Classical Ear

Throughout history, classical composers have written pieces based on all kinds of stories; but only one composer has ever undertaken the daunting task of telling 1001 stories in a single composition. While most composers would never dare to attempt the assimilation of such a wide range of stories into a single piece of music, Nikolai Rimski-Korsakov took the challenge upon himself. In 1888, he composed the colorful and fantastically imaginative symphonic suite, Scheherazade. However, Rimski-Korsakov never actually believed that he would be able to retell the magnificent stories of the Arabian Nights through a single symphonic suite. Instead, he condensed the Nights into four distinct literary themes, and transformed those themes into melodies. By intertwining and embellishing these musical motifs throughout the suite, Rimsky-Korsakov inadvertently succeeded in “retelling” the Nights to an astounding degree of accuracy and detail. Although Scheherazade was never meant to deliver the full narrative of the Arabian Nights, the piece manages to illustrate almost every facet of the book without being restricted by the actual storyline.

Nikolay Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov was born in 1844 in the small provincial town of Tikhvin, only 200 kilometers east of St. Petersburg. Young Nikolay’s musical talents were apparent from an early age, writing his very first composition at the age of ten. As Nikolay came of age, he was persuaded by his older brother Voin, a distinguished naval officer, to join the Russian Navy. In 1862, Nikolay reached a pivotal point in his musical career. While composing his first symphony, he was drafted for a three year tour-of-duty in the Navy. Instead of choosing between his musical career and his naval duties, Rimsky-Korsakov received the best of both worlds; he continued to compose while on board the man-o’-war Almaz, and imbued his music with the military marches, folk songs, and oceanic themes that he took from his surroundings. In fact, the “Wave motif” would become one of the most important aspects of his most famous piece, Scheherazade. His naval voyages took him all over the world, from northwestern Russia to London, to Niagara Falls, to Rio de Janeiro. Ultimately, however, he found himself ill-suited for a life of seafaring, and joined a classical conservatory where he learned from the esteemed Mily Balakirev, eventually becoming an erudite musical scholar. By the late 1860s, Rimsky-Korsakov’s compositions were being performed alongside Balakirev’s.

The late 1860s also saw the rise of three other innovative Russian composers: César Cui, Modest Mussorgsky, and Alexander Borodin. Unified by a commitment to a unique brand of nationalistically Russian music, the five composers formed a fellowship, aptly known as “The Five,” or alternatively, “The Mighty Handful.” The Five were dedicated to the musical styles of their heritage, and opposed the stale European styles that had come to dominate most conservatory training programs. Every one of Rimsky-Korsakov’s compositions produced after the late 1860s may be considered to be the result of the Mighty Handful’s collective sanction. Therefore, Scheherazade was not simply the composition of a single person, but the result of a combined effort by a respected group of accomplished Russian composers (Humphreys 2007-2009).

By 1888, Rimsky-Korsakov had become a noteworthy professor at the St. Petersburg Conservatory and Balakirev’s deputy at Court Kapella where he had grown familiar with the music of the Russian Orthodox Church. He had enjoyed a great amount of success in his career, both in terms of money and fame. Rimsky-Korsakov’s ebullience was further uplifted by the birth of his daughter, Masha, that very year. The summer of 1888 marked the height of his productivity. With his entire family and his newfound scholarship, experience, and wealth, Rimsky-Korsakov moved to the rustic estate of Glindki-Mavriny on Cheryemenyetskoye Lake with the intention of writing a grand-scale orchestral composition based on certain episodes from Arabian Nights, or as he preferred to call it, “Shekherazada” (Rimsky-Korsakoff 1923). After only a single summer on the estate, he had finished all four movements of the piece that would one day become his most celebrated composition.

The frame story of the Arabian Nights is one of the most famous tales in all of Oriental literature. The mere mention of the name “Scheherazade” evokes images of Sinbad’s ship, flying carpets, demons trapped in urns, and ‘Ali Baba’s famous phrase “Open Sesame!” Unsurprisingly, Rimsky-Korsakov hoped to use this to his advantage when he wrote his orchestral suite. On the title page of the musical score of Scheherazade, Rimsky-Korsakov describes the frame story in his own words, setting the mood for the entire piece:

The Sultan Schahriar, persuaded of the falseness and faithlessness of women, had sworn to have each one of his wives put to death after the first night. But the Sultana Scheherazade saved her life by interesting him in the stories which she narrated for a thousand an one nights. Impelled by curiosity, the Sultan remitted the punishment of his wife day after day, and finally renounced entirely his bloodthirsty resolution.

Many wonderful things were told Schahriar by the Sultana Scheherazade. In her narratives the Sultana drew on the poets for their verses, on folksongs for their words, and intermingled tales and adventures with one another.

Rimsky-Korsakov, 1889.

This introduction to the piece is not simply for show. It instills the extraordinary circumstances of the frame story in every musician’s mind and even gives the conductor insights on how to conduct the orchestra. Rather than viewing the piece as an ordinary symphony, the conductor now knows to view the piece more as a fairy tale, with each musical phrase symbolizing a spellcasting demon, or a chest of golden riches, or a narrow escape from certain peril. In fact, the images associated with Arabian Nights are helpful for both the musicians and for the audience. Any instrumentalist can attest to the fact that imagery is invaluable to a musician. For instance, it gives guidance to those who may not know exactly how the music is meant to be played. Imagery also allows for more liberated musical expression. As Marin Alsop says, “The best performances are ones where the soloists understand the larger story and then add their own personal touches and insights into the mix. To have a harpist who can transform the evening with three chords or a violinist capable of weaving surprise, suspense and sensuality into the many appearances of Scheherazade, is truly magical” (Alsop 2007). Similarly, if a musician knows that the melodies are meant to emulate classical Oriental and Middle Eastern themes, he may take certain liberties in tempo and dynamics in order to mimic Persian musical traditions. As stated above, the imagery associated with the Arabian Nights is helpful to the audience as well. If a listener is unfamiliar with Scheherazade, it is unlikely that he/she will automatically be able to associate the music with Middle Eastern motifs, let alone be able to associate it with the Nights. A perfect example of this phenomenon is often observed with Mozart’s Rondo alla Turka, or “Turkish March.” When Mozart wrote the piece, it apparently sounded extremely Turkish in both style and melody. But apparently, the Viennese idea of “what sounds Turkish” is quite different than anyone else’s. Additionally, what “sounded Turkish” in Mozart’s time (200 years ago) is very different from what “sounds Turkish” today. Similarly, an audience may have trouble forming mental images or cultural inferences from the music alone; yet, as soon as an audience member sees “Scheherazade” written on the program, the imagery flows forth like a river.

