So in another life, ages ago, I wrote this thing called a dissertation, in support of a doctoral degree that I currently get approximately zero material use out of.
Here is the seventh installment of a series that will finally get the whole damned thing out there for public consumption. I'm going to more or less present it verbatim, though I'm sure my thinking has changed in some ways since I originally wrote it (between 1998 and 2004).
Enjoy, if you can!
PREVIOUSLY:
Introduction, part one
Introduction, part two
Chapter one, part one
Chapter one, part two
Chapter two, part one
Chapter two, part two
* * * * *Decomposition: A Critique of Musical Authorship and AuthenticityChapter Two: Music and Technology (part three)ii. Sound as the Residue of Technology
Aural evidence of contextual collaboration -- sound as the residue of technological innovation -- is also important when considering the products of the recording industry, which, like the player piano, have often been accused of removing the human element from art (recall that Sousa’s critique was aimed at both instruments). In the early years of phonographic technology , marketers attempted to meet this accusation head-on by bending over backwards to demonstrate just how “human” their products were. For instance, while the earliest phonographs had “exposed gears and horns” that “celebrated their mechanism” (and early jukeboxes “always provided a glass window through which the patron could watch the internal workings of the machine—it was part of the entertainment that one purchased”), this novelty soon wore off (Thompson 144-6). Instead, manufacturers decided that “phonographs should look as little like phonographs as possible” (Gelatt 192). One of the earliest efforts to obscure the mechanism of playback was the Victrola, introduced by the Victor Talking Machine Company in 1906. This phonograph -- which perhaps ironically may have taken its name from the Pianola (Millard 131)
1 -- was the first consumer model playback device to offer “Victorian camouflage for the industrial machine” (Kenney 51): all of the technology (including the playback horn) was enclosed in an attractive wood cabinet. The Victrola could not yet be considered furniture with a record player inside, as later models would be (Gelatt 191), but its design was more palatable than that of its predecessors. Other companies attempted to naturalize / humanize their products as well, experimenting with flower-shaped playback horns (Millard 127), cords through which a listener was supposed to be able to imprint his or her personality on a recording (146), and, later, anthropomorphically-named products like the “Golden Throat” loudspeaker system and the “Magic Brain” automatic turntable (202).
These elaborate apologies for the mechanical nature of recording were partly intended to distract listeners from the evidence of contextual collaboration in recorded music. For with the “talking machines” produced in the first decades of the twentieth century, such evidence was obvious, and was often heard as an aesthetic shortcoming. One area of contention, for instance, was the question of recording length. Before 1947, commercial recording typically could not accommodate more than three or four minutes of music (or about five, in the case of twelve inch records) -- a characteristic determined by the size of the grooves. As a result, longer pieces had to be significantly truncated when they appeared in recorded form. Gelatt points out that when it came to “classical” music, for instance, “mutilations of the score were all too common: the
Firebird Suite and
Till Eulenspiegel were each abbreviated to fit onto a double-sided record, being thus reduced by half or more [...] and in one horrible instance Sir Henry [J. Wood] went so far as to squeeze Dukas’
L’Apprenti Sorcier on one side of a record and Wagner’s
Flying Dutchman Overture on the other” (198). Sometimes such works were recorded in something closer to their entirety, but still had to be broken up over numerous discs (a 1927 recording of a “sizable chunk” of
Tristan und Isolde was 38 discs long (Gelatt 240-1)).
Other technological shortcomings were more obvious in the sound of the records. In addition to the much-bemoaned scratchiness caused by the stylus wearing away the disc surface (the material used to manufacture the disc determined the character of that scratchiness), early recording was hampered by a limited frequency range
2. Timothy Day writes that the acoustic recording process
3, for instance, was constrained within frequencies of “between 168 and 2,000 cycles [per second]” (as compared with the range of between 20 and 20,000 cycles that can be heard by the human ear) (9). As a result, acoustic recordings were “unable to reproduce all the frequencies of notes below the E below middle C and of notes higher than the C three octaves above middle C. This does not mean that notes whose fundamentals lie outside that range were inaudible, but it does mean that the characteristic timbres and qualities of all sounds were distorted” (9).
