Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music

5/19/2018 Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music

1/29

Innovation, Choice, and the History of MusicAuthor(s): Leonard B. MeyerSource: Critical Inquiry, Vol. 9, No. 3 (Mar., 1983), pp. 517-544Published by: The University of Chicago PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/1343338.

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2/29

Innovation, Choice,

and

the

History

of Music

Leonard

B.

Meyer

The

history

of

music,

like

that

of

other

arts,

is

often

pictured

as a com-

plex

succession

of

distinctive

styles.

But

unless one

posits

some neces-

sary,

a

priori pattern

of

style change-cyclic, dialectic, evolutionary,

or

whatever-which

I

find

methodologically

suspect

and

intellectually

un-

congenial,

this view

seems too

general

and abstract a

place

to

begin.

For

the

history

of

an

art is the

result

of the succession of choices made

by

individual

men

and

women

in

specific compositional/cultural

circum-

stances.1 Since

styles change only

because

particular

compositional

choices

do,

an

understanding

both

of

how

composers

devise

or invent

novel

means

and

of

why they

choose some means rather

than

others

must be central

to

any

account

of the nature of music

history.

The

distinction between

innovating

and

choosing

is

necessary because,

as

we

shall

see,

composers usually

have

at

their

disposal

many

more

alternatives

than

can be included

in

a

particular

work. The distinction is

important

because

considerable

confusion ensues when the side

of

creativity

that

involves the

devising

of

novelty

is

emphasized

at the ex-

pense

of

the side concerned with

choosing among competing pos-

sibilities.

This

essay

has

greatly

benefited from the

thoughtful

criticism and

perceptive

com-

ments

of Alan

C.

Kors,

Janet

M.

Levy,

Peter

J. Rabinowitz,

David

Rosand,

and

Barbara

Herrnstein Smith.

I

am

very grateful

for their

help.

1.

Such

choices need not

be

deliberate

or even conscious. For

further

discussion,

see

my

"Toward

a

Theory

of

Style,"

in

The

Concept

of

Style,

ed. Berel

Lang (Philadelphia,

1979),

pp.

3-6.

Critical

Inquiry

9

(March 1983)

?

1983

by

The

University

of

Chicago.

0093-1896/83/0903-0010$01.00.

All

rights

reserved.

517

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3/29

518

Leonard

B.

Meyer

The

History

of

Music

1.

Innovation

Why a composer innovates-whether radically breaking the rules

of

an

established

style, devising

a new

strategy

within

existing

stylistic

con-

straints,

or

exploiting

a

prevalent strategy

in

a novel

way-is

an

enor-

mously

complex

and

fascinating

question.

Answering

it involves

(at

the

very

least)

accounts of the

following, including

some estimate of

their

relative

importance:

the

personality

of the

composer

(whether

adven-

turous or

conservative);

the

specific

stylistic/compositional

circumstances

surrounding

the

innovation;

and

the external

constraints,

both

specific

(patronage,

available

performers,

acoustical

environment,

and

so

forth)

and general (cultural beliefs and attitudes, theories of music, and so

forth)

that

may

have

influenced

the

composer's

behavior.

All

these

play

a

part

in

what

is

commonly

considered

the most

important

facet of

creativity, namely,

the

invention of

novelty.

Without

doubting

the interest

of

this side

of

creativity,

it seems clear

that

the

mere invention

of

novelty

is

more

important

for

an under-

standing

of the

composer's psychology

than for an account

of the

history

of music.

Composers

are

continually

devising

relationships,

many-

perhaps

most-of

which

are,

in

some

respect

and on some

hierarchic

level, novel. But of the plethora of alternatives thus invented, only a few

are

actually

chosen for use

in

compositions.

Most are

discarded,

playing

no

part

in

the

history

of

music.

Why

a

particular

innovation

is

used

by

a

composer

is also

an in-

tricate

and

intriguing

subject;

and all the

kinds of

considerations

mentioned

above

must

play

a

part

in

any

answer.

But unless

an

innova-

tion

is

subsequently

replicated

in

some

way,

whether

in

another

work

by

the same

composer

or

in

works

by

other

composers,

it is not

historically

significant.

Just

as

a

single

swallow does not

make

an

alcoholic,

so

a

single

instance of some novelty does not become part of the history of music.

Put

simply:

save

as a

curious

anomaly,

a

single, unique

innovation,

how-

ever

interesting

in

itself,

is of

little

import

for the

history

of music.

What

is

central

for the

history

of

an art

is,

I

suggest,

neither

the invention

of

novelty

nor

its

mere use-whether

in

a

single

composition

or

in

the

oeuvre

of

a

single

composer-but

its

replication,

however

varied,

within

some

compositional

community.

Leonard B. Meyer, Benjamin Franklin Professor of Music and the

Humanities at the

University

of

Pennsylvania,

is

the author of

Emotion

and

Meaning

in

Music,

The

Rhythmic

Structure

of

Music

(with

Grosvenor

W.

Cooper),

Music,

the

Arts,

and

Ideas,

and

Explaining

Music:

Essays

and Ex-

plorations.

His

previous

contributions to Critical

Inquiry

are

"Concerning

the

Sciences,

the

Arts-AND the

Humanities"

(September

1974)

and

"Grammatical

Simplicity

and Relational

Richness:

The Trio of

Mozart's

G

Minor

Symphony"

(Summer

1976).



4/29

March

1983

519

Not all

novel

compositional

choices, then,

are the

province

of

his-

tory.

Explaining

the choices

replicated

solely

within

a

single

work

is

essentially a concern of criticism, while accounting for choices confined

to the

oeuvre

of a

single composer

is

the

business of

style-biography.

Only

choices that are

replicated by

a number of

composers, thereby

becoming part

of

a shared

dialect,

are the

proper

province

of

history.

(Needless

to

say,

this

in

no

way implies

that

criticism can

ignore

the

choices

characteristic of a

composer's

idiom

and of the

shared dialect

or

that

style-biography

can

disregard

the choices that

are

typical

of

the

compositional community.)

Before

going

further,

it

will be

helpful

to

consider

briefly

the notion

that novelty per se is a fundamental human need. Experiments with

human

beings,

as

well as with

animals,

indicate

that the

maintenance

of

normal,

successful behavior

depends upon

an

adequate

level of incom-

ing

stimulation-or,

as

some have

put

it,

of

novelty.2

But

lumping

all

novelty

together

is

misleading.