The piece itself is a stylistic masterpiece. Every aspect of the music – melodies, harmonies, rhythms, embellishments, dynamics, tempos – is reminiscent of the themes of storytelling and adventure. Before composing the piece, Rimsky-Korsakov realized that an attempt to tell the full story of the Arabian Nights in perfect chronological order would be constraining, impractical, unrealistic, and ultimately purposeless. Instead, he chose something much simpler and much more unique, deciding to write Scheherazade as a completely normal symphonic suite. He chose a few main themes and worked with them throughout the entire length of the score: “I had in view the creation of an orchestral suite in four movements, closely knit by the community of its themes and motives, yet presenting, as it were, a kaleidoscope of fairy-tale images and designs of oriental character” (Rimsky-Korsakoff 1923). Just like an ordinary symphony, the piece has a strong prelude, a scherzo-like second movement, a romantic and mellifluous third movement, and a tumultuous finale. Rimsky-Korsakov also added thickly Oriental overtones to the piece as a whole. Considering the fact that the piece is structured so ordinarily and so simply, it is a miracle that the piece resembles the Arabian Nights in the slightest. However, Rimsky-Korsakov ingeniously managed to pull all of his themes together by the end of the piece; and lest we forget that the mere mention of the name “Scheherazade” immediately evokes the corresponding images in our minds. In fact, the name of each movement is a particular reference to the story: The movements are named “The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship,” “The Tale of the Kalendar Prince,” “The Young Prince and the Young Princess,” and the rather confusing “Festival At Baghdad, The Sea, The Ship Breaks against a Cliff Surmounted by a Bronze Horseman” (London Symphony Orchestra 1990). All of these devices, in conjunction with one another, provide for a thrilling, colorful evocation of the Nights.

Upon finishing the composition of Scheherazade in the late summer of 1888, Rimsky-Korsakov had no idea that his piece would reach such levels of fame and admiration. In his memoir, My Musical Life, he confesses the fact that Scheherazade is only loosely related to the actual story of the Nights: “In vain do people seek in my suite leading motives linked unbrokenly with ever the same poetic ideas and conceptions. On the contrary, in the majority of cases, all these seeming leitmotivs are nothing but purely musical material or the given motives for symphonic development” (Rimsky-Korsakoff 1923). This excerpt seems unduly hyperbolic and almost cynical to one who has witnessed the majesty of the piece itself. How can the composer of such an epic masterpiece be so pessimistic about the literary validity of his music? On the whole, of course, Rimsky-Korsakov was correct in claiming that the music is not flawlessly in sync with the book. However, he was remiss in believing that the leitmotifs of the suite are “purely musical,” used simply for “symphonic development.” Just as Rimsky-Korsakov was unaware of the success his piece would enjoy, it is quite possible that he was also unaware of the degree to which his symphony did, in fact, sync with the Arabian Nights – both the frame story, and the magnificent tales that Scheherazade recounts to the Sultan Shahrayar.

Although Rimsky-Korsakov may have underestimated the poetic accuracy of his suite, he was correct in his disapproval of the titles of the four movements. Originally, Rimsky-Korsakov had intended to name the movements “Prelude,” “Ballade,” “Adagio,” and “Finale.” However, the other members of The Five – along with Anatoly Lyadov, his old mentor – urged him to do away with the generic titles and replace them with actual references to the Nights. Rimsky-Korsakov was loath to oblige, but he eventually renamed the movements; even so, the new titles that he chose were purposefully vague. “The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship” does not refer to any specific tale of the Nights, but refers to the vessel that Sinbad drives on all seven of his adventures. No particular one of Sinbad’s voyages is specified. The second movement, “The Tale of the Kalendar Prince” fails to mention which of the three different Kalendar’s tales is being referenced. “The Young Prince and the Young Princess” is perhaps the vaguest of the four titles, as it is not made clear which of the countless princes and princesses are meant. Only in the fourth movement is a specific reference made to the Third Kalendar’s Tale, in which Prince Ajib, son of Khazib, survives a gruesome shipwreck (Mason 1918). Although Rimsky-Korsakov subsequently published a newer edition of Scheherazade in which these titles were removed, the Arabian Nights references seemed to stick. Even to this day, the four movements are usually listed with their full descriptive headings. The fact that he even agreed to change the names in the first place is a testament to his loyalty for his fellow Russian musicians of the “Mighty Handful.”

Rimsky-Korsakov realized that the Arabian Nights-related movement titles, though more poetic than the original titles, were completely meaningless. In his memoir, he writes at length about the importance of the musical themes, rather than the individual movements. Since the suite is not a story in itself, the names of the movements are insignificant. He offers the following example: “The unison phrase, as though depicting Scheherazade’s stern spouse at the beginning of the suite, appears as a datum, in the Kalendar’s Narrative, where there cannot, however, be any mention of Sultan Shahriar” (Rimsky-Korsakoff 1923). Additionally, the fanfare motif of the muted trombone and trumpet in the Kalendar’s Tale appears once again in the fourth movement, even though the Kalendar would not have attended the Festival at Baghdad. This gives rise to the question: Why did he even entertain the idea of adding such poetic titles to his movements when the movements had so little connection to their respective names? Rimsky-Korsakov answered: “In composing Shekherazada I meant these hints to direct but slightly the hearer’s fancy on the path which my own fancy had travelled, and to leave more minute and particular conceptions to the will and mood of each” (Rimsky-Korsakoff 1923). In other words, he wanted the listener to enjoy the piece for its musical value, not its metaphoric value. He wanted people to enjoy it as an oriental suite, full of magic and mystery, and not simply four pieces about the Arabian Nights epic. Why then, did he name the piece Scheherazade at all? Rimsky-Korsakov believed that the Arabian Nights could connote images of “fairy-tale wonders” more reliably than any other story of its kind, making it a perfect candidate for a majestic suite such as his. However, there is one, more meaningful reason that the piece retains the name of Scheherazade: every section of the piece seems to exhibit hints that it is told by a single person. Every movement has similarities that remain static throughout the entire piece, somehow suggesting that Scheherazade has been narrating the entire thing, just as she entertains Shahrayar in the Nights.

