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Sounds, Ecologies, Musics
Sounds, Ecologies, Musics
Edited by
Aaron S. Allen and Jeff Todd Titon
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the
University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing
worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and
certain other countries.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in
writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under
terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning
reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department,
Oxford University Press, at the address above.
You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same
condition on any acquirer.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197546642.001.0001
Cover photograph by Jeff Todd Titon
Contents
Editors
Aaron S. Allen is director of the Environment and Sustainability
Program and associate professor of musicology at UNC Greensboro.
He earned a PhD from Harvard University and a BA in music and BS
in ecological studies from Tulane University. He coedited Current
Directions in Ecomusicology (Routledge, 2016), which received the
2018 Ellen Koskoff Edited Volume Prize from the Society for
Ethnomusicology.
Jeff Todd Titon is professor of music, emeritus at Brown University,
where he was director of the PhD program in ethnomusicology. A
former editor of Ethnomusicology, the journal of the Society for
Ethnomusicology, his most recent book is Toward a Sound Ecology:
New and Selected Essays (Indiana University Press, 2020).
Contributors
Matthew Burtner (www.matthewburtner.com) is a composer,
sound artist, and ecoacoustician from Alaska, Eleanor Shea Professor
of Music at the University of Virginia, co-director of the Coastal
Futures Conservatory, and founder of EcoSono™.
Omar Carmenates is the Charles Ezra Daniel Professor of Music at
Furman University, where he also serves as the founder and chair of
the Council for Equity and Inclusion in Music. Under his direction, the
Furman University Percussion Ensemble was named a winner of the
prestigious 2022 Percussive Arts Society International Percussion
Ensemble Competition and has given presentations and
performances of ecoacoustic music at interdisciplinary conferences
throughout the country.
Rebecca Dirksen is Laura Boulton professor of ethnomusicology
and associate professor at Indiana University, Bloomington, and the
author of After the Dance, the Drums Are Heavy: Carnival, Politics,
and Musical Engagement in Haiti (Oxford University Press, 2020) and
coeditor of Performing Environmentalisms: Expressive Culture and
Ecological Change (University of Illinois Press, 2021). Dirksen is co-
founder and current director of the Diverse Environmentalisms
Research Team (DERT).
James Edwards is a senior researcher at SINUS Markt- und
Sozialforschung in Berlin. He is a co-principal investigator on several
transnational projects, including on the topic of environmental,
social, and governance sustainability in European music ecosystems.
Julianne Graper is an assistant professor of ethnomusicology at
Indiana University, Bloomington, whose research focuses on sound
and bat-human relationality in Austin, TX. Her translation of The
Sweet Penance of Music (2020) won the Robert M. Stevenson award
from the American Musicological Society.
Chad S. Hamill/čnaq’ymi is professor of applied Indigenous
studies at Northern Arizona University and is executive director of
Indigenous arts and expression at California Institute of the Arts. He
is the author of Songs of Power and Prayer in the Columbia Plateau
(Oregon State University Press, 2012).
Gillian Howell is a Dean’s Research Fellow at the Faculty of Fine
Arts and Music, University of Melbourne, where she leads a portfolio
of research investigating the contributions of participatory music and
arts to postwar peace and reconciliation.
Junko Konishi is a professor in the Faculty of Music at Okinawa
Prefectural University of Arts, Japan; president of the Japan Musical
Expression Society; and vice president of the Japan Society of Island
Studies. Her research areas are the islands of Micronesia,
Ogasawara, and Okinawa.
Robert Labaree is an ethnomusicologist and performer specializing
in Turkish music, with writings on improvisation, music and biology,
and Ottoman-European musical interaction. He is a professor,
emeritus, in the Department of Musicology at the New England
Conservatory, and founder of the Conservatory’s Intercultural
Institute.
Mark Pedelty is professor of communication studies and fellow at
the Institute on the Environment at the University of Minnesota, and
the author of A Song to Save the Salish Sea (Indiana University
Press, 2016).
Jennifer C. Post is a member of the music faculty at the University
of Arizona. Her most recent book is the coedited volume Mongolian
Sound Worlds (University of Illinois Press, 2022).
