Roma Music and Emotion Filippo

Bonini Baraldi
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Roma Music and Emotion
Roma Music
and Emotion
F I L I P P O B O N I N I BA R A L D I

Translated by
M A R G A R E T R IG AU D

1
 3
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Bonini Baraldi, Filippo, 1976- author.
Title: Roma music and emotion / Filippo Bonini Baraldi.
Other titles: Tsiganes, musique et empathie. English
Description: New York : Oxford University Press, 2021. |
Translated from the French. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020043511 (print) | LCCN 2020043512 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780190096786 (hardback) | ISBN 9780190096793 (paperback) |
ISBN 9780190096816 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Romanies—Romania—Transylvania—Music—History and criticism. |
Romanies—Romania—Transylvania—Social life and customs. |
Music—Social aspects—Romania—Transylvania. | Emotions in music.
Classification: LCC ML3608.7.T7 B6613 2021 (print) |
LCC ML3608.7.T7 (ebook) | DDC 781.62/91497094984—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020043511
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020043512

DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780190096786.001.0001

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Paperback printed by Marquis, Canada
Hardback printed by Bridgeport National Bindery, Inc., United States of America

This work is supported by Portuguese National Funds through the FCT - Foundation for Science and
Technology, I.P., within the scope of the project “The Healing and Emotional Power of Music and Dance”
(PTDC/ART-PER/29641/2017) and a “FCT Investigator” grant (IF/01233/2014/CP1221/CT0002).
To my son Sixto,
To the memory of Deneş Iambor, my writing companion
 Contents

List of Figures xiii

Foreword by Steven Feld  xv
Acknowledgments  xix
Notes to the English edition  xxi
Linguistic conventions  xxv
Introduction  1
Musical emotions: from the lab to the field  1
The Roma community of Ceuaş  2
Is emotion necessarily associated with music?  9
“Good music makes you cry”: methodological approach  13

PA RT 1 : M U SIC A L E M O T IO N S : W H E N A N D W H Y
D O T H EY A R I SE ?
SE C T IO N 1 : P E R F O R M I N G F O R O T H E R S , P E R F O R M I N G
F O R O N E SE L F

1. The professional ethics of the Roma musicians of Ceuaş  23

Customer service  25
“Stay in your place”  25
Emotion makers?  28
2. Village celebrations  31
A Hungarian banquet in Ceuaş  31
I  32
  II  33
III  35
A Roma wedding in Laslău Mic  37
I  38
  II  40
III  41
Similarities and differences  42
3. How to make music work, how to arouse emotions  47
How to make music work  47
Playing for every “nation”  48
Playing for every “region”  49
Playing for each “person”  52
A flexible conception of the repertoire  55
viii Contents

The emotion at the end of the festivities  57

Making music resonate deep within the soul of the customers  57
The emotions of the musicians  59
4. After the “service”: Time to party in ţigănie  64
The drive back home  64
Back in ţigănie  66
The tears of the musicians  68
The after-​parties that follow the service  71
5. Other occasions when musical emotions can arise in ţigănie  73
Minor official celebrations  73
A baptism among friends  73
At home  76
At home with Csángáló, a professional musician (A3)  77
At home with Béla, an amateur musician (A4)  79
At home with Ikola, a semiprofessional singer (A5)  81
Crying with music in ţigănie  83
6. A musical experience of being inwardly torn apart  86
The supărare  86
In your head and heart  86
“Affecting” and “affected” characters  88
The emotions behind the tears  89
Nostalgia?  89
Ancestor worship?  91
“Brothers in song”?  92
Feeling inwardly torn apart  94
Performing for others, performing for oneself  95

SE C T IO N 2 : P E R F O R M I N G F O R T H E D E A D,
A R O U SI N G P I T Y I N T H E L I V I N G

7. Funerals and the politics of emotion  99

A new configuration of the world  99
The living and the dead  100
The ceremonies  100
Great men versus lesser men  102
The musicians  104
“Relatives” versus “outsiders”  106
Crying “with full throat” versus crying “inside”  107
Unfixed categories  111
The politics of emotion  112
The emotional dimensions of the funeral ritual  114
The dead versus the living: piety versus fear  114
 Contents ix

The relatives versus outsiders: pity versus shame  116

The space of ritual actions  117
8. The soundscape of a funeral wake  120
A heterogeneous soundscape  120
Analysis of the soundscape of a funeral  122
Crying “with full throat”: a case study  122
Transcriptions  124
Textual analysis  133
The acoustic characteristics of the weeping voice  141
Musicological analysis  144
Instrumental music  148
A suite with a rising tempo  148
The song of the deceased: playing for one, playing for them all  152
Relational musical emotions  154
Conclusion  156

PA RT 2 : W H Y D O T H E R OM A O F C E UA Ş C RY
W I T H M U SIC ?

9. Musical emotions in the Roma community of Ceuaş: A concentric

model  161
Comparing the three contexts of musical tears  161
My model’s weaknesses and strengths  166
The invariants of musical emotion  170
10. Performing sorrow  172
De jale tunes: a case study  172
The irregularities of the aksak rhythm  175
Rhythmical measures using sound analysis  179
Method  179
Data coding  179
Results  180
Rhythmical measures using motion capture  182
Method  182
Data coding  183
Results  186
Discussion on aksak measures  187
Asynchronization between melody and accompaniment  188
Measuring asynchronies by using motion capture  190
Method  190
Data coding  191
Results  191
Discussion on asynchronization  200
x Contents

The effect of “sweetness” created by the phrasing and ornamentation  203

Two studies on musical sweetness 205
Method  205
Results  205
Discussion on sweetness  210
De jale tunes: conclusion  214
11. Personal tunes  216
“That’s my tune!”  216
To “own” a song, it has to be “in your heart”  218
Methodological clarifications  218
What the Roma of Ceuaş have to say about their own personal
melodies  218
What the Roma of Ceuaş have to say about the melodies of others  220
Uncertain musical identities  221
12. Being milos  227
The milă: a way of being and behaving  228
“Roma are more miloşi”: an emotional minority?  231
The milă and musical emotion  234

PA RT 3 : M U SIC , E M O T IO N , A N D E M PAT H Y

13. What is musical empathy?  239

Empathy and music: conceptual frameworks  240
Ethnomusicological perspectives on empathy  240
Intersubjective empathy  244
Aesthetic empathy  247
Gestural empathy and embodied musical cognition  252
The usefulness of theories of empathy  255
14. Toward an anthropological approach to musical empathy  263
Alfred Gell and music  264
“Art and Agency”  264
Applying Gell’s model to music  268
Anthropological perspectives on musical empathy  271
Emotion, empathy, and agency  272
The referent of musical empathy  273
Empathy with the “musical being”  274
Empathy for the artist  276
Empathy for musical memory-​images  277
Intersubjective musical empathy  279
The performance context  280
Personal melodies and distributed persons  281
Becoming attached to a de jale tune  284
 Contents xi

Conclusion  289
Roma music and emotion  291

Epilogue  299
Glossary  305
Bibliography  309
Discography  323
Filmography  325
List and index of the audiovisual documents  327
Index  329
 List of Figures

I.1 On the doorstep of Deneş’ and Maria’s house, my hosts in

the ţigănie of Ceuaş. 9
1.1 Csángáló at his place, fixing his instrument while waiting for a
potential customer. 24
1.2 Roma musicians “serving” their customers in a restaurant.
Budapest, May 1, 1964. 29
1.3 Csángáló and Sanyi playing for Sándor in the community center.
Ceuaş, May 1, 2004 (V2). 29
1.4 Roma musicians playing for their customers in a tavern.
Hortobagy, Hungary, 1937. 30
2.1 After playing a tune for Sándor, Csángáló kisses him on the head.
Ceuaş, May 1, 2004 (V2). 36
2.2 A diagram of two village celebrations: the Hungarian banquet
in Ceuaş and the Roma wedding party in Laslău Mic. 43
3.1 Two versions of the same csárdás: playing in the “Hungarian” versus
the “Roma” style (violin: Sanyi) (A1). 50
3.2 A vertical diagram of the repertory choices of Roma musicians
in “service.” 56
4.1 After-​party in Tocsila’s courtyard (V4). 67
5.1 Béla cries while playing a doină (V5). 75
5.2 Csángáló and his wife, Tinka, in the veranda of their home. 79
5.3 Béla, his wife, and their youngest child in front of their home in ţigănie. 82
5.4 Ikola with her husband, Adrian, and their child. 83
7.1 Funeral ceremonies: the space of ritual actions. 118
8.1 The sound structure of Papina’s lament: analysis of a fragment. 125
8.2 A musical transcription of Papina’s lament for her mother-​in-​law,
Áricska (AI1). 126
8.3 A transcription of the full text of Papina’s lament for her mother-​in-​law,
Áricska, in the original Romani with an English translation (AI1). 130
8.4 The kinship network inscribed in Papina’s lament for her mother-​in-​law,
Áricska (AI1). 135
8.5 Three examples of the wailer’s relational utterances. 137
xiv List of Figures