At

least three

kinds

of

novelty

need to

be

distinguished.

(1)

Some novel

patterns

arise

out

of,

or

represent,

changes

in

the fundamental

rules

governing

the

organization

of musical

processes

and

structures.

By significantly

weakening

our

comprehension

of the

musical

relationships

presented-undermining

not

only

our

understanding of what is past but our ability to envisage what is to

come-such

systemic

change

seriously

threatens our sense of

psychic

security

and

competent

control.

Far

from

being

welcome,

the

insecurity

and

uncertainty

thus

engendered

is

at least as

antipathetic,

disturbing,

and

unpleasant

as stimulus

privation.

(2)

Novel

patterns may

also

result

from

the invention of a new

strategy

that

accords

with

prevalent stylistic

rules.

Though

they may initially

seem to

threaten

existing

competencies,

the

function

and

significance

of

novel

strategies

within

the

larger

set of

stylistic

constraints can

usually

be

grasped

without too much

delay

or

difficulty. For a while the tensions

produced by

strategic

innovation

may

seem

disturbing.

But

in

the

end,

when

our

grasp

of

the

principles

or-

dering

events

is

confirmed and

our

sense of

competency

is

reestablished

and

control is

reinforced,

tension

is

resolved into

an

elation that is both

stimulating

and

enjoyable.

(3)

Most

novel

patterns-original

themes,

rhythms,

harmonic

progressions,

and so

forth-involve

the

innovative

instantiation

or

realization of

an

existing strategy

or schema

(see

examples

1-3

below).3

Novelties of

this

kind

not

only

enhance our

sense of

control-a

feeling

that we

know how

things

really

"work"-but

provide

both the

pleasure

of

recognition

and the

joy

of

skillfully

exercising

some

2.

For

further

discussion,

see

my

Music,

the

Arts,

and

Ideas

(Chicago,

1967),

p.

50.

3.

Rules

are

transpersonal

but

intracultural

constraints-for

instance,

the

pitch/time

entities

established

in

some

style,

as

well as

grammatical

and

syntactic

regularities.

Strate-

gies

are

general

means

(constraints)

for

actualizing

some of

the

possibilities

that

are

poten-

tial in

the

rules

of

the

style.

The rules

of

a

style

are

relatively

few,

while the

number

of

possible

strategies

may,

depending upon

the

nature of the

rules,

be

very large

indeed. The

ways

of

instantiating

a

particular

strategy

are,

if

not

infinite,

at

least

beyond

reckoning.

Critical

Inquiry



5/29

520

Leonard B.

Meyer

competency.

We

enjoy novelty-the

stimulation

of

surprise,

the tension

of

uncertainty-as long

as it

can be

accommodated

within

a

known

and

understandable set of constraints. When the rules governing the game

are

abrogated

or

in

doubt-when

comprehension

and

control are

threatened-the result

is

usually anger, anguish,

and

desperation.

These

responses

to

novelty

are

consequences

of fundamental

and

poignant

verities of the human

condition:

the

centrality

of choice

in

human

behavior. Because

only

a

minute fraction of

human behavior

seems

to be

genetically specified,

choice

is

inescapable.

While

in

lower

organisms,

behavior

is

strictly

determined

by

the

genetic program,

in

complex

metazoa

the

genetic program

be-

comes

less

constraining,

more

"open"

as Ernst

Mayr

puts

it,

in

the

sense

that

it

does not

lay

down behavioral

instructions

in

great

detail

but

rather

permits

some choice

and

allows

for a certain free-

dom of

response.

Instead of

imposing rigid prescriptions,

it

pro-

vides the

organism

with

potentialities

and

capacities.

This

openness

of the

genetic program

increases

with

evolution

and

culminates

in

mankind.4

The

price

of freedom

is

the

imperative

of choice.

Human

beings

must

choose where to sow and when to reap, when to work and where to live,

when to

play

and

what to build.

Intelligent,

successful choices

are

possi-

ble

only

if

alternative

courses

of

action

can

be

imagined

and

their conse-

quences

envisaged

with

reasonable

accuracy.

Imagination

and

vision

alone

will

not, however,

suffice. To make

one's

envisagings

count-to transform

preferred

alternatives

into actual

choices-one must have

power.

Vision

and

Power.

These are the

bases

for

choice

and,

consequently,

prerequisites

for

survival. Without

them,

life

is

pervaded

by

anxiety

and

despair.

The

centrality

of choice

in

human affairs is evident in art. Thus the essence of tragedy, as I see it,

concerns

the trauma

of

failed

choice.

Such failure

may

occur

because

external circumstances

(fate

or

political

conditions)

deprive

the

pro-

tagonist

of

power

and

thereby preclude

choice,

because

an uncontrol-

lable,

almost irrational

compulsion (perhaps

what Aristotle meant

by

a

tragic

flaw)

clouds the

protagonist's

vision-the

frequent

play

on

sight-

less

vision

versus

visionless

sight

in

so

many

tragedies

is

surely

more

than

coincidental-or

because

some combination

of

power

and

vision

is

lack-

ing.

(The

broad

appeal

of

Hamlet

stems

in

part,

I

suspect,

from the

fact

that problems of both power and vision are coupled with an explicit

concern

for the

profound

tensions

of

human

choice.)5

4.

FranCois

Jacob,

The

Possibleand

the Actual

(New

York,

1982),

p.

61. See

also

Stephen

Jay

Gould,

Ever

Since

Darwin

(New

York,

1977),

p.

257.

5. It

seems

pertinent

to

emphasize

that

choice

is

the

focus of

dramatic action

in

both

comedy

and

melodrama. These

genres

are

not, however,

concerned

with

the

denial

of

choice,

as

tragedy

is,

but

with its

correction.

In

comedy,

the

ignorant,

unreasonable,

or

foolish

choices

of the

protagonist

(usually upper-class

and, hence,

powerful)

are corrected

The

History of

Music



6/29

March 1983

521

Imagining

and

envisaging-the grounds

for

choosing-are

possible

only

if

the world

is

understood to consist of

enduring

structures

and

persisting processes. The assumption of constancy, what I will call the

"axiom of

inertia,"

profoundly

affects

both

our

conceptualization

of the

world

(specially

our

comprehension

and

explanation

of

temporal

events)

and,

correlatively,

our

behavior

in

the world. The

axiom

asserts

that,

other

things being

equal,

a

pattern-that

is,

any relatively

stable

struc-

ture or established

process-will

be understood to

persist

or

be con-

tinued unless

deflected

by

some

external

impingement.