Because these sorts of seams show in early recordings -- i.e., because recorded works were made up not only of elements of composition and performance, but of hiss, narrow frequency range, scratchiness, compressed musical structures -- listeners are arguably more aware of how these recordings are dependent upon technology. In other words, in addition to the efforts of the recording artists, and the composers whose work they performed, listeners can hear the contributions of the inventors and artisans who produced the technology used to make the records. In the remainder of this chapter I will use the word “sound” to refer to this complex collaborative product.
Of course, one can argue that the issue of sound is partly attributable not only to the contextual collaboration of inventors and artisans, but to the direct collaboration of engineers and producers.
4 Many have noted, for instance, the importance of the engineers who recorded Ellington. Hasse points out that by the early forties, “[t]he recording engineers at Victor managed to capture the Ellington sound with a richness and fidelity unprecedented in its previous recordings” (242). He also cites Dan Morgenstern’s commentary on the sonic character of even the earliest Ellington records: “[W]hat other band [...] comes across with such presence and impact? Where else do we hear the string bass in such a forward position in the sonic spectrum? Where else are the piano and drummer’s kit so well balanced with the horns [...] so strong and true?” (Hasse 93) And while Ellington was “very, very fussy about recording” (242), we cannot overlook the technical personnel who helped achieve these results. Stanley Dance mentions one notable figure in the liner notes to
The OKeh Ellington (“OKeh” was a recording label for which Ellington recorded in the twenties and thirties):
The unsung hero who quickly mastered the art of “electric” recording for OKeh was, Michael Brooks has discovered, one Charles Hibbard. His recordings, as enhanced here by today’s techniques, enable the listener to enjoy the subtleties of timbre and color in which Ellington delighted. Within a year or two, Hibbard was recording, for example, the ten-piece Luis Russell band with one microphone and obtaining results of a graphic realism that have scarcely ever been excelled.
The participation of engineers thus adds another compositional layer to the collaborative processes associated with Ellington (and described in greater detail in chapter one).
Day describes the similar influence of the producer’s role, noting the particularly interesting figures of Fred Gaisberg (who in the first half of the twentieth century worked for both His Master’s Voice (HMV, the European branch of Victor) and (later) EMI), and Walter Legge (Gaisberg’s successor at EMI (and husband of singer Elizabeth Schwarzkopf)). Both figures demonstrate that production is a form of direct collaboration. Of course, in the context of his own time, Gaisberg’s production methodology was not considered “artistic” -- Gaisberg himself believed that recordings were merely “sound photographs,” “simply reproducing what the artists habitually did in the opera house or on the concert platform” (Day 40). In this view, the record producer was “passive.” And retrospectively, it is true that the typical studio of Gaisberg’s day lacked the kind of recording technology that would be used by later generations of producers to manipulate recordings -- for instance, splicing techniques that allowed for the creation of an “edit” compiled from different “takes” (not to mention sophisticated audio processing tools like EQ and compression). In contrast, Legge is often credited -- in fact he often credited himself -- with using this sort of technology to pioneer the modern producer’s role, transforming raw recordings into finished LPs that were ostensibly more “perfect” than was possible in a live situation (as Day puts it, Legge “wanted to take advantage of the ability to splice [for instance] [...] to create the kind of performance the artist would aspire to but, being human, could practically never achieve” (40). This model of “active,” technologically engaged production would come to dominate late twentieth century perceptions of the producer’s role.