There are four primary musical motifs that Rimsky-Korsakov uses throughout the entire suite: the Sultan’s Theme, Scheherazade’s Theme, the Kalendar Prince’s Theme, and the Princess’s Theme. Of course, these names are arbitrary, but there is a certain degree of validity to them all. The first theme to be introduced is that of Sultan Shahrayar.

Taruskin, 1996.

The Sultan’s Theme embodies the character of Shahrayar in every way. First, simply by virtue of it’s prodigious volume. The above excerpt is denoted as “ff ” (fortissimo), connoting the Sultan’s stern and vicious nature. It also evokes an ambiance of danger and fear, thereby creating musical tension – tension that is almost always resolved by the soothing melody of Scheherazade’s Theme, which we will soon cover in great detail. This theme also manages to create tension in other ways than it’s sheer volume. For instance, the long trill in the third measure lasts for almost an entire four beats. Also, notice that the melody seems to follow the general outline of a downward-moving, four note line – the first notes of each measure are E, D, C, A# (Taruskin 1996). These four notes constitute a whole-tone scale between two tritones, E and A#. In music theory, the tritone is the most unsettling, tension-building interval of them all. Rimsky-Korsakov cleverly uses this whole-tone moving line to steadily build more and more tension as the theme progresses from start to finish. The theme is the very first thing to be played in the entire suite. It is blared enharmonically by every instrument in the brass section, creating an astounding effect. Not only does it begin the piece with a bang, but it also sets up at least half of the frame story. After only four measures of the piece, we have already met the vengeful Shahrayar, and we know that he has done something very evil. To those audience members already familiar with the Nights, we have learned within four measures that the homicidal Sultan has “sworn to marry for one night only and kill the woman the next morning, in order to save himself from the wickedness and cunning of women” (Haddawy, 14). The theme is played by brass instruments, further imbuing the melody with a sense of burly domination and unyielding cruelty. However, the motif becomes remarkably softened and more sweetly harmonized in the end of the first movement (played by solo flute, solo oboe, and solo clarinet), and briefly once again in the end of the fourth movement (played by the violin section). This, of course, connotes that the Sultan’s heart has been softened by Scheherazade’s endless tales.

As mentioned above, the Sultan’s Theme is almost always tempered by Scheherazade’s Theme. Although this second theme is played at least once by almost every solo instrument in the symphony orchestra, it is played predominantly by the solo violin.

Taruskin, 1996.

The musical effect of Scheherazade’s Theme is perhaps best described by conductor Marin Alsop: “Scheherazade [speaks] in the voice of the solo violin, weaving effortlessly up and down the instrument, like the mesmerizing sounds of a snake charmer. The harp offers three chords, sending us from consciousness to an altered state of being. Hypnosis in three easy steps” (Alsop 2007). The first word that comes to mind upon seeing the score of Scheherazade’s melody is “winding.” It is immediately visible from a single glance at the notes, that it rambles – precisely like the greatest raconteur in all of literature. When Alsop mentions that the harp “offers three chords,” he is making reference to one of Rimsky-Korsakov’s most favored devices. Whenever the solo violin has this melody, it is usually joined by the harp. The harp strikes a chord, which resonates for the entire measure of the theme, upon which the theme is repeated, but with a different chord from the harp. This happens three times, before the violin finally resolves it’s melody on the central tonic note (E). Since the melody revolves around its tonic so religiously, the theme never lapses into monotony, but presses impatiently forward. Of course, this is directly related to Scheherazade’s style of storytelling. While, she continues to spin her tales again and again for the king, and even though her stories may grow increasingly more enthralling and electrifying, she always remains grounded in her present situation (i.e. the frame story) and always keeps her objectives clearly visible before her. Also notice the gratuitous slurring that occurs across the subphrases of the melody. These assure that the violin contentedly meanders along the notes without even a single gap of silence. With the rhetorical repetitiveness of Scheherazade’s winding theme and the magnificently sweet chords of the harp, the combined effect is utterly gorgeous. While at times, the Sultan’s Theme transforms from brash and cruel into soft and sweet, Scheherazade’s Theme consistently remains soft and sweet all throughout the piece. The only possible variation is when Scheherazade’s tales become more adventurous and exciting. In these instances, the theme grows faster, lighter, and more curious. The time signature often changes from a steady 4/4 to a more swaying 6/4; since the winding melody is so elastic, essential notes can be lengthened and inessential notes can be shortened in order to befit the ambulatory swing of triple meter; additionally, the melody is no longer accompanied by the harp, but by an oscillating cello line, called the “Wave motive” (Mason 1918). This lends an aura of exhilaration to the motif, and also gives it the “rocking” likeness of being on a ship. Recall that Rimsky-Korsakov spent a good portion of his early life sailing with the Russian Naval Forces. Indeed, seafaring themes found their way into a great deal of his compositions, yet for Scheherazade, these themes are especially apt. Some of the most famous stories in all of the Arabian Nights are the tales of Sindbad, a sailor from Baghdad of noble birth. Sindbad leaves on his first naval voyage to regain the enormous fortune that his father had left him but that he had spent thriftlessly. The next six voyages, however, are motivated only by a lust for adventure. In each of Sindbad’s seven voyages, he “sails from place to place and from city to city, selling and buying, seeing the sights of the different countries and enjoying [his] voyage and [his] good luck and profit.” In every episode, he continues along this way until a misfortune befalls him and his crew, at which time the adventure begins (Haddawy, 47). Rimsky-Korsakov’s symphonic suite deals with the voyages of Sindbad; perhaps the composer was fascinated by Sindbad’s life on the high seas. In other words, it is no mystery why Rimsky-Korsakov was such a strong proponent of the cello’s Wave motive, which occurs in every one of the four movements. Combined with Scheherazade’s exquisite theme, Rimsky-Korsakov’s Wave motive in the violoncello continuo produces “one of the most memorable evocations of the sea in all music” (Mason 1918).

The third main theme of Scheherazade is introduced in the second movement, “The Kalendar Prince.” For this reason alone, the theme is referred to as the Kalendar’s Theme, for the motif bears no immediately apparent relationship with any of the three Kalendar’s stories (and it is not even clear which one is being referred to). In fact, this theme may as well belong to any one of Scheherazade’s 1001 stories. The theme serves mostly as a charming, scherzo-like interlude that bridges the gap between the first and third movements, which are both quite solemn. Yet, the Kalendar’s Theme is noted for its Oriental qualities, which are more pronounced than in any of the other three themes. For instance, it is filled with ornamental cadenzas, which are very common in most Eastern musical traditions. The Kalendar’s Theme is repeated in the fourth movement as a festival theme, with much more vigor and urgency. Of course, the three Kalendars did not partake in any festivals at Baghdad, nor did they play any role in the voyages of Sindbad; this confirms that many of the titles of themes and movements in Scheherazade are completely meaningless.