8.6 The kinship network and relational utterances in Papina’s lament for her
mother-​in-​law, Áricska (AI1). 139
8.7 The instrumental suite performed at the funeral ceremonies (wakes and
burial). 149
9.1 A concentric model of musical emotion. 165
10.1 Musical transcription of the first cycle of the Romani song of sorrow
“CD” (track 6 of the CD “Szászcsávás Band 3”). 174
10.2 A simplified transcription of the Romani song of sorrow “CD”
(track 6 of the CD “Szászcsávás Band 3”). 176
10.3 Detection of the contră (viola) onsets: screenshot of Audacity software
(ver. 2.0.6). 181
10.4 Detection of the contră (viola) rhythmical pattern by using MoCap
technologies. 184
10.5 Detection of timing asynchronies between violin and contră (viola)
by using MoCap technologies. 192
10.6 Amount of asynchronies (in ms) between the contră (viola) and the violin
in two performances of the same Romani song of sorrow played “without
sweetness” (Duo12 and Duo13). 197
10.7 Amount of asynchronies (in ms) between the contră (viola) and the violin
in three performances of the same Romani song of sorrow played “without
sweetness” (Duo12 and Duo13) and “with sweetness” (Duo14). 198
10.8 Detail of the violin part in period 3 of Duo 13 (top) and
Duo14 (bottom). 199
10.9 How “sweetness” modifies the asynchronies between violin
and contră (viola). 199
10.10 The violinist Sanyi with the markers attached to his left hand. 206
10.11 Sanyi’s silhouette, as recorded by motion capture technology. 206
10.12 The movements of the musicians’ bows when performing
the same meseliecri tune “without sweetness”(top) and
“with sweetness” (bottom). 207
10.13 Movements of the marker located on the tip of the violinist’s
little finger. 208
10.14 Transcription of the same meseliecri tune performed by violinist Sanyi
“with sweetness” and “without sweetness” (AI2). 209
10.15 Transcription of the same doină performed by violinist Sanyi
“with sweetness” and “without sweetness” (AI2). 211
13.1 CPL model of musical communication, after Kendall and
Carterette (1990). 255
EP.1 “I’m from far away.” 301
EP.2 Csángáló (second from left) on the set of Gatlif ’s film Liberté. 302
 Foreword

Dear reader,
It is truly a pleasure to be invited to provide a brief introduction to Filippo
Bonini Baraldi’s fine book. What you are about to read is a distinctively rich in-
tellectual contribution to contemporary Roma musical ethnography. As in the
finest works in the ethnographic genre, we encounter here a compassionate and
ever-​more layered rendering of voices, conversations, histories, and practices,
allowing glimpses of subjectivities that have for so long been oversimplified
by endless romanticism, mystification, prejudice, and stereotype. Chapter by
chapter we are gracefully brought close to people as the author comes to know
them well. We join him in the journey of being invited into their home to hear
their stories; to learn about their families and their lives; to know their hardships,
joys, and sorrows; to become aware of their professional accomplishments and
disappointments; to engage their ethics and aesthetics; and most of all, to feel
their capacity for reaching far into emotional expression whether performing
among themselves or for the varied clients who hire their skills into service. And
through this rendering, at every step of the way, we encounter myriad local ways
of speaking about emotion and empathy. By the end it is clear that the author has
not merely translated a word here or there; he has instead provided us entry to a
formidable metalanguage that is also central to the emotional life of music for the
Roma of Ceuaş, a small Hungarian village in Central Transylvania.
But, as you are also soon to discover, there is much more here than a deep
ethnographic work. Adding to the excitement of a richly local empirical project
on music, worlding, empathy, and relationality, we are made aware of the author’s
passion for critically probing multiple discourses on music and emotion. In
doing so, the ethnographic work is placed in an ever-​thickening conversational
nexus with (dominantly un-​ethnographic) writings in philosophy, cognitive sci-
ence, and neuroaesthetics that offer a range of speculative as well as empirically
test-​driven perspectives on music and emotion in performance.
But wait! Filippo Bonini Baraldi turns out to be even more than a linguistically
gifted musical ethnographer, even more than a close critical reader of emotion
and music theories across scientific and humanistic literatures. He also brings to
the presentation three other kinds of expertise that are equally interwoven with
chapters of deepening ethnographic and theoretical finesse. The first of these is
skill and participation as a violinist, a musician who has come to understand,
musically and instrumentally, the repertoires, the gestural practices, the sonic
xvi Foreword

materiality, the performance verve, and the professional comportment of the

musicians he has come to know so well. This skill makes a major difference as
we listen to pieces the author has recorded, follow his precise transcriptions, and
are brought into his musical comprehension of sonic nuance and performative
subtlety. This weaving of ethnographic and musical authority is truly impressive.
Additionally, Filippo Bonini Baraldi is also an electronics engineer by back-
ground, and from that set of skills in music technology we have a rich orientation
to the analytic dimension of the presentation. Sound analysis using contempo-
rary software joins an openness to experimental techniques, and to laboratory
experiments with motion capture and gestural tracking technologies. These
techniques and experiments are seamlessly brought into the flow of the ethno-
graphic and theoretical narrative, illustrating, yet again, how much musical an-
thropology can profit by reaching beyond its core work of “thick description,”
and of light comparison (here displayed in the author’s juxtapositions with re-
lated practices of professional emotion-​making amid precarity among Roma
communities in Hungary, Kosovo, Greece, Moldavia, and Andalusia).
In addition to the work with sound and motion, with an impressive range
of recorded, graphic, and visual examples, Filippo Bonini Baraldi also brings a
cinematically sophisticated ethnographic eye into the documentation. His finely
detailed analysis of funerary crying is given intimate expression in his prize-​
winning film Plan-​séquence d’une mort criée (Crying for the Dead). Here we
are able to watch the real-​time unfolding of one of the most powerful acoustic
performances of musical emotion, the spontaneous but controlled melodies of
tears that are typically performed over a few nights after a death and before a
burial.
I am able to recognize many themes presented in this book as a result of a
brief experience traveling with and recording Roma musicians in northern
Greece for CDs to accompany the 2002 book Bright Balkan Morning: Romani
Lives and the Power of Music in Greek Macedonia, by photographer Dick Blau
and authors Angeliki and Charles Keil. But my intellectual closeness to questions
that captivate Filippo Bonini Baraldi in fact derive from research in the Southern
Highlands of Papua New Guinea, some thirteen thousand kilometers away from
Romanian central Transylvania. In both instances, we have been led to linking
emotional expression to an intense cultivation of “mental maps.” Like those
described in this book, mental maps in Bosavi, Papua New Guinea, are genera-
tive of musical tears because they chart cumulative and overlapping biographies
that fuse relations and sentiments through space and time. It is the great rela-
tional specificity of these maps and the memories they can instantly bring to the
fore that makes emotional expression in sound so personal, so visceral, so im-
mediate, and so socially resonant. “A tear is an intellectual thing,” said William
Blake; and perhaps this is what most links the “wept thoughts” of Bosavi laments
 Foreword xvii

to depths of projecting and sharing pity, empathy, and compassion for the Roma
of Ceuaş.
It has now been ten years since I traveled to Paris to participate in the jury
for Filippo Bonini Baraldi’s PhD thesis, L’ émotion en partage: approche
anthropologique d’une musique tsigane de Roumanie (Shared Emotions: An
Ethnomusicological Study of a Romanian Gypsy Village). And believe me, I was
not surprised when this tour de force subsequently received the best thesis prize
from the Quai Branly Museum, and led to the publication, three years later, of
the book Tsiganes, musique et empathie (Gypsies, Music and Empathy) in the
prestigious Paths of Ethnology series of Éditions de la Maison des sciences de
l’homme. The further research, analysis, and refinement of this work into the
present English-​language edition will, I hope, bring a remarkably sophisticated
research project and an extremely talented scholar to the attention of a larger
public. This book is simply a superb example of the best that the anthropology of
music and sound has to offer.

Sincerely,
Steven Feld
Steven Feld is a musician, filmmaker, and Distinguished Professor Emeritus of
Anthropology and Music at the University of New Mexico.
 Acknowledgments

Many people encouraged and helped me all along this research.

First of all, I would like to thank with all my heart the Ceuașeni, the people
living in Ceuaș, for the incredible hospitality they offered me during my stays in
the village, between 2002 and 2013. My thoughts go especially to Tocsila, Irina,
Maria and Deneş, Csángáló and Tinka, Tinkuca and Calin, Arabella, Sanyi,
Nicoletta, Mamacs, and Ikola, for the friendship and affection they have shown
me. The moments I have lived with them—​at home, at the tavern, at the river, in
the forest, at horse markets; at weddings, funerals, baptisms and spontaneous
parties; and during the tours in France—​remain unforgettable.
I thank with all my gratitude Bernard Lortat-​Jacob for the sharp, elegant,
and profoundly human view of ethnomusicology he transmitted to me. It
has been a great honor and a genuine pleasure to learn from him. My sin-
cere acknowledgments also go to Emmanuel Bigand for the valuable advices
concerning interdisciplinarity and laboratory experimentation; to Speranţa
Rădulescu, who provided me a 360-​degree support from the beginning to the end
of my research, hosting me in Bucharest, giving me fundamental suggestions,
and revising all the Romanian texts of my work; to Michael Houseman and
Florence Dupont for the important advices they have given me on the analysis of
funerals and ritual wailings; to Dana Rappoport, who helped me to improve the
logical structure of my manuscript; and to Steve Feld, whose seminal book Sound
and Sentiment revealed to me what I wanted to do in my life.
I am also grateful to the members of the Centre de Recherche en
Ethnomusicologie (CREM-​LESC) of Université Paris Nanterre for their con-
structive critics and suggestions: Kati Basset, Anne-​Florence Borneuf, Hélène
Delaporte, Aurélie Helmlinger, Jean Lambert, Sandrine Loncke, Rosalia
Martínez, Katell Morand, Caterina Pasqualino, Nicolas Prévôt, and Victor
A. Stoichiţă. Many ideas presented in this book have been elaborated in the
context of the French Center for Scientific Research (CNRS) networks “Music,
Cognition, and Societies” and “Ethnopoetics,” and have been improved thanks
to the questions and comments of my colleagues and students at Université
Paris Nanterre, Université Paris 8 Saint-​Denis, Universidade Federal da Paraíba
(UFPB, Brazil), and Universidade Nova de Lisboa (Portugal).
xx Acknowledgments