John E. Quinn is associate professor of biology and director of the
CHESS lab at Furman University. As the author or coauthor of dozens
of scientific papers, his research addresses the conservation of
biodiversity in managed and novel ecosystems.
Huib Schippers, formerly director of Queensland Conservatorium
Research Centre and of Smithsonian Folkways Recordings, is
coeditor of two important volumes on cultural sustainability
Sustainable Futures for Music Cultures (Oxford University Press,
2016) and Music, Communities, Sustainability (Oxford University
Press, 2022), and is a senior consultant to academic and arts
organizations.
Michele Speitz is associate professor of English literature at
Furman University, where she is the founding director of the Furman
Humanities Center. She is editor of Romantic Circles Electronic
Editions and has published widely on Romantic poetry and
technology.
Juha Torvinen is senior lecturer in musicology in the Department
of Philosophy, History, and Art Studies at the University of Helsinki.
He is coeditor of Music as Atmosphere (Routledge, 2020).
Susanna Välimäki is associate professor of art research and head
of musicology in the Department of Philosophy, History, and Art
Studies at the University of Helsinki.
Denise Von Glahn is professor of musicology at Florida State
University. Her most recent book is Circle of Winners: How the
Guggenheim Foundation Shaped American Musical Culture
(University of Illinois Press, 2023). Her 2003 book The Sounds of
Place appeared in a new edition in 2021 (University of Illinois Press).
About the Companion Website
www.oup.com/us/SoundsEcologiesMusics
Oxford University Press has created a companion website to
accompany Sounds, Ecologies, Musics. This website provides
material not available in the print edition: full-color versions of
selected figures, and updated links to music, performances, and/or
films that authors discuss in detail. The reader is encouraged to
consult this resource in conjunction with the chapters and will have
the option of downloading the color versions for closer reference.
1
Diverse Ecologies for Sound and Music Studies
Aaron S. Allen and Jeff Todd Titon
SOMBRE[7]
By William Wetmore Story
Long golden beams from the setting sun swept over the plains of
Andalusia, and fell upon the Geralda tower of the great cathedral of
Sevilla, many miles in the distance. In their path they illumined a
stretch of vast pastures enclosed by whitened stone walls, and
dotted with magnificent cattle. In a far corner of one of the
enclosures the figure of a young girl passed through an arched stone
gateway. As she paused to look upon the scattered groups of
grazing beasts, the level rays played in lights and shadows upon the
waving masses of dark chestnut hair, richly health-tinted young face,
creamy neck, and large, lustrous eyes now painfully dry, as if tears
were exhausted. She gazed from group to group, calling eagerly,
“Sombre! Sombre!”
A pair of long, gleaming horns rose abruptly amid the browsing
herd, and a magnificent bull came towards her at a brisk trot. The
sunbeams glinted upon his dark coat as it swelled and sank under
the play of powerful muscles. His neck and shoulders were leonine
in massive strength, the legs and hind-quarters as sleek and
symmetrical as those of a race-horse, but his ferociousness was
held in check by that devoted love dumb animals express for those
who love them.
In a moment the young girl’s white arms were thrown around the
animal’s dusky neck, and her cheek was lain against the silken skin.
“Oh, Sombre!” she murmured, “do you know what they are going to
do with you? Papa wants to send you to the Plaza de Toros! I have
begged him in vain to spare you. Does he think after Anita has
brought you from a tiny calf to be such a beautiful, dear toro that she
can give you to the cruel matador to be tortured, made crazy and
killed?”
She was sobbing bitterly, and the devoted beast was striving
vainly to turn his head far enough to lick the fair neck bending down
upon his. Presently the sobbing ceased, and she stroked the strong
shoulders with her small hand.
“Never fear, Sombre, if they take you to Sevilla Anita will find a
way to save you! Now, say good night.”
Sombre thrust out his huge tongue and licked the little hand and
arms. Then she bent forward and kissed him on the frowning, furry
forehead and departed.
Anita’s path homeward lay through another field where a herd of
cattle were being driven. A young herdsman, riding a strong horse at
a brisk canter, saw the young girl enter from the adjoining pasture.
With joyful exclamation in English he rode towards her calling,
“Anita, have you seen the posters?”
