three musicians whose work is both held in high regard and emblematic,
perhaps even a prototype, of each locus. The view of the performance locus
comes through James Joyce’s (1914/1969) story “The Dead.” The skeptical
resistance to recording is captured through an examination of John Philip
Sousa’s (1906) essay, “The Menace of Mechanical Music.” Glenn Gould’s
writings and interviews allow a shift to the evangelistic adoption of the possi-
bilities of recording, and the full extent of the data locus of today is achieved
through an examination of Richard Powers’s (2008) story “Modulation.”
Fiction provides not only rich accounts, but the opportunity to take into
consideration the cultural and subjective side of sound from the perspective
of those who lived within those cultures. As noted by Bijsterveld (2008),
introducing her study of the problem of public noise, “Our challenge, then,
is to historicize the sensory experience of sound and to listen to the sounds
of technology through the ears of those people who complained about these
sounds” (p. 26). This follows also the spirit of work by Schafer (1977/1994),
whose World Soundscape Project created a database of thousands of accounts
and mentions of sound in literature. The article closes with a recapitulation
of the ways that music educators might begin to take more seriously the real-
ity of teaching and making music within the new media era.
THE PERFORMANCE LOCUS AS DEPICTED

IN JAMES JOYCE’S “THE DEAD”
James Joyce’s (1914/1969) “The Dead,” the final story in his collection
Dubliners, offers a glimpse of the world just before sound recording became
a ubiquitous part of everyday life. Published in 1914, Joyce wrote “The
Dead” in 1907, and set the story during a dinner held on Epiphany in 1904.
To read Joyce’s story is to be immersed in a time when music was nearly
always experienced through face-to-face live performance.
In “The Dead,” Gabriel Conroy and his wife Gretta attend the annual
dance given by his Aunts Kate and Julia Morkin. Both sisters are singers and
music teachers. The story is built around musical moments such as this one,
where Joyce describes pianist Mary Jane’s accompaniment of Aunt Julia [all
quotes retain Joyce’s unique spelling and punctuation]:
A murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr Browne was

advancing from the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned
upon his arm, smiling and hanging her head. An irregular musketry
of applause escorted her also as far as the piano and then, as Mary
Jane seated herself on the stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling,
half turned so as to pitch her voice fairly into the room, gradually
ceased. Gabriel recognised the prelude. It was that of an old song of
Aunt Julia’s—Arrayed for the Bridal. Her voice, strong and clear in
tone, attacked with great spirit the runs which embellish the air and
though she sang very rapidly she did not miss even the smallest of the
grace notes. To follow the voice, without looking at the singer’s face,
was to feel and share the excitement of swift and secure flight. Gabriel
applauded loudly with all the others at the close of the song and loud
applause was borne in from the invisible supper-table. It sounded so
genuine that a little colour struggled into Aunt Julia’s face as she bent
to replace in the music-stand the old leather-bound song-book that
had her initials on the cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his
head perched sideways to hear her better, was still applauding when
everyone else had ceased and talking animatedly to his mother who
nodded her head gravely and slowly in acquiescence. At last, when
he could clap no more, he stood up suddenly and hurried across the
room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seized and held in both his hands,
shaking it when words failed him or the catch in his voice proved too
much for him.
(1914/1969, pp. 244–5)
In “The Dead,” this performance is at the foreground of the party. The

moment captures three key aspects of the performance era: house-music
culture, the skills of performers who only knew music through performance,
and the skills of listeners to appreciate performances. These aspects, emanat-
ing from the physical presence of the performers, draw the attention of the
partygoers from even the supper-table in the next room.
House-music culture thrived throughout Europe until the rise of record-
ing, a culture where amateur music making formed a central part of an
evening’s entertainment (Philip, 2004). Now largely forgotten, the need and
desire to make music in the home was filled through performances of a mix
of professionals and amateurs. Philip details how even the most accom-
plished composers arranged their music for amateurs:
Brahms himself understood the importance of this market as a way

of enabling his public to get to know his works. He wrote more than
twenty piano-duet arrangements of orchestral and chamber works, and
also arranged the third and fourth symphonies for two pianos.
(2004, p. 7)
Rather than today’s occasional performances, performers regularly made

music. From the turn of Aunt Julia toward the audience, to her old song-
book, Joyce portrays her comfort as a regular performer. She connects with
her audience. She feels their appreciation, blushing at their applause. The
bond between performer and audience, their unity in space and time, con-
nects them in the way music was then experienced. The songbook’s appear-
ance is a testament to heavy use, reinforced by Gabriel’s recognition of the
tune from his aunt’s previous performances.
The ephemeral nature of live performance encouraged attentive listen-
ing. Joyce details for the reader Gabriel’s attention to tone quality and
“the smallest of grace notes” which allow him to “share the excitement of
swift and sure flight.” The performance ends with Freddy’s compliments
to Aunt Julia. The audience connects with the singer through listening but
also socially and even physically. Julia’s performance is, for this particular
audience, with them, and comes and goes in a moment, echoing Karl Marx’s
(1861/1975) statement:
The service a singer performs for me satisfies my aesthetic needs, but

what I enjoy exists only in an action inseparable from the singer himself
[sic], and once his work, singing, has come to an end, my enjoyment is
also at an end; I enjoy the activity itself—its reverberation in my ear.
(pp. XXI)
Given the unique and ephemeral realities of music in the performance

age, memory is all-important for musical experiences to live on. In “The
Dead,” talk around the table turns to voices remembered and those now
gone:
—O, well, said Mr Bartell D’Arcy, I presume there are as good singers
to-day as there were then.
—Where are they? asked Mr Browne defiantly.
—In London, Paris, Milan, said Mr Bartell D’Arcy warmly. I suppose
Caruso, for example, is quite as good, if not better than any of the men
you have mentioned.
—Maybe so, said Mr Browne. But I may tell you I doubt it strongly.
—O, I’d give anything to hear Caruso sing, said Mary Jane.
—For me, said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, there was
only one tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever
heard of him.
—Who was he, Miss Morkan? asked Mr Bartell D’Arcy politely.
—His name, said Aunt Kate, was Parkinson. I heard him when he
was in his prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that was
ever put into a man’s throat.
—Strange, said Mr Bartell D’Arcy. I never even heard of him.
—Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right, said Mr Browne. I remember hear-
ing of old Parkinson but he’s too far back for me.
(p. 254)
Unlike Mr. Browne, it hardly makes sense to ask where good singers are
today. Today, musical voices are always everywhere, digitally available at all
times. For Joyce’s characters, the best singers were most commonly heard in
centers of power and commerce. Ironically, Mary Jane longs to hear Caruso,
who in 1904 was just beginning to record under his first contract, soon to
become the most famous recorded voice. Unlike the disappeared voice of
Parkinson, and while not as Mary Jane hoped, everyone today and forever-
more can hear Caruso.
Joyce’s story evokes how performers and their efforts continued to exist
within the memories of the living. This aspect of music, the emotional mem-
ories that persist, is key to the central epiphany of “The Dead.” As Gabriel
and his wife are preparing to leave, he sees her at the top of the staircase,
transfixed by a singer he cannot hear over the din of the rest of the party.
She is listening as someone sings The Lass of Aughrim. Back at their hotel,
Gretta reveals that the song had been sung to her by Michael Furey, a past
love who died when young. The final words of the story capture Gabriel’s
thoughts as he looks at the snow falling outside his window:
It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill
where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked
crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren
thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly
through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last
end, upon all the living and the dead.
(p. 286)
The ephemeral nature of music in Joyce’s time provided an ideal meta-

phor for the ephemeral nature of life, something all his readers would inti-
mately know. Every musician and every performance of that era became
a shade, at best a memory in the minds of those who also must pass. For
Gretta, the experience of hearing The Lass of Aughrim reconnected her to
Michael Furey and the loving friendship they shared, his singing gone but for
her memory. The experience of music was inseparable from the ephemeral
nature of life. Performance was unique, live, in person, and unamplified in
a way that encouraged close listening and connection. The work of learn-
ing and making music required teachers whose students apprenticed and
worked together, and the party at Aunt Kate and Julia’s home in “The
Dead” captures the friendship and pleasure that accompany this work, the
social and physical connections that were inseparable from every experience
with music. As Philip notes about music and audiences before the rise of
recordings, “It did not come to them with the press of a button. Music was
therefore not just an aural experience, as it has largely become. It was also
a matter of physical presence, social interaction, and direct communication
between musicians and audience” (2004, p. 5).
“The Dead” brings us closer to a time today’s readers cannot know, a
time when the experience of music was fundamentally different from ours,
and a time when musical sensibility must also have been profoundly differ-
ent. Although we still have recordings of performances from that time, the
network of music and social relationships that flourished when only live
performance existed, it can be argued, is so changed as to be dead to us save
for the collective memory and echoes of its existence. We can have Caruso’s
voice, but not the experience of sitting around the table recalling voices
forever gone save in our memories, nor can we listen with ears that know
each performance is ephemeral. In place of the ephemeral nature of music in
“The Dead” we have what Stanyck and Piekut (2010) refer to as deadness,
a quality of music today that flows from recordings that allow a perpetual
reengagement of the living and the dead exemplified through duets such as
between Natalie Cole and her father after his death, about which the authors
write, “We might even say that this is the only guarantee that sound record-
ing offers: being recorded means being enrolled in futures (and pasts) that
one cannot wholly predict nor control” (p. 18).
Music in “The Dead” required a physical communion, the presence of
performers and an audience united within a moment that will never come
again. Much of the poignancy in Joyce’s tale—the blushing cheek, the hold-
ing of hands, and the remembrance of past moments—derives from the
uniqueness of the performance moment. Performance required constant
social organization to learn, make, and share music. The scale was limited to
the distance by which the music could be reasonably enjoyed, seldom more
than an amphitheater for voices skilled at projection. Audiences always
knew that each performance was a unique opportunity, and that to neglect
it was to miss it forever. And audiences were limited to local performances,
wishing to “give anything” to hear the voice of Caruso. While it is possible
to regard this solely with nostalgia, it is also a reminder of how scarce music
was, and how it was often available to the powerful and wealthy.
For musicians whose wants, needs, values, and practices were shaped by
the performance locus, the rise of recordings could be seen as a threat to
central aspects of music as they knew it. No one wrote more passionately
about what might be lost than John Philip Sousa.
SOUSA AS SKEPTIC OF THE RECORDING ERA
A year before Joyce began writing “The Dead,” John Philip Sousa wrote his
infamous critique of recording technology and the potential threats to live per-
formance, “The Menace of Mechanical Music” (1906). As Katz (2012) notes,
“Given Sousa’s prominence in early twentieth-century American culture and
the widespread discussion that his article generated, it is fair to say that he,
more than anyone else, set the terms of the debate about the value and influ-
ence of sound-reproducing technologies” (p. 462). Just as reading Joyce helps
tell the story of the performance era, Sousa’s views allow us to better under-
stand the apprehension and sense of imposition felt as recordings worked their
way into the world and interacted with people to change the wants, needs,
values and practices around music. Sousa also clearly articulates versions of
several key positions that live on in many music educators’ philosophies today.
Sousa dealt with mechanical music—player pianos as well as phono-
graphs and cylinder players. Throughout his essay, he draws a sharp dis-
tinction between live music and recorded music. For Sousa, machine music
could never convey the essential human component. From the opening sen-
tence, machines are portrayed as displacing human thinking, interpreting,
and performing:
Sweeping across the country with the speed of a transient fashion in

slang or Panama hats, political war cries or popular novels, comes now
the mechanical device to sing for us a song or play for us a piano, in
substitute for human skill, intelligence, and soul.
(1906, p. 278)
Sousa is at his most poetic when proclaiming the connection between live
performance and musical value, championing experiences like those cap-
tured by Joyce:
Music teaches all that is beautiful in this world. Let us not hamper it
with a machine that tells the story day by day, without variation, with-
out soul, barren of the joy, the passion, the ardor that is the inheritance
of man alone.
(1906, p. 282)
For Sousa, soul, humanity, and intelligence can exist in music when made
live, but not when bleached out by machines that present music without any
variation. He also located humanity in variations that naturally occur in
each unique presentation of music. To estrange music from live performance
separates it not only from human performers, but results in music devoid of
all humanity, exchanging soul for the same story day by day.
Sousa predicted that musical taste would suffer should machine music
proliferate its emaciated conception of music. He wrote, “I forsee a marked
deterioration in American music and musical taste . . . by virtue—or rather
by vice—of the multiplication of music-reproducing machines” (p. 278). He
saw the history of music in terms of the enhanced expression of the human
soul, worrying that people’s experiences would be limited to machines,
“which are as like real art as the marble statue of Eve is like her beauti-
ful, living, breathing daughters” (p. 279). Seen from Sousa’s rich notion of
musical connection, mechanical music, and the ersatz experience it pro-
vided would naturally cramp and deaden living musicians. His examples
evoke displacement and replacement across the range of musicians: infants
put to sleep by machinery, love songs caroled by gramophone, soldiers ral-
lied to battle by “a huge phonograph, mounted on a 100 H.P. automobile”
(p. 282).
The envisioned decline in taste and the gradual displacement of human
musicians led Sousa to predict problems for music education. These prob-
lems existed both through the damage machine music would inflict upon
taste, as well as the continued displacement of amateur musicians in the face
of the effortlessness with which music was recreated by machines; essentially,
the decline of house-music culture. Sousa located a love of music among the
working classes, evidenced by their purchase and study of instruments like
the guitar, mandolin, and banjo. He goes on to declare:
The cheaper of these instruments of the home are no longer being pur-
chased as formerly, and all because the automatic devices are usurping
their places. . . . And what is the result? The child becomes indifferent
to practice, for when music can be heard in the homes without the labor
of study and close application, and without the slow process of acquir-
ing a technic [sic], it will be simply a question of time when the ama-
teur disappears entirely, and with him a host of vocal and instrumental
teachers, who will be without field or calling.
(p. 280)
Sousa worried that those who might continue to play would experience
mechanical music to such an extent to cause irreparable harm. Sousa warned
that real music would cease to exist, or that those attempting to make it
would see their efforts hampered by exposure to music without humanity:
Children are naturally imitative, and if, in their infancy, they hear only
phonographs, will they not sing, if they sing at all, in imitation and finally
become simply human phonographs—without soul or expression?
(p. 281)
Sousa’s sense of music grew from the ritual and spectacle of live perfor-
mance, and Warfield (2011) argues that his approach to performance was
heavily shaped by his work in the theaters of Washington, D.C. Sousa so
disdained recordings that he famously refused to conduct his band for any
recording dates or broadcasts until 1929, three years before his death. He
articulated strong beliefs and a coherent view of the ways recorded music
might negatively impact the musical world he knew and loved. Today, as we
begin to imagine how different music was for Sousa and Joyce, their writings
allow us to imagine how strange our world would have sounded to them.
Anecdotally, when working with preservice teachers and graduate stu-
dents, most agree with Sousa. Their values emanate from habits of per-
formance, and they continue to privilege their work within a network of
practices built on performances with sheet music. I frequently hear com-
ments about how one can’t judge a performer or know a work until heard
live, and that recordings often allow edits they consider a form of cheating.
But few go quite as far as Sousa did. Most are thrilled and honored to par-
ticipate in the recording sessions their ensemble directors have arranged.
And though students may still favor live over recorded music, few would
deny humanity and soul to recordings such as Louis Armstrong’s “What a
Wonderful World.”
The first half of this paper presented views from those who lived through
the rise of sound recording technology. Joyce and Sousa’s ideas about music
were born out of the performance locus, and they lived on through the emer-
gence of recordings. Although recordings were immediately popular, it was
not until the 1960s that musicians, born and raised in the recording era, did
come to appreciate and understand the artistic and aesthetic possibilities of
the recording era. Many began to appreciate and sing the praises of that which
Sousa had feared so much, though none more eloquently than Glenn Gould.
GLENN GOULD AS EVANGELIST OF THE RECORDING ERA
One can’t find a more emphatic rejection of performance than by Glenn

Gould, who in an interview in 1981 declared:
The concert has been replaced, you know. . . . Technology has the capa-
bility to create a climate of anonymity and to allow the artist the time
and the freedom to prepare his conception of a work to the best of his
ability, to perfect a statement without having to worry about trivia like
nerves and finger slips. It has the capability of replacing those awful
and degrading and humanly damaging uncertainties which the concert
brings with it; it takes the specific personal performance information
out of the musical experience. Whether the performer is going to climb
the musical Everest on this particular occasion no longer matters. And
it’s for that reason that the word “immoral” comes into the picture. It’s
a difficult area—one where aesthetics touch upon theology, really—but
I think that to have technology’s capability and not to take advantage
of it and create a contemplative climate if you can—that is immoral!
(Gould, 1984a, p. 452)
Recordings completely replaced the concert for Gould in his work—he
famously retreated from the stage forever in 1964, both as a performer and
as an audience member. He spent the rest of his life making music in the stu-
dio. Fifty years after Sousa fought to keep performance alive in the emerg-
ing networks of recording, Gould completely rejected live music. Sousa,
then, is the Cassandra of the early recording age, and Gould, with his com-
plete embrace of recording, is a herald of a world where music can exist
completely outside face-to-face performance. Their respective orientations
toward recording expose fundamentally changed conceptions of music,
musician, and audience as the locus of experience and habit shifted from
performance to recorded networks.
Of course, attitudes toward recording changed in part due to advances
in recording technology. Sousa’s band had to arrange itself around a single
microphone; Gould used multiple microphones for even a single piano.
Sousa’s band recorded using a mechanical process; Gould used the more
sensitive electronic recording techniques that became available after 1925.
Bands in Sousa’s time could not splice together takes, while Gould artfully
spliced. Stereo recordings replaced the monaural soundscape with a three-
dimensional panorama for the listener. Finally, Gould had access to long-
play records, allowing for much longer works to be captured and shared. As
recordings became more prevalent, and as technical advantages expanded,
wants, needs, values, and practices also evolved. Gould, perhaps better than
anyone, understood and articulated a far-reaching new conception radically
different from any that could have emerged through live performance alone.
Whereas Aunt Julia was in the room and intimately connected to Gabriel
and Freddy as she sang Arrayed for the Bridal, had she made a recording
she would have been separated from her audience. Recordings gained per-
manence while losing the traditional connection. As Benjamin (1935/1968)
noted, this is analogous to the difference between an actor on stage and one
in a film. On stage, an ephemeral connection exists between audience and
performer, and the performer can respond to the audience. By contrast, a
film actor may be filmed in multiple takes, perhaps from multiple angles,
and often out of sequence from the final film. For Benjamin, with regard to
the final product of the film, “During the shooting [the actor] has as little
contact with it as any article made in a factory” (p. 231).
Just as films found advantage in estrangement, Gould envisioned benefits
Sousa did not. Two years before he stopped performing, Gould published
the essay “Let’s Ban Applause,” wherein he stated, “I have come to the con-
clusion, most seriously, that the most efficacious step which could be taken
in our culture today would be the gradual but total elimination of audience
response” (1962/1984b, p. 246). Given the estrangement of recordings, it
would seem that Gould supposed concerts and recordings could be brought
into harmony by trying to import the estrangement of recordings into the
concert hall via what he called GPAADAK, or the Gould Plan for the Aboli-
tion of Applause and Demonstrations of All Kinds (p. 248). Furthermore,
Gould explicitly invokes the example of listening to a recording as a tem-
plate for concert etiquette in countering the claim that applause is a natural
response to a performance:
I reply that one may listen to a recording of a Beethoven symphony

alone or in the company of friends and, though deeply moved at its
conclusion, experience no more urgent need than a quick trip to the
icebox for a soda water.
(p. 247)
Gould’s embrace of estrangement between audience and performer would

have shocked Sousa, and this shift is a central ground for my claim that it is
worthwhile to distinguish the performance locus from that of recording. To
embrace estrangement in exchange for repeatability is not merely to create
a new space for music; live, face-to-face performance is also consequently
changed. Audience and performer come into a live situation with habits of
estranged listening acquired through experience with recordings, and one
may both speculate that they may be better prepared by knowing pieces,
but also perhaps less attentive than those who knew each listening would
be ephemeral and music scarce. Perhaps they want a similar experience to
recordings, or perhaps they have never developed the habits of connection
that were natural to Sousa and Joyce. The habits that shaped musical ideas
were formed in experience with music that was live or recorded in conse-
quential ways.
Isolated sound and the appreciation of a purely sonic object fill the void
left by the estrangement of recordings. Without a connection between audi-
ence and performer or even the visual element of music in recordings, music
increasingly became associated with the idea of a sonic object. Sousa’s dis-
dain for a story told the same way day by day naturally resulted in a focus
upon the story’s telling, the sound. Philip (2004) captures how musicians,
left only with sound and their audible mistakes etched forever for all to hear,
increasingly valued flawless and repeatable performances over spontaneity
and surprise. As with estrangement, the new aesthetic worked its way into
the live setting. Live performances increasingly aspired to match the perfec-
tion that recordings made possible.
What makes Gould valuable here is his ability to understand the posi-
tive potential within these changes. What were horrible problems for Sousa
became amazing possibilities for Gould. In Gould’s opinion, recordings
allowed for the realization of a new aesthetic. By fully embracing the changed
conception of music, recording became the locus of musical achievement,
with performance a distant second, as he said in an interview:
From the moment I began broadcasting, that medium seemed like

another world, as indeed it is. The moment I began to experience the
studio environment, my whole reaction to what I could do with music
under the proper circumstances changed totally. From then on, concerts
were less than second best—they were merely something to be gotten
through. They were a very poor substitute for a real artistic experience.
(Mach, 1991, p. 90)
As Gould’s prominence rose, he made real the opportunity to live life

as a musician who never performed, focusing instead on the creation of
edited and engineered recordings which are among the most celebrated in
the history of the medium, with one of his recordings receiving intergalactic
distribution on the Voyager space probe’s Golden Record. He achieved a
complete de-coupling of music from live performance, championing such
aspects of recording as the tape splice and the deeper exploration of sonic
spaces made possible by multiple microphones.
While Gould wished to ban applause, he had an expanded view of oppor-
tunities for the listener of recordings. Gould was attuned to the fact that,
even through manipulation of the humble volume knob, listeners were able
to interact with music as never before. He foresaw the techniques of the
recording studio engineer eventually becoming available to the listener:
At the center of the technological debate, then, is a new kind of listener—

a listener more participant in the musical experience. The emergence of
this mid-twentieth-century phenomenon is the greatest achievement of
the record industry.
(1966/1984c, p. 347)
Participant listeners, Gould foresaw, could be granted the same options

that allowed engineers to mix multiple takes, to speed up or slow down a
take, to add effects such as reverb, etc. This was a gradual evolution that
began with the binary ability to turn a recording on or off, followed by the
ability to adjust playback volume, then to apply equalization. In the end,
“There is, in fact, nothing to prevent a dedicated connoisseur from acting as
his own tape editor and, with these devices, exercising such interpretive pre-
dilections as will permit him to create his own ideal performance” (p. 348).
In fact, Gould’s prediction became a reality perhaps most famously through
the work of Joyce Hatto, a pianist who, it was revealed, had released dozens
of recordings that were lightly remixed and edited versions of other pianists’
recordings (Singer, 2007). Again, of course, the ideal performance consists
of a sonic object, but Gould radically locates its genesis in the recompiling
and manipulation of recordings by listeners who would participate in a new
way. Out of the estrangement of the listener come new abilities to participate.
Gould was familiar enough with the musical world to know that the idea
of a participant listener represented a substantial shift in power: “[The lis-
tener] is also, of course, a threat, a potential usurper of power, an uninvited
guest at the banquet of the arts, one whose presence threatens the familiar
hierarchical setting of the musical establishment” (1966/1984c, p. 347).
The consideration of Gould’s views provided up to this point reveals
the changes in music, musician, and audience made possible by the emer-
gence of the recording era. The recording audience lost the connection of
the performance era, but gained the ability to be a participant in a new way
through participation with recordings. The estrangement of recordings that
separated performer from audience helped to usher in the notion of music
as sonic object, leading to a conception of music more sonic than social.
This change in the status of music accompanied changes in musicians akin
to actors on the stage and in film. Sousa and Joyce exemplify the values of
music in the performance locus, while Gould sees the new conception of
music and new relationships between performers and audiences made pos-
sible by recordings.
Gould also went beyond the recording era with his vision for music. The
kinds of experiences he foresaw that listeners would be able to construct
did not become widespread until the rise of music and computers. Hap-
pening gradually over the past 30 years or so, this rise represents the emer-
gence of a new media era of music. Lev Manovich (2002) defines the term
“new media” as the convergence of computing and media technology. In
his words, this represents “the translation of all existing media into numeri-
cal data accessible through computers—the result is new media—graphics,
moving images, sounds, shapes, spaces, and texts that have become comput-
able; that is, they comprise simply another set of computer data” (p. 20).
The rise of new media connected music to computers in ways that ampli-
fied and transformed aspects of music that originated in the recording era.
Computers made the tools and experiences that had been limited to corpora-
tions and studios affordable and available to a greater audience, with a few
thousand dollars enough to set up a good quality home recording studio.
The Internet also provides an inexpensive distribution network by which
artists can quickly connect to audiences without a record contract. But just
as Sousa couldn’t foresee the ramifications of the recording era, it is likely
that Gould would be surprised with the locus around new media that was
only beginning to emerge when he died in 1982.
THE NEW MEDIA ERA AS DEPICTED IN RICHARD

POWERS’S “MODULATION”
Just as James Joyce evoked the performance locus, Richard Powers’s short
story “Modulation,” written one hundred years after “The Dead,” richly
represents the dense network of music via the Internet and new media:
A Korean kid covering a Taiwanese kid whose arrangement imitated the

video game Pump it Up whose soundtrack mimicked an old Brian Eno
performance uploads an electrifying guitar video of Pachelbel’s Canon
in D, already the most hacked-at piece of the last three hundred years,
and immediately, people from Panama to Turkmenistan post hundreds
of shot-perfect recreations, faithful down to every detail of tempo and
ornament.
(2008, p. 98)
This quote captures much about the new media world: a drastic rate
of change as connections are made across the globe, mixing and mash-
ing of music drawn from hundreds of years of history, and the rise of an
amateur culture of creativity that blurs the line between their work and
that of professionals, remaking the idea of house-music culture. The hun-
dreds of re-creations posted by others point to participant audiences whose
contribution rises to a level that blurs the distinction between creator and
audience.
Powers, formidable when writing about music as well as science and
technology, presents, through “Modulation,” an extreme view of music in
the new media era. The plot centers on the global dissemination and even-
tual synchronized activation of a musical computer virus. These events
tie together four separate characters whose musical lives capture much
about music in today’s world: Toshi Yukawa, a former music pirate, works
with record companies to find other pirates; journalist Marta Mota writes
about the uses of music by the American military in Iraq; ethnomusicolo-
gist Jan Steiner looks back on his life’s research through recordings; and
DJ Mitchell Payne presents a set of “chiptune” 8-bit audio that satisfies
his audience’s “nostalgia for the blips and bleeps of their Atari childhood”
(p. 91). Music is nearly always experienced via mobile phones, iPods, lap-
tops, and other computers. Echoing Sousa’s worries, Steiner notes that all
of these are “an instrument that everyone could learn to play without any
effort” (p. 91).
Nearly all the music and audio experienced in “Modulation” is recorded
and shared digitally. For example, Marta is embedded as a journalist to
write about troops preparing for battle, and Toshi’s work focuses on inves-
tigating endless networks of pirates trafficking in downloaded music files.
If one holds an expanded notion of what can constitute a performance, two
examples are found in the story. One evokes a present day Aunt Julia, as
Marta connects to her boyfriend via Skype to help rid her of an earworm:
And into his tinny laptop computer microphone in Bahrain, in a frail

but pretty baritone she hadn’t heard for way too long, he sang a few
notes that re-materialized in her Frankfurt hotel as the theme song from
Mission Impossible.
(p. 95)
A song sung, the repertoire itself from broadcast media, filtered and medi-
ated by tinny microphone and tiny speaker, virtually re-presented nearly three
thousand miles away. The second instance of performance is DJ Payne’s set
for the Chiptune Blowout:
But as soon as he got the backing tracks looping, the MSX emulator
bumping, and his Amiga kicking out the MIDI jambs to the principal
theme from the old blockbuster game Alternate Reality, he remembered
just what Face-to-Face was all about, and why nothing would ever
replace live performance.
(p. 98)
DJ Payne’s live work consists of triggering loops and working with digital
information via MIDI. He plays a role closer to conductor and composer,
more invoker and gatekeeper, than performer. However, for Payne, getting
background tracks looping to a video game soundtrack is performance.
Joyce and Sousa’s vision of music exists for Powers as only a distant
echo. There is irony in Power’s description of Payne’s work, Sousa’s machine
music, as live performance. It is also likely that Sousa would have been not
fully comfortable calling the singing of Marta’s boyfriend a performance.
Gould as evangelist would have welcomed the world DJ Payne presents, but
Gould never predicted just how far the culture would change. In Gould’s
terms, Payne represents the rise of the participant listener come full circle,
a participant listener as performer, and the triggering and playing of prere-
corded and synthesized music as performance.
In place of traditional performance, music is presented throughout “Mod-
ulation” in a variety of modern roles: as a virus, as a means for exploitation,
as a pharmaceutical, and constantly as a commodity. Toshi reflects on the
corporate nature of the relationship between music and consumer:
There was pay what you want and genetic taste matching and music
by statistical referral. Customers who liked Radiohead also listened to
Slipknot. If you like Slipknot, you may also like the Bulgarian Women’s
chorus. The vendors had your demographic, and would feed it to you in
unlimited ninety-nine cent doses or even free squirts that vanished after
three listens. He owed his job to saltwater syndrome. Drinking made
you thirsty. Buffets bred hunger.
(p. 93)
Music is more commodity than experience; and in place of musicians per-

forming, “Modulation” presents musicians via roles such as vendor, pirate,
and trafficker. Instead of the organic connection between performer and
audience, music fits more into the mold of producer and consumer, a role
that recalls the economic analysis of Jacques Attali (1977/1985) in his book
Noise, one that situates recordings as part of the overall rise of repetition
in society:
Mass production, a final form, signifies the repetition of all consumption,

individual or collective, the replacement of the restaurant by precooked
meals, of custom-made clothes by ready-wear, of the individual house
built from personal designs by tract houses based on stereotyped designs,
of the politician by the anonymous bureaucrat, of skilled labor by stan-
dardized tasks, of the spectacle by recordings of it.
(p. 128)
The climactic event of “Modulation” is the activation of a musical com-

puter virus. The piece spreads across networks into every device capable of
playing music. The virus synchronizes the playback of a single piece of music
that is at once an unforgettable experience while simultaneously impossible
to remember:
And here it was again, after an eternity away: a tune that sold nothing,
that had no agenda, that required no identity or allegiance, that was
not disposable background product, that came and went for no reason,
brief as thunder on a summer night.
(p. 102)
One reading of the role of the virus in “Modulation” is that it serves to

show the profound shift in music. Whereas music was always ephemeral in
“The Dead,” by the time of “Modulation” an ephemeral experience with
music exists only as science fiction. Every sound worth hearing today is cap-
tured, recorded, shared, and sold. Like Powers, only with a feat of imagina-
tion or a leap of faith can we admit the possibility of a sound that will never
be sold. It is this situation that “Modulation” helps us to mark, the distance
between Aunt Julia and DJ Payne, from Michael Furey’s remembered song
for Gretta to an ephemeral event made available through an anonymous
computer virus.
The story presented thus far captures the shift in music, musician, and
audience: the exchange of the ephemeral for a reproducibility that also
estranges performer from audience, the rise of the concept of music as sonic
object that favors unblemished recordings which feed back to put pressure
on live musicians to create flawless performances. “Modulation” gives us,
however tentatively, the ability to begin to understand how our habits of
music, musician, and audience evolve as the Internet and new media become
the locus for musical experience.
The recording era was dominated by production and distribution sys-
tems owned by corporations that regulated what was released. For example,
Gould worked with Columbia and the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation,
among others. By contrast, corporate sites like YouTube allow musicians to
decide what work to share. In fact, Powers’s story channels real events, as
in his depiction of a Korean kid’s homemade guitar video, a real version of
which was covered in the New York Times:
Last year Jerry Chang, a Taiwanese guitarist who turns 25 on Thursday,

set out to create a rock version of the song, which he had been listening
to since childhood. It took him two weeks. Others, like Brian Eno, had
done so before him, and some listeners say his arrangement is derivative
of one composed for the video game “Pump It Up.” But one way or
another, his version, “Canon Rock,” rocked.
(Heffernan, 2006, p. 10)
A search of YouTube in September 2010 found over seven thousand videos

in homage or response to “guitar.” These participant-listeners-turned-per-
formers capture another aspect of the new media era, that is, the incredible
rise in the availability and promotion of publicly available creative works.
The Internet has served not only as a place for individuals to post their
content; it has helped to spur or reveal creativity that was unacknowledged
during the recording era. The Pew Research Center’s Internet and Ameri-
can Life Project states that 38% of teens reported in the affirmative when
asked if they “share something online that you created yourself, such as
your own artwork, photos, stories or videos” (Pew Research Center, 2009).
This development was something not understood in the earlier days of the
Internet, as described by Virtual Reality pioneer Lanier (2011):
Many of the lectures I gave in the 1980s would end with a skeptic
in the audience pointing out loudly and confidently that only a tiny
minority of people would ever write anything online for others to read.
They didn’t believe a world with millions of active voices was remotely
possible—but this is the world that has come to be.
(p. 101)
The consolidation of power in the recording era, then, gave way to what
appears to be a democratization of access to the means of creation and dis-
tribution. The inexpensive home studio, the personal website, and the ease
with which art in digital form can be shared and enjoyed is perhaps the most
fundamental change of the new media era, changes that closely align with
the notion of convergence culture put forward by Jenkins (2006).
Another consequence flows from the ease of distribution as we transi-
tion from a recording era, namely, the rise of an overabundance of content.
Recordings that were tangible were limited to the estimated commercial
audience; but in the digital world, copies are created on demand. Review-
ing a recent biography of Keith Richards that locates access to then-scarce
blues records as critical for the creation of the Rolling Stones, Dan Chiasson
(2011) captures this transition:
The experience of making and taking in culture is now, for the first time
in human history, a condition of almost paralyzing overabundance. For
millennia it was a condition of scarcity. . . . Nobody will ever again
experience what Keith Richards and Mick Jagger experienced in Dart-
ford, scrounging for blues records. The Rolling Stones do not happen in
any other context: they were a band based on craving, impersonation,
tribute: white guys from England who worshiped black blues and later,
to a lesser extent, country, reggae, disco, and rap.
(p. 19)
As with the rise of music as commodity, this overabundance is part of a

broader trend that extends to other areas including academic scholarship
(Jensen, 2007). Chiasson captures the sense of both something gained and
something changed, in his formulation, something lost. In the context of
Chiasson’s review, the Stones emerged, in part, due to recordings. However,
it was not enough that they lived in a time when recordings existed; they
lived in the recording era when scarcity created a yearning that does not
exist in a new media era replete with content. We might agree, or begin to
imagine that as Gould foresaw new vistas of possibility we can also imagine
new ways that young people will find opportunities to distinguish them-
selves to create new music that resonates.
The new media locus can therefore be distinguished from the recording
locus in increasing the availability of the means of production and distribu-
tion. The locus is also characterized by the further rise of the participant
listener to roles that could be considered, in an earlier era, only within the
realm of producers, creators, and performers. More members of society are
taking advantage of the means to make and share their ideas globally via
the Internet (whether poems, stories, or songs), and this has combined with
the digital availability of historic and corporate content, with a resultant
overabundance of creative content available. Although a more nuanced
understanding of this era will certainly emerge, it is not too early to begin
to make sense of the possibilities and opportunities for music education in
a new media era.
MADLIB AS NEW MEDIA ARTIST
To better understand some of the values and practices of the new media
era, this article now considers as an emblematic example Otis Jackson Jr.,
who performs under many monikers but is best known as Madlib. His
name aptly recalls Mad Libs, the fill-in-the-blank games that originated in
the 1950s, an approach Jackson uses in his music and even in his fictional
biography, which samples heavily from that of Redd Foxx (Stones Throw
Records, n.d.a.). His work illuminates many of the avenues by which musi-
cians are expanding their horizons, creating in new ways, and using samples
of music to connect with audiences beyond performance.
Madlib, like many musicians today, does much of his recording and music
making from a home studio, profiled in the book Behind the Beat: Hip
Hop Home Studios (Raph, 2005, pp. 99–105). His home studio is emblem-
atic of new media music production: it is filled with tens of thousands of
records from which he draws samples, beats, and ideas. Also visible are
many traditional instruments: drum set, double bass, various percussion,
and piano keyboard. Additionally, one can see a host of production tools
such as mixers, microphones, turntables, and sample trigger hardware.
The rise of the home studio can certainly be seen as part of the larger
trend of the democratization of tools and means of distribution previously
limited to corporations. Previously, most distributed music came about
through studios such as Abbey Road or Motown, what Cogan and Clark
(2003) capture with the title of their book Temples of Sound. The rise of the
home studio is made possible by the lowered cost of computing and record-
ing equipment. As a consequence, this equipment has become a central part
of the creative process. Whereas Gould would go to a studio to record,
Madlib’s and others’ work relies on constant access to studio tools that
supplement or replace more traditional instruments as the vehicle for musi-
cal creativity. In short, a studio is his primary instrument. Frere-Jones (2008)
notes how the studio-based musician has become the emblematic musician
of the new media locus, writing of producer Flying Lotus, “His setup is typi-
cal of the twenty-first-century musician: a collection of laptops, keyboards,
and processing units, none of them large and most of them portable” (p. 2).
Madlib’s voice is extended using technologies, for instance through his
work under the alter ego Quasimoto. As Quasimoto, he raps with a voice
pitched higher than Madlib’s voice. This is achieved by first making a beat,
then rapping atop a slowed-down version, then returning the combined
recording back to the original speed. This higher voice is mixed into the
final recordings alongside Madlib’s voice at the original pitch, allowing for
contrasts and conversations.
In another creative approach, Madlib began releasing recordings in 2001
under the name Yesterday’s New Quintet, which consisted solely of Jackson
recording all the instruments while listing fictitious collaborators with color-
ful names like Malik Flavors, Monk Hughes, and Joe McDuphrey. In some
instances, he samples previous recordings of himself, and subsequent record-
ings made through the same process were released under a further list of new
group names like The Jazzistics, The Young Jazz Rebels, Suntouch, The Last
Electro-Acoustic Space Jazz & Percussion Ensemble, and The Yesterdays
Universe All-Stars. The use of real instruments but a host of pseudonyms
creates a link to the obscurity hip-hop producers prize, the delight in finding
recordings of forgotten and failed musicians who might have left behind a
few seconds that can be looped or recombined to be given new life.
Similar to a jazz musician who intentionally inserts quotes of other songs
into their solos, today’s producers weave webs of significance that combine
a knowledge of songs and how they have been used by producers. Joseph
Schloss (2004) presents an example from Madlib that must be quoted at
length due to the richness of connections:
An unusually overt example of this philosophy can be found in a cover

version of the song “Daylight” that appears on the 2001 album Angles
without Edges by Yesterday’s New Quintet (a pseudonym of the pro-
ducer Madlib). The original version of the song was recorded in 1977
by RAMP on their album Come into My Knowledge. It is best known
among producers because a two-bar sample of its melody provided
the basis for the classic hip-hop song “Bonita Applebaum” by A Tribe
Called Quest on their 1990 album People’s Instinctive Travels and the
Paths of Rhythm.
As a result of being sampled, the previously obscure RAMP album
became highly prized by hip-hop producers, sometimes selling for hun-
dreds of dollars, until it was reissued on vinyl in the late 1990s. On
the Yesterday’s New Quintet album, Madlib constructs a cover ver-
sion of “Daylight” from samples of other songs (augmented by his
own keyboard work). Moreover, the rhythm of Madlib’s drum track
is not based on the rhythm of the original version of “Daylight,” but
on the drum loop that A Tribe Called Quest combined it with to make
“Bonita Applebaum,” taken from the blues-rock band Little Feat. In
short, Madlib’s version of “Daylight” is a virtuoso demonstration of
production technique and knowledge, referencing the social and eco-
nomic history of a commodity (the RAMP album), its use in the hip-
hop community (“Bonita Applebaum”), and Madlib’s relationship to
both.
(pp. 158–9)
Madlib completes a cycle: the 1977 album has a short portion sampled,
numerous producers use it in combination with other samples for their own
work, and Madlib comes along and incorporates samples of their songs,
along with his own instrument playing, to produce a cover of the original
song that is aware of the numerous other uses. For a listener steeped in hip-
hop, Madlib creates a work that acknowledges the recording as only the
beginning of a creative process of reinterpretation. This process has even
been welcomed by record labels, with Madlib invited by Blue Note records
to remix their catalog, released as Shades of Blue, another album that seam-
lessly mixes samples and remixes with overdubbed instruments.
Madlib has plundered from and reworked his own releases, notably his
work with MF DOOM as the group Madvillain. Their 2004 album Mad-
villainy was a critical success, with Madlib’s production captured by New
Yorker critic Frere-Jones (2004): “Madlib, especially, seems able to hide
music inside other music. His samples lie on each other like double expo-
sures, or like a cassette tape that allows the previous recording to bleed
through the new one.” Four years later, Madlib released a new album, Mad-
villainy 2—The Madlib Remix, consisting of the original rhymes by MF
DOOM atop all new beats, giving the same recordings of the rap an entirely
new sonic context.
When recordings largely replace performing, it is possible to release more
recordings, and Madlib’s official discography on the Stones Throw record
label’s website (Stones Throw Records, n.d.b), accessed in July of 2011,
quantifies and categorizes his releases as follows: 113 entries for “Artist/
Group Recordings,” 6 entries under “MC (not producer),” 79 entries for
“Producer,” 22 entries for “Remixes,” and 18 entries for “Mixtapes, Video,
Promo, Misc.” In other words, in the 15 years Madlib has been commer-
cially releasing recordings, he has released on average 14.7 recordings each
year, for a total of 220 releases (and this figure omits works distributed on
the Internet but not commercially released). In 2010 alone, he put out a
series called “Madlib Medicine Show,” which was described in the press
release as:
a once-a-month, twelve-CD, six-LP series through the year of 2010 on

his own imprint, Madlib Invazion. Odd numbers, beginning with #1 in
Jan. 2010, will be original hip-hop, remix, beat tape and jazz produc-
tions; even numbers will be mixtapes of funk, soul, Brazilian, psych,
jazz and other undefined forms of music from the Beat Konducta’s
4-ton stack of vinyl.
(Stones Throw Records, 2009)
The even-numbered releases are mixtapes, Madlib works due to the kinds
of changes Gould foresaw for the participant listener: Madlib’s shortening
or lengthening or excerpting of a recording; the change of pitch or tempo;
the juxtaposition of tunes on the particular mix; and the layering and mixing
in of other material. Madlib often includes spoken word text of old “party
records,” explicit comedy from African American performers like Redd Fox
or Moms Mabley. Several of these mixes are released under another name,
Beat Konducta, one that playfully joins the classical notion of a conductor
with one who works with previously recorded beats.
Madlib exemplifies some of the possibilities of music in the new media
era: the ability to build new creations from existing recordings from across
history and around the world, the ability to play traditional instruments in
new and old contexts, the home studio as a central creative tool, and the use
of recordings and the Internet as primary venues for sharing music. While
much room for greater understanding and consideration of Madlib’s ways
of making music exist, music educators are increasingly addressing these
kinds of creativity (Burnard, 2012; Randles, 2012; Tobias, 2015).
HEARING A NEW MUSIC EDUCATION STORY
The story of music in the 20th century presented here foregrounds the
increasing importance of sound recording, and the narrative draws a dis-
tinction between musical experiences had through performance, recording,
and new media. An aim of this story is to complicate our notions of per-
formance in a new media era. One hundred years ago, performance could
viably be said to account for nearly all musical experience; today, perfor-
mance is an increasingly diminished portion of our overall experiences with
music, and in the case of some types of music, an impossibility.
To illustrate the changes of the shifting locus, this article focused on sub-
jective musical experience as presented in “The Dead” and “Modulation,”
and also by tracking practices of musicians who are emblematic of each
locus—Sousa, Gould, and Madlib. Through the work of these writers and
musicians, large shifts are apparent. These shifts are consequential for edu-
cators because, as the locus of experience shifted, differing musical habits
were formed. Marx, quoted previously, argued for recognition of the role
played by modernity in the formation of the senses. Adorno (2009) wrote
in the late 1930s of the problem of a “new type of human being” (p. 461),
arguing against the notion that human nature is unchanging and that, “in
certain situations, this culture becomes such a contrast to real living condi-
tions that it can no longer carry out the task imposed on it. . . . The fic-
tion is maintained that inducing people to listen to Beethoven symphonies,
read Milton, and gaze upon Raphael madonnas [sic] is equally ‘progressive’
and humanistic at all times” (pp. 461–2). Adorno, like Marx, saw radical
changes in the social conditions and productive forces brought about in con-
cert with modernization and technologization, writing, “Regardless of how
educators might assess such issues as drive structure, sublimation or culture,
their work is only of use if their reflections take the real changes that have
gone on, both in people and in the power of culture, into account without
any illusions” (p. 462).
It may be the case that little, if anything, of the new media locus as evoked
by Powers can meaningfully be taught through performance. This musical
world of data is largely foreign to music education practices characterized
by competitions and festivals, emulation of military bands, and makers of
traditional band and orchestra instruments. As Cavicchi (2009) notes about
what I describe as the recording locus:
The recording industry has been in existence since the 1910s, urban
blues and rock ’n’ roll have been around since the 1940s, and MTV’s
codification of music and fashion is over twenty years old now. Yet
only rarely do the behaviors associated with modern, commercial, and
popular music—from DJing and dance to power chords and social
protest—make it onto the radar of school musicality, except as phe-
nomena to ignore or even oppose.
(p. 103)
In “The Dead,” Mary Jane says that she’d give anything to hear Caruso.
Some music educators may believe that we did give up everything special
about music, gaining the ability to hear Caruso’s wonderful voice for eter-
nity in exchange for the humanity and soul estranged by the preservation
process. For those music educators who remain wedded to the performance
locus and the values that flow from it, they will continue to hold similar
beliefs, perhaps to notice only what is lost, and to cling to the idea that only
live performance can provide worthwhile musical experiences. This paper
makes clear that this is far from the only option, and that other ways to
understand and appreciate differing mediated networks of music exist—
ways that educators can both enjoy and understand, including how these
practices change the context and meaning of performance approaches.
Mediated networks are consequential for educators, above all, because
these networks are the locus of musical experience from which habits
emerge, the networks within which the majority of musical experience
occurs today. People today have experiences predominantly through new
media, which afford a different set of possibilities and different kinds of
experience than when music was primarily experienced through physical
recordings and radio broadcasts, or had via performances. From an educa-
tional standpoint, habits connected with these shifting loci are constitutive
of notions of self, identity, and culture. Even when making music in the
traditional context, such as a church choir, it can be argued that the sing-
ers and audience bring with them habits formed in the new media locus of
music as data, habits with different expectations and aspirations than those
in Joyce’s time.
It is beyond the scope of this paper to settle these issues. My goal instead
has been merely to raise them to the attention of the field—to provide a
sense, a story, of some of the ways that technological innovation resonates
with changes in educational ideas. Hearing these resonances might lead to
alternate histories of some of the central movements within music education.
We might hear music appreciation as a technological practice, or reconsider
the introduction of recordings into pedagogy through the Suzuki approach.
We might notice how SmartMusic is an example of the rising importance
of algorithms for music education (Thibeault, 2014). These kinds of efforts
might better connect music education with the field of sound studies, and
build upon not only the work of current scholars (Pinch & Bijsterveld, 2012;
Sterne, 2012b), but the music educators whose work has inspired those in
sound studies, most notably Schafer (1977/1994) and Small (1977, 1998). It
would be a welcome development for music educators once again to engage
in the kinds of ideas once popular in our field, one where we surely still have
valued contributions to make.
My hope is that this paper, while at times speculative, nevertheless artic-
ulates a way of thinking about the mediated networks involving sound,
education, and technology that resonate in a meaningful way for educa-
tors. We can hear the world anew, we can hear our practices as educators
anew, and we can shift our dreams for the future based on a different
understanding of the past. It is a project both pleasurable and rewarding,
one that invites not only the social sciences but the humanities to help
enhance the conduct of educational practice as it relates to all aspects of
music in the world today.
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7 Inter/Trans/Multi/Cross/
New Media(ting)
Navigating an Emerging Landscape
of Digital Media for Music Education
Evan S. Tobias
On a September evening in 2008, I sat in Gammage auditorium at Arizona

State University with my laptop on as a concert began. Normally, in such
formal concert settings, my typing and glowing screen in the darkness might
be considered rude. In this case, conference organizers encouraged audi-
ence members to make use of a dedicated online chat room throughout the
concert. Several audience members discussed the music, composers, sound
of the performers, and other related or unrelated issues online while located
in a specified area in the hall. I was captivated by this experiential layer
juxtaposed with the physicality of being in the concert hall and the music
to which I was listening, a convergence of physical and virtual presence
afforded by digital media while attending a concert. I was able to interact
with the music and others in the physical place of the concert hall in ways
that would not have occurred without digital media.
This is but one example of how digital media are playing an increasing
role in how people experience and engage with the arts in general (Burnard,
2011; Partti, 2012; Partti & Karlsen, 2010; Väkevä, 2009; Webster, 2007).
The rate at which technology advances and the varied ways digital media
intersect with musical engagement present ongoing challenges to music
educators interested in addressing such developments. Developing under-
standing of the landscape of digital media in relation to the arts and artis-
tic practices can assist music educators in making sense of a confounding
array of media content, constructs, characteristics, and technological tools
or techniques (Jenkins, 2006a, 2006b; Lister, Dovey, Giddings, Grant, &
Kelly, 2009; Manovich, 2002; Miller, 2011).
In line with this book’s theme of navigating the future of music educa-
tion, this chapter serves as a starting point to orient ourselves amidst such a
landscape and inform how music educators might negotiate complex rela-
tionships between digital media, music, and musicking. After a brief intro-
duction to intersections of media and musicking and describing the notion
of new or digital media, I outline two types of cultural contexts in which
people engage with media. I then highlight three frameworks with poten-
tial to assist music educators in making sense of digital media, envisioning
92 Evan S. Tobias
related pedagogy and curriculum, and developing critical perspectives that
balance possibilities with potential negative aspects of integrating digital
media in music programs (Ruthmann et al., 2015; Ferneding, 2007).
While some might consider how digital media and the frameworks out-
lined throughout this chapter might be addressed in the context of particular
pedagogies or in existing curricular structures such as bands, orchestras,
choruses, or general music classes, this chapter emphasizes new possibilities
for musicking and music education. As music educators continue to rec-
oncile the types and rate of evolution or transformation of music teaching
and learning most appropriate for students in the 21st century (Jorgensen,
2003; Kratus, 2007; Miksza, 2013; Regelski, 2013; Tobias, 2013; Williams,
2007, 2011), this chapter challenges the maintenance of the status quo while
encouraging music education to at minimum acknowledge the possibilities,
challenges, and problematic aspects of digital media while making space for
a broader range of creative musical engagement.
INTERSECTIONS OF DIGITAL MEDIA,

MUSIC, AND MUSICKING
The pervasiveness of digital media in contemporary society extends to

spaces such as concert halls that have traditionally encouraged people to put
away technologies that could distract from what occurs on stage. Cultural
organizations such as symphony orchestras are leveraging digital media to
engage the public in new ways, ranging from encouraging people to tweet
about concerts in Tweet Seats (Berger, 2011; Hondl, 2012; Wise, 2011), to
inviting submissions of melodies via web-based notation applications such
as Noteflight to inspire an improvisation streamed live online (Detroit Sym-
phony Orchestra, 2012). During popular music and many outdoor concerts
it is standard for people to take photos, record video, text friends, update
Facebook, or Tweet about their experiences with mobile devices.
Contemporary musical engagement is often saturated and intertwined
with digital media. Web-based services such as Spotify and Pandora mediate
listening while interfaces and controllers can mediate how one creates and
performs music. Whether MIDI controllers used to perform recorded audio
and video,1 or tactile controllers such as mobile tablets with applications
such as Samplr that allow one to manipulate sound,2 digital media opens
a range of musical possibilities and challenges in terms of musical engage-
ment and the relationships between people and technology. Music educators
are gradually incorporating such media and technology into their teaching.
While related discourse can often focus on particular technologies or appli-
cations, a growing number of music educators who address technology and
digital media in their research and practice are signaling a turn from a focus
on technology to a broader and more nuanced perspective that includes
media and new media to inform pedagogy and curriculum.
Inter/Trans/Multi/Cross/New Media(ting) 93
In discussing the relationship between media and music, Thibeault (2012)
emphasizes that “the ideas that come from media are inextricably linked
with technology, but they organize a set of concerns in a different way . . .
[including] questions about the uses, indications, and new aggregations of
society that emerge in interplay with technologies” (p. 519). Gee (2010)
discusses growing interest in digital media and learning and suggests that
educators look beyond digital tools to consider “new forms of convergent
media, production, and participation as well as powerful forms of social
organization and complexity in popular culture” to think more broadly
about learning in and out of school (p. 14). If music education is to fully
address the complexities of digital media and its relationship with music,
musicking, learning, and teaching, it is critical to expand beyond a focus
on tools and techniques and to consider the larger contexts and systems in
which media, musicking, and education exist.
Researchers are addressing how new media and music-focused social net-
works can support musicianship and foster communities of practice related
to musical engagement (Partti & Karlsen, 2010; Salavuo, 2006; Waldron,
2009, 2011) and teaching (Bauer, 2010; Ruthmann, 2007; Ruthmann &
Hebert, 2012). The recently published second volume of the Oxford Hand-
book of Music Education (McPherson & Welch, 2012) contains separate
sections on Music Learning and Teaching through Technology and Media,
Music, and Education. The media section addresses themes such as sound
recording and post-performance (Thibeault, 2012), new literacies and inter-
active media such as videogames (Tobias, 2012a), performing with digital
and multimedia systems (Brown & Dillon, 2012), and virtual and hybrid
learning environments (Ruthmann & Hebert, 2012).
Those interested in addressing contemporary media can quickly become
overwhelmed in an endless array of content. Without conceptual frame-
works to make sense of the multitude of media, music educators might
focus on particular technologies, techniques, or media examples and miss
larger contexts or ideas that inform musical engagement, pedagogy, and
curriculum. Furthermore, Ferneding (2005, 2007) cautions arts educators
to be wary of adopting a technocentric perspective in which technology
is celebrated uncritically and related social, cultural, or political systems
are ignored. Ferneding (2005) thus stresses the importance of addressing
the nature and ethics of technology and science in arts curricula. Ferneding
(2007) urges arts educators to critique technology from a philosophical per-
spective and address the relationship between values and technology.
DIGITAL MEDIA
Medium 2: a means of effecting or conveying something: as

a (1): a substance regarded as the means of transmission of a force or
effect (2): a surrounding or enveloping substance.
94 Evan S. Tobias
b plural usually media (1): a channel or system of communication,
information, or entertainment—compare mass medium (3): a mode of
artistic expression or communication.
(Merriam-Webster, n.d.)
Digital media are media in digital form and are often referred to as new
media (Gee, 2010; Jackson, 2001; Lister et al., 2009; Manovich, 2002).
Lister, Dovey, Giddings, Grant, and Kelly (2009) highlight how the term
new media avoids reducing such media to technical or formal definitions,
stressing single aspects of the media, or particular technologies or practices
(p. 12). Given that the term new media can be problematic in terms of its
multiplicities, fluidity, and temporal or cultural issues regarding what is or
is not considered “new,” it is sometimes used interchangeably with digital
media.
The types of media to which the terms new media and digital media refer,
along with related aspects of engagement, interaction, and participation they
foster or limit, pose challenges to music educators. For the purpose of this
chapter I will refer primarily to digital media rather than new media. More
specifically I will address multimedia, intermedia, and transmedia as ways
of framing digital media and its potential integration in music programs.
To situate how people engage with music in relation to digital media, I
offer the conceptual frameworks of convergence culture and participatory
culture (Jenkins, 2006a, 2006b). Rather than thinking of these frameworks
as the only ways to conceptualize digital media and music, I encourage
readers to see convergence and participatory cultures as helpful for con-
sidering how digital media might be integrated in music programs in ways
that account for more than specific tools or techniques. While digital media
content such as sound recordings, music videos, graphic user interfaces for
controlling sound, or even code can all be valuable when contextualized for
music teaching and learning, this chapter focuses on content that includes
multiple media and how media can mediate musical engagement and learn-
ing. It is critical that music educators view such aspects of digital media in
connection with specific media, media practices, particular contexts, and
people’s artistic engagement to avoid reducing related dialogue to discrete
characteristics or technologies. For this reason, this chapter focuses primar-
ily on cultural contexts and overarching frameworks of which digital media
are a part.
CULTURAL CONTEXTS OF MEDIA ENGAGEMENT
Helibroner’s (1967) question “What is the mediating role played by technol-

ogy within modern Western society?” (p. 344) might be reframed in the con-
text of music education to think deeply about how media mediate people’s
musical experience. However, while media can mediate one’s experience and
engagement with music, educators ought to be cautious of framing media
or technology as determining one’s musical engagement, experience, or
learning (see Ruthmann et al. in this book pp. 122–138). By situating digital
media within social and cultural contexts, music educators might develop
nuanced and sophisticated ways of integrating media in music programs
while attending to the ways that media can mediate students’ engagement
and learning. Similarly, music educators ought to acknowledge how digital
media are socially constructed. This means that media and the ways people
conceptualize or engage with media are informed by particular traditions,
values, experiences, and worldviews. The following two frameworks of con-
vergence culture and participatory culture may be useful for music educa-
tors interested in thinking about aspects of digital media in larger contexts
and considering how digital media might be integrated in music programs.
Convergence Culture(s) and Participatory Culture(s)

Jenkins (2006a) uses the term convergence to articulate the flow of con-
tent across multiple media platforms, the cooperation between multiple
media industries, and the migratory behavior of media audiences who will
go almost anywhere in search of the kinds of entertainment experiences
they want (p. 2). He suggests that convergence should be viewed as a cul-
tural shift rather than a purely technical process given altered relationships
“between existing technologies, industries, markets, genres, and audiences”
and changes in how media are produced and consumed (pp. 15–16). Music
educators might consider how convergence culture is occurring in the arts
as well as the potential for convergence in music programs.
What does convergence culture mean for musicians? The musician Beck
Hansen (n.d.) exemplified how an artist might reconcile newer and older
media when he released an album in the form of a song reader with his
music notated on sheet music for people to engage with. While composers
and songwriters regularly create music to be performed by others, Beck devi-
ated from the role of artists in popular culture providing fans with definitive
versions of their songs and instead encouraged the public to share their own
versions of his notated music. These older media forms and ways of engaging
with music converged with newer media and ways of sharing music when
people uploaded videos of themselves performing the music to YouTube,
which were featured on Songreader.net. In this case Beck engaged in what
might be considered a traditional process of distributing composed music
via standard notation while embracing the ethic of people posting videos of
themselves performing their interpretations of music to share with others.
Music educators might consider how integrating new media along with
related principles and practices in music programs could occur in the con-
text of convergence culture. This means addressing how people engage with
intersections of older and newer media as well as how digital media might
mediate musical engagement and learning in the context of music programs.
96 Evan S. Tobias
In other words, new media and contemporary musical practices can coexist
with acoustic music and musicking or other older ways of engaging with
music (Tobias, 2013). Jenkins (2006a) argues that in convergence culture,
“old media are not being displaced. Rather, their functions and status are
shifted by the introduction of new technologies” (p. 14).
This has significant implications for both the types of music and media
we include in music programs along with the opportunities we afford young
people in terms of musical engagement. A perspective of convergence allows
for creative ways of integrating digital and analog media and music in vir-
tual or physical spaces and places. In such scenarios one might find students
musicking in variegated combinations of instruments and equipment, such
as a group of young people creating and performing music together with
trumpets, saxophones, electric guitars, mobile devices, MIDI controllers,
and laptops, while located in different physical places.
Rather than simply integrating a particular technology, tool, technique,
or type of media, music educators ought to consider questions such as: How
might music be experienced in terms of digital media? What aspects of digi-
tal media are beneficial or problematic in terms of engaging with or develop-
ing understanding of music? What cultural shifts or convergence might take
place if new media texts, processes, practices, and aesthetics are included in
music programs? Reconciling such questions can assist music educators in
avoiding a deterministic approach to integrating new media (see Ruthmann
et al. in this book, pp. 122–138).
Closely related to convergence culture is a participatory culture charac-
terized by:
Relatively low barriers to artistic expression and civic engagement,

strong support for creating and sharing creations with others, some
type of informal mentorship whereby what is known by the most expe-
rienced is passed along to novices, members who believe that their
contributions matter, and members who feel some degree of social con-
nection with one another (at the least they care what other people think
about what they have created).
(Jenkins, Purushotma, Weigel, Clinton, & Robison, 2009, p. 5–6)
Jenkins, Purushotma, Weigel, Clinton, and Robison (2009) outline a

range of participatory cultural forms such as (1) affiliations: formal and
informal memberships in online communities centered around various
forms of media such as The Online Academy of Irish Music (Waldron,
2011), YouTube, or the music education Twitter group #musedchat that
meets online on Monday evenings; (2) expressions: producing new creative
forms, such as remixes, mash-ups, sample-based productions, or interactive
music videos; (3) collaborative problem solving: working together in formal
or informal teams to complete tasks and develop new knowledge such as a
recent public effort to determine if the show Glee used Jonathan Coulton’s
(2013) acoustic arrangement of Sir Mix A Lot’s “Baby Got Back”; and (4)
circulations: shaping the flow of media such as blogging, tweeting, or creat-
ing media-based narratives such as on Storify.com (p. 9).
That people engage with one another and media in these ways is not
specific to a digital context, although digital media support such practices
(Ito, 2006, 2007; Jenkins, 2006b; Löwgren, 2010). Participatory cultures in
which people engage and interact with media prior to the prevalence of digi-
tal technology range from performing in community music groups to creat-
ing and distributing comic books and zines. Jenkins (2006a, 2006b), for
instance, discusses how fans engaged with texts prior to web-based media
by creating additional or alternative narratives known as fan fiction that are
connected to plotlines or characters. Acknowledging older media practices
that did not rely on technology for participation, Ito (2006) argues that “the
new technologies of internet communication and exchange are produced by
old fan activity as much as they are productive of new forms of social and
cultural practice” (p. 52).
Addressing the role that contemporary technology and media play in
how people engage with cultural texts, Jenkins et al. (2009) describe how
“participatory culture is emerging as the culture absorbs and responds to
the explosion of new media technologies that make it possible for average
consumers to archive, annotate, appropriate, and recirculate media content
in powerful new ways” (p. 8). As Deuze (2006) emphasizes, “People not
only have come to expect participation from the media, they increasingly
have found ways to enact this participation in the multiple ways they use
and make media” (p. 68). The type of participatory culture that Jenkins
et al. (2009) describe is not specific to digital media but is characteristic of
how many people engage with digital media in contemporary society.
Before delving into digital media and how it supports participatory cul-
ture, it might be helpful to frame participatory practices in music that are
less focused on digital mediation. In highlighting diverse examples of par-
ticipatory musicking that occur in more acoustic settings throughout soci-
ety, Regelski (2013) suggests that music educators acknowledge and include
a broader range of performing experiences that better reflect how people
engage in music outside of school music programs. Thibeault and Evoy
(2011) provide a rich sense of how participatory music practices might occur
in a school setting in the context of a Homebrew Ukulele Union (HUU) that
incorporates resources such as YouTube videos but focuses on the social
participatory musicking through building ukuleles; sharing, learning, creat-
ing, and performing music on ukuleles; and connecting with the local com-
munity. Citing musical traditions such as Sacred Harp singing and the punk
do-it-yourself (DIY) ethic and describing the HUU, Thibeault discusses how
this approach to doing and learning music is representative of what Turino
(2008) refers to as participatory music.
In making a strong case for considering multiple fields of musical prac-
tice, Turino (2008) describes participatory performance as “a special type
98 Evan S. Tobias
of artistic practice in which there are no artist-audience distinctions, only
participants and potential participants performing in different roles, and
the primary goal is to involve the maximum number of people in some
performance role” (p. 26). Turino differs participatory performance with
presentational performance, which “refers to situations where one group
of people, the artists, prepare and provide music for another group, the
audience, who do not participate in making the music or dancing” (p. 26).
Turino also discusses how high fidelity recordings and studio audio art con-
stitute two additional fields that differ from participatory music and are
more connected to presentational music through the creation of recordings
that are intended to be listened to.
Jenkins et al.’s (2009) framework of participatory culture is helpful for
addressing musical practices that involve affiliations, expressions, collab-
orative problem solving, and circulations of original and existing music
and media, whether live or recorded. This framework is particularly helpful
in making sense of such musical engagement that is participatory but not
necessarily in the context of participatory performance practices as framed
by Turino (2008). For instance, one can find countless examples of people
engaging with popular music or other musics they find meaningful by cre-
ating cover versions, arrangements, parodies, satires, multitrack-produced
versions, remixes, sample-based productions, mash-ups, tutorials, remedia-
tions into other types of content and practices such as movement or visual
media, or commenting on and discussing the media through social media
and websites (Tobias, 2013).
Turino (2008) accounts for additional ways that people can engage in
participatory musicking, suggesting that the four fields he outlines (par-
ticipatory live performance, presentational live performance, high fidelity
recording music, and studio audio art recording music) ought to be seen as
a continuum and in terms of potential combinations rather than “airtight
rubrics for neatly categorizing styles of music” (p. 88). While the videos
and music people create and share may be considered presentational, the
practices and ways that others engage with these various versions of music
can be viewed as existing within participatory cultures that extend beyond
performing and where the social aspect is more distributed across time and
space via digital mediation.
Löwgren (2010) suggests considering new media as a type of participa-
tory media, arguing that “the culture of the participatory media are marked
strongly by creative appropriation . . . [and] that people’s engagement in the
participatory media is fundamentally social in nature” (p. 22). In addition
to Turino’s (2008) framework for understanding fields of practice and spe-
cifically participatory music through performance, music educators might
benefit from frameworks such as Jenkins’s (2006b) notion of participatory
culture to make sense of how people engage with music in the context of
participatory practices outside the realm of participatory live performance.
By acknowledging such cultural contexts, educators might better understand
new media practices, media art works, and ways that people engage with
music in the context of media. This in turn can inform the development of
appropriate pedagogy and curricula.
AN EMERGING LANDSCAPE OF DIGITAL MEDIA:

THREE FRAMEWORKS
When situated in social and cultural contexts, a closer look at types of

media can expand our thinking further in terms of musical and media
engagement that might be included in contemporary music programs. This
section outlines multimedia, intermedia, and transmedia as overarching
frameworks for navigating the landscape of new and digital media and
developing pathways forward to address media with potential for musical
engagement, teaching, and learning. Any borders between these frame-
works ought to be seen as fluid and overlapping. While labels sometimes
have the tendency to encourage categorization or organization, this sec-
tion invites ways of thinking about and engaging with digital media and
music to catalyze possibilities in music education. This section also con-
tributes a small part of larger efforts needed to develop a critical lens from
which to make sense of the existing, emerging, and evolving digital media
landscape.
Multimedia3
The very term multimedia forefronts the idea that multiple types of media
can and do coexist or work together as a medium or form of content. Music
educators have long included relationships between music and film, art
works, or written texts (Barrett, McCoy, & Veblen, 1997; Jenkins, 2008;
Lum, 2009; McConnell, 1947). From a pedagogical perspective, music edu-
cators often include visualizations of music such as listening maps (Blair,
2008; Dunn, 2006; Kerchner, 2009). The digital nature of digital media sup-
ports compelling ways to interact with or visualize music unavailable with
static or standard notation. For instance, Thibeault (2011) makes a case
for analyzing music with multimedia spectrograms as a way for students to
look at sound and notice aspects of music that are not communicated with
standard notation. Digital media support a spectrum of music visualization
and notation systems that can be animated and synchronized with sound.
Multimedia such as the vertical scrolling icons synced with sound in the
application Synthesia,4 highlighted standard notation synced with YouTube
videos in MuseScore,5 videos of select components of scores with accompa-
nying music,6 and close up views of one performing music combined with
information such as chords in music tutorials posted online,7 all demon-
strate how people leverage multimedia to mediate musical engagement in
contemporary culture.
100 Evan S. Tobias
Deemer (2013) discusses how composers are creating and sharing video
scores that focus on or animate notation with accompanying music to gener-
ate interest in their work. He draws attention to how viewing video scores
can bring certain aspects of the music into focus. While such media are not
yet used as notation for performers, media could be used to communicate
music to performers or listeners. As access to and understanding of digital
media increases among musicians, the notion of standard notation will need
to evolve along with how people leverage technology to communicate and
visualize music.
The ability to emphasize relationships between visual image and music
through digital media also allows for interpretive, artistic, and multimedia
analyses of music. For instance, one can combine a digital music recording
with imagery and text providing information about the music as YouTube
user Steve Macready did to create video analyses of art music.8 Visual and
sonic arrangements of music that leverage multitracking are also perva-
sive online such as those created by YouTube users Arronicstuff9 and Mike
Tompkins.10 Given the interactive potential of digital media and the desire
of many to engage with music in participatory culture, platforms such as
Soundcloud.com, Hooktheory.com, and YouTab.me support multimedia
musical analyses via the Internet. The ability to embed comments directly
in the context of music, as with Soundcloud, or synchronize music and
video with animated melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic information, as with
Hooktheory and YouTab, exemplifies how new media, multimedia, and
multimodality can afford engaging ways for people to interact with and
develop musical understanding.
Webb’s (2010) notion of cross-modal listening clips, or CLCs, provides a
helpful heuristic for understanding similar types of media and engagement.
Webb (2010) explains that:
The image content of CLCs is inextricably linked to, derived from and/
or strongly responsive to the properties (rhythmic, melodic, textural,
structural, and so on) of the musical “script” it is aligned with. As a
result, a reciprocal relationship occurs between how one interprets the
image content and how one listens to the music of a CLC.
(p. 315)
In other words, CLCs serve as an overarching category encompassing dig-

ital media where the visual imagery closely align with and relate to specific
aspects of music. CLC’s can range from direct correlations between sound
and imagery, such as in Stephen Malinowski’s animated graphical score of
Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring,11 to visual interpretations of music, such as in
Michal Levy’s digital animation of musician Jason Lindner’s jazz composi-
tion, One.12 Students’ engagement with and creation of such types of multi-
media can open spaces to explore music in deep and meaningful ways. Given
the relationships between the media and music, CLCs and similar media
can mediate musical experience and understanding. Furthermore, providing
students opportunities to engage with CLCs and similar multimodal mul-
timedia might provide a foundation for related lifelong musicking beyond
school contexts.
Webb’s (2010) work with CLCs is helpful in providing a concrete frame-
work for leveraging new media for pedagogical and artistic purposes and
means. We might for instance consider a convergence between paper listen-
ing maps as older media and newer digital media to develop multimedia and
even interactive visualizations of music. Similarly, the intersection of aural
and analytical skills, theoretical knowledge, and digital media in the context
of CLCs is representative of convergence culture. Such work involves aural,
analytical, and technical skills, musical understanding, and musical decision
making. Given the broad range and sheer multitude of media that visualize
music in varied ways online, it seems that many people enjoy musicking in
this way. This type of musical and media engagement is reflective of partici-
patory culture.
To summarize, the combination of multiple media forms such as sound
and imagery can be considered multimedia. As with other media forms,
people can create and interact with multimedia art. In the context of this
chapter, multimedia can be digital in nature, and therefore a form of digi-
tal media. By allowing for the combination of visual imagery and sound,
multimedia support expansive ways to present musical information ranging
from animated scores using standard notation to animated iconic repre-
sentations of sound. In some cases, applications, software, and interactive
media take advantage of multimedia to help people learn or engage with
music by emphasizing connections between sound and imagery. Multimedia
can also be interpretive of music. On the other hand, music can be but one
component of multimedia in response to visual media. People of varied skill
levels can create multimedia that highlight or connect with aspects of music.
Members of the public can also share, discuss, and circulate multimedia
online through social media (Jenkins et al., 2009). When emphasizing music,
educators might benefit from considering the engagement with and creation
of multimedia as a form of musicking.
Intermedia
Though not exclusive to digital media, the characteristics and principles of
new media allow for content that blurs lines between existing forms, catego-
ries, or labels. Fluid in nature, intermedia can be seen as both an in between
state between media (Higgins, 2001) as well as a “fusion of several media
into a new medium—the intermedium—that supposedly is more than the
sum of its parts (Schröter, 2012, p. 16). Rajewsky (2005) describes a process
of media combination which is “the result or the very process of combining
at least two conventionally distinct media or medial forms of articulation”
(p. 52). Rajewsky (2005) explains that “these two media or medial forms
102 Evan S. Tobias
of articulation are each present in their own materiality and contribute to
the constitution and signification of the entire product in their own specific
way” (p. 52). What differentiates intermedia from multimedia is the degree
to which the combined media are interconnected, though this is a fine line
that in many cases could be debated.
Schröter (2012) suggests that some instances and perspectives of interme-
dia are similar to Wagner’s notion of Gesamtkunstwerk in favoring inter-
connected media over monomedia. Drawing on the work of Higgins (2001),
Schröter (2012) explains how:
In mixed media the mediated forms meeting there can at any time be
regarded by the viewer as separate while in intermedia or in intermedial
forms a conceptual fusion occurs, making it impossible to view only
one of its origins. Rather, it forces the viewer into perceiving them as
simultaneous and inseparable.
(p. 19)
Media such as Booktrack,13 which embeds sounds and music into an

electronic text, could be considered intermedia, mixed media, or multime-
dia depending on one’s perspective, the relationship between the media,
how they are integrated in the end product, and how one engages with the
media. Thinking through such issues may be helpful to students interested
in creating music for inclusion in intermedia or those who wish to create
intermedia works. From a critical perspective educators and students might
consider how such media and types of engagement factor in one’s experience
with texts and media that may typically be engaged with as monomedia.
This means considering the experience and implications of engaging with
intermedial works from a range of lenses and perspectives. Students and
educators might collaboratively address questions such as: What does the
convergence of texts such as books, digital media, and audio mean in terms
of how one experiences stories or music?
Such questions become more complicated when one considers who deter-
mines what audio or music connects with other media. For instance, rep-
resentatives of the companies Booktrack and Indabamusic.com hosted a
contest and invited people to create or record original music, sound effects,
and ambient audio corresponding with specific aspects of H. G. Wells’s story
The Time Machine in the Booktrack format.14 Along with being represen-
tative of participatory culture, the contest and resulting audio files draw
attention to varied interpretations of how The Time Machine might sound.
Similar projects would provide opportunities for students to wrestle with
issues ranging from how to express a particular aspect of a story in sound
to how specific audio impacts one’s experience of reading a book. Whether
those creating the distinct media that come together in an intermedia proj-
ect are doing so collaboratively, simultaneously, or separately also factors
into such engagement. These and related issues are important to consider
and address in the context of contemporary musicking and media making.
Allowing students opportunities to engage with intermedia in general might
inform or broaden ways of engaging with music, media, and other art forms
in music and arts programs.
Further complicating an intermedia framework is how it can help “define
works which fall conceptually between media that are already known”
(Rajewsky, 2005, p. 52). Rajewsky (2005) forwards the notion of interme-
dia’s boundary blurring the potential and ability to offer:
New ways of solving problems, new possibilities for presenting and

thinking about them, and to new, or at least to different views on medial
border-crossings and hybridization; in particular, they point to a height-
ened awareness of the materiality and mediality of artistic practices and
of cultural practices in general.
(p. 44)
Thus, an intermedial perspective is helpful for making sense of media

works or musicking that defy compartmentalization (Higgins, 2001). While
films could be considered intermedia in the way that included media are inter-
related, the term tends to be used in cases that do not fit into preexisting cat-
egories. Media works that straddle between multiple forms of media, such
as the interactive documentary Bear 71 (Mendes & Allison, 2012), can be
considered intermedia works. Similar intermedia that combine text, narra-
tive, sound, music, video footage, visual imagery, and elements of interactiv-
ity are possible through affordances of digital media. Such intermedia works
can include preexisting music or music created specifically for the work.
Music created as monomedia and originally intended to be experienced as
such can thus be shared or experienced as intermedia. The release of the
album Glass Rework as an iPad app that features remixes of Philip Glass’s
music with interactive imagery and the ability to create music idiomatic
of Glass’s oeuvre,15 or Bang on a Can’s performance of Michael Gordon’s
piece “Yo Shakespeare” within the game Rock Band,16 exemplify how musi-
cians might participate in the convergence of music and new media through
intermedia.
By leveraging augmented reality, where virtual spaces are layered on top
of physical spaces (Azuma, 1997), one could transform a particular medium
such as a book into intermedia, a process of intermediality. By placing QR
codes,17 which link to musical recordings, in paper books, one can provide
opportunities similar to that of Booktrack in which people could experience
the book along with coinciding music. Music educators and students might
thus consider the potential intermediality of any given medium or media
content. Students might transform music, other art works, or media into
intermedia works of which music is an integral part. Students might also be
encouraged to create works that are designed as intermedia from their incep-
tion. This raises interesting questions about artistic processes, collaboration,
104 Evan S. Tobias
and the boundaries of what ought to occur in music programs. To what
extent and how might students think musically and intermedially in music
programs?
Intermedia as a boundary-blurring framework can also refer to perform-
ing and creating that combine physical embodied performing and creating
with new or digital media. Mike Tompkins’s combination of performing
live vocals, recorded video, and audio to perform dubstep could be seen as
a form of intermedial musicking.18 Depending on the context, intermedial
performing is described with terms such as controllerism, live production,
digital djing, or vjing. While these musical practices may not be typical in
school music programs, music educators might foster spaces for students to
engage in related intermedial musicianship.
Intermedia works that include music can also be categorized as digi-
tal opera or intermedial dance, theatre, and installations (Crossley, 2012;
Macpherson, 2012; Ryan, 2012). The intermedial nature of these works
blurs boundaries between disciplines, art forms, and media. For instance,
the group Iduun describes their work Kadambini19 as follows:
Kadambini is an audio-video show, a meeting between the art of the

stage and the digital technologies. The show combines upstream video
and animations, edited and sound designed on-stage. The stage play-
manipulation of frames, objects or sounds, but also mapping, video FX
and shooting—interacts with the movie projected on the screen, so that
one can not exist without the other and vice-versa. We forget the com-
puter and acting finds an important place on stage and on the screen.
(Iduun, n.d.)
Similarly, the intermedial work SuperEverything*,20 an example of a

“live cinema event,” combined recorded and live audio along with multiple
projections of documentary footage, text, and motion graphics to “explor[e]
the relationship between identity, ritual and place in relation to Malaysia’s
past, present and future.” The work addresses the question of “who [are we]
and what we might become as both individuals and as a society” (SuperEv-
erything, n.d.a). According to the creators of SuperEverything*:
A live cinema performance allows artists the freedom to experiment and

improvise within a selection of different material, prepared video clips,
audio visual samples . . . allow[ing] the artist to present their work as a
fully live and interactive performance, adding different audio and visual
effects to their material on-the-fly.
(SuperEverything, n.d.b)
SuperEverything* also included opportunities for audience interaction

and participation by allowing people “to interact . . . by responding to dif-
ferent assignments” via social media prior to the performances. The live
cinema also featured live Twitter feeds as a visual aspect of the performance
by displaying live updates of the #supereverything hashtag related to the
performance itself along with dialogue regarding the issues addressed in the
performance (SuperEverything, n.b.c).
The fluidity and porous nature of intermedia makes it difficult to pin
down as an organizing category for types of media or media engagement.
It might be considered in terms of “a possibility wherever the desire to fuse
two or more existing media exists” (Higgins, 2001, p. 53). Music educators
might benefit from using the concept of intermedia as a catalyst to expand
thinking and engagement related to media rather than as a label to identify
particular examples of media. Higgins (2001) alluded to this in suggesting
that:
The term [intermedia] is not prescriptive; it does not praise itself or

present a model for doing either new or great works. It says only that
intermedial works exist. Failure to understand this would lead to the
kind of error of thinking that intermedia are necessarily dated in time
by their nature, something rooted in the 1960s, like an art movement
of the period.
(p. 52)
Higgins further suggests that intermediality “allows for an ingress to a

work which otherwise seems opaque and impenetrable, but once that ingress
has been made it is no longer useful to harp upon the intermediality of a
work” (p. 53). Thus, the notion of intermedia is useful to music educators in
that it allows space for envisioning and making sense of media that do not
fit into prescribed categories typically addressed in K-12 music programs.
In other words, music educators might focus less on trying to determine if
a particular phenomenon or example of media is intermedia or multimedia
and instead consider how intermediality might allow for new possibilities in
music teaching and learning.
Intermedia and intermedial works raise interesting issues and questions
to consider and address in music programs. Music educators and their stu-
dents who engage with intermedial paradigms will need to make sense of
the multiple layers of live and digital media or performing. This may also
include issues ranging from developing understanding of the relationships
between media and aspects of live intermedial performances, to determin-
ing what aspects of intermedia, if any, are perceived as dominant (Fenton,
2007; Macpherson, 2012). Rutherford-Johnson (n.d.) raises similar issues
in the following excerpt of a write-up on composer Michel Van Der Aa’s
cello concerto Up-close, which is for a solo cello, string ensemble, and film:
Are the elderly woman and the cellist playing out the same role? The
film is seen in excerpts “inserted” into the music, so is the music driv-
ing the film, or the film the music? The music never “narrates” the
106 Evan S. Tobias
film, but somehow the two layers seem to extend one another around a
common subject. Furthermore, the live instruments are augmented with
an electronic soundtrack, which at some times seems closely related to
their music and at others appears to derive from the “concrete” sounds
of the action on screen. Are these plural realities or versions of a single
experience?
(para. 3)
The types of issues and questions raised by intermedia and intermedial

engagement call for music educators to consider curriculum and pedagogy
in ways that might differ from or expand upon a monomedia focus on
music. For instance, those who tend to focus mostly on rehearsing music for
performances or on varied activities that focus on particular music concepts
or elements may consider other ways to organize curricula and teaching.
Students’ inquiry and engagement might address the relationships between
music and media in ways that are not currently addressed in typical K-12
programs. Students might explore similar questions as those raised by Ruth-
erford-Jones (n.d.) for intermedia works and types of musicking. From a
pedagogical and curricular perspective music educators might need to deter-
mine the degree to which they can address the varied aspects of these types
of works and practices and identify when they may need to draw upon the
expertise of knowledgeable others. Collaboration may be critical in this type
of teaching and learning.
Addressing intermedia is further complicated by telematic intermedial
performance, where performers and those engaging with the performance
may be located in several different physical or virtual spaces and places, as
in Deal and Burtner’s (2011) telematic opera Auksalaq. The opera, designed
to be performed over five remote sites via the Internet, includes:
Staged musicians, actors and dancers, music, video projections of image

and text including scientific data, prepared commentary from experts
in the fields of science, anthropology, sociology, political science, jour-
nalism, and literature; video feeds of the staged musicians, actors, and
dancers, and a projected feed of a chatroom in which audience members
can contribute and interact.
(p. 511)
While the complexity involved in creating, producing, and perform-

ing intermedia works such as Kadambini, SuperEverything*, and Auk-
salaq might be difficult to accomplish in typical school arts programs,
music educators might consider including opportunities for students to
create, produce, and perform similar types of intermedia at an appropri-
ate level. Incorporating intermedial musical engagement and combinations
of new media and older media within music programs allows for hybrid
forms and ways of being musical that may otherwise be excluded from
students’ in-school musical experience and learning. Student collaboration
with peers and experts within music and across other arts disciplines and
opportunities to engage with music would be critical aspects of such work
and play.
While intermedial works can be presentational in nature (Turino, 2008),
both the process of collaborating to create intermedial works and support of
audience engagement with the work and related ideas can forefront partici-
pation. For instance, students and community members could be encouraged
to generate media content, music, text, and other material to be integrated
in a work based on their lived experience or perspectives on an issue. Such
an approach might blur boundaries between what is considered presenta-
tional, participatory, recorded, or live (Turino, 2008). A convergence of
newer and older media and ways of engaging with music, media, other art
forms, and practices offers compelling possibilities for young people and
music programs.
To summarize, the concept of intermedia and intermediality describe
media and media engagement that are interconnected and combine or strad-
dle between multiple media or media forms. An intermedia framework pro-
vides educators with ways of considering and making sense of new types of
media forms that blend aspects of existing or emerging media in ways that
are atypical or do not fit into existing categories. Music programs might
broaden beyond a focus on music as monomedia and include intermedia and
related engagement. This might range from interacting with or creating live
audio visual works in the vein of SuperEverything*, to supporting students’
exploration of interactive media in connection with music. Music educators
might also consider how music and musical engagement can be intermedial
through blurring boundaries between types of musicking, art forms, disci-
plines, and media. This might require broadening the types of performing,
creating, analyzing, and interacting with music and media beyond what is
typically included in music programs. This may also entail creating alterna-
tives to compartmentalized approaches to curriculum and types of curricu-
lar structures available to students.
Transmedia
Whereas intermedia addresses multiple media in the context of a single
work, a framework of transmedia addresses multiple media dispersed
across platforms such as websites, novels, films, video games, comic
books, or physical locations (Dena, 2009; Jenkins et al., 2009). Sometimes
referred to as “cross media,” “multiple platform,” “networked entertain-
ment,” or “integrated media” (Dena, 2009; Miller, 2008; Scolari, 2009),
transmedia projects are characterized as “exist[ing] over more than a sin-
gle medium . . . at least partially interactive,” and “[consisting of] differ-
ent components that are closely integrated and used to expand the core
material” (Miller, 2008, p. 151).
108 Evan S. Tobias
Jenkins (2006a) focuses primarily on transmedia storytelling projects,
typically as part of media franchises. Such projects can include the creation
of additional plotlines and stories across media platforms such as blogs,
websites, and other media; inclusion of fan-generated content, Twitter
accounts of characters, spinoff novels, and detailed wikis such as the Lost-
pedia, a community generated wiki that detailed all aspects of the series
Lost. According to Jenkins (2006a):
In the ideal form of transmedia storytelling, each medium does what

it does best—so that a story might be introduced in a film, expanded
through television, novels, and comics, and its world might be explored
and experienced through game play.
(p. 96)
According to Jenkins et al. (2009), following the flow of a storyline across

media and media platforms is a process of transmedia navigation.
Dena (2009) frames transmedia more broadly. She explains that
“transmedia involves creating projects that exist across distinct media or
artforms, with each one of these elements contributing to the meaning-
making process” (Dena in Kopp, 2011, para. 2). Dena (2011) explains
how transmedia can connect with or be a part of performance-event based
arts and artworks. Providing concrete examples of transmedia in the arts,
she describes how Jason Grote’s play 1001 incorporated a fake blog that
people could read before or after attending the performance. Dena also
describes how the theatre work, Fatebook involved characters with social
network identities who interacted with each other and audience members;
and how the “transmedia theatrical event” Feeder: A love story included
characters blogging, giving video updates, and tweeting prior to the physi-
cal event as a “problog” and an “epiblog” following the event.” According
to Dena, the writer of Feeder: A love story, considered all elements across
media as part of the total work” (para. 9). Given that transmedia can
be “another artform that an artist chooses to do” (Dena in Kopp, 2011,
“What is the number one reason,” para. 1), Dena’s (2009) framework of
transmedia practice can be helpful to music educators interested in aspects
of transmedia that do not fit within a specific storytelling or narrative
paradigm.
Just as with multimedia and intermedia, transmedia can be understood as
a cultural form, artistic engagement, and in terms of teaching and learning
music. To consider transmedia in the context of music teaching and learn-
ing, I offer a “worked example” (Gee, 2010) of a project that students and I
engaged in during the Spring 2012 semester of my Digital and Participatory
Culture in Music course.21
The John Cage Project, also known as #Whenismusic, was situated both
as a way to synthesize concepts, principles, and practices related to digi-
tal culture and participatory culture that we had addressed throughout the
semester and as an experiment in developing a transmedia project related to
a John Cage festival on our campus. Along with addressing and leveraging
characteristics of digital media, we looked at how we might apply concepts
such as hypermedia, interactivity, collective intelligence, and collaborative
curation of web-based media to create transmedia that could generate inter-
est in the festival among the local community, engage people in interactive
opportunities related to the ideas and music of John Cage, and encourage
concert attendees to participate in aspects of the project. I share this example
as a kernel of an idea of what might eventually be developed and to show
the potential of transmedia and associated practices (Dena, 2009) in music
teaching and learning.
Planning, discussions, and development were core to our project and
the educational aims of its integration in the course. To facilitate this pro-
cess we used a Google document as a central location to record and orga-
nize our ideas and developed a website as a hub to connect the transmedia
components we created (Tobias, 2012b). Both new media and older media
played a role in our development, ranging from using Soundcloud.com
to store and share potential audio files that might be contributed by the
public, to poster boards for people to write on in the concert hall’s lobby,
to paper with QR codes for people to scan to interact with our website.
Rather than engaging in transmedia storytelling (Jenkins, 2006a), we
developed a transmedia musical engagement project consisting of media
and opportunities for people to engage with the music and ideas of John
Cage. In this context, our transmedia practice (Dena, 2009) focused on
learning and musical experience rather than franchising or extending a
narrative.
We began by generating essential questions (Wiggins & McTighe, 2005)
to serve as the foci of each transmedia component with an overarching ques-
tion of: When is music? The following three questions framed the transmedia
project: (1) Can existing music become new music? (2) Is music happening
now? and (3) When is an instrument? With input from a music theory col-
league, we collaboratively determined several of Cage’s key ideas and spe-
cific works such as Child of a Tree, 4’33”, and Imaginary Landscape #5
that had potential for the project in connection with the festival. To provide
entry points into the transmedia project I placed posters around the school
of music with an image of John Cage and the #whenismusic hashtag.22 We
also leveraged social media such as Facebook and Twitter and #whenismusic
to generate interest in the project.
The interactive media project designed around the question “Can exist-
ing music become new music?”23 invited people to create and share their
own imaginary landscape. It included software tutorials, directions for
creating music in this style, and related lesson plans for educators. The
project centering on the question “Is music happening now?”24 high-
lighted 4’33”, provided related information, and encouraged people to
share their thoughts on various topics in the comment section. The project
110 Evan S. Tobias
addressing the question “When is an instrument?”25 was connected to
the piece Child of a Tree and invited people to create their own instru-
ments or to prepare existing instruments and upload sounds and music
on these instruments to a dedicated Soundcloud page and to submit a
video recording or photo of them playing their instrument. Each of these
components could be engaged prior to or after attending the festival,
though they functioned as independent projects regardless of one’s con-
cert attendance.
We also encouraged concert attendees to engage with the transmedia
project. For one concert, we projected our website and a twitter feed with
the #whenismusic on a lobby wall and featured posters titled with each of
the essential questions and markers for people to record their answers or
whatever they wished to share. Additional ideas that we did not implement
ranged from designing and coordinating a scavenger hunt connecting web-
based media related to John Cage’s music and ideas with physical spaces
across campus and the Phoenix Metro area, to inviting people to create
imaginary landscapes in a computer lab during the festival. With more time
we would have integrated additional entry points into the project across
the campus and local community. Our experiment in creating a transmedia
project was situated in a developing understanding of participatory cultures
and convergence cultures while we considered aspects of digital media rang-
ing from the nonlinear ways people might experience the project to the ways
that participation with the music and ideas of John Cage could be facilitated
and fostered.
Though we were limited by time, logistics, and minor constraints related
to the festival, the project demonstrated the potential of digital media and
transmedia in the context of music teaching and learning. Perhaps most pow-
erful were the discussions about the project and related issues that flowed
throughout and across our class, dedicated blog, Google document, and
students’ Facebook accounts. Furthermore, the focus of the project could
have shifted to emphasize learning about the music and ideas of John Cage
through the process of creating the transmedia project in a different course.
Thus, creating transmedia might be seen as a form of applied musicology,
co-created curricular development, and musicking.
Developing transmedia in the context of music teaching and learning
necessitates an understanding of digital media, principles of participatory
cultures, and the convergence of newer and older media in terms of tech-
nology, media, and culture. This calls for interdisciplinary and relational
thinking (Barrett, 2007; Barrett & Veblen, 2012). Barrett and Veblen (2012)
explain that “meaningful connections arise through juxtaposition, which
is exercised when teachers place key ideas, works, and disciplines in close
proximity to one another to invite relational thinking” (p. 366). They fur-
ther explicate that “the artistry of teachers is revealed in the way disciplines,
works, or themes are arranged within the curriculum, inviting creative
interplay, investigation, and invention” (p. 366). This type of relational
thinking is critical for creating and navigating transmedia projects that rely
on complex interwoven relationships that emphasize meaningful connec-
tions between media, music, art works, ideas, themes, and aspects of the
human experience.
For instance, students designing a transmedia project in relation to the
life and music of John Cage can develop deep understanding of this topic
when identifying relationships between the composition Child of a Tree,
Cage’s use of prepared instruments, the idea of inviting members of the
public to prepare found objects in nature to perform their own version of
Child of a Tree, and the overarching question “When is an instrument?”
Identifying and connecting between these varied ideas and aspects of music,
and forms of relational thinking, can be considered artistic processes in and
of themselves.
Transmedia navigation (Jenkins et al., 2009) and the development of
transmedia (Dena, 2009, 2011) may provide students opportunities to think
in these ways and develop similar types of artistry. Such work invites stu-
dents to think in terms of ongoing, nonlinear, and rhizomatic connections
(Barrett, 2007; Barrett & Veblen, 2012; Deleuze & Guattari, 1987; Miller,
2011) between music, musicking, the arts, and other disciplines, along with
interacting with others. Barrett and Veblen (2012) highlight the richness of
students “employ[ing] musical understanding as a way of making sense of
new concepts and ideas in other fields” (p. 369). Furthermore, they suggest
that:
When [students] bring insights from other studies that in turn enrich
their expressive responses to music, the curriculum becomes integrated
into their ways of thinking, feeling, creating, judging, and valuing music
as a site for knowing themselves and their worlds.
(p. 369)
Leveraging new media in the context of transmedia has potential for stu-
dents to engage in music in such ways.
To summarize, transmedia constitutes a connected set of multiple media
across a range of platforms. Some transmedia projects are narrative in
nature. Transmedia projects can also be organized to allow for any par-
ticular element to be experienced on its own, while engaging with multiple
elements can contribute to meaning making and a deeper experience or
investigation of a particular phenomenon, idea, or art work. Transmedia
can connect to existing art works or serve as an art form or artwork. Engag-
ing with transmedia often includes playing a participatory role with the
media. Thus, transmedia works and projects can include content submitted
by those who choose to engage. Creating and engaging with transmedia can
foster relational thinking and emphasize connections between media, ideas,
artworks, and other aspects of the human experience that might not other-
wise have been apparent.
112 Evan S. Tobias
PATHWAYS FORWARD
When considered in conjunction with characteristics and principles of

media and cultural contexts such as participatory culture and convergence
culture, frameworks of multimedia, intermedia, and transmedia offer music
education compelling ways for students to know and do music. Addressing
relationships between music and media does not mean removing opportuni-
ties for students to focus on music and musicking as an independent artistic
form or discipline. Nor does addressing digital media equate to abandoning
acoustic music and musicking. As stressed throughout the chapter, music
educators ought to consider the implications of digital media for musical
engagement, teaching, and learning through critical lenses while envisioning
their potential to broaden and deepen students’ musical engagement and
understanding.
Including Digital Media in Music Programs

Music educators might encourage students to consider how music can
relate to other media, arts, disciplines, and modalities and then create and
engage with multimedia. Students might also be provided with oppor-
tunities to contribute their musicianship to intermedia and transmedia
works in the context of music programs and in collaboration with peers
and experts across a range of disciplines. Given the complexities involved
when engaging with digital media, music educators ought to provide stu-
dents with opportunities to wrestle with issues ranging from how media
mediate their experiences to how digitally mediated engagement factors
into one’s embodiment and relationships with others (Ferneding, 2005,
2007).
When including digital media in programs, however, music educators
ought to be cautious of doing so in a technocentric manner (Ferneding, 2005,
2007). This involves identifying potential values and biases that are part of
technology and digital media, given that they are socially constructed and
designed by people. Technocentricism occurs when educators adopt particu-
lar technologies or digital media uncritically (Ferneding, 2007). Music edu-
cators must be deliberate in analyzing the potential impact of digital media
on artistic thinking and doing as well as learning. While digital media are
not necessarily inherently positive or negative, their use in music programs
can both support and constrain creative possibilities, learning, and musical
engagement. The ways music educators and students use and interact with
digital media in music programs ought to be informed by strong founda-
tions in curriculum, pedagogy, learning theory, philosophy, socio-cultural
contexts, and related research.
Addressing issues of embodiment is particularly important as music edu-
cators incorporate digital media in music programs. It is critical that music
educators consider how students’ physical and sense of selves relate to or
are impacted by the types of media engagement discussed throughout this
chapter. Armstrong (2001) cautions educators of the potential for integrat-
ing technology in ways that do not account for musicking that relies on
one’s body such as singing or performing instruments. Music educators
ought to be cognizant of how particular ways of integrating or engaging
with digital media may stifle or suppress students’ bodily engagement with
music (Armstrong, 2001). Similarly, music educators ought to consider the
types of communication, engagement, and relationships involved in social
media and musicking in virtual settings where those participating are not
necessarily located in the same physical place. It is thus important to pro-
vide students opportunities to reflect on and articulate their experiences
and how they feel when engaging with digital media. Creating and facili-
tating hybrid structures that embrace multiple ways to engage with music
where digital media coexist with other media and ways of musicking can
assist in this regard.
Including Opportunities for Intermediality

Along with including intermedia in music programs, music educators might
envision intermedial aspects of music programs. Given how digital media
allow for blurred boundaries between musical roles such as performing,
creating, listening, and analyzing, among others, music educators might
draw upon an intermedial paradigm to blur compartmentalized aspects of
the music or arts program. This could mean blurring boundaries between
ensembles and courses by creating hybrid types of programs that allow for
multiple ways of being musical (Tobias, 2012c) or allowing for intermedial
aspects of existing curricular structures. Considerations of how intermedia
might be integrated in music programs ought to include determining the
balance between digitally mediated and other ways of being musical in a
program. In other words, music educators might think of integrating digital
media in terms of convergence rather than replacing aspects of music pro-
grams that are not digitally mediated.
Providing students with opportunities to create and perform intermedial
projects that address questions such as those posed by SuperEverything*
could encompass research, learning, meaning making, and musicking.
Furthermore, such projects can promote dialogue among students, their
peers, families, and communities in connection with the issues and musi-
cal engagement involved in such work. The development and facilitation
of transmedia projects by collaborative teams of students, educators, and
experts in other disciplines might also be included in music programs as
ways for students to engage with music and society in new ways. Interme-
dia or transmedia works and practices have potential to foster participatory
and convergence cultures that broaden the types of participatory musick-
ing, artistic engagement, and issues that young people and their communi-
ties find meaningful.
114 Evan S. Tobias
Considering Benefits and Problematic Aspects
of Digital Media Frameworks and Labels
When trying to make sense of a constantly expanding and unwieldy array of
media, art forms, and artistic practices, the ability to name a phenomenon
or example can be helpful. Similarly, naming or acknowledging the existence
of particular types of media and media engagement can broaden the ways
we think about and engage with music and media. The overarching frame-
works of multimedia, intermedia, and transmedia ought to be considered
as heuristics to assist music educators in navigating the landscape of digital
media and broadening the opportunities for students to engage with music
in these new and emerging ways. However, frameworks and labels can also
be used in ways that are more static in nature and that reify ideas. Music
educators must be careful to acknowledge that media and media practices
are socially constructed, fluid in nature, and evolve.
Rather than solely focusing on particular frameworks as specific defini-
tions of what is and then working to replicate particular examples, music
educators might think in terms of what could be and provide time and space
for themselves and their students to explore the possibilities of engaging
with music and digital media. Similarly, music educators and their stu-
dents might expand beyond focusing on how particular media and media
practices fit into categories. They might critique existing frameworks and
examples of how digital media and music intersect or recontextualize these
phenomena for music teaching and learning. Furthermore, music educators
and their students ought to be imaginative about the possibilities of digital
media and music, possibly creating their own examples and frameworks
that do not fit neatly into existing categories. In other words, music educa-
tors should avoid a restrictive or deterministic reading of the frameworks
in this chapter and instead consider them springboards for thinking and
musicking expansively.
Reimagining Concerts and Arts Events

This chapter began with a description of a concert experience that involved
a blend of the formality of sitting silently in a concert hall and the everyday
engagement of chatting with others through digital media. This slight modi-
fication of the concert opens possibilities to think about what concerts and
arts events could be. What happens when presentational musics (Turino,
2008) are experienced in ways that are more participatory in nature than
in the tradition of formal Western-classical concerts? How might concerts
and arts events be transformed and reimagined when a participatory ethic is
applied in conjunction with digital media?
Music educators might collaborate with students, colleagues, and other
experts to transform the paradigm of concerts to allow for interactive inter-
media or transmedia events. Such an approach recasts the concert as solely
framed in terms of presentational performance (Turino, 2008). Concerts
might also be reimagined as unfolding from a single culminating event to
multiple transmedia experiences and interactive opportunities for musical
engagement leading up to, during, and after a concert (Dena, 2011). The
#whenismusic project is an example of a small step in this direction. In
these ways students, educators, and community members might explore the
potential for digital media in terms of providing additional avenues for par-
ticipatory musical practices in addition to participatory and presentational
performance (Turino, 2008).
Increasing possibilities for concerts and arts events that involve aspects
of participatory culture and digital media is not equivalent to abandon-
ing traditional formal concert experiences that exclude technology. Music
educators might think in terms of multiple types of concert and arts event
formats that provide a broad range of experiences, some mediated through
digital media and some that opt for a minimalist approach where those in
the audience sit and listen to music performed by others in the same physi-
cal setting without engaging in other ways. In a society that is increasingly
digitally mediated, music educators ought to acknowledge people’s desire
for and in some cases lack of experience with musical engagement that does
not involve technology.
Adjusting for Change

While some may consider digital media and the frameworks outlined
throughout this chapter in terms of their potential for broadening and deep-
ening music teaching and learning, others may see a threat to the status quo
and traditions of K-12 music education. Regardless of whether music educa-
tors choose to conserve the types of curricular structures and content typical
in music programs throughout the 20th century, society will continue to
evolve. Dialogue and tension regarding such change is to be expected (Jor-
gensen, 2003; Kratus, 2007; Miksza, 2013; Regelski, 2013; Tobias, 2013;
Williams, 2007, 2011). If music education is to evolve along with society, it
must look both outward and inward to determine how it may need to adapt,
modify, and transform.
One aspect of this evolution is the presence of and people’s interaction
with a range of digital media. Philosophical, curricular, pedagogical, and
cultural changes may be necessary for music programs to support the inte-
gration of digital media in ways that connect to contemporary society. When
acknowledging and addressing the presence of new media forms, artworks,
and practices, music educators will need to reconcile the extent to which
existing curricular structures are able to support and foster related musick-
ing and learning. While some may try to fit multimedia, intermedia, and
transmedia with related practices into existing structures such as band, cho-
rus, and orchestra, music educators might consider other ways of organizing
music teaching and learning.
116 Evan S. Tobias
For instance, compartmentalized course sequences and strands that
focus on particular ways of knowing and doing music are antithetical to
the notion of intermediality. Ensembles designed for a focus on performing
existing notated acoustic music as monomedia may need to be modified to
account for an expanding array of multimedia, intermedia, and transmedia.
Approaches to teaching general music that focus on short-term activities
that emphasize particular music concepts or elements might need to be trans-
formed to accommodate the ways of knowing and doing music indicative
in contemporary musicking. How might music education adjust for change?
Educators might restructure music and arts programs to allow for collab-
oration, and multimedial, intermedial, and transmedial engagement within
and across their programs and other disciplines. Music educators might also
consider how the histories, contexts, and hegemony of terms such as per-
forming, listening, composing, creating, and analyzing as they are applied
in music education relate to musical engagement in the context of digital
media. In navigating the future of music education, music educators ought
to consider the broad array of existing and emerging multimedia, interme-
dia, and transmedia along with the varied ways that young people might
engage with music and media throughout their lives.
This is more complex then simply incorporating a new software program
or adding digital instruments to an ensemble or music class. Music educa-
tors ought to think deeply in terms of how media mediate students’ musical
experience and learning and what the ramifications are of incorporating
digital media, multimedia, intermedia, or transmedia in their programs.
Music educators ought to consider an array of hybrid curricular structures
that embrace the spirit of intermediality and account for music in the con-
text of other media forms and practices. While navigating the landscape
of digital media, music educators might address new media purposefully,
artistically, and pedagogically, providing students with rich opportunities
to engage with music and media and reflect on what this means in their
lives.
NOTES
1. For an example see www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRuLi8geo7Q.

2. For an example see http://samplr.net/.
3. Throughout this section specific media references that provide concrete exam-
ples of what is discussed in the text are included as footnotes rather than cited
references to assist with reading flow.
4. www.synthesiagame.com/.
5. http://musescore.com/videoscores.
6. www.youtube.com/watch?v=8PJm5A9nYGQ&.
7. www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhT16DZ5_Tk.
8. www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7chHNocFAc.
9. www.youtube.com/watch?v=11Y6Tqw17BM.
10. www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV0F8PNiBhE.
11. www.youtube.com/watch?v=02tkp6eeh40.
12. www.youtube.com/watch?v=qypqwcrO3YE.
13. http://booktrack.com.
14. https://beta.indabamusic.com/opportunities/booktrack-the-time-machine-
soundtrack/details.
15. www.snibbestudio.com/rework/.
16. www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6TqadAVk40.
17. QR codes are visual representations of links to content online. Devices with
applications that recognize QR codes can scan and then access the related
content online.
18. www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRuLi8geo7Q.
19. www.iduun.com/kadambini/.
20. http://supereverything.net/.
21. Gee (2010) calls for scholars working in the area of digital media and learning
to offer “worked examples” by imagining and discussing proposed exemplars
in new and emerging areas of scholarship. I offer the following description of
the John Cage Project in this spirit.
22. http://cdppcme.asu.edu/whenismusic/spread-the-word/.
23. http://cdppcme.asu.edu/whenismusic/can-existing-music-become-new-music/.
24. http://cdppcme.asu.edu/whenismusic/is-music-happening-now/.
25. http://cdppcme.asu.edu/whenismusic/when-is-an-instrument/.
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8 Is It the Technology? Challenging
Technological Determinism
in Music Education
Alex S. Ruthmann, Evan S. Tobias,
Clint Randles, and Matthew D. Thibeault
In preparation for the 2012 annual joint meeting of the Association for
Technology in Music Instruction1 (ATMI) and the College Music Society2
(CMS), I invited three of my colleagues—Clint Randles, Matthew Thibeault,
and Evan Tobias—to join in a panel discussion of technological determin-
ism and music education. By technological determinism we are referring to
the common societal habit (Sterne, 2003) to anthropomorphize technology
by assigning it human characteristics such as agency (Smith, 1994), and the
ability to have “causal influence on social practice” (Bimber, 1994, p. 83)
in and of itself.
Technological determinism has its roots in music education in writings
beginning in the early 20th century (see Thibeault’s section later in this chap-
ter), continuing through the advent of computer-based music education in the
late 1960s where computer technologies were seen as a potential proxy for
the music teacher framed around “its potential” for providing individualized
instruction, audio-visual enhancement, and personalized feedback (Allvin,
1971; Kuhn & Allvin, 1967). In the 1980s, Jack Taylor (1983) presented a
model of a music computer-based instruction (CBI) system using line draw-
ings of instructional music technologies of the time (Figure 8.1). Taylor’s
“music CBI system” presents only physical representations of the various
pieces of technology that, when taken alone, privilege and focus the reader
on the technology itself rather than the students. However, in the body of
the article Taylor proposes a set of fictional dialogues between a student and
a computer illustrating how computers might be used to support and guide
musical learning. Taylor’s (1983) view is what Smith (1994) would refer to
as soft determinism, because he cautions that it would be a “mistake . . . to
regard computers and humans as separate, competitive entities” (p. 45). Tay-
lor argues that computers and related music technologies are extensions of
human practice in that “computers can become human-like in their teaching
characteristics” (p. 43).
While many proponents of technology in music education argue that
technologies are human constructions, best used when contextualized as
part of a broader “system” (Taylor, 1983), experiential context (Williams &
Webster, 1996/2008), or “relational pedagogy” (Ruthmann & Dillon, 2012),
Is It the Technology? 123
loudspeaker
loudspeaker
pitch
synthesizer
extractor plotter
video terminal
light pen with keyset audio amplifier
dual disk drive

audio unit
music keyboard
printer
video unit
Figure 8.1 Jack Taylor’s (1983) model of a music computer-based instruction system.
industry advertisements, researcher accounts, and informal descriptions of

practice often make reference to the technologies themselves as agents of
change or action. A current case-in-point could be the trend to share lists
of favorite iPad apps shared across today’s social media site in support of
music making, learning, and teaching. It is a cultural habit (Sterne, 2000,
2006) to communicate technologies like the iPad as the agent that will bene-
fit or positively effect music education practice. In reality, there is a complex
set of relationships and practices at play where the effectiveness, usefulness,
and experiential meanings of technologies-in-context are determined.
The purpose of this chapter is to invite you as the reader to think criti-
cally about how you speak about technology. What do you omit? What do
you include? Where are students and teachers in your discussion? Where is
the broader community? Where are parents and administrators? How do
you frame the purposes, possibilities, and pitfalls of technologies? Where
is agency and action attributed? What might determinist language conceal
and reveal (Dillon, 2007) about music education practices? To help assist
in answering these questions, consider the following visions of “technology
as,” each of which appear in this chapter:
Technology as mediator of experience

Technology as having agency
Technology as a human creation, and reflective of human processes and
needs
Technology as culturally situated in “human practice, habitat, and
habit” (Sterne, 2003, p. 8).
Technology as . . . [insert your own thoughts here].
124 Alex S. Ruthmann
My personal perspective is to document and share detailed descriptions
of how teachers and students interact, make music, and learn through the
use of music technologies in specific contexts. By acknowledging the con-
texts within which we experience technologies and the relationships among
students, teachers, music making, and technologies within and across con-
texts, we have the potential to re-center our discussions around children
and teachers as agents of change, rather than the technology itself. This
perspective resonates with that of Seymour Papert (1980, 1993) who in his
writings on technology centrally framed his discussions around children and
their experiences with the technology.
Each of my coauthors will now present their own critical perspectives
on technological determinism within music education. Tobias discusses the
distinctions between hard and soft determinism, problematizing the view
that technology has a “causal influence on social practice” (Bimber, 1994,
p. 83). Tobias advocates for a critical examination of and engagement with
technology, investigating how people meaningfully use music technologies
in their daily lives. Randles puts forward the archetypal example of Steve
Jobs, arguing that the seemingly opposite beliefs of free will and techno-
logical determinism provide the dialectical tension needed to cultivate cul-
tural creativity. Thibeault takes a societal perspective contextualizing why
technologically determinist language and perspectives “make sense,” while
cautioning that these views are not necessarily “sensible.” He argues that
educators should explore an interactive understanding of technologies that
takes into account Sterne’s (2003) “institutions, technologies, people, and
practices” (p. 182).
FROM THE PRESCRIPTIVE TO THE POSSIBLE
Evan S. Tobias
When thinking about Dvorák’s music, one might not envision computers
as part of the musical experience. However, for many people technology
mediates musical experiences even in the context of Western art music.
Consider for instance how one might use a computer and music application
to remix Dvorák in the style of the dance music genre dubstep (FetOo, n.d.)
or create a multimedia analysis of Dvorák’s music (Corksmusic1, 2010).
These examples demonstrate just two ways that people integrate technol-
ogy in their musical engagement. Music educators interested in the poten-
tial of engaging with music in similar ways, however, ought to be cautious
when integrating technology in their programs. Addressing the possibilities
or transformative potential of technology for music teaching, learning, or
musicianship can be enmeshed in perspectives characteristic of technologi-
cal determinism.
Situating Technological Determinism
The aspect of technological determinism I will be focusing on in this section is
“the claim . . . that technology itself exercises causal influence on social prac-
tice” (Bimber, 1994, p. 83). Technological determinism rears its head with
claims of technology having beneficial or negative effects on music teach-
ing and learning. Statements such as “this app will completely transform the
classroom and help students learn how to play better in tune, understand
functional harmony, or develop as composers” or “this technology will dehu-
manize the musical experience and destroy the tradition of performing music
as we know it” are indicative of a technological deterministic stance. Though
these are extreme examples, similar perspectives can surface when one consid-
ers relationships between technology and music teaching and learning.
Ferneding (2007) argues that:
The manifestation of technology can thus be an expressive or artis-

tic endeavor that enables creative possibility. It can also be used in an
instrumental sense to control and dehumanize human reality. Thus,
technology is far more complex than being “simply a tool” and it does
not exist as neutral or value free—an assumption typical of common-
sense perceptions about technology.
(p. 1332)
While considering the possibilities of technology for music education

and musical engagement, it is critical that music educators remain cautious
about the role of technology in music teaching and learning and move for-
ward with both a critical lens and the ability to consider how technology
might facilitate teaching, learning, and musicianship and/or control and
dehumanize (Ferneding, 2007).
Key to avoiding deterministic perspectives is consideration of the social
context in which technology might be integrated and how it might be used
along with a focus on musical practices and pedagogy (Folkestad, 2012; Grint &
Woolgar, 1997; Oliver, 2011; Selwyn, 2012). For the purpose of this chapter
I situate the issue of technological determinism and possibilities of technology
in terms of the musical and learning goal of developing aural skills.
Technology played a key role in supporting the creation of the aforemen-
tioned dubstep remix and multimedia analysis of Dvorák’s music. While
those who create remixes or multimedia music analyses may not have the
development of aural skills as the intent of their musical engagement, their
processes and engagement may draw upon and develop such skills. Simi-
larly, music educators might frame these types of engagement pedagogically
in ways that might help students develop aural skills. Situating aural skills
within a pedagogical framework and context of musical practices can assist
music educators in considering the potential role of technology in students’
development of aural skills without resorting to a deterministic perspective.
We might compare and contrast the types of aural skills applied and
processes by which they are developed in remixing music or creating mul-
timedia analyses with those applied and developed through the types of
skill and drill approach often associated with Computer Assisted Instruction
(CAI). Identifying which technologies, if any, are most beneficial to students’
development of aural skills may not be as clear as choosing the software
that is most often connected to this aspect of music teaching and learning or
products that are marketed as such. To develop a more nuanced perspective
of how technology might intersect with musical engagement, in this case the
development of aural skills, one might move beyond a perspective of what
technology might cause to a perspective of how technology might mediate
one’s musical engagement and learning.
Technology Mediates
By framing the integration of technology from a perspective of mediation
one acknowledges the interaction between technology and context. Jones
and Hafner (2012) speak to “the process through which people appropriate
[technology] to accomplish particular social practices” (p. 13). They suggest
how focusing on mediation might call attention to the tension between affor-
dances (or possibilities for action) and constraints (limitations of action) of
digital media. However, while a particular software program might mediate
one’s development of aural skills, we can problematize the notion that a
software program inherently affords or constrains the development of aural
skills. Furthermore, we ought to consider what values are being embraced
when one asserts that a particular technology is most appropriate for a form
of musicianship or pedagogy.
For instance, whereas one educator might value efficiency and the ability
to gather quantitative data from a CAI program, another educator might
value the thinking and musical context involved when one remixes music
through using sequencing or DJ software. We might also consider the types
of aural skills developed through the use of particular technologies and how
they are integrated in practice. Decisions of whether technology should be
used, what technology to use, or how it might be used are often made in rela-
tion to affordances and constraints of technology. These types of decisions
can become mired in a technological deterministic perspective.
Affordances and Constraints

To understand how technology might be considered in terms of affordances,
one might draw upon Gibson’s (1986) broader explanation of the concept.
Gibson suggests that:
The affordances of the environment are what it offers the animal, what
it provides or furnishes for good or ill. The verb afford is found in a
dictionary; but the noun affordance is not. I have made it up. I mean
by it something that refers to both the environment and the animal in
a way that no existing term does. It implies the complementarity of the
animal and the environment.
(p. 127)
Without reducing people to animals, affordances might thus be thought

of in terms of the possibilities they offer for action. For example, Hutchby
(2001) explains how a rock may have the affordance for a reptile of being
a shelter from the heat of the sun, or, for an insect, of concealment from a
hunter (p. 447). Music creation software might thus have the affordance for
one to create original music or to develop aural skills.
While one might perceive particular affordances in relation to technology,
there is danger in conceptualizing affordances as inherent or embedded in
the technology itself. Gibson (1986) explains that “an affordance is neither
an objective property nor a subjective property” but rather is “both physical
and psychical, yet neither” in that “an affordance points both ways, to the
environment and to the observer (p. 129). Affordances exist in a contextual
relationship between people and technologies.
Oliver (2011) warns that even when seeing affordances as possibilities it
is misleading to view affordances outside of a context, stating that:
The idea of affordance has been argued to give insufficient recognition

to the importance of social practice, meaning, and knowledge in this
context, focusing unduly on the appearance of devices and underplay-
ing the role of meaning and learning in the way that technology is taken
up (Derry 2007).
(p. 375)
In other words, technologies are often ascribed affordances outside of par-

ticular contexts such as classrooms, ensembles, stages, or studios. Statements
such as “this particular technology can improve students’ development of
aural skills” ought to be put into context.
While some technologies might enable one to analyze intervallic rela-
tionships or chord qualities in an efficient manner, statements that these
technologies afford the development of aural skills can reify notions of aural
skills as related to decontextualized exercises removed from musical prac-
tice. Music educators thus ought to be cognizant of how particular technolo-
gies are framed and marketed in education discourse. Pfaffenberger (1992)
cautions people to consider how discourse can play a role in the multiple
ways one might interpret technology. Music educators might consider how
particular conceptions of technology can be limited, prescriptive, or reify
specific practices.
While one can be inspired by conference presentations, workshops, infor-
mation exchanged via social media, conversations, advertisements, and
other ways technology is framed in contemporary society or music teach-
ing and learning; music educators ought to view technology critically and
in terms of other possibilities that are not necessarily forwarded in related
discourse. Kritt and Winegar (2007) argue that “educators must have the
will to question in a deep way rather than simply weighing competing sales
pitches, reflecting upon how the new technologies are changing education,
literacy, and human understanding” (p. 24). Educators might ask why cer-
tain technologies are marketed in terms of aural skills development or what
values underpin discourse related to technology and skill development.
Key to avoiding technological determinism is considering the interaction
between technology and context. Understanding the technology, its prop-
erties, and how it might be used in practice can inform pedagogy. Savage
(2005) discusses how musicians can use technologies in their musicking but
also draw upon their musical experience and understanding to avoid “being
dictated to” by technology (Section 1, para. 2). By developing understand-
ing of how technologies work, music educators can apply critical lenses
from which to view potential affordances or constraints. We might then
frame affordances and constraints of technology in terms of how they are
perceived in relation to social, cultural, pedagogical, and musical contexts;
and possibilities for musicianship, teaching, and learning (Grint & Woolgar,
1997; Savage, 2005; Selwyn, 2012).
While educators might identify potential affordances of technology in
particular contexts, Orlikowski (2000) argues that:
Saying that use is situated and not confined to predefined options does
not mean that it is totally open to any and all possibilities. The physical
properties of artifacts ensure that there are always boundary conditions
on how we use them.
(p. 409)
For instance, a particular music application might be designed to work only

with MIDI data and therefore be incapable of recording or making use of
digital audio; however, this boundary condition does not close off one’s abil-
ity to develop aural skills or create music. In this way constraints are also
perceived rather than inherent within technologies. Understanding the physi-
cal or computing limitations of technologies does not equate to what they
may or may not be able to afford given that people can be quite creative in
their engagement with technology. In other words, an aspect of a technology
that one person sees as a limitation may not be a limitation for a peer. Again,
a technology does not determine one’s musical engagement or learning.
Critical Engagement with Technology

Jones and Hafner (2012) suggest that “the best way to become more com-
petent users of technologies is to become more critical and reflective about
how we use them in our everyday lives, the kinds of things that they allow
us to do, and the kinds of things they don’t allow us to do” (p. 1). Par-
ticularly, in music teaching and learning we ought to consider the role of
technology in how practices or contexts are reified as well as how technol-
ogy might become reified through particular practices and contexts. This
includes identifying and examining values promoted by particular technolo-
gies (Ferneding, 2007). We might ask why particular technologies are used
to help students develop aural skills, and how pedagogy and curriculum
reify the use of these technologies or how these technologies contribute to
the reification of aural skills. We might then consider additional possibilities
of aural skills and technology in the same or new contexts.
In considering contexts, viewing technology through a critical lens, iden-
tifying multiple possibilities of technology, and envisioning how it might be
used in ways that it was not originally intended, music educators can avoid
deterministic analyses of the role that technologies play in music teaching
and learning. Orlikowski (2000) echoes this perspective, arguing that:
Awareness of alternative ways of using technology may motivate people

to make changes in their technology and/or their use of it. It may also
prompt them to make changes in the other structures that they consti-
tute in their work practices.
(p. 412)
As music educators look to the potential and possibilities of technology,

it is critical that we situate its use through musical, social, cultural contexts,
practices, goals, and pedagogy, whether technology is used in the context of
creating analytical multimedia or Dvorák as dubstep.
THINKING DIFFERENT: STEVE JOBS, FREE WILL,

AND CULTURAL CREATIVITY
Clint Randles
While preparing to be a part of the group of scholars that would address

the notion of technological determinism in music education for the ATMI
conference, I was reading Walter Isaacson’s (2011) biography Steve Jobs.
Jobs believed in a certain kind of technological determinism, perhaps the
“soft determinism” that Smith (1994) refers to in his work, the idea that
“technological change drives social change but at the same time responds
discriminatingly to social pressures” (p. 2). Jobs harnessed these beliefs along
with a strong sense of both the human desire to organize activity and the
desire to engage with media, to fuel a cultural creative process through the
development of a number of his products. Jobs seemed to understand the kind
of personal fulfillment that could be experienced when individuals exer-
cised their free will to manage their own worlds by way of the agency that
technology helped to facilitate. Jobs believed that technology should not
be “instruments used by Orwellian governments and giant corporations to
sap individuality” (Isaacson, 2012, p. 162), what Smith (1994) referred to
as “hard determinism,” where “technological development” is “an auton-
omous force, completely independent of social constraints” (p. 2). Rather,
technology—products and systems built by human hands—should be viewed
as “tools for personal empowerment” (p. 162), which was his vision of what
the Macintosh could be leading to the product launch in 1984.
Personal Empowerment
Personal empowerment in this case is what an individual achieves through
the agency that technology mediates. It is a state of being where one is the
director of one’s own media-rich information world. What role did Steve
Jobs play in the development of personal computing empowerment? I rec-
ognize, like Sawyer (2012), that there was a sociocultural component to the
success of Apple computers that stretched beyond the individual contribu-
tions of Steve Jobs (p. 251). However, I would like to suggest here that
Jobs served as the brilliant leader, or “superstar” to use Sawyer’s termi-
nology (p. 234), of a personal computing revolution that took shape most
dramatically with the release of the Macintosh in 1984. Jobs believed that
technology was a mechanism to assist individuals in developing their own
capacities for self-expression.
Determinism, an extreme form of determinism, or “hard determinism”
(Smith, 1994, p. 2), is the belief that because something exists a certain
way—technology, or the activities that technology affords—society must
therefore act a certain way or react a certain way, based on the overwhelm-
ing power of that something over what we do. Jobs understood determin-
ism well. He probably in some way believed it. However, more importantly,
Jobs understood that human aesthetic—expressed in and through music,
movies, and art, among a host of other manifestations of media as some
of the highest expressions of human achievement—brings meaning to the
human experience. I would like to propose here that the way that Steve Jobs
balanced free will with deterministic beliefs, or “soft determinism” (Smith,
1994, p. 2), might be a healthy way for music education to approach the
idea of technological determinism in music education.
Free Will
While working at Atari during his young adult life, Steve Jobs shared his
beliefs regarding the relationship between determinism and free will with
a colleague: “We used to discuss free will vs. determinism. I tended to
believe that things were much more determined, that we were programmed. If
we had perfect information, we could predict people’s actions. Steve felt the
opposite” (Isaacson, 2011, p. 43). Perhaps Jobs recognized the potential
Figure 8.2 Free will vs. determinism.
liberating power that technology could have in the hands of humans who
themselves possessed a desire to experience beauty. One might argue that
Jobs—and his team of entrepreneurial thinkers, engineers, and designers—
possessed the vision to see what the world might look like when a com-
puter served as the hub for creative personal activity. Growing up, Jobs
was a subscriber to the Whole Earth Catalog, which sold tools and edu-
cational materials. On the first page of the first issue in 1968, a slogan
read: “a realm of infinite, personal power is developing—power of the
individual to conduct his own education, find his own inspiration, shape
his own environment, and share his adventure with whoever is interested”
(Isaacson, 2011, p. 58). Here, deterministic overtones are charged by the
power of human beings to control their own fate, to organize their own
worlds. In the end, free will wins out over determinism. It is the balance,
the tension if you will, between free will and “hard determinism” that
allows for “soft determinism” and the ability for human beings to order
their media-rich worlds (see Figure 8.2).
Cultural Creativity
Technological determinism can be framed a few different ways. As stated
previously, Smith (1994) makes the distinction between (1) “soft determin-
ism,” where technology is in a reflexive relationship with societal pressures,
and (2) “hard determinism,” where technology forces society to change,
independent from societal desires or constraints (p. 2). The first statement in
a way places society in the driver’s seat, while the second places technology
there. Human beings invent technologies that transform their experience.
The daily interaction of those technologies with human experience causes
humans to engage in cultural creative processes where those technologies
are concerned. Sawyer (2012) asserts:
Cultural change always involves creativity. But this kind of creativity is

very different than fine art painting or musical performance because it’s
the creativity of everyday life. In cultural creativity, novelty is a trans-
formation of cultural practices and appropriateness is the value to a
community.
(p. 266)
Sawyer (2012) claims, as do other scholars in the study of creativity

(Amabile, 1996; Csikszentmihalyi, 1999), that both novelty and appro-
priateness are signposts of creative processes and products. Who decides
when something is both novel and appropriate? At the Big C creativity
level, Csikszentmihalyi (1999) claims that the Field, those experts who have
distinguished themselves in a given Domain, are the ones who collectively
determine when something is creative (p. 315). On a basic level, though,
humans decide when something—technology—is both novel and appropri-
ate. So humans necessarily must be in the drivers seat, again mediated by the
balanced constructs of free will and determinism.
Steve Jobs, as the visionary leader of Apple Computers, initiated a num-
ber of cultural creative processes during his tenure as CEO. Isaacson (2012)
quotes Bill Gates, in describing the Macintosh: “To create a new standard
takes not just making something that’s a little different, it takes something
that’s really new and captures people’s imagination. And the Macintosh, of
all the machines I’ve ever seen, is the only one that meets that standard”
(p. 160). It was Steve Job’s understanding the human desire for free will and
the agency that technologies afford, the first example of determinism men-
tioned previously, that fueled the development of not only the Macintosh
but many of the groundbreaking new products that Apple has developed—
iTunes, the iPod, the iPhone, and the iPad, to name a few. When balanced
with a good understanding of the basic human need for free will, deter-
ministic beliefs (of the first variety that I mentioned) are more fruitfully
channeled.
A Way Forward
Isaacson (2012) described Jobs as possessing “the creativity that can occur
when a feel for both the humanities and the sciences combine in one strong
personality . . . ” (p. xix). I would like to suggest here that music education
might gain from enacting cultural creative processes that acknowledge both
free will and determinism. These two constructs, like the humanities and the
sciences, at face value might seem at odds with one another. However, they
can also be viewed as complimentary. Similar to the ideas of freedom and
constraint in the creativity literature (Barrett, 2003), when rubbed together
or placed in close proximity, free will and determinism often produce action
of some kind.
Put in practical terms, the music education profession would do well
to embrace a “soft determinism” stance on the role of technology in the
transformation of local music making practices. Reflexivity between tech-
nology and human beings should be one of our goals. Local music teachers
then would be in the driver’s seat of the incorporation of new technologies
into expanded, culturally relevant music curricula. When in proper balance,
deterministic beliefs really are not that bad, when formed and transformed
by human beings who value truth, beauty, and goodness.
THE SENSE OF TECHNOLOGICAL DETERMINISM
Matthew Thibeault
I have a memory from Cracked magazine in the late 1970s. The back cover
presented an advertising parody, with a headline that read, “Four out of
five dentists recommend sugarless gum for their patients who chew gum.
I’m the one who didn’t.”3 A black and white photograph depicted a dentist,
brown bag over his head, dumping a bag of sugar into his patient’s mouth
via a funnel.
Belief in technological determinism can seem akin to this ad. When defined
as technology driving change with an inevitable trajectory unalterable by
human effort,4 believing that technological determinism describes how our
world works is akin to the dentist who pours sugar into his patient’s mouth.
It is absurd.
In this portion of this chapter, I would like to offer an alternate view, a
brief attempt to present four ways that technological determinism makes
sense. My current view is that technological determinism, rather than an
ideology simply to be rejected, is closer to a problem like racism, one baked
into our culture in a way that produces what Eduardo Bonilla-Silva (2009)
refers to as “racism without racists.” We have determinism without deter-
minists. Of course, the problem of technological determinism is not in any
way as devastating as racism in America, but they similarly present as ubiq-
uitous ideologies publicly claimed by few, but which nevertheless run ram-
pant within our society. Both are supported in subtle and persistent ways
that require explication and critique to lead to confrontation and change.
A first way that deterministic arguments make sense is that they are
familiar. Deterministic accounts have been and continue to be prevalent. As
far back as one hundred years ago, John Philip Sousa (1906) worried that
machine music would end music education, sales of instruments, and leave
those who made music simply imitators of phonographs.5 In the 1960s,
Glenn Gould (1966/1984) wrote, “We must be prepared to accept the fact
that, for better or worse, recording will forever alter our notions about what
is appropriate to the performance of music” (p. 337), and famously pre-
dicted technology would cause the concert to become “dormant in the 21st
century” (p. 332). Today, most of us are familiar with the belief that Napster
changed music in profound ways, or have heard that Jon Bon Jovi held Steve
Jobs, through Jobs’s technological innovations, personally responsible for
killing the music business (Staskiewicz, 2011). We have heard that Google is
“making us stupid” (Carr, 2008). And Victoria Armstrong’s (2011) work on
the gendered nature of technology in music education presents examples and
a critique of deterministic hope, namely, that computers will automatically
make creativity and composition flourish in the classroom. These accounts
are all too familiar.6
A second way that technological determinism makes sense is our individ-
ualistic vantage point within society. It is rational to believe that I, person-
ally, haven’t done much to change the Internet, or contributed to the design
of the iPod. But I certainly do believe that I am a member of a society that
has profoundly contributed to the shaping of these technologies. It is only
when we see ourselves as part of a movement, such as the civil rights move-
ment or today’s efforts on behalf of the LGBT community, that we clearly
see ourselves as constituting a social force for change. The individualistic
paradigm so commonly found in Western societies, as compared with col-
lectivist notions popular elsewhere, likely makes us much more vulnerable
to deterministic arguments.
A third way in which determinism makes sense is that it legitimately helps
us begin looking for causes. At first glance, it does seem that the iPod and
MP3 have had effects on music. It is hard to disagree with the notion that
the Internet and computer music software are changing music, musicians,
and audiences in fundamental ways. These arguments also help to motivate
us to explore how technology is a part of change. Deterministic beliefs are
a sensible place to begin, as long as we move beyond them, and we should
be thankful for Marshall McLuhan’s (1964/2003) expansive vision, Jacques
Ellul’s (1964) dystopian vision, and the philosophical critique of technology
in contemporary life by Albert Borgmann (1984).
A fourth and last source of the sense of technological determinism is its
promotion by technological industries. Merritt Roe Smith (1994), writes
that:
Advertising agencies, in short, not only sold the products of industrial

capitalism but also promoted ways of thinking about industrial technol-
ogy. . . . Such technocratic pitches constituted a form of technological
determinism that embedded itself deeply in popular culture.
(p. 13)
In other words, Apple sells not only iPods, but an ideology of technologi-
cal determinism wherein so many of the great improvements of modern life
originate in the creative mind of Jonathan Ive and Phil Schiller.7 A web of legal
and intellectual property concerns also depend upon a deterministic account
of technological change, and dissuade us from discussing, for instance, the
environmental degradation and obscene waste that often accompany tech-
nological innovation.8
I have shared four ways that technological determinism makes sense:
namely, that these arguments are familiar, that they resonate with our indi-
vidualistic vantage point, that they are a logical place to begin inquiry, and
that they are advanced by commercial interests. But to claim that technolog-
ical determinism makes sense is not to accept it as sensible, and the charge
of today’s panel is to challenge technological determinism. Perhaps the most
potent critique of technological determinism comes from Jonathan Sterne
(2003), who writes that these arguments “spring from an impoverished
notion of causality” (p. 8). In their place, he suggests:
To study technologies in any meaningful sense requires a rich sense of

their connection with human practice, habitat, and habit. It requires
attention to the fields of combined cultural, social, and physical
activity—what other authors have called networks or assemblages—
from which technologies emerge and of which they are a part.
(p. 8)
Following Sterne’s words, talk of the MP3 becomes meaningful when

we embed that technology within an understanding of the medium that
includes the interactions between “institutions, technologies, people, and
practices” (Sterne, 2003, p. 182), something Sterne (2012a) provides in his
exemplary book on format theory and the MP3. Thankfully, we increasingly
have enriched accounts of technology and change, frequently from the field
of sound studies (Pinch & Bijsterveld, 2012; Jonathan Sterne, 2012b). We
have Karin Bijsterveld’s (2008) wrestling with the “general public’s accep-
tance of technological determinism” (p. 20) in the context of the public
problem of mechanical noise. Rather than fear machine music as Sousa did,
we have Mark Katz’s (2012) account of amateur music making enmeshed
with machine music, a celebration of play-along recordings, karaoke, and
musical video games. And Emily Thompson (2002) locates a sense of tech-
nological progress in the very concert halls in which we perform, spaces that
reflect the evolving understanding of acoustics, building materials, and aes-
thetic ideas. In these examples we begin to grasp an enriched notion of the
networks or assemblages leading to deeper understanding, better questions,
and a richer sense of how we might better our efforts in music education.
NOTES
1. http://atmimusic.org/.
2. http://music.org/.
3. I use quote marks, but I’m constructing this from memory, so I’m likely a bit
off. But I maintain that the photo looked as I describe it. And memory of 1970s
hair on the dentist’s arms leads to the gendered pronoun.
4. It is important to note that many differentiate between “hard” and “soft”
determinism. Soft determinism is much more reasonable, having more to do
with the ways that technology exerts pressures on change. A classic explora-
tion comes from Williams (1973), who in discussing Marx writes, “We have to
revalue ‘determination’ towards the setting of limits and the exertion of pres-
sure, and away from a predicted, prefigured and controlled content” (p. 6).
5. Take, for instance, this poetic quote:
When a mother can turn on the phonograph with the same ease that she
applies to the electric light, will she croon her baby to slumber with sweet
lullabies, or will the infant be put to sleep by machinery? (Sousa 1906, p. 281)
6. I’ve also presented a critique of John Kratus’s recent work as having an implicitly
deterministic structure (Thibeault, 2011), a piece where I also presented a richer
version of the pragmatic conception of technology that is only implicit in this paper.
7. Sterne (2003) refers to this as the “male birth model” of technological innova-
tion (p. 181).
8. For example, Sue Halpern (2012) closes her review of Walter Isaacson’s (2012)
biography of Steve Jobs thusly:
Next year will bring the iPhone 5, and a new MacBook, and more iPods
and iMacs. What this means is that somewhere in the third world, poor
people are picking through heaps of electronic waste in an effort to recover
bits of gold and other metals and maybe make a dollar or two. Piled high
and toxic, it is leaking poisons and carcinogens like lead, cadmium, and
mercury that leach into their skin, the ground, the air, the water. Such may
be the longest-lasting legacy of Steve Jobs’s art.
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9 The Technology-Music Dance
Reflections on Making Sense
of Our Tools
David Brian Williams
Music, like language and possibly religion, is a species specific trait of man.
—John Blacking, How Musical Is Man? 1973
We are the artists forming art, not the machines.