And yet Gaisberg was an “active,” technologically engaged producer as well. Although perhaps more constrained by technological circumstances, he was no less involved in the creation of recorded works. For instance, Gaisberg was one of the first record industry people to work with “high art” musicians, who had previously scoffed at the idea of being recorded (he changed their minds by being “infallibly gregarious” and charming (Eisenberg 116)). Gaisberg booked Enrico Caruso’s first recording session, against the explicit wishes of HMV, who had balked at the singer’s exorbitant fee. The gamble paid off when Caruso’s records sold well, motivating other well-known opera stars to get involved in recording. Thus, while Hugh Griffith writes that “[i]n a single afternoon on the third floor of a Milan hotel, Caruso had made recording respectable” (2), it would be more accurate to say (at least) that “Caruso
and Gaisberg had made recording respectable.” The Caruso recordings might never have happened without Gaisberg -- just as (more obviously) they would never have happened without Caruso or the composers whose works he sung.
Gaisberg also provided important advice and coaching to recording artists. Eisenberg points out that it was Gaisberg who “commended the ‘Volga Boat Song’ to Chaliapin, ‘and together we conceived the idea of beginning the number softly, rising to a forte and fading away to a whisper, to picture the approach and gradual retreat of the haulers on the river banks.’ And it was Gaisberg [Eisenberg continues] who made the fruitful May-September match of Yehudi Menuhin and Sir Edward Elgar” (117). Further, as Day points out, producers in Gaisberg’s day had to acquaint performers with a whole new set of musical techniques, specifically designed to maximize the results of the recording process:
performances in the recording studio during the first quarter of the twentieth century were different too because players had to modify their performing techniques, deliberately -- perhaps by performing at a constant loudness and removing subtle dynamic nuances of any kind -- but also by having to play in unaccustomed positions, by performing with other players while yet being unable to communicate in the usual way, by having to modify speeds because of the time limitation of the twelve-inch disc (Day 33).
Of course, on a deeper level the aesthetic influence of producers and engineers (like that of composers and performers) is determined by the state of technology, which is in turn produced by the work of inventors and artisans. This form of contextual collaboration is all but invisible if one goes by industry packaging and liner notes (in which producers and engineers are at least credited). But two examples will demonstrate that it is not so invisible if one goes by the
sound of early recordings.
I have already mentioned Caruso. Writing in 1924, the British novelist and audiophile, Compton Mackenzie (founder of
The Gramophone, one of the earliest audiophile publications) went so far as to put the singer’s importance this way: “For years in the minds of nearly everybody there were records, and there were Caruso records. He impressed his personality through the medium of his recorded voice on kings and peasants” (qtd. in Eisenberg 147). Of course this is something of an exaggeration; Caruso was not
entirely in control of the recording process, as the misleading phrase “impressing his personality” suggests. Instead, Caruso’s “voice was perfectly suited to the talking machine [...] Unlike sopranos and bass voices, the full range of the tenor fell within the narrow band of sound frequencies picked up by the recording horn” (Millard 59); thus “[e]ven on inadequate reproducers of the time, his records sounded rich and vibrant” (Gelatt 115). Caruso’s talent, in this sense, was a fortunate match with contemporary technology. The “work” of a Caruso recording, then, can be seen as a collaboration between the composition, Caruso’s performance, the contributions of producers and engineers, and the recording technology, which, despite its shortcomings, treated Caruso’s voice in a beneficial way. Recently, the negative response to
Caruso 2000 -- a CD in which original accompaniments were removed from sixteen Caruso recordings, and overdubbed with a modern orchestra -- betrays a nostalgia for this sound of Caruso’s voice as captured in its original context. For instance, Allan Kozinn’s humorous New York Times writeup revealed a profound and even reactionary attachment to the original sound of the Caruso recordings:
If Caruso can be made to sing with a newly recorded orchestra, for example, why can't he sing with Elvis Presley, another RCA mega-seller whose catalog the label is forever raiding. [...] And why stop with Elvis? There are recordings by Luciano Pavarotti and Placido Domingo in the RCA catalog. With some electronic wizardry, their work and Caruso’s could be folded together as an alternative for those who think that Jose Carreras isn’t quite up to the level of the rest of the Three Tenors. [. . .] Even those concoctions would barely tax the abilities of a skilled producer and a good editing program. A more virtuosic notion might be to separate digitally every word Caruso sang and warehouse them all in a data bank. Since computer technology allows one to change a note’s pitch without affecting its tempo, or vice versa, to say nothing of bending pitches, elongating and truncating notes, or toying with volume and even intensity, it would be possible to shuffle the words and notes Caruso recorded into everything from complete opera roles to such potential gems as “Caruso Sings the Andrew Lloyd Webber Songbook in Italian.” [. . .] In fact, even the language barrier may fall, since it should be possible to separate and catalog each of the vowels, consonants and diphthongs Caruso sang, then reassemble them into any word in any language, sung in any combination of tones required. The time may come when a complete Wagner “Ring” cycle, with Caruso in all the roles, and “Yo Caruso! -- E.C. Gets Down With Puff Daddy” are released in the same month. [. . .] The alternative, of course, would be for RCA to let its great recordings speak for themselves, on their own terms, as they always have.