In

the

area

of

behavior,

the

rapid

and radical

changes

that

have

been characteristic of Western

culture

during

the

past

few centuries

are,

as I have argued elsewhere, anomalous.6 Thus the almost frantic search

for

the

new,

so

typical

of the arts

in

the twentieth

century,

is

not,

as far as

I

can

see,

the

consequence

of

some innate need

for

change

and

novelty;

rather

it

results

from

our culture's

belief

in

the

productive

and

beneficent

value of

innovation. Even

the

sciences,

seeming

models of the de-

sirability

of

progressive change

(and

often

exemplars

for

artistic "ex-

periment"

and

innovation),

fundamentally

favor

stability. Paradigms

and

theories

are not

lightly

abandoned.

Significant

counterevidence

will

not

lead

to

rejection-until

a

viable alternative

theory

is at hand.

The

axiom of inertia neatly accounts for this behavior: one does not give up

the

security

of one basis for

envisaging

and

choosing-one theory

of the

world,

however

inadequate-until

another

is at hand.

More

generally,

the scientific

method

is

not

designed

to foster

change.

(After

all,

one

usually hopes

that

experiment

will confirm

theory.)

Rather

it is

the

goal

of science to

produce

the most stable world

possible,

a

world

in

which

apparent

innovation

is,

so to

speak,

neutralized because

it

is

subsumed

under some order or

principle

that is itself

unchanging,

a

world

in

which

the

possibility

of

envisaging

enhances

the

probability

of

intelligent

choice.7

through

a

salutary change

in

his or

her

understanding

of

the

consequences

of alternatives.

As

a

result,

the

credibility

of the

social order

is

preserved. (Comedy

criticizes the social

order

in

order to

improve

and

preserve

it.

Consequently,

it

tends

to

be

politically

con-

servative.

Plautus,

Moliere,

W. S.

Gilbert,

Oscar

Wilde,

and

George

Bernard Shaw

suggest

no

radical revolutions. Rather

they depict

the

foibles

of the

powerful

in

order to enable the

prevailing

social structure to

function

beneficially

and

effectively.)

In

melodrama,

con-

versely,

the

malevolent,

destructive

potential

(possible

"choices")

of the

social order

is

thwarted

and

corrected-the

intervention of some

benign,

external

agent

(deus

ex

machina)

is often needed to counteract the

power

of the established forces-and the

protagonist

is

saved.

(Melodrama,

too,

tends

to be

politically

conservative,

correcting aspects

of

the

social

order

in

order

to

preserve

it.

Seen

thus,

the

plot

of Beethoven's

Fidelio,

for

instance,

is

scarcely revolutionary-when

Pizarro's evil

plans

are

foiled,

the

virtues of

the

existing

order

[Leonora's

loyalty

and

Don Fernando's

justice]

are

evident.)

6.

See

my

Music,

the

Arts,

and

Ideas,

chaps.

7 and 8.

7.

Though

it is

the

goal

of

theories

in

all

disciplines

to

produce

a

stable

cognitive

environment,

it

by

no means

follows

that all

theories do

so with

equal

success.

And

perhaps

competing

theories are

judged

less

on

the basis

of aesthetic

appeal

(as

is

sometimes

Critical

Inquiry



7/29

522 Leonard

B.

Meyer

The

History of

Music

In

the area of

conceptualization

(scarcely

distinguishable

from be-

havior),

both the events

that

constitute

a

piece

of

music and

the events

(the succession of pieces of music) that comprise the history of

music-or,

for

that

matter,

the

history

of

anything-are interpreted

in

the

light

of

the axiom

of

inertia.

For when we think about the

history

of

the

cosmos,

the

earth,

living things,

a

human

life,

or

political

events,

attention

tends to be directed

to

the

changes

evident

in

the world. To

direct attention

in

this

way

is

tacitly

to

postulate

that

change

is

what calls

for

explanation

and,

correlatively,

to take

for

granted

that

continuity

and

constancy

are fundamental conditions of existence.

This is

not

to

say

that

discontinuities

do

not exist. There

are

patent disjunctions-as

the possibility of surprise makes evident. But this very possibility confirms

the

prevalence

of the

axiom

of inertia:

we can be

surprised only

because

we take

continuity

for

granted.

Notice

that,

generally

speaking,

the

continuities

posited

by

the

axiom

of inertia

are understood

to function

within

the realms

in

terms

of

which

we

comprehend experience.8

To

comprehend

the world

in

terms

of

distinguishable

realms

is

to

conceptualize

such

realms as

governed by

relatively

discrete and

independent

sets

of

constraints. Not

only

are

broad

realms such

as

physics

and

politics, religion

and

military

tactics,

sailing and architecture conceptualized as governed by different sets of

constraints,

but

subdivisions within such

realms are so

as well. Such sub-

divisions

may

be

based

upon

differences between

the constraints

gov-

erning

distinguishable

hierarchic levels: within the world of

physical

events,

the

constraints

governing

the behavior of

planets

and of

particles

are

different;

and in

the world

of

literature,

the constraints

governing

the structure of

sentences

are not

the

same

as

those

governing plot

structures. Or subdivisions

may

be

stylistic:

in

music,

for

instance,

con-

straint

differences

distinguish

Western

music from Indonesian

music,

Baroque from Classic music, Haydn's music from Mozart's, and Mozart's

operas

from

his

sacred

works.

In

each realm

and

subrealm of

experience,

the

need

for a

stable

world

in

which

to

envisage

and

choose leads

us

to

postulate

the

persis-

tence of constraints. But our

postulations

are

continually being

called

into

question by

the

patent

presence

of

novelty

and the

inescapable

existence

of

change.

Yet so

powerful

is

the need for

a stable world

that

we will

cling

to

concepts

and

hypotheses

that

support

our

envisaging,

even

in

the face

of

blatantly

discrepant

data. Sometimes

existing

con-

cepts and theories can readily account for novelty and change. But when

suggested)

and

more

according

to how

much

cognitive stability-how

much

inertia-they

are

able to

produce.

8.

Probably

this

really

works the other

way

around;

that

is,

the

axiom

of

inertia

leads

us

to formulate

stabilizing concepts,

and

where

such

stabilization

proves possible,

a

realm is

differentiated.



8/29

Critical

Inquiry

March

1983

this

proves impossible, ways

will be

found for

restoring

a

reasonable

semblance

of

stability.

