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Enacting Musical Time
 OX F O R D S T U D I E S I N M U SIC T H E O RY
Series Editor
Steven Rings
Studies in Music with Text
David Lewin
Music as Discourse: Semiotic Adventures in Romantic Music
Kofi Agawu
Metric Manipulations in Haydn and Mozart: Chamber Music for Strings,
1787-​1791
Danuta Mirka
Songs in Motion: Rhythm and Meter in the German Lied
Yonatan Malin
A Geometry of Music: Harmony and Counterpoint in the Extended Common
Practice
Dmitri Tymoczko
In the Process of Becoming: Analytic and Philosophical Perspectives on Form in
Early Nineteenth-​Century Music
Janet Schmalfeldt
Tonality and Transformation
Steven Rings
Audacious Euphony: Chromaticism and the Triad’s Second Nature
Richard Cohn
Mahler’s Symphonic Sonatas
Seth Monahan
Beating Time and Measuring Music in the Early Modern Era
Roger Mathew Grant
Pieces of Tradition: An Analysis of Contemporary Tonal Music
Daniel Harrison
Music at Hand: Instruments, Bodies, and Cognition
Jonathan De Souza
Foundations of Musical Grammar
Lawrence M. Zbikowski
Organized Time: Rhythm, Tonality, and Form
Jason Yust
Flow: Expressive Rhythm in the Rapping Voice
Mitchell Ohriner
Enacting Musical Time: The Bodily Experience of New Music
Mariusz Kozak
Enacting Musical Time
The Bodily Experience of New Music

M A R I U S Z KO Z A K

1
 3
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.

Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America.

© Oxford University Press 2020

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.

CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress

ISBN 978–0–19–008020–4

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

 To Asia and Tim

Their love and enthusiasm inspire me always

 Contents

Acknowledgments ix

Introduction 1
Lines 1
Music and Time 7
Enacting Musical Time 10

1. Meaning 16
Musical Objects 22
Objective Time 28
Lived Time 33
Significance 42
Affordances 45
2. Affordances 55
Breathing 57
Becoming Music (Behave So Strangely) 64
Musical Affordances 67
Situation Semantics 73
Cultural Information 77
Situation Semantics and Musical Affordances 85
Temporal Affordances 89
Musical Affordances of Breath 96
3. Body 104
Embodied Cognition 109
Temporal Bodies 112
Kinesthetic Knowledge 127
Kinesthetic Knowledge in Music Analysis 144
4. Flesh 148
The Body’s “I Can” 156
From “I Can” to Time 161
The Flesh of Time 169
Temporal Objects and the Flesh of Music 179
viii Contents

5. Affectivity 187
Auto-​Affection 188
Enacting Lived Time 193
Louis Andriessen’s De Tijd 205
Eternity in Augustine’s Confessions 214
Temporal and Affective Dynamics of Movement 218
Enacting Chronal Anxiety 223
6. Verticality 229
Vertical Time 238
Eternal Return 247
Affect 256
Hosokawa’s Vertical Time 262
Malleable Musical Form 269

Works Cited 277

Index 299
 Acknowledgments

In his 1676 letter to Robert Hooke, Sir Isaac Newton wrote: “If I have seen
further it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.” Foremost among my own
giants are two people who have been unsparing with their support and in-
spiring with their scholarship. One is Lawrence Zbikowski—​I continue to
rely on his advice even to this day, long after I’ve received my Ph.D. under
his supervision. His critical commentary and an eye for the big picture have
left a lasting mark on this book, while his encouragement helped me early
on to pursue unexpected avenues that ultimately proved to be central to my
argument. The other is Rolf Inge Godøy, my “second Doktorvater,” whose
gentle brilliance illuminates my own thinking. I owe them both my deepest
gratitude.
A monograph bears the name of a single author, but it is never a work com-
pleted in isolation. This maxim holds especially true for an interdisciplinary
book such as this, and over the years I have benefited from countless exchanges
with a long list of colleagues, collaborators, and discussants. Among the music
theorists and musicologists, I wish to thank Chelsea Burns, Eric Clarke, Arnie
Cox, Michael Figueroa, Tim Freeze, Luis-​Manuel Garcia, Daniel Gough,
Roger Grant, Marion Guck, Christopher Hasty, Erika Honisch, Bryn Hughes,
Sarah Iker, Brian Kane, Marianne Kielian-​ Gilbert, Trent Leipert, Justin
London, Megan Lovengood, Elizabeth Margulis, Peter Martens, José Oliveira
Martins, Greg McCandless, Eugene Montague, Maryam Moshaver, Marcelle
Pierson, Alexander Rehding, August Sheehy, Christopher Shultis, Peter Shultz,
Pete Smucker, James Steichen, Victoria Tzotzkova, Claudio Vellutini, Gregory
Weinstein, Lillian Wohl, and Mark Yeary. Megan Kaes Long has been an in-
genious accomplice in strategizing how to publish a music theory monograph.
Richard Hermann patiently read and generously shared his insights on early
drafts of this book. Jonathan De Souza’s expertise in all things Merleau-​Ponty
proved crucial in Chapter 3, while Robin James’s careful reading of Chapter 6
was key in helping me discover and shape my own philosophical voice. I am
also delighted to have had a formidable group of anonymous reviewers; thanks
to their penetrating critique and salutary advice this book is incomparably
better than it would have been.
x Acknowledgments

