© Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009, Unit 6, The Village, 101 Amies Street, London SW11 2JW [Expo. 3.1 (2009) 57–71] Expositions (print) ISSN 1747-5368 doi:10.1558/expo.v3i1.57 Expositions (online) ISSN 1747-5376 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane?: The Dynamism and Built-in Flexibility of Music CYNTHIA R. NIELSEN University of Dallas cynthia.nielsen@gmail.com Abstract Although contemporary Western culture and criticism has usually valued composition over improvisation and placed the authority of a musical work with the written text rather than the performer, this essay posits these divisions as too facile to articulate the complex dynamics of making music in any genre or form. Rather it insists that music should be understood as pieces that are created with specific intentions by composers but which possess possibilities of interpretation that can only be brought out through performance. Keywords: Improvisation, Hermeneutics, Music As Bruce Ellis Benson explains in chapter two of his book, The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, we tend to think that a musical composition is finished once it is written down in its "final" version. However, there are a number of assumptions that we should question in connection with such a conclusion. First, why assume that a process of revision always leads to a better version, much less to the perfect version? Beethoven, for example, was known for ceaselessly revising and offering a number of variants for musical passages and even entire sections of his symphonies. Even if we grant that his revisions generally improved his work, why should we necessarily conclude that they always did? Second, is it not the case that pressing deadlines, familial responsibilities, and creative inertia likewise co-determine when a work is, so to speak, "completed"? That is, the artist may not in fact be satisfied with his or her final version, and yet the work must be brought to a close. If this is the case, then we might say that in some instances the composer 58 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane? © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 is aware of the incomplete aspects in his or her work-the places that at some later time, he or she, if given the time, would want to change or develop. Third, is there a sense in which a composition becomes "fixed" and rigidly definite when written down, or is it the case that a certain "indefiniteness" and indeterminacy remains even after the composition is "finished"? Arguing for the latter, Benson states that although composers have "reasonably" definite intentions, "it would be impossible for their intentions to encompass all of the details of any given piece" (2003, 69). In other words, often or perhaps even most of the time, the composer is unsure exactly how every aspect and detail of the work should sound until the piece is actually played by a specific group of musicians and with very particular instrumentation. In fact, it is not uncommon for a composer to present his or her music to a group of musicians, asking for critical input on various aspects of the piece. Having performed in several jazz orchestras and dabbled in jazz composition myself, I find this claim rather convincing. It was often the case that our director, an accomplished composer and arranger, presented us with his scores, only to make numerous changes during the rehearsal time-changes he could not foresee until the actual music appeared. Clearly, he had a definite intention of how he wanted the piece to sound, yet the specific intricacies of tempo, dynamics, and so forth were realized only when the music was performed. In this essay, I hope to make manifest a number of interconnected themes, all of which challenge us to rethink the nature of music and the roles of composers and performers. As we shall see, what Benson calls "musical places of indeterminacy," and what I call, "built-in flexibility," are present not only in jazz, where one might expect it, but in all musical genres, including classical music. If this is the case, and I argue that it is, then the lines between composition and improvisation are fluid rather than fixed. Recognition of this fluidity allows a new paradigm for understanding what music is. Instead of a static product completed by one composer, a musical piece is dynamic, being continually composed by many performers. Consequently, the sharp boundaries between composer and performer likewise collapse, and we come to acknowledge that music possesses a pre-, present-, and futurehistory. Music is communal; it emerges from and continues an everCynthia R. Nielsen 59 © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 developing tradition; it is energeia rather than ergon; yet, its dynamism does not destroy its identity. One may ask, and legitimately so, when a composer finally works out the particular instrumentation, dynamic markings, tempo variations, and submits the final score, can we then say that work finished? In contrast to a culture or tradition of music in which a musical work is both perceived and passed on via aural memory, our modern understanding of music, particularly classical music, emphasizes the written musical score as authoritative.1 The contemporary music theorist Edward Cone, however, raises a number of interesting questions about the degree and range of this supposedly all-encompassing authority of the written score. According to Cone, it is not the case that the composition is identical with the score (2005, 244). In other words, Cone suggests that it is impossible for the written score to capture everything that the composition is. Although Cone is quick to acknowledge the importance of the written score in classical music for the purposes of the musical performance, as well as the obligation that the performer has to the score, he is also cognizant of 1) the difficulties of establishing an accurate score, and 2) the fact that performance always involves interpretation. Commenting on the difficulties of establishing a "canonic text" of the music of Chopin, Cone writes, The