For their technical ideas, so adapted to my needs, I thank Philippe Jobet, who
conceived and realized the interactive animations and the companion web-
site (http://​ethnomusicologie.fr/​tsiganes-​bonini-​baraldi/​); Clement Lebrun
and Leon T. Bucaretchi for their help with the musical transcriptions; Vincent
Rioux for the software “e-​sonoclaste” that allowed me to annotate my audiovisual
recordings; and Yannick Gérard for the motion capture modeling.
I wrote the original French manuscript in many different places, often hosted
by my friends’ families: the Février at Adaouste, the Fleischl at the Gare de
Penvénan, the Moulin at Carcans, the Oudry at la Malachère, and the Soulas
at Plougastel Daoulas. I am very grateful to all of them, as I am to all the people
that welcomed me during my trips to Hungary and Romania: Florin and
Beatrice Iordan in Bucharest, Alexandra Beaujard and András and Gyöngvér
Sinko in Târgu Mureş, Radu and Ina in Cluj-​Napoca, and Domonkos Hamar in
Budapest.
It has been a real challenge to write in French, and the final manuscript would
never have seen the light without the precious reviews of Laurence Fayet, Cécile
Février, Séline Gülgönen, Elsa Presset, Jean-​Cleaude Prévôt, and Elodie Soulier.
A special thanks goes to Juliette Grimbert, who revised the whole text with great
patience and friendship, and to Emmanuelle Corne and Carmen Husti, who
copyedited the text at Éditions de la Maison des sciences de l’homme. I have been
also helped by Anna Petrika and Zita Kovác for the Hungarian translations, and
by Lise and Gavril Borki for the texts in Romani language.
The present English translation has been realized by Margaret Rigaud, to
whom goes all my gratitude for her patience, effort, and great professionalism.
I wish also to warmly thank Suzanne Ryan, Norman Hirschy, and all the editorial
team of Oxford University Press for making this project real.
Last but not least, a warm hug goes to Fatima, Sixto, Amedeo, Ada, Matteo,
Sara, Niccolò, and all friends that accompanied me in this great human and sci-
entific journey.
 Notes to the English edition

This book originates from my PhD thesis, L’  émotion en partage: approche

anthropologique d’une musique tsigane de Roumanie, financed by a doctoral grant
of the French Center for Scientific Research (CNRS) and defended in September
2010 at Université Paris Nanterre. The original research has been improved
thanks to a postdoctoral “E. Fleischmann” grant awarded by the Society of
Ethnology of Nanterre (France) and was published in 2013 by the Éditions de
la Maison des sciences de l’homme (Paris) under the title Tsiganes, musique et
empathie. In 2017, the book has been translated in Romanian and published by
the Romanian Institute for Research on National Minorities, with a foreword by
Speranţa Rădulescu and without any substantial changes.
The present English version is an improved translation of the French book, and
has been made possible thanks to funding granted by the Portuguese Foundation
for Science and Technology (Investigator FCT program). I made several changes
in relation to the French edition: some of these have been suggested by the
anonymous reviewers chosen by Oxford University Press, some others came
from my own initiative, with the aim of improving both the content and style of
the manuscript.
The French Introduction was very long, and filled with personal anecdotes
regarding my arrival in Ceuaș. In the present book I removed most of these
details since, ten years later, they looked unnecessary to me. However, the most
meaningful part of my story gave rise to a new text, which is presented here in
the Epilogue.
I reviewed Chapter 9 so as to make clear that the circular model of musical
emotion I present here has a local, as opposed to general, validity. Indeed, this
model suggests that in Ceuaș there are three basic “emotional modes,” that is,
three types of interconnections between emotions, social interactions, and mu-
sical practices. I argue that this model is fairly exhaustive in describing how
emotions are felt and expressed during the musical performances of the Roma of
this region. Since the same “emotional modes” may be found in other regions of
the world, the model is also a good starting point for cross-​cultural comparison.
However, many other emotional modes may exist outside the specific cultural
context of the Transylvanian Roma.
Chapter 10 presents substantial differences from the original. I included
new analyses of the Roma “sorrowful” (de jale) musical repertoire, specifically,
by computing more precisely the rhythmical structure of these tunes and the
xxii Notes to the English Edition

slight asynchronies existing between the melody and the harmonic accom-
paniment. These new analyses have been previously published in the journal
Empirical Musicology Review (Bonini Baraldi, Bigand, & Pozzo 2015), and are
here discussed in the light of recent research on non-​isochronous rhythms, en-
trainment, and synchronization among musicians.
I trimmed and reviewed the third part with the aim of making my theoretical
propositions on musical empathy smoother. Almost ten years have passed since
I formulated these ideas. Obviously, many other articles and books on empathy,
sympathy, emotional contagion, and related concepts have been published since
then, but to include them in my discussion and bibliography would have resulted
in a completely new book, outside the scope of this editorial project. In spite of
the changes I made, this part remains a translation, rather than a re-​elaboration
of the original ideas.
Audiovisual recordings have been a fundamental part of my research. Indeed,
the ethnographic description of weddings, funerals, baptisms, and other situ-
ations in which Roma cry (or make people cry) along with music, presented in
Part 1, is based on many hours of video and audio recordings that I have done
on the field. I developed, together with Philippe Jobet, various interactive
animations intended to accompany my analyses of these events. All this digital
material was originally included in a DVD-​ROM annexed to the French book.
Since then, it has been stored in the online archive of the Centre de Recherche
en Ethnomusicologie (CREM-​LESC, see https://​archives.crem-​cnrs.fr/​archives/​
collections/​CNRSMH_​I_​2010_​005/​) and then uploaded to the website of the
French Society for Ethnomusicology (http://​ ethnomusicologie.fr/​tsiganes-​
bonini-​baraldi/​). I strongly invite the reader to browse this latter webpage by
following the links indicated all along the book (e.g., “V2/​02:43” points to the
second minute and forty-​third second of the Video V2). Ethnomusicology is all
about people and their music: to see who these people are, and to listen to the
sounds they produce, will surely allow to better understand, and maybe even
feel, my research among the Roma of Ceuaș.
The film Plan-​séquence d’une mort criée (Crying for the Dead), to which
I largely refer in Chapters 7 and 8, depicts a funeral wake through an interrupted
one-​hour-​long video sequence. This film is not available on the web, but it has
been published, with both French and English subtitles, in the box set Around
Music (Bonini Baraldi 2015 [2005]), which includes twelve ethnographic films
awarded by the French Society for Ethnomusicology at the international “Jean
Rouch” film festival in Paris.
 Notes to the English edition xxiii

Finally, I removed the original transcriptions of the conversations I had with

my hosts in Romanian or Romani language, which for the record have never
been in the form of “interviews.” With exception for the texts of songs and ritual
wailings, for the sake of concision all these conversations are directly presented
in English. The reader interested in the local languages and ways of speaking will
find the original transcriptions in the footnotes of the French book.

Lisbon, June 2020

 Linguistic conventions

The Hungarians of Ceuaş are bilingual (Hungarian-​Romanian), and their Roma

neighbors trilingual (Hungarian-​Romanian-​Romani). I use the abbreviations
[h]‌, [r], and [t] (short for the French “Tsigane”) to refer to these languages; when
I do not specify, the quote is in Romanian.
Most of my conversations with the Ceuaşeni (the people of Ceuaş) were
conducted in Romanian, or, rather, in the local variant that I learned to speak
when I was there. The dialect spoken in the village differs markedly from
standard written (literary) Romanian and can sometimes be difficult to under-
stand. Although readers familiar with written Romanian may find their syntax
and grammar a little disconcerting, I felt it was important to try and capture the
speakers’ language as faithfully as possible in order to preserve the quality of
their speech.
I have used apostrophes to indicate variations from standard Romanian (for
example bătrânu’ instead of bătrânul, “elder”). I have inserted suspension points
to mark sudden conversational breaks (when the speaker’s voice trails off, for
example) or shifts, when he or she interrupts himself or herself in mid-​sentence
to address someone else or change the subject. All these exchanges are translated
into English in the body of the text for the sake of convenience.
I have also transcribed a few texts in Romani, notably song lyrics and funeral
laments. The local variant of Romani that the Roma speak among themselves in
Ceuaş, and which I started to learn halfway through my stay in the village, includes
both Hungarian and Romanian words. Overall, the phonological structure of this
Romani dialect resembles that of Romanian. In order to avoid using three dif-
ferent transcription systems, I have used the same conventions as for Romanian,
except for the letters “ny” and “ly,” which follow Hungarian pronunciation rules.
However, I have kept Romani declensions (for example, a non-​Roma person is a
Gajo (masculine) or a Gaji (feminine), and non-​Roma are Gaje).
The names of the villages of central Transylvania can be Romanian, Hungarian,
or even sometimes German. Since in the conversations with my hosts these al-
ways appear in Romanian, I have decided to transcribe them in this language.
In contrast, the Roma of Ceuaş tend to favor Hungarian, over Romanian, first
names (for instance, Férénc [h]‌rather than Francisc [r], “Francis”). As a result,
I have used both the Hungarian and Romanian phonological systems for the
names of persons, as appropriate.
xxvi Linguistic conventions

These linguistic overlaps also pervade the world of music. The same word can
sometimes be used across all three languages, as in the case of the învârtită, a
“twirling” dance popular with Romanian audiences. Conversely, the slow lis-
tening tunes have different names in different languages: asztali [h]‌, de masă [r],
and meseliecri [t], which all means [music] “for the table.” I have adhered to the
terminological choices of the musicians of Ceuaş, who tend to choose the word
they use to refer to a musical genre based on the language of those they perform it
for: csárdás [h] are the dancing tunes enjoyed by the Hungarians, while învârtită
and hărţag [r] are favored by the Romanians, and meseliecri [t] by the Roma.