While music theory is my disciplinary home, a project as complex as this

one could not have taken off the ground without the stimulating discussions
with researchers from other fields. I am especially grateful to Ken Aizawa,
Anthony Chemero, Ian Cross, Sean Gallagher, Peter Keller, Jin Hyun Kim,
David Kirsh, Sebastian Klotz, Tomasz Komendziński, Mats Küssner, Jakub
Ryszard Matyja, Luc Nijs, Andrea Schiavio, Konrad Sierzputowski, Finn
Upham, and Frédérique de Vignemont. Parts of my research were generously
funded by the U.S.–​Norway Fulbright Foundation. Many thanks to the nu-
merous enthusiastic participants who had to dance to weird music, especially
Arthur Bass, Courtney Dern, Kelly McKowen, Rachel Severson, Rolf Steier,
Karl Unterschuetz, and Taylor White. I was able to do the bulk of my empir-
ical work at the University of Oslo, where I enjoyed seemingly inexhaust-
ible help and hospitality from Anne Danielsen, Mari Romarheim Haugen,
Alexander Refsum Jensenius, and other members of the Department of
Musicology and the fourMs lab. Kristian Nymoen in particular became an
inestimable collaborator and, most importantly, a kindhearted friend.
At Oxford University Press I have been fortunate to have had the support
of Steve Rings, the series editor, who shepherded this project with firm advo-
cacy and gentle counsel. In addition, this book would not have seen the light
of day if not for the unwavering support and guidance of Suzanne Ryan. She
saw its value when it was still in embryonic stages, and provided encourage-
ment through some of the most daunting stages of the publication process.
I also wish to thank the editorial staff and the production team. Josh Rutner
combed through the manuscript with the eyes of a hawk, picking out every
errant em-​dash while peppering his editorial remarks with endearingly ir-
reverent (though ultimately useful) asides. My graduate assistant, Marc
Hannaford, helped create most of the musical examples. Permissions to re-
produce the works of Louis Andriessen, Harrison Birtwistle, Elliott Carter,
Anna Clyne, Brian Ferneyhough, Toshio Hosokawa, Helmut Lachenmann,
Olga Neuwirth, and Andrew Norman have been generously provided by
Boosey & Hawkes, Peters Edition Limited, Breitkopf & Härtel, Schott Music,
and Ricordi. I also wish to express my appreciation to the Schoff Fund at
the University Seminars at Columbia University for their help in publica-
tion. The ideas presented have benefited from discussions in the University
Seminar on Studies in Dance.
Working and teaching at Columbia University meant having ready access
to some of the most curious, brilliant minds in North American academia.
 Acknowledgments xi

I am especially grateful to Jenny Boulboullé, Brian Boyd, Lynn Garafola,

Andrew Goldman, Nori Jacoby, Carmel Raz, and Pamela Smith. Their as-
tute comments provided me with many a fresh perspective. In the Music
Department at Columbia University I benefited immensely from the support
of my colleagues and students; while too many to mention by name, I hope
they all know that I continue to be inspired by each and every one of them.
George Lewis in particular has been a tremendous resource for helping
me link the humanistic and scientific sides of my project. To my fellow
theorists—​Joseph Dubiel and Ellie Hisama—​I owe special thanks for serving
as exemplars of scholarly rigor and professional integrity, and for challenging
and encouraging me along the way. I am also indebted to the chairs of the
Music Department during the time of writing this book—​Giuseppe Gerbino,
Susan Boynton, and Ana María Ochoa—​for creating an environment in
which I was able to thrive as a junior scholar. My most heartfelt thanks goes
to Benjamin Steege, Alessandra Ciucci, Kevin Fellezs, and Zosha Di Castri,
whose advice, moral backing, and loyalty have sustained me for the last six
years. They continue to be my role models, comrades, sounding boards, and
de facto mentors.
My family gave me the boost in confidence needed to complete this book,
and created an emotionally supportive environment in which to do it. Julia
Doe has been my sidekick and confidant in things professional and private.
Martha Sprigge, Mary Caldwell, and Daniel Steinberg have shared with me
wisdom that has helped me find a path through life, while their unfaltering
reassurance has kept me on course. My parents, Wies and Anna—​academics
both—​taught me to ask difficult questions and reach beyond the most ob-
vious answers, all the while serving as emblems of intellectual and personal
honesty. My brother, Pawel, proved to be an invaluable interlocutor as he
fielded my questions with exceptional insight and inimitable wit. For that,
and so much more, I am forever indebted to them.
Finally, this book could have only emerged from the emotional bedrock
formed lovingly and patiently by my wife, Joanna, and our son, Timothy.
Their unmitigated affection and abiding trust helped me to see both the value
of my work and the necessity of balancing it with familial activities. With my
eternal gratitude, what follows is dedicated to them.
 Introduction