performer's first obligation, then, is to the score-but to what score? The autograph or the first printed edition? The composer's hasty manuscript or the presumably more careful copy by a trusted amanuensis? The composer's initial version or his later emendation? The first German edition or the first French edition? An original edition or one supposedly incorporating the composer's instructions to his pupils? Those involved in the attempt to establish a canonic text of Chopin's works face all those decisions. (Cone 2005, 244) Even after these sorts of interpretive decisions have been made, we still have to deal with the issue of the conductor's, as well as the performer's, interpretation of the score. Here we see that accurate and excessive notation does not in itself remove the difficulties in view. The written notation is only an approximation of what actually occurs in a musical performance. "In fact, it is exactly the space cleared by that approximation, an area 60 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane? © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 of indeterminacy, that is the locus of the performer's prime interpretative activity.... The realization of any score thus requires decisions at every point" (Cone 2005, 245). Cone's observations press us to grapple with the various roles manuscript editors, conductors, and performers play in the actualization of the music as it appears to us. Stated slightly differently, if it is the case that performers, conductors and arrangers in some genuine sense continue to compose a work through their various additions, deletions, and interpretations, then can we really say that a work is ever "finished"?2 As stated earlier, the "original" composers certainly have some definite intentions with regard to their compositions, but how extensive those intentions are is another issue. Also, though some composers may be cognizant of places of indeterminacy in their works, others become aware of these indeterminacies only after the music is actually performed. Furthermore, in light of the co-creating involved in every performance, there are future possibilities that will forever remain unknown to the original composer. All of this suggests that a determinate intention, though having some definiteness to it, also exhibits what we might call built-in flexibility that allows for different manifestations and fresh articulations of a piece, while nonetheless preserving its identity. Having at least touched upon some of the ways in which this flexibility or indeterminacy surfaces in classical music, I now turn to an example in the genre of jazz in order to further explore this built-in flexibility that maintains identity. Large jazz ensembles and orchestras perform scores that are very similar to those found in classical music in which all the parts are extensively notated: bass line, the chords or harmonic structure, and more or less every note is written in full musical notation. In contrast, jazz small groups (trios and quartets) typically base their performances on what is called, in jazz parlance, a "lead sheet" where only the melody line is written out in standard musical notation, allowing for significantly more flexibility. Above the melody line, one finds chord symbols. So while a fully notated orchestral score instructs a musician exactly with specific chordal voicings, a lead sheet simply tells the musician what chord to play, leaving the voicings open for interpretation. For example, on a jazz lead sheet, one might find the label "C major 7" written above the melody line, instead of the actual musical notation for a C major seventh chord (the notes C, E, G, B) or Cynthia R. Nielsen 61 © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 the various specific voicings in which these harmonic structures may be expressed (for example, E, G, C, B or C, G, B, E, and other possible variations for a C major seventh chord). Writing the chord symbols in this manner affords the pianist or guitarist, as well as the bassist, a significant amount of creative freedom in performing the piece. However, this freedom does not destroy the identity of the piece, since a musician must choose harmonies and bass lines that fall within a certain range of the specified chord symbol, and these harmonic arrangements and variations must support the melody and make manifest the larger harmonic structure of the piece. Thus, with a jazz lead sheet, players are in a genuine sense "tied to" the "score"-that is, they must agree to submit to the "givens" of the piece and respond accordingly. Here the communal aspect of jazz performance must be considered. For example, if the pianist simply decides to play chords that have no relation whatsoever to the prescribed chord symbols, the rest of the group or ensemble will be affected (not to mention thoroughly frustrated), as their parts will not correspond to the pianist's random harmonic superimpositions. In such a situation, the identity of the piece is destroyed because it is no longer recognizable by either the musicians themselves or the audience listening. Although a certain fixity exists (a given melody, harmonic framework, and a mutual submission to these givens by the community of musicians), nonetheless, the personalities, skill levels, and creative sensibilities of each individual performer also come through, making each performance something unique. One might even say that the flexibility that lead sheets afford, coupled with the harmonic and melodic interpretations of these givens, brings about new intelligibilities of the piece that up to this point had not existed. This built-in-flexibility, when held in check by submission to the aforementioned givens, actually helps rather than hinders the preservation of the piece through the passage of time because it not only allows but expects various re-articulations and new insights to be brought forth by new generations. In contrast to a rigid, staticized view of a finished work, in which proper preservation is equated with an attempt to reproduce that work in all of its historical, cultural, and individual