Within realms, concepts may be modified, theories qualified, to ac-

commodate

anomalies.

If

such

adjustment

fails,

then

novelty

and

change

may

be

subsumed

under,

and

attributed

to,

some

larger,

more encom-

passing

process

or

set

of

relationships:

in

biology,

for

instance,

the

theory

of

natural

selection;

in

economics,

Gresham's

law;

in

the

history

of

art,

a

theory

of

cyclic

recurrence.

In all such

cases,

the

significance

of

novelty

is

minimized because

the

constraints

that

persist

are those

considered most

important.

Reductionist

theories

(for

instance,

Schenker's

theory

of the

Ursatz

in

music)

make it

possible

to discount

novelty and depreciate change (the Ursatz admits no consequential

novelties

and

has no

history) by absorbing

them into a

high-level

re-

lationship

in

which the

posited

persistence

of

constraints

reassures

us

that

innovations

are

illusory

or

inconsequential

and that an

enduring

order

preserves

the

possibility

of

envisaging

and

choosing.

When

novelty

and

change

cannot

plausibly

be

accounted for

in

terms

of internal

constraints

governing

some

realm,

then

they

will tend

to

be

attributed to the

impinging presence

of

constraints

from

some other

realm.

Thus,

innovations

may,

as

mentioned

above,

be

traced to

in-

fluences external to the prevalent constraints of musical style: the per-

sonality

of

the

composer,

the

wishes

of a

patron,

available

performers,

the state of

technology,

or

the

ideology

of the

culture. Notice that

ini-

tially

such

attribution

allows us

to

acknowledge

the advent of

novelty

without

doubting

the

stability

of

the

style.

A

single novelty,

interpreted

as

anomalous,

does not

require

that

we revise our

understanding

of the

constraint set.

Only

when an

innovation

is

replicated

in

a

number

of

different

works,

so

that the

constraint set

is

modified

(however

slightly),

is

there historical

change.

While an individual novelty may be attributed to impinging external

constraints

alone,

historical

change depends upon

the interaction be-

tween internal and

external

forces.

For

in

order "to take"-the

analogy

to

a

skin

graft

is not absurd-an

innovation must be

compatible

with

prevalent

stylistic

constraints.

That

is,

compatibility

is

a

necessary

condi-

tion

for

replication-but

not a

sufficient

condition.

At

any

time there are

probably

innumerable innovations that

are

compatible

with

the

con-

straints

of the

prevalent style;

yet

they

are not

replicated.

What is re-

quired

for

replication

is the

impetus

and

energy

of

ideology.

Ideology

is

needed-rather than merely external constraints-because replication

requires continuity

that

transcends

idiosyncratic

circumstance and

par-

ticular occasion.

Specific

events-battles

and

weddings,

famines

and

fashions,

political

causes

and

social

circumstances-may generate

some

innovation and

even lead to

its

use;

but

replication

depends

upon

those

persisting

and

deeply ingrained

beliefs and

attitudes

that

constitute the

ideology

of a

culture.

523



9/29

524 Leonard

B.

Meyer

The

History

of

Music

The distinction between

novelty

and

replication

is

neither

as

clear

nor

as

simple

as

the preceding discussion might suggest.

Problems arise

because the

emergence

of

novelty

is

related to

the hierarchic

organiza-

tion of

complex

structures.

As a

result,

a

pattern

may

be

novel

on one

hierarchic level

but

not on another. To take

an

example

from

music: on

the

level

(1)

of

foreground pattern

(the

notated

succession of

pitches,

durations, mode, timbre,

tempo,

and

meter),

the melodies

given

in

example

1

are

strikingly

different.

Each is

novel.

Yet on the next hierar-

chic

level

(2),

both melodies are realizations

(instantiations)

of the same

schema-the

changing-note

pattern,

8

-

7

-

2-

1(8),

indicated on

graphs

a

and b in example 1. In short, what is novel on one level of organization

may

be

replication

on another.

Haydn,

Symphony

No.

46

in

B,

ii.

Poco

Adagio

I Ff

y

fI

.

p

8 7

2

1

(8)

{1

v

t

-

11II

Beethoven,

String

Quartet

in

F,

Op.

18 No.

1,

iv

Allegro

3

3

3

3

3

8 7

2

1

(8)

I

b

,'

Pb

rl

Example

1

Novelty

may

also arise

through

permutation

and combination on a

single

hierarchic

level.

The

patterns given

in

example

2,

for

instance,

all

replicate

an

archetypal closing

motive

(m)

whose

invention

lies buried

Haydn, "Military

Symphony,"

No.

100,

ii

m

a.

I

b.

^A

?

...f

^

A

I?

I

V7

I

Haydn, String

Quartet

in

Bb,

Op.

64 No.

3,

iii

ml

1

c

(6'r

I

I

V

Example

2

Mozart,

Symphony

No.

40

in

G Minor

(K.

550),

iii

m2

c%

=

similar

V7

I

1.

1.

2.

1

a,

-----lI

I I I) 'iIr,Lt1

I

i

i

i

II

I

I

ca

~I

V

-

1-

-

o

r -

r

11

'

i

r

J

"

1

t

I lit

f

J

j

J

J

J

J

11

.

9)i

I

Z.

Q

.. .

I



10/29

March 1983

525

somewhere

in

the

early

history

of Western tonal

music.

As

motives,

then,

they

are

scarcely

novel.

However,

since each becomes

part

of a form and

process

that is

unique,

each is

relationally

new. The differences are

unmistakable.

Example

2a,

for

instance,

is

the

beginning

of an

ascending

melody

which

is

essentially disjunct,

as

graph

a,

example

3,

indicates.

m ?

hS^

r

'

f

r;

-

If

rriO

r

:

1

f f

2

r

I

P

m2

r

h

J

I

lC.l

b.i

r

)

__X___

Example

3

The motive of

example

2c,

on the other

hand,

comes

at

the

close of

a

descending

melody

which

is

basically conjunct

and

linear

(see

example

3,

graphs

b

and

c).

Though

the

replicated

motives

form novel

relationships

with what

precedes

and

follows them on the

foreground

level,

they may

at

the same

time

be

part

of

replication

on a

higher

level.

Thus

the motive

that

begins

the

slow

movement

of

Haydn's "Military Symphony,"

to-

gether

with what

follows

it,

forms

part

of

a familiar

triadic schema

(see

example

3,

graph

a).