—David Brian Williams and Peter R. Webster,
Experiencing Music Technology, 2008
Technology is “technology” only for people who are born before it

was invented.
—Alan Kay, Futurist, circa 1980
It is easier to move a cemetery than to effect a change in curriculum.

—Woodrow Wilson
The two chapters contributed by Tobias1 and Thibeault, and the set of
essays by Randles, Tobias, and Thibeault, provide material for philosophi-
cal thought, theoretical frameworks, and rich examples to contemplate as
we address the topic: Making sense of our tools. Music and technology are
inextricably intertwined. What an exciting dance we experience with tech-
nology, music practice, and music education.
I’ve been asked to comment on the writings and share my vision for the
future of music education from the vantage point of some 50 years of work-
ing with, and evangelizing music technology in support of, music education.
To facilitate references, I will refer to Evan Tobias’s chapter as “Landscapes,”
Matthew Thibeault’s chapter as “Shifting Locus,” and the third set of essays
as the “Determinism” chapter.
INVITATION TO THE DANCE
“Shifting Locus” provides rich stories from the 19th-century music life in
the home of Aunts Kate and Julia, to Sousa who rebelled against the new
recording technology, to Gould who embraced it to the extreme, to music
140 David Brian Williams
dissemination and sharing through the Internet and handheld devices in the
short story “Modulation,” and finally to Madlib and his über-multimedia
productions that grasp at anything analog or digital for music creativity.
The stories help frame three themes I wish to develop:
Theme 1. The evolving sophistication and complexity of music pro-

duction, creation, and recording tools unfolding historically (the
technology-music dance).
Theme 2. The technology-music dance playing out in society, at large,
and in the music classroom.
Theme 3. The increased access to, and the greater flexibility available
from, the variegated set of tools for music making—increasing democ-
ratization of music technology (more people invited to the dance).
Early in “Shifting Locus” the following is opined: “Whereas nearly all

musical experience was once had in the physical presence of live performers,
today nearly all musical experience comes through new media” (Thibeault,
p. 64). The Kaiser Family Foundation 2010 study (ibid, p. 64) evidenced
that children’s time was dominated by media consumption. Upon my closer
examination of the data, the largest contributing factor was TV viewing,
viewing that was highly dependent on parental guidance. In support of
live performance, a NAMM-commissioned Gallup survey (NAMM, 2003)
showed that 54% of households have someone who plays a musical instru-
ment and 48% play two or more. The longitudinal study, Monitoring the
Future (Johnston, O’Malley, Bachman, & Schulenberg, 1976–2009), showed
that over some 30 years, an average 57% of students in 8th, 10th, and 12th
grades—not just those in music classes—reported that they play an instru-
ment or sing outside of school (see Williams, 2012, for a full discussion of
these data). Yes, perhaps there is less music making in the home like Aunts
Kate and Julia, and our youth watch a good deal of passive TV, but these
data suggest that live music performance is still doing well. The data also beg
the need to assess the number of musicians that participate in such genres
as old-time, bluegrass, and country music, as well as garage bands, church
music, and more, in the presence of the easy access to recorded musical expe-
riences through new media. If there is any entropy in live performance, it is
in the classical music genre evidenced by the economic plight of such major
institutions as the New York City Opera, Philadelphia Orchestra, and many
others (see Farrell, 2013). I do sense an acknowledgement of live perfor-
mance in Thibeault’s thinking, particularly with participatory performance,
when a hope is later expressed for an “open and more generous conception
of music, musician, and audience . . . that will allow today’s students to fully
participate in today’s music world” (Thibeault, p. 87).
“Shifting Locus” certainly acknowledges the power that new media pro-
vide toward democratizing music for all participants (Theme 3): the realiza-
tion by the character Jay Steiner in “Modulation” that the music tools at
The Technology-Music Dance 141
their disposal provides “an instrument that everyone could learn to play
without effort” (ibid, p. 87). And Thibeault’s search of YouTube guitar
videos revealed that “these participant-listeners-turned-performers capture
another aspect of the new media era, that is, the incredible rise of creativity.”
Yes, listener-performers turned participant arrangers, mash-up artists, and
composers. And yes, “the recording era, then, gave way to what appears to
be a democratization of access to the means of creation and distribution”
(ibid, p. 81) through home studio recording, looping software, websites, and
access to social network tools like Facebook and SoundCloud.
FRAMEWORK FOR DANCES
The “Landscapes” chapter offers a framework for exploring, research-

ing, codifying, and applying the evolving sophistication of music creativity
tools to music activities and especially to music education practice. First,
the concepts of convergence culture and participatory culture are examined
and reflect on Themes 2 and 3. “Landscapes” draws heavily from Jenkins
(2006a) and Jenkins, Purushotma, Weigel, Clinton, and Robinson (2009)
for these concepts. Convergence culture is cast by Tobias as an opportunity
where “new media and contemporary musical practices can co-exist with
acoustic music and musicking2 or other older ways of engaging with music”
(Tobias, p. 96). Participatory culture as portrayed by Jenkins et al. (2009)
embraces the “creating and sharing of performance and creation with oth-
ers” with “relatively low barriers to artistic expression and civic engage-
ment.” Mentors freely pass their skills on to novices within the culture with
“some degree of social connection” among members (Tobias, p. 96).
The convergence of acoustic and electronic music making, technology,
and music practice old and new, and the culture which emanates from the
milieu of music making, participatory musicking, and the engaged listener,
comes through both in “Landscapes” and “Shifting Locus” from a theo-
retical perspective as well as through the many examples shared. Again,
the authors are portraying the exhilarating dance between technology and
music.
I find Turino’s (2008) continuum of participatory musicking (Thibeault,
p. 97) especially useful in understanding the ways one might participate in
the technology-music dance: participatory live performance, presentational
live performance, high fidelity recording music, and studio audio art record-
ing music. The beginning of the continuum might start with music from one
of Thibeault’s participatory ukulele sessions, then progress to Aunts Kate
and Julia’s home recital. The end of the continuum, the studio art music,
is a perfect fit for Otis Jackson’s (a.k.a. Madlib) studio: “A studio is his
primary instrument,” a home studio filled with records, traditional instru-
ments, as well as computers, software, mixers, microphones, turntables and
more (Thibeault, p. 83).
Convergence and participatory music cultures set the stage for the Tobi-
as’s framework of multimedia, intermedia, and transmedia. At the risk of
being simplistic, one might offer the following observation: the advent of
CD-ROM technology opened the opportunity for deploying digital media to
create multimedia experiences (now moved to web-based and tablet-based
apps); the advent of software like GarageBand, Abelton Live, and Max MSP
opened the opportunity for creating intermedia art forms and experiences
through both MIDI control and the ever expanding universe of digital sam-
ples and loops; and the advent of social networking and cloud computing
tools (Twitter, Wikis, Facebook, SoundCloud, and more) provides the key
elements needed for fully realizing experiences and art forms within the
transmedia framework.
These are not mutually exclusive. The telematic opera Auksalaq that
“Landscapes” notes could be considered transmedia as much as intermedia.
The John Cage project that Tobias designed makes use of all media forms
within the framework and the concomitant technology that makes this inter-
play possible. More recent examples in the news include the wireless opera,
Invisible Cities, performed in Los Angeles Union Station where “attendees
were equipped with wireless headphones and wandered the enormous main
station hall—as well an adjacent waiting area and outdoor courtyard—fol-
lowing the similarly untethered performers as they emerged from all direc-
tions” (Shamoon, 2013). A recent exhibit at the New York Museum of
Arts and Design was entitled “Out of Hand: Materializing the Postdigital,”
where artists referred to the “postdigital” as “bending digital techniques to
their own expressive ends” (Sheets, 2013). Richard Dupont, a sculptor who
creates “startling distortions of the human form,” explains: “The forms I
end up with couldn’t have been done without using digital tools, but you
have to disrespect them on some level.” “It’s much more interesting,” he
shares, “if you can disrupt the expectations of what the technology can do”
(ibid).
To borrow from Tobias’s summary point for the transmedia framework,
“whether one works with or within multi-, inter-, or transmedia, an artist or
a teacher can create an artistic and learning experience that emphasizes con-
nections between media, ideas, artworks, and other aspects of the human
experience that might not otherwise have been apparent” (Tobias, p. 111).
The framework encourages us to expand our repertoire and explore either
as a performer, composer, director, or teacher the phantasmagoria of media
options: analog and digital, visual and sonic, static and movement.
The progression through the digital media frameworks adds further sup-
port to Theme 1, the continue evolution of the dance between technology
and music. Extending this further to Theme 3, “Landscapes” reinforces the
power of digital media to democratize artistic expression, quoting from Jen-
kins et al. (2009), “as the culture absorbs and responds to the explosion
of new media technologies that make it possible for average consumers to
archive, annotate, appropriate, and reticulate media content in powerful
new ways” (Tobias, p. 97). An issue I will address more fully in a moment
is the advice to music educators that hints at what transpires in the music
classroom does not reflect on society in general (Theme 2).
WHO LEADS ON THE DANCE FLOOR?
The three essays in the “Determinism” chapter by Randles, Tobias, and Thi-
beault examine the philosophical position of technology determinism from
various vantage points. Why is this important to a discussion of “making
sense of our tools” and music education? The technology determinist would
say that technology drives changes in how we experience and engage in
music and how we, as educators, deliver instruction and design our strate-
gies for student learning. The opposite of determinism, as the essays note,
is free will. The question is thus, who leads on the dance floor, technology
or music?
Randles develops the concept of “soft determinism” through the writ-
ings of Smith (1994) and the contributions to technology by Steve Jobs.
“Technological change drives social change,” he explains, “but at the same
time responds discriminatingly to social pressures” (Randles, p. 129). He
proposes “that the way that Steve Jobs balanced free will with determin-
istic beliefs, soft determinism, might be a healthy way for music education
to approach the idea of technological determinism” (ibid, p. 129). Seeking
a similar balance between determinism and free will, Tobias makes refer-
ence to Jones and Hafner (2012) and introduces “the tension between affor-
dances (or possibilities for action) and constraints (limitation of action) of
digital media” (Tobias, p. 126).
Thibeault’s essay offers four ways that “deterministic arguments make
sense” (Thibeault, p. 133): they are familiar to us; we believe we are part of
technology initiatives by participating in them; it helps us look for causes;
and they are promoted by corporate America. He is careful, on the other
hand, to stress that “to claim that technological determinism makes sense is
not to accept it as sensible.” The common denominator through the three
essays is the push-pull of technology with its “affordance and constraints”
against free will set in the cultural context of “a rich sense of their con-
nection with human practice, habitat, and habit” (Sterne, 2003, cited by
Thibeault, p. 135).
TECHNOLOGY ADOPTION LIFECYCLE
The dance between technology and the people and ways (procedures) they
make and experience music is a key thread throughout the three chapters.
As we emphasized in Experiencing Music Technology (Williams & Webster,
2008, p. 12):
It is important to understand that people using technology is the most
important component of a music system. Whatever great achievements
flow from the process of using technology in music making, it is not
the machines that should earn the credit. Rather, the human mind and
creative spirit are responsible. . . . We are the artists forming art, not
the machines.
Another perspective for considering “making use of our tools” is from

the vantage point of people as “adopters” of technology, be they a con-
sumer, musician, teacher, or student. Through several iterations, Rogers
(2003) has expounded a model of the “diffusion of innovations” expressed
as the technology adoption lifecycle. “Diffusion,” he explains, “is the pro-
cess in which an innovation is communicated through certain channels over
time among the members of a social system” (ibid, p. 5). He divides technol-
ogy adopters into the five categories shown in Figure 9.1: innovators, early
adopters, early majority, late majority, and laggards. Plotted on a normal
curve the mean lies between early and late majority. For Rogers, people de-
cide to adopt a technology when the “innovation offers them a better way
to do something, is compatible with their values, beliefs, and needs, is not
Figure 9.1 Rogers’s (2003) diffusion of innovations curve as consumers adopt new
technology. Shown with the addition of Moore’s “chasm” between Early Adopter
and Early Majority and a projected adoption curve for technology in the music class-
room. Adapted from Rogers (2003) and Moore (2006).
too complex, can be tried out before adoption, and has observable benefits”
(Surrey & Ely, 2007, para. 8).
Although Rogers’s work is most often applied to consumer models, the
concept also applies to technology’s influence on music, music practice, and
education. The three themes of my response, as well as the discussion of
technological determinism, fit nicely within this model. Technology success-
fully evolves through Rogers’s stages where innovators and early adopt-
ers challenge the new technology and their feedback brings about changes
and advancements in the technology that permit advancement to the “early
majority.” Rogers (2003) casts “the early majority” as more conservative
consumers, who are open to new ideas, and are active and influential in their
respective community.
Geoffrey Moore in Crossing the Chasm (2006) expands on the model
by focusing especially on the “chasm” between early adopters and the
early majority, emphasizing that many technologies do not make it across
to adoption by the early majority. LP stereo and CD recordings made
it across and evolved to the point where the most conservative “late
majority” and even a few die-hard “laggards” adopted the technology.
CD-ROM music multimedia education discs, streaming web media, and
GarageBand software have bridged the chasm at one time or another to
the “early majority” but perhaps not to the “late majority”—they tend
to be much more conservative and less open to trying new ideas and
technologies.
Eventually the technology becomes ubiquitous as the adoption curve
reaches saturation. At this point in its evolution, as Alan Kay (Tapscott, 1999,
p. 38) suggests, it may no longer be viewed as technology. A new genera-
tion assumes it always existed; or, it has been replaced and the new generation
never knew it existed. Our students of today do not view the CDs, MP3s,
desktop computers, and the Internet as “technology.”
EVERYONE IS INVITED TO DANCE
How the adoption cycle fits with our discussions of technological determin-
ism is key to appreciating the technology-music dance and the democratiza-
tion of music engagement through technology. Where technology determines
application in music, I would suggest, is in the innovator and early adopter
stages. It is typically those who are most curious and most technology pro-
ficient who are willing to hang out on the leading edge and experiment with
ways to use technology in music making and music education. At this point
in the cycle instructional quality may be overwhelmed by the demands or
constraints of the innovative technology. A case in point is the considerable
variability in the current quality of music education apps for Android and
iOS devices—still in the innovator and early adopter stages—where the risk
of technology undermining instructional quality is most likely. Where “soft
determinism” comes into play is when the technology applications cross the
“chasm” to the early and late majority and pedagogy hopefully dominates.
For music in society at large, the cultural contexts of “human practice, habi-
tat, and habit” (Thibeault, p. 135) determine whether the technology is use-
ful and eventually becomes ubiquitous.
SOCIETY EMBRACES THE DANCE
Technology moving toward ubiquity in the adoption cycle is reflected in the

evolution of music reproduction, performance, and creativity told through
the stories in “Shifting Locus” and described through the framework for
digital media in “Landscapes.” Sousa was a laggard with the first vinyl
records; Gould was an innovator with the first Sony digital recorders iso-
lated in the studio; Madlib is an impresario among early adopters and the
early majority employing analog and digital tools for massaging music and
sound in myriad ways to prolifically create his albums.
We can begin with music reproduction, the desire to find ways to cap-
ture music performance and to be able to re-create it (preserve it) for future
replaying. We can trace an analog evolution starting with music boxes and
mechanical orchestras, to punch metal disc players, to player pianos, to
wax cylinders, to vinyl recordings, and then to reel-to-reel and cassette tape
recordings. One might consider that MIDI’s introduction in the early 1980s
picked up where player pianos left off to continue a mechanical way to cap-
ture and reproduce music performance.
With the advent of digital recording the evolution continues with digital
CD discs, MP3 music files and players, Internet sharing of MP3 and more
advanced compression formats like FLAC and AAC, and, now, streaming
music delivery through apps like iTunes, Pandora, Spotify, and others. For
each of these points in the evolution of music reproduction, technology
helped democratize access to recorded music performance to a greater audi-
ence. With the digitization of images and video, the full repertoire of digital
media in “Landscapes” is realized and multi-, inter-, and transmedia become
possible—although not necessarily ubiquitous; more likely early majority in
the adoption cycle.
Similar timelines can be drawn for performance, music training, publi-
cation, and creativity. By the 1990s, through the dance between technol-
ogy and music, just about anyone who wanted to listen to music, play
music, notate music, learn about music could do so through MP3 or
CD recordings, acoustic instruments or MIDI instruments, software like
Finale and Sibelius, and multimedia CD-ROMs on jazz, classical music,
ethnic music, and more. The one music behavior missing from this mix
was the capability for anyone, regardless of musical training, to create
music by point-and-click manipulation of sonic events. Precursors to a
major breakthrough to this need were software tools like Band-in-a-Box
or ACID Music Studio. The introduction of GarageBand in 2004 pro-
vided essential software for creating music without the demands of read-
ing traditional notation and playing a traditional music instrument. Just
use your ear and point and click from voluminous libraries of loops and
sound samples. The technology-music dance enabled people to express
themselves musically in ways never before accessible: democratization of
music creativity!
THE MUSIC CLASSROOM EMBRACES THE DANCE?
Tools that are adopted in society and bring freedom of musical expression,
unfortunately, do not necessarily make it across the chasm to adoption in
the music classroom. Someone shared an analogy a few years ago compar-
ing a classroom teacher to a physician. A doctor of 50 years ago, if trans-
ported ahead to the present, would be lost using the medical technology of
today. An educator or music educator transported ahead 50 years would
be at home enough to function as a teacher. The music teacher would find
comfort in the piano and chalkboard (or Smart Board essentially being used
like a chalkboard).
Change in education, as the Woodrow Wilson quote cogently expressed,
is very slow. Surveys by Reese (2003), Dorfman (2008), and Dammers
(2012) have found that music teachers are more likely to be in the majority
of adopters (early and late) only for technology that helps them personally:
word processing, notation software, email and web browsing, and the like.
Reese (2003) did a four-year follow-up of a 1998 survey of music teach-
ers in Illinois. “Administrative and communication uses of computers,” he
reported, as well as “uses away from students to prepare teaching materi-
als[,] continue to dominate the purposes for which teachers use comput-
ers most often” (p. 79). Confirming Reese, Dorfman (2008) found music
teachers in Ohio “tend to use technology more for personal pursuits and
for planning purposes than they do in pedagogical scenarios in which stu-
dents are engaged with technology” (p. 33). And in the most recent study,
Dammers (2012) concluded that “while previous surveys . . . have found
that instructional use of technology in music classrooms lags behind teach-
ers’ productivity uses, . . . a relatively small number of music educators are
moving beyond technology integration to teaching music in an environment
where technology is a defining factor” (p. 81).
These studies emphasize that few technologies make it across the chasm
to the early majority when it comes to integrating technology into the music
curriculum. Such a push back from the classroom culture would seem to
defy any notion of technological determinism. To use Tobias’s terms, the
non-technology constraints mask any consideration of affordances. Those
constraints being teachers’ time, energy, budget, lack of motivation, and lack
of experience and training with the technology.
VISIONING FOR THE FUTURE: THE CHALLENGE
Let us center our focus now on the key issue that overrides all others.
I return to the opening quote by John Blacking that music is a species-
specific behavior of humans; everyone has a natural, inborn desire to
engage with music in some form. When I try and make sense of the “tools”
and what the future may hold, the evidence provided in the readings offers
broad guidance for using the tools of music technology in society at large to
enable anyone to engage in musical expression. The significant challenge,
however, remains bridging the chasm to early and late majority adopters of
music technology in the classroom (the teachers) and effectively using the
technology in support of music teaching and learning. This is where music
education needs to be the most diligent in finding clarity for “making sense
of our tools.”
What can we do to serve this long-standing need? Briefly, I offer two pro-
posals among many we might consider: more inclusive training in technology
at the undergraduate level of music and, secondly, as educators, embracing
a model for curriculum development that ensures that technology supports
instructional strategy and is not a determinant of instruction.
Training
Peter Webster and I (Williams & Webster, 2013) have attempted, over the
past three years, to define a core set of technology competencies for which
every undergraduate music student should be able to demonstrate profi-
ciency before graduating. Our surveys of college music faculty have validated
the critical need for competency in using notation software; understanding
digital audio concepts, basic techniques for digital recording, and creating
a CD or streaming audio file; building a basic music workstation; using
presentation software; basic video editing; and understanding copyright and
intellectual property rights related to music.
We also have gathered data on how these competencies are taught and
the support and long-term planning schools have provided to ensure that
technology skills are integral to music learning. Fifty-eight percent of the
respondents in our most recent study indicated that “little is being done,” or
there is “little interest” in planning for delivery of music technology. Some
30% of respondents felt that students come to college with the necessary
skills and understanding or they acquire them on their own without need for
formal instruction. In contrast, Dammers and Phillips (2011), in examining
the technology skills of high school students intending to major in music
technology, reported that college instructors found them poorly prepared
for more advanced music technology study.
What can we deduce from this evidence? Primarily that music technology
competency is not a universal priority among undergraduate music pro-
grams in the United States, and how and where it is taught is not clearly
defined or endorsed. The assumption that students learn these skills on their
own may be unfounded and demands further study.
Return to the analogy of the physician and the classroom teacher. The
physician’s world of practice has radically changed over 50 years because
technology is thoroughly embedded in required medical training and ongo-
ing professional development. Until we take this same strategy in college
music, not just for the music education curriculum, but throughout the
music undergraduate curriculum, our music teachers will enter the school
environment with minimal or no baseline skills for using technology in per-
formance, arranging and composing, engaged listening, presentations, and
instruction. Hence, when looking back across the chasm to the innovators
and early adopters in our profession, they are overwhelmed with finding
the time, motivation, and the skill sets to assimilate new technologies—all
those wonderful tools that these three chapters so generously and richly
present.
Models for Curriculum Design

Affordances, soft determinism, context: just three of the keywords that sur-
face in the readings for “Making Sense of Our Tools” that stress the impor-
tance of developing technology as an integral component within the larger
context. Just as developing a basic skill set of music technology competen-
cies is critical, having an effective model for designing instruction and cur-
ricula is critical to bridging the technology adoption chasm.
In Technology Based Music Instruction, Dorfman (2013, p. 7) argues that
“using technology as the major means for teaching music is a learned skill.
Though teachers may demonstrate a proclivity toward using technology, it is
unlikely that teachers will be able to do so naturally.” Among the reasons he
offers for this: technology pedagogy for music is a new skill, models to sup-
port music technology pedagogy are not readily available, and opportunities
for improving skills “are rare, and difficult to find.”
A model I have found effective is the TPACK model developed by Mishra
and Koehler (2006) and graphically illustrated in Figure 9.2. Bauer (2014)
uses the TPACK model extensively in his book, Music Learning Today, as
does Dorfman (2013). Bauer provides background for the use of TPACK
(p. 12):
Many approaches to helping educators use technology have focused on

the technological tools themselves. Inherent in these methods was the
belief that teachers would be able to figure out how to apply the tools to
curricular content. However, it is apparent that in many instances this
has not been the case. Being able to use technology effectively requires
not only an understanding of technology itself, but also of effective ped-
agogical approaches for utilizing that technology in a particular content
area. In addition, the affordances and constraints of a technology for
Figure 9.2 Mishra and Koehler’s (2006) TPACK model showing the dynamic and
transactional relationship between the three components and knowledge acquisition.
(Reproduced by permission of the publisher, © 2012 by tpack.org)
use in a specific instructional context need to be considered. Teachers

must contemplate the dynamic relationship that exists among content,
pedagogy and content within an educational context; they must have
a well developed Technological Pedagogical and Content Knowledge
(TPACK).
I recommend Dorfman’s and Bauer’s texts for further study of TPACK; the
model is extensively developed for integrating technology into music educa-
tion practice.
Case Study: Technology-based Music Classrooms and the

Nontraditional Music Student
To illustrate the benefits of training in music technology skills and the benefits
from successfully bridging the technology adoption chasm to effect change
in music classroom pedagogy, let me share one case in point. Nationwide,
80% of the students in secondary schools do not participate in the tradi-
tional performing ensembles of band, choir, and orchestra. Children begin
music education in the earliest grades with everyone participating in music
performance and creative activities. Following an inverted triangle, they
are then selectively removed from music activities as participation becomes
more specialized with performing ensembles at the secondary level.
The 80% figure comes from an analysis of several different studies, some
longitudinal over 30 years to show that there has been little change in this
percentage (discussed fully in Williams, 2012). Thibeault in “Shifting Locus”
clearly makes this point when he observes that “music education still heavily
favors a type of performance characterized by competitions and festivals,
emulation of military bands and makers of traditional band and orchestra
instruments along with publishers of scores for these ensembles” (p. 35).
There is a grassroots movement afoot in music education to change this.
Using the technology tools richly described herein, music teachers across
the county are implementing technology-based music classes that engage
the nontraditional music student (NTMs) in just such participant-listeners-
turned-performers-turned-composer activities described in “Shifting Locus”
and embodied in the new media framework of “Landscapes.” Using tools
such as GarageBand, Mixcraft, Soundation, and Abelton Live, students are
able to perform on instruments of their own creation and mix and com-
pose without knowledge of traditional notation much as the characters in
Powell’s “Modulation” or Madlib’s studio, activities that run the full range
of Turino’s (2008) continuum of participatory music making. Dammers
(2012) research and the profiles of these teachers on the musiccreativity.
org (2013) website show that these educators implement technology-based
music courses typically on their own initiative. As the demand expands from
successful implementation of NTM programs, administrative support often
follows (cf. the profiles on NTM programs on musiccreativity.org). These
are the innovators and early adopters of music curriculum reform reaching
students through music experiences that most often reflected the students’
personal participatory culture outside of school.
THE LAST DANCE
Clearly the three themes I proposed at the outset of this response to “Mak-
ing Sense of Our Tools” come through all of the diverse and deep thinking
shared in this section of Music Education: Navigating the Future. The tech-
nology-music dance is constantly evolving and absorbing changes in tech-
nology, the dance plays out in society at large and, hopefully, in the future,
to a much greater extent in the music classroom. At certain key points in the
evolution some dimension of music making is democratized and facilitates
for an ever greater population of people the ability to express themselves
with music as never before. The summary point I am hopeful you as the
reader take away is the need for making sense of the tools from a classroom
and pedagogical vantage point to ensure that what is accessible in society is
also used to enable new and improved ways for all of our students to learn
about and experience the multiple dimensions of music making.
In closing, as one who has been an innovator and early adopter in the
technology adoption cycle for music since the mid-1960s, I’d like to offer a
set of ten predictions for new technologies in the future:
1. Freedom from of the tyranny of wires: power, video, audio, MIDI

cables will disappear with a common wireless technology that can
handle all of these channels of information along with batteries that
last weeks, not hours.
2. Ubiquitous networking and super fast network speed with a common,
secure technique for logon to the Internet that is pervasive around the
world. The United States was ranked 9th globally in network speed in
2013 based on an Akamai study (Gross, 2013).
3. Computing power delivered in smaller packages, even smaller than
a watch. Technology will be imbedded in ever-increasingly smaller
devices perhaps looking forward to a smart-baton, smart-music stands
with sheet music readers synchronized wirelessly to cloud-based music
libraries, tuners and metronomes on a chip embedded in anything you
would care to name, and, eventually, digestible nano-chips that might,
for example, redefine interfaces between musicians and machines.
4. Workstation labs will disappear and be replaced by “filling stations”
for our tablets and laptops, with smart, wireless devices available as
resources for printing, charging, alternative input devices, scanning,
and more.
5. Small discrete apps will continue to replace the past, large Swiss-
army knife solutions for music software, but apps will talk to one
another like the AudioBus solution for iOS music apps. This cries for
an open-source, music-classroom management solution that allows
the music teacher to develop a custom curriculum for lesson planning
and assessment using any music-learning app available. This trend in
software deployment, as well as web-based software, will drive down
the cost of software for education and expand the a la carte model
through what the industry calls the move from licenses to subscrip-
tions (see MusicFirst, 2013).
6. Hi-res video will be as easy to manipulate in a GarageBand-like
environment and share over the Internet as MIDI, digital audio, and
graphics, helping to democratize Tobias’s inter- and transmedia cre-
ative activities.
7. Totally new devices (including nano-devices noted above) will enable
new, more natural gestures for music expression and performance
through computing devices (see Leap’s Motion, 2013, and Eric Rosen-
baum’s Makey Makey, 2013, controllers).
8. Virtual, live participatory musicking over the Internet with an Internet-
based metronome that auto adjusts for time latency will be a common
component in web browsers and apps.
9. Scanning music to notation and audio recognition to music notation
will finally work effectively for complex music events and scores.
10. Delivery of instruction at every level, driven by the catalysts of flipped
classrooms, just-in-time learning (JiTT), MOOCs (massive open
online courses), and more, will be accessible and managed from in
or outside the classroom through tools based on the Internet “cloud”
and social networking.
Quoting Buzz Lightyear from Toy Story, “to infinity and beyond!”
NOTES
1. References cited in the chapters will not be restated in the Reference list below
and page numbers will refer to location in the respective chapter, not in the
original source.
2. The term “musicking” is defined by Christopher Small (1998, p. 9) as tak-
ing part in a “musical performance, whether by performing, by listening,
by rehearsing, or practicing, by providing material for performance (what is
called composing), or by dancing.”
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teachmusictech.com/resources.html
10 Understanding the Tools
Technology as a Springboard
for Reflective Musicking
Frank Heuser
Every January, musicians of all flavors from the wide-ranging musical sub-
cultures of Southern California make a pilgrimage to Anaheim, not to visit
the amusement park that made the city famous, but rather to attend the win-
ter exhibition of the National Association of Music Merchants. Although
it is intended primarily for manufactures and music retailers, the annual
NAMM show is also a place where symphonic and studio performers,
concert artists and music educators gather to examine the innovations the
industry has developed over the previous year. Perhaps one of the most sig-
nificant revelations occurred at the 1983 NAMM show when Dave Smith,
the CEO of the synthesizer company Sequential Circuits Inc., publically
introduced the newly standardized Musical Instrument Digital Interface by
connecting a Prophet 600 with a Roland Jupiter-6 synthesizer (Chadabe,
2000; Holmes, 2003; Manning, 2013). Even at the moment of its birth, the
potential of MIDI to impact and shape the future of music seemed obvious.
The impending evolution of electronic media would soon blur established
definitions and challenge previous understandings of how music would be
created, accessed, learned, and understood as an incredible range of digital
tools were developed and became increasingly available over the subsequent
decades.
The three chapters in the portion of this book titled Making Sense of
our Tools provide historical context to the changing technologies that are
intertwined with all aspects of music and musicking. These chapters also
challenge music educators to give careful consideration to how these tools
will mediate traditional understandings and practices in the field as tech-
nologies open new avenues of creating, performing, interacting with and
conceptualizing music. Technology has, of course, always influenced music.
The mechanical innovations taking place as the harpsichord evolved into the
fortepiano induced Haydn and Mozart to abandon the earlier instrument
(Hess, 1953). Structural changes in the piano, which included an expanded
range, iron framing, steel strings, and felt hammers, allowed Beethoven and
subsequent composers to explore new expressive possibilities as sustaining
power improved in the instrument (Erlich, 1990). Increased neck length
(Rosen, 1971) changed the sound of the violin, and newly designed bows by
156 Frank Heuser
Francois Tourte allowed composers to write music which would have been
impossible to perform had it not been for the technological evolution of this
seemingly simple marriage of wood and horse hair (Ervin, n.d.). As the 19th
century progressed, the emerging virtuoso performers enabled by technolog-
ical enhancements in brass and woodwind instruments allowed composers
to explore and challenge the technical limits of those improved instruments.
However, the limits of composition were not always determined by technol-
ogy. In the Rite of Spring, Stravinsky chose to write beyond the conventional
range of the bassoon, thereby compelling future generations of performers
to extend the upper limits of playing (Grymes, 1998).
In contrast to the types of technological changes that impacted how music
was presented and composed in the era of performance, Matthew Thibeault
provides a compelling account of how the music listener, the music listen-
ing experience, and the ways we think about music have evolved since the
advent of sound recording. The jarring differences between the dichotomous
musical and social worlds depicted by James Joyce and Richard Powers
contextualize how new media influences the musical lives of young people
currently learning in our universities. Although students come into the acad-
emy having listened to a vast amount of recorded music, the curriculum
offered by most university music departments often seems as though we are
still preparing students to enter the acoustical world of pianist Mary Jane
and vocalist Aunt Julia, so aptly depicted by Joyce. The curricular tradi-
tions preserving this approach to music study remain beholden to practices
established in early German conservatories that emphasized preparation for
careers in orchestras and opera houses. It is understandable that perfor-
mance faculty members, whose own rigorous conservatory training enabled
achievement at a high professional level in Western art music, might have dif-
ficulty conceiving of university instruction being delivered in any other way.
However, modern students often lead multiple musical lives in which their
own interests in popular genres, world music, and digital media remain clan-
destine. By acknowledging and embracing the new media world described
by Powers, the academy might develop new conceptions of musicianship
that could in turn provide their students with the tools needed to creatively
renew their musical ideals. By juxtaposing these two authors in his essay,
Thibeault provides a view of where music has been and a glimpse of where
music education must go in the future.
The fears expressed in “The Menace of Mechanical Music” were fre-
quently echoed by acoustic musicians in the months immediately following
the introduction of MIDI. Like Sousa, music educators were also concerned
about what impact technology might have on the inclination of future gen-
erations to submit to the discipline required to learn the craft of live music
making. Similar apprehensions have recently been articulated by former
Rolling Stones bassist Bill Wyman who expressed disdain regarding tech-
nologically enabled video games such as Rock Band because “it encourages
kids not to learn, that’s the trouble. It makes less and less people dedicated
Understanding the Tools 157
to really get down and learn an instrument. I think [that] is a pity so I’m
not really keen on that kind of stuff” (quoted in Masters, 2009). Reiterating
this view is Pink Floyd’s Nick Mason who found that Rock Band “irritates
me having watched my kids do it—if they spent as much time practicing the
guitar as learning how to press the buttons they’d be damn good by now”
(Masters, 2009). It seems ironic that these artists, both of whom earned a
considerable portion of their living through recording, would be echoing the
sentiments of Sousa from a century earlier. There is just a hint in Thibeault’s
essay that current undergraduate music education students may hold views
similar to these two rock musicians. Even though future music teachers have
grown up in the new media era, they may not be immediately welcoming
of technology in their future professional work. Their comments about the
need to make musical judgments based on live performances suggest that
many maintain educational ideals more in tune with the world described by
Joyce than of the new media era in which they matured.
Understanding new media remains challenging because the rate of tech-
nological progress is constantly accelerating and requires a willingness to
navigate a multiplicity of continuously evolving meanings. Even those deeply
immersed in the digital world portrayed by Powers in “Modulation” can be
confused by the plethora of constantly emerging terms associated with new
media. Although a chapter titled “Inter/trans/multi/cross/new media(ting):
Navigating an emerging landscape of digital media for music education”
may seem intimidating, it is an accessible introduction to the terminology
and cultural concepts currently associated with the relentlessly expanding
arena of music technology. Evan Tobias offers a road map of newly emerg-
ing technologies and examples of how these technologies are beginning to
allow music educators to reconceptualize music pedagogy and curriculum.
More importantly, he urges music educators to move beyond concentrating
on the medium and instead to examine the “larger contexts and systems in
which media, musicking, and education exist.” Tobias does this by “focus-
ing on cultural contexts and overarching frameworks of which digital media
are a part.”
Music education exists in multiple cultural contexts and the chapter pro-
vides examples of how music learning might be enhanced and mediated by
innovative use of new media. The opening description of audience members
interacting via digital media with one another during an actual performance
immediately captures our attention. The very thought of being in a concert
hall in which the glow of numerous digital screens is allowed to infringe
on the darkness that usually enforces singular concentration on the aes-
thetic products emanating from the stage is antithetical to the indoctrina-
tion regarding concert etiquette most people receive in the course of their
musical education. Does encouraging individuals to communicate during a
concert suggest that the importance of performance is becoming less valued,
or might such interaction instead actually nurture reflective engagement
with music as the sound and multiple conceptual ideas about a performance
158 Frank Heuser
unfold in real time? Questions of this nature challenge commonly held for-
malistic ideals of music as an aesthetic object.
The types of online tools available for interacting with music, analyzing
music, and understanding music challenge traditional notions of how music
should be learned. Traditionally, music education has compartmentalized
musical elementals and placed overt importance on pitch and rhythm. At
least one critic of this approach (Pratt, 1998) maintains that the focus on
pitch and rhythm, which are the most prominent aspects of standard western
notation, results from the ease with which those elements might be assessed
and points to difficulties in evaluating understandings of musical elements
such as timbre and texture. Tobias suggests that this type of analysis might
be facilitated through the use of multimedia spectrograms (Thibeault, 2011)
and provides descriptions of other digital tools and apps that might allow
music educators to move beyond a “mono-media focus on music.” How-
ever, the author repeatedly warns that particular technologies and applica-
tions must not be the focal point of instruction. New media should instead
be used to inform instruction and develop curricula that expand musical
thinking as well as enable creativity.
Using new media in the service of music learning requires the capacity to
reflect on and theorize about how this might be accomplished. Just as the abil-
ity to hear and identify musical structures is refined as one learns to apply
specific labels acquired through the study of music theory, the capacity for
understanding effective uses of digital media will be enhanced as our profes-
sion cultivates a sophisticated vocabulary for describing and discussing this
emerging field. The first part of the chapter’s title, “Inter/trans/multi/cross/
new media(ting),” suggests that we are entering an educational landscape
that will require music teachers to develop proficiency in using very specific
terminology for the purposes of understanding how these media are being
used as well as how meaningful learning experiences can be constructed and
implemented. The author provides several frameworks for understanding
and theorizing about the multiple roles new or digital media might play in
music education. Understanding the frameworks presented in the chapter,
including the concepts of convergence culture(s) and participatory culture(s)
as well as those specific to media including multimedia, intermedia, and
transmedia, will become essential for interpreting and meaning making when
working and teaching with new media. Fluency with these terms will allow
teachers to clarify basic concepts by identifying both broad and specific
categories of practice thereby facilitating analysis and theory building. This
in turn should permit music educators to relate the design of instructional
activities using new media to the foundational premises of music education.
From my perspective, Tobias has done a masterful job of collecting and
codifying the currently available vocabulary that is central to understand-
ing new media from a variety of disparate sources. More importantly, he
provides an example of how to think about digital media so that discussions
might become nuanced in ways that allow for multiple understandings and
outcomes rather than reduced to discrete characteristics or technologies.
The clearly articulated message that using new media requires critical
awareness of how these tools must purposefully contribute to music learning
rather than become a means of amusement is a perfect prelude to the chapter
“Is It the Technology? Challenging Technological Determinism in Music
Education.” The essays in this chapter provide three distinct and ultimately
hopeful perspectives on technological determinism. Collectively, they can be
seen as a call to examine critically the ways new technologies are impacting
music, music consumption, and music learning. They also serve as an appeal
to apply a critical lens to traditional practices in music education so that we
can develop increasingly nuanced understandings of the possibilities and
limitations inherent in all instructional practices.
The concepts of affordances and constraints developed by Tobias offers
a framework for examining technology critically and thereby avoiding the
pitfalls that might be experienced when incorporating digital technologies
in well-established educational processes. One example of the necessity to
look at the affordances and constraints of technological solutions to edu-
cational issues is in the realm of piano instruction. Traditionally students
have needed to practice on an excellent acoustic piano in order to acquire
the touch and motor skills necessary to develop beautiful tone production.
Unfortunately, the financial burden of purchasing a high quality piano
precludes many learners from being able to practice regularly on such an
instrument thereby placing a major constraint on their ability to develop
performance skills. For learners hoping for an affordable alternative, the
relatively new Yamaha DGX-650 portable grand promises the touch of an
acoustic piano and the tone quality of a Yamaha concert grand. With a street
price of less than one thousand dollars and advertised to build “the proper
finger technique for when the time comes to perform on an acoustic piano”
(Yamaha Corporation of America, 2014), this digital instrument seems like
the perfect substitute for a far more expensive grand piano. However, the
development of proper keyboard technique depends on learning to listen for
subtle gradations and improvements in tone quality that occur as a result
of increasingly effective playing mechanics. Because the tone quality of an
acoustic piano varies depending on the way the fingers press the keys, the
aural feedback a student receives while practicing enables refinements in
finger technique. This important but somewhat unrecognized characteristic
of acoustic pianos is not present in the synthesized sounds generated from
digital instruments that produce a consistent tone quality regardless of play-
ing mechanics. Without aural feedback from an instrument that allows for
both good and poor tone quality, proper piano finger technique may not
emerge. This suggests that although a digital piano might make excellent
economic sense, it might not be the ideal instrument for a student at certain
stages of the learning process.
The limitations of a specific digital instrument depicted in the forego-
ing discussion provide one small example of the subtle and nuanced issues
that must be considered when incorporating new media and digital music
making into music education. Both the affordances and constraints must be
160 Frank Heuser
known, acknowledged, and examined with regards to how each contributes
to or limits music learning. An understanding of the strengths and shortcom-
ings of digital music making allows thoughtful teachers to guide students
and their parents in a direction that will provide a meaningful musical edu-
cation to each learner. All must realize that constraints may be outweighed
by the affordances offered by any given pathway. Continuing with the piano
example, the affordances of a digital keyboard such as the ability to record
audio files or practice with recordings of popular songs may prove more
valuable than the constraints synthesized tone places on the development of
proper finger technique. Some learners, especially those who never plan to
play on an acoustic piano, may prefer practicing on a synthesizer that has
multiple built in recording and playback options even though developing the
sensitivity to subtle changes that are a result of proper finger technique on
an acoustic piano might nurture better playing mechanics. This comparison
of synthesized and acoustically produced piano tone implies that decisions
about affordances and constraints must be made in regards to all instruc-
tional tools, not just digital instruments and new media.
The degree to which the technological resources of any era influence
cultural understandings and determine educational practices often remain
unexamined. Just as digital natives may have little insight about how the
technologies they so fluently use impact their understanding of the world,
those of us who practice established forms of music education can be some-
what naive about the ways that the non-digital technologies which enable
traditional music practices also can determine how music is taught, what
students learn, and what becomes valued in music education. As discussed
earlier in this chapter, technology has always played a vital role in music
and music learning. Without the mass production of woodwind, brass and
percussion instruments, the school band movement could not have become
a defining feature of music education in the United States. The universal
presence of large performing groups in communities throughout the country
might lead to the assumption that participating in school ensembles auto-
matically develops musical concepts and literacy. Yet the technology through
which instruction is delivered, usually in the form of printed method books
and sheet music, may often constrain learning to the narrow range of skills
needed to decode Western notation and assume a predefined position within
a school ensemble. The materials included in method books tend to develop
and reinforce a very specific set of performing skills rather than nurture the
broad range of musical concepts, aural skills, and creative abilities needed for
informed musical citizenship (Heuser, 2007). The constraints described here
are not “inherent or embedded in the technology” of instrumental method
books but are instead the result of an instructional vision that values ensemble
membership over the development of individual musicianship. Even traditional
educational technologies can be deterministic when used unreflectively.
We have seen how the seemingly straightforward process of choosing a
keyboard or using an instrumental method book may determine the nature
of the musical skills a learner eventually develops. As emerging technologies
find their way into instructional settings, we must critically assess what it is
we want students to learn and remain cautious so that technology does not
dictate how we teach or become more important than the musical values that
we seek to instill. Perhaps both the best and worst aspects of technological
determinism can be found in iPads as they are brought into music-learning
settings. The elegant design of these tablets allows even novice musicians to
easily manipulate sounds through programs like GarageBand. When used
reflectively, the applications available on the iPad can become a catalyst for
developing musical concepts. The kinds of discussions about aesthetic values
that are rarely possible in school ensemble settings are readily facilitated
by asking students to justify the stylistic or timbre choices they make when
creating an arrangement in GarageBand. Understanding the rhythmic skills
needed for ensemble performance can be nurtured as students compare a
recording they make in real time to a quantized version of their own work.
Asking the right questions changes an iPad ensemble from just a perform-
ing group into a forum for exploring musical thought processes. However,
without carefully guided reflective questions, the musical escapades of iPad
users might provide no deeper levels of musical knowledge than that a group
of teens acquires from playing “Heart & Soul” on a camp piano. The avail-
ability of predetermined tracks in GarageBand can be used simply to create
musical products that are immediately satisfying to the user but provide no
basic understanding of underlying musical concepts or values. The same dan-
gers will be present when using iPads in ensemble settings.
Presumably, tablets offer unlimited possibilities for use in music-learning
settings. A quick review of the Apple App Store reveals incredible numbers
of products including music-learning games for children, practice aids such
as iReal, a wide variety of virtual instruments, to sophisticated recording and
music-creation applications. When thoughtfully used for music instruction,
students can form ensembles via wireless networks, practice aural skills, and
compose without needing to know music notation. As enticing as these pos-
sibilities seem, music educators must, as with all technology, be critical and
reflective so as to avoid using tablets and applications in deterministic ways.
We must be aware that, as Jaron Lanier (2013) suggests, tablets “enforce
a new power structure . . . by running . . . only programs and applications
approved by a central commercial authority.” Because many of the programs
running on tablets are extremely enticing to young people, we must avoid
succumbing to their flashiness and make sure that we use them in a way that
empowers students rather than nurtures intellectual laziness. John Naughton
(2013), a professor of the public understanding of technology at the Open
University, critically warns that technologies such as the Macintosh computer
frees users “from the need to make decisions,” suggesting that the “hard
determinism” described by Randles may be unavoidable when using Apple
products. It is difficult to imagine music technology without the contribu-
tions that have been developed as a result of the elegant Apple operating
162 Frank Heuser
system. However, Naughton’s advice implores us to be as analytical about
this family of hi-tech products as we are of all the technology creeping into
the music education arena. By juxtaposing the concepts of “hard” and “soft
determinism,” Randles suggests that what might be viewed as a constraint on
creativity can instead become “a mechanism that assists individuals in devel-
oping their own capacities for self-expression.” Although his contribution to
this chapter could be read as a Festschrift for Steve Jobs, his insights regard-
ing technological determinism along with the imaginative views of Matthew
Thibeault, who explores ways determinism can make sense, provide our pro-
fession with a hopeful view of how new media and music technology might
be used for the betterment of music education.
The three chapters in Making Sense of our Tools explore different aspects
of how music is viewed, the ways technology and digital media mediate under-
standings of music, and how music educators must become critically reflective
of technology in order to avoid potential negative possibilities. An essential
step for any emerging new discipline is the creation of its own vocabulary, to
which these chapters have made a substantial contribution. The terms intro-
duced by these authors will facilitate reflection and critical assessment of the
multiple roles new media will play in music education. As we moved from an
era of acoustic music making to one of digital media musicking, the writers
reminded us that what it once meant to be a musician and what it once meant
to listen to music has and will continue to change. This suggests that our pro-
fession has an obligation to maintain critical awareness about the ways the
persistent evolution of music and technology will transform the ways people
will want to learn music. While reading these chapters, it is clear that the
authors hope the new media we are beginning to embrace might result in
greater reflection about what it means to teach music. It is my hope that such
reflection will extend to all approaches toward music education, traditional
as well as digital. A profession that is constantly asking questions about the
nature of music, the nature of musical understanding, and the nature of music
learning will, to paraphrase Matthew Thibeault, lead to more profound under-
standings, improved questions, and more nuanced instructional approaches
that will advance our work in music education.
REFERENCES
Chadabe, J. (2000). Part IV: The seeds of the future. Electronic Musician, XVI(5).
Retrieved November 13, 2013, from www.emusician.com/gear/0769/the-electronic-
century-part-iv-the-seeds-of-the-future/145415.
Erlich, C. (1990). The piano: A history. New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
Ervin, (n.d.). “The Tourte model bow.” Retrieved November 5, 2013, from www.
ervinviolins.com/tourte_bows.shtml.
Grymes, J. A. (1998). Dispelling the myths: The opening bassoon solo to the Rite
of Spring. The Journal of the International Double Reed Society, 26. Retrieved
July 14, 2014, from www.idrs.org/publications/PublicationsIndex/recordlist.php?-
skip=1238&-max=25
Hess, A. G. (1953). The transition from harpsichord to piano. The Galpin Society
Journal, 6, 75–94. Retrieved September 12, 2013, from www.jstor.org/stable/
841719.
Heuser, F. (2007). A theoretical framework for examining foundational instructional
materials supporting the acquisition of performance skills. In A. Williamson &
D. Coimbra (Eds.), Proceedings of the International Symposium on Performance
Science 2007. Utrecht, Netherlands: The European Association of Conservatoires
(AEC).
Holmes, T. (2003). Electronic and experimental music: Pioneers in technology and
composition. New York, NY: Routledge.
Lanier, J. (2013). Digital Passivity. The New York Times. Retrieved November 30,
2013, from www.nytimes.com/2013/11/28/opinion/digital-passivity.html?ref=
turningpoints2014&_r=0
Manning, P. (2013). Electronic and computer music. New York, NY: Oxford University
Press.
Masters, T. (2009). Rock stars cool over video games. Retrieved November 30,
2013, from http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/8242749.stm
Naughton, J. (2013). The church of Apple tests the faith of its flock. Retrieved
November 30, 2013, from www.theguardian.com/technology/2013/nov/17/apple-
mavericks-upgrade-naughton
Pratt, G. (1998). Aural awareness: Principles and practice. New York, NY: Oxford
University Press.
Rosen, C. (1971). The classical style. New York, NY: Norton.
Thibeault, M. D. (2011). Learning from looking at sound: Using multimedia spectro-
grams to explore world music. General Music Today, 25, 50. (Originally published
online July 27, 2011). doi: 10.1177/1048371311414050
Yamaha Corporation of America, (2014). Portable Grand DGX-650 Digital Piano.
Retrieved November 14, 2013, from http://usa.yamaha.com/products/musical-
instruments/keyboards/digitalkeyboards/dgx_series/dgx-650/
Part III
Visualizing Expansion
11 Liminal or Lifelong
Leisure, Recreation, and the Future
of Music Education
Roger Mantie
Navigating the future is often aided by an understanding of the past. The

past is not necessarily a predictor of the future, however. As French philoso-
pher Michel Foucault has demonstrated, history is not teleological.1 Today
was not inevitable; today is the result of choices made in the past—whether
recent or distant. Valences can and do change—sometimes for obvious rea-
sons, but often for subtle reasons little understood at the time. In this chap-
ter I wish to draw attention to how the profession’s conception of rationales
for music in the schools in Anglophone North America changed over the
course of the 20th century, and argue for a reconsideration of leisure and
recreation as a worthy aim and purpose for music education, one that may
hold the potential to reinvigorate music education, both in the United States
and beyond, in the 21st century.
This paper derives from my work investigating the phenomenon of col-
legiate a cappella. For two years I conducted an in-depth study, observing
rehearsals and performances and formally interviewing 22 students drawn
from ten different groups at four universities in the Northeast United States.
My aim is not to offer generalizable “findings,” but instead to problematize
music education practices, especially the connections between music making
in school and music making later in life. That is, I seek to offer commentary
about the present and suggest ways in which the profession might move
forward in order to further the benevolent goal of a more musical, healthier
society—one where music is not learned as a disembodied subject for its own
sake, but as a rewarding leisure activity with which to engage throughout
the lifespan.
LEISURE AND MUSIC EDUCATION: A FORGOTTEN HISTORY
As “quality of life” researcher Mark Rapley (2003) points out, leisure, in

the sense of spare time and disposable income, is a Western construction
(p. 52). Nevertheless, leisure has, since the ancient Greeks, helped to define
how “the good life” has been understood in Western societies (e.g., Kaplan,
1978; Pieper, 1963; Winnifrith & Barrett, 1989). When considering larger
168 Roger Mantie
life purposes, goals, and ambitions, one rarely gets too far before consider-
ing three major issues central to leisure studies: the extent to which we have
control over our time (freedom and obligation), the ways we choose to use
our time (responsible and irresponsible), and the quality of our life experi-
ences and the satisfactions we derive from them. That is, leisure as a concept
and as a practice is central to our way of understanding and operating in
the world.
Not incidentally, the concept of leisure is historically tied to the concept
of education. The online etymology dictionary indicates that our modern
term school is derived from the Greek scholē (skholē),2 meaning “school,
lecture, discussion,” but also “leisure, spare time.” Sociologist of leisure,
Joffre Dumazedier, for example, translates scholē as idleness and as school
(Dumazedier, 1974, p. 15), while leisure studies authority Donald Weiskopf
suggests that scholē means “serious activity without the pressure of neces-
sity” (Weiskopf, 1982, p. 4). Notably, the origins refer to “a holding back”
or “keeping clear,” as well as a “getting” and a “holding in one’s power”
(“to have”).
Music’s connection with leisure and education dates back over two thou-
sand years. In Politica, Book VIII, for example, Aristotle writes at length
about music and whether or not it should be part of education, speculating
about music’s educative value. Elsewhere Aristotle discusses how music and
contemplation are the only two activities that qualify as genuine leisure.
Education for the ancient Greeks was, of course, restricted to those of noble
birth fortunate enough to be able to indulge in a life of leisure (i.e., educa-
tion), setting in motion a long history that connected leisure and educa-
tion with privilege. Similarly, instruction in music, as a leisure activity par
excellence, has been historically restricted to those who could afford private
tutelage.
The advent of state-sponsored, compulsory schooling altered understand-
ings of education. Although in many countries compulsory schooling arose
as part of nation-building projects and reflected the desire of governments to
inculcate particular skills considered advantageous to the country (e.g., lit-
eracy, numeracy) rather than ancient Greek educational ideals per se, there is
no question that compulsory schooling brought with it an egalitarian ethos
that helped to ameliorate the practice of education as exclusive or privileged;
education became something that everyone could “have.” The eventual
inclusion of music as part of the school curriculum in the 19th century in
many countries (see Cox & Stevens, 2010) similarly changed how the learn-
ing of music was viewed. No longer the sole province of those with sufficient
financial resources to afford private instruction, music (or rather, singing)
instruction was to be available to all. Arguably, however, music’s inclusion
in the curriculum was initially dependent on it fulfilling an explicit need of
society rather than based on any perceived specialness about music in and
of itself. In the case of Lowell Mason and the successful inclusion of music
in the schools of Boston in 1838, that need was functional singing in church.
Liminal or Lifelong 169
The rise of the Progressive Education movement (˜1918–1935) saw intel-
lectual learning broadened to include social and recreational activities.
Thus, music—the status of which was always somewhat ambivalent vis-a-
vis education—was viewed by many, or at least by those with an interest in
it, as holding the potential for educative value as part of state concerns over
the “worthy use of leisure”—number six of the seven Cardinal Principles
of Secondary Education, published in 1918. Consider, for example, the fol-
lowing rationalization statements in music education literature in the United
States and Canada from the 1920s through the 1950s:
• [Music in schools can] prepare the next generation for a healthier

enjoyment of their adult leisure activities.
• . . . training the student for a wise use of his leisure time.
• . . . when it is realized that education must take into account the whole
man and aim at enriching his personality, and when the wise use of
leisure is acknowledged as one of its chief objects, then the arts, and
especially Music, are seen to deserve generous recognition.
• [O]ne of the chief aims [of school music] . . . should be to develop the
child’s capacity to employ his leisure properly.
• [Music in schools can be for] recreation, pleasure, and [is a] worthy use
of leisure time. [No. 3 of 8 objectives for school music]
• Music education aims to contribute to recreation and to the fun of
living.3
Clearly, in the first half of the 20th century the learning and teaching of
music was connected with an appreciation of leisure and recreation, aspects
viewed as central to “the good life” and the “art of living.” Leisure was
not necessarily conceptualized by these early music educators in its purest
Aristotelian sense, of course, but, consistent with Progressive Era ideals that
considered education as a developmental process aimed at both vocation
and avocation, the learning of music in schools was very much rational-
ized on the basis of its potential for leisure time use. One learned music in
schools, in other words, in order to use it (i.e., play or sing it recreationally)
beyond the school years.
By the late 1950s, however, one no longer finds many references to leisure
and/or recreation in the scholarly discourses relating to the rationalization
or justification for teaching music. Max Kaplan’s (1955) Music in Recre-
ation: Social Foundations and Practices and Charles Leonhard’s (1952) Rec-
reation through Music appear to mark the end of scholarly concern with
leisure and recreation among most music education academics. The found-
ing of the International Society for Music Education (1955) and Journal of
Research in Music Education (1953), and the publication of Basic Concepts
in Music Education (Henry, 1958) and Foundations and Principles of Music
Education (Leonhard & House, 1959), all represent a shift in emphasis,
whereby music education was to be treated as a serious academic subject
170 Roger Mantie
concerned primarily with—at least until the 1990s—“aesthetic education,”
not the “nice but not necessary” interests of leisure and recreation. Notably,
the words leisure and recreation* (* here signifying a wildcard to account
for recreational) do not appear in the index of Foundations and Principles
of Music Education. In Basic Concepts in Music Education the word leisure
(but not recreation, which appears only twice in the entire book) shows up
in the index under music, listed “as an activity of leisure.” The eight appear-
ances of the word leisure occur over the space of three chapters, although
only once is it discussed seriously, when John Mueller (1958), in his chapter,
“Music and Education: A Sociological Approach,” presciently writes, “There
are many who do not quite feel comfortable in the thought that music is an
activity for leisure. Such a function is not quite substantial enough and still
reflects a squeamish affinity with the frill” (p. 110). Although his discussion
makes clear he does not necessarily agree with this, he seems to have accu-
rately summarized prevailing thought with his appraisal.
Leisure and recreation do not currently register as the proper concerns of
music educators—or many other educators for that matter. Educational dis-
courses in the United States, especially those reflected in the popular media,
emphasize such things as accountability, parental choice, and standards.4 A
JSTOR search of music education journals reveals a marked decline in the
presence of the words leisure and recreation* from the 1960s onwards, with
almost no appearances from the year 2000 onwards. The words leisure and
recreation do not appear in the Handbook of Research on Music Teaching
and Learning (1992), The New Handbook of Research on Music Teach-
ing and Learning (2002), or the two-volume Oxford Handbook of Music
Education (2012).5 Nor do they appear in the indices of Bennett Reimer’s
A Philosophy of Music Education (1970, 1989, 2003) or David Elliott’s
Music Matters: A New Philosophy of Music Education (1995).6 What was
once such a fundamental part of thinking about music and education up
until the early1950s has almost completely disappeared from the profes-
sion’s vocabulary.
It could be, of course, that societal endorsement of education for leisure
and recreation growing out of the Progressive Education period was simply
a product of its time, and that the rise of the Cold War and the launch of
Sputnik resulted in wholesale changes in attitudes regarding schooling and
education, ones where leisure was relegated to the province of private, not
public, concerns. Strangely, however, the profession seems to have forgotten
its own history. Many music teachers of the 1920s through the 1960s clearly
understood their work as helping students prepare for a life worth living by
premising their own teaching of bands, orchestras, and choirs (in the case
of music educators in the United States and Canada) on at least the pos-
sibility of active music making outside of schooling.7 Today’s concerns, as
evidenced in the pages of Music Educators Journal and Journal of Research
in Music Education, show little sympathy for such a view. As I argue via my
presentation of empirical analysis in the next part of the chapter, thinking
of music as something used by people beyond K-12 graduation, rather than
as simply a quasi-academic subject to be learned during the school years,
provides insights into the possibilities for reviving leisure as a viable aim for
music education.
COLLEGIATE A CAPPELLA, COMPETITION,

AND AMATEUR MUSIC MAKING
OMG, why am I here? Why did I waste my time coming to campus? . . .