Grapheme-​phoneme correspondences in Romanian

Letter Example API Approximative

pronunciation
ă ăsta (“this one”) /​ə/​ about
â, î cântec, cîntec (“song”) /​ɨ/​ lip
ce, ci, cea cer (“sky”), cinci (“five”) /​t͡ʃe, t͡ʃi, t͡ʃa/​ chair, cheat, chat
che, chi chestiune (“question”), /​ke, ki/​ ketamine, keyboard
chinină (“quinine”)
e elev (“student”) /​e, ɛ/​ bet
ge, gi, gea ginere (“son-​in-​law”) /​d͡ʒe, d͡ʒi,/​ jay, jeep, January
d͡ʒa/​
h hotel (“hotel”) /​h/​ hotel
o om (“man”) /​o/​ hot
r rar (“rare”) /​r/​ rolled “r”
s sac (“bag”) /​s/​ sea
ş şină (“rail”) /​ʃ/​ sheer
ţ ţel (“goal”) /​t͡s/​ nuts
u plouă (“it’s raining”) /​u/​ you
 Linguistic conventions xxvii

Grapheme-​phoneme correspondences in Hungarian

Letter Example API Approximative

pronunciation

a agy (“brain”) /​ɒ/​ body

á ágy (“bed”) /​aː/​ ask
e egy (“one”) /​ɛ/​ bet
é én (“me”) /​eː/​ French blasé
o oda (“over there”) /​o/​ hot
ó óda (“ode”) /​oː/​ book
ö örült (“s/​he rejoiced”) /​ø/​ bud
ő őrült (“mad”) /​øː/​ foot
u utas (“traveler”) /​u/​ you
ú út (“road”) /​uː/​ French utile
ü ügy (“business”) /​y/​ French pur
ű űr (“empty”) /​yː/​ newt
c cérna (“thread”) /​t͡s/​ nuts
cs csap (“tap”) /​t͡ʃ/​ check
dz edző (“coach”) /​d͡z/​ Italian zona
dzs dzsungel (“jungle”) /​d͡ʒ/​ jungle
gy gyár (“factory”) /​ɟ/​ dove
h hal (“fish”) /​h/​ home, German
Haar
j jó (“good”) /​j/​ yellow
k kár (“damage”) /​k/​ car
ly lyuk (“hole”) /​j/​ year
ny nyom (“trace”) /​ɲ/​ Italian gnocchi
s sor (“rank”) /​ʃ/​ sheer
sz szó (“word”) /​s/​ sea
ty tyúk (“hen”) /​c/​ tiara
z zár (“lock”) /​z/​ zoo
zs zsák (“bag”) /​ʒ/​ usually
 Introduction

Musical emotions: from the lab to the field

I first became interested in researching musical emotions at the end of my MA

degree in electronic engineering. In 2001, Giovanni De Poli, the Director of the
Centro di Sonologia Computazionale (CSC), at the University of Padua, invited
me to join a team of researchers working on the communication of expressive
intentions in music. Supervised by Antonio Rodà, our study was inspired by
empirical investigations of expressiveness in music performances (Gabrielsson
1995) and experimental works on the perception of musical emotions (Juslin &
Sloboda 2001).
Several interpreters, musicians but also nonmusicians, were invited to the
laboratory. We asked each one of them to perform brief improvised pieces
on a MIDI keyboard while attempting to convey the sensory and affective
connotations they associated with a certain number of moods (“impetuous,”
“heavy,” “vacuous,” “sweet,” etc.). Not only had musical improvisation not often
been the focus of experimental research before, but this study was methodologi-
cally ground-​breaking, progressively limiting the number of musical parameters
the interpreters could deploy. Perceptual experiments were then carried out in
order to evaluate to what extent the listeners recognized the performers’ expres-
sive intentions. Results suggested that a few low-​level parameters, mainly in-
tensity and rhythmic density, were important factors in the communication of
expressive content (Bonini Baraldi, De Poli, & Rodà 2006).
This study should logically have led me to embark on a doctoral thesis in
music technology or music psychology. However, I could not reconcile my-
self to the paradoxical implications of the research we had just conducted: had
we not lost track of musical emotion by trying to reduce its parameters to a
minimum? What troubled me was not the empiricism and reductionism of the
exact sciences, so much as the notion that this approach to musical emotions
could produce satisfactory results on its own. I did not believe that it was pos-
sible to answer the question “Why does music move us?” (Vickhoff & Malmgren
2005) without taking the performance context into account. It seemed to me
that the emotions conveyed by a musical act depended on where and when it
took place, as well as on a large number of other contextual factors (the people
present, the interactions among them, etc.). More generally, the experimental

Roma Music and Emotion. Filippo Bonini Baraldi, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780190096786.003.0001
2 Introduction

studies that were being conducted on musical emotions at the time relied on a
mechanistic interpretation, as though a set of psychological and neurophysio-
logical responses to isolated musical stimuli could explain this complex phe-
nomenon. Interestingly, even those who still favor this approach have become
critical of these experiments, with their often contradictory results1 (Juslin &
Västfjäll 2008).
These epistemological concerns were compounded by a certain number of
personal experiences as I encountered new ways of playing music. A classically
trained musician, I had stopped playing for a few years when I decided to pick
up my violin again, inspired by the recordings of eastern European Roma bands
such as the Taraf de Haïdouks and Fanfara Ciocarlia, as well as by the soundtrack
of movies like Emir Kusturica’s The Time of the Gypsies. At the time, I had a stu-
dent job at a restaurant in Venice, Il Paradiso Perduto, which regularly featured
live performances by Roma bands, especially during Carnival. This is how I first
met two of the protagonists of this book, Tocsila and his father, Csángáló.
In August 2002, I traveled to Romania for the first time, spending a week
in Tocsila’s home in Ceuaş, a small Hungarian and Roma village in central
Transylvania. Enthusiastic about the music I heard and the people I met there,
I decided to apply for a doctorate under the supervision of Bernard Lortat-​Jacob
at the Laboratoire d’Ethnomusicologie of the Musée de l’Homme in Paris. In April
2004, I was able to return to Ceuaş and start exploring the relationship between
music and emotions in a new perspective.

The Roma community of Ceuaş

Ceuaş is a distinctive place. Although located in Romania, far from the Hungarian
border, it is a Hungarian village. Its Magyar name is Csávás, itself a contraction
of an older name: Szászcsávás.2 There is only one Romanian resident, and seve-
ral of the older villagers do not speak Romanian. Although not particularly iso-
lated, the village lies at the end of an untarmacked cul-​de-​sac, four-​kilometers

1 “The literature presents a confusing picture with conflicting views on almost every topic in the

field” (Juslin & Västfjäll 2008: 559).

2 Conquered by the Magyars circa 1003, Transylvania became an autonomous region when the

Kingdom of Hungary was carved out between the Hapsburg Monarchy and the Ottoman Empire
in the early 16th century. It was then subjected in turn to the Ottoman Empire, Hungary, and the
Habsburg Empire. Transylvania has been part of Romania since the end of World War I, except for
a short period between 1940 and 1944, when it was temporarily annexed to Hungary. Bordered by
the Carpathian mountains to the south and the east, and Hungary and Ukraine to the northwest, it
has a very diverse population, with Romanian (c. 70%), Magyar and magyarophone Székely (c. 20%),
Roma (numbers unknown), Ukrainian, Czech, Slovak, and Serb communities. Until the last century,
there were also several centuries-​old Jewish, Armenian, and German settlements. All these commu-
nities coexist relatively peaceably, especially in light of the ethnic conflicts plaguing the Balkans.
 Introduction 3