Finally,

it is

relevant to observe

that

any performance

of

a

piece

of

music

that does not

slavishly

parrot

an

earlier

performance

involves

what

might

be called

"interpretive"

innovation. Within the traditions of

their musical

culture,

performers

devise novel realizations

of

a

potential

pattern

(in

our

culture,

often

a notated

score)

and

then

choose

from

those

possibilities.

Innovation

exists on the level of

performance,

and

for

this

reason

performers

are

considered

to

be creative

artists. But

on the

level of the

"work,"

there

has

obviously

been

replication.

Save

where

novelty

results from the

permutation

and

combination

of

patterns

on a

single

hierarchic

level,

the

force

and

frequency

of

in-

novation

are,

not

surprisingly,

related

to the hierarchic

structuring

of

constraints.

In

general, high-level changes

(innovations)

in

a

set of

Critical

Inquiry



11/29

526 Leonard

B.

Meyer

The

History

of

Music

constraints-for

instance,

in

the rules of a

style-occur

very

infre-

quently,

but,

when

they

do,

their effect

is

consequential

for

all musical

parameters throughout

the

hierarchy;

as

one moves toward lower levels

of

the

constraint

set,

novelty

becomes more common

but

less con-

sequential.

Put

differently,

the conservation of constraints on

higher

levels

supports

the invention and

selection

of novelties on lower ones:

unchanging,

transcultural laws allow for

alternative

rules

of

style

(Euro-

pean

tonal

music

versus

Indonesian

gamelan

music);

enduring

rules

of

style

permit

the invention of novel

strategies; replicated strategies

may

be instantiated

as

novel

compositional patterns;

and,

finally,

the "same"

compositional

pattern

may

be

newly

interpreted

in

a

particular per-

formance.

In

what

follows,

I

will be

mainly

concerned

with innovations that

arise

on

the middle levels

of this

hierarchy-that

is,

with the

devising

of

new

strategies

for

realizing existing

rules and with the invention

of

original

realizations

of

prevalent

strategies.

It is

important

to

recognize

that

there

is

a

significant

difference between

these kinds of innovation.

A

strategy

is a

general principle

which can

serve

as

the

basis for innumerable

individual and

novel realizations.

Thus

schemata

such as

those

given

in

examples

1 and 3 can

be instantiated

in

quite

diverse

compositional

dialects and, within each of these,

in

markedly different

and

original

ways9-so

can formal

principles

(such

as

variation,

rounded

binary,

or

da

capo

form)

or

genres

(such

as

opera

buffa,

oratorio,

or tone

poem).

And

the

permutation

and

combination of stock

figures

can be the

basis

for

a

general

strategy:

for

instance,

using

a

familiar

closing figure

to

begin

a

composition

(see

examples

2a

and

3a).

It

would

appear

that

particular

realizations of

such

strategies

cannot

be

generalized.

Thus,

though

the successions of actualizations

that

are

a

piece

of

music

may

be the basis for

a

myriad

of

more

or less novel

interpretations, we do not doubt that the performances are of the same

composition.

Whether

interpreted

by

Toscanini,

Leonard

Bernstein,

or

Bruno

Walter,

the

piece

being played

is still

(and

we have no

trouble

recognizing

it),

say,

Beethoven's

Fifth

Symphony.10

Yet

there

are

obvi-

9.

A

dialect arises when

a

number of

composers

employ

the same

general

set of

constraints.

See

my

"Toward

a

Theory

of

Style," p.

30.

As

these observations

indicate,

replication

need

be neither deliberate

nor conscious.

A

composer

may,

for

instance,

replicate

(instantiate)

a shared schema

without

being

aware

of

the fact.

See

my

discussion of several instantiations of

a

single

schema

in

"Exploiting

Limits:

Creation,

Archetypes,

and

Style Change,"

Daedalus

109

(Spring

1980):

177-205.

10. The situation is more problematic when there is no notation. In the case of a jazz

performance

(or

that

of

an Indian

sitar

player),

it is

often doubtful

whether one

is

attend-

ing

to

a

new

interpretation

of a

traditional work

or

to

a new work.

Interpretation

and

composition

constitute a

single,

indivisible

act.

One can

perhaps

add a

further level of

interpretation,

namely,

that created

by

the

listener.

In a

very

modest

way

the listener

may

introduce

cognitive

novelty

into the musical

experience.

Such listener

interpretation may

in

part explain why

music can

be

reheard

so

many

times.

And

the number of times one

can

rehear

a

composition

without

tedium

may

depend upon

the

interpretive opportunities provided by

the

work

and

the

performance.



12/29

Critical

Inquiry

March 1983

ously problems.

For even on the

level

of

interpretation

we

often

gener-

alize about

styles

of

performance,

observing

that

this

interpretation

is

"romantic"

(enhances

the articulation of form

and

the

presentation

of

process

through

the use of

dynamics,

tempo,

and

the

like),

while

that

one

is

"classic"

(adheres

more

closely

to the

notation

of

the

score).

And

though

it

would seem

strange

to

suggest

that

one

interpretation

was

an

instantiation of

another,

even

on

this

level

something

must

be

capable

of

generalization;

otherwise one could not

speak

of the influence

(as

distin-

guished

from the

imitation)

of

performers-for

instance,

Toscanini.

Composers

invent

particular patterns

of

pitches,

durations,

and

the

like

(musical

relationships

on

various

hierarchic

levels)

that

are,

for the

most

part,

realizations

of

already existing stylistic

constraints.

Some of

these

patterns

may

be

so

idiosyncratic

that

they

defy

generalization-

that

is,

no classlike

relationships

can be

discerned

in

them.11 Other

pat-

terns, however,

may

be

capable

of

generalization.

It is this

second

possi-

bility

that is of

interest here:

namely,

that

patterns

invented

as,

and

initially

understood

to

be,

no

more

than the

individual

realization

of

existing

constraints

may

subsequently

be

the basis for

some

new

general

strategy-one

that

is

replicable.

Because

until

fairly

recently composers

seldom

consciously

devised

novel strategies

but rather

wrote original pieces

intended to

please,

un-

equivocally

documented instances of the

transformation of

a

particular

pattern

into

a

general, replicable

technique

are hard to

identify.

But the

sort

of

thing

that

I

have

in

mind

seems

quite

clearly

described

in

the

following

account

of

the

textural

changes

that took

place

in

Dufay's style:

The number

of voices

was increased

to four: the old

disjunct

con-

tratenor

was,

as

it

were,

split

into

two

separate

voices-the con-

tratenor

altus ... and

the

contratenor

bassus.