particularities, understanding musical pieces (and texts) as possessing a built-in flexibility that is 62 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane? © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 not destructive of identity allows for expansions that inevitably come with temporal progression and the development of tradition, musical or otherwise. Thus, this dynamic conception of works is able to overcome a potentially devastating feature of the staticized view, namely, the possibility of the work becoming completely closed off to future generations who cannot find a way to bring a past ossification to bear on their present cultural and historical situation. Here I imagine a possible objection: Am I not overstating my case? After all, isn't improvisation an essential feature of jazz; and if so, even if there are inescapable places of indeterminacy connected with classical compositions and performances, isn't the flexibility described in my lead sheet example so significantly different that the comparison becomes overly strained? Before attempting to address this objection, perhaps we should take a closer look at some of the assumptions upon which such an objection is based. First, there is the idea that jazz is akin to a free-for-all in which musicians play random melodic lines, whereas classical music, in contrast, eliminates all improvisatory elements. Second, we have the notion that a strict division exists between the work, conceived as a suprahistorical, untouchable essence, and its historical, in-time performance, which allows for variations and supplementations. I turn first to address the issues and questions surrounding a proper understanding of improvisation. Regarding the history of the term "improvisation" and the negative attachments that have come to be associated with it, Jeremy Begbie writes: At first it [improvisation] carried the relatively neutral sense of extemporization.... By the 1850s it appears to have acquired pejorative connotations – off-hand, lacking sufficient preparation (as in "improvised shelter," "improvised solution"). Many musicians and musicologists continue to view it with considerable suspicion, if not disdain. For some it is synonymous with the absence of intellectual rigour. There are educationalists who see it as a distraction from authentic musicmaking. (2005, 180) Contra this pessimistic construal, jazz improvisation requires just as much skill, creativity, and rigor as the art of composing a classical symphony. Moreover, strictly speaking, composing is not withCynthia R. Nielsen 63 © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 out improvisatory elements; and depending upon one's definition of improvisation, one could reasonably argue that improvisation pervades music in general. However, before going further, I should pause to acknowledge the well-known difficulty among music specialists in arriving at a satisfactory definition of improvisation. Given this difficulty, we shall move through a number of possibilities, noting various aspects of improvisation broadly construed with the hope of finally obtaining a working definition of the term as related to our present purposes. If improvisation is understood as a simultaneous occurrence of composing and performance, then improvisation cannot be limited to jazz. In fact, what we find is that improvisation characterized in this manner has been prevalent in a wide variety of cultures and musical genres-from Gregorian chant to Baroque music, as well as most non-Western expressions of music which are by and large not notated. However, even subsequent to the development of music notation, we find composers such as J.S. Bach, Handel, and Mozart highly skilled in the art of improvisation and who also expected those performing their pieces to possess this skill (Begbie 2005, 180–181). Nonetheless, as concerts in the 18th and 19th centuries gained in popularity, the growing sophistication of musical notation did play a role in contributing to a more diminished view of improvisation (Begbie 2005, 181–182). Although the increase in notation severely limited opportunities for improvising in classical music, the improvisatory elements even in meticulously notated music cannot be totally removed so long as human beings are the performers. Avid music listeners can attest that whether speaking of an individual soloist or an orchestral unit, the personalities, stylistic particularities, and interpretative nuances manifested in the actual performance of a musical work all contribute a degree of creative liberty that falls within the sphere of improvisation broadly construed. For example, how do we explain why we prefer one wellknown cellist playing Bach's solo concertos over another renowned and equally proficient cellist? The notes on the page are exactly the same, yet we are aware of differences in the ways in which one performer interprets the piece or articulates a musical passage. In addition, it is common for a soloist to engage in what is called "ornamentation." That is, rather than simply play the melodic line as written, the per64 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane? © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 former adds neighboring tones and trills3 that dress up or "ornament" the melody line. (These ornamental notes of course are not written on the page, and no two musicians ornament in exactly the same way). A second consideration contributing to a negative view of improvisation as somehow intellectually substandard is perhaps due to an overly rigid distinction that we in the Western musical tradition tend to make between improvisation and composition. As I have indicated, improvisation is often understood as non-calculated, free-flowing, and lacking in intellectual and musical rigor. Composition, by contrast, is thought to be more or less inflexible, rule-governed, and-given its high degree of musical notation-by nature purposely without spontaneity. However, as we shall see, both views are misleading and set up sharp distinctions that do not correspond to what takes place in actual music