Of course, the collaborative elements of Caruso recordings are obvious on at least one level -- the fact that Caruso interpreted works composed by others. But even when the composer is also the performer -- as was the case with the many 78s recorded by jazz pianist Thomas “Fats” Waller (his tune “African Ripples” is a good example) -- collaboration also takes place through technology. Although one might assume that recording solo piano would be a relatively easy task, Mike Lipskin suggests otherwise in his liner notes to
Turn on the Heat, an anthology of Waller’s solo piano recordings:
Listeners should be aware that the method by which these selections were recorded is a far cry from today’s multitrack digital technology. Only one microphone was used, and an amplified signal drove a cutting head with a needle that made grooved impressions directly onto revolving wax platters. This was the only method used for most commercial recordings until 1947. No editing or electronic enhancement was possible, and since these masters were intended for release as 10-inch 78 RPM discs they had a maximum duration of not much more than three minutes. In addition, there was usually no studio playback because applying a playback needle to the grooves would ruin the wax impressions, making the master unusable for the manufacturing process. To solve that problem a second recording turntable would often be simultaneously employed for a safety and to permit playback, but this also produced a wax disc that was usable only one or two times before the soft impressions were scored. Accordingly, Fats was forced to record his performance perfectly, and keep the time down to about three minutes, while being unable to study what he had recorded.
Note that while Waller was certainly constrained by the brevity of the 78 format, he also used this limitation to his advantage, as did many other jazz musicians of the period. Eric Hobsbawm explains that
three minutes is a highly artificial time for jazz [. . .] A living creative jazz performance, as in a jam session, might -- without padding -- go on for fifteen or twenty. However, since for more than a quarter of a century permanent jazz performances had to be compressed into the three-minute limit, musicians were obliged to invent an extremely dense, formally strict, concise form. They did so with extraordinary success. The late Constant Lambert was quite right to claim that no orthodox composer could compete with Duke Ellington within this length. But we have only to listen to any good jazz record of the pre-LP age to see that others were quite as successful in producing marvels of unity and shape [...] (157)
(One could argue that the idea of the “three minute pop symphony” that became popular with producer Phil Spector in the 1950s and 60s had its roots in early recording technology and its time constraints.)
Given these restraints and Waller’s response to them, the threads of collaboration in “African Ripples” could be posited as follows (again, this is just one way of configuring it): Waller’s composition / performance is the initiating act and direct collaboration, and the limitations of the recording medium -- the compressed recording length in particular, which forces Waller to “produce a marvel of unity and shape” -- provide the contextual collaboration.