While such

a

scheme

may

also be

found

in the

fourteenth century,

Dufay's use of it was new. He took intense interest in certain succes-

sions of

sonorities,

especially

at

the

ends of

phrases.

These

were

possible only

when

the

lowest

sounding

part

had a

specific,

rather

disjunct

shape.

Since

a

preexistent

melody

...

would

be

unlikely

to

have such

a

shape,

the

placement

of the

contratenor

bassus

below

the

tenor

permitted Dufay

to

employ

both

the

cantus-firmus

prin-

ciple

and

his

preferred

succession of sonorities.12

Put

in

terms of

this

essay,

what

had been

essentially

a collection

of

indi-

vidual

realizations

of

existing

constraints

was

generalized

by

Dufay

as

a

new compositional strategy.

11.

Writing

about

Virginia

Woolf,

W. H.

Auden

observed:

"I

do not

know

if

she

is

going

to exert an

influence on

the

future

development

of

the novel-I rather

suspect

that

her

style

and

her

vision

were

so

unique

that

influence would

only

result

in

tame

imitation"

(Forewards

and

Afterwards

[New

York,

1974],

p.

417).

It

is

also well to

remember that time

has a

way

of

filtering general

procedures

out of

relationships

that

once seemed

intractably

idiosyncratic.

12. David G.

Hughes,

A

History

of

European

Music

(New

York,

1974),

p.

113;

my

italics.

527



13/29

528

Leonard

B.

Meyer

2.

Choice

There is little need to recount further the difficulties involved in

explaining precisely

why,

and from what

source,

specific

innovations

arise.

Scholarly

literature

is

littered

with studies

suggesting

reasons

for

innovation and

searching

for

sources,

first

instances,

and the

like. Nor

usually-and

this is a

central

point

here-is

identifying

the

first

instance

or

source of some

strategy

or

compositional

procedure

historically very

important.

(Indeed,

were

it

so,

music

history

would be

an

impossible,

rather

than an

impoverished, discipline,

for we seldom

know the

origins

of an

innovation.

Generally

we are content

to cite

an

exemplary

or

an

early instance, such as Bach's Well-Tempered Clavier or Ferdinand

Fischer's

Ariadne

musica

[1702].)

Let

me

explain.

In

any reasonably

rich

culture,

novelty

abounds.

Indeed,

it is

om-

nipresent

because

every

act and

every

artifact

that

is

not

an

exact

replica

of an

existing

one

is

in

some

way

different

and,

in

that

respect,

novel.13

Put

another

way:

all

composers-even

those who

write the

most routine

and

pedestrian

works-are

continually devising

new

relationships.

Most

of

these

are

historically

inconsequential

realizations

of

existing

con-

straints,

though

some

may,

of

course,

be

of

high

aesthetic

value.

But

one

can never be sure that some seemingly peculiar realization will not sub-

sequently

become

the

basis for a

generalized

constraint:

a

new

strategy

or

even

a

novel

rule.

Because

culture

is

always replete

with

possibilities,

it

is,

as

I

have

said,

not

primarily

the

advent

of

novelty

that needs to

be

explained

but

its

use

and

replication.

Why,

out of all

the

possible

alternatives

that

he

might

have

imagined

or considered

for

use at this

point

in

his

piece,

did the

composer

choose

this

one rather

than

some

other?

And

why

did

par-

ticular kinds of

patterns,

forms,

or

genres

(rather

than others

equally

available) appeal to some specific compositional/cultural community so

that

they

were

replicated by repeated performances

of

a work

(or

group

of

works)

or

as a

consequence

of current

compositional

consensus?

Why,

in

short,

do some

innovations

survive while

others,

however

aestheti-

cally satisfying they may

have

been,

disappear,

apparently

without

his-

torical

consequences?14

Such

questions

about the

"why"s

of

change

remind

us that

the

problems

of

music

history

are themselves

the result of

history.

In-

fluenced both

by

the scientific

model

which,

rightly

or

wrongly,

empha-

sized the importance of the discovery of new data and the devising of

new

theory,

and

by

nineteenth-century

notions

that stressed

the

value

of

13.

The

question

of what constitutes

an exact

replica

is

more

complicated

than it

might

at first

appear.

See

my

discussion of

miming

below,

pp.

536-38.

14.

"Apparently,"

because

it

is

possible

that such

"rejected"

novelties

may

be con-

sequential

at

some future time.

The

History

of

Music



14/29

March

1983

529

innovation

(as

progress),

our

age

has

conceived of

creativity

almost en-

tirely

in

terms of the need

for,

and

devising

of,

novel

relationships.

Investigators

have

continually

asked little children, as well as famous

artists and

scientists:

How does

one

get

new ideas? Where do

they

come

from?

Though

doubtless

of

great

psychological

interest,

this

concern

with

the

causes and sources of innovation

has had

unfortunate conse-

quences

for

our

understanding

of

history.

Unwarranted

emphasis

on

the

generation

of

novelty

has

led

to

an

almost total

neglect

of the

other

side of

creativity-namely,

that

of

choosing.

Of course

choosing

is

always

done

by

some

individual. But

the constraints

that

seem

most

to influence

the

compositional

choices

that

shape

the course

of music

history

are

not

those

peculiar

to the individual

composer's

psyche

but those of the

prev-

alent

musical

style

and

of the cultural

community.

This

last

observation

has

significant

implications

for our under-

standing

of influence

and,

ultimately,

for our accounts of

change

in

the

arts.

First,

it

indicates

that,

although

the

term "influence"

is

generally

used to refer

to

relationships

within a

particular

art,

whatever affects

the

choices made

by

an artist is an

influence.15 Cultural

beliefs and

attitudes,

the

predilections

of

patrons,

or

acoustical conditions

may,

for

instance,

be

every

bit

as

influential

as

prior

musical

compositions.16

Indeed,

some

compositions

(such

as Carl Maria von Weber's Der

Freischiitz)

may

have

become

"exemplary,"

and

hence

influential,

precisely

because

they

were

favored

and

chosen

for

cultural,

rather

than

purely

musical,

reasons.17

Second,

this

viewpoint

makes it

evident

that

just

as

novelty

is

om-

nipresent,

so

possible

sources of influence abound-in

prior composi-

tions,

in

the

other

arts,

in

cultural

ideology,

in

political

and

social

circum-

15. For

a

careful discussion of

this

aspect

of

influence,

see

Goran

Hermeren,

Influence

in

Art

and

Literature

(Princeton,

N.J.,

1975).

