19 Rethinking Community Music As Artistic Citizenship

The Oxford Handbook of Community Music
Brydie-Leigh Bartleet (ed.), Lee Higgins (ed.)
https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780190219505.001.0001
Published: 2018 Online ISBN: 9780190219529 Print ISBN: 9780190219505
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CHAPTER
19 Rethinking Community Music as Artistic Citizenship 

Marissa Silverman, David Elliott
https://doi.org/10.1093/oxfordhb/9780190219505.013.31 Pages 365–384

Published: 05 February 2018
Abstract
This chapter raises questions about the intersections between community music and citizenship and
poses the fundamental question: ‘Artistic citizenship for what?’ Our chapter proceeds as follows. First,
in addition to providing a concept of community music as/for artistic citizenship, we seek to relate
central themes of community music to ‘living sites’ of artistic citizenship. Second, because our
approach is dominantly philosophical, we probe the concepts of artistry and citizenship separately and
in combination. In doing so, we hope to provide community musicians/facilitators with a theoretical
framework for thinking about and acting in relation to the ethical natures, potentials, and pragmatic
realities of artistic citizenship for human ourishing through music and the other arts.
Keywords: community music, artistic citizenship, praxis, ethics, well-being, human flourishing
Subject: Ethnomusicology, Music
Series: Oxford Handbooks
Collection: Oxford Handbooks Online
THIS chapter has three main aims. First, in addition to providing a concept of ‘community music as artistic
citizenship’, we will describe and explain how the goals and processes of several community music
programmes act (or have acted) as sites of artistic citizenship. Second, and because our perspective is
dominantly philosophical, we will address the terms ‘artistic’ and ‘citizenship’ separately, as well as jointly.
In doing so, we hope to provide community musicians/facilitators with a conceptual framework that may be
useful as they continuously re ect on the natures, potentials, and pragmatic realities of community music
and its relation to ‘a life well lived’ (eudaimonia) (Elliott & Silverman, 2014, 2015). Third, it is necessary to
provide answers to several speci c questions that follow from our rst two aims. What is artistic
citizenship? What social, cultural, racial, educational, political, democratic, gendered, and ethical human
values or ‘goods’ can artistic citizenship and musical-civic engagements facilitate and create for people in
urban, suburban, and rural regions worldwide? What responsibilities do music-makers—including, of
course, music educators and community music facilitators—have to examine and actualize the potentials of
and relationships between the arts and citizenship? Are there examples of artistic citizenship-in-action—
including those we discuss in this chapter—that confront issues of (for example) racism, genocide, disease,
and ethnocentricism? (Elliott, Silverman, & Bowman, 2016).
Very brie y, and for now, artistic citizenship is inclusive of, for us, all forms of music-making and all types
of formal and informal musical interactions, including amateur and professional music-making, at all
levels in schools and communities of all kinds (Elliott, 2012). So when we use the term ‘artistic’ we are not
using this term to exclude non-professional music-making; at the same time, we are not ignoring the fact

that many professional musical artists already make music to achieve some goals of artistic citizenship.
p. 366 Moreover, we are not excluding the possibility that many professional musicians may become committed
to artistic citizenship in the sense of ‘putting their music-making to work’ for a variety of positive social
purposes that go far beyond their concert-centred contractual obligations. Indeed, we know many
professional musicians in our home city of New York who are deeply involved in community music in the
best sense of this concept and praxis.
Summing up this brief introduction, we conceive artistic citizenship as inclusive of (but not limited to) the
many musical abilities, understandings, and dispositions that people develop—non-formally, informally,
and formally—to act with a deep awareness of the powers that music has to move, bond, heal, empower,
and motivate people to act with an ethical commitment to communal well-being (Elliott & Silverman, 2014,
2015; Elliott et al., 2016; Held, 2006; Noddings, 1984, 2010).
Community music? Reviewing and rethinking some basics
What is community music? This question has been asked and answered at hundreds of local, regional, and
international conferences on community music (e.g., the ISME-Community Music Activity Commission—
https://www.isme.org/our-work/commissions-forum/community-music-activity-commission-cma). So
why keep revisiting and rethinking the natures and values of community music? Because community music
is exceptionally complex, uid, and contingent, susceptible to a wide range of uncontrollable local, regional,
national, and international circumstances. Indeed, a distinctive feature of community music is the eld’s
continuous state of expansion as new aims, forms, and applications of community music emerge, including
this chapter’s suggestion that community music can and should include the wide range of aims and
processes that artistic-musical citizenship includes, and the wide range of aims and processes that are
happening today in artistic-theatre citizenship, artistic-dance citizenship, and all other art forms (see
Elliott et al., 2016). Thus, it is necessary to keep ‘taking the pulse’ of what community music is and what it is
becoming in various locations, and in the publications of contemporary scholars.
Indeed, community music facilitators and participants experience a ceaseless stream of variations in their
personal, social, racial, political, gendered, cultural, and musical identities and priorities that are always
linked to ‘others’ in their social-cultural worlds. Thus, people intentionally or unknowingly infuse
community music-making with many aspects of their multifaceted experiences. Accordingly, we suggest
that it is also wise to continuously review and debate what community music should be with special
attention to its nature as an ethical praxis (Elliott & Silverman, 2015).
All things considered then, community music is marvelously adaptable, permeable, plastic, pliable, and
absorbent. Community music requires continuous rethinking and adjustments because it is a protean social
p. 367 praxis (Elliott & Silverman, 2015). Community music is protean because it has the enormous capacity to
soak up, interact with, enfold, mold, modify, recon gure, re-present, communicate, and heighten the
e ects of an unlimited range of personal-social-musical values, musical and educational experiences and
‘facilitations’, and various artistic and communicative means (e.g., social media, new musical and
educational technologies, and other art forms), and can do its ‘good work,’ meaning work that is excellent,
ethical, and socially engaged (Gardner, 2010).
Put another way, community music has the power to ‘act’ for the betterment of people’s individual and
collective lives and communities. For just as music has no single form or value, community music practices
and sites take no single form or overriding aim or purpose. Thus, the multilayered and ever-changing
natures and values of global community music programmes have broad and deep potentials to positively
impact many dimensions of human societies. Which brings us back to our earlier suggestion that
community music may bene t by considering and applying concepts and practices from the ancient and