Lines
Imagine Time
Perhaps it is a line that stretches horizontally in front of you, with the past
all gathered up to your left, the future to your right, and the place where
you stand marking the present. Perhaps the line stretches front to back,
with the past behind you and the future in front. Or perhaps the other way
around, as it is for the Aymara people from the Andes (Nuñez and Sweetser
2006). Maybe the line is actually a river, and from the riverbank you can
view time and the events happening within it, with the future upstream and
the past downstream—​or perhaps you yourself are being carried along by
its current.
Imagining time itself—​rather than events that occur in time—​is not easy.
To borrow a musical term, time’s nature fulfills a double emploi, as both an ab-
stract concept and a sensed presence of our lives. This duality seems irrecon-
cilable, as attested by centuries of debates involving philosophers, scientists,
and artists, among others. We come to terms with it by drawing on our bodily
experience to create useful metaphors, but these metaphors are often incon-
sistent or incoherent (Cox 2017). Consider time as a river: if you are caught
up in its flow—​that is, if you are in time—​then the past is upstream. But if
you survey the river from its bank, the past is downstream. Now, examine
the metaphor itself. If time is a river, what is it contained in? What constitutes
the riverbed? And, if you are caught up in its flow, what serves as your point
of reference such that you know that it does, indeed, flow? Furthermore, if
you stand as an observer on the riverbank, where are you? Are you outside of
time? Is that even possible?
Still, even when faced with inconsistency and incoherence, we try to
imagine time in its multiplicity of forms, expressing its function—​more
so, perhaps, than its nature—​as an immaterial force that helps us to order
and organize the incessant change we encounter in the world. Time gives
change both a dimensionality (the past, the present, and the future) and a

Enacting Musical Time: The Bodily Experience of New Music. Mariusz Kozak, Oxford University Press (2020).
© Oxford University Press.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190080204.001.0001
2 Enacting Musical Time

direction (the present—​containing elements from the past—​opens up onto

the future). The line is a ubiquitous companion in our imaginings because,
as David Rosenberg (2010) shows in his beautifully illustrated history of
the timeline, its flexibility offers a broad assortment of configurations, in-
cluding arrows, loops, spirals, sinusoids, and other shapes able to satisfy the
needs of those who, for whatever reason, find themselves trying to imagine
time. Although a relatively recent construct in Western history, the timeline
holds much sway in our contemporary thinking, along with other temporal
representations, such as clocks, calendars, tables, and circles. Taken together,
they form a repository of Western temporal knowledge and a resource for
our current and future models.
Delving into the history of this knowledge would already take us too far
afield, even if we limited ourselves to Western thought, and even if we fur-
ther excluded painters, writers, composers, and all other sorts of artists and
artisans—​to say nothing of physicists, economists, engineers, theologians,
and so on—​whose work explicitly considers time and our experience of it.1
What is clear is that time is one of the foremost concerns for human beings,
even if thinking about it leads to disagreements about the most basic is-
sues: Does time flow, or is that merely an artifact of our minds? If it does flow,
does it do so in only one direction, or in several at once? Is time real, or an
illusion? Is it autonomous and objective, or contingent and subjective? Do we
move through time, or does time move while we remain stationary? Can we
travel through time?
For all the disagreement, understanding the nature of time is especially
urgent for anyone interested in the analysis and interpretation of music,
which is often—​and often without resistance—​said to be an eminently tem-
poral artform. And the urgency is only amplified when we consider the most
recent Western classical art music. Throughout the twentieth century and
into the twenty-​first, time has become one of the most dominant concerns
for modernist and postmodernist composers, prompted by such a diverse
range of influences as new digital technologies, developments in the physical
and natural sciences, cultural theories that focus on the human subject as
an agent constituting his or her own existence, and non-​Western ideas and