The fourth and final theme of the piece is the Princess’s Theme, used only in the third movement. The melody is lyrical and graceful, thickened with strong motifs of love. Once again, this theme does not represent any particular one of the 1001 stories, but illustrates the general themes of love and desire in the Nights. Like the Kalendar’s Theme, this melody is densely ornamented in a distinctly Oriental style. In the middle of the third movement, the theme becomes slightly more masculine: the melody becomes more upbeat and a snare drum is added, heralding the Princess’s counterpart, the Prince. The Prince’s “sub-theme” is heard only once more, in the fourth movement.

As mentioned above, Rimsky-Korsakov designed the movements of the piece mainly for the well-being of the piece’s structure. Only the themes themselves were related to certain aspects of the Arabian Nights. And despite the relevance of the themes to the story, Rimsky-Korsakov admitted that he used the themes only as musical devices in his generally Oriental-styled symphony:

The [motifs] thread and spread over all the movements of the suite, alternating and intertwining each with the other. Appearing as they do each time under different illumination, depicting each time different traits and expressing different moods, the self-same given motifs and themes correspond each time to different images, actions and pictures.

Rimsky-Korsakoff, 1923.

Although Rimsky-Korsakov was correct that the movements of the suite did not relate to the Nights whatsoever, he was far too pessimistic in believing that it was impossible to get an accurate depiction of the story from the piece as a whole. Rimsky-Korsakov likely did not even realize the great extent to which the piece makes logical sense from a narrative standpoint.

The first movement opens with an intimidating statement of the Sultan’s Theme. Immediately, we are presented with conflict – the conflict that King Shahrayar has decided to spend every night with a new woman, only to kill her the following morning. Even if the listener is not intimately familiar with the frame story of the Nights, the juxtaposition of the Sultan’s Theme with Scheherazade’s delicate, womanly theme may give clues as to the nature of the conflict. After the latter theme quells the mood of the former – and just as Scheherazade quells the King’s temper with her stories – the melody is repeated, but this time in a major mode, and accompanied by the swaying Wave motive of the cello. This marks the beginning of Scheherazade’s very first tale. The violin then modulates in between major and minor modes, denoting the twists and turns in her story that keep the Sultan ever interested. Rimsky-Korsakov also made sure to insert slight reminders of the Sultan’s Theme throughout Scheherazade’s story, primarily as an orchestral device, but also to remind the listener that the Sultan is listening quite intently as well. Scheherazade’s Theme grows louder, fuller, and more thickly harmonized throughout the movement, finally coming to its apex and floating down to its finish. The movement does not end with Scheherazade, but rather with a sweet, tranquil version of the Sultan’s theme, marking the first night of the King’s mercy and Scheherazade’s miraculous survival. Did the movement have anything to do with the voyages of Sindbad, as its name suggests? Not unless Scheherazade told that tale as her first story, which she did not, according to the book. Apparently, the only valid explanation of the title (“The Sea and Sindbad’s Ship”) is the cellos’ illustration of the sea motif.

Now that the audience has become sufficiently familiar with Scheherazade’s brilliant plan to survive the Sultan’s wrath, Rimsky-Korsakov uses his second movement as a quintessential, all-purpose story, simply to show that Scheherazade’s tales were endless. The movement, named after one of the three Kalendar Princes’ stories, is highly Oriental and extremely repetitive, making it nothing more than a plainly generic Scheherazadean bedtime story. This does not mean that the movement is less important than any of the others. It is meant to exemplify the adventure and excitement of hundreds upon hundreds of stories collectively. The movement ends in a single explosion of brilliance, bringing a rewarding conclusion to an adventurous movement.

To the contrary, the third movement is meant to exemplify the more passionate and romantic moments of Scheherazade’s stories. We hear mainly the flowing Princess’s Theme, broken only briefly by a slightly masculine sub-motif (with snare drum, hinting at the arrival of the Prince) and a short recapitulation of Scheherazade’s Theme – just another reminder that she is the spinner of these great yarns. The movement comes to a breathtaking climax in the second half of the movement, and ends with the lighthearted march of the so-called “Young Prince.”

In the fourth movement, we plunge unexpectedly into a roller-coaster grand finale, starting with a terse reminder of the Sultan who still refuses to be satisfied. Scheherazade’s Theme calms him, but not for long – the Sultan breaks into another fit of rage. Scheherazade replies again, this time more passionately, as if promising one final story. Suddenly, we are transported to the “Festivities at Baghdad” where we hear repetitions of many themes that are already familiar to us: the Kalendar’s Theme, the Young Prince’s motif, and a hurried version of Scheherazade’s Theme, as she tries desperately to satisfy him with her storytelling. The story becomes more and more tumultuous, with short interjections from the Sultan, as if he were saying “By God, I must postpone her execution until she finishes this tale!” (Haddawy, 1990). The music shifts quickly from “The Festival at Baghdad” to Sindbad’s shipwreck, although it might as well be any other story as well (as Rimsky-Korsakov correctly asserts). When the story comes to a scintillating culmination, we are pulled back to the frame story, where a deeply conflicted Sultan finally breaks his homicidal pledge with a final cry of exasperation. The clamor dies down, and Scheherazade’s Theme slowly intertwines with a tamed, subdued version of the Sultan’s Theme until all ends in peace.

Although it was not Rimsky-Korsakov’s intention, he was able to encapsulate most of the main characters and themes of the Arabian Nights in the four movements of his piece, producing a surprisingly accurate retelling of the story. By organizing the musical themes to best suit the structure of the piece, Rimsky-Korsakov had inadvertently retold the entire story, note for note. For instance, ending the suite by merging the piece’s two main melodies is a very satisfying way to end a symphony; and yet, the intertwining of Scheherazade’s Theme with the Sultan’s perfectly illustrates their eventual marriage to one another and the peace that ensues after the Sultan renounces his bloodthirsty pledge.