contemporary domain of artistic citizenship—as we will discuss them in this chapter, and as we have
explained in depth elsewhere (Elliott et al., 2016).
So whereas some writers might assume that community music is, for example, any type of ‘informal’ music
teaching and learning that occurs outside school walls, and/or partnerships between various types of school
music instruction and professional or amateur music groups in community settings (e.g., the ‘Little Kids
Rock’ programme in New York City and elsewhere in the United States), we view these e orts as just a few of
numerous possibilities. Indeed, many community music scholars and practitioners do, in fact, go more
deeply, by proposing that community music has an extraordinary range of actual and possible meanings
and forms, depending on a range of variables including:
(a) the people involved (e.g., ‘community music workers’ and/or musicians, clients, or students);
(b) the communities and institutions involved; (c) the aims, purposes, or needs that a Community
Music program intends to achieve; (d) the relationships between a given Community Music
program and its geographical, social, economic, religious, cultural, and/or historic circumstances;
and (e) the nancial support a Community Music program receives, or not. (Elliott, Higgins, &
Veblen, 2008, pp. 3–4)
In this view, community music programmes are situated in, and (very often) responsive to, a wide range of
local needs and values. Wayne Bowman (2009) echoes this view when he says that community music
‘schools’, projects, and facilities are often ‘ uid, porous, negotiated a airs … They are what they are by
virtue of people’s identi cation with others (‘we’) whose values, interests and actions are presumed similar
enough to our own to sustain an ongoing sense of belonging’ (p. 110).
Three examples epitomize some of the characteristics just listed. First, the ‘Happy Wanderers’, a small choir
of senior citizens in Victoria, Australia, performs primarily for residents in managed care facilities
(Southcott, 2009). This choir, which maintains a very busy performance schedule, is motivated by a
collective desire to enhance the well-being of its members, their families and friends, and their local
p. 368 community. The programme ‘Bambini al Centro’ (Children in the Centre in Rome, Italy) is a recreational
space that provides group-music activities for children from birth to 12 months of age, and their families.
These activities include, but are not limited to, early childhood music, music ensembles with Or
instruments, voice and percussion ensembles, and musical theatre productions (Iadeluca & Sangiorgio,
2008). The ‘East Hill Singers’, located in Lansing, Kansas (United States), includes prison inmates,
volunteer singers from the Kansas City Lyric Opera Chorus, and the Rainbow Mennonite Church choir
(Cohen, 2008).
We should also mention another kind of community music—something we might call ‘culturally
appropriated’ community music. A still- ourishing example of what we mean is West African drumming. In
Ghana, this musical praxis revolves around, and is anchored in, a complex web of local communities that
share a speci c set of musical and social actions, knowings, and values, and celebrate their own heroes (e.g.,
master drummers, past and present) and rituals. In practice, communal-participatory drummers receive
calls-for-action from the master drummers, dancers (who sometimes receive calls-for-action from the
master drummers or give them to the drummers), singers (whether drummers, dancers or beyond), and
others. All of these interdependent and intersubjective variables are fused with an ethic of care for one’s self
and the larger community, for the spiritual needs of those who receive and participate in the musicing, and
for community preservation, among other things (Silverman, forthcoming). People engaged in Ghanaian
drumming care about, and care for, their musicing, and their musicing is intimately fused with the peoples
for whom this musicing matters. But there is more. This musicing, this tapestry of sound and soul, is also
intimately interwoven with the Ghanaian spirits of nature, the world itself, and those who are deceased.
From our perspective, all of these ‘musicers’ (including dancers) are ‘artistic’ because they care about, and
care for, the ways in which their musicing matters to others and themselves.