Waiting until he reached her side, with bated breath she asked, “Is
—is Sombre advertised?”
“Yes, on the outer gateway. But here, I have a poster in my
pocket.”
Plaza de Toros de Sevilla
May 17.
Anniversary of the King’s Birthday,
Six Bulls to be killed,
The two magnificent brother bulls
Sol and Sombre,
and others very ferocious,
against
The intrepid Matadores,
Lariato, the American, and
Amador, of Sevilla.
“It is cruel of them, cruel! (Reading) ‘Lariato, the American.’ Why,
that is yourself! You will spare him! You will spare my Sombre!”
“They do not permit me to fight Don Alonzo’s bulls, for I raise them
and they would not fight me. Amador will fight Sombre.”
“No, no! You must fight Sombre. That wicked Amador will kill him!”
“But so would I, Anita, or be killed by him!”
Anita was silent for a time; suddenly she exclaimed: “Orlando, do
you love me well enough to put faith in a promise which will seem
impossible of fulfillment?”
“God knows I do!”
“Then listen; if Sombre goes to the Plaza de Toros, you must fight
him and spare him even though they hiss and jeer at you.”
“Death is easier. Perhaps the managers will let me fight him, for
you have raised him, and I can tell them that I have scarcely seen
him. I will fight him, Anita, and for your sake I will let him kill me!”
“No, no, Orlando, for this is my promise, even in the last extremity
Sombre shall not harm you!”
“And then, Anita!”
“Then I will leave my father’s house and go with you. We will buy
Sombre and go to those plains in your country you love so to tell
about. You will become a ranch hero, and Sombre shall be the
patriarch of our herd!”
“I have tried that once and failed!”
“Ah, but you had neither Sombre nor Anita then!” And waving him
a kiss she ran off across the field.
On the 17th of May, in the Plaza de Toros, there was a murmur
from thousands of throats like the magnified hum of bees. Amador of
Sevilla had killed several bulls and now there was a short
intermission. In a stall of the lowest tier sat Anita alone. Presently a
band of music began a stately march, and under a high stone
archway a long procession advanced. First, gaudily caparisoned
picadors on blindfolded studs, two by two, separated and came to a
halt, facing the center, with long lances abreast. Then red-coated
toreadors carrying long barbs, with brilliant streamers of ribbon,
grouped themselves near the heavy closed doors of the bull-pen;
finally, the capeadors in yellow satin, carrying flaming red capes on
their arms, filed around like the mounted picadors and stood
between their studs.
The music ceased, the murmur of voices died away, and the gates
of the bull-pen were thrown open. At a quick trot, a great black bull
dashed in, receiving in his shoulders as he passed the toreador’s
two short barbs. Anita gripped her chair and gasped, “Sombre!”
Coming from a darkened pen, Sombre had trotted eagerly forward,
expecting to find himself once more in his loved pastures, but he
paused, bewildered in the glare of light. Hither and thither he turned
in nervous abruptness, his head raised high, his tail slowly lashing
his flanks. Then he lowered his grand head and sniffed the earth,
and then he smelled fresh, warm blood, the blood of his own kind.
With gathering rage he lowered his keen horns close to the ground
and gave a deep, hoarse bellow of defiance, flinging clod after clod
with his forefeet high above his back. Then there flaunted toward him
a red object at which he charged, but it swept aside, and a new sting
of pain was felt in his neck, and warm blood was trickling over his
glossy skin. Again and again he charged, but each time the red thing
vanished and there was more pain, more torturing barbs that
maddened him.
Presently a horseman advanced with lowered spear. Surely horse
and rider could not vanish. Ah, no! Sombre found that it was not
intended that they should. Rushing upon them he struck them with
such a blow that they were forced backwards twenty feet and both
gave a scream of pain. The picador was dragged away with a broken
leg, and the horse lay lifeless, for Sombre’s horn had pierced its
heart. Instantly a great cry went up from that crater of humanity,
“Bravo! Bravo, Toro! Bravo, Sombre!”
More than once he earned that grand applause, then his
tormentors disappeared and through one of the archways advanced
a young man tall and athletic. On his left arm hung a scarlet mantle,
and in his right hand he carried a long, keen sword. Passing under
the archway, the matador swept his sword in military salute, then
with lowered point he stepped into the arena and faced his
antagonist. Upon all fell an awful silence, for Lariato and Sombre
were met in a struggle to the death!