off the main road linking the small towns of Târnăveni and Bălăuşeri. Whereas
the Orthodox Christian Church is dominant in the surrounding villages, the
Reformed Protestant Church, located between the bar and the village commu-
nity center, is the main place of worship in Ceuaş.
Ceuaş is home to around 700 Hungarian farmers. Their homesteads surround
the village in neat rows. In the summer months, they grow maize and seasonal
vegetables on the surrounding hills, which are covered in snow in winter. There are
also many vineyards and there is talk of perhaps opening a winemaking coopera-
tive one day. Although the village has an aging population, it does have two schools
and a fine soccer field. On weekends, young people can often be seen returning to
the village from Târgu Mureş, Cluj-​Napoca, or even Budapest. The cămin cultural
(community center) is often used for parties with a DJ or popular music band—​
Sunday dances are now a thing of the past.
The musical traditions of Ceuaş are also distinctive. Ceuaş is one of a handful of
places where it is still possible to hear Hungarian polyphonic singing, an oral tra-
dition transmitted from one generation of farmers to the next and dating back to
the teachings of Belle József, an 18th-​century Protestant pastor.3 Initially strictly
religious and associated with the local Reformed Church, choral music eventually
spread to all rural celebrations. Today, the Ceuaşeni (i.e., the people of Ceuaş) are
still very proud of their harmonia [h]‌(choir), having celebrated its 150th anniver-
sary in 1987. Although it is common to hear people bemoan the fact that parents
no longer teach their children the different types of voice—​basszus, altus, mély
basszus, or diszkantus ([h] bass, alto/​contralto, basso profundo, soprano)—​men and
women still enjoy singing together in large groups at the village feasts organized in
the community center (see Chapter 2), or in smaller groups on a freezing Christmas
night (V14).
As is common in eastern Europe, the Roma community lives on the outskirts
of the Gajo [t]‌(non-​Roma) settlement. Climbing the hill next to the village where
the ţigănie—​their neighborhood—​is located feels akin to leaving a retirement
home and entering a schoolyard: children immediately rush toward you, calling
out that a Gajo or a străin (foreigner) has arrived. Two places of gathering stand
right at the entrance of the ţigănie: a small white house built by outsiders hoping
to persuade the Roma to become Pentecostals (pocăiţi), and the cămin cultural,
a wooden cabin erected by another group of outsiders, keen to encourage them

3 According to Nagy (1995a), Belle József was taught the rules of this tradition by his teacher

Backamadarasi Kiss Gergely, who had himself learned them in Swiss seminaries. For a history of
the Church of Ceuaş and its choir, see Nagy (1995a, 1995b). For transcriptions and analyzes of poly-
phonic village songs, see Szabó (1977).
4 I use Roman numerals in bold throughout the book to refer the reader to online audiovisual ma-

terial: http://​ethnomusicologie.fr/​tsiganes-​bonini-​baraldi/​
4 Introduction

to gather around music.5 The close proximity of these two buildings is some-
what disconcerting since the pocăiţi do not play music (although they do sing
religious songs) and do not dance. Aside from these two foreign structures, the
other houses in ţigănie have all been built by the members of the community
and painted in a variety of colors. Homes are heated with log fires, as there is
no gas nor running water. The poorest members of the community live in mud
and straw huts even further from the village, right on top of the hill, close to the
soccer field.6
The Roma of Ceuaş describe themselves as ţigani ungureşti (Hungarian
Gypsies) or ţigani din unguri (the Hungarians’ Gypsies). Other Roma communi-
ties in the area call them Romungro.7 Their self-​identification as Hungarian Roma
is based on their language—​they speak Romani, Romanian, and Hungarian—​
and religion. However, although officially Reformed Protestants, like their Gaje
neighbors, they take little interest in Sunday services: what really matters to them,
beyond having their children baptized by the Hungarian pastor, is ensuring that
they do not lose the right to be buried next to their kinsfolk. In the cemetery, on
a hill right across from ţigănie, the stone tombs of the Hungarians and the dried
mud graves of the Roma echo the sociological divide between the living.
The Roma of Ceuaş are keen to point out their differences from other
Hungarian Roma communities, both in the Târgu Mureş area—​notably the
Gabori described by Olivera (2012), whom they call the Cortorari—​and further
east, where Roma communities live side by side with the Székelys ([h]‌Székelyek,
[r] Secui), a subgroup of the Hungarian people. The Roma of Ceuaş consider
them more backward-​looking (originali). Their clothing, in particular, sets them
apart: the men wear large broad black hats, the women ornate flowery skirts.
They limit their contact with these communities to exchanges of material goods
on the markets of the neighboring towns, deeming them to be “thieves” ([r]
şmecher, [t] cior) and “mafiosi” (mafioşi), and describing the Cortorari as shady
bişniţari (businessmen, implicitly smugglers) and the Roma living in the Székely
Land as prompt to flash a knife (cuţitari). As a result, their kinship networks
seldom extend beyond the ţigănie of Ceuaş, and when they do form alliances
beyond their turf, it is with the Roma of the region that they perceive to be part

5 This cabin was built in the year 2000 by the Nadara ([t]‌“do not fear”), a French organization re-

sponsible for a range of structural improvements (digging a well, building a road, lighting the streets)
and cultural interventions in ţigănie.
6 The elders remember that when they were children (in the 1940s) there were fewer houses and

these were all built out of mud. This could indicate that the Roma settled in this area around one hun-
dred years ago.
7 In Hungary, this term (a portmanteau word combining “Rom” and “Hungarian”) refers to

elements of the Roma population that are better integrated into Gaji society and no longer speak
Romani (see Williams 2001, Kovalcsik 2003).
 Introduction 5

of the same group as them. They rarely marry Gaje, and when they do, they con-
sider foreigners preferable.8
Residence is patrilocal and the family nucleus includes two or three genera-
tions: children and their parents, or children and their parents and grandparents.
A couple will usually have their first child around the age of fifteen or sixteen,
and the child will often be raised by its grandparents. Kinship networks are
tight-​knit, and families regularly visit their neamuri (relatives) in other villages
on the Târnava Mică river, especially when there is a party or funeral to attend.
These occasions are a chance to learn and spread rumors about an individual
or a family: feeding the gossip-​mill is both a daily occupation and an effective
strategy for those seeking to shape the internal politics of the community.
The people I met in the ţigănie of Ceuaş could not have been further from
the region’s stereotypical image of Roma as “lazy chicken poachers.” This is
a very hard-​working community, even if a chicken may possibly disappear
every now and then. It is also a community that had historically been exploited
and is still being exploited. Brickmaking was their original activity until they
started working in hop breweries around Sibiu under the Communist regime.
Nowadays, most of them work as farmhands, either for the Hungarian families
in the village or for the factory located near the train station in Mica. Except for a
few musicians, the residents of ţigănie do not own the land they till.
In the wake of the 1989 Romanian revolution and then of Romania’s mem-
bership of the European Union, the Roma of Ceuaş—​like many other people—​
started looking for work abroad. They often get jobs on Slovenian farms, where
the pay is one euro an hour, i.e., four times their wages in Ceuaş.9 Although the
residents of the surrounding villages have long been leaving to find work else-
where, the youth of the ţigănie of Ceuaş still like to go back home after taking
up seasonal work abroad. On their return, the first thing they do is settle their
debts with the Gaje, who give them loans with a 50% interest rate in the winter
months.10 The second thing they do is go for a drink with their friends. After that
they invest in a suckling pig to be fattened up for the winter. If there is any money
left in their purse, they then upgrade their TV and audio systems, and paint the
house a new color or fix its walls. There are unemployment benefits in Romania,
but the families of children enrolled in magyarophone schools are prioritized
by Hungarian institutions keen to incentivize the Roma to enroll their offspring
in these schools. Everyday life in ţigănie is associated with a general sense of

8 When this happens, the women follow their husbands back to their country of origin, usually

France, Italy, Spain, or Slovenia.

9 In Ceuaş, a day of work on a farm was paid 100,000 lei (3 euros) in 2004, and 150,000 lei (4.5

euros) in 2007.
10 It would however not be fair to say that the Gaje alone take advantage of the economic situation

of the Roma community: instead, when the latter have access to Western European employers, they
do not hesitate to take a generous cut if they manage to secure a job for a member of their community.
6 Introduction

hardship, sometimes verging on extreme deprivation. Whereas some families

manage to “go up” (a se ridica, a merge sus) in the world when they go abroad
for work, the less fortunate have already squandered their meager earnings at a
tavern before returning home to ţigănie. Those who are even more desperate stay
at home swigging the cheapest drink they can find—​medical-​grade alcohol (spirt
sanitar)—​sometimes at the cost of their lives.
Old Deneş, in whose house I stayed during my fieldwork, often invoked the
necazu’ ţiganilor (the misfortune of the Gypsies) when he tried to explain why
life was so hard in ţigănie, both on a material and an existential plane. “The
Gypsies have several types of necaz,” he would say, before telling me stories of
people sent to prison for committing timber theft in the woods; living in mud
shacks with ten children (at the risk of losing one in winter); hiding under a bed
when the Gaje turn up in search of forced labor; or choosing to drink rather than
eat after a day of work in the fields. Deneş’ tales of necazu’ perfectly illustrate
the meaning of the word as “anything that inflicts physical or moral suffering on
someone” (Academia Română 2001). In the dictionary, the word is associated,
among other things, with notions of “suffering,” “sorrow,” “pain,” “misfortune,”
and supărare (irritation/​sorrow, see Chapter 6).
Enslaved in Romania until the mid-​19th century, the Roma are still in an
ambiguous and difficult position in most Transylvanian rural communities
(see Pons 1995). Although the older residents of the ţigănie of Ceuaş can still
remember taking part in the celebrations of their Hungarian neighbors, parti-
cularly their open air dances, the community also has more recent memories of
stones being hurled at them for getting too close to the village community center
(built in 1953). Contemporary Hungarian Ceuaşeni have subtler ways of distan-
cing themselves from their Roma neighbors: they might for example condemn
their clothes and behavior as indecent and accuse them of being troublemakers.
However, the relationship between the two communities has improved in the
wake of the revolution—​and more specifically of the 1990 clashes in Târgu
Mureş between ethnic Romanians and Hungarians, when the Roma community
apparently rallied in support of the Hungarians:11 the residents of the ţigănie of
Ceuaş can still remember the day when the Gaje called on them to help defend
the village in the event of an attack.
Although the public spaces and schools of the village are open to the Roma
nowadays, the latter can still sometimes be closely monitored on entering
the community center or served in a chipped glass at the local tavern. A cer-
tain number of Gaje families have “their” Roma, usually domestic help or
farmhands: however, these employees always eat at a separate table, using dif-
ferent tableware. Indeed, the steep muddy lane between the ţigănie and the