16. What is

usually

meant

by

influence within an art is

simply

a

special

kind of

replication-one

in

which

a

particular

patterning

can be

traced to

specific

features of some

earlier work or to characteristic

traits

of some

composer's

idiom.

This view accounts

for an

observation made

in

my

Explaining

Music:

Essays

and

Explorations

(Berkeley,

1973),

pp.

73-75:

namely,

that there is no

in

principle

difference

between similarities

(replications)

explicitly

devised

by

the

composer

and

those that occur because

the constraints of the

style

make

them

probable.

What

is

involved

is a

continuum of

replications

from those that occur

only

within a

single

movement

to

those

that transcend

all cultural historical

boundaries-as,

for

instance,

with

the

ubiquity

of

the octave

and the fifth as

stable

entities.

17.

What

I

mean

by

an

exemplary

work

is

one

whose

commanding

presence

is

such

that

its

specific

means

(whether

innovative or

not),

as

well

as its

more

general character,

have

a

compositional/cultural impact

and

resonance

that

are

inescapable.

One

thinks

per-

haps

of such

works

as

Josquin's

Missa

Pange

lingua,

Monteverdi's

Fifth Book of

Madrigals,

Handel's

Messiah,

Beethoven's

Ninth

Symphony,

and so

on.

Works

not

at first considered

exemplary-for

instance,

Bach's

St.

Matthew

Passion-subsequently

may

become

so.

The notion of

an

exemplary

work

is

similar to

George

Kubler's

concept

of a

"prime"

work.

But

because

an

influential realization

may

not

be

the first instance

but

only

an

effective

proclaimer

of novel

means,

I

prefer

the term

"exemplary."

See

Kubler,

The

Shape

of

Time

(New

Haven,

Conn.,

1962).

Critical

Inquiry



15/29

530

Leonard

B.

Meyer

stances,

and

so on. Since

any

specific

source

of influence

is

only

one

among

a

large

number of

possibilities

available to a

composer,

a

particu-

lar work of art or a cultural belief is never more than apotential influence.

To

be an

actual

influence,

it

must

be chosen

by

the

composer.

And,

as

with

innovation,

the central

and

consequential

problem

for

history

is

not

showing

that influence

occurred-or even

tracing genetic

connections-

but

understanding

and

explaining

why

it

took

place: Why,

that

is,

out

of

the

multitude

of

possibilities

was this

one

influential?

Third,

the

concept

of

influence,

like that

of

creativity,

has

been

confused because

emphasis

on the

source

of influence has been so

strong

that the act

of

compositional

choice

has

been

virtually

ignored.

And

when the importance of the prior source is thus stressed, there is a

powerful

tendency

to transform

it

surreptitiously

into a

cause-as

though

the

composer's

choice were

somehow

an

"effect,"

a

necessary

conse-

quence

of

the

mere

existence

of

the

prior

source.

This

concept

of how

influence works

is

at

once confirmed

and

reinforced

by

our

ordinary

way

of

speaking

about such

matters:

for

example,

"Gluck's

operas

influenced

Mozart's"

=

Gluck's

operas

are

the

active

agents,

Mozart's are the

passive

receivers.

Not

only

our

concept

of how influence works

and our

attitudes

toward

creativity

but our whole

way

of

thinking

about the histories of the

arts

has

been biased

and

ultimately

crippled

by

what

might

be called

"covert

causalism."

In

this

model of

temporal change-and

it is

virtually

the

only

one

available

in

our

culture-prior patterns

or

conditions

are

routinely

regarded

as active

causal

agents,

while later events

are

reg-

ularly relegated

to

the

position

of

being passive, necessary

results

or

effects.

All

is

post

hoc,

propter

hoc.18

The

inclination to

conceptualize

the

world

in

terms of causal con-

nections

is

so

powerfully

ingrained

in

our culture's

way

of

thinking

that

our

language

subtly

tends to

suggest,

through

the use of that

ubiquitous

conjunction

"because,"

that all

explanations

are causal.19

Thus,

asked

why

the earth

moves around the

sun,

someone

might

reply,

"because of

the law

of

gravity."

However,

though

it is

common to refer

to

gravity

as a

"force"

(suggesting

notions of

causation),

properly speaking,

it

is not a

cause.

As

Henry

Margenau

writes,

"Newton's law of

gravitation

.

.

.

sets

18. The

prevalence

of causalism

may

in

part

be

responsible

or our culture'salmost

pathological

oncern with

innovation

(originality).

For when works of

art

are

regarded

as

necessary

effects of

prior

causes

(whether

compositional

r

cultural),

creativeartistsare in

effect

denied freedom

to choose. Instead of

reveling

in

their

power

to

exploit-to

select

from-the

past,

artists

become anxious lest

they

be victimized

by

the

past.

No

wonder

they

have

sought

to

escape

from

such

imposed

indebtedness-either

by denying

the relevance

of

history

or

by

explicitlyrejecting

causal

explanation.

19. The

ubiquity

of

"because"

s

clearly

related

to

the

centrality

of choice

in human

life. For

by apparently

warranting

that a

relationship

s

causal,

use

of the

conjunction

seems to assure us of

the

possibility

of

envisaging

and, hence,

of

choosing.

The

History

of

Music



16/29

March 1983

531

up

a

relation between an

observation

on

the rate

of

change

of the

radial

velocity

between

two masses

on

the

one

hand,

and the

distance between

them on the other. But it contains no criterion to determine the causal

status

of these observations."20

There

are other noncausal

kinds of

explanation.21

But

most im-

portant

for

our

purposes-and

for

the

history

of art-is that

influence

is

not a kind

of

causation.

Causal

relationships

are

necessary;

influence

relationships

are not.

Again,

choice is central to

the discussion.

Influence

allows

for

choice,

causation

does not.

If

something

actually

caused

me to

act

in

a

particular

way

(for

instance,

a

compulsion),

then

I

had no

choice

in

the matter. As

J.

M.

Burgers

observes,

"A

choice

cannot be

directed

by

a cause, for then it would not be a choice."22

Consider the almost sacrosanct

litany

that "art reflects

the

culture

out of

which

it

arises."

This

commonplace

is a

clear

instance

of

covert

causalism.

Mirrors mirror

mechanically; they

cannot choose

to reflect or

not

to reflect.