making and performance. Contrary to the negative characterization thus far discussed, improvisation as expressed in jazz involves a high degree of prepared and calculated musical ideas. All too frequently we hear the rather pejorative comment that in jazz it matters not what note one plays given the dissonance prevalent in jazz and its penchant for non-resolution. Though perhaps in some expressions of jazz such a remark might ring true, on the whole it tends to paint a rather misleading picture. A more accurate account is that professional jazz improvisers are intensely aware of what notes they play, when to play them, and for what reason this note or that scale should be played as opposed to others. For example, consider the common harmonic structures in which one finds purposely altered harmonies-that is, dissonances that are deliberately applied to certain chord structures. One of the first skills that a beginning improviser learns is that most traditional jazz pieces consist of what is called the ii-V-I harmonic progression. For example, in the key of C major, the ii-V-I progression is: D minor 7 – G7 – C major 7. The V 7 or dominant 7th chord has multiple functions. For example, it is the chord that typically leads us directly to a resolution back to the tonic key, or it acts as a transition chord to take us to a new key which will then serve as a temporary resolution of sorts. In light of these functions, as opposed to being a "place of rest" (such as the tonic chord) or even a "temporary rest stop," altering or extending its choral components heightens the tension by adding new Cynthia R. Nielsen 65 © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 tonal colors into the mix. Jazz musicians are deeply aware of these possibilities, and maximize the tension-release motif in their solos. In fact, it is a common practice among jazz musicians to have numerous altered patterns prepared in advance-patterns which they have practiced for hours upon end in all twelve keys so that when performance time comes, the music has become such a part of them that it flows effortlessly from them. Thus, it is in no way the case that jazz musicians simply fumble around, pulling notes out of thin air, rebelliously disregarding the harmonic structure of the piece because they have some kind of perverse attraction to dissonance for its own sake. While this might de-mystify jazz improvisation to a certain extent, it does not eradicate that side of jazz that involves a strong degree of spontaneity and communal interplay. In other words, an aspect of mystery is still alive and well in the art of jazz improvisation because no matter how many patterns one has prepared in advance, the dynamism and community of jazz makes it such that, in Heraclitean fashion, no pattern is ever played exactly same way twice; nonetheless, the patterns are quite identifiable, as is the piece itself. If, in fact, jazz is not a free-for-all and involves a number of previously prepared musical ideas, one might be led to believe that notation is the crucial difference between composition and improvisation. However, as Begbie astutely observes, "it seems odd to claim that composition only happens when musicians write music down" (2005, 183). If this were the case, the act of transcribing an improvised solo would be what makes the solo a composition, which seems intuitively wrong. In light of this apparent impasse, Begbie offers the following as a possible way to differentiate composition and improvisation: A more promising way forward is to take composition to refer to all the activity which precedes the sounding of the entire piece of music, everything which is involved in conceiving and organising the parts or elements which make up the pattern or design or the musical whole; and improvisation to mean the concurrent conception and performance of a piece of music, which is complete when the sound finishes. (2005, 183) According to the above conception, composition entails all the musical activity that takes places prior to the performance of the piece as a whole, whereas improvisation consists in a musical idea conceived and 66 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane? © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 performed simultaneously. In other words, the act of improvisation emphasizes the present activity of music making; that is, rather than highlighting product or result, the accent is on process and performance, as "conception and performance are interwoven to a very high degree" (Begbie 2005, 184). Although Begbie's stress on dynamism and present activity is no doubt on the mark, his view still presupposes an overly rigid separation between composition and improvisation. With what Begbie has just said in mind, perhaps we could say the type of improvisation that emerges in the musical genre of jazz is present, semi-spontaneous, music-making activity that purposely and re-creatively utilizes prepared and hence thoroughly familiar musical ideas. However, if we accept my working definition and Begbie's description, we have problem. According to Begbie's definition of composition, the prepared patterns employed in jazz improvisation become mini-compositions. If we opt for a more fluid relationship between composition and improvisation (as Benson suggests below), our problem takes care of itself. After all, the prepared jazz patterns consist largely of musical ideas taken from actual live, improvised performances. So if they count as compositions, then they are also improvised compositions based past improvisations. Here we should turn to Benson, whose account highlights the improvisational activity of classical composers. Despite the fact that a kind of mythology, which portrays composition as principally a flash of instantaneous inspiration, coupled with the Kantian idea of a creative genius tends to dominate our conception of the way in which a musical composition comes into existence, Benson contends that composers across the musical spectrum actually engage in a great deal of improvisation. "Composers are more accurately described as improvisers, for