If Rimsky-Korsakov’s only purposeful allusions to the Nights were his four musical themes, might the piece have been improved by adding even more themes? Could the suite have been composed even more vividly if characters like Shahzaman, Sindbad, the demons, ‘Ali Baba, and ‘Ala al-Din were given themes as well? It probably would have made the piece longer, but not necessarily better. Rimsky-Korsakov used the bare minimum of themes from the book – Scheherazade, the Sultan, a motif of adventure and danger, and a motif of passion and desire. A four movement piece may not necessarily be enough room for the development of six/seven different themes, especially considering the extent to which Rimsky-Korsakov likes to tinker with and embellish each one. Also, adding more themes in an attempt to make the music more specific to the book, would have been counterproductive. By doing so, Rimsky-Korsakov would have constrained himself even more to the storyline, which would have made the composition feel forced and unnatural.

But then again, the objective of Scheherazade was not to retell the Arabian Nights, but to “connote in everybody’s mind [images of] the East and fairy-tale wonders” (Rimsky-Korsakoff, 1923). Rimsky-Korsakov’s Oriental motifs alone were enough to connote images of the East. His real accomplishment was transforming the book of 1001 Nights into only four movements. In its entirety, Scheherazade is a richly harmonic, exotically melodic, and brilliantly orchestrated piece that is well-deserved as Rimsky-Korsakov’s most esteemed composition.

Works Cited

Alsop, M. Rimsky-Korsakov Lets the Symphony Tell the Story. May 12, 2007. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=10139009 (accessed 2009).

Candlelight Stories. Arabian Nights: The Story of the First Kalendar, Son of a King. March 27, 2009. http://www.candlelightstories.com/2009/03/27/arabian-nights-the-story-of-the-first-kalendar-son-of-a-king/.

Haddawy, H. Sinbad and Other Stories from the Arabian Nights. New York City, London: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1995.

The Arabian Nights. New York City, London: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 1990.

Humphreys, M. Oxford Music Online: Nikolay Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov. 2007-2009. http://www.oxfordmusiconline.com/subscriber/article/grove/music/52074pg1 (accessed 2009).

London Symphony Orchestra. Scheherazade, Op.35. Cond. Kees Hulsmann. Comp. NA Rimsky-Korsakov. 1990.

Mason, DG. The Appreciation of Music, Vol. III: Short Studies of Great Masterpieces. New York City: The H.W. Gray Co., Novello & Co., 1918.

Minderovic, Z, and AL Malone. Nikolay Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov: Scheherazade, Symphonic Suite for Orchestra, op.35. http://www.daytonphilharmonic.com/content.jsp?articleId=528 (accessed 2009).

Rimsky-Korsakoff, NA. My Musical Life. New York City: Tudor Publishing Co., 1923.

Taruskin, R. Stravinsky and the Russian Traditions: A Biography of the Works Through Mavra, Vol. I. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1996.

Audacious, informal, and energetic, Brooklyn Rider performs music that is not only cross-cultural but also cross-genre. The string quartet is named after the city in which it is based – quite fitting, considering the fact that Brooklyn is most famous for its vibrant multicultural background. On Monday, February 16^th, the quartet gave a relaxed concert in FUEL, a trendy lounge in the basement of the Collis Center. Performing pieces that range from Franz Schubert and Philip Glass to Mexican rock and gypsy folk music, Brooklyn Rider seems to value pure musical enjoyment over technical prowess.

That night in FUEL, the quartet played seven extremely diverse pieces that were (paradoxically) united by a theme of cross-culturalism. After all the pieces had been performed, I was confused by the strange amalgam, but astounded by the sheer energy that the musicians had channeled. I was also amazed by the ease with which the musicians were able to shift from piece to piece (genre to genre, culture to culture, etc.) so seamlessly, as if no transition were taking place at all. After the concert, Johnny Gandelsman, the first violinist, was sure to explain the incongruousness of the repertoire that we had just heard. “This music,” he told us, “is so diverse, but [it] has no boundaries.” Only then was it apparent that the pieces were united by the diversity itself. Switching from traditional Japanese flute music to a jazzy blues melody was just as easy as walking from the Irish side of the street to the Jewish side of the street in Brooklyn, New York. The transitions were not meant to be jarring, but liberating.

The first piece of the night was called “Brooklesca,” which – judging from a quick glance at Brooklyn Rider’s website – is one of their most popular pieces. The piece, written by second violinist Colin Jacobsen, is a fast and vigorous adventure that combines gypsy themes, Spanish motifs, and American “hillbilly” fiddle, all in a vaguely classical milieu. Although that may sound confusing, the piece came together as a heart-pounding masterpiece, much of which was improvised. During one of Gandelsman’s improvised solos, the cellist (Eric Jacobsen) even cracked a giggle! I also noticed that Gandelsman held his bow about four inches above the frog, allowing for greater versatility while sacrificing power. Unfortunately, this technique seemed to produce a couple of missed notes and some faulty intonation during some parts of the concert. The second piece was Philip Glass’s Company. Despite its repetitiveness, the musicians made it remarkably dynamic and gave it direction without taking too much artistic freedom. The next piece was a somber theme in variations by Schubert, which completely changed the mood; however, the musicians seemed disconnected. The intense connection that existed in some of the other pieces was severed during the Schubert, perhaps because there was less room for improvisation and embellishment. Next, the quartet played La Muerte Chiquita, a tune made popular by a Mexican rock band. Full of glissandos, heavy pizzicatos, and percussive tapping, the piece had a spirited attitude. The fifth piece was a collaboration with shakuhachi player, Kojiro Umezaki. Despite my initial disbelief, the string instruments blended perfectly with the traditional Japanese flute, mostly through call-and-response imitation. Even though Umezaki frequently improvised and made great use of microtones (in between the notes of the normal tonal scale) the string players were able to copy him flawlessly. The concert ended with a piece written by Gandelsman’s cousin, called Cross Town, a mimetic representation of a bus ride through Brooklyn, plagued by traffic and constant honking. As expected, the piece was comedically excruciating and playfully discordant, full of false starts and random changes in tempo. The piece was folksy and lyrical, and included Umezaki at one point as well.

While Brooklyn Rider may not always be as technically proficient as other string quartets, it is certainly more playful and diverse. By constantly experimenting with their instruments and playing music from all around the world, the quartet embodies the cross-culturalism of Brooklyn with avant-garde flair.