1 The exercise, in any case, is redundant, because there already exists a substantial body of literature

that addresses this history in detail. Some of it offers a sweeping view of the most influential thinkers
on the subject of time, from Plato and Aristotle, through Augustine, Newton, and Einstein, and on
to Husserl and Hawking (Bardon 2013; Holford-​Strevens 2005). Others focus on a specific figure
(Coope 2005; Canales 2015), historical period (Thomas 2018; McGinnis 2013), or school of thought
(Hoy 2009; Muldoon 2006).
 Introduction 3

concepts that have filtered into European and North American intellectual
landscapes (Crispin 2009; Campbell 2013; Lochhead 2002). Some composers
have written extensively about their approaches to time, leaving us with ex-
plicit ideas that often serve as springboards for analyses of their music. These
composers include, among others, Igor Stravinsky (1947) and Karlheinz
Stockhausen (1958, 1959), both of whom distinguished between the objec-
tive time of music and the subjective experience of the listener; Elliott Carter
(1977), who conceived of time as a screen onto which our lives are projected;
Pierre Boulez (1971), who drew on the music of Bali and India to conceptu-
alize smooth and striated time; and Gérard Grisey (1987), for whom musical
time was constituted by three layers—​the bones, flesh, and the skin of time.2
As composers continue to use the sonic medium to question established
orthodoxies and to create new paths through time, it seems that lines no
longer provide enough multiformity to account for the rich experiential do-
main of the listener. Perhaps it is fortunate, then, that time as such has no
perceivable appearance apart from the events that “take time,” because it
grants our imagination the freedom to consider other forms that might aid
us in processing the unfolding of events around us.
Imagine time differently, then—​ as a sphere, or a cube, or even a
hexacosichoron. Imagine it running diagonally, or folding back upon itself,
or sideways, or from the inside out. Imagine time crackling, wheezing, rus-
tling, swooshing, buzzing. Imagine time as silent. Now imagine it smelling
of freshly cut grass, or a musty hotel lobby. Then again, what if time glistened
and shimmered? What if it breathed, slowly, in-​out-​in-​out-​in-​out? What if it
came near you, so close that you could feel its warmth, embrace it, hold it in
your hands? What if it did all of that at once?
These might seem like whimsical metaphors, evocative poetic images that
do little to augment our understanding of time itself. But in what follows
I argue that these are all expressions of the same temporalizing act of the
body engaged with its environment. Rather than replacing old metaphors
with new ones, each chapter in this book questions notions of time enshrined
in our theoretical concepts, and, by delving into the pre-​discursive space in
which the listening experience touches the sonic world, offers in their place
new ways of thinking of time’s significance in our encounters with music.
What interests me in particular is how and why time shows up as an aspect of

2 For extensive commentary on the genesis of Carter’s thought, see Bernard (1995). Campbell

(2013) discusses these and other composers’ approaches to time from a Deleuzian perspective.
4 Enacting Musical Time

our listening experience, and how music draws on this experience to create
opportunities for the emergence of new meanings.
The possibility of time smelling, or shimmering, or drawing nearer to us
seems to run counter to the prevailing view, which is that odor, luminosity,
and movement are some of the myriad properties of physical objects. While
these physical objects undergo a change in time, time itself remains a sepa-
rate (odorless, invisible, immobile) dimension. As Lewis Rowell pointed out
in his 1996 review of music articles that had been published under the aus-
pices of the International Society for the Study of Time (by now in need of
updating, but by no means outdated), music-​theoretical writings also adhere
to the prevailing view. According to Rowell (1996b), time is usually regarded
as “a quantitative dimension articulated by audible events,” with focus pri-
marily directed toward such aspects as rhythm and meter (69). Like the line
metaphor above, this approach draws on spatial analogues of time as the
basis for measuring how musical events unfold. The main objective is to un-
derstand the relationships between sounds as if the piece of music were a
temporally extended object that, although not available for perception be-
yond the sliver of the present, nevertheless “exists” spread out in its entirety
along the timeline. It makes no difference whether the line runs horizontally
or vertically, left-​to-​right or back-​to-​front, as long as it represents a time fun-
damentally characterized by quantity. This quantity can be expressed as the
time-​interval between successive events (inter-​onset interval, or IOI), or as
proportional relationships between durations, or as locations within a con-
tainer (e.g., a measure) that keeps repeating at a consistent rate.3
By contrast, in this book I focus on a concept of musical time similar to
what Rowell describes as “ideas and experiences, with distinct properties
that can be modeled with sound” (Rowell 1996b, 69). My approach is based
largely on twentieth-​century continental philosophy, especially the work
of the French phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-​Ponty, who suggested
that time, while real, exists neither objectively nor autonomously. Taking
up this perspective, I consider time as the form of the listener’s interaction
with music. Building on evidence from such diverse fields as music theory,
phenomenology, cognitive science, and social anthropology, I develop a
philosophical and critical argument that musical time is constituted by the