11 Official records give a rather muddled account of these events.

 Introduction 7

Hungarian community—​a popular sledding hill in winter—​separates two very

different worlds. Although the Roma walk up and down this path every day,
the Hungarians only take it when they need to round up a few extra workers,
usually men at dawn and women late at night. This, rather than their smaller
numbers, may be why Deneş considered the Roma of Ceuaş a “sub-​minority”
(sub-​minoritate) group.
As in many other parts of Europe, there is a striking contrast between the
Ceuaşeni’s disregard for their Roma community and worshipful stance to-
ward the village’s relatively large number of professional Roma musicians. The
Hungarian tradition of choral singing explains why the Roma community of
Ceuaş has produced so many musicians. Singing calling for an instrumental ac-
companiment, there were at least five families of professional Roma musicians in
Ceuaş during the Ceauşescu era. They used to perform at the weddings, Sunday
dances, and funerals of the Romanian, Roma, Hungarian, and Saxon commu-
nities settled along the Târnava Mică river.12 The musicians speak fondly of that
era: they could expect regular weekend work in those days. Yet, they have fared
better than most Romanian village musicians after the fall of the regime, when
economic and social changes compelled many to choose between finding an-
other occupation or emigrating.
In the early 1970s, several Hungarian musicians, musicologists, and
intellectuals from Budapest and various Transylvanian cities started a cultural
movement aiming to preserve and revive Hungarian rural music traditions. Like
their “fathers,” Bartók and Kodály, they combed the countryside, going as far as
the eastern Carpathians, organizing táncház (folk dance and music workshops),
putting bands together, and collecting and describing the musical repertoire of
various villages, sometimes in the belief that this would help them to uncover
the origins of the Magyar identity. In 1989, Pávai István, a musicologist who was
originally from Târgu Mureş and was part of this revival movement, brought
out the first LP of the musicians of Ceuaş with the Romanian label Electrecord.13
When Romania opened its borders, a few years later, the musicians came into
the orbit of Budapest. In the winter, they would regularly be invited to take part
in the táncház or recordings organized in the Hungarian capital. In the summer,
they would teach courses and perform at táncház in the Hungarian villages of
Transylvania.14

12 Martin (1982) divides the musical dialects of the Kis-​ küküllomente, i.e., Târnava Mică re-
gion, into three smaller regional areas: Nyugati Maros-​völgy, Eszaki Maros-​völgy Hegymegett, and
Vízmellék. Ceuaş is part of the latter. For a more in-​depth musicological analysis, see Pávai (1993).
13 With István on the violin, Csángáló on the contra (alto violin with three strings), and Mutis on

the double bass.

14 For an analysis of the Transylvanian táncház movement (with explicit references to the

musicians of Ceuaş), see Hooker (2007) and Quigley (2014).

8 Introduction

In the early 1990s, the Roma musicians of Ceuaş started to reach urban
audiences further afield. Although this could mean having to perform far
away, the pay was better than at home. Thanks to their charisma and musician-
ship, they soon found a Hungarian manager (Szántho Zoltán) and formed the
Százscsávás Band, a larger version of the traditional instrumental trio (a violin; a
contra, which is a viola with three strings; and a double bass).15 This band, which
had a more powerful sound and was better suited to the stage, was quite suc-
cessful: for a period of about ten years, they regularly toured Hungary, but also
the United States, Mexico, and Japan, often at the invitation of a Hungarian cul-
tural institute. However, their name did not spread beyond folk music circles, un-
like a number of other Roma bands—​notably, the Taraf de Haïdouks and Fanfare
Ciocârlia—​which achieved mass appeal. Nevertheless, the Roma musicians of
Ceuaş made enough money to be able to purchase comparatively large homes in
the Hungarian section of Ceuaş.
In spite of these changes, these musicians did not radically alter their life-
style and remained faithful to their musical roots, eschewing new melodies or
fashionable harmonic and rhythmic arrangements. They continue to take part
in the life of their region and perform regularly at local village events. They are
very close to their families and do not like to be on the road for too long: in-
deed, despite their love of horses, they refused in 2007 to sign a three-​year
contract with a Parisian equestrian circus, Zingaro. Incentivized by the success
of the Szászcsávás Band and the transmission of instrumental skills from one
generation to the next, their children in turn are learning how to perform the
same repertoire on the same instruments. However, opportunities to pass mu-
sical skills down to the next generation have become scarcer because children
traditionally learn to play while their parents perform and demand for work is
drying up. The violinist Tocsila is the only one to have seized new opportuni-
ties at home and abroad by forging ties with urban musicians and performing
in a fashionable electronic band. The rest, who freely admit not playing as
well as their parents, are obliged to take on farm work in between their mu-
sical performances. Finally, every once in a while, some of the foreigners the
musicians have met on tour pay them a visit, keen to find out more about their
music and rural lifestyle. However, these visits are short-​lived and daily life
soon resumes its course.

15 When I was doing my fieldwork in Ceuaş (2004–​2007), this group was still active and was com-

posed of three violinists (István, his brother Sanyi, and Levente), two contră violists (Csángáló and his
son Tocsila), and a three-​stringed double bass played with a bow (Mutis, István and Sanyi’s brother,
until his death in 2007, when Pali, Csángálo’s brother, took over). See the discography for references
to the recordings of the Szászcsávás Band.
 Introduction 9

Fig. I.1 On the doorstep of Deneş’ and Maria’s house, my hosts in the ţigănie of Ceuaş.

Is emotion necessarily associated with music?

The rich human and musical landscape I discovered in the ţigănie of Ceuaş over
the course of my first visit there in 2002 convinced me that it would foster an
interesting ethnomusicological research project. But would it also be a good
place to study musical emotions? How significant was their role in the musical
practices of the Roma of Ceuaş? Was my focus on musical emotions merely a by-
product of my classical training and educational background? How could I know
whether it was pertinent to focus on this issue in this particular place?
Whereas several other cultures have a specific word for the emotional im-
pact of music—​the lusophone saudade, the Arabic ṭarab, the Persian hâl, the
Andalusian duende, to give but a few examples—​I did not know at the begin-
ning of my research whether any such term existed in Transylvania. Whereas
the juergas (parties) of Flamenco Gitanos (Pasqualino 1998) and the mulatšago
(celebrations) of Hungarian Vlach Roma (Stewart 1997) are routinely described
as emotionally charged, I had never read nor heard anything to suggest that
Transylvanian Roma music had a particular emotional resonance. Indeed, I had
no compelling reason to start a research project on musical emotions among the
10 Introduction

Roma of Ceuaş. I might just as well have ended up doing my fieldwork on a Cape
Verde island or in a Parisian squat, were it not for a series of chance encounters,
my love of the violin, and interest in Roma culture.
I simply felt that emotions were such a fundamental part of human experience
that they could be explored in just about any cultural and social context, even if
they might take different forms from one society to the next.16 Some may argue
that this assertion cannot be verified without asking: What is an emotion?17
However, this question has spawned so many past and present theories, that it
will be enough here to recall the etymology of the word (from the Latin movere,
to move) and Spinoza’s definition of the emotions as “affections of the body by
which the body’s power of acting is increased or diminished, aided or restrained,
and at the same time the ideas of these affections” (Spinoza 1999 [1677]: 154).
In other words, where there are humans, there are bodies, and where there are
bodies, there are emotions.
However, even if we agree to consider that human beings are emotional
creatures, does it necessarily follow that all music has an emotional quality or
impact? This is far from self-​evident. Molino and Nattiez (2007) nevertheless
observe that:

The importance of affects in music . . . does seem to be universal and for

McAllester (1971) and several other ethnomusicologists, the [musical] crea-
tion of a “heightened experience” is one of the few universals they will accept.
(Molino & Nattiez 2007: 372)

For Judith Becker (2001, 2004), music provokes a universal response, which
she describes in terms of a physiological arousal associated with the experience
of “happiness.” The “fathers” of contemporary ethnomusicology had already
highlighted the emotional dimension of music: Merriam (1964), in his attempt to
determine the general functions of music, spoke of its “emotional expression,”18

16 The debate between those who argue that there are “basic” universal emotions (see Ekman

1980) and those who think that emotions are culturally defined (see in particular Lutz 1988, Leavitt
1996) exceeds the scope of this work.
17 See the seminal eponymous article by the American philosopher and psychologist William