When music is brought out of its original environment, almost anything can happen. The slightest change in context could elicit fascination, horror, enjoyment, confusion, or controversy. Recontextualizing music always poses a risk, for it is almost impossible to tell whether the result will be a success or a failure. Yet, as a general rule, musical recontextualization is most successful when the music itself is left unaltered and unadulterated. If the components of a piece are sacrificed for any reason, it will ultimately be detrimental to the aesthetic value of the music. By examining Ravi Shankar’s West Meets East, Brooklyn Rider’s Brooklesca, and the heavy metal sub-culture of the Muslim world, we will find that musical recontextualization is most successful when the content of the music is left alone.

Musical recontextualization is the process of performing, introducing, or listening to music in a foreign environment or situation, thereby changing its context. For example, the incorporation of a Chinese zither into a symphony orchestra is as much an example of recontextualization as a string quartet performing in a rural town in Northern Ghana. The possible reasons for musical recontextualization are limitless – some might be motivated by sheer artistic curiosity, while others might be motivated by a deep-seated yearning for political freedom. In all cases, however, musical recontextualization seems to be primarily exploitative rather than liberating; people usually change the context of music for their own purposes, not for the sake of the music itself.

In a collection of songs called West Meets East (1967), Ravi Shankar collaborated with Yehudi Menuhin to produce a completely new sound: sitar, tabla, and violin. In this case, the violin, a Western instrument, was inserted into a Hindustani classical context. This artistic recontextualization attempted to transform the style of a traditional Indian ensemble to include a classical violin. In order for this to occur successfully, Menuhin astutely realized that he could not simply mimic the sound of a sitar with his violin, for this would be a shallow, insignificant, and ineffective way to recontextualize his instrument. Instead, recontextualization had to be achieved through flexibility without sacrifice. Menuhin manages to achieve a cohesive tone with the sitar without sacrificing the distinctly Western sound of the classical violin. But despite Menuhin’s success, the most that the two musicians are ever able to accomplish is simple “call and response”; Menuhin plays a vaguely Indian-sounding riff, and Shankar copies it (or vice versa). One particular piece, Swara Kakali, relies almost exclusively on call and response throughout its entirety. Unfortunately, mimicry does not always make for good fusion. Successful fusion is the result of different styles that coexist with as few sacrifices as possible. A traditional Indian piece is built upon the variations of a basic melody, which is played in the beginning. However, a simple call and response technique makes this piece boring, repetitive, and distinctly non-Indian. In this particular case, successful recontextualization is dependent on successful cross-cultural fusion. Since Menuhin and Shankar sacrificed the virtues of Indian music in the pursuit of fusion, West Meets East fails to successfully recontextualize the violin.

To the contrary, Brooklyn Rider’s Brooklesca, written by second violinist Colin Jacobsen, successfully recontextualizes gypsy (Romani) themes, Spanish flamenco motifs, and “hillbilly” fiddle, to be performed by a classical string quartet. The piece transforms these completely disparate styles through geographic, social, and artistic recontextualization. Gypsy music comes from Romania and Hungary, flamenco music comes from Spanish Andalusia, and the “old-time” fiddle comes from Southwestern American folk music; yet Brooklyn Rider unites them all in the borough of Brooklyn, New York, the city for which the group is named. Brooklyn’s extreme diversity allows the quartet to geographically recontextualize their music. Mirroring the diversity of the city’s people, the group prides itself in its ability to recontextualize diverse musical themes. Therefore, their recontextualizations are shaped by social forces as well geographic forces, since Brooklyn’s very society is reflected in the group’s music. Brooklesca successfully achieves artistic recontextualization in the exact way that West Meets East fails to do so: it incorporates gypsy, Spanish, and hillbilly styles without sacrificing their individual components. This is facilitated by the fact that all three styles are usually performed with string instruments. In the piece, Jacobsen manages to show that the three styles actually aren’t that different from each other under the right circumstances – this is the very meaning of flexibility. The piece maintains a driving rhythm through the heavy pizzicato in the bass line, and incorporates lighthearted glissandos that are quite typical of Romani, flamenco, and hillbilly music. Ultimately, the entire piece comes together as a heart-pounding masterpiece, uniting all three styles with energy and spirit. Even though the piece surely represented the society and culture(s) of Brooklyn, the recontextualization was, once again, exploitative rather than liberating. Jacobsen used the three different styles in order to suit the vivacious tone of the piece, not to prove the universality of the styles themselves.

As previously mentioned, musical recontextualization is most successful when the music itself remains as unchanged as possible. For this reason, the Muslim heavy metal rock movement is one of the most successful examples of recontextualization in the history of music. In Morocco, Pakistan, and Egypt, hundreds of thousands of young Muslims are “headbanging” along with the songs of Cannibal Corpse, Led Zeppelin, Megadeth, and Metallica. Even though it began in the United States in the early 1970s, heavy metal has found a new context in the Muslim Middle East. This social and geographic recontextualization has drastically shaped the function and meaning of the music. Men and women gather and listen to the intense songs as a form of sociopolitical protest against their tyrannical governments and oppressive societies. Reda Zine, one of the founders of the Moroccan heavy metal movement, explains: “We play heavy metal because our lives are heavy metal.” Not only is the music a form of protest, but also a form of catharsis, a way to contextualize their lives with non-government sanctioned music. The music reflects the strife that Muslims feel from daily war, violence, poverty, misogyny, and starvation, providing an artistic release and a means of rebellion. This subculture is thriving every day, which holds true to the primary claim of this essay: when the music itself is left in its most original state, recontextualization is highly facilitated. For instance, Muslim headbangers do not listen to songs in Arabic, but in English. In this way, the musical integrity of the genre remains uncompromised.

If done correctly, musical recontextualization has the power to transform the style, function, and meaning of a piece through social, political, geographic, economic, and artistic forces. By scrutinizing the respective successes and failures of West Meets East, Brooklesca, and the Islamic heavy metal movement, it is apparent that the key to effective recontextualization is flexibility without sacrifice. Menuhin and Shankar sacrificed the structure and tone of their music in an attempt to allow for smoother fusion between their two foreign instruments. In comparison, the Muslim heavy metal movement recontextualizes pure, original Black Sabbath and Grateful Dead songs. Thus, failure and success are in direct relation to the extent in which the musical styles were altered in order to befit the context. Ultimately, the context should only be changed if the content is left alone. The purest music is the best music.