6 While it is possible to hear these collaborations in terms of “negative technology” -- i.e., as a result of some technological “problem” that inventors had not yet solved -- the real point is that technology is
always a source of musical collaboration, whether or not it is audible or obvious. Thus, even after the invention of microgroove records, full frequency range recording (also known as “ffrr”), and (less scratchy) vinyl compounds -- all of which helped to “silence” the technological residue in recordings -- contextual collaboration continued to leave its mark through technological innovation. This is because, as John Belton points out in his discussion of the technology of film sound,
the work of technology can never quite become invisible. Work, even work that seeks to efface itself, can never disappear. A fundamental law of physics tells us that energy, though it may change in form, can neither be created nor destroyed. Neither mass nor energy nor work is ever lost. Similarly, technology and the effects of technology -- by which I mean the aesthetics and stylistic practices that grow out of it -- remain visible, though to varying degrees, in every film. The work of sound technology, through its very efforts to remain inaudible, announces itself and, though concealed, becomes audible for those who choose to listen to it (324).
Thus, it is not that modern, cleaner recordings are any less technologically produced, or any less subject to contextual collaboration through technology, but merely that (for most listeners) they call less attention to themselves. In other words, the fact that both the Caruso and the Waller recordings mentioned earlier have been “remastered” for “better sound” does not mean that this contextual collaboration has suddenly “disappeared.”
Given all the “improvements” in recording technology, why listen to old recordings at all? The reason usually given is that the original recordings are “historical documents,” and that any imperfections in the media should be ignored for that reason. This may be why Lipskin apologizes for the poor quality of the Waller recordings (“[l]isteners should be aware that the method by which these selections were recorded is a far cry from today’s multitrack digital technology”), and why Ward Marston, the reissue producer for Naxos’s Caruso series, does the same thing (noting that for certain Caruso discs “the recording apparatus was defective, causing the speed to decrease as the disc was being recorded” (5)). The implication here is that if we were only able to take Waller’s and Caruso’s original performances and situate them in a
new context (say, a modern digital recording studio), the result would be a “better” recording of the
same work. But the collaborative theory of art suggests that even if such a thing were possible, the result would actually be a
new work altogether. Again, the “work” is not the composition and performance as perceived through different technological filters (i.e., different recording media) -- rather, the filters are part of the work.
The tendency to miss this integrated idea of the “work” is related to the traditional separation of performance and especially composition from sound. Theberge presents this “sound doesn’t matter” view as a hierarchy, with the score (i.e., the composition) as the “‘immortal’ and more valued artistic statement,” and the virtuosic display of the star performer as a secondary activity. He goes further: “In the more extreme forms of this discursive polarity, the actual physical sound of music, as produced by musical instruments, is considered to be little more than an unfortunate though necessary medium for the presentation of the ‘pure’ structure of the music manifest in the score” (189).
7 Recall in this sense Schoepenhauer’s argument that music is an ideal art form, “quite independent of the phenomenal world,” and indeed, as Theberge puts it, “separate from any possible manifestation in sound” (189). And this view is also related to Susan McLary’s point, referenced in chapter one, that “the tendency to deny the body [in this case, the physical sound of music as expressed through some form of technology] and to identify with pure mind [i.e., the abstract composition] underlies virtually every aspect of patriarchal Western culture,” including, of course, music (54).
The speciousness of the argument that “sound doesn’t matter” becomes apparent through a consideration of listening preferences. If modern listeners heard only “the ‘pure’ structure of the music manifest in the score,” separating that from sound itself, we might imagine that adapting to new sounds (as distinct from new genres or compositions) would never be an issue. The irrelevance of sound itself would mean that listeners would not develop media allegiances in one direction or another. But for most listeners this has hardly been the case.
For instance, the aforementioned Compton Mackenzie was only one of the more visible critics of electrical recording techniques when they first commercially appeared in 1925. Mackenzie wrote that the
sound of electrical recording suffered in comparison with that of its acoustic (or mechanical) predecessors: “The music itself is a jangle of shattered nerves, and even where there is any attempt to rid the music of the exasperation which sets us on edge the recording steps into the breach and sees that our nerves are not allowed any rest” (Gelatt 232). Many of Mackenzie’s readers expressed a similar disdain: “Mellowness and reality have given place to screaming [...] peculiar and unpleasant twang [...] the marvellous music is completely spoilt by the atrocious and squeaky tone [...] the din is ear-splitting, a continual humming roar pervading everything” (232). Remember that
The Gramophone was an audiophile publication, which means that these comments were not, like Sousa’s, motivated by a critique of mechanical reproduction
in general; rather, they derived from a championing of the acoustic recording
sound over that of electrical recording.