James (1884) and a more recent critical investigation of various theories of emotion by Solomon
(2003).
18 Although Merriam does not claim that the different functions of music have varying levels of

importance, he places emotional expression at the top of the list and gives it the most detailed treat-
ment. See in particular: “We are searching for answers to the question of what music does for and in
human society. I should like to propose ten such major and over-​all functions, as opposed to uses, of
music, and each will be discussed below in no special order of significance. The function of emotional
expression. There is considerable evidence to indicate that music functions widely and on a number
of levels as a means of emotional expression” (Merriam 1964: 212). See also: “An important function
of music, then, is the opportunity it gives for a variety of emotional expressions—​the release of other-
wise inexpressible thoughts and ideas, the correlation of a wide variety of emotions and music, the
 Introduction 11

while Blacking observed that personal accounts of “musical experiences” tend

to describe “emotional experiences” (1973: 52). It is also worth noting that those
societies that have produced written theories of music have also formulated
theories of musical emotions: one thinks for example of Hindustani musical
treatises on the associations between raga (a melodic framework for musical
improvisations) and rasa (“feeling,” “affect,” “mood”; see Benamou 2010), al-​
Ghazali’s account of the state of frenzy that Arab music can induce in its listeners
(see Rouget 1985 [1980], Racy 2003), and Persian reflections on the hâl (emo-
tional ethos) of different musical structures (see During 1994).
These arguments suggest that musical emotions should be a central element of
ethnomusicological research, irrespective of its particular geographic, historical,
or cultural focus. Yet, although more than fifty years have passed since Merriam
pointed out that the issue of emotion and meaning in music was an ethnomu-
sicological blind spot,19 ethnomusicologists are still to address this issue today,
even as the small number of works that have been published on this subject (Feld
1982, Rouget 1985 [1980], Becker 2004) are all considered landmark studies
in the field. In contrast, cognitive scientists have been busy studying musical
emotions in the last few years (for a review, see Sloboda & Juslin 2010; Cochrane,
Fantini, & Scherer 2013), spurred by recent work on emotions in other areas of
nonverbal communication (see in particular Ekman et al. 2003).
The methodological challenges raised by the social and cultural study of af-
fective experiences have undoubtedly played a role in the relative lack of interest
ethnomusicologists have paid to musical emotions. As Surrallès (2000) reminds
us, affect only started to attract the attention of anthropologists in the 1980s.
Following Geertz’s observation that “Not only ideas, but emotions too are cul-
tural artefacts in man” (Geertz 1973: 81), ethnologists started to examine how
a range of different societies conceived, named, and expressed, their emotions.
The interpretive method, which made it possible to describe objects that had
previously been considered out of the reach of scholarly investigation, allowed
studies of emotion to multiply (Rosaldo 1980, Lutz & White 1986, Lutz 1988,
Crapanzano 1994). Today, several studies have shown that investigations of emo-
tion can be successfully articulated with traditional anthropological concerns,
including identity, politics, or social organization (in the context of French

opportunity to ‘let off steam’ and perhaps to resolve social conflicts, the explosion of creativity itself,
and the group expression of hostilities” (ibid.: 222–​223).
19 “Reference is not made to the function of music as such, but rather to what extent music produ-

cers conceive of music as something which can arouse emotion either in the producer or the listener.
Almost nothing can be gleaned from the ethnomusicological literature concerning this problem, for
wherever emotion is discussed in connection with music, it is considered from the standpoint of the
observer rather than from that of the participant” (Merriam 1964: 80).
12 Introduction

anthropology, see Surrallès 2003, Héritier & Xanthakou 2004, Le Breton 2004,
Pasqualino 2005).
Yet, ethnomusicology, as a discipline, is still coming to grips with this “affec-
tive turn” (Hofman 2015). This means that when I started my research, not only
there was no clear anthropological framework for the relationship of music and
emotions, but there was also no established methodological model for the field
study of musical emotions.
Before we turn to the choices I made in this project, let me first clarify what
I mean by “musical emotions.” In the scholarly literature on this topic, this phrase
generally refers to “emotions that are expressed in music,” “emotions that are
perceived in music,” or “emotions that are induced by music” (Juslin & Sloboda
2001, Juslin & Västfjäll 2008).20 As a field ethnomusicologist focusing on live
performances, I speak of “musical emotions” whenever music and emotion go
hand in hand, i.e., whenever musical actions and emotional behaviors occur in
the same space and moment in time, whether or not there is a causal link be-
tween the two. This marks a radical departure from the stance of the scholars
of musical emotion—​particularly cognitive scientists—​who focus exclusively
on emotional “responses” to music. There is a good reason for this different,
ethnomusicological, approach: when a behavior that may be deemed emotional
occurs in the context of a musical performance, it is not a priori possible to de-
termine whether it constitutes a “response” to the music. In an anthropological
perspective, the type of relationship that exists between the different actions that
take place during a performance—​in this case, playing music and expressing
emotions—​is not a given, but what needs to be determined.
“Musical emotions” also raise another, related, question: what makes a be-
havior “emotional”? What distinguishes these behaviors from those that are
not emotional? From an ethnomusicological perspective, the identification of
emotional experiences poses major methodological issues. In particular, the
questions posed by musical emotions are distinct from those associated with
trances (Rouget 1985 [1980]). Whereas trances occur at particular times and are
often conspicuous, if not openly spectacular, practices, emotional experiences
do not necessarily unfold within a specific time frame, nor are they always
manifested outwardly, hampering their detection.21 The only way to overcome
these methodological hurdles is to share the lives of the protagonists in order to

20 This phrase can also sometimes refer to the attribution of emotional qualities to music by

listeners who may or may not experience these emotions themselves. For a discussion of the dif-
ference between the perception and induction of emotion, see Juslin and Sloboda (2001) and
Gabrielsson (2002).
21 Although a trance is easier to observe, there remains much to be learned about the nature of this

altered state of consciousness. Moreover, the relationship between musical emotions and trances is
not entirely clear and would benefit from an interdisciplinary study. See Rouget (1985 [1980]) and
Becker (2004).
 Introduction 13

learn their expressive codes and be able to determine whether a particular ac-
tion, behavior, or gesture denotes a specific emotion. Fieldwork has a crucial role
to play in this process: fieldwork is what makes ethnologists able to discern dif-
ferent categories of feeling, establish their correspondences with their own emo-
tional vocabulary, and find the words to describe them, so that their readers may
understand, or even experience, them (Leavitt 1996).22

“Good music makes you cry”: methodological approach

Ultimately, my research project was shaped by my experience of daily life in the

ţigănie of Ceuaş more than it was by any treatise on musical emotions. Csángáló’s
father died around two months after my arrival, followed by his wife one week
later. During the wakes, the musicians of the village gathered in the house of the
deceased to play by his coffin. The small room was sometimes quiet, almost still,
and sometimes bustling with people and rife with emotion. Women would walk
up to the coffin wailing loudly, in Romani. The tempo of the music was some-
times slow, sometimes fast-​paced; some people watched or discreetly shed a few
tears, while others drank and played cards in the courtyard.23
I began by wondering about the meaning of this soundscape and its relation-
ship to the emotions of the funeral goers. What was the relationship between
the instrumental music and the laments? Was a particular repertoire responsible
for the wailers’ tears and fainting fits? Why were the musicians playing some of
the same cheerful dance tunes I had heard performed at weddings? Each night,
waves of heightened emotion overtook the funeral goers: but how were these
surges of feeling related to the various sound acts of the wake? These questions
could not have been more different from my earlier laboratory experiment on
the emotions that a single note can convey.
As time passed, I witnessed other situations in which music and crying went
hand in hand. It soon became clear that there was nothing unusual about crying
with music in the Roma community of Ceuaş. On the contrary, public tears
tended to involve music, whether their context was a wedding, funeral, or family
gathering, and whether those who shed them were musicians or their listeners.
This was the main reason why I chose to focus my field research on crying.
However, a few other considerations also came into play. First, crying was an
expression of emotion that was easy to detect. Even if it was not enough to see

22 For Leavitt (1996: 530), “ethnographers of affect must work on their own feelings, modifying

them to model the emotional experiences of people of another society, and must recast this experi-
ence in language that can have a parallel effect on others in their home societies.”
23 On the wakes for Csángáló’s mother, see my documentary film Plan-​séquence d’une mort criée

(Crying for the Dead, Bonini Baraldi 2015 [2005]).

14 Introduction

someone weeping to understand this person’s emotions, tears did have the ad-
vantage of being easily located in space and time, which was methodologically
helpful. Second, my focus on tears was also motivated by my wish to understand
why the Roma of Ceuaş consider that “good music makes you cry”:

Csángáló: “When we started performing, all six of us [i.e., the six members of
the Szászcsávás Band], how they cried, those guys from Bucharest! . . . It
was the Taraf [de Haïdouks], and after the Taraf we went up on the stage. . . We
were awesome, the dancing and everything else [was amazing]. . . Everyone
was crying!”

This is how Csángáló described the day he met the world-​famous Taraf
de Haïdouks at a Roma music festival. According to him, good musicians not
only knew how to draw tears from their audience by “breaking their heart” (să-​i
spargă inima), but could themselves be moved to tears by other musicians, or in-
deed by good dancers or singers:

Csángáló: “You’ve never heard anything like it Filippo. . . Neither in Italy nor
in France. When he did a song, you had to. . . The ground would just break
open under your feet. . . You’d be completely overwhelmed with tears. . . It was
unbelievable!”