Combining the musical traditions of different cultures is a risky endeavor. By merging different kinds of music, it is almost guaranteed that certain aspects of each style will be omitted in order to befit the piece as a whole. Therefore, it is often difficult to gauge whether or not a musical “fusion” has been successful, and such a claim is always in the eye of the beholder. Philip Glass’s Orion, for instance, is a unique piece that incorporates music of many different cultures in a distinctly classical milieu. Unfortunately, the piece falls short of achieving multicultural fusion, and instead, only manages to represent a slew of culturally diverse instruments.

“Musical fusion” can be described as the blending of two or more musical traditions or genres in a single piece of music. In successful scenarios, these different styles complement each other, resulting in a piece that is both elegant and aesthetically pleasing. Every region of the globe has its own unique, proprietary styles and traditions, making cross-cultural fusion extremely difficult to coordinate. A piece that incorporates a Tuvan throat singer, a sitar, and a French horn, for instance, would seem awkward to almost anybody. It takes a skilled and open-minded composer to conceptualize such a blend of traditions.

In Orion, Glass attempts to bring together the traditions of seven different countries from all corners of the globe: Australia, China, Canada, Gambia, Brazil, India, and Greece. He wrote the piece for the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens, which explains his desire to promote pan-culturalism and global unity. As Glass himself explained, “Orion, the largest constellation in the night sky, can be seen at all times of year, from both hemispheres… And so the star-studded skies, seen from every corner of our planet, inspired [me] to present a multicultural, international, musical composition” (http://www.greekworks.com). Glass hoped to demonstrate the harmony in which all human beings coexist, while simultaneously preserving the uniqueness of every civilization’s musical heritage. To a certain extent, Glass does what he sets out to do. The Australia movement features the Aboriginal didgeridoo, which keeps a constant drone below the rest of the ensemble. Similarly, China features the pipa (stringed lute), while Canada illustrates the indigenous country-folk style of music with the Celtic fiddle. The Gambia movement features a Mandingo griot, while Brazil features some indigenous percussion instruments and various bells. India is portrayed by its most famous national instrument, the sitar. The piece comes to a momentous end with Greece, which employs a somewhat haunting folk song, rewritten by Glass. There are three brief interludes that connect some of the movements, allowing for further collaboration between the various instruments. In the first interlude, for example, the pipa playfully interacts with the didgeridoo in an improvised vignette.

Ultimately, however, Orion’s shortcomings outnumber its accomplishments. Instead of creating music that is fresh and original, Glass relies on his signature style of articulated arpeggios throughout most of the piece. In fact, the indigenous instruments are mostly auxiliary in the grand scheme of Orion. In the first movement, Glass does not blend American and Australian musical traditions; instead, he uses the didgeridoo as a singular representation of Australian music in an otherwise classical piece. Instead of merging musical traditions with each other, Glass tries to unite them with techniques that are largely derived from his repertoire of compositions. Even the interludes are pointless – they are brief experiments in which two completely different instruments are juxtaposed without any overarching structures or themes. In this sense, any true cross-cultural dialogues are overshadowed by the overemphasized dissimilarities between the instruments. Therefore, the didgeridoo, the pipa, and the sitar are reduced to mere puppets in a grandiose, somewhat pretentious, cross-cultural hodgepodge of global sounds.

“There is no way to the extracting of [the heart’s] hidden things save by the flint and steel of listening to music and singing, and there is no entrance to the heart save by the ante-chamber of the ears.”

Nasr, 1997

Sufi Muslims, who observe a mystical dimension of Islam, are renowned for their rich musical tradition. Their instruments are quite simple and their songs are usually mere incantations of poetry – the music itself is not stylistically extraordinary; rather, it is the resulting musically-induced state of divine ecstasy (wajad) that matters most. This musical trance is most apparent in the meditative dances of the so-called Whirling Dervishes. The famous Sufi poet Jalal al-Din Rumi claimed that listening to Sufi music was like listening to the divine creaking of the gates of Heaven, and was always astounded by how such deeply spiritual music could come from such worthless inanimate materials as wood and string (Schimmel 1995). The remarkable power of Sufi music to separate one’s mind and body is essential in helping Sufis to attain spiritual ecstasy.

Sufis are not moved to sing and dance by virtue of the music itself, but rather by the intangible, spiritual aura that the music engenders. This part of the music is supposedly experienced by our highest auditory faculty, which is known in Arabic as sirr. Most pieces feature a singer, a reed flute, and percussion, such as drums and tambourines. They are always paced at a rather brisk tempo, as if to facilitate dancing. The dancing is unique as well: it involves whirling in place (counterclockwise) with one arm pointed toward the heavens and one arm pointed toward the earth. In such a position, dervishes aim to channel divine energy which enters and exits through their extended arms; this musical trance can allow a dancer to “take the human being out of himself, [bringing] him into another sphere” (Schimmel 1995).

The tradition of whirling dance began as early as the ninth century, but has only recently been experiencing a revival in some Islamic countries. In the beginning, scholars would meet every great while in order to relax after many days of intense religious exercises. During these reprieves, the scholars would have an opportunity to forget their rigorous studies and contemplate love and divinity while listening to traditional Sufi music, known as sama (Nasr 1997). In these states of clairvoyant reflection, people would stand up and whirl about, lost in musical rapture. Sama also refers to the whirling dance, which pervades all of creation. As Rumi astutely notes, the movement of whirling is universal: “Out of this dance, stars and suns, atoms, animals, and flowers emerge, all of them moved by the creative Divine music” (Schimmel 1995). The dancing is a result of being completely taken over by the power of the music, and completely overwhelmed by emotion (Erguner 2005).

Sufi music is also said to have healing powers. Music was introduced as a form of magical therapy in the medieval Muslim world, and its efficacy was well known. In fact, such therapy is still used in Turkey, India, and many areas of central Europe. In the “music clinics” of the past, large central basins would slowly drip water into small pools; the soft sound of falling water, coupled with the trance-inducing music, was known to cure both physical and mental illnesses. This further illustrates how Sufi music was viewed as having magic qualities (Schimmel 1995).

Intriguingly, many of the instruments themselves are said to have great metaphorical value, especially the ney (otherwise known as the reed flute). The musical tone of the ney is very close to the sound of the human voice, and it is said to have a very personal relationship with whoever plays it. The ney requires the musician’s breath, and the instrument uses it to “sing.” The reedflute is often compared to the human being; starting its life as a reed, it is removed from its home on the riverbed, evoking a state of separation. It is only said to be reconnected once it is being played by a human’s lips. Rumi claims that the reedflute has become “the unsurpassable expression of the soul’s constant longing for its homeland in God’s infinity.”