composition essentially involves a kind of improvisation on the already existing rules and limits in such a way that what emerges is the result of both respecting those rules and altering them" (Benson 2003, 133). In the end, given the mutual interplay between composition and improvisation, perhaps it is better to think of both as manifesting themselves in all music to greater or lesser degrees along a continuum, wherein the degree of manifestation depends a host of contingencies (for example, the expertise level of the musicians present, the performance setting, the purpose of the Cynthia R. Nielsen 67 © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 particular performance, whether or not the conductor has an aversion to improvisation etc.). Having examined the calculated aspects of jazz improvisation, as well as highlighting some of the ways in which improvisation and places of indeterminacy emerge and exist in classical music, I now turn to discuss the idea that a sharp dichotomy exists between the work and its performance. In chapter four of his book, The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue, Benson discusses the ways in which a musical ergon or product emerges from musical energeia or activity, and yet this ergon "still remains within the play of musical energeia" and cannot be separated from it (2003, 125). In other words, if it is the case that the boundaries between composition and improvisation are fluid, then every performance is an interpretation, and musical traditions themselves adapt and evolve over time. From this perspective, musical works are more properly understood as dynamic rather than static, finished products. Benson, stressing the interdependence between musical works and musical energeia, outlines three implications of such a view. First, the telos of music making cannot be defined simply in terms of the creation of musical works, or even primarily so. Instead the work becomes a means to the end of making music, not an end in itself. Second, if the work exists within the play of musical energeia, then it cannot be seen as autonomous or detached. Like a living organism, it is ever in motion and constantly in need of care and infusions of new life to keep it alive. Third, if performers are essentially improvisers, then authorship becomes more complex. (Benson 2003, 126) Here we have an inversion of the common view of a musical work as the goal or telos of musicmaking. Rather, musical activity itself is the telos, and a musical work functions as a vehicle to that end. Thus, the telos in view is not static and even requires on-going, creative "infusions" of musical life "to keep it alive." Such a view is exceedingly tradition-friendly, as it recognizes not only a post-history, but a pre-history embedded in every musical work. Beethoven, for example, did not exist in a historical vacuum but drew upon the musical ideas of Haydn and Mozart, who in turn were themselves influenced by Bach and other earlier composers. To use Hans-Georg Gadamer's term, what we have is a multi-level, continual "fusion of horizons" (2004, 306). Beethoven's 68 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane? © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 piano sonatas are in part the result of his engagement with earlier composers and traditions; hence, we have, so to speak, a past fusion of horizons with respect to the composition itself. To speak of a past fusion, however, detracts from the dynamic nature of musical activity. Here we should emphasize that an ongoing, polyphonic fusion of horizons occurs with every musical performance. For example, when a twenty-first century Russian pianist performs Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp Minor, she enters into the ever-unfolding lifeworld of the piece-a lifeworld that both precedes and goes beyond Beethoven. A different but related re-shaping takes place with respect to the performer, who, like the musical piece, also belongs to a tradition. Perhaps our Russian pianist has been influenced by French impressionism and other twentieth century compositional styles. If so, these components are part of her musical lifeworld and at some level influence her interpretation of Beethoven's sonata. Even so, her performance of this particular piece must be recognizable as Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14 in C-sharp Minor. In addition to a past fusion, we have a present fusing of horizons which affects not only the composition but again the performer as well. So long as the alterity of the composition is respected and its identity (notwithstanding the difficulty of stating exactly what that identity is) is made manifest rather than marred or destroyed, the performer herself is changed by allowing the piece to become, as it were, a part of who she is. Authorship indeed "becomes more complex" since the performer not only participates as co-author of the piece, but the piece itself and the traditions from which it came re-author and hence change the performer.4 Here, it is not difficult to see parallels between musical pieces and written texts and musical performers and textual interpreters. The intelligibility and coherence of this aforementioned identity, which somehow allows for change and yet remains intact, is a legitimate concern that has provoked a great deal of discussion. In order to secure the identity of a musical work, some musicologists and philosophers of music have posited an essential division between the suprahistorical work itself and its written and aural historical embodiments. Benson identifies Roman Ingarden as one who holds such a position.5 Regardless of whether Ingarden's position might be parsed differently, the view presented articulates a plausible alternative and Cynthia R. Nielsen 69 © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 is helpful for our present discussion; thus, I shall refer to this view as "the essential division position." With this strict separation between the work itself and its material expressions, we are brought back to the question of the relation between the work and the score. The