Although Csángáló’s statement was not unusual in the Roma community of

Ceuaş, it did invite me to ponder the relationship he perceived between music
and emotional experiences (as did the local saying: “Good music makes you
cry”). It was not clear, in particular, whether he meant that “good music has the
power to make you cry” (emphasizing the power of music over people) or that
“good music is the kind of music that makes you cry” (emphasizing the quality of
the emotional experience that music can provoke).
For all these reasons, it seemed to me that “musical tears”—​situations when
music is associated with crying, whether or not those who played music and
those who cried were one and the same—​pointed to something fundamental in
this particular sociocultural context. This book is the product of my attempt to
understand this phenomenon.
In the first part, I describe, analyze, and interpret the three different contexts
giving rise to “musical tears” in Ceuaş: the “service” of professional musicians
(Chapters 1–​3), the “after-​parties” and other spontaneous celebrations that take
place in ţigănie (Chapters 4–​6), and funerals (Chapters 7–​8).
The musicians themselves use the word “service” (serviciu’) to describe their
activity when they play music for a fee, i.e., at weddings, baptisms, banquets,
and parties. On these occasions, it is understood that they must work hard to
 Introduction 15

give satisfaction to their clients, making them dance, sing, and cry: this notion,
which is widespread throughout eastern Europe, has been analyzed in great
detail by Sárosi (1978 [1971]), Delaporte (2006), and Stoichiţă (2008a). This
raises a key issue: how do professional musicians manage to “manipulate” the
emotions of their clients? In order to answer this question, I analyze their pro-
fessional ethics and strategies, their interaction with their audience during a
performance, and their mental conception and organization of the repertoire
(Chapters 1–​3).
However, musical tears are also shed in the more informal social context of
the ţigănie of Ceuaş, for example at the after-​parties that professional musicians
throw when they return home after their service, or indeed at family gatherings.
On those occasions, the musicians have no particular duties to discharge: they
are under no obligation to play music, since they have not been hired and are
not being paid. Whereas during the “service,” the primaş (the violinist at the
head of the band) is responsible for leading the band and tailoring the reper-
toire to the demands and tastes of the guests, when the musicians are at home
their relationships are nonhierarchical. These situations tend to promote feelings
of closeness between the musicians, and it is not rare to hear them call one an-
other “my brother” ([t]‌mîro pral), with reference to their affective rather than
biological ties. When this happens, it is the musicians themselves, not their
listeners, who shed tears: instead, as the latter stand on the sidelines, watching
these outbursts of emotion, the performers’ tears take on a personal, indeed pri-
vate and intimate, quality. In Chapters 4–​6, I explore the significance of these
musical gatherings, analyzing local categories of emotion (Lutz & Abu-​Lughod
1990) and the protagonists’ accounts of their lived experiences.
Finally, in the context of a funeral, the interactions of the various actors have
deeply emotional overtones. If the death of a member of the community calls
attention to the chasm lying between the living and the dead, it can also rede-
fine social relationships in the community by introducing a somewhat ten-
uous, but clear, distinction between the relatives (neamuri) of the deceased and
those outside the family (străini). Whereas public displays of sorrow (jale) are
expected of the neamuri, the străini attend the funeral ceremonies in order to
be able to witness and ultimately share in the family’s grief. In Chapter 7, I ap-
proach the funeral rituals of the Roma of Ceuaş in light of the theoretical propo-
sitions of Michael Houseman (2006), with the following working hypothesis: for
the neamuri, the success of a wake depends on their ability to move the străini
and arouse feelings of milă (pity, compassion) in them. Ritual actions are largely
sound acts: laments and instrumental music play a central part in the ceremo-
nies. My analysis of the funeral soundscape thus seeks to illuminate the verbal,
acoustic, and musical strategies used to foster relationships of milă between the
funeral-​goers (Chapter 8).
16 Introduction

In Part 2, I compare the three different contexts associated with musical tears
in order to answer a set of more general questions: why do the Roma of Ceuaş
cry with music? Do the different contexts associated with musical tears all have
something in common?
I start with a comparison of these various contexts, focusing on the differences
between some of their key aspects: the interactions between the protagonists,
the repertoire performed, the type of emotional experiences, etc. (Chapter 9).
This comparative analysis allows me to identify various “modes” of musical emo-
tion, i.e., the different forms that the relation of music and emotion can take
depending on the performance context. In Chapters 10, 11, and 12, I focus on
its invariants, i.e., the factors that are at work in all three contexts when music
and tears are associated. These are respectively: a particular repertoire associated
with sorrow, called de jale, the identification of a person with a tune (explicit in
the local phrase “his song,” cântarea lui), and a subjective quality or demeanor
that the Roma of Ceuaş perceive as specific to them: being milos (generous, big-​
hearted, empathic).
The fact that a subset of the repertoire is referred to as de jale (sorrowful, a
word from the language of emotions) points to a musical aesthetics of sorrow.
In Chapter 10, I suggest that this aesthetics is mainly associated with three
musical parameters: (1) the irregular aksak, or unmeasured rhythm; (2) the
swinging effect created by the slight asynchrony between the melody and the
accompaniment; and (3) “sweetness” (dulceaţă), a quality of interpretation re-
lated to the complex elaboration of the melodic line. In fact, this “sweetness”
is explicitly associated to the emotional power of de jale music: it is said that
musicians who know how to play “with sweetness” will draw tears from their
audience, whereas those whose hearts and hands lack dulceaţă will make people
laugh (a râde). My focus on these three parameters, as opposed to the melodic
and harmonic macrostructures of the repertoire (melodic contour, harmonic
patterns, cadences, tonality, ambitus, etc.), is indebted to research on expressive
microvariations in musical performance (Gabrielsson 1995). In order to draw
out the formal features of these parameters, I have devised an experimental pro-
tocol involving the use of motion capture technologies.
In Part 3 (Chapters 13–​14), my focus is more theoretical. The milos subject is
literally someone who feels the milă, and is, as such, overwhelmed with feelings
of compassion and generosity. However, the Roma of Ceuaş use the word milă
not only in discussions of social relationships but also in the context of music.
Those who cry with music—​particularly de jale tunes, when they are interpreted
with “sweetness”—​are said to be milos, sufletist (soulful). Why is that? Although
the research that has been produced on emotion in the Western classical reper-
toire (see Sloboda & Juslin 2010) does mention a certain number of feelings—​
especially joy, serenity, sadness, anger, fear, calm, and surprise—​it does not, to
 Introduction 17

the best of my knowledge, mention pity or compassion. What does it mean to

speak of milă (i.e., “empathy,” in its more general sense) in the context of music?
Is it necessary to have empathic dispositions in order to cry with music or to have
your “heartbroken” (sparge inima) by music? Can we talk of “musical empathy,”
and how should we define it?
In Chapter 13, I explore the notion of empathy in the domain of aesthetics
(Pinotti 1997), interpersonal relationships (Berthoz & Jorland 2004), and
embodied music cognition (Leman 2007). Centered on the notion of corporeal
imitation, this last approach marks a shift from the exclusive focus on the mind
of traditional theories of musical emotion (Meyer 1956), but remains based on a
materialistic conception of human interactions with music: it explores the human
body’s response to “moving sonic forms.” However, as ethnomusicologists like to
remind us, there is more to music than energy in motion or a formal system of
sounds. Indeed, this is very clear in the case of the “personal” tunes of the Roma
of Ceuaş. Weaving a network of social relationships into the fabric of time and
space, a melody can conjure the identity of the performer or individual to whom
it is dedicated, but also the person, or the sometimes ancient memory, that it
“personifies.” It is not possible to speak of milă, or empathy, in the context of
music, without exploring this process of personification and the intersubjective
networks that it creates, blurring the boundaries between a person, a melody,
and a memory. In Chapter 14, I use Gell’s (1998) notion of agency to describe
these networks. I suggest that there may be several different forms of musical
empathy: empathy with the “musical being,” empathy with the artist, empathy
with musical memory-​images, and intersubjective musical empathy. Ultimately,
this theoretical journey into the notions of empathy and agency, leads me to pro-
pose an anthropological paradigm of the emotional power of music.
Another random document with
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It was some moments before Polly could speak, then the words came in
gasps.

"She's gone with him," she panted.

"What?"

"She's gone right—away—with him—to Heaven." She could scarcely speak.

"Do you mean she is dead?" cried Gwen.

"Yes; yes, she's dead; and the moon is shining on 'em both."

Gwen appalled at the news, opened the door and looked in. But what she saw
was so wonderful and beautiful that all horror subsided. Rachel was kneeling
by the bed on which Luke lay, her cheek resting on his dead hand and a smile
of rapture on her face. The moonlight was streaming into the room from the
open window on to the faces of husband and wife. Once more they were
together in its pathway as they had been on that evening on the sea at
Southwold, but now they were unconscious of it, as they were together in the
city that has no need of the sun neither the moon to shine in it, for the glory of
God did lighten it and the Lamb is the Light thereof.

When the villagers heard that Rachel had died of heart failure on the same
day as her husband they mourned and wept. So young, they said, to die! Two
valuable lives given for the sake of a poor sick baby of a drunken woman!
What a waste of life!

But the Bishop, who came to preach the funeral sermon, said, "It was one of
the most beautiful things of which he had ever heard, and he felt that instead
of mourning and weeping, there should be flowers and singing. Two happy
saints treading together the streets of gold! No long parting! No farewells! The
Rector," he told the people, "could hardly have had time to reach the gates of
Heaven before he was joined by his wife. What could be more joyful for them!"

"But," he added, and with evident emotion, "when we look at it from our own
point of view, we cannot help tears. Did not our blessed Lord weep at the
tomb of Lazarus? It is not wrong to weep; but in thinking of our loss, we must
not forget their gain; for they were lovely and pleasant in their lives and in their
death they were not divided!"
THE END.
 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUKE'S WIFE
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