For a time the combatants stood motionless, eyeing each other
intently. Then came stealthy movements, hither and thither, then
thundering, desperate charges, and graceful, hair-breadth escapes.
At last in one great charge, Sombre’s horn tore the mantle from
Lariato’s arm and carrying it half around the ring, as a flaming
banner, the bull ground and trampled it in the dust. A slight hissing
was heard in the audience which turned to thundering applause
when Lariato contemptuously refused a new mantle! The audience
became breathless, the man alone was now the mad beast’s target!
Sombre, dripping with blood and perspiration, his flanks swelling
and falling in his great gasps for breath, his eyes half blinded by the
dust and glare of the arena, gave the matador one brief glance, then
with head low down, charged upon him. Lariato’s long keen blade
was lowered confidently to its death-dealing slant.
Just as the murderous sword-point seemed about to sink through
the bull’s shoulders, into his very heart, a despairing woman’s cry
reached the matador’s ears. Then a mighty hiss, interspersed with
hoots and jeers, went up from the exasperated spectators, for the
bull thundered on, with the sword scarcely penetrating the tough
muscles, standing upright between his shoulders, while Lariato stood
disarmed.
Coming to a standstill far beyond his antagonist, Sombre shook
his huge neck and the sword spun high into the air and fell toward
the center of the ring. Lariato took several steps toward it, but
tottered and fell upon the ground in a swoon, for he had been
severely bruised.
With an exultant roar, the bull rushed back to complete his victory;
the hissing and the hooting was hushed, and groans of horror filled
the air. Suddenly, just as the animal had gained full headway in his
murderous charge, a slight, white figure glided into the ring, and a
clear voice cried “Sombre!”
At the sound of that voice, the charging beast came strainingly to a
halt, threw up his head, and gazed eagerly about, then turned and
rushed toward the girl! Capeadors hurried forward flaunting their red
capes, but she waved them back.
“Go back! You shall torment him no more, my poor, tortured,
wounded Sombre!”
In a moment the great beast was beside her, licking her dress and
arms and hands. As she deftly extricated the barbs from his neck
and shoulders, the thousands of throats around them shrieked out a
vast pandemonium of bravos. Blood was covering her hands and
staining her dress, but Anita was blind to it. Meanwhile Lariato had
struggled to his feet and hurried towards her. “God bless you,” he
was saying, but she pushed past him with a glad smile, saying,
“Wait, I have something to say to them!”
Standing in the middle of the ring, Anita waited for silence.
Delaying until not a sound was heard, she said in a clear voice that
reached every ear:
“Jeer not at Lariato; he spared my pet, my Sombre, because he
loved me.”
No matador ever gained such applause as followed. Bouquets,
sombreros, scarfs, and full purses showered into the ring, and as
that strange group stood facing the ovation, “Bravo, Lariato, Bravo,
la Señorita de Toros, Bravo, Sombre!” rang out and reëchoed over
the distant housetops.
KAWEAH’S RUN
By Clarence King
As I walked over to see Kaweah at the corral, I glanced down the
river, and saw, perhaps a quarter of a mile below, two horsemen ride
down our bank, spur their horses into the stream, swim to the other
side, and struggle up a steep bank, disappearing among bunches of
cottonwood trees near the river.
They were Spaniards—the same who had swum King’s River the
afternoon before, and, as it flashed on me finally, the two whom I had
studied so attentively at Visalia. Then I at once saw their purpose
was to waylay me, and made up my mind to give them a lively run.
I decided to strike across, and jumping into the saddle threw
Kaweah into a sharp trot.
I glanced at my girth and then at the bright copper upon my pistol,
and settled myself firmly.
By this time I had regained the road, which lay before me traced
over the blank, objectless plain in vanishing perspective. Fifteen
miles lay between me and a station; Kaweah and pistol were my only
defense, yet at that moment I felt a thrill of pleasure, a wild moment
of inspiration, almost worth the danger to experience.
I glanced over my shoulder and found that the Spaniards were
crowding their horses to their fullest speed; their hoofs, rattling on