In addition to what we have already said, what do these community music situations have in common? Most
obviously, as Constantin Koopman (2007) points out, they incorporate ‘collaborative music-making,
community development and personal growth’ (p. 153). In addition, Lee Higgins (2006) argues that
community music, properly conceived and practiced, provides fellowship, hospitality, and a ‘welcoming’
environment for ‘the other’. He argues that community music emphasizes empowerment, and a ords
access for all people towards enhanced citizenship.
Many community music programmes emphasize relationships and values even more than collaborative
musicing, or participatory music-making. They view music as diverse social practices for social ‘goods’
(Bowman, 2009; Elliott & Silverman, 2015; Regelski, 2007) such as communal bonding, health and well-
being, fellowship, social capital, joy, happiness, and so forth. They aim to infuse community music with an
‘ethic of care’—care for individuals and their communities, which includes the political and economic
health of social communities (Held, 2006; Noddings, 1984; Watson, 2013).
But is it possible to argue that the natures and values of community music programmes can go—should go—
p. 369 further? We suggest that concepts and practices of community music and community music facilitation
should consider and engage in—when and where appropriate—responsible social activism. As Arthur
Zajonc (2006) says: ‘Do not the issues of [for example] social justice, the environment, and peace education
all demand greater attention and a more central place’ in our considerations for building a life well lived for
ourselves, those we care about, and others we don’t necessarily know (p. 1)?
Which brings us to this. Notwithstanding the profound ‘internal goods’ and values of learning,
experiencing, and producing music for a wide range of ‘musical satisfactions’; let us be provocative for a
moment and ask, ‘So what’? (Elliott, 2012). In the vast sweep of global events, are traditional concepts and
practices of community music doing enough? Against the backdrop of today’s serious social problems, some
forms of community music (and many traditional school music programmes) are limited to one degree or
another because—while they may focus on participatory music-making, fellowship, and social welcoming,
all of which are exceptionally valuable in their local circumstances—they tend to ‘sit above the everyday
world’, out of touch with larger, serious social realities, as documented by several scholars (e.g., Bush &
Krikun, 2013; Co man & Barbosa, 2013).
In consideration of the preceding, let us take these points further. Higgins (2012) argues that community
music programmes should include ‘welcoming’ in the sense of an ethical exchange between the facilitator
and participant. We agree. This is exceedingly important; it is a necessary characteristic of any true
‘community’ music programme and any ethically based/run community music programme.
However, does the communal fellowship that occurs in many (but not all) community music programmes
go far enough? How can/do the ideal and essential concepts of one-to-one ‘welcomings’ and ‘sharings’ that
occur in bounded community music programmes extend to larger community music programmes located in
the contexts of (say) a large number of people trapped in a regional war, or a widespread epidemic? Phrased
as a question; why and how should community music programmes make ethical and pragmatic di erences to
many ‘others’? Asked in yet another way; do the ethical responsibilities of community musicians include
organizing and carrying out some community music programmes as artistic citizenship programmes? Can
community music go further by ‘putting musicing to work’ for transformative sociopolitical change—
change that seeks to resist, ameliorate, and reverse a range of social ills, including appalling human
oppression?
We ask because, in our view, and in the view of eminent care ethicists (e.g., Held, 2006; Noddings, 2010;
Shore, 2007), an ‘ethic of care’ should not be limited to one-on-one pairings, small groups, or local
circumstances alone. Part of moving beyond ‘the self’, beyond the one-to-one relationship that is common

with local community music programmes, is a purposeful ‘seeking out’ of much larger community needs.
Therefore, what is ‘good-for’ multiple ‘others’? What does it take to understand and serve the larger needs
of those we don’t necessarily engage with on a local or daily basis? Part of the answer rests in the nature of
self-other responsibility that is, or should be, at the heart of artistic citizenship.
p. 370 Summing up this section, in the vast spectrum of world problems—racism, violence, poverty, starvation,
disease, environmental disasters, human slavery, capital punishment, struggles for gender equality—how
are community music programmes ‘helping’ communities? Enter community music as/for artistic citizenship.
Artistic citizenship
What does artistic citizenship mean and involve? At rst glance, ‘artistic citizenship’ may seem like an
oxymoron (Elliott, 2012). This misunderstanding can happen when people use the word ‘artistic’ in
romantic and sanitized senses—in the sense of the independent, inner-directed, other-worldly, male
musical genius (Elliott, 2012; Elliott & Silverman, 2015). Alternatively, people sometimes think that ‘artistic’
refers to the eighteenth century notion of ‘art for art’s sake’, and that all music should conform to this
notion. And sometimes people assume that ‘artistic’ applies always, and only, to Western classical
professional musicians. Taken in these ways, ‘artistic’ has little to do with real-world issues such as
citizenship. But as we have already argued, and as we explain in detail elsewhere (Elliott et al., 2016; Elliott
& Silverman, 2015), our concept of artistic citizenship is shared, practiced, and/or examined widely by
colleagues in many elds including theatre (e.g., Wiles, 2011, 2016), visual art (Willis, 2006), dance
(Lerman, 2016; Diverlus, 2016), spoken poetry (Tran Myhre, 2016), music (e.g., Turino, 2016), and more.
Now, what do we mean by ‘citizenship’? Generally speaking, there is a tendency in some—but not all—
contemporary Western nations to link ‘citizen’ and citizenship with ‘the individual’. This is especially true
in some societies—especially in many regions of the United States where neoliberalism reigns supreme—
where the prevailing assumption is that individuals are endowed with free will that equips them to make
democratic choices; ‘seen through this contemporary lens, citizenship is a function of “me”, not “us” ’
(Wiles, 2016).
Notably, however, Aristotle held the opposite view: ‘It is clear then that the state is of its nature prior to the
individual’ (cited in Wiles, 2016, p. 22). Aristotle’s contemporaries would have agreed, says Wiles (2016),
because the Greeks believed that ‘no human being can grow up or survive without social interaction’ (p. 22).
From this perspective, there is no distinction between selfhood and citizenship, because ‘it is in the nature
of developed human beings to gather themselves in communities’ (Wiles, 2016, p. 22). Herein lies the root
meaning of politics, from the Greek politikos, meaning ‘someone who acts as a citizen, a fully functioning
member of a Greek polis or city-state within a participatory democratic system’ (Wiles, 2016, p. 23).
Especially noteworthy is Plato’s belief that ‘creating a harmonious society is a matter of rhythm, and in
order to build a society more stable than democratic Athens he proposed to establish dance rhythms to
which the bodies of citizens would become habituated’ (Wiles, 2016, p. 24). Thus, said Plato, the skills of a
politician are identical with those of musicians, dancers, and choreographers. In short, the arts were at the
centre of Greek concepts of citizenship.
p. 371 Aristotle’s concept of citizenship recognizes that every society needs to draw people from diverse
backgrounds, opinions, and interests towards common purposes. If ‘we, the people’ is an encompassing
civic designation, then (say) ‘I am a Canadian citizen’ parses the social collective into individuals acting
purposely with a commitment to the constituted nation. This does not mean that all citizens agree on
‘Canadian’ values or on what constitutes the public good. Citizens must agree on only two things: that a
nation or community is worth preserving, and that preserving it requires participating in its governance.