8 Ironically, once these listeners learned to appreciate the new sound of electrical recording, many of them became equally celebratory of
that, and equally disdainful of later technological developments. Thus the same Compton Mackenzie would, by the late forties, be arguing against the new sounds of the LP; for him, 78s provided a “superior listening experience” (Frith 25). He would justify this position by arguing that, as Frith puts it, “[t]he collector of 78 recordings had to be an ‘active’ listener, had to use her imagination to hear the sound that was buried in the 78’s bumps and crackles, had to keep jumping up to change the record, which could never be, then, background music” (Frith 25). But this idea that a listener had to hear “through” the noise of the 78 to get to the “real” work inside (in addition to being a restatement of the “sound doesn’t matter” argument) is on some level a rationalization for the fact that, in a certain context and for certain sets of ears, 78s sounded
good, and that the sonic realization they provided was a vital component of the compositions and performances they contained. In other words, the individuals who worked on 78 technology collaborated -- albeit in indirect ways -- with those who created the compositions and those who performed them to produce specific works that were enjoyable to a specific audience.
Interestingly, Theberge, who recognizes the importance of sound as a compositional element (without explicitly putting this importance in terms of technology as a source of contextual collaboration), suggests that sound matters only in the wake of recording media. As he puts it
the idea of a “sound” appears to be a particularly contemporary concept that could hardly have been maintained in an era that did not possess mechanical or electronic means of reproduction. Indeed, such a concept could not have been viable, for example, during the period of Tin Pan Alley popular music (roughly 1890 to 1930) when sheet music dominated the production and consumption of popular songs. Even when songs were “plugged” on the radio, they were seldom associated with particular artists to the same degree that they are today, and, in any event, once purchased in the form of sheet music, the ultimate act of consumption / reproduction lay, quite literally, in the hands of the consumer. (191)
This point about the emergence of a sound / artist identification is true enough, at least to the extent that mass fame is a relatively new concept. But the argument associating sound per se with developments in recorded music overlooks the fact that traditional instruments -- which functioned as dissemination technology in the days before “mechanical or electronic means of reproduction” -- also had distinctive sonic qualities, evidencing similar collaborative trajectories. So just as a 78 recording of an artist like Caruso represents, in one configuration, a collaboration between Caruso, the composer whose work he performed, and the inventors who worked on 78 technology; a “live” performance on an instrument represents the collaboration of performer, composer, and instrument maker.
The connection here becomes more apparent if we define sound as “timbre” -- the particular qualities or “colors” of musical noise, sometimes referred to as “tone.”
9 Though overlooked by the Schopenhaurian view of “ideal” composition, timbre has always been a significant practical issue for musicians, regardless of genre or historical period. Even during the baroque era, when the specific instrumentation of an arrangement would often be left open to the performers, specific instruments seemed best suited for certain parts. The keyboard, for instance -- whose delicate sound functioned well as a background “pad,” and which was capable of polyphonic playing -- was arguably the only instrument that could handle the continuo role. Further, Charles Rosen argues that the openness of baroque scores (and keyboard scores in particular) was not due to “indifference to instrumental sound on the part of the composers,” but rather to the “impossibility of control over the conditions of performance” (given that much music-making occurred in private contexts) (28).