essential division position claims that the score preserves the work and helps to maintain its identity. Yet, as Cone's insights suggest, the score cannot exhaust the work and instead merely relates aspects of the work. Therefore, the score functions as a kind of "schema." If we acknowledge both that the score in some sense maintains the identity of the work without circumscribing the work, then we are pressed to ask: what then is the "something more" that the score fails to capture? To this question, Benson adds, "Is there something that guarantees the identity of this surplus that goes beyond the score? Moreover, what connection is there- if any-between this more and musical energeia?" (2003, 127). A person holding the essential division position might suggest that rather than creating new additions, performers over time are simply realizing the inherent potentialities possessed by the work from the beginning. Thus, the work itself does not actually change over time but merely appears to change. However, as Benson observes, "the problem with this view is that-practically-these possibilities seem not to come merely from within but also from without: for they arise-at least partly-by way of performance traditions, which are themselves developing" (2003, 128). To claim that all the future potentialities of a musical piece come only from within reduces the performer to a purely passive re-producer. Here the other-ness of the work is retained but at the expense of the performer's alterity. In place of this dichotomous conception wherein the relation between the work itself and its embodiments are forever estranged, Benson argues for a mediating way which, on the one hand acknowledges that a work possesses latent potentialities yet, on the other hand, stresses that those potentialities are supplemented by additional possibilities that come into being over the course of time via the performances themselves and as a result of evolving musical traditions. Elaborating his view, Benson explains: a composer may indeed have a complex conception of the work (and so potentially a relatively complex set of "intentions"), but those intentions are supplemented by actual performances and the develop70 What Has Mozart to Do with Coltrane? © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 ment of performance traditions. Thus, we could say that Bach had intentions for the St. Matthew Passion that were complex and specific. But the [later] performance by Mendelssohn did not merely bring out those possibilities (even though it did that too). Rather, it also created certain possibilities-possibilities that truly did not exist before (Benson 2003, 129). Though Benson's via media may still leave us with important questions as to the nature and maintenance of the identity of a piece over time, it does justice to the phenomena by affirming the alterity (and humanity) of the performer and refusing to consign developments in tradition and the creative contributions of performer to mere appearances. With these things in mind, Benson's suggestion to replace the denomination "work," which connotes a finished product, with the designation "piece" is compelling. "Piece" implies both that which is "connected to a contextual whole" from which it cannot be completely severed, as well as the sense of a more fragmentary and on-going character-something "inherently incomplete, for the musical context in which it exists is in flux." (Benson 2003, 132–133) In conclusion, although my essay likely raises more questions than it answers, hopefully some of the topics we have considered-identity and difference, musical places of indeterminacy, and the various ways that music presents itself to us-have provoked us to broaden our thinking, not only about music but also about textual interpretation and authorship. It is also perhaps worth considering that my approach to the subject matter of this essay itself exhibits many of the themes I have attempted to bring to light here. For example, following Benson, Cone, Begbie, and others-all recognized "players" within a certain tradition who submit to various givens of that tradition-I have not only identified and re-articulated their insights but also improvised on and expanded their themes. The result is both a realization of places of indeterminacy consistent with their original intentions and a bringing forth of new possibilities which, up to this point, did not exist within the original set of intentions. Notes 1. I use the word "classical" in this essay in the colloquial, generic sense. I am not referring to the specific style of music that falls historically between the Baroque Cynthia R. Nielsen 71 © Equinox Publishing Ltd. 2009 and Romantic periods. 2. This idea of on-going composition exhibits striking similarities with Gadamer's hermeneutical insight that texts always exhibit an "excess of meaning" upon which tradition builds. See, for example, Gadamer 2004, 296. 3. A trill consists typically in the rapid alteration between two musical notes adjacent on the musical scale; however, there is no fixed or single way of executing a trill. Whether or not one has "correctly" executed a trill is largely dependent upon the context in which it is found and the musical genre in which one is performing. 4. See, for example, Wright 2004, 237. 5. See the discussion of Ingarden in Benson 2003, 126–133. References Begbie, Jeremy 2005 Theology, Music and Time. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Benson, Bruce Ellis 2003 The Improvisation of Musical Dialogue: A Phenomenology of Music. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cone, Edward T. 2005 The Pianist as Critic. In The Practice of Performance: Studies in Musical Interpretation, edited by John Rink, 241–254. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gadamer, Hans-Georg 2004 Truth and Method, 2nd ed. Translated and revised by Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall. New York: Continuum. Wright, Kathleen 2004 On What We Have in Common: The Universality of Philosophical Hermeneutics. Renascence: Essays on Values in Literature 56(4): 234–255.