This is the rst and most basic meaning of ‘we-citizenship’ (Elliott, 2012).
But there is more. If one accepts the concept of ‘we-citizenship’, then citizenship is a multidimensional
phenomenon. ‘It’ includes personal, social, racial, gendered, cultural, historical, temporal, spatial, ethical,
and emotional dynamics that ebb and ow as a person’s and nation’s circumstances change. Thus,
citizenship is an ambiguous process, and citizens and citizenship are unstable sites of personhood that
embody and mutually interact to form multiple citizenships—local, regional, institutional, national,
international, and professional. Moreover, ‘citizenship’ is infused with images, symbols, nostalgic
longings, shared memories, comforting myths, heroes and heroines, and stock characters—for example,
the patriot, the warrior, the hard-working immigrant, the dangerous alien, the nomad, the global citizen,
and so on (Elliott, 2012).
What ‘citizenships’ do people hold and practice? In addition to (say) a person’s American or Brazilian
citizenship (or whatever), one is also a citizen of his or her local communities, including (for instance) her
school or university faculties, as well as the multidimensional domains of local, regional, and national
music educators and community music facilitators. In each case, and if he or she acts as the proverbial ‘good
citizen’, she automatically inherits responsibilities that she may or may not choose to ful ll.
ʻBad Citizensʼ
The broader concept of citizenship we have just outlined is not only more realistic; it opens a range of
possibilities, including the possibility that a person could deliberately choose to engage in acts of ‘bad
citizenship’ (e.g., social criticism and positive social activism) in order to improve and transform the
conditions of a polity (Elliott, 2012). For example, Socrates was renowned for, and highly e ective and
persistent in, applying his intellectual powers towards resisting and speaking out against the careless, self-
interested, and socially injurious decisions of Greek rulers’ undemocratic and immoral decisions. In the end,
his fearless critical thinking and social criticism led to his death. In this sense, Socrates is the ultimate
example of a ‘bad citizen’. George Carlin (1992), an American comedian and social critic, quipped
perceptively: ‘I do this real moron thing, and it’s called thinking. And apparently I’m not a very good
American because I like to form my own opinions’. As the root of ‘citizen’ predicts, bad citizens can incite
and excite high degrees of energy and passion for change.
p. 372 In the domain of literary ction, countless novelists have expressed revolutionary ideas that fueled major
social movements, and caused subsequent changes in racist, sexist, and economically oppressive laws. For
example, Harriet Beecher Stowe’s (1852) Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Upton Sinclair’s (1906) The Jungle furthered
the anti-slavery movement in the United States. Nineteen Eighty-Four is George Orwell’s vision—
predictions—about many things that have actually come true, in whole and in part, in many nations today;
a totalitarian society that exerts absolute control over everyone’s thoughts and actions by means of
propaganda, secrecy, disinformation, and universal surveillance (Orwell, 1961).
In the domain of contemporary classical music, the composer and conductor Ivan Fischer quali es as a
‘bad’ musical citizen in terms of the criteria we have just outlined—that is, he is a musical-social critic who
has taken deliberate musical-social action to disrupt and ght oppression against present-day anti-
Semitism in Budapest, Hungary. His opera, The Red Heifer (Fischer, 2013), is based ‘on a blood libel from
1882 that divided the country much as the Dreyfus a air later did in France. His ambitious composition uses
both a full orchestra and a Gypsy band, with references to music from Klezmer to rap to Mozart’ (Donadio,
2013, p. 74). In this opera, Fischer argues musically that ‘culture has a strong responsibility to nd the
essence, the real concealed truth which lies behind the day to day’ (cited in Donadio, 2013, p. 75). At a time
when strong elements of a right-wing, authoritarian Hungarian government maintain extreme and