Only

individual

men and

women

can do

so.

In

this

version

of

the causal

model the artist is

little more

than

an

automaton for the

transcription

of

culture

into art.

What

is

at

once

paradoxical

and

ruefully

ironic

is

that this

thesis,

which

was

supposed

to

form

a basis

for

cultural

history,

has

been

partly responsible

for

discrediting

that

discipline.

For

culture is not a

compelling

force that determines what artists must

create. Rather it

is a

richly

variegated presence

providing possibilities

from which artists

choose. And it is

precisely

when

the artist's

choices

are

made

the focus

of

historical

inquiry

that

culture becomes

indispensable

for

the

explanation

of

style change.

Because

they

are

generally

understood

as

involving

linear

succes-

sion,

natural

phenomena

have

been

particularly susceptible

to causal

20.

Henry

Margenau,

"Meaning

and

Scientific Status of

Causality,"

in

Philosophy

of

Sci-

ence,

ed. Arthur Danto and

Sidney Morgenbesser

(New

York,

1964),

p.

437. In a footnote

on

page

462 of

the

same book

is

the

following quotation

from the conclusion

of Newton's

Principia:

"I

have

not been able to

discover the cause of

those

properties

of

gravity....

It is

enough

that

gravity

does

really

exist,

and

act

according

to

the

laws

we have

explained."

21. One

of

these

explanations specially

common

in

the

temporal

arts is

the kind

in

which earlier events or

patternings

are understood to

imply

later

ones.

But

the

under-

standing

of

such

"if

...

then"

relationships

is

probabilistic,

not causal. For

instance,

it

seems

entirely proper

to

assert that

in

Western

tonal

music

a

progression

from subdominant to

dominant

harmony

implies

the

imminence of tonic

harmony.

But

it would

seem

strange

indeed to

suggest

that the

earlier

harmonies

"caused" the later one.

Another

kind

of

noncausal

explanation

is

found

in

synchronic

histories such

as

Jacob

Burckhardt's

The

Civilization

of

the Renaissance n

Italy

and

Johan

Huizinga's

The

Waning

of

the

Middle

Ages,

or

in

synchronic analyses

of music

such

as

those

presented

in

Rudolph

Reti's

The Thematic

Process

in

Music. These accounts

explain

some

phenomenon-e.g.,

the

Renaissance

or

a

Beethoven sonata

movement-by showing

that

seemingly disparate

elements

(philosoph-

ical

ideas,

works

of

art,

institutions,

or

contrasting

musical

motives)

can

be

related to one

another

through

some common

higher-level principle.

Since

the

relationships

discovered

are not

essentially temporal,

they

cannot

be

causal.

22.

J.

M.

Burgers,

"Causality

and

Anticipation,"

Science

18

(July

1975):

195.

Critical

Inquiry



17/29

532

Leonard

B.

Meyer

interpretation.

And

the

currency

and

prestige

of

biological

models

(spe-

cially

since the

eighteenth

century)

fostered

the

spread

of causalism

in

history.23 One consequence in histories of the arts was that beginnings

tended

unwittingly

to be

transformed into

quasi-causal agents:

that

is,

the

origin

of a

composition,

a

technique,

a

form,

or

a

genre

came to

be

understood as

shaping

its

end. Notions

such

as

the

"germination"

or

"birth,"

the

"rise" or

"development,"

and

(ultimately)

the

"decline" or

"death"

of

x

(the

ars

nova,

opera

seria,

tonal

harmony,

and so

on)

not

only

are

evidence of the

power

of

the

organic

model

but

imply

that

later

stages

of

the historical

process

were

already present

in

presumed begin-

nings.

Like

most

deeply

held cultural

hypotheses,

this

metaphor

has

affected behavior as well as belief. For instance, the assumption that the

seed contains

the future of

the

plant

has,

I

suspect,

been

partly

re-

sponsible

for

the

obsession with

sources

("seeds")

in

the academic

study

of

the

history

of

music

and

the other

arts.24

Seeds do

not,

however,

explain

the

particular growth

and

flowering

of

plants.

And,

though

still current

in

popular

culture and

the back-

waters

of

musicology, biological metaphors

have come to seem

somewhat

simpleminded.

The causal

paradigm

is,

nevertheless,

so

powerful

in

our

culture that

most of

the new

metaphors

devised

to account for historical

change have been characterized by a linear succession that allows for

genetic

interpretation.25

For

instance,

the

science-derived

metaphor

of

"art

as

problem

solving"

is

not

untainted

by

covert causalism.26

The

antecedent

problem

tends

(perhaps unconsciously)

to be

conceptualized

as a

generating

"cause,"

while

the

consequent

solution

is

(willy-nilly)

understood to

be

a

resulting

"effect."

Though initially

attractive,

the

problem-solving

model

is

itself,

I

think,

problematic.

In

its

"strong"

form,

as it occurs

in

the

hard

sciences

and in

formalized

games

and

puzzles

(for

example, bridge

or chess

problems or crossword puzzles), the very notion of a problem implies

23. See

Ruth A.

Solie,

"The

Living

Work:

Organicism

and Musical

Analysis,"

Nineteenth-Century

Music

4

(Fall 1980):

147-56.

24. Observe that

psychoanalytic

accounts of

creativity usually

combine the covert

causalismof

the

organic

model

with

the mirror

metaphor:

he

experiences

of

infancy

and

early

childhood,

passing through

certain

preordained

phases

of

development

(like

an

organism),

are the

seeds

(causes)

that

shape

the

psyche

of the artist

(effect);

the

psyche,

thus

formed,

is

reflected

in

(causes)

the work of art

created

(effect).

25.

It

should

be

emphasized

that

those who

posit

that historical

explanation

requires

the use of general principles(for instance,Carl G. Hempel and his followers)are not

necessarily

arguing

for causal

accounts.

For there

are

general

principles

hat

are not causal

(see

above,

pp.

530-31).

As

far as

I

can

see,

the

explanation

of

particular

historical

vents

always

nvolves he use of both

general

principles

of

some sort

(hypotheses

or

theories

con-

necting

events)

and what

I

have called ad

hoc

reasons

(see

my

"Concerning

he

Sciences,

the

Arts-AND

the

Humanities,"

Critical

Inquiry

[Sept.

1974]:

197-202).

26. For an

important

presentation

of this

model,

see Kubler's

Shape

of

Time.

The

History

of

Music

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Innovation, Choice, and the History of Music