The ney’s mournful tone is reminiscent of a man’s voice during supplication. It is also said that a reedflute can carry secrets, and reveal them upon being played aloud. These anthropomorphic qualities – keeping secrets, having a voice, having breath – are representative of a human’s “pure spirit” before it is covered in flesh (Erguner 2005). Additionally, the drum and the tambourine are representative of the lover, “for without the touch of the beloved’s fingers, the drum would be silent” (Schimmel 1995). Evidently, Sufi instruments are regarded as far more than instruments; they are almost like separate beings, in and of themselves.

Abu Hamid al-Ghazzali once said, “There is no way to the extracting of [the heart’s] hidden things save by the flint and steel of listening to music and singing, and there is no entrance to the heart save by the ante-chamber of the ears” (Nasr 1997). Indeed, music does have the mysterious quality of being able to deeply affect us all. Yet, for the Sufi Muslims, music has an even greater power: to forge a connection with God. Their musical traditions are different from those of Western culture in almost every way. Their instruments have near-human significance, their music is believed to have healing powers, and their dancing has the power to achieve spiritual ecstasy. By integrating song and dance with prayer and meditation, Sufi mysticism is perhaps one of the most musical religions in the world.

In Where Rivers and Mountains Sing, Theodore Levin and Valentina Süzükei describe a musical technique called sound mimesis, the act of intentionally re-enacting and re-presenting a sound from our environment. Jean Sibelius’s tone poem, The Swan of Tuonela, is a musical depiction of a scene from the Kalevala epic of Finnish mythology. The scene takes place in the underworld (Tuonela), where a mysterious swan presides over the treacherous Tuoni River. Sibelius mimetically represents the swan with the cor anglais, which floats above the rest of the orchestra throughout the piece. Although this mimetic technique differs greatly from the Tuvan sound mimesis described in Levin’s book, Sibelius’s piece flawlessly combines the image of a swan with the ominous and haunted atmosphere of the underworld.

Levin and Süzükei describe mimesis as the act of imitating sounds from one’s environment. However, they are also certain to differentiate between mimicry, imitation, and mimesis. Mimicry is described as “an attempt to render as exact a duplicate as possible.” Imitation is the act of copying a phenomenon, but not to the literal extent of mimicry. Conversely, mimesis “adds a representational dimension to imitation.” Mimesis has a complex metaphoric basis. It involves copying a sound from one’s environment, but it also involves imbuing that sound with one’s own personality and style. In fact, not only sounds, but also places and inanimate objects can be represented through mimesis (Levin, 2006).

In the Kalevala epic, Lemminkäinen, the hero, hopes to win the hand of the Mistress of Pohjola in marriage. In order to prove his worth, he agrees to complete two daunting tasks: to hunt and kill the Elk of Hiisi, and to shoot the Swan of Tuonela with his crossbow. After an arduous hunt, Lemminkäinen kills the elk and proceeds onward into the depths of Tuonela. But before he can shoot the spectral swan, he is murdered by Märkähattu, a herdsman that he had earlier betrayed. By virtue of a magical item, Lemminkäinen’s mother is immediately alerted to the fact that her son has been slain. She hastens to Tuonela, where she finds her son dead on the banks of the Tuoni river.

It is this scene of lamentation that Sibelius chose to illustrate in his tone poem. Later, Lemminkäinen’s mother asks a tiny bee to bring a drop of honey from heaven itself, which she uses to coax her son back to life.

There are two mimetic qualities that are quite prominent in The Swan of Tuonela: the cor anglais’s extended solo is representative of the swan, while the recurring minor-major seventh chord (a minor triad with a major seventh) is representative of Tuonela itself and the scene that is taking place. Just for clarification, the “cor anglais,” or English horn, is a member of the oboe family. However, it is pitched a perfect fifth lower than the oboe, and its tone quality is a bit more nasal.

In Where Rivers and Mountains Sing, Levin describes how mimesis is often used in Western music:

Overall, the mimetic tradition in Western art music focuses mainly on abstractions independent of time and place. With the exception of opera and explicitly programmatic works, specific places are rarely represented, while representations of affective states and human attributes typically do not invoke sonic models drawn from real life; rather, they rest on formal or expressive semantic conventions that have evolved within music itself.

Levin, Where Rivers and Mountains Sing, p.77

While the cor anglais used in the piece does actually sound like a typical swan-call, the musical evocation of time and place are mere “musical abstractions”. Most of the piece is written in the minor mode, which tends to create an atmosphere of melancholy and loneliness. Frequently, Sibelius adds a major seventh on top of the minor triad in order to create a minor-major seventh chord. This hints at a sense of mystery, perhaps reminiscent of the ghostly swan that floats nearby as Lemminkäinen’s mother is bent over with grief. At one point in the piece, a tritone (augmented forth) is repeated amongst the instruments as the strings tremolo in the background, creating extreme tension and anxiety. However, as the above quotation makes clear, a minor chord is not necessarily a musical embodiment of sadness; it is simply a convention that has evolved within Western music over time. Yet, this does not remove the mimetic quality of the chord. Our Western ears may have been conditioned to hear certain chords in certain ways; nevertheless, the music still evokes a sense of place in our minds – namely, the bank of the Tuoni River.

As previously mentioned, the mimesis in Sibelius’s piece differs greatly from the mimesis of the Tuvan throat singers. After all, The Swan of Tuonela is a purely Western classical piece, while Tuvan songs such as Running Horse, Wounded Bear, and Camel Gait are very folksy and somewhat improvised. In these Tuvan songs, rhythmic patterns are representative of steps, but the melodies and harmonies are (seemingly) independent of that which is being mimicked. Additionally, while the cor anglais sounds quite akin to the call of a swan, throat singing does not sound like “two lovers riding horseback,” or “a running horse.” Instead, the songs are highly metaphorical and stylized. It is not the throat singing that is mimetic, but rather, the overall mood and tempo of the song. Also, an orchestra, which is made up of many different instruments, is much more versatile than a single throat singer and a single accompanying instrument. Therefore, it is not surprising that Sibelius had the power to be mimetic in more than one way.

While the Tuvan throat singers primarily used rhythm and dynamics to represent the sounds of their environment, Sibelius used chords and instruments. This only proves that sound mimesis is a broad and accessible feat of music. By writing a variety of minor chords, as well as an extended solo for the cor anglais, Jean Sibelius was able to re-create a spectacularly tangible scene from Finnish mythology.