unthinkable nationalistic, anti-Semitic, anti-immigrant, and anti-homosexual prejudices, Fischer has
dared to be an outspoken and e ective artistic citizen.
Musical expressions of artistic citizenship are very frequent in folk, rock, punk, and hip-hop examples such
as The Thermals (2006; ‘Power Doesn’t Run on Nothing’), Nas (2001; ‘Rule’), Le Tigre (2004; ‘New Kicks’),
Elvis Costello (1983; ‘Shipbuilding’) and 2Pac (1991; ‘Brenda’s Got a Baby’). Native Deen, an Islamic hip-
hop group, puts their music to work to urge Muslim youth to ignore religious extremism and to contribute
(for example) to the alleviation of child poverty, disease, and hunger.
These thoughts lead to a second concept of citizenship, which we will introduce with several questions. Is
there a speci c kind of citizenship that applies to community music practitioners and music educators? Or
do our ‘mysterious musical talents’ and the so-called intrinsic values of music exempt us from the
responsibilities that accompany ethical citizenship and the social-political-ethical potentials of community
music? Can one be perfectly law-abiding with regard to our nations and communities and also be musical-
social critics, activists, and lawbreakers for positive community transformation? Is it possible to be a bad
citizen in the community music research domain of ‘community music’? We will leave it to the reader to
re ect on the pros, cons, and possibilities of doing so.
With this background in place, we argue that community music facilitators are not only well quali ed and
‘well placed’ to become more socially ‘radical’, but that they have an ethical responsibility to consider going
beyond traditional and local concepts of community musicing by becoming ‘bad citizens’ of local, regional,
and national communities. If this seems utopian, consider the words of the eminent educator, author, and
p. 373 social activist Jean Anyon (2014): ‘The utopian thinking of yesteryear becomes the common sense of
today’ (p. 6). Utopian dreams of freedom were in the minds, hearts, actions, and music of enslaved Black
people in the early 1800s. Sixty years later, ‘slavery was abolished and Black freedom was inscribed in the
U.S. Constitution. Far from being useless, visionary thinking is a necessary prelude to the improvement of
people’s lives’ (Anyon, 2014, p. 6). What needs emphasis, however, is that raising people’s consciousness
about bad laws, corruption, oppression, and other societal ills through ‘talk-talk-talk’ is not enough:
physical, musical, and emotional particip-action is required. As Anyon (1997) says, ‘intellectualizing’ does
not, by itself, move people to take meaningful action for social change, social justice, or peace. As McAdam,
Tarrow, and Tilly (2001) state, ‘people’s personal identities transform as they become socially active, and
actions for social justice create new categories of participants and political action groups: identities modify
in the course of social interaction’ (p. 126). We suggest that community musicians and facilitators should
consider moving people—musically and emotionally—towards action for social change, social justice,
peace and reconciliation, and resistance to oppressions of any kind.
Implicit in the preceding is the observation and the reality—as illustrated by people actively engaged in the
American civil rights movement in the middle of the twentieth century—that people can and do develop
social-political identities and commitments from walking, marching, singing, attempting to vote, sitting
in, and otherwise demonstrating with and for others. Let us add another important point; history shows
that young people are often at the heart of many successful social movements. Consider that the e ective
protestors in the early stages (in the 1940s) of the civil rights movement were graduate students in their
20s; thousands of protesters and ghters in the Middle East today are young people, who combine many
forms of culture and media in ghting oppression, including music, visual arts, dance, networking media,
and so on.
Community music as/for artistic citizenship: Three examples
We suggest that three separate projects embody community music as/for artistic citizenship because they
are more far-reaching and, therefore, act as instances of musical ‘artivism’ (Asante, 2008). True, and due to

a variety of understandable constraints, such artistic citizen-activism (i.e., ‘bad’ citizenship) is not possible
for many community music programmes and facilitators. But we invite the reader to contemplate whether
these are ethically signi cant enough that they should be considered for inclusion in past and present
concepts and practices of community music—as models of praxis that the community music profession
should view as beacons for what community music can and should aspire to be and/or become. These three
examples are situated in diverse locations across the world: (1) Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, (2) New
York, and (3) Uganda.
p. 374 Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina

The rst example starts with the story of one lone cellist in Sarajevo, but it does not end there. Vedran
Smailović, otherwise now known as the ‘Cellist of Sarajevo,’ is from the former Yugoslavia. He was a cellist
in the Sarajevo String Quartet, and performed in the Sarajevo Opera, the Sarajevo Philharmonic Orchestra,
and other professional ensembles in Sarajevo. The day of 27 May 1992 changed Smailović’s life forever. As
Smailović (2010) explains in his words:
There was queue for bread. And it was small bakery in my neighborhood. A huge queue. And instead
of bread, huge explosion, 22 people instantly dead, over a hundred wounded. I mean, everybody
was on shock, including myself. And helping to your wounded friends, to your neighbors, I know
each of them, we know each other, and it’s very hard to walk on a street, carry somebody, because
the blood and it’s very slippery, you know.
So next morning, I just take my cello, take tuxedo, walk out, have no clue why I take cello, why I
take tuxedo, and nd myself on that place where was grenade, where grenade explode, take chair
from neighboring restaurant, sit, start to play.
When I start to play I don’t know what am I going to play. After a few tones I realize it is Albanoni
Adagio.
I nish, I play, I cry. And everybody ask me when are you coming tomorrow to play? I say, no, I
don’t plan, I don’t think. No, no, you have tomorrow and you—and one painter, I remember just he
was painter say, oh tomorrow, you tell me when coming. Tomorrow, I will bring my wife. She have
to hear this. And everybody forcing me, you have to do that. And that’s when I decide, okay, I’ll do
that for 22 days, decided each day to each of my neighbor who was killed there instantly. It is war,
but life don’t stop, because kids still growing, mothers still delivering babies, so music was very
important, and we play, we create everywhere music. You have to. That’s what keep life that we
don’t die.
For Nigel Osborne, an eminent Scottish composer and professor of music at the University of Edinburgh,
Smailović’s act of courage, sel essness, civil disobedience, and artistic citizenship was ‘awe-inspiring’
(Nigel Osborne, personal communication, 14 November 2014). Osborne (1994b) states that Smailović’s
music-making ‘marked the start of the civil resistance movement. The image of Smailović playing among
the ruins, and in the graveyards under sniper re, became an icon for a city that chose to see itself as
digni ed, cultured, and European’.
Years earlier, in the 1960s, when Osborne was studying composition in Warsaw, Poland, he recalls being
taken to a clearing in the countryside. He learned on that trip that he was standing on a eld that once was a
concentration camp, ‘Only ve or six hundred people had perished, not enough to warrant a monument. I
know it sounds mawkish, but I made a vow that if this kind of thing happened in my own lifetime, I wasn’t
going to sit around and watch it’ (Osborne, cited in O’Mahony, 2002). He kept that vow in Bosnia and