3 There are numerous examples of these approaches in music-​theoretical literature. Some of the

most influential ones include London (2012), Cohn (1992), and Schachter (1999; see especially
“Rhythm and Linear Analysis” and “Aspects of Meter”). Most recently, Yust (2018) emphasizes the
spatial representation of time by explicitly connecting musical temporality with a landscape.
 Introduction 5

moving bodies of participants engaged in musical activities. I put forward

and illustrate a claim that musical time describes the form of a specific kind
of interaction between musical sounds and a situated, embodied listener. My
main thesis is that this musical time emerges when the listener enacts his or
her implicit kinesthetic knowledge about “how music goes.” Such knowledge
is expressed in the entire spectrum of behavior, from deliberate inactivity,
through the simple action of tapping one’s foot in synchrony with the beat, to
dancing in a way that engages the whole body. I explore this idea in the con-
text of recent Western classical art music, where composers create temporal
experiences that might feel unfamiliar or idiosyncratic, experiences that blur
the line between spectatorship and participation, and even experiences that
challenge conventional notions of musical form.
To be sure, the way in which I regard time is novel in the field of music
theory, and its emergence from skillful behavior in response to the auditory
signal requires some explaining. By way of a non-​musical example, consider
your first encounter with a bottle of perfume that is new to you. As you press
on the plunger, aerosolized droplets rush out and form a cloud that hangs in
the air in front of you. In order to catch a whiff, you move your head, maybe
even your whole body, this way and that. You create a fan-​like motion with
your hands in order to direct the fragrant air toward your nose. Move too
much to the side, and the smell disappears; linger too close to the center of
the cloud, and it becomes overwhelming, suffocating. There is a reciprocity
in this action between bodily movements and the olfactory sensation, each
one guiding and responding to the other. The structure of the event emerges
from the interaction.
Skeptics will argue that it is possible to construe this interaction as some-
thing unfolding in time, with reference to an external, independent time-
keeper. We might talk, for example, about the velocity with which droplets
disperse through the air, or the speed with which electrical impulses travel
from the olfactory bulb to the amygdala in the brain. These are all valid ways
of describing the situation, but they separate the mechanics of the interac-
tion from its significance, which is to discover the odorous properties of the
perfume. Important to this discovery is the way the reciprocal relationship
between the aerosolized droplets and the human subject gives both spatial
and temporal structure to this encounter. This structure is not given prior
to the event’s unfolding, but instead emerges during the bodily engagement
with entities in the environment. Thus, in the above scenario, the ordering
of the event—​the precise manner in which it unfolds—​is driven by the
6 Enacting Musical Time

unique dynamics between the chemical compounds that make up the per-
fume droplets and the situated, embodied subject who experiences them as
a particular kind of smell, with a particular concentration and a particular
quality. These unique dynamics imbue the entire interaction with a special
significance, and it is this significance that constitutes time. As Merleau-​
Ponty (1968) argued, time is precisely the form of the unique dynamics be-
tween entities in the world; it is a relation—​or what he called “a network of
intentionalities”—​distributed among all humans as well as the things and
creatures around them.
Central to the distributed network of intentionalities is a body actively en-
gaged with the world. This world includes various auditory signals, some of
which form patterns that enculturated listeners recognize as music. Work on
the relationship between listeners’ bodily movements and common-​practice
musical techniques, such as the metrical organization of tonal harmonic
patterns, is already well into its heyday, both in terms of gathering empir-
ical evidence, and the development of theoretical models.4 Research in this
regard is thriving, spurred by the ever-​advancing technological innovations
in the field of human motion-​capture and analysis. By contrast, the picture
of the body’s function in contemporary music is still coming into focus.
Scholars like Arnie Cox (2017), Lawrence Zbikowski (2016), Andrew Mead
(1999), and Judy Lochhead (2015) have been making considerable inroads,
but I would not be surprised if, apart from the context of “modern dance,”
many readers found it inconceivable that one’s body could be explicitly in-
volved while listening to new music. I say this having run numerous studies
in which I asked participants to do just that: to move in response to pieces
that hardly used any recognizable “musical” materials, to say nothing of such
familiar constructs as meter or even a beat. For some, the task was incom-
prehensible, even offensive. But for the vast majority it turned out to be an
exhilarating, eye-​(and ear!)-​opening encounter, which ultimately convinced
them that new music need not be “difficult,” that it need not be an intensely
cerebral experience marked by immobile concentration and requiring an al-
most mathematical understanding of how the sounds relate to one another.
In other words, that new music could move them.

4 Several collections of essays have appeared in the last decade that address theoretical and empir-

ical aspects of musical embodiment, including Godøy and Leman (2010), Gritten and King (2006,
2011), and Leman et al. (2017).
 Introduction 7

This book is partly an elaboration of these encounters and their applica-

tion to questions of musical time and meaning. One of my goals is to open
up productive avenues for interpreting contemporary works that bring to
listeners’ attention various problems associated with the experience of time.
To that end, the central focus is on the listeners’ bodies, their capabilities, and
the emergence of a particular kind of meaning—​which I call significance—​in
contemporary music.5 Significance is a pragmatic meaning that is immanent
in the interaction between music and listener. Basing my discussion on the
above-​mentioned embodied phenomenology of Merleau-​Ponty, and on the
ecological psychology of J. J. Gibson, I show that the body enacts time by actu-
alizing the potential inherent in a given situation. Motivating this body is the
basic interest in, and engagement with, the sonic environment. As such, this
is not a book that merely connects time with music, but one that reexamines
the tools of music analysis through the lens of what phenomenologists call
“lived time,” or time as it shows up in human lives (Hoy 2009). My intent is to
challenge conventional ways of thinking about musical time and its related
concepts of rhythm, meter, tempo, and form, with the hope that this chal-
lenge expands our conception of musical time in a way that harmonizes with
the rich depth of our experiences.