By the Tin Pan Alley era, several centuries had already been devoted to instrumental combination techniques for larger works -- genres in which understanding of timbre, and effective ways of combining it, are crucial. For instance, in impressionist music “emotive and suggestive properties of chords are exploited in a manner which suggests the use by symbolist poets of word sounds for their own sake. So essential is sonority that register, doubling, spacing, and instrumental timbre are patiently selected and manipulated” (Steinke 197). But instrumental timbre also determines what can be selected and manipulated -- a composer only has access to specific “colors” because someone has invented an instrument that can produce them. For instance, although a composer might seem to randomly choose the peculiar tonal characteristics of the harmon mute (used with brass instruments), interchanging them freely with other orchestral sounds, the mute also “chooses” specific parts in a given composition. In William Russo’s description, the harmon “is light, dry, and metallic. It is more like the rustle of silver foil than the smack of a hammer on an anvil”; because the mute “slows down the speaking of the instrument,” Russo recommends against using it in quick, stacatto passages; in his view, it is best used for slower or legato lines “so that [the sound] can take shape” (59). He adds that “[w]hen harmonized, [muted] passages should be high enough so that the lowest voices can sound out” (59). According to this interpretation of the sound of the mute (an interpretation that admittedly will vary from listener to listener), three important parameters of composition -- note duration, tempo, and range -- are closely connected to the question of timbral choice. In this way the invention of the mute can be said to participate in the creation of the composition.
* * * * *Notes for this section
1. I am using the term “phonographic” here (and throughout this chapter) in its generic sense, referring to all early record players. “Phonograph” was also the specific trade name used by Thomas Edison, and when used in that sense it should be distinguished from the term “graphophone,” used to describe the machines produced by the Bell Tainter company (later Columbia), and “gramophone,” used by Emile Berliner and later Eldridge Johnson (Victor).
2. Though Kenney notes that the name “represented an elision of ‘Victor’s viola” (51).
3. For a fuller explication of the concept of frequencies in sound, see chapter three, pg 22.
4. Note that “acoustic” is being used here not in its general sense of “sonic,” but in reference to the first recording processes, in which sound waves were physically imprinted onto the recording medium, as opposed to being converted into electrical signal.
Although there are no hard and fast definitions for these terms, “engineering” usually refers to the act of sitting at a recording console and operating the machinery of recording, usually at the behest of the producer. “Producing,” on the other hand, refers to running a recording session at the “macro” level, with an ear toward the end result (in this sense, a producer is not unlike the director of a film).
5. An unfortunate phrase, given that photographs are hardly “passive.”
6. Both Waller and Caruso recordings involved the contextual collaboration of “scratchiness” as well. Again, the technological shortcoming is part of the work -- as the CD reissue packaging reveals by emphasizing the “vintage” quality of the recordings even though the scratchiness has now been almost entirely removed.
Incidentally, the “technological shortcomings” of early recordings have recently regained their appeal, and have consequently been made possible again through digital technology: in the late 90s, an article in Musician magazine described a computer plug-in that could “provide any computer-based recording with the grooves and grit of all your favorite 78, 45 and 33 1/3 records. Want to control how warped your recording sounds? Easy. Want to alter the quality of the turntable’s surface, or turntable rumble? Done. Want to dictate the stereo width or compression of your samples? Hah! Controls for dirt, hiss, static, wear, warp and scratches are all there. Sorry -- record sleeves not included” (Musician May 1998 p. 65)
7. Charles Rosen states this idea in more complex terms when he writes that “[t]he work of music is not the physical sound of a performance nor what is down on paper: the first is a mere realization, the latter only a notation. Nor is it the imagination of the composer -- his inner image, so to speak -- a conception not only inaccessible but indefinable as well. But neither can the work be conceived as the simple sum of all performances: it is more precisely the limit to which all performances tend” (Critical Entertainments, 10).
8. And this is by no means a purely historical phenomenon. Millard indicates that even today there are listeners who seem never to have adjusted to more modern forms of sound reproduction: “[d]evotees of acoustic recording can be found all over the world, playing their 2- and 4-minute records on well-oiled phonographs. Allen Koenigsberg’s Antique Phonograph Monthly has a subscription list of over 2,000” (8).
9. Note, incidentally, that playback equipment often has some sort of “tone knob” built into it—again, the importance of broad definitions of technical and musical terminology.
[photo credits: photogestion, infrogmation]
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