Herzegovina.
p. 375 It seems to me that something very strong has come from my colleagues in Bosnia. While the world
stood by and watched a holocaust on television, and while Western art oundered in a colossal
imaginative recession, the artists of Sarajevo were on the frontline of European civilization,
creating a new inclusive art, re ned in hell- re, tough enough to deal with anything and
absolutely necessary.
Angered and hurt by the former dictator Slobodan Milošević’s genocidal practices, Osborne dangerously
travelled—by way of an underground sewer—to Sarajevo while the city was under siege. Along with friends
and colleagues and, later, some of his graduate students, Osborne established creative community music
workshops—songwriting, poetry-writing, small musical experiences, and performances—in cellars and
other ‘safe places’ to o er what was, in some ways, the start of music therapy in Bosnia and Herzegovina. As
David Wilson (2000) explains, ‘Children were brought together in shelters and cellars, in bombed ruins and,
when safe, in open spaces to make and to listen to music, to sing, to beat drums, to strum guitars, to act and
to react together through music’ (p. 325).
Soon thereafter, and prior to any of the recently emerged scholarship on the positive e ects of music in
war-stricken communities (e.g., Fauser, 2013; Koen, 2008; Sutton, 2002), Osborne, David Wilson
( lmmaker), Bill Leeson ( lmmaker), and Willemijn Verloop (social entrepreneur) founded War Child: a
non-governmental organization established in 1993 that provides children with diversionary needs and
therapeutic means for making it through war-torn spaces. As Leeson states (cited in Vulliamy, 2010), ‘I
don’t know why. I used to come back and try to talk about concentration camps and mass rape and women
and kids getting shelled an hour away by plane, and no one gave a monkey’s. It drove me nuts. But while
there in Sarajevo, among the rst things I noticed was that whenever the electricity came on, you heard
music, everywhere’.
Osborne explains that in Sarajevo during the 1990s, ‘there was random shelling, sniping at every street
corner, virtually, and in order to get water you had to go to an artesian well. You had to risk your life even to
get water’ (cited in Vulliamy, 2010). Under such conditions, what could community musicing do? Osborne
explains, ‘When children are making music, they are distracted from their social discomfort and they are
also engaged in an activity that is, by its nature, socially binding’ (cited in Bule, 2013). Indeed, and because
traumatized children tend to lose their sense of self-esteem and trust in themselves and others, helping
them to reclaim their own identities and communal sense of well-being through musicing can enable them
to rebuild some of the trust that they have lost. As Osborne says, ‘If somebody comes to sing to you, or with
you, they are unlikely to mean you harm—every human knows that. So just singing with someone is an
engine of trust and helps to build it, and then empathy comes behind that’ (cited in Bule, 2013). In addition
to the programme War Child, Osborne helped to build the Pavarotti Music Centre in Mostar. This centre
provides music therapy for children of war zones.
However, Osborne’s artistic citizenship did not stop here. In 1995, he founded the Balkan Summer Music
Camp. Children from Bosnia and Herzegovina are able to spend a week’s vacation on the Adriatic in Croatia
p. 376 for musicing. Most of the children who attend the camp also receive music therapy from the Pavarotti
Centre. This camp continues to function, as does the Pavarotti Centre, and the larger programme, War Child.
Nigel Osborne continues to work with all these organizations. Beyond the Balkan region, Osborne has been
involved as an artistic citizen in East Africa (where he has been working with children-soldiers), South
America (with children who have escaped drug cartels), and on the Jordanian border (aiding Syrian
refugees). Additionally, although the circumstances were very dangerous, he succeeded in bringing
musicing activities to child-victims of wars in Kosovo, Chechnya, Israel, and Palestine.
Yet Osborne’s artistic citizenship did not stop here. As a composer and musical organizer, Osborne’s