Music and Time

Following Susanne Langer, and especially later extensions of her ideas in

Zbikowski’s Foundations of Musical Grammar (2017), I endorse the notion
that music’s significance lies in the way it uses successions of sounds to reflect
the temporal bodily patterns that a given culture finds important enough to
store for later retrieval. One consequence of this function of music is that
our bodies produce a kind of knowledge that lies close to the way in which
time is constituted. In turn, those same bodies influence how we understand
musical meaning. This way of thinking about musical time engages with is-
sues of musical functions in various human cultures. As such, it differs from
how time is usually considered in music theory, where it typically shows up

5 There is a lot more focus on the performers’ bodies in relation to musical meaning. The list is

long, but some of the most influential contributions include Sudnow (1978), Cusick (1994), Mead
(1999), Fisher and Lochhead (2002), and Montague (2012). Most recently De Souza (2017) devotes
a chapter to listeners, even though the bulk of his book addresses performers. Moreover, Cox (2017)
attempts to bridge the split between the body’s role in performance and in listening.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Machine gun
manual
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
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eBook.

Title: Machine gun manual

a complete manual to machine gunnery, containing
details of Maxim, Vickers, Lewis, Colt, Hotchkiss,
together with drill (elementary and advanced) fire
orders, notes from the front and a mass of other useful
information

Author: H. Douglas

Release date: January 17, 2024 [eBook #72736]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: Harrison and Sons, 1917

Credits: Brian Coe, Thiers Halliwell, who created the book cover,
which is placed in the public domain, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MACHINE

GUN MANUAL ***
Transcriber’s Note:
New original cover art included with this eBook is
granted to the public domain.
Machine Gun Manual

By CAPTAIN H. DOUGLAS
Sherwood Foresters
National Team (England)
Kolapore Team (Great Britain)
British Rifle Team (Australian Tour)

A COMPLETE MANUAL TO MACHINE

GUNNERY
containing details of
MAXIM VICKERS LEWIS COLT HOTCHKISS
together with
DRILL
(Elementary and Advanced)
Fire Orders, Notes from the Front
and a mass of other
Useful Information
ILLUSTRATED

LONDON
HARRISON AND SONS
Printers in Ordinary to His Majesty Military Printers, Publishers and
Stationers
ST. MARTIN’S LANE, W.C.
 For the best value in
MILITARY OUTFITS.
THE “MAXIM” Trench Coat (as illustrated) with
detachable fleece lining. Made from fine quality Khaki Twill,
lined with rainproof lining and interlined with oiled silk,
£4 . 10 . 0
Light and warm, absolutely wind and rain proof.
Write for complete illustrated list.
71, NEW BOND STREET, W. 141 & 142, FENCHURCH
STREET, E.C. LONDON.
Contents.
Maxim Gun. Page
General description 5
Plates and list of parts 11
To mount and dismount 16
„ load and unload 16
„ clean 17
Muzzle attachment 18
Fusee spring 18
Stripping and assembling 19
Examination and testing 21
Stoppages 23

Vickers’ Light Gun.

Plates and list of parts 31
Special features 35
To mount and dismount 36
„ load and unload 36
„ clean 36
Muzzle attachment 37
Fusee spring 37
Stripping and assembling 38
Stoppages 39
Examination and testing 39
Points to be attended to (Maxim and Vickers’) 40
Belt filling 40

Lewis Automatic Gun.

Plates and list of parts 43
Description 47
To load and unload 49
Stripping and assembling 50
Stoppages 53

Colt Automatic Gun.

Description 55
To load and unload 58
 Stoppages 59
Stripping and assembling 62
Plates and list of parts 65

Hotchkiss Portable Machine Gun.