I’m struggling to make sense of this phenomenon; I can see it working in
private, but on this stage it just doesn’t work; it is just TOO amateurish—
it feels like watching the American Idol audition episodes: you feel bad for
the people up there.
(Field notes: Sat., Feb. 4, 2012, International Championship
of Collegiate A Cappella quarterfinals)
In previous research (Mantie, 2013) I have argued that the college years pro-
vide what should be a temporal frame of great interest for music education
researchers, given that the college years are, in a sense, “liminal” (Turner,
1967). For many students the college years represent the first period of sus-
tained living apart from direct parental care; students are no longer children
but they are not quite adults, at least in the practical sense of the word
(see Arnett, 2000, Blatterer, 2010). It is during these years that students
exercise greater choice over their leisure, or discretionary, time. Thus, for
those who believe that school music should “make a difference” (Regelski,
2005), both immediately and, more importantly, later in life, how people
choose to spend their time when not influenced by authority figures (e.g.,
parents, teachers) provides a good measure of how successful music educa-
tion has been in its mission—assuming of course that making music beyond
the school years matters to the music education profession. This is not to
imply that making music is the only, or necessarily the best, way to experi-
ence music, nor is it to dismiss the value of the experiences had by students
in primary or secondary school music programs. Rather, it is to suggest that
the extent to which people engage in music making beyond the school years
is a significant indicator of how such an activity is regarded. What does it
communicate about the effectiveness of music education if people stop mak-
ing music at their first opportunity to do so?
The phenomenon of collegiate a cappella provides a fascinating case
study of recreational music making during this “liminal” stage in life. An
online directory of collegiate a cappella (Collegiate A Cappella Group Direc-
tory, www.collegiate-acappella.com) lists over a thousand groups at colleges
and universities throughout the United States and Canada. Thanks to televi-
sion shows like Glee and The Sing Off, and more recently the movie Pitch
Perfect,8 this form of musical activity has become more widely known in
172 Roger Mantie
recent years.9 Significantly—and not always evident from The Sing Off—
these groups are most often populated by non-music majors. While the spe-
cifics vary from institution to institution, in my own research I found that
most students were heavily involved in academics, with many sustaining full
course loads in “serious” degrees of study, such as environmental analysis,
aerospace engineering, neuroscience, bio-medical engineering, communica-
tions, human physiology, chemistry, business, international relations, and
so on. It also bears mention that the phenomenon of collegiate a cappella is
not limited to so-called second- or third-tier academic institutions. On the
contrary, prestigious institutions like Harvard and the Massachusetts Insti-
tute of Technology boast over two-dozen groups between them. That seri-
ous students at so many colleges throughout the United States volitionally
involve themselves with an intensive, time-consuming recreational activity is
intriguing. Why do these students choose to participate in this leisure activ-
ity when it takes time away from their academic studies? It is one thing to
enjoy singing and making music, it is quite another to do so while spending
substantial money to attend college in pursuit of an academic qualification
not enhanced by one’s leisure time pursuits (students typically do not receive
academic credit).
The majority (approximately 70–75%) of individuals I interviewed sang
with their high school chorus, with a minority of these “singers” also hav-
ing previously participated in high school a cappella, but only about half of
these participated in a form of a cappella analogous to the collegiate pop
style.10 Interestingly, however, other members had no previous singing back-
ground, with many identifying as instrumentalists (e.g., from a saxophonist:
“I’m more of a musician, less of a singer”). Surprisingly (or perhaps not), in
my research I found that the Music Director, or MD—an individual elected
from within and by the group, and who performs with, not in front of,
the group—was often someone who identified more as an instrumentalist
than as a singer. Although collegiate a cappella is a somewhat diverse musi-
cal practice,11 most groups are student-run, comprise 12–16 members, and
rehearse 4–6 hours per week (or more), 2–3 times per week. Groups usu-
ally perform two or more times per semester, with intense activity groups
sometimes performing almost weekly.
Collegiate a cappella can be viewed as exemplifying many of the val-
ues and characteristics hopefully desired of an education in music. Groups
are self-run, self-directed, and perform self-arranged music. As a musical
performance practice, collegiate a cappella demands a level of musician-
ship that we might hopefully desire for all people: a good sense of pitch,
part independence, rhythmic embodiment, and not least, a strong sense of
musical expression. One cannot succeed as an a cappella musician without
these four vital components. Indicative of previous musical training perhaps,
many of the groups I observed used sheet music during at least part of the
learning phase (the arrangements were generally notated), but it should be
noted that reading was not necessarily a prerequisite for participation (there
were some non-readers and even the occasional person with little prior for-
mal music training or involvement).12
In my observations I was consistently impressed with the level of musician-
ship evident in rehearsals. Moreover, as a student-run and student-directed
group, a cappella requires a level of social interaction and cooperation that
Randall Allsup (2003) might describe as democratic. During part of each
rehearsal there was some form of business meeting where function and logis-
tics were discussed. Groups employ some form of executive, but I repeat-
edly witnessed a lot of cooperative decision making among all members.
Musically, I was continually impressed by the level of group involvement in
the process and product in rehearsals. Every single member demonstrated a
vested interest in “getting it right” and making the music better.
For this study I was particularly interested in learning about the partici-
pants’ perceptions of the balance between effort, excellence, and enjoyment,
aspects that speak to the heart of recreational involvement in music. I would
frequently challenge my interviewees: “If six hours per week gets you this
good [visualizing with my hands] and you wish to be better than that, why
not rehearse eight hours? Why not ten? Why not twenty?” In other words, I
wanted people to express the importance of musical excellence in relation to
their own enjoyment and the time and effort involved. Just how serious were
they about what Stebbins (1992, 1998) terms “serious leisure”? Although a
few participants expressed the desire for additional rehearsal time (e.g., “I
wanted to do ICCAs [International Championship of Collegiate A Cappella]
but the other girls aren’t as committed”), the vast majority felt the current
amount about right. Despite institutional variation vis-a-vis exact rehearsal
format (e.g., 2 three-hour vs. 3 two-hour rehearsals), I found it interesting
that six hours per week appeared to be the norm for all groups in spite of
the absence of formalized communications between colleges regarding such
matters. Six just seems to be the magic number that represents the maximum
regularly scheduled time that most students are prepared to commit.
Some groups do spend more than six hours in rehearsal and related activi-
ties, however. In addition to extra time devoted to preparation for concerts,
many groups record CDs.13 The single biggest factor determining whether or
not a group spends additional hours in rehearsal preparation appears to be if
they decide to participate in the International Championship of Collegiate A
Cappella—a national singing tournament, organized by Varsity Vocals, that
occurs over a period of months with regional quarter and semifinals leading
up to (at time of writing) the final competition at New York City’s Lincoln
Center. From what I could gather, everyone involved with collegiate a cap-
pella knows about the “ICCAs,” and the decision to enter the competition is
a major determinant of group identity. Some groups enter every year, some
never enter, and some consider it on a year-by-year basis.
What I found intriguing in my conversations was how various par-
ticipants understood the very obvious pecking order that existed among
groups, a reputation and performance hierarchy with serious implications
174 Roger Mantie
for auditions and, subsequently, for how students’ tenure with collegiate a
cappella would play out. To explain, groups almost always stay intact. For
schools with multiple groups, there is usually an unwritten (or even writ-
ten) rule that stipulates that people cannot switch between groups. Thus,
acceptance into a group in freshman year dictates one’s fate as a participant
from freshman through senior year. That is, acceptance into a competitive
group means one’s collegiate a cappella experience will be competitive and
vice versa. Next, consider that groups are usually 12–16 in size. This usu-
ally breaks down to 3–4 people per academic year (freshman, sophomore,
junior, senior). Although the number of people auditioning for the open
3–4 spots per group (i.e., replacing the graduated seniors) is a reflection
of the size of the institution and number of groups at that institution, I
heard numbers as high as 150 auditioning for two open spots in a group. At
larger institutions, students usually audition for multiple (or all) groups to
increase their chances. The goal for most students is to get into the “best”
groups on campus.14 These “best” groups usually compete in the ICCAs.
Most students, however, seemed to understand that just getting into a group
is an achievement, as most who audition do not make any group. In addi-
tion, while those in the lower tier groups I interviewed expressed their initial
disappointment of not making it into the group(s) of their choice (e.g., “I
wish we were more competitive”), they also, explicitly or implicitly, seemed
to understand the outcome as reflective of their own abilities. Moreover,
almost all admitted that the outcome was a blessing in disguise and that they
loved their a cappella group. (Without exception, everyone loved his or her
group.) This admission could be considered a defense mechanism of “sour
grapes,” but I sensed instead that it was, rather, reflective of their own satis-
faction of coming to a better understanding of who they were in the world.
Listening to the “best” collegiate a cappella groups live (rehearsal and per-
formance) can be quite exhilarating. A group at one university, for example,
regularly drew an audience of a thousand screaming fans reminiscent of a
rock or pop concert experience. In attending rehearsals, experiencing, in close
proximity, the power of good a cappella singing frequently gave me goose
bumps and sent shivers down my spine. As evident in my field notes above,
however, not all groups are at this refined level. Not infrequently I experi-
enced, according to Western performance norms, issues of pitch, balance, or
expression, which, for me, raised issues of public performance and associated
expectations. Just as one’s listening expectations for the elementary school
band or chorus are not the same as they are for the professional symphony
orchestra or chorus, I was left to ponder where this left the performance
efforts of recreational music making like collegiate a cappella. While I did not
personally observe any groups I would consider musically unacceptable, the
majority were, as public performing groups, just good or okay.
My own discomfort sitting through one of the quarterfinal competitions
of the ICCAs stemmed from what I perceived as a disconnection between the
purpose of the event and the raison d’être of collegiate a cappella. Attending
this particular competition brought into stark relief the difference between
what Thomas Turino (2008) describes as participatory and presentational
music making. While collegiate a cappella does derive from a Western pre-
sentational aesthetic normed to “professional” performance standards, as a
form of amateur, recreational music making utilizing pop and rock reper-
toire it is fundamentally participatory. Although the groups do perform in
public, observing any rehearsal makes clear that the goods of the activity
reside in the joy of singing together each week. The musical embodiment I
witnessed in rehearsals was a reminder to me of what I would want for any
of my own music students. Each and every member of each group exhibited
an overt love of what they were doing irrespective of what more refined
Western trained ears might describe as flaws detractive from listening plea-
sure. However, when placed on the stage of an elegant concert hall designed
for presentational music, especially that of the high art music tradition, the
efforts of the “weaker” groups suddenly seemed unfortunate. The musick-
ing (Small, 1998) event of the rehearsal space—so intimate, personal, mean-
ingful, and amateur in the best sense—suddenly took on what I considered
to be the mean-spiritedness of the American Idol audition episodes that, for
the perverse amusement of the viewer, mock the efforts of hopefuls who are
apparently oblivious to the inadequacy of their amateur (in the worst sense)
efforts. What seemed to me as an admirable get-together of people with a
shared love of music in their rehearsal environment became, in the context
of a formal performance space, a spectacle highlighting their shortcomings
as performers (although not necessarily as musicians; it was their inexperi-
ence as performers that was glaring).
LIMINAL OR LIFELONG?
The thing about collegiate a cappella is, no one wants the party to end.
—Mickey Rapkin, Pitch Perfect
Commentators (e.g., Booth, 1999; Regelski, 2007) have lamented how the
expectation for professional level performance norms has been detrimental
for amateur music making—“amateuring” here meant in its sense of amare,
or “to love.” What is intriguing about collegiate a cappella is that the level
of passion exhibited by the students was uncorrelated with the performing
level of their group. While most students interested in collegiate a cappella
desire at the outset of their college experience to be in the high-level com-
petitive groups, the reality is that only a handful of available spots exist;
the majority end up in groups that vary from pretty good to just okay.
This, however, did not seem to affect their level of interest or commitment,
which appeared to me relatively consistent from group to group. Everyone
involved with collegiate a cappella, it seems, enthusiastically participates, as
Wayne Booth (1999) might put it, “for the love of it.”
176 Roger Mantie
And yet, this apparent love for what they do seems to blur an issue that
I believe speaks to a vitally important issue in recreational music making. I
discerned in my interviews a lot of what Isbell and Stanley (2011) describe
as “the competition paradox.” Participants generally were not willing to
sacrifice the hours necessary for the pursuit of a higher level of performance,
and were content with their group’s present level (e.g., “I don’t want to suck,
but I don’t want to put in a ton of hours to be just a little bit better”). As
the majority of participants pointed out to me, however, competition was
a regarded as a good thing and competitive performance events such as the
ICCAs serve as a necessary goal toward which groups can orient their efforts
(e.g., “you can only get so good without competition”). The paradoxical
nature of this rang through repeatedly, however. Not infrequently did people
tell me that the ICCAs were a necessary goal but that they participated for
fun, not because of the competition. As one person phrased it, “I like to be
good, but not at the expense of happiness.” The issue this raises, however, is
why a competitive goal is necessary in the first place. Is recreational partici-
pation alone—in this case, regular rehearsing and presenting the occasional
performance—considered insufficient? Are competitive events really neces-
sary for improvement and effort? Is recreational participation for its own
sake—doing something for the love of it—just a fictive notion masking a
deep-seated desire to be number one? Or, to put it in rather grand terms, is
the desire for competition driven by a conditioned, capitalistic ethic perva-
sive in Western society—one that, in its pursuit of besting others, stands in
the way of enjoying activities for their own sake?
In part, I believe the answer to this question is addressed by consid-
ering whether individuals as their participation regarded part of a life-
long involvement with music or merely as a transitional college activity.
A defining moment for me in almost every interview was the answer to
my question, “What happens after you graduate?” When coupled with
the participants’ responses to my earlier question, “Why do this?” their
description of future plans inevitably laid bare whether participants
viewed music making as a lifelong activity or merely something one did
during the college years. That is, when I asked people why they auditioned
for a cappella, most responded by saying how much they loved music or
loved singing (e.g., “I just want to be able to sing out loud and have it not
be weird”), or that they had always been part of music groups and could
not imagine not continuing to be in a music group. Others said that they
thought joining a cappella would be a good way to transition to college,
as they were likely to meet people with similar interests.
When asked about the prospect of collegiate a cappella coming to an
end, however, slightly over half of those I interviewed responded by saying
that they were scared or terrified (their words), although one or two of the
freshmen and sophomores feigned ignorance of the time-bound nature of
the activity: e.g., “I haven’t thought about it; I’ve concentrated on this last-
ing forever.”15 Clearly, however, most had thought about it to some degree.
Some pointed out that current collegiate a cappella members are more for-
tunate than those of 5–10 years ago thanks to the rise in what participants
referred to as “post-collegiate a cappella.” One person mentioned that she
would eventually become like several of her friends, who “are now trolling
for post-collegiate a cappella.” And while some people expressed possibili-
ties for future involvement (e.g., musical theatre, starting a band, songwrit-
ing) and emphasized their passion for music making (“I can’t live without
singing; if I can’t be part of a cappella I’ll take singing lessons”), what dis-
turbed me, as a music educator, were the number of people who saw their
music making lives ending (e.g., “I think singing ends for me”) and the
number who had virtually no clue about the ways they might continue to be
musically active post-graduation. One interviewee, confessing her frustra-
tion at the thought of not being able to continue with something she loved
so much, commented, “it would be awesome if there was some after college
group out there.”
A minority, about one in three, felt that collegiate a cappella was an
activity intended for and bounded by the college years. As a member of a
highly competitive group remarked, “Last year the thought [of this end-
ing] would have destroyed me, but now I’m okay with it. I’ve had my
run.” Or as another person put it, “You have your time and then you
should move on,” a comment that serves as a reminder that, in the minds
of some, collegiate a cappella is indeed a college activity akin to student
government, the student newspaper, other student clubs, or college rituals
such as Greek life or attending sporting events on campus. Graduation,
like the Jewish bar and bat mitzvah, marks the end of this liminal period
in one’s life;16 the time for frivolous playful activities, like recreational
singing, is over.
IMPLICATIONS
Arguably, that so many people participate in collegiate a cappella speaks to

the potential success of school music programs. As I point out in previous
research (Mantie, 2013), however, this is a suspect conclusion. My previous
research suggests instead that recreational music making at the college/uni-
versity level is much more a reflection of students’ personal backgrounds—
their habitus, in Bourdieu’s (1984) formulation—than their school music
experiences alone. This finding, however, does not discount the possibility
of school music playing a greater role in fostering recreational music making
in the future. As presented in this chapter, I suggest that collegiate a cappella
is a quintessential example of recreational music making that represents so
much of what the music education profession (hopefully) cares about: the
volitional engagement, beyond the school years, with music making in a
social musical form. The challenge is in finding ways for the profession to
improve its efforts.
178 Roger Mantie
I believe there are at least three big takeaways from this study of col-
legiate a cappella. First is the importance of understanding the structural
factors and conditions that enable or disable recreational participation
in music.17 For example, one of my questions to those in leadership roles
(those of my participants who were on the executive or who were the
musical director) was, “If you have so many people auditioning for so few
spots, why not have more groups to meet the demand?” As I learned, this
was frequently a problem of institutional rules and regulations. At two of
the four institutions I researched, club rules were very strict. At one, for
example, regulations stipulated that no new club could be formed that
duplicated the function of an existing club. Hence, the number of for-
mally recognized a cappella groups was capped by this restriction. (Groups
without club status would not have access to rehearsal space and other
logistical requirements and thus face an almost impossible existence.) Con-
versely, I also learned how the growth and expansion of multiple a cap-
pella groups at another institution reflected intergroup cooperation with
formal rules that, while they, intentionally or not, help to ensure that the
better groups stay the best and the weaker groups stay weak, also help
to ensure the long-term stability and longevity of a cappella by avoiding
potentially damaging conflicts and practices, such as stealing members
from rival groups and so on. Additionally, many a cappella groups have
established alumni associations in order to sustain both the legacy and
longer-term social cohesion of participation. Although likely logistically
somewhat unwieldy for high school music teachers years ago, one can
only speculate on the tremendous potential such a practice might hold if
instituted on a widespread basis today.18 My point is that increasing life-
long participation in music is not simply a matter of, as some have argued,
substituting rock and pop groups in schools for anachronistic concert
bands. If music education is serious about increasing lifelong participation
it needs to involve itself to a much greater extent with helping students
negotiate such things as spaces, equipment, rules, policies, and so on. Lack
of participation, in other words, cannot be solely attributed to insufficient
motivation or musicianship.
The second takeaway is the matter of our obligations as music educators
to educate students, and perhaps ourselves, about musical options beyond
K–12 graduation. That so few of my participants could articulate future musi-
cal possibilities for engagement speaks to our failure as a profession to make
people aware of the range of human musical activity. I grew increasingly frus-
trated when the only thing that participants could name as a future activity
was taking more lessons. A love of learning for its own sake is fine, but surely,
given their school experiences as former band, orchestra, or choir members,
it might have been expected that more would name community ensembles
of this variety, but those responses were rarely forthcoming. Far too many, it
seemed to me, viewed their participation simply as an extension of their high
school music experience. There is certainly nothing wrong with students’
desire for a transitional activity, one with a strong social component. How-
ever, the lack of knowledge about future possibilities among so many sug-
gests that there are likely many people in society who wish to be musically
active but who are simply unaware of the options available to them (see also
Mantie & Tucker, 2008).
Finally, based on the opinions and attitudes expressed by the participants,
it appears that a more nuanced understanding of competition is necessary in
order for people to see musical participation as healthy in the way that, for
example, exercise is healthy. This is in no way to suggest that competition is
necessarily bad or unhealthy. Rather, it is to emphasize that when competi-
tion becomes the sole raison d’être, participation ends when the competition
ends. If one’s participation in a collegiate a cappella group becomes only
about competing in the ICCAs, then it becomes a temporary rather than
lifelong activity. The value of participation under a competition orientation
resides in external recognition (e.g., “we’re kind of like rock stars on cam-
pus”) rather than in, as Robert Stebbins (1992) describes with his term seri-
ous leisure, the benefits that accrue germane to the activity as a calling, life
passion, or form of recreation—benefits analogous to what regular exercise
is to physical health.
CONCLUSION
We cannot undo the present state of the music education profession, but we
can make choices with the potential to change the future. We can choose
to resurrect leisure and recreation, long a fundamental rationale for school
music, as a legitimate aim and purpose for music education. Rather than
viewing “leisure” negatively, associating the word with privilege or frivolity,
we can restore its noble origins as the very definition of “the good life.” Fur-
thermore, we can restore recreational participation as a legitimate goal for
school music instruction. Appreciating music is fine; doing music, however,
holds greater potential for realizing more of music’s goodness as a healthy
and worthy use of leisure time.
Collegiate a cappella is but one example of how music is currently
engaged with recreationally for the purpose of leisure. It provides an inter-
esting case study because it occurs at a stage in life when young adults have
the autonomy to make individual choices over their use of time. That so
many choose to continue making music rather than stop at their first oppor-
tunity is encouraging. Whether or not they continue to do so after they
graduate from college will be the real litmus test of their commitment to
lifelong recreational music making, however. By continuing to study those
who remain musically active we can hopefully generate better understand-
ings that can help to orient our curricular and instructional efforts so as to
ensure that more people are able to make music a meaningful and desirable
part of their life throughout the lifespan.
180 Roger Mantie
NOTES
1. See, for example, Foucault’s essays “On the Ways of Writing History,”
“Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” and “Return to History” in Aesthetics,
Method, and Epistemology, edited by James D. Faubion (New York: New Press,
1998). Foucault’s entire oeuvre, however, tends to emphasize this message.
2. The Greek word uses chi, hence the variations in Anglicized spellings (k vs. ch
vs. kh). Moreover, in contemporary Greek the meaning of skholē depends on
the accent: stressing the first syllable means school, stressing the second means
leisure.
3. The first three of these are taken from Diana Brault’s (1977) dissertation, “A
History Of The Ontario Music Educators’ Association (1919–1974)” (The
University of Rochester). The first is from Roy Fenwick’s 1935 address to
music teachers (p. 167), the second from the 1935 Canadian School Journal
(p. 171), and the third from the Ontario government’s Chief Inspector’s Report
for 1930 (p. 505). The fourth example is from Alice Rogers’, “The Junior High
School Music Program and Some of Its Problems,” Music Supervisors’ Journal,
no. 13(1) (1926): 27. The fifth is from Joseph Leeder and William Haynie,
Music Education in the High School (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall,
1958), 100–101. The last is from a 1952 MENC publication, The Function of
Music in the Secondary-School Curriculum, 6.
4. These types of neoliberal discourses are not unique to the United States; it is
simply a context with which I am more familiar.
5. There are two very incidental references to leisure sociology (pp. 203 and 573)
in The New Handbook of Music Teaching and Learning. One, in passing, men-
tions Max Kaplan and his interest in leisure; the other simply mentions leisure
sociology as a field of study.
6. On page 7 of the first edition of Reimer’s A Philosophy of Music Education
there is a very brief mention of leisure in connection to the Progressive
Education movement.
7. As I have documented elsewhere (Mantie, 2013), this was often referred to in
the literature as “carry over.”
8. Pitch Perfect is based on a book of the same name by Mickey Rapkin, a jour-
nalist who studied three collegiate a cappella groups in the early to mid-2000s.
A similar project, but more academic in tone, is Duchan’s (2012) Powerful
Voices: The Musical and Social World of Collegiate A Cappella.
9. Contemporary interest in collegiate a cappella dates to the 1990s. Thus, it is
likely that in this case popular culture capitalized on existing social practices
before (arguably) fueling them.
10. Collegiate a cappella is technically over one hundred years old, dating back
to such groups as the Yale Whiffenpoofs. The current resurgence of interest
from the 1990s onwards, however, differs in that groups began to focus on
“popular” music (i.e., of the Billboard charts and the like) rather than, as had
been the tradition up to that point, singing published choral arrangements or
emulating barbershop or doo-wop styles. The term “collegiate a cappella”
is usually reserved for groups performing today’s “popular” music (although
many groups show great latitude in what they consider popular).
11. As per my previous note, I investigated mainstream collegiate a cappella. Many
specialized varieties, for example religious or culturally based, exist and provide
yet another potential layer of interest for researchers. My own concern was
restricted to mainstream groups without special motivators or agendas at play.
It should be noted that other forms of a cappella, such as barbershop based or
“glee” style, also exist, but represent more of a subcultural involvement com-
pared to the broadly based participation of mainstream collegiate a cappella.
12. Clearly, however, people with no formal training must possess the requisite
musicianship: they must, in their auditions, exhibit a good sense of pitch,
rhythm, and musical expression.
13. There are websites devoted to collegiate a cappella recordings, such as www.
acatunes.com.
14. The gendered aspects of this are fascinating, insofar as the best group on cam-
pus is often all male. The all-female groups tend to lie at the bottom of the
pecking order. Alas, this aspect of collegiate a cappella requires an article of its
own and cannot be discussed here.
15. One needs to be an enrolled student to be a member. Although there are excep-
tions, collegiate a cappella is generally considered an undergraduate activity.
16. I am alluding here to the sense of liminality as a threshold, especially in rela-
tion to ceremonial markers (a la Arnold van Gennep’s “rites of passage”). The
Jewish mitzvahs, for example, ceremoniously mark the end of childhood.
17. Space does not allow for elaboration, but I have based my discussion on
Patricia Stokowski, Leisure in Society: A Network Structural Perspective (New
York: Mansell Publishers, 1994).
18. I am thinking here especially of possible variations on sites like Facebook or
meetup.com.
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Martin’s Press.
12 Seeking “Success” in
Popular Music
Gareth Dylan Smith
INTRODUCTION
This chapter was written in response to the call-for-papers for the 2013 Sun-
coast Music Education Research Symposium (SMERS IX), which had the
theme of “navigating the future”—an inherently unknowable domain. In
order to negotiate the unpredictable, it seems prudent to take time to reflect
critically upon the present. To do this, I discuss three interrelated areas in
which I work as a practitioner—popular music performance, popular music
education, and scholarship in these related areas. This paper reflects my
own perspective on, and experiences in, the fields about which I write and
the issues that I discuss. It is a truism that an “invisible” authorial voice is
present in most scholarly writing; by foregrounding my own voice I wish
to highlight its centrality to my work. I could not write this paper without
my discrete positionality, so I invite readers to critique this in concert with
the other subject matter. Any assumptions that I make in this text are, there-
fore, included as part of a consciously reflective autoethnographic approach
(Chang, 2008). To exclude my subjective voice “would have been dishon-
est” (de Rond, 2008, p. xii).
I have been a drummer for 25 years, and have been self-employed as such
part-time since 1999. I have mostly performed and recorded in musical the-
atre “pit” bands, punk, rock, folk, blues, and jazz bands, and with singer/
songwriters of many a hue. I also began teaching in 1999. I taught mostly
drum set, guitar, clarinet, and general music in elementary and secondary
schools for a decade before I began working at a college of further and
higher music education—the Institute of Contemporary Music Performance
(hereafter, the Institute) in London, England. At the Institute I teach drum
set performance to undergraduates in a range of styles such as blues, rock,
and jazz; I teach ensemble classes including Creative Ensemble, Rhythm
Section Workshop, and Advanced Performance Workshop; I taught Har-
mony and Theory for two years, and increasingly I teach popular music
studies courses including Music in Context, Music and Society, Cultural and
Philosophical Studies, and History of Popular Music. I also teach Research
Skills and supervise around fifteen students annually through undergraduate
184 Gareth Dylan Smith
Dissertation courses, one of which I also lead. My work as a performer con-
tinues to inform my work as an educator, and vice versa, in a symbiosis that
breathed life to this chapter.
The Institute where I work could arguably be seen as an example of an
extension of the northern European “fait accompli,” in which popular music
is included and valued in the U.K.’s music education system (Hebert, 2011,
p. 13; Mantie, 2013, p. 342). However, the Institute is a post-compulsory,
higher education institution, broadly modeled, since its inception almost 30
years ago, on U.S. (Los Angeles) college, Musicians Institute. The pedagogi-
cal model has tended, perhaps out of a perceived need, to overtly and rig-
orously systemize and legitimize its provision, to “formalize the informal”
learning practices (Smith & Shafighian 2013, p. 257) that are typically iden-
tified as being native to popular music (Green, 2002). As the Institute’s full
name implies, the primary focus for student activity is performance of popu-
lar music (I critique the conflation of terms “popular,” “contemporary,”
and others in Smith, in press). Given that education programs in popular
music are considered (even assumed) in this context to be worthwhile—they
are the school’s raison d’être—I turn my attention to assumptions that may
underlie and inform educational practice, and the potential implications of
these assumptions in and beyond higher popular music performance educa-
tion (hereafter, HPMPE).
My emic perspective is a limiting factor in this paper, and also a strength.
Bresler and Stake (2006) advise that “in music education, we have a need
for . . . experiential understandings of particular situations” (p. 278).
Muncey (2010) adds that “subjectivity doesn’t infect your work, it enhances
it. Making links between your own experience and your [scholarly] work
is healthy” (p. 8). Muncey’s work comes from the field of health care stud-
ies, but it is clear that her observations regarding the value of reflexive,
autoethnograhpic writing speak also to the ongoing experiences of those
working in music education, and perhaps especially in the emerging, less
well-established domain of popular music education. I stand at the inter-
section of current directions in scholarly practice and music education and
find, as Muncey affirms, “there is no distinction between doing research and
living a life” (2010, p. 3).
AIMS OF THIS PAPER
Jorgensen (2009) advises us that “the field [of music education] is in need
of robust conceptual theories of music education” derived from research
that includes “systematically describing the field” (p. 415). I offer nothing
here so bold as a conceptual theory of this broad field. Instead, this paper
may be viewed as the type of descriptive work sought by Jorgensen, and as
a response to Mantie’s invitation in his remark that, “Researchers may wish
to document practices . . . outside of the United States to more adequately
Seeking “Success” in Popular Music 185
determine the actual extent and forms of engagement with popular musics”
in music education (Mantie, 2013, p. 347). Hopefully this paper may thus
contribute to the valuable work of colleagues attempting to construct much-
needed theories of our profession.
Williamson, Cloonan, and Frith (2011) describe a lack of trust between
professional academics who value scholarly knowledge in or from aca-
demia, and professional musicians and others in the music business who
value music knowledge in or from the popular music industry. They state
that “academics have a vital role to play in keeping the public informed in
ways that are not processed by PR companies or designed to serve corporate
ends” (Williamson, Cloonan, & Frith, 2010, p. 470). Equally important, of
course, is that scholars in music and education are able to accommodate the
knowledge of those “on the ground” in popular music performance. As I
hope to illustrate, in order to navigate the future, scholars, performers, and
educators need to share expertise in a broad dialogue that embraces the over-
lapping boundaries of music performance, scholarship, and education. As is
indicated by the literature on learning in popular music (e.g., Green, 2002,
2008; Smith, 2013a), there is often little or no distinction between musician,
educator, and learner—between music practices and music education—in
popular music. Few writers appear to be directly involved with knowledge
from these three domains; the world of HPMPE is at the crossroads. In such
a broad and under-researched field as popular music education (Mantie,
2013; Smith, 2013a), it is especially vital that all proceed with open ears,
eyes, and minds.
I seek in the following pages to describe and explore two related prob-
lems. The first of these is that HPMPE programs, courses, and institutions
may be in danger of de-valuing many popular musicians (including the over-
whelming majority of their own students, faculty, and alumni) and those
musicians’ work through adherence to a tacit and under-interrogated epis-
temology of “success.” Bennett explains how this situation exists across
higher music education: “The learning cultures within music are unlikely . . .
to encourage broad purviews of career or broad definitions of what it is to
be a successful musician” (Bennett, 2013, p. 236). As HPMPE programs
proliferate, this situation is becoming untenable, and serves our students
poorly, since “building a successful career depends on entrepreneurial activi-
ties and carving out a niche market” (Bennett, 2013, p. 235). The second
problem is that this potential epistemological deficit is accompanied and
exacerbated by the adherence to similar prohibitively exclusive assumptions
regarding success in popular music, both by scholars in the field of popu-
lar music studies, and by commentators in the wider public consciousness
and the mainstream media. The overall aim of this paper is, thus, to chal-
lenge, broaden, or recontextualize perspectives of colleagues in HPMPE and
beyond, by exploring what appear from my perspective and context to be
salient issues regarding how the HPMPE community and others construe
success in popular music.
POPULAR MUSIC IN EDUCATION
Popular music performance has a steadily growing presence in education—

from elementary school to Master’s programs—in many countries including
the U.K., Argentina, Finland, Sweden, Australia, United States, and South
Korea (see, for example, Abramo, 2011; Allsup, 2008; Feichas, 2010; Green,
2008; Krikun, 2009; Mantie, 2013; Partti, 2012; Randles & Smith, 2012;
Smith, 2013a, 2013b; Westerlund, 2006). While in the U.K. and much of
northern Europe popular music and education could arguably be seen as rel-
atively comfortable companions, the music education system in the United
States—the country that spawned many of the most commercially successful
popular music artists and styles of the last century—has largely been reluc-
tant to adopt curricula that include popular music of musics (Hebert, 2011).
In the United States, however, the situation appears to be changing, albeit
gradually and only at the margins of the mainstream. In 2007, John Kra-
tus wrote provocatively that the country’s school music education was at a
“tipping point” (Kratus, 2007, p. 42), about to undergo systemic change
following a beginning trend toward new models of classroom music educa-
tion. This shift looks set to include a greater incorporation of popular music
in curricula (Allsup, 2008), as championed by the iconoclastic leadership
of the Music Education area at the University of South Florida (Williams,
2007). In 2012/13, a handful of the advertisements for vacancies for music
education faculty members at U.S. universities included mention of popular
music among the specialisms welcome in applicants; while unprecedented,
this is not (yet?) indicative of a broad national trend.
There has been a notable increase in scholarly activity around popular
music in education in recent years (Mantie, 2013), including conferences in
2010 and 2012 at London’s Institute of Contemporary Music Performance:
“The Place and Purpose of Popular Music Education” and “Sociology and
Philosophy of Popular Music Education,” the 2011 Suncoast Music Edu-
cation Research Symposium on “Popular Music Pedagogy,” and the 2011
formation of the Association for Popular Music Education (A.P.M.E.) in
the United States, led by Christopher Sampson at University of Southern
California’s Thornton School of Music (as I finish this chapter, A.P.M.E.’s
second quarterly Newsletter has just been published). With the fast pace at
which (inherently trend-based) popular music moves, and with the desire
that music educators often feel—perhaps necessarily—to write and publish
curricula and “methods” text books that can be of some use at and beyond
their publication date, I am keen that this paper be viewed as the product
of a very particular set of experiences at a specific point in time. As Allsup
(2008) underlines, there is a danger of approaches or perspectives becoming
reified or overstated. Restlessly evolving, genre-defying contemporary musi-
cian Robert Glasper says: “Some people say, ‘You’re the future of jazz.’ I’m
not the future—I’m just now. Jazz is so far behind that the present actually
looks like the future” (Glasper, cited in Aveling, 2012, p. 112). Substituting
the words “music education” for “jazz,” I would rephrase Glasper’s asser-
tion thus: “I’m not the future—I’m just now. [Music education] is so far
behind that the present actually looks like the future.” We in the music
education professions, whether already heavily invested in the paradigm of
HPMPE or edging towards popular music/s in compulsory school settings,
cannot afford to stand still.
POPULAR MUSIC STUDIES AND POPULAR

MUSIC PERFORMANCE
The fields of popular music performance and popular music studies have
infrequently collided in the extant literature. In discussing “popular music
studies,” I refer to that wide branch of scholarship championed by the Inter-
national Association for the Study of Popular Music (IASPM) that investigates
popular music textually, contextually, historically, culturally, and sociologi-
cally, having no explicit concern with music education. Popular music stud-
ies (as it is thus defined for this paper) also tends largely to exclude popular
music performance as an area of interest. Indeed, when I have, at various
IASPM conferences over the last five years, presented papers on learning and
identity in popular music education, and on the embodied experience of per-
forming popular music, I have found my studies to be somewhat anomalous
(although of sufficient interest to be accepted for presentation).
In late summer 2012, I received a call-for-papers from @IASPM, IASPM’s
online peer-reviewed journal, for a special edition that would explore popu-
lar music performance. Isolating performance in this way underlined for me
the “orthodox” assumption that when one studies popular music one is not
studying performance. A week later, as if to underscore this dichotomy, an
editorial piece in the newly reinstated IASPM U.K. and Ireland newsletter
declared that “every issue now we intend to let the other side of the fence have
their say—in each edition we will be asking a practicing musician for their
perspective and opinion on popular music studies” (McLaughlin, 2012, p.
12). In that edition of the newsletter, Rod Jones of Scottish rock band Idlewild
gives a 245-word response to this invitation, in which he talks only about the
pros and cons of popular music performance programs in the U.K.; he clearly
appears to misunderstand the question, believing “popular music studies” to
refer to the study of popular music performance, in the sense of working hard
at being a performer. This is quite an understandable error, and underlines the
centrality of performance in popular music to those who perform it—this does
look like the most obvious way to study popular music. However, to bifurcate
the two fields of “performance” and “studies” creates a false duality that is
misleading because it is at odds with the experiences of popular musicians.
I have always found difficulty in conceptually separating “popular music”
from “popular music performance,” since to me the former implies the lat-
ter. Without the performance there would be very little popular music (and
historically, most popular music has been performed). While this is a gross
over-simplification and could engender volumes of discussion, it is from
this perspective that I write; being a professional drummer, I have always
approached the teaching of music and writing about music and musicians as
a drummer, first and foremost. I have not, as it were, left my musicianship
at the door when entering the office to write or the performance classroom
to teach.
Attending the inaugural meeting of the U.K. Punk Scholars Network in
late 2012, it struck me that those of us who straddle McLaughlin’s “fence”
are growing in number. We are reaching a point where it is no longer healthy
or tenable—if it ever was—to maintain the epistemological barrier between
performers and scholars. This is not to say that scholars need to be perform-
ers; but rather that academia could consider using a less divisive lens. Berger
(2002) observes “a huge gap between the experience of living a normal life
at this moment on the planet and the public narratives being offered to give
a sense to that life” (p. 176). Musicians increasingly lead protean or portfo-
lio careers (Bennett, 2008, 2013; Hallam & Gaunt 2012; Partti, 2012) that
Burnard (2013) identifies as “boundary-less careers”; those of us working
in HPMPE need to recognize this as soon as possible, or else risk holding
the frame up quite a long way from the picture. Our institutions need to rec-
ognize diverse manifestations of success for musicians, and to reflect these
back, through curriculum and pedagogy, to our students so that they are
all the better prepared for navigating the future. Bennett (2013) asserts that
students across higher music education “need to form themselves for entre-
preneurship even while they are studying. This requires a future-oriented
epistemology developed within a safe study environment that rewards lead-
ing as well as learning, such that the ‘future self’ is self-defined as one who
combines knowledge and action in the creation of the new” (p. 238).
CONSTRUING “SUCCESS” IN PARLIAMENT1
In April 2012 I attended a debate in a committee room at the House of

Commons in London, where the question under discussion was “Where
are the musicians of tomorrow coming from?” Present at this 90-minute
debate, along with several elected Members of Parliament, were representa-
tives of the Music Industries Association, the Youth Music charity, the Brit-
ish Phonographic Industry, and the Institute. I attended with four students
and our Managing Director. The representatives of these various institutions
(including the Institute’s Managing Director) had each prepared a response
of five to ten minutes that they read aloud, prior to the general debate. I was
surprised that each response, without exception, was only addressing the
same tiny part of the tabled question; presenters appeared to be answering
the related—but wholly different—question: “Where are the professional
musicians of tomorrow coming from?” This is an important question, and
worthy of debate at the House of Commons. However, it is not the question
that I was expecting to hear discussed.
As debate followed the prepared speeches, the tone of the session took on a
still narrower focus. Attendees were trading answers to the yet-further-removed
question, “Where are the famous musicians of tomorrow coming from?” The
Right Honourable Member of Parliament chairing the session allowed the
debate to proceed for almost its full term before I interjected to express my
concern that we appeared to have been distracted by a different matter from
the one that we had been asked to discuss. My remarks failed to alter the
course of the dialogue. I wonder if the apparent underlying assumptions of
this debate are indicative of those of a majority of people across the education
and music sectors. In our commercialized, media-rich world, have we become
enculturated to equate “musician” with “celebrity performer”? My answer to
the question initially posed (“Where are the musicians of the future coming
from?”) is this: the musicians of the future are coming from a substantially
changed cultural understanding of what it means to be a musician.
CONSTRUING “SUCCESS” IN MUSIC EDUCATION
Popular public mythologies are aggressively perpetuated with regard to musi-

cianship and musical “ability” and “talent” via the celebrity-saturated cha-
rade of television shows like The X-Factor and The Voice touting a false and
transparent made-for-television meritocracy. These myths are compounded
by the work of scholars in education who espouse a different notion of what
it is to be musical than is mostly prevalent in the contemporary literature.
Narrow and potentially misleading views of what it is to be “naturally”
musically able can be found in such constraining models as Gagné’s “Differ-
entiated Model of Giftedness and Talent” (Gagné, 1998, p. 39). I discuss the
problems inherent in such models in Smith and Durrant (2006).
Welch (2001) writes that “the limiting concept of humankind as either
musical or unmusical is untenable. The neuropsychobiological research evi-
dence indicates that everyone is musical (assuming normal anatomy and
physiology)” (p. 22). This being the case, the science is very much at odds
with the tone of (and undertones of) the debate in the English Houses of
Parliament. Durrant (2003), echoing Welch, explains that it is up to society—
including but not exclusive to the formal education system—to realize each
person’s inherent musicality:
Although we have capabilities, this does not necessarily mean that

abilities will be learned. Abilities are learned and elaborated only if
the people, places, things, and events in our surroundings support that
learning. Our experiences, therefore, determine the extent to which our
human capabilities will be converted into increasingly refined abilities.
(p. 13)
While the job of the music educator may be construed broadly (or maybe
narrowly) as to actualize the musical abilities of those in his or her care,
these abilities may not necessarily fit into the existing categories prescribed
by, for instance, extant curricula or the criteria for assessing excellence in
performance at a wind band, chamber string, or punk rock performance.
Attempts are being made to incorporate a broad range of musics and
musical experiences into the world’s music classrooms (e.g., Burton, ed.,
2012; Green, 2008) that are meaningful to the students involved. As Jor-
gensen (2009) and Mantie (2013) advise above, a key challenge is for music
educators in institutions to remain responsive to what we see around us.
Partti (2012) challenges the status quo, thus:
Formal music education, if operating from a place of fear and defen-

siveness, turns inward by advancing the development of a compartmen-
talised musicianship that is firmly rooted in particular genres, styles
and communities, and conforms to a reactive role in the midst of the
supercomplex cultural landscape. . . . This stance seems not only unsus-
tainable as a way forward for 21st century music education, but also
utterly irresponsible.”
(p. 90)
Partti’s words are as salient to compulsory education as they are in HPMPE.

Following Burnard’s (2012) acknowledgement of humans’ numerous and
varied musical “creativities” (pp. 17–18), I contend that it is incumbent upon
music educators to embrace a pluralistic view of multiple (perhaps infinite)
potential “musicalities.” We should be asking our students and ourselves,
“How can my musicality help you more fully to realize (in both senses of
the word) yours?” We must commit to what Partti (2012) describes as “the
school (or college) as an institution that guides students towards increasing
agency” (p. 88), including musically.
In the music education community there is broad agreement with the view
that all people are musical, that musical experiences should be available to
all and that, by extension, all should therefore have access to meaningful
music education. The website of the International Society for Music Educa-
tion (ISME) states: “We believe that lived experiences of music, in all their
aspects, are a vital part of the life of all people” (International Society for
Music Education, 2012). Similarly, the mission of the National Associa-
tion for Music Education (NAfME) in the United States is: “To advance
music education by encouraging the study and making of music by all”
(National Association for Music Education, 2012). Wright (2012) suggests,
“We can surmise that many children and young people who fail and drop
out of formal education, far from being either uninterested (or unmusical)
simply do not respond to the kind of music instruction it offers,” bringing to
bear upon music educators a weight of social responsibility, engaging young
people with music so that they can develop into empowered and actualized
members of the society. This does not need to have anything to do with win-
ning high school band competitions or getting through to the final round of
a made-for-television “reality” talent contest. These should not be taken off
the table either, but a broader vision is required of what being a musician
is—from the first years of music education, through college or university,
and beyond (Mantie, in press).
CONSTRUING “SUCCESS” AT THE INSTITUTE
Students beginning programs at the Institute usually want music to play a

significant role in their futures. For the vast majority this means seeking
careers in music. A browse through the promotional literature of the Insti-
tute reveals that, “At the Institute, we are constantly focused on the needs
of our students . . . our goal is their success!” (Institute of Contemporary
Music Performance, 2012a, p. 33). Laudable though this sentiment is, defin-
ing success for all current and potential students is no straightforward task.
Success may reasonably be construed in terms of making a career and a
living from and/or in performing music; the Institute emphasizes this view
throughout its publicity materials (Institute of Contemporary Music Per-
formance, 2012b, 2012c). I have written elsewhere (Smith, 2013b) about
the “pedagogy for employability” (p. 1) that is a pervasive theme at the
Institute, in current literature, and at recent conferences (such as the College
Music Society’s Annual Conferences in the United States).
In the music education literature there is currently a strong focus on the
employability of music college graduates (e.g., Bennett, 2013; Smith, 2013b;
Smith & Shafighian, 2013). In the U.K. this has been especially heightened
recently in the face of the economic recession and the concomitant huge rise
in tuition fees for higher education; customers (students and their parents)
want more “bang for their buck,” including a job at the other end. Bennett
(2013) tells us that music educators (particularly in higher education) face
“an ethical and moral imperative” to adopt creative practices, affording
“pedagogies that encourage students to redefine the term ‘musician’ for
themselves . . . (enabling) creative learners who explore individual strengths
and talents, and the intrinsic and extrinsic influences driving their passion
for music” (p. 240).
Curricula at the Institute embody broadly two pedagogies for employability
in respective undergraduate study programs (Smith, 2013b; Smith & Shafighian,
2013). The Bachelor of Music in Popular Music Performance program aims to
equip students with a sort of tool-kit of skills useful to the jobbing, craftsper-
son musician. The Bachelor of Arts in Creative Musicianship program seeks to
develop the unique creative, collaborative skills of individual artist musicians,
with a particular focus on the importance of collaboration for the entrepre-
neurial musician (Burnard, 2012; Smith, 2013b); and the Bachelor of Arts in
Songwriting combines these approaches (Institute of Contemporary Music
Performance, 2012d, 2012e, 2012f). These latter two programs are new, and
have yet to gather data on graduate employment; Bachelor of Music alumni are
working in a wide variety of full-time and portfolio occupations, from beauty
therapy, marketing, and teaching, to working full-time in a well-known pop-
punk band. Which of these has achieved “success,” and to what degree? Per-
haps, as Partti (2012) suggests, any student is successful who has been guided
towards increasing agency.
Arguably the most common way to construe success in music today, in
HPMPE and the media, is in terms of fame or commercial success. Rhetoric
from the Institute and other similar institutions, such as the Academy of Con-
temporary Music Performance in the U.K. (Institute of Contemporary Music
Performance, 2012b; Academy of Contemporary Music, 2012), mentions
“connectivity” to the “the industry” as though the music industry is a separate
entity that exists beyond the walls of the college—an esoteric arena to which the
colleges can help students gain access. The Institute lists alumni in its publicity
materials, but only those who are in or affiliated with bands and artists who
have achieved a degree of fame in performance or music production. Around
300 students graduate annually from the Institute, and most of these do not go
on to become headline news or, therefore, to make the list of selected alumni
that ignores the vast majority of possibilities for construing success. Wherefore
this endemic resistance to acknowledging a wider conception of success?
CONSTRUING “SUCCESS” IN POPULAR MUSIC STUDIES
Rodriguez (2004) observes that popular music benefits from “a rich history
that is tied to our social, political, cultural, and economic history. What it
lacks, in comparison to, say, Western European music, is the passage of suf-
ficient time to determine which practices, structures, persons, and places have
most influenced the genre” (p. 17). Rodriguez’s denial of a canon in popular
music, however, runs contrary to my experience as an educator and scholar
working in HPMPE. Students at the Institute are required to take a course in
the history of popular music, part of “popular music studies” misunderstood
above by Rod Jones (McLaughlin, 2012). Literature in popular music studies
has tended to focus on the work of famous and commercially successful musi-
cians, with few exceptions. This is not unreasonable, as bands or artists that
have sold millions of albums and become recognized internationally are, by
definition, very popular. Popular music scholars have thus arguably (although
perhaps inadvertently) established a canon of Great Works and Great Mas-
ters in popular music to parallel those of the Western Classical and (more
recently) Jazz traditions (e.g., Frith, 1996; Gracyk, 1996, 2007; McLaughlin
& McLoone, 2012; Moore, 2001, 2012). Those of us in popular music educa-
tion risk embedding this view as an orthodoxy which ignores the 21st-century
“reemergence of grassroots creativity” that continues increasingly to charac-
terize artists’ and musicians’ modes of production and distribution of their
creative products (Jenkins, 2006, p. 136). Indeed, Reynolds (2011) argues
compellingly that the obsession with its past threatens popular music’s very
survival as a paradigm; this threat is perhaps nowhere in more urgent need of
consideration than at institutions such as the Institute, whose students, alumni,
and faculty can only ever hope to have careers in the present and the future.
One of the key foci in creation and distribution of popular music has
always been the “new,” the current, music that has changed sometimes by
revolution, at others by evolution, with artists and craftspeople striving to
be novel and exciting by assimilating, synthesizing, replacing, and displac-
ing various gestures—musical, corporeal, attitudinal, social—of preceding
styles or movements that have spawned today’s plethora of musics in the
“popular” realm. Those creating and producing the music may wish for
high-profile commercial longevity, but that is not the prevalent model in
popular music, although the media have a habit of wheeling out and reify-
ing, even deifying, popular music iconic heritage acts of a former age such
as Paul McCartney and the Rolling Stones; the mind boggles at the thought
of what fate might today have befallen a withering Elvis Presley, had he
survived to the present day. There is not much room on the tiny pedestal
at the top of the media industry “tree” for musicians and bands. However,
in the “creative revolution” taking place around us and amongst us, the
dialogue and boundaries between “participatory culture and commercial
culture” (Jenkins, 2006, pp. 136–37) are becoming ever more blurred. The
tacit overarching epistemology in popular music studies needs to change and
to acknowledge this or else, as Hoskyns (2012) warns, “the most authentic
scenes will be those we know nothing about.”
Messages from mainstream media are often reductive and sometimes wholly
misleading, such as when the New Musical Express in 2002 announced the
“New Rock Revolution” (New Musical Express/Ignite!, 2002). I recall my dis-
belief at the allegation that a handful of bands selected for coverage by a high-
profile publication were suddenly rediscovering and re-inventing a genre that
had been alive and well since its inception. As far as I (along with the scores of
people I frequently encountered on London’s less well-publicized rock scene)
was concerned, there was no revolution, just a shift in the attention of main-
stream media to a style that had been ignored for a season while indie bands,
divas, and (in the U.K.) Welsh musicians were the flavor of the day. Similarly,
“the most important acts who are shaping music today” (Q, 2011)2 include hip-
hop and alternative rock artists, with a particularly high level of attention paid
to folk music musicians Laura Marling and Mumford & Sons. These artists are
not unworthy of attention, but then neither are dozens, scores, or hundreds of
comparably “good” acts. I and many of my peers have been playing folk music
for over twenty years, and will continue to do so after the cameras have turned
elsewhere for the next “new” style that will likely have long preexisted and will
long outlast the fickle media hype. Instances such as these are typical of what
Hoskyns (2012) describes as the mainstream media’s propensity for “deification
and demolition—build ’em up and knock ’em down.”
When I teach undergraduate popular music history I begin by telling
the students that I will not be giving them an accurate or complete his-
tory. Notions of “popular,” “music,” and “history” are so complex that
to attempt to fool students that I could comprehensively fill them in on all
the details would be arrogant, at best. I am always very nervous to canon-
ize and to reify the songs, albums, artists, genres, movements, and events
that we discuss, although I realize that by discussing them I risk canonizing
them all the more, in the minds of one class of undergraduate students at a
time. At best, I can aim to augment students’ existing—usually substantial—
knowledge of music that has gone before, and, my main task, perhaps to
encourage them to question the histories and messages that they encounter. I
discuss with the class our inevitable ignorance of the majority of music being
made in the world or even just in London at present, and, by extension, the
futility of trying to identify a definitive history of popular music.
I like to try the following exercise with my classes: I ask how many of the
students in the class are in bands making original popular music, and every
hand in the room goes up. I then ask students to keep their hands up if their
band is “any good.” Most hands remain up. Finally I ask who is in a band of
which I would have heard. Hands then all go down (apart from the occasional
hand belonging to someone who sings backup vocals or plays drums for a
high-profile pop artist on tour). These young musicians are just beginning to
find their niches in the “long tail” of the music business (Anderson, 2006),
where the traditional music industry model of selling as much as possible
of as little as possible (Cartwright & Smith, in press) is incompatible with
a now-normative, more flexible, portfolio career model. As Cartwright and
Smith (in press) point out, “Whereas once upon time such an existence would
have been construed as a paying one’s dues en route to success, for a consider-
able majority of excellent, professional musicians in the contemporary socio-
musical business environment, this is success. It is just not widely recognized
and valued as such.” Popular music studies’ prevailing focus on musicians
who have been afforded (and in the very rarest of cases may themselves have
achieved) significant mainstream and commercial success risks miss-construal
by educators, students, and the public as reflective of popular music in the
present, when it is distinctly at odds with the perspectives of musicians making
the vast majority of the world’s popular music today, that is, the very ways in
which popular music is popular in a 21st-century paradigm.
CONCLUSIONS AND IMPLICATIONS: CONSTRUCTING

AND CONSTRUING CAREER “SUCCESS”
My fellow tutors and I at the Institute play music that, although in similar
styles, and using virtually all of the same gestures as more commercially suc-
cessful artists, is (if we take traditional indicators like album sales and fame
as the yardsticks of success) wholly unpopular. However, the ways that it
sounds and is created are entirely consistent with notions of popular music
(e.g., Frith, 1996; Green, 2002; Hoskyns, 2012). We all have portfolio
careers, pieced together from a mixture of high-profile performances, low-
profile gigs, teaching, journalism, composition, and all manner of music-
related and non-music-related work. Similar work patterns are described in
detail in the work of Cottrell (2004), who studies the working lives of musi-
cians in London, Bennett (2008), who explores the practices of musicians in
Australia, and Smith (2013a), where I describe the identities and practices
of drummers in and around London. This is the modus operandi of many a
successful musician.
I consider myself to be a successful musician. I have accomplished things
of which I am proud and for which I have received praise from respected
peers; I have a secure job in HPMPE, and many “irons in the fire” for cur-
rent and future projects. This being said, I am not famous, and my income
derives largely from things other than performing. Most of the music that
I make and that I would consider truly successful in artistic and technical
terms, pays me very little. Indeed, the music that I have been paid the most
to play has frequently (although not always) been what I consider to have
been some of the least successful music, musically. In terms of the aspirations
of ISME and NAfME, my life would probably be judged to be an ongoing
story of success. In the tacit, unwritten terms of the discussion in the House
of Commons, I would probably be barely recognized as a “musician.” My
performance and recording career to date will certainly be ignored by the
overwhelming majority of IASPM-ites (as the Association’s popular music
scholars affectionately refer to ourselves).
Successful musicians today occupy unique niches as multifaceted entre-
preneurs, operating in numerous intra- and inter-disciplinary networks of
contacts with artists, writers, and colleagues from all over the world—what
Gloor (2006) in his book Swarm Creativity terms “COINs . . . collabora-
tive innovation networks” (p. 3). Work patterns like this are increasingly
common and increasingly encouraged across creative industries and other
domains—including the academia—with members of COINs collaborating
for individual as well as mutual benefit toward outcomes only achievable
with collaborative, group efforts. Gloor (2006) writes that, “In a COIN,
knowledge workers collaborate and share in internal transparency. They
communicate directly rather than through hierarchies. And they innovate
and work toward common goals in self-organization instead of being ordered
to do so” (p. 4). While this type of career is not new, the literature indicates
a general shift toward a significantly higher level of people’s experiences of
work happening in these ways (Gloor, 2006; Partti, 2012; Sennett, 2012;
Netto, 2012; Smith & Shafighian, 2013). It is in collaborative networks that
most musicians in popular and other musics construct their continued suc-
cess, through a process that Cartwright, Gillett, and Smith (in press) identify
as “orchestration . . . defined in terms of efforts to achieve success by finding
and managing creative combinations for value.”
Many in higher music education are tuning in to the changing shape of
success in music (e.g., Hallam & Gaunt 2012). Partti (2012) advocates inte-
gration of networks akin to Gloor’s COINs into the music education experi-
ence at and across every level, to the mutual benefit of all stakeholders:
Institutions of formal education could and should [emphasis in original]

actively construct various kinds of inter-generational (and even inter-
national and inter-institutional) communities and networks of commu-
nities between students, between teachers, and between students and
teacher(s), cooperating within systems of exchange based on general-
ized reciprocity at the junction of generosity and self-interest.
(p. 98)
The challenge for those of us working in music education is to recognize

and incorporate contemporary understandings of the work patterns of suc-
cessful music professionals and, where necessary, to alter discourses accord-
ingly. As teachers, the personal narratives that we offer our students about
life as musicians are thus essential, reflecting success for the majority of
musicians in our culture and supportively guiding students towards realistic
expectations of how they will likely work (Bennett 2013).
Echoing Burnard’s construal of musicians’ multifaceted careers as
“boundary-less,” Netto (2012) finds normative discourse in terms of the
“core industries” of the music business and “related industries” to be out-
moded, seeking a re-construal of stakeholders’ roles and practices. An emerg-
ing trend in cross-disciplinary research between Management, Economics,
and Music fields reflects and underpins a need to recognize the centrality of
these “other” industries and domains to our own work in Music Education
and HPMPE. Groups such as the Centre for the Study of Working Lives (Gil-
lett & Smith 2013) and the Art of Management and Organization (2013),
whose biennial conferences bring together current thinking and practices
in and across arts, management, and organizational behavior, are taking a
keen interest in how musicians construct careers. Similar critical engagement
with the “business of doing business” as musicians (Cartwright & Smith, in
press) is necessary in HPMPE.
“Success” for most musicians has yet to be determined; what seems cer-
tain is that it will not follow the patterns of the first 100 years of commer-
cially available recorded music or the stories offered up by the mainstream
media and many scholarly studies to describe it. Success will be based upon
involvement in COINs of all shapes and sizes. Institutions and organiza-
tions need to embrace a new, flexible, dynamic epistemology of popular
music that incorporates real-life scenarios for multiple musicalities, careers,
and notions of success. This will include recognition that musicians and
music practices in popular idioms beneath the fickle radar of the mainstream
media are, at the very least, relevant and important, and that recognition
and understanding of them as central to the popular “canon” will prove
vital to successful navigation of the future in music education. I call upon
scholars in higher education institutions to utilize their influence to begin
to effect empowering social-cultural change: if asked, “Where are the musi-
cians of the future coming from?” those in the music and music educa-
tion professions need to have answers that reflect a critical and reflexive
engagement with the diverse and changing present. To alter (again) Glasper’s
observation, we in the music education professions should aspire to a future
where we can say:
Some people say, “You’re the future of music education.” We’re not the
future—we’re just now, but, because of our relentless critical interroga-
tion of our culture, our practices, and the needs of our students, the
present actually looks like the future.
NOTES
1. The Houses of Parliament (often referred to as just “Parliament”) are the two
debating houses of the U.K. government. In the House of Commons, dem-
ocratically elected representatives, “Members of Parliament” (or “MPs”),
debate and pass laws on behalf of the populace. The House of Commons
functions in conjunction with the House of Lords, whose members (“Peers”)
are not democratically elected. MPs in the House of Commons refer to one
another in the third person as “the Right Honourable Member.”
2. Q is a monthly U.K.-based journalistic publication advertising and discussing
current “popular” music.
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13 “Pssst . . . Over Here!”
Young Children Shaping the Future
of Music Education
Alison M. Reynolds, Kerry B. Renzoni,
Pamela L. Turowski, and Heather D. Waters
PSSST . . . OVER HERE!

A narrative in one scene
Setting and Characters: Co-constructivist preschool in the not-so-
distant past. Nate, a preschool child, is playing with a few of his friends.
Teacher Catie and Teacher Amy, when called on, facilitate their morn-
ing’s activities. Teacher Alison is an early childhood music specialist.
(Based on real stories and real music activities.)
Time: 9:40–10:00 AM on “music day.”
My name is Nate. I’m four years I’m Alison. I’ve been a music teacher
old. My dad and I get out of our for many years. It’s my day to travel to
red car. We’re at my favorite a local preschool for its weekly music
place—preschool! “Dad, can I ring class. As I walk to the front door I see
the buzzer?” “Sure!” he says. He Nate and his dad, headed into the pre-
lifts me up because the buzzer is school. I scurry to reach the front door
high up for grownups. I run up the before it closes, but I’m too late.
stairs.
The door clicks shut.
“Good morning!” Teacher Catie
I ring the doorbell.
says. She bends down and gives
me a hug. I like Teacher Catie. She After a brief silence, I am “buzzed
looks at what I’m holding in my in.” I shift the gathering drum filled
hand. “What have you brought to with bags of props to my hip, open
share today?” the door, and climb the stairs. I linger
“It’s a recorder! My sister is learn- in the stairway to read the informa-
ing how to play it in school!” tion the teachers prepare for parents.
I’m going to go cook in the As I enter the hallway, I see Nate

kitchen. I hear Teacher Catie call disappear, and exchange hellos with
to me, “Oh, you should show your Nate’s dad as he’s leaving. Teacher
recorder to Miss Alison when she Amy greets me, “Good morning!
gets here.” “Okay,” I say. You’re an early bird today!”
202 Alison M. Reynolds et al.
All my friends are in the kitchen! As I enter the hallway, several

They run and give me a big hug! children approach, curious to
“Nate! We missed you!” says my learn who’s arrived. We exchange
friend Nadine. I didn’t see her yes- smiles, hugs, and my greeting
terday because that was a home song, which invites their sing-
day for me. song hellos. Teacher Amy con-
tinues, “The children have been
I’m so excited. Miss Alison is com- checking if you would be here
ing today! She likes to sing. I like today—you know how much we
to sing, too. I like to sing like this: all love music play time. You’re
welcome to set up if you’d like.
We’ll call the children together
for music in about 20 minutes,
okay?”
Oh, there’s my friend Noura. She’s
“Okay, thank you!”
cooking something on our stove.
“Hey, Noura,” I say. “Can I play
Children already are asking to help
with you?”
carry bags of props to the space
“Okay!” says Noura. We cook
for music time. We make our way
next to each other in the kitchen.
through the big room with the art
I sing while I cook some eggs.
studio, weaving through the empty
spaces among children and their
play. We place the props in the cor-
ner of the activity space. I thank
the children, saying Teachers Catie
and Amy will call them when it’s
Noura is making the toast. She’s
music playtime. They skip away.
singing, too.
As I unpack for the morning’s
class, I realize I’m already hum-
ming a song from last week’s class.
Meanwhile, children bound in and
I giggle. “Noura, you’re singing my out—some to share with me what
song!” they have been playing, others to
see what I’m doing.
“Teacher Catie!!! Teacher Catie!!!
Noura’s singing my song!” “Oh, During the in-between moments
that’s nice,” she says. of solitude, I open my notebook to
review my observations of children’s
I keep making my eggs and then expressive music making in past
my teacher comes over to me. music classes. What a list! Children
have shared their singing, chanting,
moving, improvising—even listen-
ing! The children’s capacity is at
once unexpected and not surprising.
“Pssst . . . Over Here!” 203
I sing to Teacher Catie. “Thank Humming again, I check the

you,” she says. “Oh these are deli- clock, eager for music time. 15
cious!” she says. minutes. I review the repertoire of
songs I’ve prepared for the morn-
That’s weird. Why didn’t she sing ing’s class, and realize the tune
back to me? I’m humming now is one I heard
the first time I ever participated
Noura sings, in a preschool music class. When
was that? 1988? I’m grinning.
The novelty of being astounded
by the music making and young
children’s expressive musician-
and I sing back to her, ship hasn’t worn off. I remember
thinking, “Where has the secret of
very young children’s expressive
music been hiding?”
No secret now! I think of the past

Noura and I sit down next to 25 years. Early childhood music
Teacher Catie and hum while we education has enjoyed increased
eat. Teacher Catie isn’t humming. attention. I consider how my per-
How silly. spectives both of very young chil-
dren and “music learning” have
Teacher Catie gets up and leaves. I changed—more than once! The
keep eating my eggs and remember young children—babies, even—
the beautiful painting I made the have been my teachers as fre-
last time I was at school. It was blue quently and meaningfully as my
and yellow and red and had really colleagues. I consider, too, how
cool swirls all over it! I remember young children have changed my
Teacher Catie coming over and say- perspectives about what it means
ing, “Oh! That’s a beautiful picture, to be a “music teacher.”
Nate! I love how you blend the
green and the blue together. And Has it really been 25 years? Plenty
your brush strokes give the swirls of time for change. Memories pass
on your painting a beautiful tex- by in an instant, real time rushes
ture.” Then I tell her all about my nearly as quickly. I grin again.
picture, about the storm with the lit- Recently, one of those “young
tle dog that was lost in the green fog children” approached me after
and how a dolphin saves the dog. an undergraduate music educa-
She said my picture was so beautiful tion class, exclaiming, “Hey! You
that I should share it at our after- were the music teacher in the
noon meeting. And I did!! Teacher early childhood music class my
Amy was really excited. The other mom took me to when I was a
kids were getting really excited! little boy.”
Oh no! My eggs are burning! I bet- The buzzer rings again, and I’m
ter pay attention. I stir the eggs and startled out of the past. I glance
add some salt. at my watch: 13 more minutes.
Because I’m prepared for music
Why didn’t Teacher Catie ask me playtime when the children enter.
to sing my song at meeting today?
Maybe she didn’t hear my song. I leave the music space.
“Teacher Catie!! Listen to my song!” So I thought. Moments after step-

ping out into the hub of activity, I
hear it . . .
“That’s nice,” she says again.
Hmm, I guess she doesn’t like my

song. Noura likes it, though.
I bet Miss Alison will like my song.

She sings all the time. I say . . .
“Pssst . . . over here! Listen to my song!”
Alison: I listen to Nate’s song, smiling as I enjoy seeing his sparkling eyes
and expressive face and the way he moves as he sings. “Wow, Nate, what
a beautiful song!”
Nate: “I knew you’d like it!” I say to Miss Alison.

Alison: “Can you sing it to me again?”
Nate: I hum
Alison: “Wow, I really like when you sing . . .
Nate: [singing]
Alison: [singing]
Nate: [singing]
Alison: “Oh you changed the ending that time to
I like that ending. So your song sounds like this?” I sing Nate’s song. “Is
that right?”
Nate: I smile a big smile. You know, the kind where you show all your
teeth. “Uh uh, Teacher Alison. That’s my song!”
Alison and Nate: We sing the song together.

Noura: “Hey, that’s Nate’s song!”
Alison: “Yes, he’s letting me share it with him. It’s a shared tune.”
Noura: “Yay! I know it too!”
Nate: I remember my recorder, and find it on the kitchen counter. I run

back over to Noura and Alison, showing them the recorder. “I can play it
on my recorder, you know.”
Alison: Nate plays his song on his recorder as Noura sings and I move.
Other kids are running over to join in. Max grabs a drum and joins in
on the fun. Andrea finds some maracas and adds another rhythmic layer.
Pretty soon all of the children have joined in our band. Some are playing
instruments, some are dancing, some are singing, and some are listening.
Soon, teachers Catie and Amy also join in.
Nate: “Okay, we need a rehearsal!! One, two, three, four!!” My friends

begin performing my song. They sound great. I tell them when it’s time
to stop.
Alison: I wonder if this is like what the child in the Pillsbury Foundation
School had experienced when he said, “Everybody stand up and raise
your hands to the sky. That means you’re all members of this music; we’re
all members of that tune we were playing.”1
I thought I was ready for music playtime! But, children’s music making
began long before I rang that doorbell.
Stepping out of that setting, we ask you to stop and reflect.
When the noise of the past settles into relative stillness within the present,
articulate your current view of young children, and how young children—
particularly very young children—fit in your descriptions and definitions of
“the study and making of music by all.”2
Next, we ask you to reflect on music moments that were also transforma-
tive moments in your lives as musicians, parents, teachers, researchers, or
policy makers.
Do any of the following relate to your reflections?