foundation for musical creativity is an ongoing e ort in artistic citizenship. He established the Mostar
Sinfonietta, the rst organization in the city to draw members from among Bosniaks, Croats, and Serbs. In
1987, he was commissioned by the Glyndebourne Festival Opera to create The Electri cation of the Soviet
Union (Osborne, 1987)—a setting of Pasternak’s novel The Last Summer (Pasternak, 1960). His composition
received enthusiastic reviews.
Based upon his experiences in the former Yugoslavia, Osborne also created the opera trilogy Sarajevo
(Osborne, 1994a). In response to Sarajevo, Osborne was invited in 1995 to create the rst opera about the war
in Sarajevo: Evropa, with a libretto by Goran Simić. And his opera Di erences in Demolition (Osborne, 2010)
was the rst work performed at the site of the 1995 massacre in Srebrenica. In this opera, and for its UK
premiere in July 2007, artists from many religions and races were employed. The instrumentalists and
singers were from Croatia, Bosnia, the Netherlands, Germany, and the United Kingdom, while the
production team heralded from Canada, the United States, Scotland, Spain, and England. More recently, his
opera Naciketa (Osborne, 2013) was premiered in Mumbai in 2013.
New York
In New York City, the Hip Hop Project—a community music project that focuses on New York City youth and
hip-hop composition and recording—is related to a broader initiative called Art Start. This programme
began when a group of New York artists decided to reach out to homeless and ‘at-risk’ youth in the city by
teaching them to use creative outlets to work through problematic issues. Art Start welcomes these youth
into an artistic community and, thereby, gives them an opportunity to make their voices heard. Through
this process, members of the programme have a chance to heal themselves and their own communities.
Unfortunately, according to Scott Rosenberg, the founder of Art Start, the programme only reaches a limited
number of youth. Indeed, tens of thousands of children live in New York City’s homeless shelters on any
given night (Bernstein, 2001). Rosenberg points out that because these youth ‘have had to survive and not
crumble’, they have ‘developed so much strength and, as a result, they have a lot to o er’ (Connect America,
p. 377 1997). Since its inception, Art Start has introduced 1,700 children to more than 200 artists and educators
through Arts in Shelters, and a second programme, Media Works, which is aimed at teens in ‘last-chance
schools’. As Rosenberg states:
As exhilarating as it is to work with the kids and see them blossom, it’s also very draining and
tough—to me, that’s where the artists are heroic. No one in Art Start has gotten a penny for what
they do, and it’s rare we have money to reimburse anyone for resources. (Connect America, 1997)
Still, the directors of Art Start are hopeful that they will eventually build a fully functioning centre with
music, art, and media studios, as well as performance and gallery spaces. In addition, they envision a
student-run store where the proceeds will go towards Scholarship Enterprise Funds.
Chris ‘Kazi’ Rolle founded the Hip Hop Project. Born in Nassau, Bahamas, Rolle was abandoned by his
mother as a young child. When he was 14 (after living in foster care and orphanages), Rolle decided to come
to New York City to reconnect with his biological mother. Sadly, the reunion failed and Rolle became
homeless in Brooklyn. At 18, and after years living on the streets, Rolle found the courage to work towards
putting his life back in order (Talcott, 2007). He enrolled in the Public School Repertory Company, a ‘last
chance’ performing arts high school, where he discovered his passion for music and theater. While there,
Rolle joined Art Start. After experiencing the ‘healing power of the arts’, he created the Hip Hop Project, a
community music programme that ‘connects underserved New York City teens to music industry
professionals, who help them write, produce, and market their own compilation albums on youth issues’

(Rolle, 2007, p. 4).
Due to Rolle’s e orts, musical skills, praxial-ethical mindset, and empathetic personality, teens involved in
the Hip Hop Project began to create hip-hop pieces that expressed their deeply personal narratives. Rolle
enabled and empowered the young people to rap about issues they felt uncomfortable discussing and
express their feelings creatively, in order to work through their pain. As Rolle (2007) stated in an interview
with Kam Williams (2007):
For folks living in tough situations, like foster care, or the homeless, I’d say to them, ‘Try to
surround yourself with people who care. There are people out there. Sometimes, it won’t be blood
relatives, but you’ve got to surround yourself with people who tell you that you can be somebody,
and that, whatever you need, they will support you’. And for folks who want to break into the music
industry, I’d say, ‘Just be honest in your music. Write music that comes from your heart … that
represents you. Don’t let the radio dictate to you who you should be. Use the Internet as a way to
nd your fan base. Use places like MySpace and Facebook to promote your stu right there online.
That’s the future of music’. (p. 4)
Through their increasing musical-narrative abilities, the teens became more and more adept at expressing
their pain, biases, and negative assumptions about others. So, they navigated and abandoned the
p. 378 misogynistic, racist, and violent attitudes that commercial rap and hip-hop artists often espouse, and
began creating musical-narrative expressions of the serious personal and community issues they were
dealing with on a daily basis in their own lives, such as abortion, violence, drugs, death, and absent fathers.
Uganda
The third example of community music as/for artistic citizenship is from Uganda. Gregory Barz (2006)
writes:
Today in Uganda, only 10 percent of the population has access to medical facilities; there is only
one doctor for every twenty thousand people … While infection rates have fallen in Uganda, down
from 30 percent to 5 percent in the past ten years, two million orphans and one million persons
living with AIDS represent a need for care that cannot be met by currently available medical
resources. (p. 4)
Barz continues, ‘At the time of this writing, 38 million people are infected with the HIV virus worldwide.
Over two-thirds, nearly 67%—or roughly 25.3 million children and adults—live in sub-Saharan Africa’
(2006, p. 9). What could music possibly do at this point in time to help alleviate the su ering attached to
this horrendous epidemic? Barz and Cohen (2011) ask questions such as: ‘What does it mean to “dance” a
syndrome, “sing” a medical condition, “act out” an etiology? … How can artistic performance restore a
sense of order to the chaos and destruction wrought by an incurable and ultimately fatal virus?’ (p. 5).
Barz explains that the power of song is used ‘to educate Ugandans about the disease, to inform non-
governmental organizations about the power of music in the lives of those living with and dying of
HIV/AIDS, and to make known to the world the contours of Uganda’s tales of life, death, and disease’ (cited
in Muller, 2008, p. 113).
Because cultural memory in Uganda is frequently maintained within music and musical responses, Barz
engaged one community in creating, performing, and listening to their own songs about HIV/AIDS, and the
e orts of traditional healers and medical doctors in their midst. The songs became ‘a way forward’ (Barz,
2006; Barz & Cohen, 2011, p. 316). Despite family units being ripped apart by this terrible virus, orphaned