Component parts and plates 67
General description 71
Action of the mechanism 71
To strip and assemble the gun 73
Points to be attended to before firing 78
Rapid change of barrel in the field 80
Stoppages 82
Cleaning and care 83
Feed strip filling machine 83

General.
Duties 85
Section drill (with and without transport) 86
Elementary tests 90
Machine gun characteristics 90
Fire direction 91
Fire orders 93
Signals 94
War establishment 95
General machine gun course 97
Notes from overseas 100
Points to remember 100
Choice of gun position 100
Employment of machine guns 100
Occupation of positions 102
Trench work 106
In action 107
Village fighting 109
Attack on entrenched position 110
Co-operation 112, 118
Targets and ranges 112
Guns brigaded in action 115
Indication and recognition 116
Observation of fire 117
Ammunition supply 119
Mechanical troubles 119
Pack transport 120
Training in billets 121
Painting of guns 122

FOR THE BEST VALUE IN

MILITARY OUTFITS
Service Kit for any regiment in 36 hours.
 £ s.
Service Tunic 3 3
Slacks 1 1
Bedford Cord Breeches 2 2
British Warm (fleece lined). 3 3
Sam Browne Belt (complete) 2 2

Complete! Illustrated List on request, or better still, call and

inspect our stock.

141 & 142, FENCHURCH STREET, E.C.

71, NEW BOND STREET, W.
LONDON.
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 The Maxim Gun.

GENERAL DESCRIPTION.
Weight of the ·303-in. gun, 60 lbs. Weight of the tripod, 48 lbs.
Weight of ammunition box containing one filled belt, Mark VI 21
lbs., Mark VII 19½ lbs.
The gun may be considered as divided into two portions—the non-
recoiling and the recoiling. It is worked automatically by two forces—
the explosion of the charge which forces the recoiling portion
backwards, and a strong spring (called the fusee spring) which
carries it forward.

Non-Recoiling Portion.

The non-recoiling portion consists of the barrel casing and breech

casing, and is attached to the mounting by the crosshead and
elevating joint pins.
The barrel casing is of gunmetal, holding about seven pints of
water to keep the barrel cool when firing; it has three openings, one
on the upper right side near the breech for filling, one underneath
near the muzzle for drawing off the water, and the third (also near
the muzzle) for allowing the steam, but not the water, to escape. The
first two are closed with screwed plugs; the last is open and
connected with the steam tube, and carries the condenser nipple.
A cork plug is provided which can be inserted in the steam escape
hole when the gun is travelling, in order to prevent waste of water
from jolting. The plug should always be taken out before
commencing to fire, and put in again before the gun changes
position, unless the condenser is attached to the barrel casing and
can be conveniently moved with the gun.
To prevent the escape of water, there is at the forward end of the
barrel casing asbestos packing, which is held in position round the
barrel by the packing gland. At the rear end of the barrel there is a
cannelure, also filled with asbestos packing, which prevents the
escape of water when the gun is working, and a gunmetal valve
immediately in front of the barrel block, which prevents the escape of
water when the gun is not firing and the barrel home.
The steam tube consists of a fixed tube and an outer tube, termed
the slide valve, so arranged as to slide freely along the fixed tube. In
the fixed tube there is a hole near each end, and a third hole in the
threaded portion in front, to connect with the steam escape hole
which is bored in the solid part of the front end of the barrel casing.
This tube is fixed into the solid end of the barrel casing, and is
retained in position by a screw which, being kept in adjustment by a
keeper screw, ensures that the third hole coincides with the steam
escape hole. At the breech end it fits into a recess.
If the gun is fired with elevation, the valve slides backwards, and,
closing up the hole at the rear end of the tube, prevents the water
entering; at the same time it leaves the front hole uncovered, which,
being above the water level, allows the steam to enter the tube and
escape through the steam escape hole in the barrel casing. Similarly,
if the gun is fired with depression, the valve slides forward and
allows the steam, but not the water, to escape through the rear hole.
In the lower part of the barrel casing is the ejector tube through
which the empty cartridge cases are ejected from the gun. The tube is
fitted with a spring, which prevents the cases falling backwards into
the gun.
The breech casing consists of two outside plates, a bottom plate
which is riveted to them, and the rear cross piece, the whole being
closed by a cover.
The outside plates are dovetailed into the barrel casing, and,
together with the cover, are secured by means of a cover joint pin.
On the outside of the right hand plate there are the following
fittings:—(1) a socket and stud for securing and supporting the buffer
spring; (2) the resistance piece, and (3) the stud for the check lever.
On the outside of the left hand plate are three studs for holding the
fusee spring box, the rear one being on the slide mentioned below;
there are also two other studs on this plate for fixing a shoulder piece
to the gun if required. In both plates are slots partly closed by slides,
in which the crank bearings move, and on the inside of both plates
are solid cams which control the path of the extractor. Below these,
and supporting the side plates, are rests, along which the recoiling
portion travels.
Along the bottom plate lies the trigger bar, and underneath is a
bracket to which the elevating gear is attached by means of the
elevating joint pin.
The outside plates are connected at the rear end by the rear cross
piece, into which they both dovetail; this piece is fitted with (1)
hollow handles, which are also used for carrying oil, and are closed
by milled heads, fitted with camel-hair brushes; (2) a firing lever and
spring, the lower end of which fits into the trigger bar, while the
upper end is provided with a double button for firing; (3) an
automatic double-handed safety catch, which is so arranged that
unless it is held up the firing lever cannot be pressed forward; and
(4) a pivoted shutter, which, when moved to the right or left,
uncovers an aperture through which (when the lock is removed and
the crank handle vertical) the barrel can be inspected or cleaned
from the rear.
The cover is fitted with (1) springs to ensure the extractor dropping
on recoil; (2) a gunmetal block to keep the lock down when back, and
(3) at the rear end, a lock to fasten it. On the upper surface is the
tangent sight, consisting of a stem, a graduated plate and slide.
Running through the centre of the slide is a pinion, the teeth of
which work in the rack on the stem. A pawl is secured to the pinion
by a fixing pin. On the under side of one end of the pawl are teeth,
which engage in the circular rack on the slide.
When the slide is at rest the stud on the inside of the milled head
(nearest the slot for the slide spring) bears on the stud on the pawl
immediately over the teeth, being actuated by the slide spring, thus
forcing the teeth into the circular rack. This keeps the slide stationary
on the stem. On rotating the milled head, this stud is partly
disengaged from the stud on the pawl, thus permitting a second stud
on the milled head to press on one side of the V-shaped ramp at the
other end of the pawl. This action releases the teeth sufficiently to
permit the pawl being moved round the circular rack by the action of
the stud bearing on one side of the V-shaped ramp on the pawl; this
moves the slide along the stem. On releasing the milled head, the
spring positions the cover, thus causing the stud on the pawl to
become once more engaged with the stud on the milled head and
force the teeth into the rack.