Context. Culture. Identity. Expression. Listening. Play. Creativity. Impro-
visation. Composition. Social interactions. Empathy. Collaboration. Com-
munity. Informal music learning. Life-long music learning.
Increasingly, we note music educators are seeking to place those ideas at
the forefront of their ways of interacting with students. We note, too, that
young children are ahead of that curve. Researchers, teachers, and parents
continue to offer mounting evidence of young children’s capacities for
music making, particularly in social contexts (e.g., home, playgrounds,
care or school settings). Long before they ring the doorbell in preschool,
and long before they become adolescents and young adults, young chil-
dren use music in socially interactive ways.3 Indeed, when adults have
actually stopped to ask and listen to the youngest children able to talk
about their musicking, young children have shared the myriad of ways
music resides in them (e.g., Campbell, 2010; Filsinger, 2011; Reynolds,
Cancemi, et al., 2012; Reynolds, Filsinger, et al., 2012). In this chapter,
we advocate on behalf of 40.5 million young children in the United States
ages nine years and younger—approximately 13% of the nation’s total
population (U.S. Census Bureau, 2010). We advocate halting unproduc-
tive parallel play among early childhood music educators, music educa-
tors, early childhood caregivers, researchers, parents, and policy makers
in favor of their integrated play. For this to happen, we urge each of you
to assimilate all of the nation’s youngest children into your professional
mindset.
As the profession joins together, the youngest children will be folded into
the National Association for Music Education’s mission to encourage the
study and making of music by all. However, the diverse contexts in which
children reside and the diverse types of primary and secondary caregivers
challenge our access to the youngest musickers. We acknowledge that, as a
profession, our ability to extend intentions to the youngest musickers depends
in part on ways our nation focuses its broader intentions on young children’s
health, education, and welfare. The enormity of that implication looms.
On February 12, 2013, the President asserted, “. . . expanding access to
high quality early childhood education is among the smartest investments
that we can make” (“Early Childhood Education,” 2013, para. 1). He has
proposed a plan for universal access to preschool for children from low and
moderate income families, justifying the expense: “Every dollar we invest
in high-quality early childhood education can save more than seven dol-
lars later on—by boosting graduation rates, reducing teen pregnancy, even
reducing violent crime” (“Remarks by the President,” 2013, para. 40). In
the broadest sense, investing funding in a young child’s education holds
promise as a fiscally sound choice. Placing dollar amounts on economic
returns perhaps sparks action among policy makers, but it alone is insuf-
ficient, and negates a human view of the child. We advocate that investing
of ourselves in our nation’s youngest children’s education holds promise as
socially and culturally sound choices.
Together, those investments lay the groundwork to support our youngest
children. Specifically, evidence continues to mount that adults play critical
roles each time they interact socially with young children. From the start,
adults’ fluency with language during loving and playful interactions with
infants provides a strong foundation that offers children advantages as they
move into school settings (e.g., Hirsh-Pasek, Golinkoff, & Eyer, 2003).
While researchers have documented that many adults comfortably use music
with very young children, researchers also have documented that, sadly,
many adults do not (Nardo, Custodero, et al., 2006). As a profession, we’ve
lacked longitudinal research to chronicle long-term benefits of adults’ loving
interactions with infants that include play and music. Even so, what could be
the harm in working to ensure every adult can interact with musical fluency
with the nation’s youngest children, and ensuring young children’s equal
access to those adults?
Modifying President Obama’s statement, we suggest that expanding access
to high quality early childhood music education is among the smartest invest-
ments that music educators can make. We ask a few questions of our profession:
What are we doing to ensure we are investing fiscally, and of ourselves
socially and culturally, in young children’s music education? What evidence
do we have that the level of music-based interactions in the earliest years of
life contributes significantly to children’s relative study and making of music
once in school? How might we ensure answers to those questions? Are we,
as a profession, able to prioritize an effective national action plan for early
childhood music education? The enormity of those possibilities is exciting
Each of us is in a position to make a difference.
In the current political climate, there are many persons and agencies
working on behalf of children younger than nine years of age. Globally,
the Association for Childhood Education International and the Alliance for
Childhood have joined efforts to intensify support of children between 2012
and 2022. In sum, they work to ensure each child has the brightest possible
future. Boldly, the affiliates state:
Indeed, all nations and communities should listen to the voices of their
youngest citizens. Children can offer critical insights that support myr-
iad societal developments. We must ask the question: What do the chil-
dren say they need in order to lead successful and fulfilled lives?
(“Children Investing in Childhood,” 2013, para. 2)
We can no longer afford to ignore the current state of childhood.

The long-term effects of an unhealthy childhood will weaken soci-
eties that need creative and compassionate individuals with mature
insights who are able to solve complex human problems. We have the
collective strength to create a more robust and creative childhood for
all children.
(“The State of Childhood,” 2013, para. 4)
The affiliates offer five statements that can frame broad perspectives for
the music education profession’s views of young children as music makers:
1. Promote and protect childhood as a unique and critical stage of human

development
2. Explore childhood from interdisciplinary and cross-cultural perspectives
3. Identify issues that erode childhood
4. Advocate for children’s rights as a vital element of childhood
5. Translate the “Ten Pillars of a Good Childhood” into policies and prac-
tices that benefit all children (“Goals of the Decade,” 2013, para. 3)
“The Ten Pillars of a Good Childhood” (“Embracing the Human Future,”

2013, para. 3), constructed by members of the Association for Childhood
Education International and the Alliance for Childhood, resonate with us.
The Pillars seem reasonable to consider as functioning at the heart of all
education initiatives in the United States, and aligning well within our pro-
fession’s early childhood music education initiatives:
1. Safe and secure places for living and learning, with access to health
care, clothing, and nutritious food
2. Strong families and loving, consistent caregivers
3. Social interactions and friendships
4.Creative play and physical activity
5.Appreciation and stewardship of the natural environment
6.Creative expression through music, dance, drama, and the other arts
7.Education that develops the full capacities of the child—cognitive,
physical, social, emotional, and ethical
8. Supportive, nurturing, child-friendly communities
9. Growing independence and decision making
10. Children and youth participating in community life.
Every child in every nation deserves a childhood full of hope, joy, free-
dom, and promise for the future.
(“Embracing the Human Future,” 2013, para. 3)
Within the United States, federal and state initiatives, credentialing agen-
cies for education certification, curricula in higher education, and organi-
zations in education and music education from national to local levels
make policy that eventually affect young children and their music capaci-
ties. Specifically within our profession, early childhood music educators
have documented steadily increasing attention to early childhood music
education research, practice, and policy. Officially, the National Associa-
tion for Music Education (NAfME) wraps its arms around all young chil-
dren, advocating for music interactions from birth. In The School Music
Program: A New Vision (NAfME, 2013), the profession states:
The years before children enter kindergarten are critical for their musi-
cal development. Young children need a rich musical environment in
which to grow. The increasing number of day-care centers, nursery
schools, and early-intervention programs for children with disabili-
ties and children at risk suggests that information should be available
about the musical needs of infants and young children and that stan-
dards for music should be established for these learning environments
as well as for K–12 settings.
The standards outlined in this section reflect the following beliefs con-
cerning the musical learning of young children:
1. All children have musical potential

2. Children bring their own unique interests and abilities to the mu-
sic-learning environment
3. Very young children are capable of developing critical thinking
skills through musical ideas
4. Children come to early-childhood music experiences from diverse
backgrounds
5. Children should experience exemplary musical sounds, activities,
and materials
6. Children should not be encumbered with the need to meet perfor-
mance goals
7. Children’s play is their work
8. Children learn best in pleasant physical and social environments
9. Diverse learning environments are needed to serve the develop-
mental needs of many individual children
10. Children need effective adult models (“The School Music Pro-
gram: A New Vision,” NAfME, 2013, para. 1–2)
NAfME’s current standards offer guidelines for music with infants and
toddlers, and standards for interacting with children from two to four years
old. Music standards for children K–4 encompass the remaining ages that
we advocate for in this chapter.
Early childhood music educators, no doubt, applaud the profession’s
advocacy efforts to date. Yet, the need for increased dialogue and integrated
play among stakeholders within and beyond the profession and academies
persists. Prioritizing the role the future of early childhood music education
plays relative to the future of all of music education seems critical to our
profession’s next steps.
We cannot underestimate children’s musical capacity or their own musi-

cal repertoire, behaviors, and values. Children’s musical selves are encul-
turated early on and continue to develop even as the children participate
in our school music programs. While we must step with caution and be
wary of over-generalizing about children and their musical development,
we must also consider emergent arguments in favor of a species-specific
musical competence. No child is without the capacity for musical expres-
sion, and every child may find safe harbor in his or her preferred tones
and personal musical time. The musical development of children may
depend on the emphasis given by a society to musical activity and on the
opportunities that we offer them to make music [emphasis added].
(Campbell, 1999, p. 13)
What if we decided as a profession to focus intentions on music interac-

tions with our nation’s youngest children, regardless of their care settings
or access to early education? As our nation grapples with ways to bolster
its economy, we could consider initiatives that would apply our profession’s
diverse expertise in settings with the youngest children. Following are eight
recommendations for navigating the future of early childhood music educa-
tion together. They echo and extend recommendations of those who have
come before us.4
1. Honor children’s music capacities while honoring their humanity.
a. Increase use of mechanisms beyond text and numbers to commu-

nicate children’s music development.
b. Apply techniques learned from Reggio Emilia-inspired educators
about becoming co-researchers with young children.
c. Apply innovative ways to document evidence of young children
and adults’ creative music capacities.
d. Continue to reconfigure journal structures and submission guide-
lines to accommodate innovative representations of co-constructed
documentations.
2. Increase visibility of early childhood music education within NAfME.
a. Integrate early childhood music education for children from at

least birth to age eight systematically into the NAfME website.
b. Increase ease of access to early childhood music advocacy and
information on the NAfME website.
3. Continue to create spaces in higher education that generally honor

Context. Culture. Identity. Expression. Listening. Play. Creativity.
Improvisation. Composition. Social interactions. Empathy. Collabora-
tion. Community. Informal music learning. Life-long music learning.
a. Design innovative music education curriculum in higher education

that, at their core, integrate adults’ capabilities for playing musi-
cally with young children. Integrating preservice teachers’ experi-
ences with young children systematically could prepare them to
empower children to drive curricular revisions the profession seeks
in K–12 music programs.
b. Introduce preservice music teachers and faculty to live or video-
recorded interactions with children that feature children’s creative
music voices.
c. Create meaningful and systematic opportunities for preservice
and graduate music education students to interact musically
with young children—regardless of the absence or presence of
Pre-K on states’ music certifications or students’ initially selected
specialization areas. As the President’s Preschool for All Initia-
tive (“Early Childhood Education,” 2013, para. 4) takes hold,5
universities should have increased systematic access to four-year-
old children.
d. Create interdisciplinary degrees that integrate specialties in music
education, business, technology, and communication and focus on
young children. Graduates could push innovative markets for jobs
in private sectors.
e. Include children Kindergarten to 3rd grade in early childhood ini-
tiatives. Though tempting to rely on a school’s systematic commit-
ments to elementary school music programs, we advocate ensuring
that age group continues to have access to high quality music
interactions.
4. Apply the profession’s collective expertise to innovative professional
development for early childhood and early childhood music specialists.
Their increased capacities could empower their own music identities.
5. Form collaborative partnerships between music faculty and ensembles
(of all types) and young children directly. Partnering with health care-
givers, social workers, and community-based centers could help our
profession reach expecting parents and families with young children
regardless of families’ economic status, gender, or age.
6. Focus on ways music faculty can help with outreach to all young chil-
dren, particularly those in underserved communities. Partner with
existing child care facilities, requesting space in community centers
and senior citizen centers for family-oriented, musically interactive
gatherings.
Our penultimate recommendation: all we learn and accomplish must be

disseminated outward. We must lift our heads out of our scores, and preach
beyond our choirs. As we increase our music interactions with young chil-
dren, we must unify efforts to systematically collect, store, and communicate
long-term documentation of ways musical interactions from the earliest ages
benefit children and shape our profession. Parents, taxpayers, and policy
makers need to hear from each of us.
We save our chief recommendation for last: pay attention to young chil-
dren. Notice their expressive and creative singing, chanting, and movement.
Listen for the melodies they sing as they play. See and hear their rhythmic
movement as they skip down the hallway. Smile and let them know you’re
listening and watching. Sing, chant, move, improvise, and create with them.
Share with them what you like about their music making. Share music you
like so they can continue expanding their music vocabulary.
Give a child’s music the same importance you do her painting, block
building, crying, and hunger. And don’t just pay attention to one child, pay
attention to all the children making music around you—even the babies.
Listen for the melody in babies’ coos and gurgles. Notice the tempo in a
child’s coordinated breathing and movement. Consider all of those as topics
of musical conversations, and as invitations to join in. Echo the melodies.
Match the tempo and movements. Sing. Improvise! Prepare to be amazed by
the effects of your joint music attention.
Now, imagine the ripple effect.
Other teachers and parents notice you interacting musically with children,
and valuing their musical expression. They start doing the same things. Next,
other teachers and parents change their music expectations. They become
empowered to provide high quality music interactions for children. As chil-
dren travel through Pre-K and beyond, imagine. They grow up to be auton-
omous music makers. They also grow up to be taxpayers, policy makers,
parents, teachers. As grown ups, they, in turn, make music with children.
They meaningfully express themselves through one of our birthrights: music.
The young children you interact with define the future. That is why, in
the words of Nate, we say, “Pssst … over here!” The future begins with you.
The future begins each time you interact musically with the youngest child.
NOTES
1. Donald Pond quoted the child in Wilson, 1981, page 20.

2. The National Association for Music Education mission statement http://
musiced.nafme.org/about/mission-statement/.
3. A few recent examples: Barrett, 2011; Berger & Cooper, 2003; Campbell,
2010; Custodero, 2009; Filsinger, 2011; Marsh, 2008; McCarthy, 2010;
Moorhead & Pond, 1978; Reynolds, 2014; Reynolds, Cancemi, et al., 2012;
Reynolds, Filsinger, et al., 2012; Valerio, 2009.
4. Examples: Nardo, Custodero, et al., 2006; Overland & Reynolds, 2010;
Persellin, 2007; Runfola & Swanwick, 2002; Scott-Kassner, 1992.
5. February 13, 2013, President Obama introduced his initiative for universal
preschool. The several-point plan includes initiatives to reach all children birth
to four years old.
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14 Identity and Transformation
(Re)claiming an Inner Musician
Karen Salvador
One problem with the title “musician” is that people are afraid to use
it. They fear that other people will disagree with this term. They com-
pare themselves to other musicians that they feel are more talented.
Just because you aren’t the master of your craft does not mean you
aren’t considered part of that craft. I am a student. I may not go to
Harvard, 4.0 every assignment, and study tirelessly, but I am a student
nonetheless. . . .
I am a musician because I am the best shower singer you ever heard. I

am a musician because I sing at the top of my lungs in the car. I am a
musician because I love music so much I cannot study, sit in my room,
car, or get ready without it. I am a musician because going to concerts
is one of my favorite things to do. I am a musician because I know that
music can often say what words cannot.
(Essay 22)
For two semesters during graduate school, I taught Music for the Classroom
Teacher,1 a 4-credit, 400-level course for elementary education majors.
Most students in the course had participated in school music programs, at
least in elementary general music. Many students had taken band or choir
in middle school, and some continued in school music (instrumental and/or
vocal) throughout high school. Several students participated in music out-
side of school, through private lessons, camps, or additional performance
ensembles such as church choirs or garage bands. All of the students inter-
acted with music socially (e.g., going to clubs or concerts, sharing music
with friends) and individually (nearly omnipresent iPods). However, very
few students would say they were “musical” or “a musician.”
In class, we debated possible definitions of the word “musician” and briefly
discussed musician identity development in early childhood through adoles-
cence. We had this discussion for three reasons: (1) to advance my assertions
from earlier in the course regarding the inherent musicality of young children,
(2) to further position music integration in the elementary classroom as natural
and likely to be beneficial for students, and (3) to help students think about
216 Karen Salvador
the effect their own music identity (often a negative one) could have on their
students. This discussion took place in week 12 of the 14-week semester. As the
culmination of this discussion, each student wrote a description of his or her
current music identity and its development over time. As I graded these essays,
I found them poignant and powerful as a music teacher and music teacher
educator. I wanted to analyze and share the insights they contained.
IDENTITY AND MUSIC
A significant body of research has accumulated regarding identity and music,

and this research has been the source of vigorous debate in the music educa-
tion community. Some main threads from this research indicate that musical
identities are socially constructed: “The term ‘musical’ is not based upon the
achievement of a set of prescribed technical abilities but rather on a social con-
struction that involves self-assessment with regard to significant others” (Mac-
Donald, Hargreaves, & Miell, 2003, p. 3). Music and identity are reflexive:
Music can be a vehicle for exploration and development of other (non-music)
identities such as feminism, queerness, ethnicity, and social class (Lamb, 2003),
and musical identities are influenced by these and other identities such as gen-
der, (dis)ability, and nationality (MacDonald, Hargreaves, & Miell, 2002).
Because identity and music are so interwoven, the study of musician identity
is “murky and muddy” (Lamb, 2003, p. 6). Musician identities have been
conceptualized as personal (individual and idiosyncratic characteristics) and
social (comparisons to others and group characteristics) (Lamont, 2002, p.
42). Musician identity is situated: “When I am on stage singing Tamino, I am
not giving much time to worrying over tas and titis from my methods class”
(Roberts, 2006, p. 3). Finally, these socially constructed, messy, reflexive, inter-
woven, personal, social, situated identities are fluid and evolving, so that any
single person at one time may have several musician identities in different con-
texts, and over time, these identities can (and probably should) change.
In studying music identity through the lifespan, there is evidence that
humans across cultures are musical from birth (e.g., Trehub, Unyk, & Trainor,
1993), and that engagement in a variety of musical behaviors is important to
infants’ cognitive, social, emotional, and physical development (for review see
Trevarthan, 2002). It is difficult to ascertain if and how children younger than
four or five conceptualize identity—as a musician or anything else (Marsh,
Debus, & Barnholt, 2006). However, the idea that very young children need
to sing, dance, and play instruments is so widely accepted that musical inter-
actions are included in accreditation standards by the National Association
for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC) (NAEYC, 2012, e.g., p. 4, p.
13). By school age and through adolescence, children become increasingly less
likely to call themselves “musicians,” girls are more likely than boys to claim
the label “musician,” and children and adolescents are most likely to define
a “musician” as someone who plays an instrument (Lamont, 2002; Randles,
Identity and Transformation 217
2010). Child and adolescent musician identities seem sensitive to parental and
sibling influences (e.g., Borthwick & Davidson, 2002; McPherson, 2009) and
peer influences (e.g., Lamont, 2002; O’Neill 2002). It is intriguing to note that
the influence of elementary and/or secondary school music teachers on musi-
cian identity in children and adolescents has not been specifically addressed in
research, although it is mentioned as an emergent theme in a few studies (e.g.,
Campbell, Connell, & Beegle, 2007).
With regard to participant/subject populations, the bulk of recent identity
research in music education has focused on undergraduate music majors
(performance and education), in-service music teachers, and professional
musicians (see Scheib et al., 2007). Studies also investigate musician identity
in high school students who play instruments (e.g., Borthwick & Davidson,
2002). In choosing populations, it seems that researchers investigating musi-
cian identity often define a musician as someone who plays an instrument,
as studies of non-instrumentalists are comparably rare.
But what of the voices of those who have opted not to participate in school
music, formally study an instrument, major in music, or have a career in music?
Those who do not pursue school or private music instruction or some other
music performance activity are often labeled as “non-musicians” by educators
and researchers, and this population has been largely ignored in music education
identity research. Some studies have surveyed entire school populations about
how they define a musician (Lamont, 2002; Randles, 2010). In other studies,
subject pools may have included “non-musicians,” but a respondent’s musician
or non-musician status was not explicit in the data (e.g., Campbell, Connell, &
Beegle, 2007). Abril (2007) worked with three undergraduate women who self-
identified as non-singers. He found that the roots of their anxiety about singing
traced back to negative experiences in school music programs. If others have
had similar experiences, “non-musicians” may be an important population for
music teacher educators to study. We all know people whose expressions of
musical identity are primarily characterized by negative statements like “I am
not musical” or “I can’t sing” who nevertheless proclaim a love of music and/
or engage in musicking behaviors such as attending concerts, dancing and/or
singing when alone, and selecting specific music to complement or change their
moods. Given the role of music in infancy and early childhood, and the impor-
tance of music in the lives of adolescents—including “non musicians” (North,
Hargreaves, and O’Neill, 2000), understanding the development of this “nega-
tive identity” (Lamont, 2002; Lee, 2003), may help music educators as they
strive to be more inclusive and serve a broader spectrum of students.
Purpose
The purpose of this qualitative study was to explore essays on music identity
development written by undergraduate students who were not music majors
or minors. Further, my intent was to analyze findings specifically with
regard to their implications for school music instruction and music teacher
218 Karen Salvador
education. My guiding questions were: How did the students describe their
musical identity from childhood through their lifespan? What experiences
did students describe as having positive or negative influences on their musi-
cian identity?
DESIGN
Participants and Data Collection

All the students I taught in Music for the Classroom Teacher over two
semesters (N = 48) were invited to participate in this study. Via email after
grades had been submitted, I asked each student to resubmit his or her musi-
cian identity essay along with a consent form, which included some basic
demographic information (age, year in school, major, gender). Upon receipt,
demographic information was separated from the essay content. Thirty-five
students (73%) sent their essays, which comprised 47 pages of single-spaced
text when empty space was removed. Participants included 4 males and 31
females, whose ages ranged from 19–28 years at the time of the study (aver-
age age 21.1 years). Nearly all participants were traditional undergraduate
students at the sophomore- to senior-level of study.
Data Analysis
For this qualitative content study, I used deductive analysis related to my
guiding questions as well as general inductive data analysis as described by
Thomas (2003). This analysis involved cleaning the data (removing identi-
fiers and empty space, unifying fonts, etc.), close reading of the text, creation
of categories, and continually revising and refining these categories through
multiple sets of coding, allowing overlapping coding and uncoded text. The
trustworthiness of the data was established through triangulation within the
project (among the 35 essays), comparison with other findings in the literature,
and peer review (Creswell, 2012). In this deductive and inductive analysis,
my assumptions and experiences inevitably informed both how I conducted
the research and how I analyzed the data (Peshkin, 1994). Therefore, my
thoughts with regard to musician identity and “non-musicians” become the
lens through which the data is viewed, and it is important to the trustworthi-
ness of this study that I describe my biases with regard to musician identity.
Researcher Lens
Although I am now an assistant professor who specializes in music teacher
education, my views are informed by my previous identity as an elementary
general music teacher, and by my continued practice as an early childhood
music teacher. I acknowledge that my background as a classically trained
musician means that I see music and musicianship differently than the general
population who do not have that background. Therefore, as I read these
essays, I was an “Other” or outsider. Moreover, I believe that every person has
the potential to be musical: music is the birthright of every human. I believe
that participatory musicianship is good for individuals of all ages, communi-
ties, and society, and that musicking2 can take a variety of forms. My idea of a
musician is not limited to people who engage regularly in music performance,
and I do not think that the label “musician” is limited to those with “talent” or
who have high levels of expertise. These beliefs were likely evident as I taught
the classes, designed this study, analyzed the data, and wrote this paper.
FINDINGS
Most essays followed a common rhetorical structure based on the assign-

ment: Reflect on your own musical identity. Has it changed since you were a
child or since you have taken this class? How will your musical identity play
a role in your own classroom?3 This question resulted in a shared beginning
point for the narrative arc of most essays: when I was a small child I felt
like a musician, someone who loves music. After this beginning, however,
students’ descriptions of their musical lives and identity formation varied
widely. One student, who grew up in China, was tracked into a school for
the musically gifted at five years of age. Another student received so many
negative messages regarding her4 musical play at home that she gave up on
singing before she entered kindergarten. A few students did not remember
any involvement in music classes or activities at any point, while some had
vague recollections of elementary music, but did not participate in school
music or any other organized musical activity after that. Other participants
sang and/or played instruments in school ensembles all the way through
middle school and high school. A few students mentioned private study
and/or musical groups outside of school, such as church choirs and garage
bands. Many students reported a change in how they viewed their musical
identity as a result of some component of Music for the Classroom Teacher.
This presentation of findings will begin with a deductive analysis of data
related to my guiding questions, presented in two sections: (1) Factors con-
tributing to positive musician identity and (2) Factors contributing to a
negative musician identity. Then, I will present the results of my inductive
analysis, which resulted in three emergent themes: (1) Defining and redefin-
ing “musician,” (2) Self-efficacy beliefs and (3) Transformation/reclaiming.
Factors Contributing to Positive Musician Identity

Many students described “feeling like a musician” at various times in life.
Nearly all students recalled a childhood filled with singing and/or danc-
ing along with parents, siblings, and/or recordings. Further, most students
recalled feeling like musicians in elementary general music. “I always enjoyed
220 Karen Salvador
music and would practice the recorder at home, where I would experiment
with the different sounds and pretend I was a rock star” (Essay 24). “When
I was younger I used to think I was the next Brittany Spears. I would sing
my answers to a question instead of just talking, [and] I would sing as loud
as I could in music class . . . ” (Essay 11). However, only a few students
maintained positive musician identity through adolescence and into young
adulthood. Factors that contributed to a persistent positive musician iden-
tity were interrelated and included music at school, music outside of school,
family influence, and talent attributions/competition.
Music at School
Several students related positive experiences with secondary school music
ensembles and teachers, and cited these as reasons that they viewed themselves
as musicians. These school music experiences were rarely mentioned sepa-
rately from how they interrelated with music experiences outside of school.
Using my formal knowledge from playing the trombone in band class for
3 or 4 years, I began to teach myself drums. Eventually, I started playing
with bands and even began playing gigs in high school. My band played
at local venues and in venues around the state and the country. . . . During
this time I became on avid blues fan, eventually giving way to my love of
jazz music. Also around this time, I had the opportunity to take a music
history class . . . at my high school. This class opened my ears to music
that I had never really given much time. I began listening to Chopin, Viv-
aldi, Beethoven and others. . . . Music has become a driving force in my
life. I am an avid player, listener, and researcher of music.
(Essay 19)
It seems that for some people, “traditional” secondary school ensembles

and nonperformance classes can be a place in which strong musician identi-
ties are maintained and developed.
Music Outside of School

Music participation outside of school was another important factor in per-
sistently positive musician identity. Settings for music outside of school
included private lessons, church music, and garage bands. For many (but
not all) students, these experiences were informed by experiences in school
music and vice versa.
The choir was about to sing at church and my ten-year-old self was the
only soprano there. I was absolutely terrified but I knew that I knew
the song. . . . The director got to the bridge and had each part sing the
part alone. It gets to be my turn and I’m singing and crying at the same
time but it sounded really good. After that, singing and music became
the thing that made everything else OK.
(Essay 2)
My mother was the choir director and later minister of music. . . . I

started singing in a church choir before I can remember and I did not
know that people thought it was a skill. I saw my mother dance around
singing and praising God all the time so of course I did the same.
(Essay 6)
Family Influence
The influence of family members also sometimes supported a persistently
positive musician identity. The author who described being ten and the only
soprano in choir one day (Essay 2, see above) mentioned elsewhere in her
essay that her grandfather was minister for music at the church, and her dad
played drums for the choir. Many students mentioned parents who played
instruments (especially guitar and piano), and siblings who preceded them
in school music programs as supporting their musician identity.
I liked it [playing cornet] because I remember the support I got from my

parents, not because I enjoyed playing it.
(Essay 24)
I sang everywhere from church to the shower, and I sang everything. My

grandparents saw this and put me in voice lessons and piano lessons. . . .
With this under my belt, I could read music with the best of them and
excelled in high school choir. . . . I also received a scholarship to go to Blue
Lake Fine Arts Camp. I was proud and very confident in my musical ability
and the ability to teach other people music because I also led the children’s
choir and played the organ in church. Having all this musical background,
my identity is: a musician. I enjoy music, and I also can perform adequately.
(Essay 12)
While the influence of family is clear, the author of Essay 12 seemed also
to indicate that her musician identity was strengthened by competition.
Competition/Talent
For some students, it was competition (in school and/or out) or a perception
that they had a special talent, which led them to see themselves as musical.
I think that in high school I was a Musician [sic5] as I was very serious
about learning music and improving my instrument. By my sophomore
222 Karen Salvador
year, I was a part of the chamber choir, and I competed in both Choral
and Solo & Ensemble Festivals, singing with the choir and as a soloist,
reaching the state level in both areas. I also auditioned for and per-
formed with the MSVMA regional, state, and all-state Honors Choirs.
(Essay 3)
I have always been identified as a “talented” child in the field of

music. . . . I remember I was confident and self-satisfied most of the
time in music class. All the music teachers liked me and set me as a
perfect example in front of the class. . . . Due to such experience, I feel
very comfortable singing or performing in public. . . . [However,] while
I am being praised and set up as an example other students might feel
stressed and start to have the fear to sing out loud. I have noticed that
not many people . . . liked the music class . . . since the teacher gives
them a feeling, which they cannot sing and it cannot be improved. It is
obvious that teachers have more focus on those who can sing and leave
the rest aside.
(Essay 14)
Although this student’s musical identity was strengthened by being seen

as “talented,” she also observed how her teachers’ recognition of her “tal-
ent” set her apart and may have diminished the music identity of other
students.
Factors Contributing to a Negative Musician Identity

Despite nearly all respondents describing a positive musician identity in
young childhood, most students reported entering Music for the Class-
room Teacher with feelings of trepidation because they no longer viewed
themselves as musicians. A number of factors contributed to this negative
identity, including music at school, competing identities, talent attributions/
competition, and influence of family.
Music at School
Some participants indicated secondary school music instruction as a main
reason they stopped seeing themselves as musicians. Sometimes, it seemed
that the band/choir director either would not or could not teach them how
to succeed in school music:
Joining choir was a lot of fun for me. I got to sing every day and I
even mustered the courage to try out for a solo. However . . . my choir
teacher said that I did not have a voice that was “special” enough. This
comment made me reconsider singing out loud in front of people and
for the next few years I only sang to myself.
(Essay 13)
I was pushed around to many different instruments [because] I was not
performing the way they wanted me to. So I decided I was done with
band. . . . I was so devastated by my experience that I decided I wanted
to stay away from anything that would identify me as a musician.
(Essay 27)
In other essays, it seemed that some teachers were willing to sacrifice the
needs of one student for the needs of the group:
I was in the boys’ section of the choir for a while and I liked to tell myself
that I didn’t mind, but sometimes looking back I think I did. . . . I wish
that someone, such as my choir teacher, would have told me why she
put me in the boy’s section of the choir. I look back now and I know it is
because my voice could reach lower pitches and I showed a confidence
that a lot of other girls didn’t necessarily show at that age. By the time
eighth grade was over, that confidence in choir was pretty much gone.
(Essay 7)
I wanted to play it [percussion] when I got older. When it came my time to

join the band I was given a cornet by the band instructor [italics in original].
(Essay 24)
Competing Identities
Some students linked a weak or negative musician identity to a stronger identity
in some other pursuit. “I grew up as an athlete and never wanted anything to
do with music” (Essay 8). However, other students—who enjoyed music, felt
musical as young children, and may have maintained a positive identity if they
continued to play and/or sing—quit because of time constraints. “[At age ten] I
started to play the flute. I played for three years and I really loved it. However,
in high school I had to choose between music class and visual arts” (Essay 30).
Overall, there seemed to be an impression among the students that they should
focus on one role: “I was more of an athlete than a musician” (Essay 15).
Talent Attribution/Competition
Just as being identified as “talented” and doing well in comparison to oth-
ers helped some participants to develop and maintain a positive musician
identity, competition and the perception of lacking “talent” contributed to
negative musician identity in other students. Sometimes, music teachers con-
tributed directly to these feelings:
[M]y director used the chair system and had quizzes where we played in
front of the entire class. . . . I cried a lot in band on those days because
I knew how bad I would be.
(Essay 2)
224 Karen Salvador
Other times, the student’s sense of needing to be the best, or to be perfect,
came from within:
This frustration caused me to give up my piano and my singing voice, and

I would claim to others that I was a terrible singer and not so good at
piano. I think the reasons why I made these bold statements [were] because
most of my musical identity was developed around a competitive edge. In
regards to piano, I was always preparing for the upcoming competition,
and for choir I was always fighting for solos. . . . [I stopped practicing] and
once I lost some of the skills that made me a good singer or good piano
player I no longer considered myself a musician [italics in original].
(Essay 33)
[B]efore elementary school I used to sing a lot because my mom was

always singing. When I entered formal schooling [elementary], singing
became something serious, something that I needed to be perfect at or
not try at all. . . . When I was in band, I used to practice my trombone
for hours before auditions. When I got first chair my sophomore year,
I attributed it to my section mates having a bad day, not to my own
performance. I quit band after my sophomore year because the pressure
of being first chair was too much. I was so worried about maintaining
a level of performance I felt like I was incapable of achieving in the first
place that I made myself physically ill.
(Essay 23)
Influence of Family
Similar to competition and talent attributions functioning as factors that both
supported musician identity and also contributed to a negative musician iden-
tity, family influences could be positive or negative. One student recalled being
“heckled” by siblings as she tried to practice saxophone at home and explained
further, “I was in the school choir for three years, and loved to sing quite a bit,
but was always encouraged to quit and stop singing by my three older sisters
who thought that my singing voice was pretty bad” (Essay 34). Another par-
ticipant mentioned that part of the reason she did not view herself as a musi-
cian was that her older brother was always so much more accomplished (Essay
23). Parental influences also sometimes factored into negative identity: “My
parents were never heavily involved in music, but they had a lot of involvement
in sports. . . . My childhood did not have much music in it at all” (Essay 18).
Defining and Redefining “Musician”

One student began her essay by quoting Webster’s Dictionary: “Musi-
cian: One who composes, conducts, or performs music, especially instru-
mental music” (Essay 22). Many students stated that before Music for the
Classroom Teacher, they would have defined “musician” as an expert per-
former (particularly on an instrument). As I revealed in my “Researcher
Lens,” I do not agree with that definition, and I know that throughout class
and especially when I lectured on identity, I shared my beliefs with students.
Perhaps because of this, many of the participants formulated new defini-
tions of the word “musician” in their musician identity essays. These new
definitions took into account that not every musician will achieve at the
highest level, and rejected previous definitions based on competition:
I see myself as a musician both vocally and instrumentally with the

knowledge that there are people better than me and there is always
room for improvement. When I was younger I didn’t view my musi-
cianship that way. I felt that since I wasn’t first chair and I am naturally
competitive, or since I always got passed over for leads in the musicals
that I wasn’t one [a musician].
(Essay 2)
In redefining “musician,” students were able to broaden their idea of

what it meant to be musical, and thus claim the (often coveted) identity
“musician.”
Self-Efficacy Beliefs
Although the essays were ostensibly focused on musician identity, many
essays revolved around the related concept of self-efficacy beliefs. Self-effi-
cacy is a person’s judgments of her ability to achieve a particular task—not
simply an assessment of skill level, but rather an individual’s judgments of
what she can do with the skills she possesses (Bandura, 1986).
. . . this class made me realize knowing notes [music literacy] is not

the only thing that makes a musician. It has inspired me to try to learn
[guitar] again. . . . If I practice hard, and really try, I know I can learn,
I may be no Led Zeppelin (who has time for that????) but that doesn’t
mean I can’t be a musician in my own right.
(Essay 22)
I have never thought of myself as much of a singer. After a terrifying

experience with a solo during a play in fifth grade, you will only find
me belting out lyrics in the car or in the shower where no one else can
hear me. . . . But after you told me that I have a sweet singing voice, I
regained some confidence. I may not be gracing American Idol with my
presence anytime soon, but this class has given me the reassurance that
when I sing “Fifty Nifty” to a group of seventh graders, they won’t go
running to the door with their hands over their ears.
(Essay 29)
226 Karen Salvador
As was evident in these excerpts, students’ statements of self-efficacy
beliefs were informed by their redefinitions of musician identity and their
experiences in class.
Transformation/(Re)Claiming
Many of these students had loved music and musicking throughout their
lives, but had denied themselves an identity of “musician” because their def-
initions of the term were limited. When they redefined the word, it seemed
to allow some of them to (re)claim an identity they had yearned for: that of
“musician.” Taking up this mantle seems to have been transformative for
some students.
Instead of looking at music as a solo and another trophy, I wish I [were]

taught more of a community aspect of music identity. This concept
broadens the idea of “musician.”. . . Now I look at my music identity
completely different[ly]. I feel as if I am still a musician and although
my skills are rusty and I might not be as consistent as I once was, this
does not mean that I am no longer a musician. I still sing in the car to
the radio. I still sit down at the piano and play what I can remember.
Before when I did these things, I would be critical of myself and stop
[musicking], but now I second guess this initial reaction and continue.
This is what I would like to teach my students: music is not a competi-
tion, like I had learned. Music is something that everyone can partici-
pate in, no matter what level . . . if students are interacting exploring,
experiencing, and manipulating music then they are musicians.
(Essay 33)
Some of the students seemed to relate their new identity directly to teach-
ing, creating an “identity for” integrating music in their future classroom,
or in essence stating they could be “musician enough” for their students.
My musical confidence has not necessarily changed as a result of this

course. I believe now that everyone possesses a musical identity—
whether it is positive or negative. I have learned that just because I am
not Beyoncé, I can still enjoy music as well as teach it in the future. . . .
I can have fun with music, be confident in it, and use it within my
classroom curriculum. My musical identity has now changed from just
goofing around to something that can be more impactful and produc-
tive with my future students and future children.
(Essay 7)
I have now gone from wanting no musical identity to a future teacher

who is excited to use music in my classroom daily. . . . I am no longer
afraid to sing and share what I know and love about music with my
students. I know that there is so much more I can learn and that is why
I am excited to be the “musical ladder6” that my students will be able
to climb up with me.
(Essay 27)
Several students attributed (re)claiming a musician identity directly to

participation in Music for the Classroom Teacher.
Although I do have some history singing, and playing instruments, I

haven’t stuck with these things and have trouble labeling myself as a
“musician” in that sense. . . . [Later,] even though I knew I loved music,
all I saw was that I was not “good” at singing and wasn’t instrumentally
committed, so therefore was not a good musician. I now realize that
I am competent, and can definitely lead a group of lower elementary
students in song.
(Essay 30)
[M]y musical identity has changed from my elementary years. I began

with enthusiasm about music and slowly lost that as I went into high
school. Luckily for me, this course has brought me back to the realm
of music and I am eager to learn more so that I can successfully apply
music in my classroom.
(Essay 1)
(Re)claiming an identity as a musician seemed to stem from intertwining

threads of redefining what it means to be a musician, being more specific
about the musicianship role being proposed (using music in a classroom set-
ting with elementary children), and increased self-efficacy beliefs. For many
respondents, participation in Music for the Classroom Teacher functioned
as a catalyst for these transformative experiences.
Further Context for Findings

When interpreting these findings for appropriation to similar settings or
application to other practices, further context might be helpful to the reader.
I taught Music for the Classroom Teacher, and the essays used as data in this
study were graded assignments. Although participants were not asked to
submit essays for this study until final grades for the semester had been cal-
culated, there is a chance the students wrote what they thought I wanted to
hear. Furthermore, Music for the Classroom Teacher was elective, and stu-
dents who chose this course may have done so because music was important
in their lives and/or they thought it was likely to be important in the lives
of their students. Moreover, most participants described childhoods that
seemed relatively privileged in terms of access to music instruction. Partici-
pants were almost exclusively white middle-class suburban females, who (as
228 Karen Salvador
a group) have been better served in school music programs than those from
other socioeconomic, racial, or ethnic groups (Gustafson, 2009). Finally, the
narrative arc and richness of some of the essays suggested further investiga-
tion (35 case studies) or, conversely, simply publishing each complete essay
for music teachers and music teacher educators to read.
DISCUSSION
Thirty-five undergraduate students submitted essays regarding the develop-

ment of their musician identity for this qualitative content analysis. Deduc-
tive findings related to my guiding questions confirmed previous findings
in the literature. Similar to findings in Lamont (2002) and Randles (2010),
most participants described identifying as a musician when they were very
young and then gradually losing this identity with the onset of formal school-
ing, and through adolescence, until it gave way to sentiments like, “In no
way, shape or form would I consider myself a musician” (Essay 16). How-
ever, the qualitative nature of this data showed some nuance not apparent
in these earlier studies: many of the students with negative musician identi-
ties participated in music performance classes at school (i.e., they played
an instrument and/or sang). For the students who maintained a positive
musician identity through adolescence, important factors seem to have been
involvement in school music programs, involvement in music performance
outside of school (as in O’Neil, 2002), family influences (similar to Borth-
wick & Davidson, 2002), and competition/talent attribution (e.g., being the
best, getting solos, having others recognize their “talent”). Factors that seem
to have led to negative musician identity included school music programs
(as in Abril, 2007), competing identities, and competition/talent attributions
(for students who did not win and/or were not labeled as “talented”).
Emergent themes that resulted from inductive analysis were not as easy
to confirm or disconfirm in previous literature. Therefore, the remainder of
this discussion will focus on interpretation of results in terms of what music
educators and music teacher educators might do to help students maintain
or (re)claim a positive musician identity.
(Re)Defining of “Musician”
Many respondents stated that they had not considered what defined a musi-
cian until they were asked. Perhaps music teachers could ask this question,
and propose inclusive and flexible definitions of “musician” to help stu-
dents see the myriad of ways that someone might musick. The redefinitions
of “musician” that contributed to some students (re)claiming a musician
identity reflected my core beliefs, which must have been consistently appar-
ent in Music for the Classroom Teacher. I positioned singing as a valid form
of musicianship alongside playing instruments. I stated that musicianship
can exist at a variety of levels of proficiency. I explicitly valued other musics
alongside “classical” music and other forms of musicking along with per-
forming. With regard to children’s musical development, I taught that no
one is completely lacking in music aptitude. Finally, I reinforced that many
components of musicking that students seemed to think required “talent”
(playing, singing, moving, having a “good ear”) are skills that can be learned
with effort and practice.
Although none of this is likely to be viewed as revolutionary to music
education researchers, some student “non musicians” responded to these
messages with apparent surprise and pleasure. Essentially, students seemed
loath to own their musician identity because they were not “good enough”
or “talented enough” in comparison to others. This negative musician iden-
tity was constraining some students from pursuing music activities they
wanted to engage in, such as learning to play guitar. It was as though they
needed permission to be “musician enough” to use music to teach, to learn
instruments, to dance and to sing. Roberts (2006) found that music majors
worked to create the proficiencies they needed to support their identity.
However, these students were already accepted as music majors, and had
the support of the academy in claiming a musician identity. Perhaps one
way to extrapolate Roberts’s findings could be that once “non musicians”
realize that they may (re)claim an identity as a musician, they will feel freer
to behave in the ways a musician does. An unintended consequence of this
identity reflection essay assignment may have been that, in asking students
to consider their current beliefs, giving information, and allowing for redefi-
nition, I essentially engaged students in “reframing,” a technique therapists
use to change thoughts and behavior (Beck, 1997). Furthermore, the act of
constructing a narrative of musician identity may have been a powerful act,
as writing is thought to provide a space for the formation and reformation
of thought (Menary, 2007).
Increasing Musician Self-Efficacy

An increase in self-efficacy beliefs was an unexpected finding in this study.
My goal as an instructor was to build my students’ musicianship skills so
that they could engage in authentic and enriching integration of music in
classroom instruction. Although I did not intentionally work to increase
self-efficacy beliefs, the way that I taught mirrored some of the practices
that Vanatta-Hall (2010) found to increase music teacher self-efficacy in
early childhood educators. In every class, students served as my demonstra-
tion group: moving, playing classroom instruments, and singing (first as a
whole group, and then in smaller groups and individually). Eventually, each
student taught a set of movement activities to the class, and later in the
semester, taught a song and a chant to a small group. Within the construct
of building self-efficacy (Bandura, 1986) this participatory musicking could
be considered a form of enactive mastery experience.
230 Karen Salvador
Observing and participating in my demonstrations, and then observing
and participating as peers succeeded in music teaching tasks may also have
strengthened self-efficacy as a form of vicarious experience, which is the
establishment of self-efficacy beliefs based on the success of similar others
(Vanatta-Hall, 2010). I also gave specific feedback that was supportive and
honest. This “verbal persuasion” is another way to build self-efficacy beliefs,
and consists of a combination of persuasive communication and evaluative
feedback. This persuasion is most effective when the person delivering it is
considered knowledgeable and credible (Vanatta-Hall, 2010). According to
Bandura’s (1986) theory, by providing enactive mastery experience, vicarious
experience, and verbal persuasion, I may have helped some students increase
their self-efficacy so they felt “musician-enough” to teach songs, chants, and
movement activities to their elementary students. Other researchers have
reported similar findings (e.g., Heyning, 2011; Vanatta-Hall, 2010).
CONCLUSION
Although a few of the 35 participants in this study could be described as

having a persistently positive musician identity, most identified themselves
as “non musicians” by the time they took Music for the Classroom Teacher
in college. Nearly all the students recalled loving music and feeling musical
as a small child, and most of them participated in school music performance
ensembles for at least some of their adolescence. This participation had a
positive influence on the musician identity of a few students. However, for
many students, participation in school music convinced them they were not
musicians, even though they recalled wanting this identity. These students
were the ones who did not get solos, were always in last or second-to-last
chair, were told their voices were not “special,” were asked to mouth the
words, and so on. Thus, school music became an exclusive space, in which
a student was identified and/or identified herself by a non-quality or a nega-
tive: in terms of what she was not. “[I]t is that emphasis on serious music
and trained musicianship . . . that privileges the musical activities of a small
(and shrinking) elite, frustrating the very search for community that under-
lies the human drive to make music” (Gracyk, 2003, p. 5). Thus, explicit
and implicit messages from home combined with school music instruction
to position music class as an environment in which a child or adolescent’s
identity was characterized by a negative: I am not a musician. Is it any won-
der that, when given the option to opt out of school music, many students
(at least 79%; Elpus & Abril, 2011) choose to do so? By reconsidering defi-
nitions of “musician,” considering the role of self-efficacy, and being willing
to engage students at a variety of levels of proficiency (without competition
or exclusion), perhaps music teachers and music teacher educators can bet-
ter support positive musician identity in elementary and secondary school
music.
NOTES
1. To preserve confidentiality, this is not the actual course title.

2. Intentionally using Small’s (1998) catholic notion of “musicking.”
3. Taken from the Music for the Classroom Teacher syllabus.
4. Because participants were nearly all female, I will say “she” and “her” unless
the author identifies himself as male.
5. In class, we discussed the possibility that there could be Musicians and musi-
cians.
6. The “ladder” was one of a set of metaphors for instruction we discussed ear-
lier in the semester. These metaphors included: teacher as a work of art to be
observed; teacher as a vessel of water to be poured out to students; and teacher
as a ladder that students could climb.
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Part IV
Guiding Researchers
15 Methodological Trends in
Music Education Research
Michael S. Zelenak
Published research articles provide information on several levels. On one

level, they contribute to the knowledge base of a particular field. On
another level, they identify topics of interest. And on a third level, they
provide evidence of the investigative processes, or methodologies, used
by researchers. An empirical evaluation of these methodologies has the
potential to provide reflective information to researchers free of the con-
textual influences of the research itself. Such an evaluation would allow
researchers to reflect upon the evolution of methodologies from past to
present, to determine the appropriateness of methodologies currently in
use, and to determine the methodological needs of the future. Gall, Gall,
and Borg (2007) posed a question in the preface to the eighth edition
of their research methods textbook: “Does research methodology change
rapidly enough to warrant so many revisions?” (p. xxvii). They answered
affirmatively and cited several influences on research methodologies in the
early 21st century such as the increased availability of electronic resources,
advances in quantitative analytical techniques, and the refinement of qual-
itative perspectives. Since research in music education utilizes the same
methodologies as education, it is subject to the same influences. Therefore,
an analysis of research methodologies in music education would produce
understandings regarding the impact of these influences, elicit evidence of
methodological trends, and provide insights for guiding research in the
future.
Music educators have a history of conducting research. Mark (1992)
provided a timeline for tracking the chronological changes of research in
music education. He summarized that music educators in the 19th cen-
tury wrote academic papers describing their successful teaching practices
and shared those ideas with colleagues. In the early 20th century however,
music educators adopted a more deliberate approach and began identifying
specific problems and issues in the field. They recognized the advantages
of working collaboratively and formed committees to address the issues
of the day. In the 1910s and 1920s, educational trends pointed toward
greater efficiency and standardization in the classroom. To achieve these
236 Michael S. Zelenak
goals, music educators developed objective measurement instruments
and embraced scientific statistical techniques to measure and analyze the
physiological and psychological processes related to music performance.
Examples of instruments from this period include the Seashore Measure of
Musical Talents, which was designed to measure music aptitude, and the
Kwalwasser-Ruch Test of Musical Accomplishment, which was designed to
measure music achievement. The development of these types of instruments
provides evidence of a shift from the personal experienced-based research
of the late 19th century to the acceptance of the positivist paradigm in
music education research.
Research activities escalated in the second half of the 20th century and
focused on a wider range of topics using increasingly diverse investigative
approaches. In the 1950s, Jones (1957) documented the use of questionnaires,
correlation studies, and action research. In the 1960s, Choate (1965) identi-
fied a sufficient quantity of research articles to warrant the organization of
research related to music education into specific categories. His categories
included historical; philosophical inquiry and speculation; curriculum content;
processes and aids for improvement of instruction; and other studies. Other
researchers looked toward qualitative forms of research as plausible alterna-
tives to the quantitative approach. Heller (1985) promoted the advantages of
historical research and Krueger (1987) advocated for the use of ethnographic
research in music education. More recently, Flinders and Richardson (2002)
documented an upsurge in qualitative investigations and posed arguments for
redefining the usefulness of research methods and findings.
Researchers have acknowledged trends in music education research from
macro and micro perspectives. Bartel and Radocy (2002) identified the use
of technology and increasing complexity as two mega-trends. They rec-
ommended using multiple data sources or a varied method approach to
address the complexity in contemporary research and strengthen the rigor
in these investigations. Jere Humphreys (2006) supported this view, stating,
“We need to try harder to apply combinations of research methodologies”
(p. 190). Abeles and Conway (2010) suggested that assimilating findings
from multiple perspectives builds confidence in those findings. From a micro
perspective, researchers have investigated specific elements of the research
process and the ways in which it is disseminated. They have examined study
participants (Draves, Cruse, Mills, & Sweet, 2008; Ebie, 2002), citations
(Kratus, 1993; Randles, Hagen, Gottlieb, & Salvador, 2010; Hamann &
Lucas, 1998; Sample, 1992; Schmidt & Zdzinski, 1993), and journal histo-
ries (Yarbrough, 1984, 2002). Although these researchers have uncovered
valuable information, there has not been a recent (i.e., conducted in the
past 20 years), broad (i.e., drawn from multiple journals), and comprehen-
sive (i.e., included multiple perspectives) examination of the methodological
trends in music education research.
The purpose of this study, therefore, was to identify trends in the meth-
odologies used by music education researchers and to determine differences
Methodological Trends in Music Education Research 237
in methodologies found in articles published by eminent journals. Research
questions were:
1. What changes have taken place in the methodologies used by music

education researchers?
2. What methodological differences have appeared in articles published
by eminent music education journals?
METHOD
In this study, I conducted a content analysis of eminent peer-reviewed jour-

nals. Hamann and Lucas (1998) tallied citations across a broad spectrum
of music education journals and identified three journals that accounted
for 80% of the citations. They proposed that these eminent journals be
considered “first-tier” journals in music education research. The journals
were the Journal of Research in Music Education (JRME), the Bulletin of
the Council for Research in Music Education (Bulletin) and Psychology
of Music (POM). I examined articles in these journals in two-year incre-
ments every ten years over a 21-year period (i.e., 1988–89, 1998–99, and
2008–09). This approach incorporated articles that were recent, provided
practical and realistic limitations for the breadth of the study, and included a
substantially large number of articles from each time period. In addition,
this 21-year period coincided with changes in the analysis and distribution
of information brought on by the increasingly widespread use of personal
computers and the Internet. During this period, Internet World Stats (2013)
reported a 566% increase in worldwide Internet usage between the years of
2000 and 2012.
Definitions from Gall, Gall, and Borg’s (2007) textbook Educational
Research: An Introduction were used as the theoretical framework for the
study. This textbook had been in print since 1963 and was in its 8th edition.
Gall, Gall, and Borg (2007) defined educational research as
a form of inquiry in which (1) key concepts and procedures are care-
fully defined in such a way that the inquiry can be replicated and
possibly refuted, (2) controls are in place to minimize error and bias,
(3) the generalizability limits of the study’s results are made explicit,
and (4) the results of the study are interpreted in terms of what they
contribute to the cumulative body of knowledge about the object of
inquiry.
(p. 35)
I included only those articles that met these criteria. Articles such as
essays, position papers, letters, rebuttals, speeches, symposium abstracts,
book reviews, and dissertation critiques, were excluded.
Methodological Elements
Gall, Gall, and Borg described the investigative process used by educational
researchers and provided definitions of each aspect of that process. From
their description and definitions, I extracted five primary methodological
elements: (a) form of inquiry, (b) design, (c) sampling technique, (d) data
collection, and (e) data analysis (Figure 15.1). The specific type or variation
of each element was then considered a subcategory. As I read each article, I
tallied the subcategories and these tallies became the data used for compari-
son and statistical analysis.
I. Form of inquiry
Qualitative Quantitative
II. Design
Lived Society Language Historical Experimental Non

Experience and and Experimental
Culture Communication
III. Sampling technique
Probability Non
Probability
IV. Data collection
Test Self-Report Questionnaire Interview Observation Product
V. Data analysis
Qualitative Quantitative
Inductive Deductive Other

Other
Descriptive 2 group mean Regression/ Chi-Square Multiple Factor

comparisons Correlation Group Analysis
Figure 15.1 Perspectives and categories of research methodologies.

Element 1: Form of Inquiry
Gall, Gall, and Borg identified two forms of inquiry, quantitative and quali-
tative. Although several articles (n = 8) utilized a mixed methods approach
(i.e., combination of quantitative and qualitative), these articles were
included only in those analyses that treated the article as a single entity
such as the frequency of articles published in a year. They were excluded
from analyses that compared subcategories of any element such as quantita-
tive or qualitative forms of inquiry. Including mixed method studies in these
comparisons violated the assumption of independence needed for chi-square
analyses (Glass & Hopkins, 1996, p. 338).
Gall, Gall, and Borg provided detailed descriptions of the two forms of
inquiry. They described the qualitative form of inquiry as
grounded in the assumption that individuals construct social reality in

the form of meanings and interpretations, and that these constructions
tend to be transitory and situational. The dominant methodology is to
discover these meanings and interpretations by studying cases inten-
sively in natural settings and by subjecting the resulting data to analytic
induction.
(p. 650)
In turn, they described the quantitative form of inquiry as
grounded in the assumption that features of the social environment con-

stitute an objective reality that is relatively constant across time and
settings. The dominant methodology is to describe and explain features
of this reality by collecting numerical data on observable behaviors of
samples and by subjecting these data to statistical analysis.
(p. 650)
These definitions provided a basis for determining the form of inquiry in

each article.
Element 2: Design
To accommodate diverse forms of qualitative designs, Gall, Gall, and Borg
recommended differentiating qualitative research based on research tradi-
tions (p. 490). They identified three traditions of investigation in qualita-
tive : (a) lived experience, (b) society and culture, and (c) language and
communication. Studies in the lived experience tradition included those per-
taining to cognitive psychology and phenomenology; studies in the society
and culture tradition included action research and ethnography; and studies
in the language and communication tradition included narratives, herme-
neutics and semiotics (p. 491). Along with these three traditions, historical
research was included as a fourth category of qualitative design. Gall, Gall,
and Borg devoted an entire chapter (Chapter 16, p. 528) to this topic assert-
ing the importance of historical research as a unique form of qualitative
investigation.
In studies following a quantitative form of inquiry, the design element
was divided into experimental and non-experimental subcategories. In an
experimental design, the researcher introduced an intervention and studied
the impact of that intervention on treatment and control groups. Common
experimental designs included pretest-posttest control-group design and
quasi-experimental design. In a non-experimental design, the researcher
does not introduce an intervention but rather examines and describes
phenomena. Typical non-experimental designs include descriptive, causal-
comparative, and correlational designs.
Element 3: Sampling Technique

Although many sampling techniques were used, I categorized them as either
probability or non-probability. In probability sampling, the researcher
assumes that “each individual in the population has a known probability
of being selected. The probabilities are known because the individuals are
chosen by chance” (Gall et al., 2007, p. 170). Specific types of probabil-
ity sampling include simple random sampling and cluster sampling. Non-
probability sampling, on the other hand, implies that the participants were
chosen by other means. Types of non-probability sampling include conve-
nience samples and volunteers. Patton (2002) acknowledged the differences
between probability and non-probability sampling in qualitative research.
In place of the term “non-probability,” he preferred using the word “pur-
poseful” (p. 243). In order to remain consistent with the definitions pro-
vided by Gall, Gall, and Borg (2007), I used the terms probability and
non-probability in this study.
Element 4: Data Collection

Although researchers have used numerous techniques to collect data, data
collection methodologies in this study were organized into six subcatego-
ries: (a) test, (b) self-report, (c) questionnaire, (d) interview, (e) observation,
and (f) product. Decisions related to the categorization of data collection
methodologies were based on definitions provided by Gall, Gall, and Borg
(2007):
• Test—“A structured performance situation that can be analyzed to

yield numerical scores, from which inferences are made about how
individuals differ in the construct measured by the test” (p. 656). In
music education, numerical data could come from performance mea-
sures as well as paper and pencil tests.
• Self-report measure—“A paper and pencil instrument whose items yield
numerical scores from which inferences can be made about various
aspects of self” (p. 652). Although Gall, Gall, and Borg restricted the
response process in a self-report measure to numerical data, I deter-
mined the difference between self-reports and questionnaires based on
the content of the information being collected. Self-report measures
collect information about thoughts, feelings, and preferences, while
questionnaires collect information about elements outside of the indi-
vidual’s perception of self.
• Questionnaire—“A measure that presents a set of written questions to
which all individuals in a sample respond” (p. 650). In this study, the
category of questionnaire included collection techniques such as paper
and pencil questionnaires, rating scales, and written evaluations. The
response formats ranged from open-ended questions to Likert-type res-
ponses. On a questionnaire, participants may be asked to evaluate the
technical qualities of a musical performance, but on a self-report mea-
sure, the participant would be asked to assess how they felt emotion-
ally at the time they were making the evaluation.
• Interview—“A form of data collection involving direct interac-
tion between the researcher and the research participant, using oral
questions by the interviewer and oral responses by the participants”
(p. 643). Informal oral comments and focus group discussions were
also included in this category.
• Observation—the researcher collects information in the setting being
studied. The experience is usually collected in the form of video record-
ings or field notes.
• Product—This category included those products that are evaluated
as representations of an outcome from an individual’s activity. They
may include audio or video recordings, compositions, and MIDI file
data. Artifacts, publications, and reflective journals were also viewed
as products and included in this category.
Unlike research design and data analysis, data collection methods were
not linked to the form of inquiry. Questionnaires, for example, can be used
in studies based on quantitative or qualitative forms of inquiry. There were
many types of data collection techniques used throughout the articles and
it is important to note that I used the definitions stated above to determine
the categorization. Some techniques, however, did not fall neatly into any
of the subcategories. In these cases, I based my categorization on the intent
of the authors and their use of the data.
Element 5: Data Analysis

Researchers analyze data using a variety of techniques and those techniques
are often associated with the qualitative or quantitative forms of inquiry.
The techniques associated with the qualitative form of inquiry are inductive,
deductive, and other-qualitative. Patton (2002) described inductive analysis
as “immersion in the details and specifics of the data to discover important
patterns, themes, and interrelationships” (p. 41). Inductive analyses often
result in the identification of emergent themes, which are synthesized into a
broader theoretical framework. In contrast, deductive analyses use data to
support a unifying theoretical framework. Conceptually, deductive analy-
sis uses a top-down perspective in which the data becomes evidence of the
broader framework. The other-qualitative subcategory includes techniques
that provide a summary of research findings without communicating the-
oretical implications. These techniques included summaries, reviews, and
simple categorizations.
There were seven subcategories of quantitative data analysis meth-
odologies. I based these subcategories on general concepts and statistical
procedures presented in Glass and Hopkin’s (1996) Statistical Methods in
Education and Psychology. This textbook was recommended by a statistics
professor from a major research university as an accurate resource. The
seven subcategories were: (a) descriptive, (b) mean difference between two
groups, (c) correlation and regression, (d) chi-square, (e) analyses of vari-
ance between multiple groups, (f) factor analyses, and (g) other-quantitative.
Descriptive techniques included the calculation of means, standard devia-
tions, frequencies and percentages. Mean differences between two groups
included parametric techniques such as the t-test and nonparametric tech-
niques such as the Mann-Whitney U-test. Correlation and regression pro-
cedures included bivariate and multivariate correlations as well as simple
and multivariate forms of regression. Chi-square techniques included pro-
portional goodness of fit, association, and independence tests. Analyses of
variance procedures included ANOVA, MANOVA, ANCOVA and similar
techniques. Factor analysis included exploratory, confirmatory, and princi-
pal component analyses. A few techniques did not fit neatly into these cat-
egories, such as multidimensional scaling, multitrait-multimethod analysis,
and structural equation modeling. These techniques were included in the
other-quantitative subcategory.
Data Analysis
I read all articles and coded for each of the methodological elements. The
resulting data were then entered into the Statistical Analysis Software (SAS)
program for analysis. Since the articles were analyzed ten different ways,
two times (time and journal) for each of the five methodological perspec-
tives, a Bonferroni adjusted p value of .005 was used to determine signifi-
cance. To provide evidence of reliability in coding, a colleague holding a
PhD in music education coded 10% (n = 32) of the articles. The proportion
of agreement, Cohen’s kappa, was calculated for each category. According
to descriptive interpretations provided by Landis and Koch (1977), results
indicated almost perfect agreement in coding forms of inquiry (κ = .81
[0.63, 0.98]), substantial agreement in research design (κ = .80 [0.63, 0.98]),
perfect agreement in sampling technique (κ = 1.00 [1.00, 1.00]), substantial
agreement in data collection (κ = 0.70 [0.55, 0.86]), substantial agreement
in quantitative data analysis (κ = 0.76 [0.60, 0.92]), and poor agreement in
qualitative data analysis (κ = -0.03 [-0.51, 0.45]). The poor level of agree-
ment in coding the qualitative analysis techniques (50% agreement) may be
attributed to incongruent definitions of the terms inductive, deductive, and
other. Although most of the coding was highly reliable, the reader should
approach conclusions related to qualitative data analysis methodologies
with caution.
RESULTS
Descriptive statistics appear in Table 15.1. Three hundred twenty-two stud-

ies met Gall, Gall, and Borg’s (2007) criteria for research. Overall, JRME
published the greatest number of articles (n = 141) while POM published
the fewest number (n = 80). The total number of articles per time period
increased from 1988–89 (n = 65) to 2008–09 (n = 130). Individually, all
journals increased their publication of research articles per time period. The
Bulletin increased from 14 (1988–89) to 47 (2008–09) and POM grew from
16 (1988–89) to 43 (2008–09). JRME increased from 35 (1988–89) to 66
(1998–99) and then decreased to 40 (2008–09).
The journals did not publish the same number of articles in each time
period. There was a significant difference in the proportions of research articles
published by the journals per time period χ2 (4, N = 322) = 18.50, p < .001).
This difference exhibited a moderately small effect size (w = .24) (Table 15.2).
The most extreme difference in proportions occurred in 1988–89 when POM
published 16 articles while JRME published 35 articles. In 2008–09 however,
the number of research articles among journals was very similar ranging from
40 (JRME) to 47 (Bulletin).
Table 15.1 Descriptive Statistics
Number of Research Articlesa
Journal 1988–89 1998–99 2008–09 Total M (SD)

Bulletin 14 40 47 101 33.67(17.39)
JRME 35 66 40b 141 47.00(16.64)
POM 16 21 43c 80 26.67(14.36)
Total 65 127 130 322 107.33(36.69)
M (SD) 21.67(11.59) 42.33(22.59) 43.33(3.51) 107.33(30.99)
a. Research as defined by Gall, Gall, and Borg (2007).

b. Due to changes in publishing schedule, only 3 journals were published in 2008.
c. Publication changed from semiannual to quarterly.
Table 15.2 Research Articles Published in Eminent Music Education Journals by
Time Period*
Frequency
Percent
Row Pct
Column Pct 1988–89 1998–99 2008–09 Total
Bulletin 14 40 47 101
4.35 12.42 14.60 31.37
13.86 39.60 46.53
21.54 31.50 36.15
JRME 35 66 40 141
10.87 20.50 12.42 43.79
24.82 46.81 28.37
53.85 51.97 30.77
POM 16 21 43 80
4.97 6.52 13.35 24.84
20.00 26.25 53.75
24.62 16.54 33.08
Total 65 127 130 322
20.19 39.44 40.37 100.00
* Significant difference among proportions of journal by time period, χ² (4, N = 322) = 18.50,
p < .001.
Chi-square tests of association were used to compare the proportions

of the categories in each element by time period (Table 15.3). As men-
tioned above, I removed the mixed method studies from these analyses to
maintain the independence of the articles in analysis. The proportion of
qualitative and quantitative studies did not change significantly over time.
In addition, no significant change was found in the proportions of the sub-
categories of design, sampling techniques, or data analysis. A significant
difference, however, was found among the data collection subcategories,
χ2 (10, N = 314) = 27.09, p < .005, w = .24. The greatest changes in pro-
portions were in the subcategory of test which decreased from 31.71% in
1988–89 to 14.08% in 2008–09 and in the subcategory of questionnaires
which increased from 8.54% in 1988–89 to 24.27% in 2008–09.
To address the second research question, I compared the five elements
among the journals. The results of these tests indicated significant differences
among the journals in all elements (Table 15.4). There was a significant differ-
ence in the proportions of qualitative and quantitative forms of inquiry among
journals χ2 = (2, N = 314) = 38.14, p < .005). JRME exhibited the most extreme
difference in proportions between quantitative (84.40%) and qualitative stud-
ies (15.60%) while the proportions were more evenly distributed in the Bul-
letin, quantitative (48.98%) and qualitative (51.02%). The effect size of this
comparison was w = .35, indicating a moderate level of practical significance.
Table 15.3 Frequencies and Percentages of Methodologies Used by Time Period
Frequency(Column Percentage)
Perspective
Category 1988–89 1998–99 2008–09 Total
Forms of inquiry
Qualitative 19(29.23) 34(27.20) 35(28.23) 88(28.03)
Quantitative 46(70.77) 91(72.80) 89(71.77) 226(71.97)
Design (Qualitative)
Lived Experiences 6(9.23) 10(8.00) 12(9.68) 28(8.92)
Society & Culture 1(1.54) 7(5.60) 14(11.29) 22(7.01)
Language & 2(3.08) 3(2.40) 4(3.23) 9(2.87)
Communication
Historical 10(15.38) 14(11.20) 5(4.03) 29(9.24)
(Quantitative)
Experimental 14(21.54) 16(12.80) 18(14.52) 48(15.29)
Non Experimental 32(49.23) 75(60.00) 71(57.26) 178(56.69)
Sampling Technique
Non-Probability 49(75.38) 112(89.60) 112(90.23) 273(86.94)
Probability 16(24.62) 13(10.40) 12(9.68) 41(13.06)
Data Collection*
Test 26(31.71) 40(22.86) 29(14.08) 95(20.52)
Self-Report 14(17.07) 20(11.43) 33(16.02) 67(14.47)
Questionnaire 7(8.54) 28(16.00) 50(24.27) 85(18.36)
Interview 3(3.66) 20(11.43) 26(12.62) 49(10.58)
Observation 7(8.54) 16(9.14) 21(10.19) 44(9.50)
Product 25(30.49) 51(29.14) 47(22.82) 123(26.57)
Data Analysis (Qualitative)a
Inductive 2(1.34) 10(3.61) 19(6.60) 31(4.34)
Deductive 1(0.67) 3(1.08) 3(1.04) 7(0.98)
Other-Qualitative 16(10.74) 21(7.58) 13(4.51) 50(7.00)
(Quantitative)
Descriptive 41(27.52) 86(31.05) 85(29.51) 212(29.69)
2 Group Comparisons 21(14.09) 31(11.19) 38(13.19) 90(12.61)
Regression/Correlation 19(12.75) 38(13.72) 43(14.93) 100(14.01)
Chi-Square 15(10.07) 16(5.78) 19(6.60) 50(7.00)
Multiple Group 31(20.81) 59(21.30) 51(17.71) 141(19.75)
Factor Analysis 0 (0.00) 8(2.89) 14(4.86) 22(3.08)
Other-Quantitative 3(2.01) 5(1.81) 3(1.04) 11(1.54)
a. Many studies used more than one data collection and analysis technique. Frequency totals for
data collection and analysis techniques were greater than total number of studies investigated.
* Significant difference in methodology used by time periods, χ² (10, N = 314) = 27.09, p < .005.
Table 15.4 Frequencies and Percentages of Methodologies Used by Journals
Frequency(Column Percentage)
Perspective
Category Bulletin JRME POM Total
Forms of inquiry*
Qualitative 50(51.02) 22(15.60) 16(21.33) 88(28.03)
Quantitative 48(48.98) 119(84.40) 59(78.67) 226(71.97)
Design* (Qualitative)
Lived Experiences 14(14.29) 6(4.26) 8(10.67) 28(8.92)
Society & Culture 15(15.31) 5(3.55) 2(2.67) 22(7.01)
Language & 7(7.14) 0(0.00) 2(2.67) 9(2.87)
Communication
Historical 14(14.29) 11(7.80) 4(5.33) 29(9.24)
(Quantitative)
Experimental 5(5.10) 25(17.73) 18(24.00) 48(15.29)
Non Experimental 43(43.88) 94(66.67) 41(54.67) 178(56.69)
Sampling Technique*
Non-Probability 91(92.86) 110(78.01) 72(96.00) 273(86.94)
Probability 7(7.14) 31(21.99) 3(4.00) 41(13.06)
Data Collection*
Test 19(13.67) 51(25.12) 25(20.66) 95(20.52)
Self-Report 14(10.07) 31(15.27) 22(18.18) 67(14.47)
Questionnaire 16(11.51) 36(17.73) 33(27.27) 85(18.36)
Interview 26(18.71) 15(7.39) 8(6.61) 49(10.58)
Observation 17(12.23) 17(8.37) 10(8.26) 44(9.50)
Product 47(33.81) 53(26.11) 23(19.01) 123(26.57)
Data Analysis*
(Qualitative)
Inductive 20(11.98) 4(1.11) 7(3.72) 31(4.34)
Deductive 3(1.80) 3(0.84) 1(0.53) 7(0.98)
Other 27(16.17) 15(4.18) 8(4.26) 50(7.00)
(Quantitative)
Descriptive 41(24.55) 114(31.75) 57(30.32) 212(29.69)
2 Group Comparisons 12(7.19) 51(14.21) 27(14.36) 90(12.61)
Regression/Correlation 20(11.98) 56(15.60) 24(12.77) 100(14.01)
Chi-Square 11(6.59) 26(7.24) 13(6.91) 50(7.00)
Multiple Group 25(14.97) 74(20.61) 42(22.34) 141(19.75)
Factor Analysis 6(3.59) 11(3.06) 5(2.66) 22(3.08)
Other-Quan 2(1.20) 5(1.39) 4(2.13) 11(1.54)
* Significant differences in proportions among journals (p < .005).