children (for example) were taught, through song, to ght the disease: ‘The performers of the song adopt
the role of teacher and of family members in their e orts to provide “shields, spears, and powerful guns”
with their words’ (Barz, 2006, p. 183):
Woe to us, Woe to us. Woe to parents who bury their o spring
Our heads drip with pain, who will bury us?
Who will help us when we are old, in the future when our bones are old?
Ah, wasteland, those villages that used to be inhabited
It has taken all the parents and babies, a home quickly becomes a bush
Let us plead with God almighty, I would not like you to deny it
p. 379 Keep quiet, I will teach you
I am teaching you how to ght
Go ght this side with our …
Shields, spears, and powerful guns, our enemy is a skilled ghter
Trust one another
All the other people are infected except your beloved.
(quoted in Barz, 2006, p. 184)
Gradually, the community became more hopeful as their songs moved from musical expressions of
profound grief, stress, and despair to demonstrations for a more positive life. As Barz (2008) said, music
was able to ‘re-memory’ the community—to ‘change the memory of AIDS among listeners and thus shift
the attitude that accompanies disease one of positive living’ (p. 165). It was the people’s embodied musical-
emotional engagements, expressions, and experiences of, and with, music that empowered them to
positively shift their community’s identity and associations with AIDS, and to reframe their
autobiographical selves.
Beyond this, musical composition and singing helped to not only re-memory the lives of the su ering, but
acted as a weapon for possible education and prevention. Maboni Nabanji, the traditional healer in the
Budwege Village (Uganda), put it this way: ‘Music has a primary role in AIDS prevention. Singing is the main
form of treatment’ (cited in Barz, 2006, p. 162). Why prevention? The lyrics and messages of the songs—
which re ect and embody the people’s belief that their music summons the spirits—have enabled the
participants in this ‘singing preservation’ to understand and practice AIDS prevention. Faustus Baziri, an
AIDS activist, states that AIDS prevention is carried out in the music by way of ‘informations [sic] … We
educate the community. We pass on the message. Music is an organized sound, eh? So, through this sound
we send message to people … As they come to listen they learn, and we believe when they go back, they
practice’ (cited in Barz, 2006, p. 171).
Conclusion
If we wish to engage with community music as a means for artistic citizenship, theoretically and practically,
let us re-conceive and mobilize community music as a social movement. We must participate actively in
coalitions for justice dedicated to musicing for artistic citizenship. We must connect with scholars, educators,
and professionals who are already ‘socializing and justice-ing’ their elds (e.g., visual artists and art
teachers, theater educators, dancers and dance educators, as well as civically dedicated scientists and
economists) towards sharing strategies, building communal relationships, and helping our colleagues know
what we can o er.

Put another way, at the academic and leadership levels, we write and talk—a lot. This Handbook is one such
example. Doing this work is essential. But this is not the way the American Civil Rights movement, or any
movement for social change, has progressed. Socializing community music for artistic citizenship demands
more: it demands action (Elliott, 2007). How might we empower and engage our musicing, as well as
p. 380 community music facilitators and students, to participate as assertive, activist music makers and leaders
for positive social change? If we are serious about developing transformative and sustainable practices, we
need to critically re ect upon our most deeply ingrained assumptions. Are we only teachers, musicians,
academics, and/or public intellectuals? Or can we ‘move out into the social world’ by creating new ways of
inspiring a critical mass of future community music facilitators who have the understandings (theoretical
and practical) and dispositions to infuse their aims and pedagogies with the goals of social justice and social
activism?
Related to many points we have made, Stephen Duncombe (2007) introduces an innovative concept: the
‘ethical spectacle’. An ethical spectacle is a ‘dream’ imagined (‘I have a dream’, said Martin Luther King)
that is made concrete when members of social movements participate democratically in creating the
spectacle. Their political aims are expressed in their means of protest (Duncombe, 2007). Duncombe (2007)
cites the example of the Civil Rights Movement in which leaders often modeled various kinds of interracial
‘beloved communities’ that they organized to carry out protests during which they marched and sang songs.
Here, music was not an escape; it was not ‘on stage’; its meaning was in the actions of transforming the
oppressors and the oppressed. Ethical spectacles, including artistic citizenship spectacles, in and through
musicing in community music contexts, serve to ‘demonstrate’ and confront social ills of all kinds. Ethical
spectacles through musicing can disrupt cultural hierarchies; they can build safe communities, promote
diversity and ‘disrupt’ harmful social realities while ‘demonstrating’ what new and positive realities might
be possible (Duncombe, 2007, p. 126).
Reflective questions
1. Can community music exemplify artistic citizenship? If so, how? If not, why not?
2. Who decides what social values should be explored in/for community music?
3. What social values should be explored in/for community music?

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