Recoiling Portion.

The recoiling portion (which is mounted inside the non-recoiling

portion) consists of a barrel and two side plates which carry the lock
and the crank.
The barrel is coated with copper to protect it from rust; the
gunmetal valve referred to above, which prevents the escape of water
to the rear, is fitted just in front of the breech end, which is formed in
the shape of a block; this block has two studs, one on each side,
called the barrel trunnions, by means of which the barrel is attached
to the side plates.
The side plates are each provided with a hole to receive the barrel
trunnions, and in the case of the ·303-in. gun, with hooks for
engaging the recesses on the top of the barrel block; also guides in
which the flanges of the lock move, which are enlarged at the rear
end to act as crank stops; in addition each has a bearing, through
which the crank passes, thus connecting the latter with the barrel;
these bearings move in slots in the breech casing. The left side plate
is fitted with a connecting rod spring to hold the connecting rod
upright when the lock is removed, and the right side plate is fitted
with a side plate spring near the barrel, to keep the extractor in its
highest position when the lock is home. The left side plate is
prolonged to the front, and has a recess in which the bottom lever of
the feed block engages.
The crank is fitted with a connecting rod, which is free to rotate on
the crank pin, and, outside the breech casing on the right, with a
handle which has a curved projecting arm, and on the left with a
fusee, to which is attached a chain.
 The connecting rod is attached to the crank by means of an axis
pin, called the crank pin, and is arranged to take the lock by means of
an interrupted screw, thereby connecting the crank and the lock. The
connecting rod is divided into two parts, enabling its length to be
increased by inserting washers of varying thicknesses. By this means
it is ensured that a firm pressure is kept on the base of the cartridge
at the moment of firing, thus preventing separations.
On the left of the breech casing there is a strong spiral spring,
called the fusee spring, the rear end of which is connected by the
fusee chain and fusee with the crank; the front end is attached to the
breech casing by means of the fusee spring box and adjusting screw,
which passes through the front end of the fusee spring box, and
through the nut at the front end of the spring.
The lock is attached to the connecting rod by the screwed head,
and when in the firing position closes the breech. In this position it is
held by the side levers, the crank (which bears against stops on the
side plates), and the connecting rod, the joint being slightly above
the horizontal, to prevent the breech being opened at the moment of
firing. The lock has a reciprocating motion communicated to it by the
rotation of the crank, and is kept in position during its backward and
forward movements by means of flanges working in guides on the
side plates, and, when at the end of its backward travel and clear of
the guides, by the gunmetal block underneath the cover.
The extractor is moved upwards by means of the side and extractor
levers, and when in its highest position, is retained there by means of
the side plate spring; this ensures the hole for the firing pin being
opposite the centre of the base of the cartridge when the lock is
home. The upward and downward movements of the extractor are
regulated by guide ribs and stops; the upper stop forms part of the
lock casing, and the lower one is removable.
The feed block, which fits under the cover into a recess cut in the
breech casing, is provided with a slide to which are attached two
pawls with springs, for the purpose of moving the cartridges from
right to left; the slide has a transverse motion given to it by means of
two levers which are fitted together; the top lever has a slot which
engages a stud on the slide, and on the bottom lever is a stud which
engages in a recess in the left side plate; by this means the slide is
connected with the recoiling portion. The feed block has also two