There was also a significant difference among the design subcategories
χ2 = (10, N = 314) = 51.78, p < .005, w = .41. JRME published a large
percentage of articles with non-experimental designs (66.67%) and much
smaller percentages of the other designs. The Bulletin published articles rep-
resenting an almost even distribution of design categories. As for the element
sampling techniques, there was a significant difference among journals in
the publishing of articles using probability and non-probability techniques
χ2 (2, N = 314) = 18.34, p < .005, w = .24. In this element, POM and the
Bulletin exhibited the greatest difference in proportions. Both published
large percentages of studies using non-probability sampling, 96.00% and
92.86% respectively. JRME published many studies with non-probability
sampling, but more studies with probability sampling than the other two
journals combined. In addition, there was a significant difference in the pro-
portions of the various data collection techniques reported in the journals
χ2 (10, N = 314) = 36.55, p < .005, w = .28. The Bulletin published the
largest proportion of articles using product-based data collection (33.81%),
while POM published the smallest proportion of studies using interviews
(6.61%). Finally, there was a significant difference among the proportions of
data analysis techniques reported by the journals χ2 (18, N = 314) = 71.02,
p < .005, w = .31. JRME published more articles using quantitative analysis
techniques while the Bulletin published more articles using qualitative ana-
lytical techniques.
Limitations
The findings of this study must be approached with caution. Since I exam-
ined only a small proportion of the published articles in these journals,
the findings do not represent all published articles in these journals for the
21-year time period. In addition, the articles reviewed in this study may
not be representative of all work done in music education research. Some
researchers may have sought publication in other journals specializing in
particular types of research such as historical journals. Finally, the catego-
rization process in this study was ultimately based on the interpretation of
the methodological elements by this researcher. Although I used Gall, Gall,
and Borg’s (2007) definitions and Glass and Hopkins’s (1996) explanations
as objective measures, the categorical decisions were subject to my personal
interpretations.
DISCUSSION
This study uncovered several trends in music education research. First, the
number of research studies published in eminent journals increased from
1988 to 2009. This increase may be attributed to several factors. Psychol-
ogy of Music was published semiannually in 1988–89 and 1998–99, and
then quarterly in 2008–09. This change doubled the number of articles
published per year by POM. The Bulletin also increased its publication of
research articles in 2008–09 by removing book reviews and dissertation
critiques from its pages. As for JRME, the total increase in article publica-
tion would have been even greater had JRME continued with its pre-2008
publishing schedule. JRME shifted the publication of its December 2008
issue to January 2009, resulting in a calendar year (2008) with only three
issues instead of four.
The second trend was a significant change in the data collection tech-
niques used from 1988 to 2009. Although there were minor changes in all
of the methodological elements over the 21-year period, only the element
data collection exhibited a significant difference among its subcategories.
This difference was brought about by a decrease in the use of tests and an
increased use of questionnaires and interviews. The increase in the number of
qualitative studies conducted from 1988–89 (n = 19) and in 2008–09 (n = 35)
may have been responsible for this change. Questionnaires and interviews
are common data collection methods in qualitative studies.
Although each journal published research articles in music education,
there were significant differences in the methodologies published in the jour-
nals. Comparisons of the subcategories of all five methodological elements
revealed significant differences among the journals. In most cases, the dif-
ference in the last four elements can be linked to the form of inquiry in each
article. It did not appear unusual to find differences in the design, sampling
technique, data collection, and data analysis methodologies since JRME
and POM published a greater proportion of quantitative articles (84.40%
and 78.67%, respectively) than the Bulletin (48.98%). Although the form
of inquiry does not prescribe specific methodologies, there are certain prac-
tices that are consistent with the positivist epistemology and its investigative
processes.
Although the number of qualitative studies increased, it is important
to note that the proportion of qualitative to quantitative studies remained
consistent across the years. Researchers have recognized the advantages
of qualitative inquiry (Flinders & Richardson, 2002) but there remains a
strong quantitative orientation as exemplified by the data from the journals
JRME and POM. In addition, I was unable to find any articles in the time
periods examined based on the qualitative language and communication
tradition in JRME. Although JRME publishes qualitative articles, this study
has documented its inclination to publish quantitative research. This incli-
nation may have resulted from JRME being the oldest publication among
the journals. Historically, research in music education has been built on
quantitative traditions.
The results of this study were consistent with findings from other stud-
ies. Yarbrough (2002) reported a decrease in the publication of historical
research from 1953–2002 in JRME. She also noted a small increase in the
use of qualitative methodologies. In this study, the publication of historical
research declined from 10 articles in 1988–89 to 5 articles in 2008–09. One
possible explanation may be that authors of historical articles have found
other publications in which to publish their work. In a separate review of the
literature, Bartel and Radocy (2002) identified seven trends in music educa-
tion research. Four of the seven trends were within the scope of this study:
(a) methodological complexity, (b) data complexity, (c) analytical complex-
ity, and (d) representation complexity. The significant change in data collec-
tion methodologies provided the most direct support of Bartel and Radocy’s
(2002) trend of increased data complexity. Questionnaires and interviews
can provide more complex data than numeric tests.
CONCLUSION
The results of this study offer valuable insights for navigating the future
of research in music education. In 1988, the digital age was in its infancy.
By 2009, improvements in personal computers and the Internet brought
profound changes to the collection and processing of information. Research
in music education has benefited from these changes. Benefits include the
increased accessibility of articles and the development of sophisticated
analytical tools. Researchers are now able to collect larger data sets and
examine them with increased levels of complexity. In many ways, digital
processing has facilitated the escalation of research activities.
Research in music education has reached new levels of prominence. The
findings of this study have demonstrated that eminent journals in the field
have increased their publication of research articles. This shift indicates that
research has become more highly valued by others in the profession and
considered an important contributor to improvements in music education.
Along with these journals, new technology-based venues are being devel-
oped to provide even greater access to research information. These new
venues include online journals, websites, and social media. Music education
is making progress toward becoming a research-based profession.
Although there has been progress, traditional investigative processes dom-
inated the research examined in this study. More quantitative studies were
published than qualitative. This finding may not have negative repercussions
for the field, but it is worthy of closer scrutiny. Questions may arise such as
(a) Do we conduct more quantitative research simply because that is what
we were trained to do?, or (b) Are more quantitative studies being conducted
because more quantitative studies are being published? In either question,
the tail is wagging the dog (cliché). I recommend that future researchers dig
deeper and closely examine the questions being asked in research studies.
The driving force behind research must be the questions and not the method-
ologies. Methodologies are tools to answer questions. We should be asking
ourselves, are we asking the right questions? In the 322 articles reviewed
for this study, no researcher investigated research questions. Future research
must begin examining research questions and the relationship between those
questions and the needs of the profession.
The significant change in data collection methodologies signifies trends
on two levels. On one level, it suggests that researchers investigated different
topics in 2009 than in 1988. Topics such as music achievement and aptitude
can be collected with tests using numeric responses. Thoughts and opinions,
however, are most authentically represented through the language of the
individuals. Consequently, researchers must use questionnaires or interviews
to collect the data. The shift away from tests and toward questionnaires
found in this study provided evidence that researchers investigated topics in
which data collection methods such as tests were not appropriate. The data
consisted of language that could only be collected using other means. On a
second level, I would speculate that researchers have become more adept at
analyzing language. Coding responses from questionnaires is difficult and
time-consuming work. The increased use of questionnaires may suggest that
researchers are using new technologies to make their work faster and less
burdensome. Future research on methodologies should examine the impact
of software tools on researchers’ methodological choices.
This investigation has raised questions not only about research methodolo-
gies, but also about the context of research in a field such as music education.
For example, the increase in non-probability sampling may not necessarily
indicate a lack of interest among researchers in probability sampling, but
rather reflect the increasing difficulties researchers encounter as they attempt to
include K–12 students as participants in their studies. In most cases, research-
ers have little choice but to accept convenience samples as participants. Most
schools’ reaction to violence in society has been to limit outsiders’ access to
students. Researchers would benefit from increasing their knowledge of con-
venience samples and understanding effective means to incorporate them into
their studies. Probability sampling may not be an option.
In closing, I would like to acknowledge the overall improvement in quality
of the research articles over time. More articles followed strict publication
guidelines resulting in greater organizational consistency and clarity. Recent
articles included information such as effect sizes and confidence intervals to
assist in the interpretation of results. To better navigate the future, research-
ers can learn from the past. Cronbach and Meehl (1955) recommended con-
structing nomological networks that interrelate hypotheses based on theory.
Although rigorous studies have been conducted in music education, the top-
ics have been divergent. Researchers should consider connecting these top-
ics by filling the knowledge gaps. This process may involve measuring and
analyzing multiple constructs concurrently. The development of multivari-
ate analyses and the availability of high quality software programs make
this challenge a realistic goal. Finally, the lesson learned in this study may
not be in what is observed, but in what is missing. There is much work left
to be done. My hope is that this study will provide an impetus for future
investigations into research methodologies.
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16 Critical Ethnography
as/for Praxis
A Pathway for Music Education
Marissa Silverman
Deena: “I make my music. I got it goin’ on!”

Cristina: “That’s my song! That’s my jam!”
Carlos: “I wanna be a producer and DJ. I love mixin’ it up.”
INTRODUCTION
As part of my university work, and for my professional development and

personal enjoyment, I make regular visits to urban schools in New York
City and New Jersey. My visits not only bring back memories of my previ-
ous work as a secondary music and English literature teacher in Long Island
City (an extraordinarily diverse section of Queens, New York), they provide
me with exceptionally important opportunities to engage in stimulating and
transformative dialogues with today’s students. I learn a great deal about/
from these students—their school music experiences, their views on the
strengths and weaknesses of their music programs, and their personal and
musical activities and dreams.
For example, Deena said: “I make my music. I got it goin’ on.” Deena
meant that she engaged in what I’ll call “homemade music”; she drew from
R&B and hip-hop to create her own beats, samples, melodies, and lyrics. In
contrast, Rebekah was involved in a Baptist church Gospel choir: “I sing in
my church. Me and my sister. I feel free when I’m singing my Gospel music.”
Rebekah asked me what kinds of music I made, listened to, and liked most.
I said: “It depends on my mood. But lately I’ve been listening to ‘Locked out
in Heaven,’ by Bruno Mars, because one of my university students asked me
to listen to it to see if I liked it.” Cristina joined in: “That’s my song! That’s
my jam!” Carlos said: “I wanna be a producer and DJ. I love mixin’ it up.”
When he said “mixin’ it up,” Carlos moved his hands back and forth in the
air, as if he was “scratching” a record on a turntable.
In my locales, urban secondary school students have a very wide range of
musical interests and involvements, including traditional school ensembles,
community music programs, and homemade music making. For me, two
major questions follow from dialogues with today’s youth. What kinds of
254 Marissa Silverman
understandings do students bring to music classes, and how can teachers
build on students’ interests toward igniting and sustaining their motivations
to experiment with musics beyond their immediate environments? Implicit
in the latter question is another: How can students work with their teachers
as co-teachers and co-agents of music curriculum development and change?
PROBLEM
Many researchers (e.g., Jaffurs, 2004; Jones, 2007; Randles, 2012; Veblen,
Messenger, Silverman, & Elliott, 2013) have alerted us to various types of
disconnection between school, community, and homemade music making
around the world. Reasons for this pattern of disconnection include the
vast and growing expansion of community-based alternatives to school
music and the ever-expanding range of accessible music technologies that
facilitate young people’s high quality home-based music production (Bell,
2012). Indeed, research suggests that, on average, traditional school music
ensembles serve approximately 20% of most school populations (Elpus &
Abril, 2011; Kuzmich & Dammers, 2013). Furthermore, school music
ensembles tend to exclude members of marginalized groups (DeLorenzo,
2012a; DeLorenzo, 2012b; Elpus & Abril, 2011).
To alleviate school-community disconnections, some researchers sug-
gest that students, especially minority students, need broader exposure to
music mentors and role models, who have backgrounds similar to students
(Lucas & Robinson, 2003; Quiocho & Rios, 2000). Others have suggested
and/or operationalized various programs and pedagogical strategies that
emphasize different ways of knowing (see the U.K. “Musical Futures Proj-
ect”1; Green 2002, 2006; Myers, 2007). Other researchers focus on cul-
turally relevant pedagogies that assist in making music classrooms more
diverse in content and curriculum (Ladson-Billings, 1995; Volk, 2004;
Prier, 2012).
While these solutions may be effective to various degrees (further research
is necessary), I believe there are other possibilities for reconnecting today’s
youth with the musical and educational potentials of reconstructed pub-
lic school music programs. Indeed, we should not be too quick to give up
the fight to make public school music more relevant and effective (in every
respect) for today’s and tomorrow’s youth. As the educational philosopher
Chris Higgins (2011b) emphasizes: “Schools should be central to public life:
key locations for the regeneration of values, the cultivation of judgment, and
the creation of the conditions for positive freedom” (p. 451). He continues:
“Schools can only revitalize public life if they return to . . . something very
close to the heart of their mission: to provide a model of how to be together”
(p. 466).
Indeed, and as other researchers note, unless students and teachers trans-
form what is to what can be, and until we “challenge institutions, regimes
Critical Ethnography as/for Praxis 255
of knowledge, and social practices that limit choices, constrain meaning,
and denigrate identities and communities” (Madison, 2012, p. 6), we will
not and cannot create pathways for more meaningful musical, interpersonal,
and intersubjective transactions and transformations among students, teach-
ers, and classrooms. How can we challenge educational practices and create
new pathways? This chapter offers one suggestion in the form of a research
praxis that allows us to get inside and under the skin of the problems and
potentials of schools as sites of personal and musical empowerment and
transformation.
PURPOSE
The purpose of this chapter is to explain the nature and strategies of criti-
cal ethnography as these apply to “intersections between theory, fieldwork
methods, performance, critical practice, and social justice” (Madison, 2012,
p. ix). Critical ethnography examines the interdependence between theory
and practice and how, when united with an ethical stance, it creates spaces
for ethical praxis (as explained by Marx, Freire, Arendt, and others—see
below). At the conclusion of this chapter, I will explain the implications that
this type of research holds for music education by focusing on teaching and
learning in music-listening classes (e.g., secondary school “music apprecia-
tion” classes). I choose to focus on music-listening classes because, in my
experience as an observer and evaluator of secondary school music pro-
grams, general music situations are especially prone to “banking-method”2
procedures (Freire, 1970).
By way of background, critical ethnographies utilize qualitative data
collection methods for sociopolitical and ethical purposes. That is, criti-
cal ethnographies are “critical” in two senses: (a) they are framed and
carried out with a social-ethical sense of responsibility to critique, and,
if necessary, to change the specific contexts they investigate; and (b) they
are grounded in “a self-referential form of reflexivity that aims to cri-
ticize the ethnographer’s own production of an account” (Schwandt,
2007, p. 51).
From a philosophical perspective, critical ethnography exemplifies the
central themes of praxis while highlighting the priorities of critical theory
and critical pedagogy (e.g., McLaren, 1995; Freire, 1970). D. Soyini Madi-
son (2012) explains that critical ethnography is “the ‘doing’—or better
the ‘performance’—of critical theory” (p. 14). Joe L. Kinchloe and Peter
McLaren (2002) describe critical ethnography as critical theory in action.
According to Madison (2012) and others (Denzin, 2003; Noblit, Flores, &
Murillo, 2004; Thomas, 1993; Carspecken, 1996), the critical ethnogra-
pher “disrupts the status quo, and unsettles both neutrality and taken-for-
granted assumptions by bringing to light underlying and obscure operations
of power and control. Therefore, the critical ethnographer . . . moves from
‘what is’ to ‘what could be’ ” (Madison, 2012, p. 5). S/he aims to break
through unjust social barriers “in defense of . . . the voices and experiences
of subjects whose stories are otherwise restrained and out of reach” (p. 6)
and to contribute to emancipatory knowledge and social justice.
CRITICAL ETHNOGRAPHY: A WAY OF BEING
Although there are overlaps among descriptive, interpretive, and critical

approaches to ethnographic research, “critical” ethnographies are conven-
tional ethnographies that rise to another level in virtue of their sociopoliti-
cal and ethical aims (Thomas, 1993). That is, critical ethnographers, like
descriptive and interpretive ethnographers, gather qualitative data that pro-
vide “thick descriptions” (Geertz, 1973) and analyses of how knowledge
develops from the discourses, actions, interactions, and gestures in a specific
social context. However, critical ethnographers ground their research in a
social-ethical sense of responsibility to contribute to changing the status quo
of, for example, a specific school or classroom situation under investigation
to empower students and teachers to achieve the dispositions required to
take concrete actions for hope, greater freedom, and equity.
Why a social-ethical sense of responsibility? To understand this we
need a clearer sense of “ethics” as connected to critical ethnography.
Very often, people use the words “morality” and “ethics” interchange-
ably. However, some scholars make a careful distinction between these
concepts (e.g., Williams, 1985; Foucault, 2000; Appiah, 2005; Higgins,
2011a). Accordingly, morality is one’s sense of obligation and the deci-
sion-making processes (usually in deference to rules and regulations) that
one undertakes to achieve the “right” action (i.e., “What should I do in
x situation?”). Ethics, on the other hand, concerns the system of beliefs
that underscore the kind of person one wishes to be (“Who do I want
to be?”). Because of this, one of the distinguishing differences between
morality and ethics is that ethics is contextually dependent. As Wayne
Bowman (2012) states: “To act ethically, then, involves acting rightly
in a situation where rightness cannot be stipulated in advance or fully
determined aside from the particulars of the situation at hand” (p. 10).
In other words, and in some ways, ethics is a way of “rightly” being and
experiencing the world. How does this connect to critical ethnography?
Madison (2012) answers by pointing out Foucault’s sense of critique-as-
virtue. She writes:
. . . because critique is always an investigation of regimes of truth, cri-

tique is the transformation of individual subjects as well as the social
life, territories, and structures they inhabit and that inhabit them. If
critique is a practice of virtue, it constitutes ethics.
(pp. 96–97)
As stated above, the doing (or “ethical action”) of critical ethnography
is aimed at transforming the “what is” to “what can be.” Critical ethnog-
raphers feel a responsibility to “make a difference.” This ethical action is
transformative because it highlights and addresses the assumptions of a
given paradigm and questions the legitimacy of the status quo. But how is
this accomplished?
Before detailing critical ethnography further, we need to make a dis-
tinction between the terms methods, methodology, and epistemology.
Scholars in various disciplines take different views of research methods.
Researchers who embrace qualitative research tend to view “method,”
on the one hand, as concrete fieldwork that includes subjective and cul-
tural interpretations; researchers embracing quantitative investigations
tend to view fieldwork as validation and evidence-directed (Madison,
2012, p. 20). Regardless of the domain(s) in which researchers work, a
“method” is often conceived in relation to the tools used for gathering
data (i.e., participant observation, experimentation, interviews, sta-
tistical analyses, story-telling, journaling, etc.). “Methodology,” on
the other hand, relates to the research paradigm or principles detailing
how to conduct research (e.g., ethnography, narrative inquiry, oral
history).
As Harry F. Wolcott (2002) writes: “ethnography is more than method”
(emphasis in original, p. 41). How so? This question brings us to a consider-
ation of epistemology. One’s epistemological stance is a key element of the
philosophical foundation used to decide what does or does not count as
“knowledge,” and this is intimately connected to method in research. Judy
Radigan (2002) explains that epistemology is “the nature of knowledge
and the justification of knowledge claims” (p. 258). As such, one’s view of
knowledge and its generation inform the research process. The positionality
of critical ethnography is such that knowledge generation is a contextually
based, active process that is embedded in and infused with the values, his-
tories, and practices of both the researcher and the community in which the
research occurs.
Indeed, critical ethnography has a unique history and positionality. As
noted earlier, critical ethnography integrates theory and practice; it rejects
the notion of ethnographers as “detached, neutral participant observers”
(Schwandt, 2007, p. 51); and it combines description and interpretation
with sociopolitical and ethical aims. As Kay E. Cook (2008) writes, critical
ethnography
grew out of dissatisfaction with both the atheoretical stance of tradi-

tional ethnography, which ignored social structures such as class, patri-
archy, and racism, and what some regarded as the overly deterministic
and theoretical approaches of critical theory, which ignored the lived
experience and agency of human actors.
(p. 148)
As such, critical ethnography is a marriage of critical theory and ethnography.
This marriage was crucial and timely. The ethnography that grew from the
anthropological traditions of the 1960s–1970s was viewed as possessing
hegemonic practices (e.g., Anderson, 1989), and critical theory was thought
overly dense, idealistic, and lacking empirical method (e.g., Noblit, 2004).
At the University of Chicago, ethnography (as part of sociology) began to
transform how researchers examined issues and social worlds that were,
more often than not, neglected (e.g., Park, 1932; Mead, 1934).
In England and other areas of the United Kingdom, the work of A. R.
Radcliffe-Brown (1952) and Bronislaw Malinowski (1947) sought to define
“social structures.” This, in turn, led future social anthropologists to seek
a more “dialectical representation of structure and agency” (Cox, 2002).
This early work in England paved the way for the contributions of the Brit-
ish sociologist Paul Willis. In Learning to Labour, Willis (1977) builds on
Marxist sentiments which argue that: “Universally developed individuals
whose social relations, as their own communal [gemeinschaftlich] relations,
are hence also subordinated to their own communal control, are no prod-
uct of nature, but of history” (Marx, 1857/1973, p. 162). Willis offers a
critical ethnographic account of the culture and conditioning of 12 working
class boys (or “lads,” he calls them) in industrial England. These students
resisted and rejected school impositions. Rather than go along with “school
culture,” they created their own “counter-culture.” Willis’s breakthrough
work in sociology is based upon this perspective.
Reading, Writing, and Resistance, Robert Everhart’s (1983) account of
junior high school students’ acts of resistance, follows Paul Willis and Learn-
ing to Labour. However, Everhart’s narrative seamlessly weaves theory and
research together without any attempts at separation. Hence, in important
ways, this book epitomizes the essence of critical ethnography. Reading, Writ-
ing, and Resistance, while Marxian in focus, is theoretically driven by Jürgen
Habermas (1974, 1996). Reading, Writing, and Resistance illustrates the tech-
nical, practical, and emancipatory ways of learning (i.e., “cognitive interests”)
embodied in junior high school boys’ behaviors (Habermas, 1971).
When critical ethnography became more “at home” in educational
research, especially in studies of urban education, it became further polit-
icized. This was a natural consequence of critical ethnography’s concern
for exposing, critiquing, problematizing, and transforming unjust social
structures and practices. The more injustices and inequalities this research
paradigm revealed, the more its dimensions deepened and broadened. In
other words, critical ethnography became appropriately critical of “itself,”
a practice that has continued during the past 20 years with the help of the
“critical traditions” of feminist theories of difference, critical race theory,
postmodernism, and poststructuralism. All of these forces have contributed
to the maturation of this transformative research practice.
Although there is no unified theory of critical ethnography, most critical
ethnographies share four principles:
1. Education and research are culturally situated and political. Culture is
viewed as “a complex circuit of production that includes a myriad of
dialectically reinitiating and mutually informing sets of activities such
as routines, rituals, action conditions, systems of intelligibility and
meaning-making, conventions of interpretation, systems relations and
conditions both external and internal to the social actor” (Kinchloe &
McLaren, 2002, p. 122).
2. Education and research should strive to transform injustices (Freire,
1970; Anyon, 1997; Cochran-Smith, 2004).
3. Critical ethnographies highlight each researcher’s ethical responsibili-
ties to the people, context, and phenomena being researched (Thomas,
1993; Carspecken, 1996; Radigan, 2002; Noblit, 2004).
4. Critical ethnographies must be advocates for the oppressed by iden-
tifying and documenting oppressions and finding ways to assist the
oppressed in empowering themselves and transforming their oppres-
sive situations of injustice and inequality3 (Thomas, 1993; Radigan,
2002; Noblit, 2004; Madison, 2012).
Again, and because the “critical” in critical ethnography is “a self-refer-

ential form of reflexivity that aims to criticize the ethnographer’s own pro-
duction of an account” (Schwandt, 2007, p. 51), it is explicit about essential
concerns detailed by Francis Phil Carspecken (1996):
1. How claims to valid findings are acts of power in themselves and thus
whose interests are being served by the research;
2. How values influence what is seen in facts; and
3. How we choose to represent reality is also an act of power and alters
the interpretation of reality (quoted in Noblit, 2004, p. 185).
In other words, a self-reflexive understanding underscores a researcher’s

positionality, interpretation, and authority. It is not enough to identify these
aspects. Madison (2012) asks us to take this further by considering ques-
tions such as, What good will this research do? Who will benefit and who
won’t?
And, as a reminder, critical ethnography should not be thought as a
method, methodology, or epistemology, but as an integrative process:
Critical ethnography is one form of an empirical project associated with

critical discourse, a form in which a researcher utilizing field methods
. . . on-site attempts to re-present the “culture,” the “consciousness,”
or the “lived experiences” of people living in asymmetrical power rela-
tions. As a “project,” critical ethnography is recognized as having con-
scious political intentions that are oriented toward emancipatory and
democratic goals. What is key to this approach is that for ethnography
to be considered “critical” it should participate in a larger “critical”
dialogue rather than follow any particular set of methods or research
techniques.
(Quantz, 1992, quoted in Noblit, 2004, pp. 185–6)
BUT THAT’S JUST GOOD PRAXIS
As mentioned above, because critical ethnography joins theory and practice

with a foundation of ethics, critical ethnography is a form of “praxis.” What
do I mean by “praxis”? Unlike simplistic definitions of “praxis” or “praxial”
as nothing more than “doing” or “action,” praxis is much more complex
and involves several interdependent dimensions.
Like critical ethnography, “praxis” has a long history of its own. Praxis
has been conceptualized in slightly different ways by Aristotle, Hegel, Marx,
Freire, and many others. For example, Aristotle conceived praxis as that
which brings together critical reflection and ethical action. For Aristotle,
theory (episteme), and three forms of practical knowledge (techne, poeisis,
and phronesis), yield ethical activity (praxis) and virtues. As such, praxis is
inclusive of critical thinking and action, emotions, techniques, motivations,
aims, values, ethics, and all their interactions. In this conception, praxis
“does its work” in social, political, and emotional space. Thus, Aristotle’s
praxis does not separate outcomes and processes. For Aristotle, praxis—as
we see in the decisions and actions of an educative teacher and an ethical
musician, lawyer, or doctor—is enacted and embodied in the doing of the
activity (Elliott & Silverman, 2014).
Karl Marx, on the other hand, viewed praxis as action having revolutionary
potential toward creating situations where people were not divided by class,
nor were they alienated from one another by capitalist structures of wealth
and status. As Madison (2012) writes, Marx “envisioned an unalienated world
through the idea of praxis. Praxis is the creation of alternative ways of being
and courageous engagement with the world in order to change it” (p. 67).
Marx continues: “The philosophers have only interpreted the world, in vari-
ous ways; the point, however, is to change it” (Marx & Engels, 1978, p. 145).
In a somewhat similar vein, Paulo Freire (1970) defines praxis as “the
action and reflection of men and women upon their world in order to trans-
form it” (p. 79). One of the major spaces for the implementation of Freire’s
concept of praxis is in “problem-posing” education. Problem-posing edu-
cation (or “problematizing”) is a liberatory process where teachers help
students critique their specific social-cultural circumstances. This process,
as Antonia Dardar (2002) explains, provides ways for students to develop
“their critical abilities . . . to unveil ideological beliefs and practices that func-
tion to inhibit their democratic voice and participation” (p. 102). In such
instances, Freire (1970) states, “education is thus constantly remade. . . . In
order to be, it must become” (p. 86). For Freire, “good” education “is found
in the interplay” of
permanence and change. The banking method emphasizes permanence
and becomes reactionary; problem-posing education—which accepts
neither a “well-behaved” present nor a predetermined future—roots
itself in the dynamic present and becomes revolutionary.
(p. 84)
It is in problem-posing education that people can find the self-actualiza-

tion needed to promote personal and social change. Problem-posing educa-
tion pivots on empathetic “communion” or “dialogue.” In order to engage
in dialogue, says Freire (1998), one needs a “capacity to love.” As Dardar
(2002) writes, “Throughout his life, Paulo Freire affirmed the revolutionary
power of teaching as an act of love” (p. 91). Freire (1970) asks teachers and
students to take notice of those around us, for “in the absence of a pro-
found love for the world and for people . . . no matter where the oppressed
are found, the act of love is commitment to their cause—the cause of lib-
eration” (p. 89). Indeed, the liberatory potential for praxis is found in the
care, consideration, and concern for the critical development of a collective
consciousness.
Further explorations of the concept of praxis appear in Hannah
Arendt’s work. For Arendt (1958/1998), praxis is linked to what she calls
the differentiation between the vita contemplativa (life of the mind) and vita
activa (life of practical pursuits). Both, she believes, are essential, though
distinctive (both within and between) and needs to be united in human rela-
tionships. As Arendt (1958/1998) notes, action can never be understood
in “isolation”: “to be isolated is to be deprived of the capacity to act” (p.
188). Once we understand how we are connected to one another through
action, we can achieve mutual understanding and participatory democracy.
Additionally, Arendt’s understanding of praxis yields a humanistic dimen-
sion that the aforementioned scholars do not focus upon sufficiently. That is,
Arendt (1958/1998) favors praxis over poeisis because for her, praxis main-
tains unpredictability and uncertainty, while poeisis tends towards “reli-
ability” (p. 195). Why would praxis, as detailed by Arendt, be considered
humanistic? Because part of the “human condition” is the understanding
and negotiating of human subjects in relation with/for other human sub-
jects. In other words, human action as praxis is plural, constantly evolving,
and interactive. As Richard Bernstein (2011) writes: “[Arendt] warns us
about the current danger of forgetting what action or praxis really is—the
highest form of human activity, manifested in speech and deed and rooted
in the human condition of plurality” (p. 44).
Other scholars have contributed their own views of praxis (e.g., Gadamer,
Habermas, and Bernstein). But taken together, variations on praxis share key
aspects in common. Stated briefly, praxis involves (1) active reflection and
critically reflective action, (2) a concern for human flourishing, wellbeing, and
(3) an “ethic of care” (e.g. Noddings, 2002, 2005), all of which seek (4) the
positive transformation of people’s everyday lives (Elliott & Silverman, 2014).4
Critical ethnography is rooted in contemporary concepts of praxis that
integrate the works of numerous thinkers past and present (e.g., Aristotle,
1985; Freire, 1970; Habermas, 1974). As Stephen Gilbert Brown and
Sidney I. Dobrin (2004) write, critical ethnography moves
beyond the issues of the postmodern critique that gave birth to it . . .

beyond its engagement with this theoretical critique to reimmersion in
critical praxis: a praxis that is theoretically informed, methodologically
dialectical, and politically and ethically oriented given its concerns for
transformative cultural action. It is critiquing its critics, liberating itself
from the reductive, contradictory chains of postmodern signification,
opening up new critical spaces for itself, evolving a critical praxis that is
at once emergent and immersed.
(p. 3)
MUSIC LISTENING BEYOND APPRECIATION
How does the above relate to music education? First, I want to discuss
music history/music theory courses taught primarily as music-listening
courses. On too many occasions, I have observed secondary school class-
rooms where actual music making and creating are entirely absent. By way
of comparison, other classes were focused on action. I observed physical
education classes where students were actively moving, running, and jump-
ing, depending on the context of the sport being explored. I spent time in
art history classes where students were using Picasso paintings as models for
their own “cubist” works. In every other discipline, students were engaged
in the hands-on actions at the heart of the subject’s “knowledge” base.
However, more often than not, music history classes/music theory classes
devolved into music-listening classes where students were passive recipients
of auditory patterns. When I asked a music teacher of a music-listening class
if his students would ever engage in actual music making, he said: “These
students aren’t interested in making music. If they were, they’d join the band
or choir.” But when I talked with three students after their class, I found
out quickly that they were deeply interested in making music (recall the
epigraphs to this chapter).
Indeed, the music “listening” classes I just referred to fell into the “music
appreciation” trap. Why trap? As conceived and practiced in North Amer-
ica, teaching and learning music education as “music appreciation” assumes
that student listeners should be prepared to become passive consumers. Stu-
dents in music appreciation classrooms are most often expected to “sit and
listen” quietly to pieces, and learn to identify the formal elements (i.e., mel-
ody, harmony, rhythm, timbre, texture, and form) of musical sound struc-
tures. Another assumption of this approach is that musical-structural acuity
and verbal information about music prepares students for deep “aesthetic
experiences” and greater respect for masterpieces. Regelski (2006) articu-
lates the reasons I reject this concept of music-listening instruction:
Music appreciation, as a paradigm, assigns . . . reverent, informed,

disciplined seriousness of connoisseurship established in connection
with the aesthetic paradigm of “appreciating” classical music—namely,
studying history and theory and other information “about” the music
that . . . teachers have come to believe is the prerequisite “training” for
“understanding” and thereby properly “appreciating” any music.
(p. 285)
Aside from the passive, “data-banking” concept of education (Freire, 1970)

that underpins music appreciation, it is highly arguable that the more one accu-
mulates verbal information about and aural acuity for musical elements, the
more deeply one will respond emotionally to music. For one thing, copious
contemporary scholarship on the complex relationships between music and
emotions (e.g., Juslin & Sloboda, 2001; Elliott & Silverman, 2012) does not
support this claim. For another thing, billions of people worldwide respond
deeply to music without any formal knowledge of musical elements and/
or musical form and structure. Moreover, musical emotions are aroused by
numerous variables that are not restricted to intramusical relationships (Elliott
& Silverman, 2012). This does not mean that listening for musical elements is
unimportant; it means that there is a great deal more to understanding, valu-
ing, responding to, and engaging emotionally in music than verbal information
about and aural acuity for elements in sonic-musical structures can ever pro-
vide. Also, music appreciation methods often seek students’ consensus about
the “the truth” or “true meaning” of musical examples, which music apprecia-
tion teachers attribute to musical elements. As Regelski (2006) writes:
“Music appreciation as connoisseurship” (MAAC) has become, then, a

major curricular paradigm of music educators (Regelski, 2003). In class-
room music, students are often subjected to watered-down music history
and theory on the uncritical assumption that such “background infor-
mation” is necessary for understanding and thus appreciating “good”
music. However, this paradigm is regularly extended to studying jazz,
rock, folk, and certain other exoteric musics, as well—e.g. so-called
world musics.
(p. 291)
A major reason for the continuing survival of the music appreciation

paradigm is the availability of music appreciation textbooks that eliminate
options for music making (Forney and Machlis’s The Enjoyment of Music
is an example of a textbook designed to encourage students’ “passive con-
sumption” of musical works). Other standard music appreciation textbooks
provide students with “maps” or “perception charts” for selected works that
they follow as they listen, as well as bits of historical and theoretical infor-
mation about each piece. Equally important in our current “age of testing,”
music appreciation textbooks often include summative “evaluation charts”
that test students’ listening abilities in relation to pieces they have not stud-
ied during their courses. I recently talked with a colleague to query this very
issue. She said: “Music history courses must be taught sequentially. And, they
must focus on the objective qualities found in the music ‘itself.’ That is the
way the textbooks work and that is what schools and parents expect.”
I insist that we can and must do much better. As Phil Ford (2006) writes:
“The ‘appreciation’ mode of pedagogy appears to imply values of transcen-
dence and universality, and . . . these values are deeply out-of-fashion” (p. 31).
This applies to all styles of music under consideration. Instead, music educa-
tion ought to teach listening (a) in the context of all forms of music making (or
“musicing”: performing, composing, improvising, arranging, and conducting
as related to specific musical practices) and (b) with selected recordings related
to and that expand students’ experiences outward. Music education without
musicing is not music education at all. It is an abstract, commodified, cookie-
cutter notion of the natures and values of music
whereby people who have greater authority, cultural capital or rhetori-

cal skills (teachers, critics) tell others (students, fans) what they ought
to be listening to (classical music, authentic rock) according to a single
scale value. The presumption is that what they should be hearing is
somehow better for them, although it is rare to find anyone attempting
to explain just how or why this improvement will take place
(Ford, 2006, p. 32).
This is where critical ethnography can help pave the way for improved peda-
gogies of music history and music theory classes that are transformative. I have
written elsewhere about how critical ethnography can be utilized to transform
music classrooms for praxis (Silverman, 2013). I explored how teachers and
students can marshal strategies to create a space that contributes to personal/
group empowerment and positive transformation. Indeed, music students tend
to be marginalized and/or “silenced” (if not oppressed) during their schooling
by (a) the large school bureaucracies that characterize contemporary Ameri-
can public education and (b) the exclusionary, “top-down” teaching methods
driven by the priorities of American “marketplace education” and its corollar-
ies, namely high-stakes testing and business-accounting procedures. Further
marginalization can be found in urban schools located in low socioeconomic
areas, because students in these contexts often experience inequitable condi-
tions of all kinds (see Noguera, Ginwright, & Cammarota, 2006). These char-
acteristics of American education and their deleterious effects on students and
teachers have been thoroughly studied and supported by leading American
educational scholars (e.g. Anyon, 1997; Apple, 2001, 2003; Bell, Joshi, &
Zuniga, 2007; Cochran-Smith, 2004, 2005; Darling-Hammond, 2004).
A music classroom, regardless of its title or orientation (whether, say, music
history, music theory, or music appreciation; band, choir, or orchestra; laptop
ensemble, or chamber ensemble) and location (rural, suburban, urban) should
be a space that functions as communitas—a space in which students and
teachers are free to clarify their individual and collective powers of sharing,
each gaining a greater sense of their own and other’s personhood in a context
of social equality, solidarity, and togetherness. Critical ethnographies of music
classrooms can help to create places where teachers and students can acti-
vate their music learning activities as social acts of becoming; where, through
music, teachers and students can go beyond what is to what can be. This must
happen with and for students and teachers together. As a community, students
and teachers can decide ways of musically experiencing the world.
Critical ethnographies can support the above aims and activities because
critical ethnographies do not “act on” teachers and students. Critical eth-
nography is a participatory pedagogy for transformative action. McLaren
(1995) explains: “Critical ethnography must be organic to and not admin-
istered upon the plight of struggling peoples” (italics in original, p. 291).
Critical ethnography breaks from traditional qualitative research traditions
where the researcher engages in research “on” something or someone (bank-
ing concepts of teacher-student relationships function this way, too). Instead,
critical ethnography is an emancipatory stance; it is research “with,” as
in a reflexive engagement where researcher and researched are part of the
dialogical process together (recall Freire’s “problem-posing” concept of
education mentioned earlier). The researcher is as much a “subject” of the
research as are the participants of the study; the participants of the study
are afforded opportunities to help conceive the aims, focus, and purpose
of the research, including the questions and design. Through the research
process, the boundaries between researcher and researched are blurred. Both
the researcher and the researched consider the problematics that need to be
challenged. Critical ethnography empowers teachers and students to prob-
lematize the assumptions that often constitute what students and teachers
conceive as music, personhood, and research (Madison, 2012).
CONSIDERATIONS
Scholars in music education ask teachers and teacher educators to value

excellence and equity (Bradley, 2007). This is a just cause. However, the
issues facing teachers in settings of disenfranchised learners are worri-
some in scope and complexity. Because critical ethnography is a means
of exposing, unpacking, and attacking inequities, we can utilize its tools
for the benefits of many: “We must ask ourselves, To what end are we
employing certain regimes of knowledge, and who or what is being heard
or silenced?” (Madison, 2012, p. 111). Again, Madison (2012) asks us
to consider questions such as, What good will this research do? Who will
benefit and who won’t? I would argue that by engaging in critical ethnog-
raphies, we all benefit. As music educators and researchers, we must invite
students and colleagues to join conversations about serious questions and
ask ourselves collectively:
1. How do music educators and music education students “reflect upon

and evaluate our own purpose, intentions, and frames of analysis”?
2. How do music educators and music education students “predict con-
sequences or evaluate our own potential to do harm”?
3. How do music educators and music education students “create and
maintain a dialogue of collaboration in our projects between our-
selves and Others”?
4. “How is the specificity of the local [“musical”] narrative relevant to
the broader meanings and operations of the human condition”?
5. “How—in what location or through what intervention—will [music
educators’ and music education students’] work make the greatest
contribution to equity, freedom, and justice”? (adapted from Madi-
son, 2012, pp. 4–5).
All these questions, I suggest, are open to, and opened by, the deep analyses
and the personally and socially transformative powers of critical ethnography.
NOTES
1. See www.musicalfutures.org
2. For those unfamiliar with Freire’s (1970) banking concept of education, it
maintains that some educators “turn [students] into ‘containers,’ into ‘recep-
tacles’ to be ‘filled’ by the teacher. The more completely she fills the receptacles,
the better a teacher she is. The more meekly the receptacles permit themselves
to be filled, the better the students they are. Education like this becomes an
act of depositing, in which the students are depositories and the teacher is the
depositor” (p. 72).
3. While one could claim that many teachers are advocates for the oppressed, we
must be careful to note distinctions between taking action, doing research, and
engaging in “action research” projects that utilize critical ethnography as a tool
for investigation.
4. Discussions of praxis in music education are found in the following: Elliott,
1995, 2012; Bowman, 2000; Allsup, 2003; Regelski, 2005; Jorgensen, 2005;
Silverman, 2013; Elliott & Silverman, 2014..
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17 Application of Sound Studies
to Qualitative Research in
Music Education
Joseph Michael Abramo
Sounds matter. Think of the din of the music classroom and an array of
sounds may come of mind:
• A teacher’s voice as she lectures on triads;

• A recording of Rite of Spring;
• A rehearsal of Holst’s Second Suite, complete with incorrect rhythms
and pitches, followed by the teacher’s verbal directions on how to fix
those errors;
• The cacophonous sound of students working in groups on original
compositions, including musical experimentation and students’ dis-
agreements and laughter;
• The buzz of florescent lights, coughs, and stirring in an otherwise silent
room during an examination.
What can sounds reveal about how students and teachers communicate,
gather meaning, and learn? How can researchers incorporate sound into the
frameworks, fieldworks, and presentations of empirical research?
These questions may be answered by looking to the growing field com-
monly referred to as “sound studies.” As Sterne (2012) notes, “Sound stud-
ies is a name for the interdisciplinary ferment in the human sciences that
takes sound as its analytical point of departure or arrival” (p. 2). Sometimes
known as “aurality” (Erlmann, 2010) or “auditory culture” (Bull & Back,
2004), sound studies:
can begin from obviously sonic phenomena like speech, hearing, sound
technologies, architecture, art, or music. But it does not have to. It may
think sonically as it moves underwater, through the laboratory or into
the halls of government; considers religion or nationalisms old and new;
explores cities; tarries with the history of philosophy, literature or ideas;
or critiques relations of power, property or intersubjectivity.
(Sterne, 2012, p. 2)
The field of sound studies encompasses more than merely studying sound;
it is to “think sonically.” Sound studies “challenge us to think across sounds,
272 Joseph Michael Abramo
to consider sonic phenomena in relationship to one another—as types of
sonic phenomena rather than as things-in-themselves—whether they be
music, voices, listening, media, buildings, performances, or another path
into sonic life” (Sterne, 2012, p. 3, italics in original).
Investigating some of these themes and questions addressed in sound
studies provides music education researchers new avenues of inquiry. In this
paper, I explore how the epistemology, nature, and history of sound and
listening’s conception may provide new theoretical frameworks, including
what I am calling here “individual” and “critical-historical” phenomenolo-
gies. Second, I suggest how these frameworks of sound and listening may
provide new ways for researchers to conceive fieldwork, including consid-
ering ethnographic sites as found soundscapes (Schafer, 1994; Thompson,
2002) and what sound and listening may reveal about the collection and
interpretation of “data,” including the dilemmas of verbal and musical tran-
scription. Third, I explore how researchers may incorporate sounds and
listening into their presentations of research through researcher-created
compositional soundscapes (Drever, 2002; Samuels et al., 2010; Truax,
2000). Throughout this paper, I hold the individual and critical-historical
phenomenologies in tension with one another, exploring what each of them
says about the stages of the research process I outline here. Because each of
these topics are complicated, producing many articles and books on each
facet, this paper serves as a starting point of dialogue on the role of sound
in qualitative empirical research in music education.
THE PHENOMENOLOGY OF SOUND
Traditionally, inquiry into sound has focused on sound as a phenomenon

separate from listeners, and has categorized it as an object or event. As
O’Callaghan and Nudds (2009) note, “According to common sense tutored
by science, sounds just are traveling waves” (p. 7), or what O’Callaghan
(2009) calls the “Wave View” (p. 27). These waves are created by a physi-
cal body and, therefore, can be construed as secondary properties of that
physical body, or what is called the “Property View” (O’Callaghan, 2009,
p. 27). In other words, though sounds are a direct result of the vibration
of this physical object, they are still distinct from those vibrations. But,
because the vibrating objects take time to travel to their listeners, the “event
view” (O’Callaghan, 2009, p. 36) suggests that sounds are not proper-
ties but events, because sound is necessarily temporal, happening over a
time. Sounds are “events in which a moving object disturbs a surrounding
medium and sets it moving. The striking and crashings are not the sounds,
but are the causes of sounds. The waves in the medium are not the sounds
themselves, but are the effects of sounds” (O’Callaghan, 2009, p. 28).
These definitions are limited because they fail to account for the listener.
The study of sound not from the perspective of its source, but from its
Application of Sound Studies to Qualitative Research 273
perceiver and the focus on perception is commonly referred to as “phe-
nomenology.” There are two areas of phenomenology as related to sound
and listening that I would like to outline here. The first is an “individual”
(Chion, 1994, p. 81) phenomenology of listening, which holds that “sounds
are subjective and private and that they mediate auditory perceptual access
to the world” (O’Callaghan & Nudds, 2009, p. 5). This view looks at the
essence of the listening experience, what is unique to it and what epistemol-
ogy is revealed through the act of listening. Contrary to this view is, what I
am calling here, a “critical-historical phenomenology,” which does not hold
that sounds are subjective and personal. Instead, this theory suggests that
the nature of listening, how one listens, and even what one hears is consti-
tuted by larger historical and material conditions. Though these two views
have some aspects in common, and some academics sometimes encompass
both views in their writings, I intend to highlight the critical-historical and
individual phenomenologies’ differences in order to establish two broad and
differing ways of situating the experience of listening.
Individual Phenomenology of Sound

According to legend, the Pre-Socratic philosopher Pythagoras required his
students to sit in silence while he lectured from behind a screen for the
first years of their instruction. It was supposed that this process, which was
termed akousmatikoi, focused on students’ listening, allowing them to con-
centrate on the meaning of Pythagoras’s words without visual distraction.
In the twentieth century, proponents of musique concrète took this ethos to
create what they called acousmatic music, electronic music in which there
is no visual stimuli (Schaeffer, 2012). Like Pythagoras, composers of acous-
matic music believed that visual stimuli distracted audiences, not allow-
ing audience access to “pure” listening. Underlying these practices is the
assumption that music is, or should be, solely a sonic art, the senses can be
separated, and visual stimuli taint the listening experience.
Along similar lines, some scholars have suggested that Western thought
traditionally is “ocularcentric,” or “‘dominated’ by vision” (Jay, 1993,
p. 3). As historian of philosophy Jay (1993) suggests, metaphors like Plato’s
allegory of the cave, the enlightenment, Descartes’ “steadfast mental gaze,”
and Foucault’s panopticon and medical gaze, suggest that Western philoso-
phy has favored vision over the other senses. Philosophy, he continues, “has
tended to accept without question the traditional sensual hierarchy” (p. 187).
But while Western thought has privileged sight over the other senses, there
are limits to ocularcentrism. As Janus (2011) notes, ocularcentrism has at
least three limitations. First, it creates a subject-object dichotomy where
phenomena around the individual are considered as “separate” from the
subject who views those phenomena. Second, it creates signification as the
final perspective, meaning that vision creates the need for language to repre-
sent the objects that are visually “at hand.” Third, this denies the corporal in
the senses, reducing ontology to a disembodied eye that observes the world
around it objectively and disinterestedly.
From an anti-ocular standpoint, then, experiencing the world through
differing senses provides differing accesses and conceptions of phenomena.
Aural perception reveals the world in ways significantly different than sight.
As Idhe (1976) notes, “An inquiry into the auditory is also an inquiry into
the invisible. Listening makes the invisible present in a way similar to the
presence of the mute in vision” (p. 51). Listening allows individuals to access
ways of knowing and perceiving unavailable through sight. “This deliber-
ate change of emphasis from the visual to the auditory dimension at first
symbolizes a hope to find material for a recovery of the richness of primary
experience which is now forgotten or covered over in the too tightly inter-
preted visualist traditions” (Idhe, 1976, p. 14).
Goodman (2010) extends this study of the “invisible” to include all things.
He suggests that the study of sound allows access to the larger phenomenon
of vibrations, of which sound is a subset. “If we subtract human perception,
everything moves. Anything static is so only at the level of perceptibility. At
the molecular or quantum level, everything is in motion, is vibrating” (p.
83). These vibrational forces allow access to vibration and how phenomena
interact with one another. Thus, “ontology of vibrational force delves below
a philosophy of sound and the physics of acoustics toward the basic pro-
cesses of entities affecting other entities” (p. 81).
French phenomenological philosopher Nancy (2006) also suggests that
sound is a way of examining how entities affect one another. Nancy argues
that while truth is construed through ocularcentric terms, epistemology is
better conceived of as sound. Nancy takes an “event view” because sound
arrives in an envelope; it has a beginning and an end, unlike the visual,
which, even when one turns her eye from it, continues to exist. For Nancy,
though, sound is phenomenological because it must also pass from subject
to subject. As an instrument sounds, sympathetic objects, (like sympathetic
strings, drums, even people) vibrate in accordance with that instrument.
But in the process of taking up those sounds, the body changes them, just
as the sympathetic strings of a sitar changes the timbre of the originally
vibrating string. Nancy argues that this has implications for epistemology.
Like individual bodies taking up and then changing sound, these bodies
do the same with knowledge and information. Individuals make “sense”
of truths through their subjectivity, interpret it, and in the process, change
that information, and finally send it out again. At risk of over simplifying,
then, truth is socially constructed; each individual contributes to that truth
through their sense and understanding and then letting that truth be known
to others.
The ideas of Idhe (1976), Goodman (2010), and Nancy (2006) suggest
that sound has a unique way of apprehending and rendering phenomena
and conceiving of epistemology. Their philosophies have the potential to add
to the well-established strain of music education philosophy and advocacy,
which seeks to discover the unique qualities of music and its education. If
sound and listening are a unique way of knowing the world, then music edu-
cation holds a unique place in the curriculum. But further, music education
is not limited to sound itself. If, as Goodman (2010) suggests, sound and
music provide access to the larger field of vibration, of which everything is
made up, music education has the potential to be a holistic, transdisciplinary
education. For Nancy (2006), sound is a conduit for constructivist theories
of learning and education better than any other medium. Thus, investigating
theories of the nature of sound allows music educators new ways to philoso-
phize and advocate for the uniqueness of music education.
Critical-Historical Phenomenology of Sound

Before music educators can claim a victory for their discipline, as critics note,
this individual phenomenology has limitations. For example, the notion
of vision as “objective” and sound as “subjective” and Western society’s
prevailing “ocularcentrism” (Janus, 2011; Jay, 1993; Nancy, 2006) have
come under scrutiny. Sterne (2003) suggests that listening has been used
for so-called objective purposes. Auscultation—the procedure that involves
physicians using stethoscopes—is the process of listening to the body to
objectively diagnose ailments. He notes that Foucault’s “medical gaze”—the
objective, clinical, disinterested diagnosis of bodies—was just as aural as it
was visual. Erlmann (2010), similarly, tracks the use of sound in the enlight-
enment. Reasonance, as he calls it—which is a “joining together of reason
and resonance in a new conception of personhood” (p. 31)—can be found
in ostensibly ocularcentric philosophers like Descartes. As a result, he claims
that such anti-ocularcentric positions are false, and it “does not bear out the
tenet that modernity is, at root, a period dominated by vision, images and
distanced observation” (p. 341). The anti-visualist claims that sight is privi-
leged over listening only succeed in “re-re-establishing the visual/auditory
dichotomy” (Rice, 2005, p. 201).
As a result, instead of positing inherent essential qualities of listening—
like sight is objective and listening is subjective—some sound studies schol-
ars have investigated the historical and material conditions that give rise
to certain values and ways of listening. Historical investigations of sound
and listening differ from an individual phenomenology because they do not
conceive of listening as a simple “auditory perceptual access to the world”
(O’Callaghan & Nudds, 2009, p. 5), or an uncomplicated, unaffected recep-
tion of the outside sonic world. Sterne argues that “human ears aren’t natu-
ral reflectors of sound in the world. They are themselves transducers that
make reality—the perception of sound is not a mirror of nature. Therefore,
perception in a way makes sounds, and it makes sounds differently from a
microphone and a computer detecting vibrations out in the world” (quoted
in Gopnick, 2013, p. 38). Instead, one’s listening is shaped by others’
ideas and meanings. As Chion (1994) suggests, “Perception is not a purely
individual phenomenon, since it partakes in a particular kind of objectivity,
that of shared perceptions” (p. 29).
Listening, rather than a mere apprehension of the sonic world, is an intri-
cate process where the brain highlights certain sounds, and deemphasizes
others. “The ears don’t have eyelids” (Nancy, 2006, p. 14), laying it suscep-
tible to the assault of sound at all times. So, unlike the eyelid, which shuts
the sensation of sight from the eye via physical means, “the ear’s only protec-
tion is an elaborate psychological mechanism for filtering out undesirable
sound in order to concentrate on what is desirable” (Schafer, 1994, p. 11).
What is rendered as desirable and undesirable and what one chooses to con-
centrate on are not inherent in their properties or idiosyncratic psychology,
but are based on cultural norms and sociological factors.
A personal anecdote may illustrate this critical-historical theory that
“shared perception” creates what and how individuals hear. When attending
graduate school, the instructor of a course I enrolled in asked the students
to “do an analysis” of Bach’s “C Major Prelude” of the Well Tempered
Clavier as an out-of-class assignment. Despite the lack of specificity, every-
one performed a Roman numeral analysis, dutifully labeling each chord in
the composition. My study of Schenkerian analysis led me to question this
uniform response from the class. A sketch of this composition completed
by Schenker (1933/1969) suggests that the prelude is a group of compound
melodies, rather than simply a progression of arpeggiated chords. In other
words, the sketch invites listeners to listen vertically, rather than horizon-
tally, to use a visual metaphor. When I pointed out in class that despite other
conceptions of hearing this piece all the students chose to attend to it chord-
ally, one student, in a manner that struck me as agitated, blurted out, “But
this piece is about chords!”
Here, then, is an example of how Roman numerals dictated what the agi-
tated student, her classmates, and perhaps many schooled musicians heard in
Bach’s “C Major Prelude.” Roman numerals are not a “subjective” experi-
ence, but are instead a shared, socially agreed-upon—some might say forced
and enforced—way of listening to music. The act of continually performing
Roman numeral analyses throughout the students’ musical training influ-
enced their hearing. It is possible to argue that Roman numerals encouraged
the students to hear the music differently, rendering the melodic lines inau-
dible. In poststructuralist terms, Roman numerals serve as what Foucault
(1972) called discourses. Roman numeral analysis serves as a hermeneutic
that shapes how one understands the world around him- or herself. In this
sense, Roman numeral analysis, like all music theory, is not only descriptive,
but also proscriptive (Boretz, 1992). Music theory doesn’t merely describe;
it shapes and creates how and what one hears (Moreno, 2004).
This anecdote illustrates that listening is not purely “individual”; we
do not hear and then meaning is attached to it, based on individual traits.
Rather, historical conditions and discourses literally make people “tune
out” some sounds and highlight others. This approach may be called a
“critical-historical phenomenology.” “Such an orientation,” that acknowl-
edges the influence of discourses and history upon people’s ears, Goodman
(2010) notes, “should be differentiated from a phenomenology of sonic
effects centered on the perceptions of a human subject, as a ready-made,
interiorized human center of being and feeling” (p. 81).
One area that a historical-critical approach to phenomenology has been
particularly fruitful is in the area of sound reproduction technology. In the
20th century, inventors and scientists shifted their study of sound from con-
ceiving of it as an object and the producers of sound to receivers of sound
and perception, or effect. This ushered in advances in sound reproduction
technologies. As Sterne (2003) notes, in the 19th century, before the advent
of the telephone and phonograph, inventors and scientists created technol-
ogy that copied the sources of sounds, like player pianos, and astronomer
Johannes Faber’s euphon, an automaton which was a reproduction of the
human lungs and mouth to mimic speech. Following these unsuccessful
attempts, sound reproduction became realized in its modern conception
when inventors simulated the receiver of sounds—the tympanum, or ear-
drum. Inventor of the telephone Alexander Graham Bell, and the phono-
graph’s inventor Thomas Edison, both copied the ear, using tympanums
as ways to capture and then re-realized sound waves emitted in the air. As
a result, tympanums are used in sound reproduction: the diaphragm of a
microphone and phone receivers to “capture” the sound, and speakers to
vibrate the re-realizing of the vibrations captured by the microphone and
receivers. Sterne (2003) uses the body to conceptualize this shift from object
to perception and from source to effect as a shift from the “mouth to ear.”
The conception of sound as listening—in other words, as perception rather
than production—precipitated the advent of sound technology.
Similarly, in sound technology, acousmatic listening in the 20th cen-
tury, the attempt to eliminate visual stimuli from musical performances,
was aided, in part, by the creation of sound reproduction. Schafer (1994)
calls this “splitting of sounds from their original contexts . . . schizopho-
nia” (p. 88). But technology alone does not explain this impulse to divorce
sound from vision. Instead, it was also a modernist desire towards aesthetic
“abstractionism” or the “absence of representation” (Albright, 2004, p. 11).
And, as Pythagoras’s acousmatic lectures suggest, this desire to divorce lis-
tening from vision was not created by sound reproduction technology. Thus,
advancement alone cannot account for acousmatic music and the privileging
of sound and the elimination of vision from the musical experience, as such
a view would be described as “technologically determinist” (e.g., Borgmann,
2006). Instead, acousmatic music is a product of the interaction of techno-
logical advances with certain privileged discourses.
Inquiries of a similar nature can be of interest to music education research-
ers. Critical-historical avenues of inquiry might include questions like the fol-
lowing: How do advances in technology influence the ways music educators
understand the phenomenology of sound? How do advances in technology
influence the ways music educators engage with this phenomenology? The
opposite is also a viable question: In what ways do historical trends of the
phenomenology of sound in music education affect the use of technology?
Questions broader than the application of technology might include: What
historical conditions contribute to teacher and students’ actions and beliefs?
And, why and how are certain forms of listening and performance valued
over another at any particular time in the history of music education?
COLLECTING, GENERATING, AND INTERPRETING DATA:

FOUND SOUNDSCAPES AND NOISE
While sound studies provides varying conceptions of the epistemology and

nature of sound and listening, it also affords music education researchers
new ways of conducting fieldwork, particularly attending to sounds of
an environment. Because of the increased accessibility to portable audio
equipment, fieldwork has evolved to include the documentation of sounds.
And although, as I will discuss below, a critical-historical position suggests
that audio recordings are not a direct “capture” and then “reproduction”
of these sounds, but, instead, requires socially learned sonic imagination,
field recordings can serve new ways of presenting and analyzing the sounds
found in the field.
Approaching fieldwork from a sound studies paradigm immediately
brings into question the main way researchers describe fieldwork: as becom-
ing a “participant observer.” Traditionally, ethnographers have privileged
seeing over listening (Samuels et al., 2010). But, as anthropologist Forsey
(2010) suggests, “listening is at least as significant as observation to ethnog-
raphers. Ethnography is arguably more aural than ocular, the ethnographer
more participant listener than observer” (p. 561). “Often what is reported
[in ethnographies] as the ‘seen’ are in fact observations of people conversing,
singing, listening, speechmaking—noise-making” (p. 563). In this sense, a
researcher has to enter the field not as simply an eyewitness, but also as an
“earwitness” (Schafer, 1994, p. 4); not as an observer, but, to use a neolo-
gism, as an otoservers.
Therefore, researchers might consider fieldwork as entering a sonic envi-
ronment or what Schafer (1994) calls a soundscape, so they may turn their
attention to an environment’s “keynote sounds, signals, and soundmarks”
(Schafer, 1994, p. 9). Thompson (2002) elaborates further. For her, a sound-
scape is:
an auditory or aural landscape. Like a landscape, a soundscape is simul-

taneously a physical environment and a way of perceiving that envi-
ronment; it is both a world and a culture constructed to make sense
of that world. The physical aspects of a soundscape consist not only
of the sounds themselves, the waves of acoustical energy permeating
the atmosphere in which people live, but also the material objects that
create, and sometimes destroy, those sounds. A soundscape’s cultural
aspects incorporate scientific and aesthetic ways of listening, a listener’s
relationship to their environment, and the social circumstances that dic-
tate who gets to hear what. A soundscape, like a landscape, ultimately
has more to do with civilization than with nature, and as such, it is
constantly under construction and always undergoing change.
(Thompson, 2002, pp. 1–2)
Soundscapes are political spaces rendered through sound: “The general

acoustic environment of a society can be read as an indicator of social con-
ditions which produce it and may tell us much about the trending and evolu-
tion of that society” (Schafer, 1994, p. 7).
Approaching classrooms and other places of learning as soundscapes
allows researchers to attend to the sounds produced in that environment
and to generate sociological explanations. The sounds of bells to signal the
beginnings and ends of class periods, teacher- and student-talk, even the
timbres of the instrument used, all arise because of economic, historical, and
political influences. The bells are a vestige of progressive education’s aim
to train future factory workers. How often teachers talk compared to how
often their students talk, in addition to what they say, can reveal not only the
power dynamics in a classroom, but also how students are enculturated into
society. Which instruments are used, how instruments are played, as well as
the tone quality of the students’ and teacher’s singing voices can signal what
genres, playing techniques, and aesthetics are privileged over others. Listen-
ing to and for the soundscape reveals an acoustical environment in new ways
and can enrich fieldwork.
Noise
Perhaps the best way of finding the political and sociological aspects of a
soundscape is by attending to noise. Although there are a variety of defini-
tions of noise (Thompson, 2002)—as a neutral synonym with sound, as
unintelligible or unimportant sounds, or as irritating sounds—Schafer’s
definitions serve as a starting point: “Noise is any undesired . . . [or] unde-
sirable sound” (1986, p. 110) and “Noises are the sounds we have learned
to ignore” (1994, p. 4). But these definitions leave the question, how does
a sound become undesirable? The line between noise and music and other
desirable sounds is thin and porous, and its placement is political. As Attali
(1986) notes, “Any theory of power today must include a theory of the
localization of noise and its endowment with form. . . . Noise is inscribed
from the start within the panoply of power” (p. 6).
Prima facie, noises are unavoidable intrusions in fieldwork. They dis-
tract the researcher, making it difficult to concentrate. They interrupt and
mask important sounds, rendering them inaudible and unintelligible. But
attending to noise as artifacts of politics, rather than as commonsensical
annoyances, reveals research sites in new ways. As Attali (1986) notes, “Our
science has always desired to monitor, measure, abstract, and castrate mean-
ing, forgetting that life is full of noise. . . . [But] nothing essential happens
in the absence of noise” (p. 3). Noise is not senseless; it is data. “Noise may
well interrupt or disturb; but we do not see that this need be a problem for
the qualitative researcher—it may even be an opportunity” (Hall, Lashua,
& Coffey, 2008, p. 1036). Thus, listening to the noise that one either con-
sciously or unconsciously filters out of her aural experiences is valuable.
From this viewpoint, music classrooms are spaces of noise. And if, as
Schafer (1994) notes, “the ear demands that insouciant and distracting
sounds would be stopped in order that it may concentrate on those which
truly matter” (p. 12), then attention to the processes people go through to
learn what to attune to and what to ignore in classrooms could provide
interesting avenues of research. Practicing teachers are required to ignore
many sounds they hear. This includes extraneous sounds in performance,
like the clicking of keys, string sounds on guitars, and exhalation during
singing. But noisealso resides in classroom management including which
sounds from students are ignored or addressed either positively or negatively.
Teachers are required to distinguish students’ “distracting” talk and sounds
from positive contributions to class. This ability to distinguish amongst and
to control the sounds in the classroom is one of authority: “Eavesdrop-
ping, censorship, recording, and surveillance are weapons of power” (Attali,
1986, p. 7). And “power reduces the noise made by others and adds sound
prevention to its arsenal” (Attali, 1986, p. 122). Thus, what teachers label
as noise is not a trivial, commonsensical decision; it is an act of authority
and its use is a question of ethics. These ethics are a concern for researchers,
too. I will return to this at the end of the chapter.
As an example, elsewhere (Abramo, 2011) I have suggested that in pop-
ular music settings boys often choose to rehearse in a constant wash of
sound. Educators unfamiliar with the practices of rock musicians and their
rehearsal techniques might find this “distracting”—as noise. But for the
boys, this dizzying sonic environment was integral to their musical thought
processes as well as how they communicated. What is noise to the teacher
is the residue of musical learning and communication for the students. A
teacher’s well-intentioned attempt to silence this communication because
it does not reflect the order typically found in classrooms, and because she
deems it distracting, would be a disservice to her students and is a reflection
of her power in the classroom.
While teachers are required to ignore or accept sounds and this is a politi-
cal act, music teacher education has no formalized or theoretical way of
addressing what teachers should “tune out.” NASM accreditation requires
preservice music education curricula to include courses in music theory,
history, sight singing, ear training, and conducting in order to “sharpen
the ear.” They guide and focus the ear for what to listen to: to hear chord
progressions, melodies, formal structures, stylistic nuances, and detection of
errors. But this specificity is not lent to the ways educators ignore sounds.
Asking students to reflect on what and how they define and then filter out
noise and its political and sociological causes and effects can be another
avenue towards informed practice.
Attention to noise, then, serves at least two purposes: it allows teacher
educators ways of conceptualizing how to guide music education students
through the noisy terrain of classrooms, allowing them not only to be con-
scious of what and how they attune their ears, but also to be cognizant to
what they label as “noise” and choose to ignore or correct. With this, how-
ever, is the acknowledgement that noise is not objective, but is, instead, a
political act that is based on historical and material conditions. Thus, what
teachers label as “noise”—students’ “excessive” talking, “playing out of
turn,” and “extraneous” and “irksome” sounds—may be a mechanism for
control and silencing of students. Second, it allows those who do partici-
pant “observation” a more comprehensive way of attending to soundscapes.
“Noise,” rather than being intrusions upon hearing important information,
is data in itself, and perhaps as an irony, by attending to noises in this way,
they cease to be noise; they become wanted sounds.
A Critique of Soundscapes and Noise

Despite the advantages of conceiving fieldwork as entering soundscapes and
attending to all its sounds, including noise, there is a danger of only reor-
dering, not eliminating, the ocularcentric hierarchy. Instead, Pink (2009)
argues for a conscious effort to include all the senses in ethnography. It
would be impossible, if not foolish, to ignore other senses. In fieldwork,
what researchers see, smell, and taste is as important as what they hear
(Pink, 2009). Therefore, researchers might aim to create a “democracy of
the senses” (Bull & Back, 2004, p. 2), and perhaps attention towards the
listening in the research process simply allows the ear “an unromanticized
place alongside the eye” (Erlmann, 2004, p. 5) in qualitative research. This
may require a multimodal approach (see Chapter 7, this volume). People
communicate simultaneously through several modes: visual, written lan-
guage, physical movement, aural, verbal language including inflection,
musical, and tactile. Research should not dismiss the ways these differing
communication strategies intersect.
While it is reasonable and valuable for researchers to rely on all their
senses, this critique opens up the question of priorities in music education.
It can be argued that, more than any other discipline found in schooling,
music education is the study of sound. And because of this, music education
researchers must take sound and listening seriously, and perhaps privilege it
above the other senses. If a goal of music educators is to help students listen
more intently, to provide avenues for people to gleam meaning from sound,
and in particular music, then music education practitioners and researchers
ostensibly privilege sound and listening above the other phenomena and
senses, or at least logically they should. So, while there are good arguments
to include all the senses, the question remains open of whether research-
ers should privilege music education’s raison d’état—namely, sound—to all
facets of scholarship.
Transcription and Analysis

After researchers have entered soundscapes, attended to noise and other
sounds, and taken field recordings and notes, they usually begin the process
of transcription and analysis. But how should researchers attend to the act
of transcription, which translates sound into silent and visual notation? As
Oliver, Serovich, and Mason (2005) note, there are two ways to approach
transcription: “naturalism, in which every utterance is captured in as much
detail as possible, and . . . denaturalism, in which grammar is corrected,
interview noise (e.g., stutters, pauses, etc.) is removed and non-standard
accents (i.e., non-majority) are standardized” (p. 1273). In denaturalized
transcription, transcribers clearly “edit” the material. But, even with a
naturalist approach, transcription is an interpretive act because everything
cannot be notated. The researcher may not attune to certain aspects of par-
ticipants’ speech, and this, therefore, makes transcription, too, a political
act. For example, should transcriptions notate participants’ diction, accent,
pronunciation, nonverbal gestures, profanity, or involuntary noises like
sneezing and coughing (Oliver, et al., 2005)? This process becomes more
confounding when music is part of field recordings and notes. Should
researchers transcribe the music that transpires in the classroom? To what
degree should the transcriber be naturalistic and accurate in musical tran-
scription? Should they then notate discrepancies in intonation, imperfec-
tions in tempo, or edit them to be a seemingly perfect performance?
The transcription of sound—whether it be verbal, musical, or other—into
a notation in some sense “flattens” the sound, eliminating some of the infor-
mation out of it. But sound is integral to verbal and musical communication,
where inflection and other sonic clues change the meaning of the words or
music. Ultimately, then, researchers should be aware that written speech and
spoken speech are not equal in their communicative qualities and attention
to how people vocalize is important data as well. Researchers may want
to pay attention not only to what sound means in a linguistic sense, but
also listen to data sonically and musically. This would be a shift away from
“verbocentric” (Pink, 2009) renderings, and instead focus on how sound
contributes to the meaning of verbal communication and other sounds.
Ultimately, the answer to “what to include in transcription” is to decide
whether or not a particular aspect of sound is useful for a particular research
inquiry. If it is important, then that aspect should be notated. For example, as
Nettl (2005) notes, there are at least three types of transcriptions that reveal
different aspects of music: “One gives us the events of one performance,
and another attempts to give essence of a song or piece; perhaps a third
provides what the culture might consider an ideal performance” (p. 81).
Differing transcriptions of the same sounds render that sound differently
and for varying purposes. There is no sense in transcribing students’ “incor-
rect” performance if it is not part of the usefulness to the study or how the
researcher hopes to frame the music or speech in his or her study. But, decid-
ing what is “useful,” of course, is deceptively difficult in qualitative research
because, often, a researcher enters a field without a complete idea of what
will be of interest. Transcribers might seek a “balance of thoroughness and
elegance” (Nettl, 2005, p. 82), weighing their options of transcription. If
researchers choose to transcribe spoken text and music, then they might not
only consult the transcriptions when analyzing data. Instead, the inflection
of talk, and the musical sounds and noise, which are “captured” in the audio
field recordings, should be part of the analysis. Researchers might include
transcribed text and audio and video recordings together as a multimodal
way of presenting the research. Such attention to the sound of data will
allow researchers to avoid strict verbocentrism and include sound in their
analysis. But as I will discuss below, a critical-historical position suggests
that referring to the audio recording, and to sounds in the field in general,
are not a reference to “the real” communication in an attempt to circumvent
interpretation, but rather to present social and political aspects.
(RE)PRESENTATION
As the issues surrounding transcription suggest, representation of research

is important. If attention to sound is significant when gathering, generating,
and interpreting data, then the representation of that data should attend
equally to sound. How may researchers (re)create and represent the found
soundscapes they researched sonically and musically?
Arts-based Research
Traditionally, research is exclusively represented in prose. Written as reports,
research is rendered in concise unambiguous language, on paper, or the sim-
ulation of paper on computers and other media. But, starting in the 1990s,
some researchers questioned this positivistic and prosaic representation of
research and turned their attention to arts-based research. As Eisner (2003)
notes, research in general has moved from the assumptions of quantifica-
tion, experimental paradigms, research as the discovery of “true” knowl-
edge, objectivity, statistical generalization, scientific inquiry, and simplistic
and proscriptive application of research results to practice (pp. 210–15).
Instead, arts-based researchers borrow from the arts to proliferate new and
artistic forms of research; “Narratives, films, video, theater, even poems and
collages can be used to deepen one’s understanding of aspects of educational
practice and its consequence” (Eisner, 2003, p. 210). Researchers can even
add plays (Denzin, 2013; Saldaña, 2008) and cartoons (Bartlett, 2013) to
this list.
How researchers present data is important because, as Eisner (2003)
comments:
form and meaning interact because the form in which ideas appear
affects the kind of experience people will have. Hence, the use of forms
of representation that previously had little or no place in research have
been recognized as providing new meanings, something needed if under-
standing is to be enlarged.
(p. 211, italics added)
Because of this, researchers need not make a false distinction between sci-
entific research—which renders a “truth”—and the arts—which are merely
aesthetic without truth claims. Instead, researcher can consider research
methodologies on a continuum—a point I will return to shortly.
But we can extend Eisner’s ideas by asking, “Why does research need to
‘appear’”? If sound never appears, perhaps its research should not be visible
as well. The form of audio recordings—ranging from raw field recordings,
to soundscapes, to even musical compositions—enrich and change the ways
researchers represent and gain meaning from data. These renderings are
intended to display the ambiguity and polysemy of interpreting data and to
make the material accessible to audiences beyond academics.
Some arts-education researchers have applied arts-based methodologies
to their work. The International Journal of Education and the Arts has
presented some of the visual arts data pictorially (Mans, 2000) and embed-
ded audio into research reports (Bell, 2008). Gould (2010) has presented
music and sound in new and interesting ways at conferences. How can music
education researchers implement methodologies like these and others that
implement sound? How can music educators present data so that it will stop
appearing and start resonating with their audiences?
Researcher-Created Soundscapes
Again, soundscapes may provide avenues to reconceptualize representa-
tion of research and incorporate sound and music. Differing from Schafer
(1994) and Thompson’s (2002) description of soundscape as a found and
studied auditory landscape, composers also use “soundscapes” to denote
audio created from audio-recorded source material derived from environ-
ments to produce musical works. For purposes of clarity, I will refer to
these as “researcher-created soundscapes” or “soundscape compositions”
to distinguish them from “found soundscapes.” As ethnomusicologist Feld
(1994) notes, “Soundscape research really should be presented in the form
of a musical composition. That is the one way to bend the loop back so that
Radio-like Musical
Aural paper presentation composition
Positivistic Arts-based
paradigm paradigm
Figure 17.1 A continuum of implementing sound into research.
research and the artistry come together and we can auditorally cross those
rivers and those creeks and climb those trees and walk those paths without
the academic literalism, the print mediation” (p. 328). While soundscape
compositions are intended as extracting sounds from an (usually natural)
environment to create a musical composition, with some modifications,
soundscapes can be useful to music education researchers (Drever, 2002).
As the figure displays, conceptualizing sound in research in continuum
serves as a starting place to situate sounds and soundscapes. Researchers can
vary their incorporation of sounds from embedding audio into traditional
reports to musical compositions.
On one side, one closer to traditional and positivistic reports of research,
a researcher could read a paper, perhaps inserting audio clips of field record-
ings and interviews, rather than transcribing them into text. On the other
arts-based side, there could be strictly musical compositions, used to (re)pres-
ent the environment without making explicit, language-based statements or
theories about that environment. Somewhere in the middle could be some-
thing more akin to radio broadcasts like Radiolab and This American Life,
which mix explanation and analysis with field and interview recordings.
The positivistic, radio-like, and artistic examples sit on a continuum and
should not be conceived of as separate. Instead, researchers may blend and
use them in the same study. There could be a study that is somewhere in
between the radio-like and musical composition that combines field record-
ings, interview data, explanation, and interpretation of that data in prose
as well as a researcher-generated musical composition comprised of data.
Further, researchers may begin to think past the continuum by combining
the poles. It may be possible to represent both a traditional aural report and
an artistic composition of the same study side by side, using both sides of the
continuum to polysemically (re)present the same phenomenon.
Rigor and Sound in Research
Whatever approaches researchers choose, ultimately, they have to answer to
questions of academic rigor when producing these soundscapes. As Drever
(2002) notes, “The challenge to soundscape composition artists is whether
they can balance musical with representational concerns” (p. 26). To address
this, Truax (2000) suggests four qualities of compositional soundscapes that
may facilitate this rigor:
(a) listener recognizability of the source material is maintained, even if it

subsequently undergoes transformation;
(b) the listener’s knowledge of the environmental and psychological con-
text of the soundscape material is invoked and encouraged to com-
plete the network of meanings ascribed to the music;
(c) the composer’s knowledge of the environmental and psychological
context of the soundscape material is allowed to influence the shape
of the composition at every level, and ultimately the composition is
inseparable from some or all of those aspects of reality; and ideally,
(d) the work enhances our understanding of the world, and its influence
carries over into everyday perceptual habits (Section IV. Conclusions).
These qualities are in accordance with general rules of rigor in qualitative

research. Like quality a, researchers must attribute data to its source, whether
it be the person or location that the researcher heard or observed that data.
This remains true as the material “undergoes transformation,” via transcrip-
tion of text, or written description of what is observed. Like quality b, readers
use prior knowledge when reading and interpreting a work, and researchers
draw upon that knowledge. Like quality c, qualitative researchers acknowl-
edge that their (re)presentation of data is not objective, but is filtered through
their subjectivity and interpretation. And finally, like quality d, researchers
hope that the research is useful and sharpens the audience’s perception of
the world. Truax’s qualities of soundscape compositions resonate with some
of the main tenets of qualitative research. From this perspective, researcher-
created soundscapes allow two important functions. First, they allow the
found soundscapes that were researched to “come alive” to the consumer,
more than reading about them. Rather than describing the sound of a class-
room, for example, the sounds are presented to the consumer. Second, they
provide music educators—who, it would be assumed, are inclined towards
aesthetics—to attend and present their studies artistically.
Critiques and Considerations

There are theoretical, logistical, and ethical considerations that may ques-
tion the implementation of sound into research. First, a critical-historical
investigation of research-created soundscapes reveals some assumptions.
Recordings are not a completely faithful rendering of sounds. Microphone
placement, the medium (analogue—phonograph, audiotape; digital—wav
and mp3), and processing of the audio necessarily “capture” and then
render sounds differently. As Sterne (2003) notes, listening to recorded,
“reproduced” sounds is not an access to “the real,” but requires “audile
technique” or sonic imagination to fill in the gaps of context and sounds
that are literally not heard on the recording. Like listening in general, how
a listener fills in these gaps is learned and constituted by social relations and
material conditions. Thus, “‘face-to-face’ or ‘live’ sound events are a social
practice fundamentally different from technological sound reproduction
and its attendant forms of sound reproduction. It [is] not possible to sample
the acoustic world, to audit an event, without participating in it” (Sterne,
2003, p. 284). Researcher-created soundscapes can never be an uncompli-
cated access to a found soundscape as suggested by Feld’s (1994) belief that
it allows the listener to “auditorally cross those rivers and those creeks and
climb those trees and walk those paths without the academic literalism, the
print mediation” (p. 328). Recordings do not relieve the researcher of the
responsibilities of representation.
Recordings’ limitations and assumptions are surmountable weaknesses.
Researchers might exploit the assumed differences and relations between
field recordings and what they “capture” by asking audiences to question
the social relations of sound, technology, and verisimilitude. Their studies
might be a space where the researcher draws attention to the social reaction
between the listener, the recording, and the imagined found soundscapes
they ostensibly represent. This might include recording sounds in multiple
ways, like different media—mp3, wav, analog, even through the telephone—
with different microphone placements, and with different processing—com-
pression, equalizing, reverb—in order to draw attention to the artificiality of
sound reproduction and the role recording medium plays in the interpreta-
tion. This may include playing the same recording several times, recontex-
tualizing it to show the interpretation, imagination, and audio technique
involved in listening to field recordings. In this way, soundscapes may be
reflexive; they may call attention to the social transaction that takes place
during the researchers’ conveyance of the field to the audience.
Second, there are logistical barriers. Producing soundscapes requires dif-
ferent skills than research and writing. They require compositional experi-
ence, knowledge of recording software and hardware, and a way of crafting
stories that is often found in radio. While some music education research-
ers may have these skills, they are not part of the traditional education of
researchers and many may feel they lack the necessary skills and knowl-
edge to compose soundscapes and incorporate sounds into their studies.
But researchers must continually learn new skills, and there are resources
to aid this process. Sites like Transom.org provide resources on how to cre-
ate effective radio-like narratives and simple audio editing. Journals like
International Journal of Education & the Arts, Qualitative Research, and
Qualitative Inquiry publish articles that implement cutting-edge methodolo-
gies that may inform research with sound.
Finally, field recordings’ direct use reveals ethical considerations. Record-
ings may make it difficult to secure anonymity. Places where participants’
names are revealed will have to be eliminated or edited. Even when identi-
fiers are not spoken, the sound of person’s voices may also reveal their iden-
tity. Therefore, researchers should be forthright with their participants and
Institutional Review Boards (IRBs) about the use of audio recordings and
the security of anonymity.
Also, as mentioned earlier, “eavesdropping, censorship, recording, and
surveillance are weapons of power” (Attali, 1986, p. 7). Researchers hold
the power of representation and can use recordings to surveil, censor, and
control their subjects. While this is not an issue unique to sound in research
(Miller et al., 2012), it adds another way researchers could unwittingly act
unethically. Researchers may use commonly employed methodologies like
gaining participants’ approval of their representation, or what is called par-
ticipant or member check-ins or co-constructing the study with the partici-
pants (Heron & Reason, 2006).
CONCLUSION
The interdisciplinary field of “sound studies” provides some avenues for

research in music education. Phenomenological interpretations of sound
allows for an investigation of the phenomena of sound and listening. An
individual phenomenology can theorize the nature of perception, allowing
music educators to philosophize and advocate for the unique qualities of
music education. Conversely, a critical-historical account of listening pro-
vides ways of situating and explaining movements in music education as
well as participants’ beliefs of the listening and musical experience. Sound
studies also invites researchers to attend to the sense of hearing in the col-
lection of data. Approaching “the field” as a soundscape—its sounds,
including noises, and the people and objects that make those sounds—
attune ears to previously ignored or unheard sounds. Finally, sound stud-
ies may provide new ways of presenting data. Soundscapes need not be
rendered into silent prose. Technology provides opportunities to capture,
then interpret and recontextualize those sounds in the reports of studies.
These aural renderings of research retain the sounds of the environment,
including the inflection of what participants say, and the musical and envi-
ronmental sounds that are integral to the education of music. Such a view,
however, is not a mere objective documentation of sound, but is instead an
interpretive, artistic act. These new ways of presenting research, however,
require a shift in the rules of acceptable research “reporting” and of cur-
rent structures of peer review reward in university settings. The emergence
of quality venues for the dissemination of this sort of work can be viewed
as the biggest hurdle to the implementation of soundscape renderings of
research.
The “individual” and “critical-historical” phenomenologies of sound
and listening that I have identified here are in dissonance with one another,
perhaps irreconcilably so. An individual phenomenological position is rela-
tively sanguine on finding the nature of listening and sound, the power
of recordings to capture the experience of sounds. Conversely, a critical-
historical phenomenological position is dubious of a universal listening
experience, and questions access to “the real” that a recording can ever
offer. Instead, critical-historical investigations reveal how fluid and histori-
cally and socially conditioned listening is. But while these two positions
are probably not reconcilable, it is not self-evident that a researcher must
exclusively choose one of these frameworks. Whether researchers use an
individual phenomenology to determine and articulate the uniqueness of
music education for the purposes of advocacy and philosophy, or critical-
historical phenomenology to attend to the historical and material conditions
that give rise to certain listening and educative practices, both frameworks
serve valuable ways of conceptualizing music education. Researchers must
ultimately navigate these differing ways of theorizing sound and listening
in thorough and nuanced ways that best suit the aims of their scholarship.
This is not easy to do and a course of action is not certain. But while this
leaves more questions than answers, it opens up new possibilities, and how
music education researchers produce these new areas remains to be seen.
But treating sound as carefully in research as when it is performed, com-
posed, or studied is a way for music education researchers to merge their
artistic and scholarly identities.
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findings. Qualitative Research, 13, 214–27. doi: 10.1177/1468794112451037
Bell, A. P. (2008). The heart of the matter: Composing music with an adolescent with
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Boretz, B. (1992). Experiences with no names. Perspectives of New Music, 30,
272–83.
Borgmann, A. (2006). Technology as a cultural force. Canadian Journal of Sociology,
31, 351–60.
Bull, M., & Back, L. (2004). Introduction: Into sound. In M. Bull & L. Back (Eds.)
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Chion, M. (1994). Audio-vision (C. Gorbman, Trans.). New York, NY: Columbia
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Drever, J. L. (2002). Soundscape composition: The convergence of ethnography and
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Eisner, E. W. (2003). The arts and the creation of mind. New Haven, CT: Yale
University Press.
Erlmann, V. (2004). Hearing cultures: Essays on sound, listening and modernity.
New York, NY: Berg.
Erlmann, V. (2010). Reason and resonance: A history of modern aurality. New York,
NY: Zone Books.
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Schafer in the Papua New Guinea rainforest. The Soundscape Newsletter, 8.
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(A. Sheridan, Trans.). New York, NY: Pantheon.
Goodman, S. (2010). Sonic warfare: Sound, affect and the ecology of fear. Cambridge,
MA: MIT Press.
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and other mysteries of sound. New Yorker Magazine, 32–9.
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sfu.ca/˜truax/soundescape.html
18 Commentary on Research
Snapshot and Qualitative
Approaches
Richard Colwell
METHODOLOGICAL TRENDS
The chapter on methodological trends in music education clearly belongs

in the research section and the description of methodology as provided
by Borg and Gall is excellent. The guidelines are clear as to the conduct
of the analysis. The author indicates that music education tends to fol-
low research in education but there is no comparison as to whether the
trends in music education during the three periods under consideration
are parallel.
My impression is that in summarizing this pedestrian work the author
found that he had failed to ask all of the questions pertinent to his study.
The author knows that methodologies do not identify topics of interest: that
issues determine research and that methodologies are only tools; and that
methodologies are not informative about future research. We simply remain
uninformed whether research topics have changed or whether any trend is
evident.
I don’t mean to second-guess the problem statement but had the author
also looked at dissertations and funded research, a different trend might
have emerged. It is possible that the study is most informative about the edi-
tors of the three journals. I regret that essays were not included as the other
two research chapters are essentially essays. The omission of studies that
used mixed methods (often referred to as mixed materials) was also unfor-
tunate as these types of articles would be included in most any trend study
(Mertens & Hesse-Biber, 2013). With mixed methods studies one conducts
a type of experimental study and then employs various qualitative strategies
to garner additional meanings from any findings.
I also missed the category of philosophical studies. Further, the writer
does not discuss observation, which is a strategy used in many of the stud-
ies cited. I agree that computer searches represent a trend, most noticeable
in related research. However, the author does not comment on changes in
related research and/or interpretation of data. Further, he suggests that digi-
tal processing has facilitated the escalation of research activities; this seems
to me to be an unsupported conclusion.
Commentary on Research Snapshot and Qualitative Approaches 293
I fail to see the purpose of conducting a chi-square analysis and the Bon-
ferroni p value at p <.005 when the percentages (not the raw numbers) over
time demonstrated little difference. The change into the qualitative area,
and the use of fewer tests (there are not many available), were an obvious
difference.
There are always minor items in any chapter. In portraying the Borg and
Gall definition of qualitative research, the writer suggests subjecting the
resulting data to analytic induction. When he suggests that reliability could
be enhanced by introducing a second coder, the concern is for employing
both inductive and deductive analysis as Borg and Gall suggest, element:
data analysis. It is arguable that the results of questionnaire and interview
protocols provide a more complex data set—the answers are often tabulated.
The conclusions seem appropriate except for his opinion that the quality
of research studies has improved and his idea that the reporting of effect
sizes and confidence intervals has aided in the interpretation of results
reported. Interpretation of related research continues to be a weakness in
music education research.
CRITICAL ETHNOGRAPHY AS/FOR PRAXIS
Professor Silverman offers us a philosophical essay that is critical of one

approach to music education found in some secondary schools. She asks
two research questions: (1) What kinds of understandings do students bring
to music classes and (2) how can teachers build on students’ interests to
motivate them to experiment with musics beyond their immediate environ-
ments that might have implications for curriculum development and change.
She conducted no research to answer these questions; rather she provides an
ideology that may be applicable to a required or an elective nonperformance
secondary music course. Three student comments introduce the chapter;
these comments fail to make clear whether the ideology being presented is
applicable to both music as entertainment and music as education.
There is no quibble about the author’s description of music apprecia-
tion classes that were historically prevalent. Few such remain today. The
data offered that 20% of secondary students currently participate in music
ensembles does not inform the reader of the population under consideration.
An additional 20% of secondary school students are enrolled in music for
at least one semester with these “non-ensemble” students in group piano,
guitar, composition, music technology, and even AP theory. Further in the
chapter, the author recognizes that listening is taught by all curricular forms.
The scope of any research for “musics beyond their immediate environ-
ments” is unclear; one can assume that the music used in the research is not
the music students listen to for hours on end on iPods and similar devices.
The author states her purpose as an explanation of the nature and strate-
gies of critical ethnography as these strategies apply to intersections between
294 Richard Colwell
theory, fieldwork methods, performance, critical practice, and social justice.
She suggests that critical ethnographies utilize qualitative data collection
methods for sociopolitical and ethical purposes. The chapter ranges from
theory to practice; I here focus only on what appears to be her central argu-
ment: the importance of critical theory and social justice for a change in the
music education curriculum.
Jorgensen and Yob (2013) warn against group think ideology, holding
that Deleuze, an exponent of critical theory, would dismantle the State and
its apparatus with no new plan. Deleuze’s alternative, although somewhat
unclear and abstruse, is a theory of everything in the world with its own axi-
oms, principles, propositions, and theorems, and its own order, identity, and
negation (Jorgensen & Yob, 2013, p. 39). Jorgensen and Yob (2013) would
avoid an ideology and keep the somewhat messy and resulting tensions,
conflicts, and exclusions that energize rather than the dualities, binaries, and
polarities (p. 51). Such views should be subject to careful criticism.
Silverman emphasizes the sociopolitical and ethical aims of education
and wants more “meaningful” music. She suggests that praxis is critical
thinking, values, aims, motivation, techniques, and more, and that meth-
odology is a research paradigm. To determine whether these claims can be
justified is complex, involving the politicization of education and the prior-
ity to transform education to advocate for the oppressed. One element of
Silverman’s argument, supposedly from Juslin and Sloboda (2010), is that
emotions in music are not dependent upon human emotions. Juslin and
Sloboda (2010), in my reading, are making a different point from that of
Silverman. She suggests that methodology (critical ethnography) is the way
to conduct research; a concern might be the match between education and
social justice.
In the Journal of Teacher Education, we learn that when special educa-
tion is underpinned by cognitive perspectives, there is a sharp contrast with
the sociocultural theories of learning that inform teachers working from a
social justice perspective. Cochran-Smith and Dudley-Marling (2012) argue
that social justice is non-contestable as a fundamental part of teaching, more
important than content.
The question is raised whether what it means to be human has changed.
The goal of education is not simply the personal good of each but the public
good of all with which the personal good is intertwined.
Elizabeth Campbell (2013) argues that social justice is a distraction in
ethical teaching. The moral and ethical dimensions of teaching and social
justice differ (p. 216); the latter distracts teachers from examining their
moral role as accountable professionals (p. 217). Agreeing with Jorgensen
and Yob, Campbell believes that when there is no agent to whom social
justice can be imputed, social justice itself is incoherent. Most of the theo-
ries of social justice focus on how power should be distributed in society
and what the basic structure of society should be, not the central question
of what is right and wrong. It is one thing to recognize that the curriculum
is inherently political, and another to encourage the advocacy of one per-
spective to the exclusion of all others; arguments for social justice begin to
resemble indoctrination (Campbell, 2013, p. 229). Social justice education
conflates the moral and ethical aspects of teaching with the political, and
represents moral and ethical values as entirely political. What should be
foremost are the moral principles where the teacher is central, including fair-
ness, truthfulness, integrity, empathy, and diligence, whereas social justice is
concerned with power, privilege, identity, and diversity.
The author’s interest is in better music education if researchers would ask
better and/or different questions. Usually music education research is most
effective when the focus remains on the music, change is gradual, and the
resource requirements feasible.
SOUND STUDIES
Commenting on a chapter as wide ranging as the offering of Professor

Abramo is a complex task. It is an olla podrida. One can easily focus on
arguments that are not central to the chapter. One is left after reading the
entire essay with the impression that the application of sound studies is jus-
tified music education research as a form of arts-based research. To grasp
the content of the chapter one must consider phenomenology, perception,
meaning, and even educational concerns of power and politics in the class-
room, in addition to soundscapes. The research component is elusive. The
paper might be an offering in physics with a few examples from music. As
the chapter is placed in the research section of the text, traditional research
comments are justified. The purpose of the chapter is revealed by the title
and the two problems. These problems are (1) what can sounds reveal about
how students and teachers communicate, gather (?) meaning, and learn? And
(2) how can researchers incorporate sound into the frameworks, fieldworks,
and presentations of empirical research? These problems are only loosely
related to the material in the chapter, which addresses the communication
issue by dividing perception into individual and collective. The author sug-
gests that the presentation is primarily applicable to qualitative research and
the presentations derived from empirical research. Empirical research is not
limited to qualitative studies; quantitative research would work just as well.
Empirical research is guided by practice, often observation or experience,
rather than theory. Empirical research could, however, verify theory.
Sound is, of course, a critical element in all research in music education.
Abramo encourages us to consider all classroom sounds, not only those
traditionally defined as music. I agree that “private” student talk while a
teacher is presenting could be considered disruptive. The students could be
probing deeper into ideas or sounds just presented, which would be impor-
tant to know. With the best recording equipment, however, considering all
sounds would be difficult for any teacher to prioritize as classroom sounds
296 Richard Colwell
for analysis related to communicating, meaning, or learning. Abramo has
alerted us to be qui vive for all sounds. He divides these “sounds” into
individual and historical phenomenologies and suggests that evidence from
sounds will reduce the error of presenting data through verbal and musical
transcriptions. One cannot disagree with the importance of using sound-
scapes to more accurately present findings; the idea is not new to music
education. Yes, individual perception, which he defines as phenomenology,
may differ from cultural memes. Resolving these differences is the essence
of all education.
Phenomenology, as I understand it, is concerned with the structure of expe-
rience or consciousness from the individual’s point of view about some event
or object. How one perceives the object (or sound) is a critical component
but perception is not a simple skill. Perception ranges from simple to complex
and is subject to both education and native talent. The depth of meaning
derived from sounds depends upon this perceptual competence and although
“gathering” meaning is central to the chapter, little is said about meaning or
the theoretical constructs that are to be verified by the suggested observa-
tions. (One can be sure that Abramo knows how unreliable observations
can be—see the research from MET [2013] on observing teachers.) There is
intentionality in phenomenology and Abramo’s intention in improving music
education is unclear. His argument need not be limited to music. The con-
nection between meaning and learning, an objective of the chapter, is not
explained—aural learning is certainly the focus. My concern is that sounds
must be expressive for them to be musical. Robert Schumann has said that
notes in themselves cannot really paint what the emotions have not already
portrayed. The history of all musics is a history of converting sounds to
express moods, ideas, and events, resulting in a synthesis of music and poetry,
inventive schemes to bring out and heighten the emotional content of verse,
a match between solo and accompaniment; such sounds can move drama
forward, and can convey celebrations, passions, moods, and even political
stances—think of the songs of Bob Marley. Evelyn Glennie, the deaf concert
artist, also uses the terms sound and listening with her definitions focused on
expressive sounds. She not only responds to sound with her entire body but
claims to view her audiences to produce the most expressive sounds.
The meaning of sounds in music (aural learning) is often enhanced by
visual effects and also by kinesthesia. Teachers use Dalcroze movements to
enhance musical meaning; a considerable body of research exists concern-
ing the visual impact in music performances, festivals, and contests. I list a
few quality studies in the references. The visual separates live performances
(an important type of sound) from recordings and from the motions of per-
formers, conductors, and audiences that affect perception. There is a reason
why auditions for positions in symphony orchestras are conducted with the
performer hidden from view by a screen.
It is difficult to ascertain what the author believes is new for research. He
suggests that if sound and listening are a unique way of knowing the world
then music education in the curriculum can be justified; but, of course, there
are no references to sound as music. Composers and performers have long
experimented with changing sounds to music. Stockhausen in the late 1960s
worked on a series of pieces exploring different degrees of indeterminacy
and performer involvement using his Plus Minus notation. The Beatles with
Sgt. Pepper created artificial spaces by using reverb and echo units, sounds
played backwards, filtered, changed speeds, and more. Ansuman Biswas
(2011) argues that the basic ingredient of music is not so much sound as
movement (p. 106). The reader should be alerted to a history of the use of
sound in presenting results of research in music education. Edwin Knuth
used sound in the mid-1930s, and one can imagine that Frances Clark was
using RCA recordings to promote learning shortly after the turn of the 20th
century. Folk music that could not be transcribed using traditional notation
was incorporated into research presentations by Ruth Crawford at MENC
meetings in the early 1960s. Recording musical sounds has always been a
research tool for musicologists. The author cannot be expected to list all of
the sound sources. A few contemporary composers have used spectrograms
as an intermediate step in changing the intensity of different frequencies
and judging how these changes can be used in new compositions. Computer
music classes are popular when students are allowed to mix. Had he sug-
gested present research projects, they would range from the MIT media
lab, International Aural Literacy, to the Deep Listening Institute of Pauline
Oliveros that recently hosted its first international conference.
I find no research evidence in the chapter of student meaning being
enhanced by any of the suggestions. The author has provided an interest-
ing thought-piece intended to connect sound and meaning. Focus within a
soundscape would be critical for education. One learns through maturation
and education to screen out visual and aural stimuli—a child sees and hears
more than an adult. The author hints at a focus with his description of listen-
ing for melody or harmony but the idea is not developed. Meaning depends
upon focus and is a topic in language as well as in music. “I never said she
stole my money” is a classic example of seven different meanings depending
upon which word is stressed. Language also uses punctuation for meaning.
“Slow, children” is different from “Slow children.”
Music uses silences, ornaments, and unexpected harmonies (or sounds) to
convey expressive meaning. Expressive music can convey the emotional or
even pictorial meaning of stories through the use of themes, harmonies, leit-
motivs, timbres, and more. To recognize the expressive meaning of music,
knowledge is not unimportant. Knowing the intention of a composer and/
or the historical/cultural setting facilitates understanding and sensitivity to
musical meaning. The consciousness of phenomenology that is suggested
requires reflection, analysis, and considerable additional musical experi-
ences, passive and active—we listen to music holistically with no mental
separation of mind and body. The author’s suggestion that epistemology is
sound may be a point I have overlooked; and I agree with him that we are
298 Richard Colwell
in a visual culture. We do agree that music theory is not only descriptive but
that it shapes and creates how and what one hears. In studying the interval
of a 13th that is common in jazz, music theory assists in understanding how
the ear fills in the missing notes of the chord.
REFERENCES
Biswas, A. (2011). The music of what happens: Mind, meditation, and music as move-
ment. In D. Clark & E. Clarke (Eds.), Music and consciousness: Philosophical,
psychological, and cultural perspectives (pp. 95–110). New York, NY: Oxford
University Press.
Campbell, E. (2013). A moral critique of contemporary education. In H. Sockett
& R. Boostrom (Eds.), NSSE Yearbook, 112(1) (pp. 216–37). New York, NY:
Teachers College Press.
Chochran-Smith, M., & Dudley-Marling, C. (2012). Diversity in teacher educa-
tion and special education: The issues that divide. Journal of Teacher Education,
63(4), 237–244.
Jorgensen, E., & Yob, I. (2013). Deconstructing Deleuze and Guattari’s A Thousand
Plateaus for music education. Journal of Aesthetic Education, 47(3), 36–55.
Juslin, P., & Sloboda, J. (2010). Handbook of music and emotion: Theory, research,
applications. Oxford, United Kingdom: Oxford University Press.
Mertens, M., & Hesse-Biber, S. (2013). Mixed methods and credibility of evidence
in evaluation. New Directions for Evaluation, 138, 5–13.
MET. (2013). Ensuring fair and reliable measures of effective teaching. Seattle, WA:
The Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation.
19 Structural Equation Modeling
and Multilevel Modeling in
Music Education
Advancing Quantitative Research
Data Analysis
Nicholas Stefanic
The primary and eventual goal of all research is to better inform our actions,
which we do by gathering information, considering the information, and
making decisions based on the information we have. We can gather informa-
tion that describes (questions of who, what, where, when, to what degree)
or information that explains (questions of why or how). The most crucial
component of any type of research is asking critical, substantive questions
of great consequence (Fung, 2008; Kemp, 1992). Research questions should
be critical in that they are skeptical about assumptions and seek to illu-
minate rival arguments. Additionally, a good research question should be
substantive in that it seeks an abundance of relevant information regard-
ing an issue or phenomena, thus seeking well-supported answers, even if
that involves contradictory information. Lastly, a research question is of
great consequence if it has substantial value to one or more fields. Because
research requires much time and resources, research questions of great con-
sequence also represent a responsible use of those resources.
In quantitative research, and possibly in qualitative research as well, there
is sometimes a tendency to develop research questions in relation to the
techniques and tools one has at one’s disposal for collecting relevant data,
and more importantly, analyzing those data. In particular, there is a set of
statistical procedures that most researchers learn, often in their graduate
studies, all of which are essentially variations on a theme of linear regres-
sion (e.g., t-test, ANOVA, multiple regression). Because these statistical
techniques require data to be structured in certain ways, research questions
may be formed to match these structures. For example, if a researcher wishes
to investigate how a group of individuals changes over time (e.g., change
in a student’s musical self-efficacy over four years), he/she is likely familiar
with repeated-measures ANOVA as a means for dealing with time series
data. In repeated-measures ANOVA, the categorical grouping variable is
time (e.g., year 1, year 2, year 3, year 4) and there is a continuous dependent
variable (e.g., musical self-efficacy). The research question that can be asked
with this data structure is something like the following: Do these students
(as a group) differ in their self-efficacy over four years? However, other
300 Nicholas Stefanic
questions that might be considered include the following: To what extent
do individuals vary in their individual growth; how much is growth related
to other predictor variables (e.g., IQ, musical aptitude, hours of practice);
or how much is an individual’s initial self-efficacy related to his/her change
in self-efficacy? Each of these questions seek a deeper, more substantive pic-
ture of the change in a student’s self-efficacy over time in comparison to the
initial research question stated with the repeated-measures ANOVA frame-
work. Unfortunately, some of these questions (and others like them, to be
discussed later) either cannot be asked in a traditional ANOVA repeated-
measures framework or cannot be handled in a very straightforward man-
ner. These questions can be considered with other, possibly less well-known,
data analysis techniques such as Structural Equation Modeling and Multi-
level Modeling.
STRUCTURAL EQUATION MODELING
Structural Equation Modeling (SEM) is not a new technique, but it has

gained popularity over the past few decades with the advent of personal
computers with sufficient computing capabilities to handle the complex
and tedious calculations and with the development of special-purpose SEM
software. Interestingly, almost all univariate and multivariate General Lin-
ear Model (GLM) techniques are subsumed by SEM in a hierarchical man-
ner and can be accomplished with SEM programs (Bagozzi & Yi, 2012;
Graham, 2008).
Logic of SEM
For someone unfamiliar with SEM, it is perhaps beneficial to conceive of it
as a combination of path analysis and Confirmatory Factor Analysis (CFA).
With path analysis, a researcher hypothesizes a series of causal relationships
(often mediating and moderating relationships) between a set of measured
variables. Those relationships are displayed as a path diagram with single-
headed arrows indicating direction of causality. Using a series of multiple
regression equations the researcher then calculates coefficients (β), which
are interpreted as the amount of change in an outcome variable with a given
change in the predictor variable.
In CFA, a researcher hypothesizes a factor structure for a set of mea-
sured variables a priori. The latent variables (not actually directly measured)
are believed to cause the responses seen on the respective items (the actual
measured variables). The measured variables are called manifest variables
because they are believed to be manifestations of the underlying, unobserv-
able latent variable.1 CFA is different than Exploratory Factor Analysis
(often referred to simply as factor analysis) in that CFA attempts to deter-
mine if the hypothesized factor structure fits the observed data, whereas
Structural Equation Modeling 301
EFA attempts to discover the factor structure for the observed data. Con-
ceptually, a structural equation model combines the structural aspect (causal
relationships) of path analysis with the measurement aspect (hypothesized
factor structure of latent variables) of CFA. SEM simultaneously evaluates a
structural and a measurement model in relation to the observed data.
There is also another important distinction between SEM procedures and
traditional GLM procedures. Typically, with inferential statistics we attempt
to estimate the population parameter(s) from our sample data, and then
use a statistical significance test to determine the probability of observing a
parameter of that size (or greater) if in fact the parameter was something else
(e.g., the mean is zero; there is no relationship between two variables). The
observed sample data is treated as a known, and the parameter is treated
as an unknown. With MLE (Maximum Likelihood Estimation), the logic is
flipped, and we treat the parameter as a known, and the observed sample
data as an unknown. Using an iterative process (i.e., an algorithm), MLE
finds the parameter estimate(s) that would make the sample data the most
likely to have been observed.
There is also another important distinction between SEM procedures and
traditional GLM procedures. Since we rarely can study every individual in
a population, we conduct research on samples of populations. The goal of
inferential statistics is to estimate the parameters of these populations (e.g.,
mean, variance, covariance) from the sample statistics. There are many ways
to go about estimating these parameters. Traditional GLM procedures often
utilize the Ordinary Least Squares (OLS) method to estimate the population
parameters. Most SEM software offer a wide variety of estimation methods,
of which MLE is the most common. A full explanation of MLE is beyond
the scope of this chapter, but an explanation can be found in virtually any
SEM textbook.
Example of SEM
The following example will help to illustrate the potential uses of SEM
by relating to an actual study in the music education literature (although
this study did not use SEM). Brand (1986) investigated the relationship
between the home musical environments of second graders and musical
attributes (tonal perception, rhythmic perception, and musical achieve-
ment). Using EFA, Brand developed a 15-item Home Musical Environment
Scale (HOMES), which measures four dimensions (factors): “(a) parents’
attitude toward music and musical involvement with child; (b) parental con-
cert attendance; (c) parent-child ownership and use of record/tape player,
records, tapes; and (d) parent plays a musical instrument” (p. 115). Brand
used setwise2 multiple regression analysis to explore relationships between
the four dimensions of HOMES and the musical attributes. With multiple
regression analysis all items for a given factor have to be summed or aver-
aged to produce a single number to use as the independent variable. So while
a measurement instrument might be developed in a reflective latent variable
framework (e.g., using EFA), it is actually analyzed as a composite vari-
able (assumed to be measured without error), not as a true reflective latent
variable, in traditional regression analyses. In essence, all item variance is
treated as common factor variance and each variable contributes equally to
the composite variable (i.e., has the same factor loading). In a SEM frame-
work, the hypothesized factor structure can remain intact for any variable
that assumes a latent variable measurement model, which means all infor-
mation from each item is included in the model, and subsequently in the
hypothesis testing and model evaluation.
To return to the Brand (1986) example, musical achievement was mea-
sured with a 12-item Musical Achievement Assessment Form (MAAF),
which measures four areas: “musical knowledge (e.g., music symbols, terms,
and instruments), skill in (instrumental and vocal) performance, music read-
ing, and musical initiative (e.g., degree of interest and motivation” (p. 115).
Gordon’s Primary Measure of Music Audiation was used to measure tonal
and rhythmic aptitude, an oft-used measure in music education. There are
several options for how to handle this particular measure in a SEM frame-
work. A latent musical aptitude variable could be modeled as being indicated
by two items,3 the rhythmic and tonal sub-scores. Another option would be
to construct two latent variables, one for rhythmic and one for tonal, with
their respective test items as effect indicators of the latent variable.
For didactic purposes, one potential (hypothetical) model for addressing
questions about the relationships between home environment and musical
attributes is shown in Figure 19.1. This particular model also illustrates the
strength of SEM to test mediation in a straightforward manner. In this model,
tonal and rhythmic aptitude mediates the relationship between home environ-
ment and musical achievement. This model also illustrates how SEM allows
the researcher to make explicit the structure of the errors (random and mea-
surement). All endogenous latent variables (variables with arrows pointing
toward them) also have a disturbance pointed toward them, which represents
the remaining variance not explainable by the variables that point to them.
In addition, each manifest/measured variable also has a symbol similar to
the disturbance, which represents unique variance for each item (variance
that is not part of the common factor). This is but one potential model for
investigating the relationships between these variables. Once the model has
been specified, the parameters for the model would be estimated using the
iterative procedure described above. Assuming convergence is reached (i.e., a
solution is found), the model is then evaluated for overall fit. In addition to
calculating various fit statistics, a chi-square test provides a formal inferential
test of model fit. All of the various evaluation techniques (see Hu & Bentler,
1998, for a discussion of fit indices) are different ways of testing how well
the data fit the specified model. If the model appears to have acceptable fit,
then the model can be interpreted by examining the parameter estimates and
R2 values (i.e., explained variance). Hypothesis tests can be conducted on the
various path coefficients and/or on the variance/covariance estimates.
Figure 19.1 Hypothetical SEM model for Brand (1986). Item numbers are also
hypothetical and do not relate to actual MAAF and HOMES measures. Circles are
latent variables, rectangles are manifest/measured variables, straight arrows repre-
sent causal relationships, and curved arrows show covariance/correlation of exog-
enous variables.
Advantages of SEM
There are several advantages of SEM in comparison to other traditional
GLM procedures, as explained by Bagozzi and Yi (2012) and Lei and Wu
(2007), and described below. First, SEM allows the investigation of the
relationships between latent variables. In path analysis, causal relationships
can only be modeled with measured (observed) variables. With CFA, latent
variables can only be modeled to affect measured (observed) variables. SEM
overcomes these two limitations because latent variables can be modeled to
impact other latent variables. CFA is actually a special case of SEM.
Second, from a measurement perspective, using latent variables in model-
ing causal relationships between constructs is ideal because latent variables
have no measurement error. Multiple regression and ANOVA techniques, all
of which use single indicators for each variable (often an average of multiple
items), do not take measurement error into account when testing hypotheses
because they have the assumption that variables were measured without
error, which is rarely the case in social sciences. With SEM, the reliability of
individual measures is taken into account in hypothesis tests.
Third, the specification process involved with SEM can help research-
ers to be more particular in how they operationalize constructs and how
they specify their hypotheses. Fourth, from a practical standpoint, the visual
nature of SEM path diagrams not only helps the researcher think more glob-
ally or holistically, but also can help to convey theories more easily through
visual depiction of variable relationships. Fifth, the SEM framework works
equally well for exploratory research, which involves model building, as for
confirmatory research, which involves model testing. When done appropri-
ately and with good reason, the combination of exploratory and confirma-
tory research can advance theory development quite substantially.
While the SEM framework is most often used to examine covariances, it
can also be used to examine means. Therefore, the sixth advantage of SEM
is that it is possible to compare the means of groups on latent variables (e.g.,
using multiple group CFA). A traditional ANOVA can only compare means
of observed/measured variables. Therefore, in addition to examining covari-
ance structure, mean differences between groups can also be incorporated
into a SEM analysis.
There are several caveats that should also be mentioned in regards to
SEM. First and foremost, SEM is undoubtedly a large-sample technique.
Although “rule-of-thumb” statements about sample size are difficult to
make with SEM because models can vary in complexity, Jackson (2003) has
provided some evidence for considering the ratio of sample size to the num-
ber of parameters being estimated, suggesting 20:1 is ideal but certainly not
less than 10:1. Second, SEM research tends to place less emphasis on indi-
vidual tests of statistical significance and more emphasis on evaluation of
entire models. Kline (2011) explains that this is because “there is a sense in
SEM that the view of the entire landscape (the whole model) has precedence
over that of specific details (individual effects)” (p. 13). In addition, because
SEM is a large-sample technique, and because hypothesis tests are sensitive
to sample size, it becomes more likely that null hypotheses are rejected sim-
ply because of a large N. Kline (2004, 2011) is also a staunch advocate of
focusing more on magnitudes of effect sizes, and thus practical significance,
as opposed to primarily focusing on statistical significance.
MULTILEVEL MODELING
As previously mentioned, SEM is not a new technique, and subsumes all

other traditional GLM procedures. More recently (within the last 30 years),
an extension of the GLM has been developed to handle hierarchically orga-
nized or nested data. Hierarchical linear modeling (HLM), also known as
multilevel modeling, was developed in the 1980s, with some preliminary
work accomplished in the 1970s, and has continued to develop since then,
with the list of applications ever-expanding. The term multilevel modeling
(MLM) will be used for the remainder of the chapter because it is a more
general term that characterizes a range of analysis techniques that utilize a
nested data structure. The need for MLM arose out of the recognition that
using aggregates of data that are nested or hierarchical in nature leads to
severe bias in estimates used in common statistical techniques.
Need for MLM

A fundamental assumption of virtually all traditional GLM statistical analy-
sis techniques is that the residuals must be independent. This means that the
reason why one particular observation deviates from the mean does not also
affect the deviation of any other observation. This is done to simplify the
statistical model, but it also limits the situations in which the assumption is
appropriate. If our model seeks to explain the variance in our measurements
in a certain way, and if we do not account for other sources of variance that
are shared by two or more observations, then these other sources of vari-
ance can cloud the conclusions we draw from our data. In most situations
where observations are organized hierarchically (nested in groups), there is
likely some amount of variance explained by being in one group or another,
and thus all the observations are not independent of each other, but rather
are dependent on group membership. A hypothetical example of this prob-
lem in a music education research context will be helpful.
Imagine a researcher is interested in comparing the differences between
two teaching styles (TS), an informal vs. a formal approach to teaching, in a
general music context as they relate to students’ musical creative self-efficacy
(MCSE), that is, one’s perceived ability to be creative in music. The research
question might be the following: Are their differences in students’ musical
creative self-efficacy (MCSE) that result from different teaching styles (TS)?
The researcher recruits 30 music teachers to participate in the study, 15 of
which use an informal approach and 15 of which use a formal approach.
For our purposes, I will avoid a discussion on the distinctions between and
the merits of these two approaches and simply treat them as two different
teaching approaches for experimental purposes. In addition to MCSE, the
researcher would like to control for some other variables (covariates) that
have been demonstrated in the literature to impact MCSE, such as students’
private lessons experience (PLE), creative music-making experience (CMME),
and musical aptitude (MA). In a traditional multiple regression analysis, the
researcher collects measurements for each variable, regresses self-efficacy on
teaching style (formal/informal) after controlling for the three covariates, and
tests for statistically significant differences in MCSE. If student MCSE scores
from all of these different classrooms are simply combined/aggregated, we
fail to account for the impact of the specific classroom each student works
in. This could include effects related to the specific teacher, the interactions
between specific students in that classroom, or a number of other classroom-
specific variables. These differences attributable to the between-classroom
differences would be ignored so we could not tell if differences in MCSE are
actually a result of teaching style or classroom-specific effects. MLM pro-
vides the appropriate framework for this situation.
Moreover, hierarchical or multilevel structure is much more prevalent in
music education research contexts than one might expect. The following
situations all represent contexts where a nested data structure is present, and
therefore a MLM analysis framework would be beneficial: any time students
are working in groups; comparing students from classrooms at different
schools; comparing schools across a state when schools are nested within
different school districts; and almost any repeated-measures design (each
measurement occasion is nested within each individual student).
Advantages of MLM
There are several reasons for using MLM, both statistical and practical. From a
statistics standpoint, MLM provides better estimates of fixed effects. For exam-
ple, if traditional techniques were used to estimate the cross-level interaction of
creative music-making experience and teaching experience, the assumption of
independence would be violated because CMME is a level-one variable (stu-
dent-level) and students are nested within classrooms, and therefore not inde-
pendent. The issue of the independence assumption for traditional regression
analyses is quite serious because violations result in severely biased estimates,
which in turn leads to untrustworthy inferences (Kenny & Judd, 1986;
Scariano & Davenport, 1987). While many analysis techniques are robust to
violations of some of the other assumptions (e.g., normality), failure to account
for non-independence in one’s data is actually harmful to the research field
because of the untrustworthiness of any conclusions drawn from such an analysis.
In addition to the ability to ask questions about cross-level variability in the data,
MLM also provides better level-one estimates. If separate regression analyses
were done for each classroom in the MCSE example, the sample size for each
classroom would be relatively small, which results in more error in the estimates.
From a practical standpoint, MLM offers an alternative to the loss of
information that occurs when dependent (non-independent) data are aggre-
gated. Information regarding differences between groups can be just as
important as the information from all of the individuals within the groups.
An MLM framework allows for all useful data to be incorporated. Finally,
MLM provides a statistical framework by which cross-institution collabo-
ration can be accomplished. Larger samples can be achieved when multiple
institutions are involved and the nested nature of cross-institutional data can
be accounted for with MLM.
A few additional comments should be made regarding the advantages of
MLM specific to repeated-measures data. Repeated-measures data can also
be conceived as being nested (in addition to being non-independent). Con-
sider the previous example with musical creative self-efficacy, but this time
as a repeated-measures design, and the researcher is interested in students’
change in self-efficacy over the course of the year. The researcher has stu-
dents complete a measure of self-efficacy once a month for the entire school
year, which results in nine measurement occasions. In this example, level one
is within-individual, the nine measurements over time per individual. We
could refer to this as the occasion level. This means that level two is actu-
ally the individual, which we would refer to as the individual level. From
this perspective, measurement occasions are nested within individuals, so a
multilevel/hierarchical analysis is logical.
In traditional repeated-measures ANOVA analysis, the amount of time
between measurements must be equal (equal intervals) and the number of
observations per individual must be equal. MLM is capable of handling obser-
vations collected at different time points and different numbers of obser-
vations per individual. The reason for this is that MLM models time as a
continuous variable as opposed to a categorical variable like in repeated-
measures ANOVA or MANOVA. This is particularly helpful because it is
fairly common in an educational setting for a student to be absent on the day
a measurement is taken. If that observation needs to be made a week later,
MLM can incorporate this difference in measurement interval. If that par-
ticular measurement is missed altogether and the student has only eight mea-
surements instead of nine, MLM can handle the missing data much better
than ANOVA. Most statistical programs will simply eliminate that individual
from the analysis, which can result in a large amount of information loss.
While the flexible nature of MLM analysis is helpful from a data collection
standpoint, it also offers several additional flexibilities from an analysis stand-
point. The term hierarchical linear modeling implies an exclusiveness to linear
growth, but MLM can also model nonlinear and even more complex growth
curves. Another advantage of MLM is the ability to incorporate covariates
(predictors) that vary over time (occasion-level) as well as covariates (predic-
tors) that are constant (individual-level). For example, in addition to measuring
MCSE, the researcher could also take a measure of motivation at each time
point, thus representing an occasion-level predictor. Similarly, the same previ-
ously discussed covariates (e.g., musical aptitude) could be included as level
two (individual-level) predictors. Lastly, in traditional repeated-measures anal-
ysis, there is an assumption that all individuals have the same growth curve.
With MLM, it is possible to have different growth curves for each individual,
something that is more likely the case in real life for many situations.
What is hopefully clear at this point is that both SEM and MLM are
extremely powerful analytic techniques, with several advantages over tra-
ditional analysis techniques in many circumstances. We now consider the
different types of questions that can be asked with these analysis techniques
in comparison to traditional techniques.
BROADENING AND DEEPENING RESEARCH QUESTIONS
To begin, remember that SEM can be thought of as the overarching frame-

work for all traditional GLM procedures. The biggest difference with SEM
and more traditional approaches is that the emphasis is on more global or
holistic aspects of theory building. The notion of generating and confirm-
ing theory can also be thought of as being hierarchical in nature. While
SEM can be used for all traditional analysis techniques, the beauty of SEM
is in its ability to handle huge amounts of complexity in a rather intuitive
manner, with great flexibility. As such, SEM affords analysis of the types
of research questions described in Table 1. In addition to providing general
research questions, Table 1 also provides examples specific to the Brand
(1986) hypothetical examples discussed in the SEM portion of this chapter.
What is evident from the example questions is the focus on model fit and
model comparison, which emphasizes larger-scale theory development.
Both of the approaches discussed in this chapter (SEM and MLM) can
be used to address the questions in Table 19.1, but a multilevel framework
affords different types of research questions, those that focus on between-level
Table 19.1 Example General Research Questions with Corresponding Examples in

Music Education for SEM Approach
General Examples Music Education Examples
How well does this model fit the How well does the model explaining
observed data? the relationships of home musical
environment, musical aptitude, and
musical achievement fit the data?
Confirmatory Approach
Can other models, mathematically Same question (see Lee &

equivalent but with different Hershberger, 1990 for a discussion
specified relationships and of equivalent models)
assumptions, better explain the
observed data?
Which of these rival models best fits Which of these models, one with
the observed data? musical aptitude as a mediator or one
with musical aptitude as a separate
effect of home musical environment,
best fits the observed data?
How much variance is explained by How much variance is explained
each individual component of the by rhythmic and tonal aptitude as
model? mediators in this model?
Given the results of the SEM Same question. Many SEM
analysis, what modifications to programs generate suggestions for
Exploratory Approach
the model can be made to better altering paths that might fit the data
fit the observed data? Are those better. Are these alterations plausible
modifications plausible and rational? and rational?
Does one model fit the observed data Is musical aptitude a mediator of
better for one level of a categorical home musical environment and
variable compared to other levels? musical achievement only for
Should two or more complimentary students from high SES families?
models be considered?
differences. Those questions are slightly different depending on whether the
multilevel data is organizational (i.e., observations of individuals nested within
groups) or longitudinal (i.e., measurement occasions nested within individu-
als). Table 19.2 identifies examples of general research questions for organiza-
tional data as well as specific examples as they would relate to the hypothetical
study discussed in the MLM section of this chapter. As for longitudinal data,
Table 19.3 displays the corresponding questions for a longitudinal multilevel
design and examples specific to the hypothetical music education study dis-
cussed in the repeated-measures MLM section of this chapter.
These techniques can also be expanded beyond what has been dis-
cussed in this chapter. In short, it is possible to have multilevel SEM and
there are also latent variable MLM approaches. Each have situations in
which they are the better choice (for further discussion, see Stoel & Garre,
2011). It is also possible to create three-level models. For example, in a

Music Education for an MLM Approach with Organizational Data (observations of
individuals nested within groups)
General Research Questions Music Education Examples
What is the proportion of variance What proportion of variance in musical

within- and between- groups for the creative self-efficacy is attributable to
outcome variable? differences between classrooms and
within classrooms?
Does the relationship between a given Does the relationship between musical
level-one predictor and the outcome aptitude and MCSE vary between
vary across level-two units? classrooms?
When a level-one predictor is added, When musical aptitude is added as an
how much is the proportion of within- individual-level (level one) predictor,
level variance reduced? how much is the proportion of within-
classroom variance in MCSE reduced?
When a level-two predictor is added, When teaching experience is added as
how much is the proportion of a classroom-level (level two) predictor,
between-level variance reduced? how much is the proportion of between-
classroom variance in MCSE reduced?
What is the relationship between What is the relationship between
a given level-one predictor and the musical aptitude and MCSE?
outcome variable?
What is the relationship between a What is the relationship between
given level-two predictor and the teaching experience and MCSE?
outcome variable?
To what extent is the relationship To what extent is the relationship
between a given within-level variable between musical aptitude and MCSE
and the outcome variable moderated by moderated by teaching experience?
a given between-level variable?
Music Education for an MLM Approach with Longitudinal Data (observations of
measurement occasions nested within individuals)
General Research Questions Music Education Examples
What is the form of the growth curve What is the form of the growth curve
(nature of the change) between individuals (nature of the change) for students’
(linear, quadratic, cubic, etc.)? MCSE over nine months?
To what extent do individuals vary To what extent do individual students
(between each other) in their initial status vary (between each other) in their initial
(intercept) on an outcome variable? MCSE score (intercept)?
To what extent do individuals vary To what extent do individual students
(between each other) in their rate (slope) vary (between each other) in their rate
of change on an outcome variable? (slope) of change in MCSE?
What is the relationship between a given What is the relationship between
time-varying variable and individuals’ motivation and students’ initial MCSE?
intial status on an outcome variable?
What is the relationship between a given What is the relationship between
time-varying variable and individuals’ motivation and students’ rate of change
rate of change in an outcome variable? in MCSE?
What is the relationship between What is the relationship between
individuals’ intial status on an outcome students’ intial MCSE and their rate of
variable and their rate of change? change in MCSE?
When a time-varying (level-one) When motivation is added as an
covariate/predictor is added, how much occasion-level (level one) predictor,
is the proportion of within-individuals how much is the proportion of within-
variance reduced? individual variance in MCSE reduced?
When an individual-level (level-two) When musical aptitude is added as an
predictor is added, how much is the individual-level (level two) covariate/
proportion of between-individuals predictor, how much is the proportion
variance reduced? of between-individuals variance in
MCSE reduced?
longitudinal design where participants were sampled from different class-

rooms or schools, the first level is still within-individual, the second level is
between-individuals, and the third level would correspond to the between-
classroom differences. The MLM framework has also been extended to
include nonlinear data, dichotomous outcomes, multivariate outcomes,
latent variables, factor analysis, and situations where participants are
cross-classified or have multiple group membership. From a measurement
perspective, several authors have described how MLM can be extended to
Item Response Theory (IRT) models as well (cf. Kamata & Cheong, 2007;
Kamata & Vaughn, 2011), which incorporates a very different approach
to measurement.
CONCLUSIONS
There have been many advances in statistical analysis techniques, many of

which are not being incorporated with any regularity into the field of music
education research. SEM and MLM offer opportunities to analyze complex
and hierarchically structured data in a flexible manner. To be clear, com-
plexity is not a goal in and of itself. Simply adding variables to a model to
make it more complex does not make it better. The intent of this chapter is
to emphasize that there are indeed techniques available to more effectively
model the complexity of our world than traditional GLM approaches.
As many advanced statistics textbooks begin: the world is multivariate.
As such, many researchers and statisticians alike have long argued for the
need to approach research problems from a multivariate standpoint. That is,
any effect of one thing on another is likely to be multifaceted and produce
multiple effects, especially when the unit of analysis is the human being. I
hope to further this argument by claiming that the world is also multilevel.
Individuals live, work, learn, grow, and change within various social settings
and geographical locations. Multilevel approaches are particularly impor-
tant because they allow for the analysis of contextual effects. In an era when
context is recognized as a necessary part of any explanation, MLM can
provide a means for considering context in a quantitative manner.
The techniques discussed in this chapter are decidedly large sample tech-
niques, a notion for which I have two comments. First, large samples should
always be the goal in quantitative research. Small samples are particularly
susceptible to capitalization on chance, which can lead to seemingly well-
founded conclusions that are erroneous simply because of the characteristics
of the specific small sample examined in the research.
Second, we must begin to think bigger with quantitative research, both in
terms of sample sizes and in terms of large-scale theory development, both
of which require collaboration in music education research. Collaboration
can support and improve the cross-pollination of ideas, which can enrich
the process of research. Along with collaboration, particularly between-
institution collaboration, comes access to potentially larger sample sizes. A
between-institution sample is problematic from a traditional GLM analysis
standpoint (non-independence of observations), but can be easily managed
with MLM techniques. As such, larger samples resulting from collaborative
efforts can actually allow us to ask deeper research questions because of
the affordances of these large-sample techniques, which have already been
discussed. Such collaboration is easier than ever, logistically speaking, due
to the global connectivity of the Internet.
It is not my intent to suggest that these approaches are necessary or even
appropriate for all research situations. Every statistical analysis approach
has its advantages and disadvantages and it is still the responsibility of
the researcher to determine the most appropriate method. If ANOVA will
work for answering the research question, then use ANOVA. However, if a
broader research question can and should be developed, then the researcher
should strongly consider these techniques for analyzing the data. It is my
hope that by providing a brief overview of these very powerful approaches
to data analysis, the statistical toolbox for music education research may be
expanded. In addition, if we conceive our research questions in relation to
our knowledge of techniques for analyzing the data, then I also hope this
chapter will help to broaden and deepen the types of research questions that
we ask in the general quantitative research context. In combination with
high-quality qualitative research and mixed/multiple-methods approaches,
this can in turn lead to more valuable, useful, and trustworthy research in
the field of music education.
NOTES
1. This is the most common type of latent variable, often referred to as a reflec-
tive latent variable. Other specifications are possible, including composite and
formative latent variables (cf. Bollen & Bauldry, 2011; Cadogan & Lee, 2013)
2. Setwise regression is a type of stepwise regression, but variables are entered
into the model in sets of variables.
3. This is possible as long as (1) there is at least one more reflective latent variable
in the model, which also has at least two effect indicator manifest variables;
(2) the factors are properly scaled; (3) each item loads on only one factor; and
(4) the errors are not correlated. Otherwise, the model is underidentified.
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20 Reflecting on Guiding
Researchers
Peter R. Webster
Taken as a whole, the four chapters in this portion of Music Education:

Navigating the Future provide both the practitioner and the researcher with
a number of compelling ideas for improving the profession. But perhaps
more importantly, they also reveal a need to recalibrate our approach as
teacher educators to the way research is traditionally taught in both under-
graduate and graduate programs. I begin noting some highlights of these
chapters and end with some thoughts on research teaching.
METHODOLOGICAL TRENDS IN MUSIC

EDUCATION RESEARCH
Zelenak’s chapter on methodological trends is a fine way to begin this sec-

tion on “Guiding Researchers.” It reminds us of the tradition of research in
our field, how new it is, and—in some ways—how far we need to go in years
ahead. I enjoyed the reminder of the context of our research efforts, the his-
torical roots that got us to where we are. I look forward to an expansion of
this work to include perhaps more representative time periods and perhaps
a few other journals, but I appreciate the restrictions.
The notion of taking a “snapshot” of studies across the different time
frames was confirmatory and revealing. The increase in the actual numbers
of published articles is encouraging and, when added to the rising number
of national and international journals both printed and online, this is a
most healthy sign for our profession. I was surprised that the proportion of
qualitative versus quantitative studies remained constant; this was perhaps
an artifact of the journals and the years studied. My sense is that a more
even balance of methodologies is evident in recent times and, if true, rep-
resents another positive sign. The trend toward more social and cultural
context studies is expected; the existence of fewer standardized test instru-
ments used as measurement tools in deference to more questionnaires was
revealing and well reasoned in the chapter. It was concerning to note the
increase in convenience sampling, a trend that was also well explained by the
author. Zelenak’s conclusions about different topics studied and the ability
Reflecting on Guiding Researchers 315
of researchers to deal with questionnaire data more effectively in recent
times are points well taken. Finally, the author touches on a critical point in
the final pages of the chapter relating to the issue of the questions posed by
researchers. He notes that no research to date has been done on the matter
of questions chosen for study—an excellent and meaningful observation.
Further, his concern for nomological networks and the need for connected
studies, built upon each other for the intent of studying theories and models,
is perhaps the most salient point to consider. Each of the chapters in this sec-
tion speaks to this in different ways, some more directly than others.
APPLICATION OF SOUND STUDIES TO QUALITATIVE

RESEARCH IN MUSIC EDUCATION
Abramo’s chapter on the field of sound studies and its implications for both
teaching and research represents a topic of major importance for a small but
very talented group of music education researchers and theorists. As a com-
pliment to his chapter, I recommend the work of Matthew Thibeault, Evan
Tobias, and Alex Ruthmann, among others. New teachers and researchers,
especially those interested in media and technology and their role in the
emerging social structures of youth and music consumption today, will find
this and other writings to be foundational.
For years, I have said in my classes and when giving talks to other audi-
ences that music educators are “sound educators,” with the pun intended.
My motivation for this comes from passion about thinking in sound and
its role in moving the agenda ahead for creative experiences to accompany
more teacher-centered approaches that do not give time for the student
voice. Embedded in this excellent chapter, and also in Silverman’s to come,
is this same disposition. Abramo touches on the importance of sound and
its consideration both in terms of teaching practice but also in the ways we
do and present research. His notion of “individual phenomenology” with
respect to the sonic experiences of individuals is powerful. I feel this has
major importance for the way to teach listening, something that we do not
do well in my opinion. His example of the differing perceptions surround-
ing Bach’s “C Major Prelude” of the Well Tempered Clavier is a brilliant
example of how patterns of tradition in our institutions have effected per-
sonal construction of meaning. The more open consideration of the sonic
experience of music is an important notion for music listening. I have in
mind too the questions of recorded music today. For example, as teachers of
music within the context of today’s media, we need to be aware of the issues
of sound production and reproduction. This chapter and the references
therein welcome the music teachers to be sensitive to how the live sounds
of artists of all types are processed for consumption. Yet another interest-
ing facet of this discussion is the matter of visual experiences of music in
performance as a factor in music listening.
316 Peter R. Webster
But Abramo gives us more. His speculation and observations about its
role in research might be an even more important question. His idea of more
soundscapes in our conception of data sets is worth major consideration
and invites us to be more thoughtful about the implications of sound. The
advancements now in some research publications (both online and more tra-
ditional) that allow multiple forms of media as part of the evidence presented
welcome this affordance. The use of sound in our presentations of research
too are noted, opening up a way to think more creatively about making the
findings more meaningful for audiences interested in the sonic experience.
I found the examples offered about sounds betraying the sociological and
historical record of schooling to be intriguing and potentially very useful
for researchers interested in deconstructing the educational experience. His
explanation of “noise” in this context is important.
The section on arts-based research, inspired in part by Eisner’s writing,
is also of importance, especially for those that frame the requirements for
advanced degrees. Newer forms of “research” in our field that might include
less discursive prose and more artistic products such as narratives, plays,
and musical compositions place more attention on the arts experience as
part of the research record. Perhaps it is time for us to welcome more cre-
ative approaches to terminal degree requirements and to the acceptance of
research reports with more “musical” evidence.
CRITICAL ETHNOGRAPHY AS/FOR PRAXIS:

A PATHWAY FOR MUSIC EDUCATION
Silverman’s chapter on critical ethnography resonated deeply for me. She

frames her explanation of this kind of ethnography in the context of one of
the most pressing problems facing music education today: the disconnect
between the musical worlds of the vast majority of today’s youth and the tra-
ditional ways we teach music in schools. In the opening pages of this chapter,
she sets the groundwork for this problem. In so doing, she makes the pur-
pose (and, I would argue, importance) of critical ethnography so much more
meaningful. I share her passion for finding new “pathways” for school music
programs that respect the past but also recognize the present. Her reinforce-
ment of Madison’s notion of a “more meaningful musical, interpersonal, and
intersubjective transactions and transformations among students, teachers,
and classrooms” serves as an excellent foundation for understanding critical
ethnography research and its implications for practice.
Her description of critical ethnography as a study of the interdependence
of theory and practice in the context of an ethical stance is revealing. For
some, the idea of using qualitative data for supporting the study of social,
political, and ethical questions might appear to be too prescriptive. Yet to
adopt this view is to dismiss years of work in critical theory and critical
pedagogy. Such work lays bear for all to see certain inequities and injustices
that require our attention. Silverman’s treatment of the historical back-
ground of critical ethnography and the fine distinctions between “method”
and “methodology” in the context of epistemology is important reading for
any researcher who intends to do any kind of ethnography or any type of
research for that matter. She proceeds to explain the common principles that
critical ethnographic studies contain and, in so doing, lays solid ground for
how such work is done and how it relates to good teaching.
I really enjoyed the case she makes for critical ethnography helping the
teaching process. It is generally believed that, in years to come, we must do
a much better job of linking research to practice and her arguments bol-
ster this view. She makes a more nuanced approach to the word “praxis,”
something that is badly needed. She reminds us of Freire in this context and
earlier in the chapter when noting his notion of the “banking-method” of
teaching. His “problem-posing” approach is also a very important concept
in imagining change in the way teaching is done and I can understand how
being sensitive to these notions can be the focus of critical ethnology and the
change of teaching practices.
Silverman ends her chapter by focusing on music listening as a context for
critical ethnography and teacher reform. Clearly, focus on music listening
instruction that takes a “non-active” approach and privileges the Western
art canon to the exclusion of other styles and nationalities of music are
troublesome problems to be sure. However, I do want to caution about
over compensation. I would personally maintain that adopting a posture
of excluding Western art music from reform in music listening education is
itself a kind of ethical problem, worthy also of carefully crafted critical eth-
nographic study. I am guessing that Silverman might agree with this and my
reading of the section that follows about communitas reinforces this guess.
Finally, the list of questions that serves as a conclusion to her excellent chap-
ter deserves careful study and should be added to other research questions
raised in other chapters in this section.
STRUCTURAL EQUATION MODELING AND MULTILEVEL

MODELING IN MUSIC EDUCATION: ADVANCING
QUANTITATIVE RESEARCH DATA ANALYSIS
From quite a different research perspective, Stefanic welcomes us into a level

of sophisticated thinking about quantitative inquiry. Silverman and Abramo
present cases for expanding and deepening our views of more qualitative
work, and Stefanic does the same on the quantitative side. His work repre-
sents a growing interest among quantitative scholars in such fields as psy-
chology, sociology, and learning science to try to account more completely
for the complexities of human behavior variables and their interrelation
in complex social and cultural settings. He begins his excellent chapter on
structural equation and multilevel modeling by reminding us that research
318 Peter R. Webster
questions are at times chosen with statistical tools and classic research
designs in mind rather than on carefully conceived wonderments about
music teaching and learning. It is tempting for teachers of research at begin-
ning levels to encourage this in an attempt to get musicians thinking quanti-
tatively. Of course to deepen our thinking about problems that really matter,
more advanced knowledge of more complicated multivariate procedures
such as the ones advocated in this chapter is needed and must be embedded
earlier in our teaching.
Stefanic’s passion for modeling of complex behavior is evident and rep-
resents an important way to foster better research in our field. He sees this
as existing at the very core of quantitative inquiry and I cannot agree more.
By “model,” Stefanic is not talking about a statistical model as much as
a conception of how variables of importance relate to each other in our
world—conceptual hypotheses that provide a rich view of our lives. For
example, he has in mind a theory or model about motivation to study music,
or a model that conceptualizes how creative thinking in music works, or a
theory about the role of home environment on music learning. Such model-
ing of important questions often does not find its way into the conceptual
foundation of quantitative empirical work. This has taken its toll on a fair
amount of quantitative study in music teaching and learning over the years.
The shortcomings of some quantitative studies that use limited designs, poor
sampling, and questionable statistical applications has lead to the legitimate
criticism by many who view quantitatively-driven work as shallow, false,
and unrepresentative of meaning for music teaching and learning. He makes
a solid case for more advanced multivariates addressing these concerns.
An important part of understanding this chapter is to already have a solid
knowledge of basic statistics and research design, particularly those that are
based on what might be categorized as belonging to the General Linear Model
(GLM). These include the often taught procedures of ANOVA, ANCOVA,
MANOVA, MANCOVA, ordinary linear regression, t-tests and F-tests. Stefanic
explains how these are less effective in providing evidence of complex interac-
tion of variables. The reader probably also needs to be somewhat familiar with
different approaches to factor analysis and regression.
All that said, he provides a fine introduction to the application of struc-
tural equation and multilevel modeling in music. His use of the Brand study
as an example of how the research questions might be viewed as structural
equation modeling is useful, as is his example of teaching style effectiveness
in his description of multilevel modeling.
Among the greatest strengths of this chapter are his clear descriptions of
the advantages of using these procedures and also the limitations. It might be
possible to get lost in some of the technical aspects of the descriptions, but
it is much more important to see the larger picture of why these procedures
can address the questions of a multivariate and multilevel world in which
we live. By describing these techniques in hopes of increasing the quality of
work, Stefanic opens the door for more nuanced understanding.
Tables 19.1, 19.2, and 19.3 offer a number of fascinating research ques-
tions that will help the new researcher broaden and deepen research agen-
das. He is quick to point out that not all research questions will require
structural equation or multilevel modeling and that other approaches
may well be worth employing. But at some point along the way, tapping
into these more sophisticated multivariate procedures is more likely as we
improve our research record.
CONCLUDING THOUGHTS
In all four of these chapters, one senses the importance of good research
questions. This is sometimes implied in the writing and at other times is
actually highlighted as a section. It is likely that our practice of teaching and
research will only improve in coming years if professionals have a better
understanding of research itself and the tools for doing it.
In each of these chapters, too, the clear role of interdisciplinary sensibility
is present. A review of the reference lists of each chapter will demonstrate
that each author is well-read in other disciplines and they apply this knowl-
edge to their scholarship. The development of this kind of cross-disciplin-
ary understanding does not happen by accident and probably needs to be
instilled as a core value in our research education efforts. Related to this is
a need for more collaboration between researchers in other fields of music
and with those outside our field. The disposition toward research teams
and a continuing agenda of research activity continues to evade most of our
professional efforts.
Finally, a clear implication for me in reading these chapters and in con-
sidering all that they have in common (and how they are different) is that
we need to upgrade our efforts to integrate research content into our profes-
sional education programs. Each of these chapters contain advanced thinking
about research and powerful implications for practice. To lay groundwork
for this, we simply need to do better at both our undergraduate and gradu-
ate levels in preparing our music teachers professionally. In undergraduate
education, evidence-based practice should be at the forefront of “methods”
classes (if we must continue to call them that). There is nothing inherently
complicated about the basics of good research and to include some level of
understanding in undergraduate programs is not asking too much if we are
clever at what we do. Graduate school offerings in research need to build
on this and lead readers to be better able to consume and apply the content
of chapters by Abramo, Silverman, and Stefanic particularly. If we have any
hope of really effecting reform in the way music is taught, better research
questions, interdisciplinary and collaborative efforts, and advanced under-
standing of the context and techniques of research are all necessary for the
future that we all want.
Part V
Plotting a Course of Action

21 A Theory of Change in
Music Education
Clint Randles
The purpose of this chapter is to propose a theory of change that might

be useful to the music education profession—theorists, researchers, and
practitioners alike.1 My experience as a school music teacher and as a
music teacher educator has helped inform these ideas. The theory takes
action in a conceptual model that I believe might serve as a frame of
reference for individuals who are thinking of implementing some sort
of change in practice, or to help frame the work of researchers in music
education who wish to study change. It is based on (1) the notion that as
we occupy a specific place, we seek to navigate the space that surrounds
us, to the benefit of the students or communities that we find ourselves
in, and (2) that this navigation is in and of itself a creative process. The
development of this theory has helped me in my early career as a music
teacher educator to conceive of change that is possible at my university,
change with the potential to impact the way that future generations of
students are educated in music. So, this theory is intended for all those
who are interested in the transformation of music education practice at
all levels, and the conceptual model is an attempt to account for many of
the factors that influence change.
Understanding the ideas put forth in this chapter requires a cognitive
leap, in that I speak of music education as if it were a specific person,
able to think about, act on, and react to the environment that surrounds
her. It is a bit tricky to make this leap, since when I speak about the
“individual” in this case I am actually talking about many individuals
and complex relationships among individuals that form schools or com-
munities, with specific histories and sometimes deeply seated traditions.
Just as every individual is unique, every school music culture is unique.
And, of course, this analogy works on multiple levels, and one could
think of the “individual” as a particular school or as music education in
the United States. My hope is that you, the reader, can take these ideas
and apply them to the specific area of change that you wish to implement
in your specific setting.
324 Clint Randles
CHANGE?
If you are reading this chapter, there is a good chance that you are someone
with an interest in seeing music education be a valuable part of your com-
munity. It is likely that some of you are music teacher educators who would
like to see the future teachers with whom you are working be well equipped
to be successful in this the first part of the 21st century. I would like to
suggest here that change, in both variety and in degree, is a product of the
specific culture that you find yourself working within. It is possible that you
are teaching in a setting that enjoys a 60 percent student participation rate,
well above the national average in the United States (21 percent) and Florida
(8 percent), and that the scope and quality of the music making that your
students are engaged in is excellent. In your case, there might not be a need
at the moment to change much of anything in the organization of what you
do. However, there may be some who are reading this who are struggling in
their specific setting to recruit students for and sustain meaningful interest
in music. This theory might be a useful tool to assist both your thinking and
action.
IDENTITY OF THE “INDIVIDUAL”
If one thinks of the term “individual” as applying to a specific culture of

music education, then one can think of that individual as possessing an iden-
tity. However, thinking this way is not without its challenges. These ideas
are situated within a foundationalist epistemological perspective, one that
supposes that the self can be explained by categorizing it into smaller units
for analysis. This has been the primary way that research in music education
has been approached since the days of Carl Seashore. This perspective has
been disputed over the past several decades (Siegel, 2006, p. 7). Poststruc-
turalists argue that the traditional conception of the self, as something that
can be conceptually reduced, scientifically studied, and then understood,
is amiss. Similarly, Anderson (1997) asserted that “all human societies are
built upon a lie, the lie of self” (p. xi), and suggested that instead of thinking
of the self as a single entity that can be studied as such, the academic com-
munity should instead think of two different alternative perspectives—the
“multiple-self” and the “no-self.” The primary tenant of the “multiple-self”
concept is that the self is, “decentered, multi-dimensional, [and] change-
able,” while the “no-self” concept suggests that we drop the idea of self
completely and try to connect the notion of being human to our wider sur-
roundings, including the earth (Anderson, 1997, p. xv).
I appreciate these other perspectives, as the impetus for proposing these
alternatives is to strengthen the overall integrity of the metanarrative. While
I do not abandon the traditional conception of the self as something that
can be better understood through scientific and theoretical inquiry, I believe
A Theory of Change in Music Education 325
as Anderson does, that the self IS multidimensional and changeable. Fur-
thermore, I believe that parts of the self change without us giving the matter
much thought, and that some parts are more easily changeable than others.
I devote more space to these ideas later in this essay.
I find it imperative at this time, keeping in line with my more foundation-
alist perspective, to provide a working definition of identity for this work. I
define identity here as it has been popularly defined in the music education
literature, well articulated by McCall and Simmons (1978):
The character and the role that an individual devises for himself as an
occupant of a particular social position. More intuitively, such a role-
identity is his imaginative view of himself as he likes to think of himself
being and acting as an occupant of that position.
(p. 65)
I like to organize concepts as a way of envisioning relationships among

what I perceive to be the various parts. This desire almost always leads
me to construct models. Keeping with this tendency, I have constructed the
Model of Psychological Dimensions as a way of accounting for the vari-
ous components of the previous definition of identity (see Figure 21.1). The
model visually depicts identity as an individual’s “imaginative view of him-
self” (the center of the figure, the heart of my conception of the self) that
comes about as he interprets his “character” and “role” as part of a collec-
tive (the individual influences the collective and is influenced by the collec-
tive), that over time produces culture (a collective’s legacy), that comes out
of a particular society (defined broadly or loosely, depending on how one
Figure 21.1 Model of psychological dimensions.

326 Clint Randles
wants to apply this theory). This model complements the Conceptual Model
of Change in Music Education that I will present later in this essay, and de-
picts another way that the individual, the place in this theory where cultural
creativity is enacted, relates to the environment.
The individual for purposes of this theory can be considered a specific
music education entity, school, or higher education institution. The model
illustrates that where the individual and society meet, there are pockets of
individuals who share a collective mind, or common “imaginative universe”
(Geertz, 1973, p. 18). Music education certainly has numerous examples of
this phenomenon. Various higher education institutions in the United States
share similar “imaginative” universes. Prospective doctoral students will
apply to numerous institutions that have come to stand for particular ide-
als. Groups of people, who form some sort of collective, over time produce
culture, that includes: material culture (objects), social culture (institutions),
and subjective culture (shared ideas and knowledge). Again, various music
education institutions will host symposia on topics that represent “what
they stand for.” And, publications from these various symposia help spread
the word to the academic world at large.
The model visually suggests that the individual (focal point) is manifest
in the collective mind, produces culture, while being a part of society; that
the collective mind is manifest in both culture and society; and that culture
is manifest in society. The individual is not a lesser contributor to an under-
standing of the influence of culture and society. Rather, it is foundational to
making sense of these relationships. The individual and society (also culture
and the collective mind) are mutually constituted—“individuals and groups
not only shape the contexts and settings in which they live and work, they
are in time shaped by them” (Barrett, 2011, p. 3). In the model, society is
the backdrop to all of the workings of the individual, the collective, and the
culture that is produced over time.
PERCEPTUAL AND CULTURAL WORLDS
Cultural psychologists tell us that selfhood is comprised of perceptual

worlds that help us locate ourselves and orientate ourselves among others,
and cultural worlds that hold the keys to our sense of meaning (Benson,
2001, p. 4). The constructs most associated with perceptual worlds are self-
esteem, self-efficacy, and self-concept, and the construct most associated
with cultural worlds is identity. Both perceptual constructs and cultural con-
structs contribute to our understanding of the self. So, self in the broadest
sense might be thought of as an individual’s negotiation of the meaning of
who she is (cultural worlds), based in part by her self-perceptions of herself
(perceptual worlds) as a member of the social networks that she contributes
to or functions within. The individual oftentimes desires to be like everyone
else, and yet different in some way. These seemingly contrary desires can
Figure 21.2 Model of identity as the foundation upon which “self” constructs rest.
Note: Identity is the most stable of the constructs, as it is the root of all of the other constructs.
interact daily, even moment-by-moment, at the perceptual level, and when

considered over time, at the cultural level; cultural psychology is understood
by way of history (Castro-Tejerina & Rosa, 2007; Seeger, 2001; Triandis,
2007).
Taking into account the connection of identity to history, one might
think of it as the foundation upon which the other constructs most
closely associated with the study of the self—self-esteem, self-efficacy,
and self-concept—rest (see Figure 21.2). After all, with time often comes
a sense of stability or permanence, as ways of thinking are reinforced.
The historical component of identity, as a cultural world, is interwoven
with meaning that has been built-up over time. Geertz (1973) referred to
the individual in relation to culture when he stated that “man is an ani-
mal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun” (p. 5). As time
passes, the “webs of significance”—our beliefs about ourselves in relation to
the world—contribute to what is our identity. While the perceptual worlds
of individuals change continually, identity functions as the tried and true
component of self that provides a root system or foundation, or like the
anchor to a large ship. The time component in the formation of identity
also makes it difficult to change quickly or easily.
I would like to suggest here that the music education profession, consid-
ered as a meta-collective of sorts, is made up of individuals who are who
they are based in large part on how they got where they are now, their his-
tory. Identity, formed over time, has an inherent stability. For example, the
way of preparing music teachers in North America has changed very little
over the past 150 years. Each individual is, however, capable of perceiving
328 Clint Randles
OTHER information and circumstances that might cause her to examine
her identity, information assimilated from the perceptual world of selfhood.
This information can chip away at the foundational relationship of the iden-
tity component of the self.
IDENTITY AS THE FOUNDATION FOR

PERCEPTIONS OF SELF
Some scholars have argued that questions of identity are at the founda-
tion of a person’s belief system (Buss, 2001; Green, 2003; Roberts, 1991),
that identity beliefs mark who a person is. Perceptual worlds, on the other
hand, help to orientate a person to her surroundings, thus helping her to
know where-she-is. Cultural worlds—with a connection to history—help a
person to know who-she-is, thus helping shape her identity (Benson, 2001).
Table 21.1 shows some of the common differences between self-esteem (a
perceptual component of the self) and identity (a cultural component of the
self). Notice that both areas are generally quite stable, however, identity is
perhaps the most stable. Since identity deals with the portion of self that is
concerned with meaning, it might be viewed as essentially one’s philosophy
of self as a function of time.
The self-systems located higher in the model, being more perceptually
bound, that help answer the “where am I” locative questions, are more eas-
ily malleable. By completing a difficult task successfully, an individual can
add to her self-efficacy (perception of her ability to complete a task in the
future) of any number of musical or teacher-orientated tasks. That, in turn,
can help in the self-esteem area (her evaluation of how worthwhile she is),
and in turn, the self-concept area (the component of the self that sorts all of
the incoming information related to self enhancement). Over an extended
period of time, identity can also be affected.
One application for music education at the higher education level is
that by locating particular efficacies in music that might lead future music
Table 21.1 The Difference Between Self-Esteem Questions and Identity Questions
Self-Esteem Identity
How worthwhile am I? Who am I?
Positive: adds pride in self Positive: lends meaning to life
Lacking: self-effacement Weak: rootlessness
Amnesia has little effect Amnesia obliterates it
Romantic love adds to it Marriage adds to it
How well a role is played Commitment to a role
Group: vicarious self-esteem Group: a feeling of belonging
Note: The table is borrowed from Psychological Dimensions of the Self (Buss, 2001, p. 89).
teachers to approach their jobs as music teachers in ways that could stretch
currently immovable curricular offerings, music teacher educators will be
able to feed, in a way, the future local cultural creative processes of music
teachers. Efficacies in vernacular musicianship, composition, free improvisa-
tion, and others, could be infused in teacher education programs as “tools”
of sorts for local change. Again, the model of cultural creativity presented
later in this essay will illustrate how this might work in practice.
MAKING SENSE OF THE SELF-SYSTEM: SATURATION

AS A MECHANISM FOR CHANGE
One might consider thinking about the relationship of these components as if

they were levels of soil being subjected to a rainstorm (see Figure 21.3). The
rainstorm might be thought of as the events, circumstances, and encounters
with music, music making, and music education that an individual experi-
ences. When these events occur, the perceptual worlds of individuals are the
first levels to come in contact with the rain’s bombardment. The locative
mechanisms that give the self a sense of place with regard to a particular
music-making phenomenon are engaged and sometimes challenged. These
experiences then soak through the soil, and eventually can make it to the
level of identity. Just as it takes a heavy rain to saturate soil, it will take a
heavy rain to affect the “who am I” area of identity.
Each of the models serves a distinct function with regard to the pre-
sentation of ideas. Figure 21.2 is about the organizational structure of the
Figure 21.3 Model of the analogy of the self-system to soil in a rain storm.
Note: Identity as a cultural world is located the deepest, as it is the most stable, and the least
directly affected by the bombardment of experience.
330 Clint Randles
self-system, while Figure 21.3 is about the idea of the structure as it re-
lates to the notion of change. Saturation is what it will take to effectually
“change” an individual at the “who am I” level (keep in mind the defini-
tion of individual presented earlier). Various efficacies are the first practical
component of the self that should be addressed in this theory of change in
music education. The idea of efficacies are explained in more detail as they
relate to the Conceptual Model of Change in Music Education, presented
later in this essay.
SPACE AND PLACE
Another way to think about the relationship between perceptual worlds and
cultural worlds is to think of the two constructs not as one combined whole,
such as in the previous model, but rather as separate members involved in
a dynamic relationship characterized by interaction. Tuan (1977) wrote in
his thought provoking book Space and Place that “place is security,” some-
thing that we are attached to, while “space is for freedom,” something we
long for (p. 6). Space is where elements that are both novel and appropri-
ate are searched out. These elements serve as food for the cultural creative
processes that are engaged in at the individual level. Place is where these
elements are checked and tested. Place can be thought of as the location of
the cultural creative process.
Place can further represent the cultural worlds that we seek to nurture
in our lives, our sense of who we are. Tuan (1977) stated that “what begins
as undifferentiated space becomes place as we get to know it better and
endow it with value” (p. 6). So, for Tuan, we constantly are aware of place,
while we more comfortably explore the area of space. This exploration can
be likened unto a personal quest for fulfillment or a hero’s journey (Camp-
bell, 1949/2008), where identity is maintained and over time extended. The
hero’s journey in the Campbellian sense is characterized by separation-ini-
tiation-return. Tuan (1997) suggested that once we conquer areas of space,
they have the potential to become place to us (p. 6).
I shall now shift the focus of this essay to situating this theory within the
history of the study of identity, before unpacking my conceptual model of
change in music education.
SITUATING CHANGE
Work in the sociology of music education has been somewhat ongoing since
the late 1950s (Mueller, 1958) and the mid-1960s (Kaplan, 1966), and con-
tinues to be a topic today (Froehlich, 2006; Green, 2011; Wright, 2010).
Music education scholars and researchers have grappled with the realiza-
tion/belief that social/historical/political forces have and probably always
will impact music education practice on multiple levels (Campbell, 1997,
1998; Green, 2002; MacDonald et al., 2002). The complex interactions
caused by these forces mean that teachers and students must work within
systems that are sometimes predetermined, sometimes out of their control,
while at the same time trying to do what they feel is best for their students.
Doing what is best for students and working within existing social struc-
tures is not always easy, particularly when the social structures are rigid.
However, I do not want to suggest here that the situation is without
hope, for music education is alive and well in many cases at the local level.
Teachers who recognize that curriculum might best be conceptualized as
a creative process are finding ways to enhance the musical experiences of
their students by working within sometimes rigid social structures. In the
United States, there is band, choir, and orchestra at the secondary level.
These ensembles have been around since the beginning of the 1900s in the
United States (Mark & Gary, 2007). These ensembles are promoted at the
state and national level by NAfME, and are a part of nearly every college
music program across the country. To be accepted into any of these pro-
grams, one must audition for a spot on one of the instruments or voices
currently being represented in these standardized ensembles. Students who
audition to get into the school have had at least thirteen years of encultura-
tion into the world of that way of making music—performing from notation
masterworks in a large ensemble under the direction of a conductor. This
is the cultural world that music education theorists/practitioners in their
specific cultures must work within and through. This is part of the reason
why identity, in this essay, is conceptualized as a somewhat rigid construct.
The “who we are” part of self has a legacy. This legacy is what we have to
acknowledge and work with and around.
Identity is not impossible to change, though. Lucy Green (2011) describes
the formation of musical identities this way:
Musical identities are forged from a combination of personal, indi-

vidual musical experiences on one hand, and membership in various
social groups—from the family to the nation-state and beyond—on the
other hand. They encompass musical tastes, values, practices (including
reception activities such as listening or dancing), skills, and knowledge;
and they are wrapped up with how, where, when, and why those tastes,
values, practices, skills, and knowledge were acquired or transmitted.
(p. 1)
So, going back to the Model of the Analogy of the Self-System to Soil in a
Rain Storm (Figure 21.3), new experiences bombard our perceptual worlds,
in this case the perceptual worlds of music education collectively, that cause
the profession to become aware of things that it has not been aware of, and
cause it to reevaluate its place. Over time (this is key) the profession searches
the space containing all possible ways to expand first its perceptual world,
332 Clint Randles
then its own cultural world. For example, the notion of being multi-musical,
being able to function as a reader of notation and as a vernacular music
maker, or being multi-creative (Burnard, 2011, 2012), might capture the
collective imagination of the profession. Members of the higher education
community could search out ways of engaging their respective schools of
music in the actualization of various plans to prepare the next generation
of teachers to occupy a new and improved place (stemming from the col-
lective mind of the profession). All the while, new experiences bombard the
profession, as this dynamic interaction prompts change in new and exciting
ways. It was formed over time, and so therefore, out of necessity, it must
change over time. Music education scholars and curriculum reformers must
take into consideration the rootedness of identity in terms of the individual
preservice music teacher.
Music education faculty members often desire to assist students in form-
ing a teacher identity through various observations and practicum experi-
ences, sometimes seeking to encourage new ways of thinking and doing
regarding music education theory and practice, with full knowledge that
each preservice teacher has had at least 13 years of enculturation into the
world of music learning and teaching as a student. This point complicates
the work of music education faculty who have a mind for change in the
profession. Identity is stable; it might be considered the root of our human
self-systems. By the time music education majors reach the college level, the
“who am I as a music maker” questions have been answered in the minds of
students to a large extent. These questions can certainly still be approached
by music teacher education faculty; however, given that they were developed
over time, resulting beliefs regarding these important questions must morph
over time.
A LOOK TO THE FUTURE
Cultural change at the everyday level always involves creativity, a combina-

tion of novelty and appropriateness. Novelty can be viewed as the transfor-
mation of cultural practice, and appropriateness can be viewed as the value
to a community. However, with everyday cultural creativity we deal with
the creation of practices, not the creation of products. The working out of
cultural transmission on a day-to-day level always involves both imitation
and invention. In order to function in the world around us, we as humans
seek out ways of living and doing that have worked for those around us
and imitate those ways. When those ways do not work, when they seem
mundane, no longer necessary, or deficient in some compelling way, we
invent new ways of accomplishing our goals. This kind of everyday cre-
ativity, at the micro-level, will continue to occur, without any intervention
from music teachers or leaders in music education, indeed, without even
giving it much thought. This type of cultural creativity allows societies to
continue, reproducing themselves from generation to generation. There is
surely an inherent stability in social structures, norms, and cultures. Some
have argued that the main function of social systems is to maintain the
status quo (Merton, 1968). Cultural creativity at the macro-level, however,
must be more deliberately operationalized.
In order for this process to be initiated, the perceptual worlds of the
collective mind must be made aware that things might not be where they
should be or look how they should look. Technological innovations, partic-
ularly compelling philosophies, and examples of other ways of doing music
education in both adaptive and innovative ways, must engage the perceptual
worlds of the profession. If the imagination of the collective music educa-
tion “self” is engaged, or saturated as the Model of the Analogy of the Self-
System to Soil in a Rain Storm (Figure 21.3) suggests, the motivation to look
outside of school music education and to music efficacies that occur in the
real world might prompt cultural creative processes at the macro-level. As
was mentioned previously, music education as a meta-individual, like many
social structures that have existed over an extended period of time, have an
inherent stability. Understanding this point is key to engaging the collective
imagination of the profession.
Conceptual Model of Change in Music Education

The Conceptual Model of Change in Music Education (see Figure 21.4) is
based on existing models that have been developed by Webster (2006) in cre-
ative thinking, the author (Randles, 2013) in music making, and the author
in collaboration with Webster (Randles & Webster, 2013) in creative music
making. It takes into consideration the compelling utility of Engestrom’s
(1987, 2001) model of the structure of a human activity system, which has
been used by other researchers and scholars in music education (Burnard &
Younker, 2008; Welch, 2011). “Community,” “rules,” “tools and signs,”
and “division of labor” were adapted from the Engestrom model and are
used here as part of “context.”
One of the strengths of the Engestrom model is that it provides a visual
representation of the relationship of the various components of an activity
system. Community accounts for the multiple points of view, traditions, and
interests expressed by all those who associate themselves with a particular
culture. One might think of community as comprising the various members
of the “individual” as it has been described here. Division of labor accounts
for the various positions that exist within and without the culture. Rules
are the conventions and guidelines that regulate activity within the system.
Tools and signs are the artifacts or concepts that regulate activity within
the system. The change model presented here recognizes these components
of the Engestrom model as being essential to understanding how change is
actuated. One of the weaknesses of the model is that it does not adequately
account for what takes place during the cultural creative process—the place
334 Clint Randles
Figure 21.4 Conceptual model of change in music education.
of action—of the activity system. The Conceptual Model of Change in

Music Education is a more action sensitive representation of how change is
articulated in the real world of music education practice.
In order to understand how the Conceptual Model of Change in Music
Education might be helpful, it is necessary to enlarge the “cultural creative
process” component of the model (see Figure 21.5). Both innovation and
adaption are seen as possible practice intentions in the “cultural creative
process” (Kirton, 1976). Innovation occurs when the focus is on doing
something differently. Adaptation is the goal when the focus is on doing
something better. Music education could stand to gain from both doing
things differently and from doing things better. Practices that could emerge
from the cultural creative process include, but are not limited to, the cre-
ativities that Burnard details in her latest work (2011, 2012): individual,
collaborative (or group), communal, empathic, intercultural, performance,
symbolic, computational, and collective. Innovative practice intentions
could include starting an iPad group in a school, a songwriting class, or a
computer-music class. Adaptive practice intentions could include turning
the high school drumline into a new music ensemble, turning the show choir
into a songwriting lab, or introducing composition or improvisation into
the band, choir, or orchestra. Examples of innovation and adaptation need
Figure 21.5 Cultural creative process.

Note: This is an enlarged version of the Cultural Creative Process portion of the Conceptual
Model of Change in Music Education.
not be this prescriptive, although they might be. The creativity of the teacher
is an essential ingredient to creating new practices that meet our “product
intention” expectations.
An understanding of the components of the Cultural Creative Process
provides a point of entry for how to use this model to enact change. Enabling
skills might be a teacher’s musical or teaching skills that have been devel-
oped as a result of his or her primary or secondary socialization. Teacher
education is key to expanding these enabling skills for future generations
of teachers and their students. Opportunities to arrange music by utilizing
vernacular musicianship, composing and improvising in a variety of con-
texts, and using a variety of technological tools in the performance of digital
music, are all examples of enabling skills that can have an impact on cul-
tural creative processes. Enabling conditions, that include both personal and
social/cultural factors, are the specific components of the larger model (con-
text, people, past practices, etc.) that require immediate attention during
the cultural creative process. Not all knowledge of people, context, and past
practices (among other large conceptual areas) is useful during a particular
336 Clint Randles
Figure 21.6 Csikszentmihalyi’s systems view of creativity.

Note: This model was taken from a book chapter written by Csikszentmihalyi in Sternberg’s
(1999) Handbook of Creativity.
cultural creative process. This is the primary reason that the Conceptual
Model of Change in Music Education accounts for the various components
of change at both the macro and micro levels.
Specific practices are the end and the beginning of every cultural creative
process. So how do we gauge the success or failure of the process? What
makes a particular created practice more or less appropriate than another?
Csikszentmihalyi’s (1999) “Systems View of Creativity” (see Figure 21.6)
might provide a useful way of conceptualizing how new experiences, new
ideas, the work of practitioners, individual music education scholars, academic
institutions, and even research centers might be able to engage the imagination
of the profession. These are the outputs, the “new practices” of the “cultural
creative process,” what is created. These “new practices” then can be tested
for appropriateness, first at the local level, and then, potentially, at the
regional, state, and even national level. In Csikszentmihalyi’s (1999) model,
the individual, domain, and field work together to determine what is “novel”
and “appropriate” (p. 315). In order for new ideas and practices to be
accepted, they need to be introduced and promoted by individuals who possess
a good feel for what is acceptable to the society and the consequent culture that
he or she is working within. If the social groups and the culture that make up the
“webs of significance,” to quote Geertz (1973, p. 5) once again, that make up
those cultures are not taken into consideration, then change might not be pos-
sible. I would like to argue, with much optimism, that change is possible.
A PLACE TO START
In this chapter, I introduced a Model of Psychological Dimensions, and sug-

gested how it might help the profession conceptualize the nexus between the
individual and society. Then, I defined identity as a manifestation of cultural
psychology, and outlined the role and characteristics of both perceptual and
cultural worlds. I then merged the idea of the selfhood of individuals to the
idea of the selfhood of music education, and used the metaphor of a rain-
storm to explain how the components of self, an understanding of “place”
and “space,” and knowledge of cultural creativity might help us understand
the structure of change. I then concluded the chapter by presenting a Con-
ceptual Model of Change in Music Education.
Just like all good research, curricular change must start with a good the-
ory. I hope that the conceptual work in this chapter helps all those who have
a mind for change in the profession. The center of the Conceptual Model
of Change in Music Education is the Cultural Creative Process. This pro-
cess consists of working with existing materials in a process that requires
both divergent and convergent thinking. As the model suggests, preparation,
working through, exploration, and verification are aspects of the creative
process. Divergent thinking can be thought of as the imagination that it
takes to get the process started. Convergent thinking can be thought of as
the selection of the best, most appropriate solution.
Navigating the future of music education requires the connected pro-
cesses of problem finding and problem solving. These processes are artic-
ulated in the Conceptual Model of Change in Music Education presented
in this essay. As stated at the onset of this chapter, I hope that this theory
of change in music education will be helpful to the profession—theorists,
researchers, and practitioners alike. The future can be bright if we recog-
nize that (1) change is articulated locally, (2) change is the product of
imagination in conjunction with a lot of hard work, and (3) change is
the result of the work of people whose histories and culture impact the
community, divisions of labor, rules, tools, and signs as they relate to
the process. Change in identity begins with changes in particular self-
efficacies. Music education can change. Let us think about the process,
and then take action.
NOTE
1. An earlier version of this paper exists in published form as:

Randles, C. (2013). A theory of change in music education. Music Education
Research, 15(4), 471–85. Reprinted with permission by Taylor & Francis
Group, London, UK.
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22 The Role of Subversion in
Changing Music Education
John Kratus
There is an apocryphal curse of dubious Chinese origin that threatens,

“May you live in interesting times.” Probably such a curse actually origi-
nated in a 20th-century fortune cookie rather than in an antediluvian
tome authored by an ancient philosopher. Yet one authentic Chinese
proverb does convey a similar sentiment: “It’s better to be a dog in a
peaceful time than to be a man in a chaotic period.” The fear expressed
in both sayings is the fear of change, that harbinger of an unknown
and uncertain future, that menace to a comfortable and familiar status
quo. Change does bring with it a certain justifiable fear. All change, regardless
of how well-intentioned and well-conceived, carries with it the possibil-
ity of inadvertent disaster, and change does not come with a money-back
guarantee.
But as Heraclitus reminded us, “Nothing is permanent but change.”
The one constant element in life-spans, in species, in institutions, in ani-
mate and inanimate objects, and, yes, even in music education, is change.
When something ceases to change and adapt to shifting circumstances,
it ceases to exist. The contexts in which we live and teach continue to
change, and so must we in order to survive. And in our changing we
act upon our contexts and necessitate further changes in them, and the
cycles repeat. Change in all things is not an option; it is mandatory and
inevitable.
When change comes to an institution, it can be viewed as a positive
or negative occurrence. Some changes are readily accepted by stakehold-
ers in meeting needs and addressing problems, whereas other institutional
changes can be perceived by stakeholders as existential threats. When that
is the case, initiating change can be a messy business, beset with institu-
tional impediments, and opposed by those with a vested interest in stasis
and who subscribe to the Chinese proverbs cited above. I do not raise the
issues of fear and resistance to discourage change, but rather to acknowl-
edge the difficulty of bringing about change, regardless of how necessary
or well-intentioned.
The Role of Subversion in Changing Music Education 341
THE LIMITS OF THEORY
When one seeks to initiate change in an institution like music education, it is

helpful to understand the various currents that may oppose or support that
change. This brings us to Clint Randles’s theory of change in music educa-
tion. According to Edwards (1992), models or theories have two main func-
tions. The first function is to represent and focus on the essential attributes
of a phenomenon to make understandable complex processes and relations.
A street map is a good example of this, showing streets and their relation
to each other while leaving out the location of trees. The second function
of a model or theory is “dynamic and generative,” proposing a method of
action to accomplish a goal. A model used by the National Weather Service
for forecasting storms is an example of this.
Randles makes use of both functions. His model of the analogy of the
self-system to soil in a rainstorm serves the first function, as a map showing
the direct exposure of self-efficacy to various experiences and the relative
stability of identity. The application of Webster’s (2006) model of creative
thinking in music in Randles’s theory of change in music education serves
the second function, because it suggests that instituting change is essentially
a creative process. The Randles theory serves as both a map to illustrate
relations and an instruction manual to designate a means.
Randles writes that those persons who wish to initiate change in music
education “seek to navigate the space around us,” and that a theory may
be useful in understanding the factors that influence such change. But all
theories have their limits. I would like to consider an analogy regarding the
limitations of theory, any theory, to guide practice. Imagine that the applica-
tion of a theory to actual practice is like using a flashlight to navigate across
a darkened living room. Without a flashlight we may eventually cross the
room but it would take a long time, and we would probably stumble into
the barely visible coffee table and sofa. A flashlight could offer some assis-
tance in helping us to understand the layout of the room. Some flashlights
cast a narrow but bright beam, illuminating a small space clearly, and other
flashlights shine more dimly over a wider area. Each type has its own advan-
tages. In music education the Kodaly approach of teaching so-mi before
so-mi-la is like a narrow, bright beam, providing clear guidance over a very
small space. The axiom “sound before symbol” is like a wide, dim beam,
offering broader guidance but more diffusely. Flashlights, like theories, help
us to make sense of unrevealed shapes and the dimly perceived terrain of
our surroundings.
But it is important to note that no flashlight, no matter how powerful and
practical, can light up an entire room. When we shine a light on one part
of the room, the rest of the room reverts to darkness. Similarly no theory
can reveal all the workings of a complex phenomenon or process. This is
342 John Kratus
not an imperfection of flashlights or theories; it is the nature of how they
work. Theories can be improved but never perfected, and part of our rooms
will always remain in the dark. Even Einstein failed in his quest to find the
Grand Unified Theory that would have explained how all the forces in the
universe interact.
In the early 1990s I created a multi-leveled theory to explain how people
learn to improvise over time in developmentally different ways (Kratus,
1991, 1995). According to the theory, certain changes in the characteristics
of a student’s improvisation signal that the student is passing from one level
of improvisation to another, and the teacher’s role then changes. Teachers
have told me that they have heard the changes I describe in their students’
improvisations, and that this theory has helped them to plan and implement
instruction more appropriately. But the theory does not address why or how
students would be motivated to develop their approach to improvisation.
The factor of joy is missing from the theory. Accordingly no teacher has ever
told me whether her students took pleasure in improvising. Their flashlights
were pointed elsewhere.
No theory can explain all of the factors affecting a particular process or
phenomenon. Randles’s theory views change in music education from the
perspective of the change agent, that is, of the teacher or policy maker or
institution desiring to try something new. I would like to suggest that there
are also powerful forces aligned against change, and that these forces should
not be left in the darkened part of the living room.
RESISTANCE TO CHANGE
Change in American music education has usually come very slowly. Randles
pointed out that the formal education of music teachers in the United States
has changed little over a long period of time. In 2009 I gave a presentation
on collegiate curricular change in music for the Society for Music Teacher
Education in Greensboro, North Carolina. One of the first slides in my pre-
sentation was an outline of Michigan State University’s degree requirements
for the Bachelor of Music in Music Education. The outline included certain
numbers of semesters for applied lessons, large ensembles, theory and ear
training, and history and literature, as well as music education requirements
including three tracks (instrumental, string, choral/general), introduction to
music education, conducting, instrument and voice classes dependent on
track, methods classes dependent on track, college of education courses, and
student teaching. I asked the audience members how many of them taught
in a college program similar to that. Nearly every hand went up. Then I
revealed that the program I described was taken from the Michigan State
University Academic Programs book from 1959. The course descriptions,
the performance repertoire, even the delivery of instruction were, for all
practical purposes, nearly unchanged in 50 years. This inertia is dangerous,
because institutions that do not change to accommodate their changing con-
texts ultimately cease to exist.
The stagnation in our music teacher education programs goes back much
further than 50 years. It is not an exaggeration to say that the type of music edu-
cation provided to contemporary collegiate music majors has deep roots in the
conservatories of European capitals of the 19th century. In fact, more than its
roots are located there—21st-century collegiate music has retained the stems,
branches, leaves, flowers, seeds, and pollen of its 200-year-old predecessors.
A little history lesson is in order to uncover how we find ourselves today
in such an intractable, anachronistic curriculum for music teacher educa-
tion. Beginning in the early 1800s, the classical music business experienced
a boom across Europe, especially in the urban centers. Prior to this time,
this form of music was primarily available only to the secular and religious
aristocracy. With the creation and increase of a European middle class,
orchestral music and opera became accessible to a much broader audience.
Orchestras and opera companies were formed in all the larger European
cities and in many smaller ones as well. Opera companies and orchestras
spread through the United States in the late 19th century and early 20th
century. Classical music was a growth industry, and the demand for musi-
cians was high.
Up to this time professional classical musicians learned their craft through
an apprentice system. With the dramatic increase in orchestras and opera
companies, the one-on-one apprentice system was unable to produce a suf-
ficient number of trained musicians to fill the available positions. As a means
to supply additional qualified musicians, the first secular music conservatory
in the world, the Conservatoire National de Musique et d’Art Dramatique,
was founded in Paris in 1795. Across Europe secular conservatories soon
sprung up in Milan (1807), Naples (1808), Prague (1811), Vienna (1817),
London (1822), Leipzig (1843), and elsewhere. The conservatory boom hit
the United States later in the 19th century, with schools like Oberlin (1866),
New England (1867), Boston (1867), and Peabody (1868).
These conservatories are largely a 19th-century invention, designed in

an era obsessed with the child protege, whose principal raison d’etre
was the fostering of solo as well as rank-and-file talent for the burgeon-
ing orchestras and opera houses at the mainstay of European musical
life a century ago.
(Bruno, 2006)
Conservatories offered a particular kind of vocational training for the

growth industry of classical music performance. The course of study for
19th-century conservatory students should look familiar to 21st-century
collegiate music educators: extensive private instruction focusing on a single
instrument or voice in the classic tradition, extensive conductor-led large
ensemble or opera experience with 19th-century repertoire, some piano
344 John Kratus
study, multiple years of theory emphasizing written notation and solfege,
and the historical study of European music literature.
This is, in fact, a near perfect description of the music core curriculum in
contemporary schools of music. Even the repertoire and literature studied,
with its emphasis on 19th-century European masterworks, is nearly identical.
The question we should be asking ourselves is: Why is the musical training
of 21st-century music educators nearly identical to that of 19th-century per-
formers preparing to join orchestras and opera companies?
One might try to explain the static collegiate/conservatory music curriculum
in terms of the classical music identity of a majority of the faculty stakehold-
ers, many or most of whom may well oppose change that would undermine
their hegemony and challenge their self-esteem. It is with pride that a violinist
can claim that her teacher’s teacher’s teacher’s teacher’s teacher’s teacher was
Paganini. It is understandable that the performer’s skill that has taken thou-
sands of hours to develop and the performing experiences that accompanied
that development have left an indelible mark that cannot be washed away
with the introduction of iPad ensembles and vernacular musicianship.
But I think that the resistance to adapt to 21st-century musicianship can-
not be completely explained by identity. Wind band and jazz faculty mem-
bers, whose genres lack the centuries-old traditions of classical music, can
also oppose curricular change. A factor that may trump identity is responsi-
bility, a responsibility to the past.
Of all the performing arts in education, music is alone in its fealty to
the past. It is not uncommon for a collegiate orchestra or opera company
to perform most of its repertoire from the 19th century. Concert band and
jazz ensembles lack such an extensive history, but they too typically perform
more music from the past than the present. By contrast theater and dance
pay homage to their past but tend to perform more contemporary works.
Yes, Shakespeare is acted and 19th-century choreography is danced, but
theater and dance education include more contemporary works in the edu-
cation of their students than does music education.
Perhaps the reason for the disparity is that the music collegiate musi-
cians perform in formal concert settings is notated in a more exacting way
than are theatrical scripts and choreography. Conductors often speak of a
responsibility to the composer, a responsibility to the past, in performing
these works. Improvising and arranging is frowned upon in performing the
standard music repertoire. The will of the individual performer becomes
subservient to the will of the composer and the will of the director. In a sense
the institution of music education has metaphorically taken it upon itself to
be responsible for upholding and maintaining performance practices that
existed 100 and 200 years ago. What gets lost is a sense of responsibility to
the students and their musical futures.
We can see examples of this misplaced responsibility all around us. Why
do collegiate music departments often have a faculty line for “oboe profes-
sor” but not for “guitar professor”? The number of guitar players on a
college campus is almost certainly 100 times greater than the number of
oboe players. But an oboe is required to perform the orchestral music of
100 years ago, and a guitar is not. Maintaining the orchestra and its music
takes precedent over the musical interests of students. Similarly the standard
instrumentation for symphonic bands, and the performance demands set by
the music that was commissioned for that standard instrumentation, have
created a responsibility to maintaining the band as an entity over the music
interests and needs of music students.
The form of music education that existed for professionals in the 19th
century existed for a particular purpose in a particular time. The purpose
and time no longer exist, but the perceived responsibility to the past has
restrained efforts to change music education, not only at the collegiate level,
but at the secondary and elementary levels as well.
K–12 music teachers can only teach what they know. Their own music
education at the collegiate level has provided them with musical knowledge
and skills that are mismatched for their own times. Twenty-first century music
teachers learning to perform at a high level of proficiency in large, conductor-
led ensembles from scores by century-old composers is a style that discourages
individual initiative and encourages following an autocratic leader. Is there
any wonder why K–12 music education emphasizes large ensemble perfor-
mance and music literacy, while discouraging creativity and vernacular musi-
cianship? As Randles points out, we are all products of our own histories.
SMALL ACTS OF SUBVERSION
In the environment I have described, systematic change in music education

is very difficult. The desires of an individual or a small group of individuals to
promote change are often opposed by others within institutions who see
themselves as responsible for upholding revered standards of the past. Both
the proponents of change and proponents of the status quo believe that they
hold the moral high ground.
Change in music education is made even more problematic, because those
who would promote change are in the minority. In K–12 education the study
of music does not directly contribute to economic wellbeing. In a pragmatic,
profit-driven country like the United States, music will never be as impor-
tant in K–12 schools as math, science, and reading. In many parts of the
United States the culture of festivals, contests, and ensemble ratings is such
an integral part of music education that opposing this culture is arduous.
In collegiate schools of music, music education faculty will always be vastly
outnumbered and outvoted by performance faculty, most of whom have a
vested interest in the conservatory model of education. The mechanisms of
change in music education, therefore, cannot be confrontational, because
music educators are not working from a position of strength at either the
K–12 or collegiate levels.
346 John Kratus
How then can change in music education occur? My suggestion is that
those who advocate change in music education should embrace small acts
of subversion, or SAS. Subversion is an attempt or act to overthrow or
undermine structures of authority. Small acts of subversion are modest but
meaningful changes moving in the direction of a perceived ideal. SAS do
not challenge the power of those in control of the institution. SAS require
patience and a long time frame to be effective. Eventually SAS after SAS
undermine the status quo and systematic change occurs.
Large-scale changes in a music education program (e.g., eliminating the
collegiate orchestra) may well engage those in power who would oppose
such a change. Small acts of subversion (e.g., starting a songwriting class)
can slip under the radar, because they do not directly confront anyone in a
position of power. My own personal experience is that the former approach
has little chance of success, and the latter approach can readily be accepted
and if successful destabilize the prevailing paradigm.
Clint Randles’s model of change in music education describes change as
local, imaginative, and mindful of identity. My own additions to that theory
are to be conscious of the limitations of theory and to recognize the inertia of
a system that has defied most efforts to change. Together these approaches
may create the “interesting times” that the ancient Chinese supposedly so
greatly feared.
REFERENCES
Bruno, M. (2006). A high-level option. Choir & Organ, 1(1), 27–30.

Edwards, R. H. (1992). Model building. In R. Colwell (Ed.), Handbook of research
in music teaching and learning (pp. 38–47). New York, NY: Schirmer.
Kratus, J. (1991). Growing with improvisation. Music Educators Journal, 78(4),
35–40.
Kratus, J. (1995). A developmental approach to teaching music improvisation.
International Journal of Music Education, 26, 27–38.
Webster, P. R. (2006, April). Refining a model of creative thinking in music: A basis
for encouraging students to make aesthetic decisions. Paper presented at the
National Convention, Music Educators National Conference, Salt Lake City, UT.
Names and Addresses
MUSIC EDUCATION: NAVIGATING THE FUTURE
Joseph Abramo
University of Connecticut
Neag School of Education
Department of Curriculum and Instruction
249 Glenbrook Road, Unit 3033
Storrs, CT 06269–3033
Wayne Bowman
Brandon University
School of Music
Queen Elizabeth II Music Building
270—18th Street
Brandon, Manitoba
Canada, R7A 6A9
Richard Colwell
University of Illinois at Urbana/Champaign
School of Music
1114 W. Nevada St.
Urbana, IL 61801
Frank Heuser
UCLA
Herb Alpert School of Music
2539 Schoenberg Hall
Los Angeles, CA 90095–7234
John Kratus
Michigan State University
College of Music
214 Music Practice Building
East Lansing, MI 48824
348 Names and Addresses
Roger Mantie
Arizona State University
Herberger Institute for Design and the Arts
PO Box 872102
Tempe, AZ 85287–2102
Michael L. Mark
Towson University
Department of Music
Center for the Arts, Room # 3095
8000 York Road
Towson, MD 21252
Clint Randles
University of South Florida
School of Music
4202 East Fowler Ave.
Tampa, FL 33620
Bennett Reimer
Northwestern University
Bienen School of Music
711 Elgin Rd
Evanston, IL 60208
Alison Reynolds, Kerry Renzoni, Pamela Turowski, and Heather Waters

Temple University
Boyer College of Music and Dance
Presser Hall
2001 North 13th Street
Philadelphia, PA 19122
Lauren Kapalka Richerme

Indiana University
Jacobs School of Music
1201 East Third Street
Bloomington, IN 47405
Alex Ruthmann
New York University
Department of Music and Performing Arts Professions
35 W. 4th Street, Suite 1077
New York, NY 10012
Names and Addresses 349
Karen Salvador
University of Michigan-Flint
Department of Music
126 French Hall
303 East Kearsley St.
Flint, MI 48052
Marissa Silverman
Montclair State University
College of the Arts
1 Normal Ave
Montclair, NJ 07043
Gareth Dylan Smith

Institute of Contemporary Music Performance
Foundation House 1A Dyne Road
London, UK
NW6 7XG
Nicholas Stefanic
University of South Florida
School of Music
4202 East Fowler Ave.
Tampa, FL 33620
Brent C. Talbot
Gettysburg College
Sunderman Conservatory of Music
Campus Box 403
300 North Washington Street
Gettysburg, PA 17325
Matthew Thibeault
University of Illinois at Urbana/Champaign
School of Music
1114 W. Nevada St.
Urbana, IL 61801
Evan Tobias
Arizona State University
Herberger Institute for Design and the Arts
PO Box 872102
Tempe, AZ 85287
350 Names and Addresses
Peter R. Webster
University of Southern California
Thornton School of Music
Los Angeles, CA 90089-0851
David B. Williams
Illinois State University
School of Music
College of Fine Arts
Campus Box 5660
Normal, IL 61790–5660
Michael Zelenak
Alabama State University
Department of Music
915 S. Jackson Street
Montgomery, AL 36104
Index
18 Songs 6 248–50, 254–6, 260–1, 274,

279, 282, 284, 292–7, 299–300,
Abelton Live 142, 151 306, 310–11, 317, 323–7, 340–6
advocacy 11, 44, 45, 210, 211, 274, cohesive society 4–5
289, 295 Cole, Michael 29, 36–8, 40, 70
aesthetic education 8, 170 collective 49, 70, 79, 109, 132, 159,
affordances 103, 126, 127, 128, 143, 208, 212, 261, 265–6, 295,
147, 149, 159, 160, 311 325–7, 331–4
Alliance for Childhood 208 commercial prosperity 4, 8, 11
Apple 16, 17, 18, 25, 27, 84, 90, 130, Common Core Curriculum 11
132, 134, 161, 210, 264, 330 competition 9, 65, 86, 151, 171, 173–6,
Aristotle 17, 27, 55, 168, 260, 262 179, 191
Arts-based Research 283, 295, 316 Conceptual Model of Change in Music
Association for Childhood Education Education 326, 330, 333–7
International 208 constraints 29, 59, 110, 126, 128,
Association for Technology in Music 130–1, 136, 143, 145, 147, 149,
Instruction 122 159–60, 223, 291
Convergence Culture 81, 88, 94–6,
Beethoven 155 101, 110, 112–13, 118, 141,
Bergson’s Time Cone 19, 20, 25 158, 199
Billings, William 5, 254 cultural 337
Bloom, Benjamin 8 Cultural Creative Process 129, 132,
body without organs 16, 22, 23, 26, 27 329–30, 333–7
Boston School Committee 5 cultural elevation 4–5, 11, 14–15
Britton, Allen 8 cultural psychology 29–30, 40–1, 213,
Brown v. Topeka 10 327, 337–8
Bruner, Jerome 8, 30, 35 culture 4–6, 10–11, 13–15, 30, 34–7,
41, 53, 60, 65–7, 71–2, 74,
Cage, John 23, 108, 109, 110, 111, 78–9, 81, 86–7, 93–102, 108,
117, 142 110, 112–13, 115, 133–4, 136,
Caruso 63, 68, 69, 70, 86 138, 141–2, 147, 151, 155, 158,
change 5, 6, 8, 10, 13, 15, 16, 18, 19, 180, 185, 193, 196–7, 199, 206,
20, 21, 25, 26, 27, 30, 31, 32, 211, 214, 216, 238–9, 245–6,
38, 39, 40, 44, 47, 59, 63–87, 258–9, 267–9, 271, 278, 283,
94, 95, 97, 115–16, 123–4, 127, 289–91, 298, 323–7, 331, 333,
129, 131–6, 139, 143, 145, 336–9, 345
147, 149–51, 155, 156, 160–2, creativity 5, 14, 33, 50, 78, 81, 83, 85,
167–8, 170, 179, 186, 189, 193, 124, 129, 131–2, 134, 136–8,
196–7, 201, 212, 216–17, 219, 140–1, 146–7, 151, 154, 158,
226–7, 229, 235, 237, 243–4, 345
352 Index
Critical Ethnography 253, 255–9 Participatory Culture 94–102, 108,
Csikszentmihalyi, Mihalyi 132, 336 110, 112, 115, 118–20
phenomenology 239, 272–8, 288–90,
data analysis 218, 238, 241–8, 293, 295–7, 315
299–300, 312, 317 philosophy 170, 180, 182, 186, 198,
data collection 218, 238, 240–1, 243–50, 266–70
255, 294, 307 place 275, 279, 281, 284–5, 287–8,
Deleuze, Gilles 16, 18–28 295, 304, 316, 323, 326,
Dewey, John 24, 28, 47, 63, 65, 88, 90 329–33, 336–9, 344
digital media 28, 90–105, 109–10, Plessy v. Ferguson 10, 12
112–20, 126, 142–3, 146, Popular Music 15, 41, 86, 92, 98, 180,
156–8, 162 183–98
direct teaching 32 Progressive Education 169–170, 180,
DJ Payne 78–80 198, 279
prolepsis 20, 29, 36–8, 42
Foucault, Michel 126, 167, 180, 256,
268, 273, 275–6, 290 Qualitative Research 41, 197, 214, 232,
free will 124, 129–33, 143, 180 239–40, 251, 257, 265, 267–71,
273, 275, 277, 279–90, 293,
Gould, Glenn 19, 24, 28, 66, 73–88, 295, 299, 312, 315
133, 137, 139, 146, 284, 290
Guattari, Félix 16, 18–28, 111, 118, 298 Randles, Clint 85, 89–90, 120, 122, 124,
129, 139, 143, 161–2, 186, 199,
Jobs, Steve 124, 129–34, 136–8, 143, 216–17, 228, 232, 236, 251, 254,
162, 211, 270, 329 269, 323–4, 326, 333, 337, 341–6
Joyce, James 66–79, 87–9, 156–7 Ruthmann, Alex 92–6, 119–20, 122,
138, 315
Katz, Mark 71, 89, 135, 137
Kratus, John 92, 115, 119, 136, 138, sampling technique 238, 240, 242,
186, 199, 236, 251, 340, 342 244–8
self-concept 232, 242, 326–8
Leonhard, Charles 8, 169 self-efficacy 219, 225–31, 299–300,
leisure 167–82, 199 305–6, 309, 326–8, 341
liminal 167, 169, 171, 173, 175, 177, self-esteem 327–8, 341, 344
179, 181, 199 situated learning 26, 33, 41–2
soundscapes 272, 278–91, 295–6
Madlib 82–90 social justice 4, 10–11, 15, 255–6, 267,
Mason, Lowell 4, 168, 282, 291 294–5
military bands 9, 86, 90, 151 sociocultural 29, 42, 130, 294, 338
Mixcraft 9, 151 Sound Studies 63, 87, 89–90, 135,
multicultural 4, 10, 270 137–8, 271–91, 295, 315
Multilevel Modeling 299, 300, 304, Soundation 151
317–19 Special Needs 289
multimedia 93–4, 99–120, 124–9, 140, St. Pierre 23, 28
142, 145–6, 158, 163 streetcars 9
music listening 156, 255, 262–3, 269, Structural Equation Modeling 242
315, 317 Suncoast Music Education Research
Music Teacher Education 29, 40, 218, Symposium 183, 186
232, 280, 332, 339, 342–3 Systems View of Creativity 336
National Standards for Music talent 189, 191, 198, 215, 219–29,
Education 18 236, 296, 315, 336, 343
New Media 63–6 Tanglewood Symposium 3–4, 189
Index 353
technological determinism 66, 89, 120, Transmedia 94, 99, 107–18, 142, 146,
122, 124–5, 128–38 152, 158
time cone 20, 25, 163
Tobias, Evan 85, 90–8, 109, 113–22, Webster, Peter 29, 42, 91, 94, 119,
139, 141–3, 147, 152, 157–9, 315 121–2, 138–9, 143, 148, 154,
TPACK 149–50 224, 314, 333, 339, 341
transformation 5, 35, 40, 92, 132–3,
137, 215, 219, 226–31, 255–6, YouTube 64, 80–1, 95–100, 116, 120,
261, 264, 286, 316, 323, 332 137, 141, 198

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What challenges does the document discuss regarding music education?

What challenges does the document discuss regarding music education?

Clint Randles is Assistant Professor of Music Education at the University of

Edited by Clint Randles

4 A Proleptic Perspective of Music Education 29

The New Media Era

8 Is It the Technology? Challenging Technological

10 Understanding the Tools: Technology as a Springboard

Music for Life

17 Application of Sound Studies to Qualitative Research

Names and Addresses of Contributors 347

From my perspective, we can best prepare students for the future by

Working Within the Domain

FOUR RATIONALES FOR MUSIC EDUCATION

Cultural Elevation. It was a common belief in the young United States

Cultural Elevation: The Industrial Revolution

A Cohesive Society: Immigration and Community

This pamphlet represents a movement which will be encouraged by all

These are the 18 songs in the pamphlet:

18 Songs was so popular that it underwent numerous revisions during its

The End of an Era

Commercial Prosperity and School Bands

Social Justice and Multicultural Music Education

We deviate from our focus on music education to comment on the broader

WHAT IT ALL MEANS

Bloom, B. (1956). Taxonomy of educational objectives. Retrieved from http://

Professor Mark’s overview of four rationales for music education is a

1. According to a consumer profile by the Recording Industry Association of

IMAGINING DIFFERENCE DIFFERENTLY

It must be the case that each of my representations is such that I can

Kant defines humans as separate, stable, reasoning beings, focusing on

Conceiving of difference as continual variation rather than constants

TIME AND DIFFERENCE

In order to detail Deleuze and Guattari’s ontology of existence based on dif-

Figure 3.1 Visualization of Bergson’s Time Cone

BODIES WITHOUT ORGANS

According to Deleuze and Guattari (1991/1994), artistic, scientific, and

Is it really so sad and dangerous to be fed up with seeing with your

A figuration is not a graceful metaphor that provides coherency and

The body without organs serves to complicate long-standing ideas about

WHEN IS MUSIC? WHEN IS EDUCATION?

Deleuze and Guattari’s ontology of existence based on difference inspires

A short anecdote about a student teacher I observed illustrates how empha-

1. See, for example, Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics.

Cultural psychology and sociocultural approaches on identity formation

. . . comes out of a view of human experience in which humans, indi-

It demands that we be conscious of how we come to our knowledge and

The beliefs and philosophies exposed in this music-learning environment

Learning and Teaching Curricula

A learning curriculum consists of situated opportunities (thus including

A learning curriculum, therefore, is one that acknowledges, values, and

is to be approached in terms of the ability to connect together aspects

It is man’s participation in culture and the realization of his mental pow-

Drawing upon this view of culture, I attempted to conceptualize teach-

1. The appropriation and establishment of roles, routines, rituals, and

1. Who am I? How did I come to be in this particular place, in this par-