Philosophy of Music Education Review

The image is that of a little girl. She stands alone, center-stage, her lips moving quietly as she rehearses the letters of the alphabet so that her forthcoming performance will be fresh and perfect. Her name is called. She takes a deep breath and begins, haltingly, doh, . . . doh, ray, . . . doh, ray, me, . . . . Her tongue catches at the beginning of each sound as if it were a new found delight, but it is the sequence, the linear progression that is the focus of her concentration. And slowly, her recitation begins to take on its own rhythmic fluidity, each sound's name becoming stronger and more confident than the one before. Then just as quickly as it began, it is over, and she stands tall in the glory of the final doh's resonance, proud in her belief that having mastered the letters of the alphabet, she has at long last discovered the key to unlocking music's deepest and darkest mysteries.

The alphabet—I begin its story with the hand behind the hieroglyphic markings of our ancient ancestors, the hand that discovered in the tracings of its own aimless movements across the sand a capacity to replicate the arc of the moon, the flowering branches of a shrub. It was a hand pre-occupied with the visual, its scratchings serving to extend the communicative power of its own reach by calling forth the image of a thing not immediately present. Meaning, as such, was typically a matter of a one-to-one correspondence inferred on the basis of shape and form, with concepts such as speed and light portrayed by animals and natural objects that one would associate with each (for instance, a running cougar, a stylized sun). But as language and the art of storytelling evolved, the emergence of concepts lacking precise visual associations required the development of a variety of phonetic strategies that, often working through pictographic puns (that is, belief, bee+leaf), used the visual to invoke the sound of the human voice.¹ The effect, David Abrams suggests, was that of magic, the word having seemingly been "drawn" from the silence of thin air.² And, like all tricks, the hand disappeared behind the magic. Where initially voice and hand had worked as extensions of one another, the voice serving to bring people together,³ the hand pointing to that which was voiced, the word as name now sounded alone.

The story continues with the artistry of the storyteller. It was the artistry of a rhapsodist, one who used the voice to spin a tale of a "remembered present" from [End Page 42] the remnants of the hand's scratchings that had withstood the ravages of time.⁴ I say "remembered present" because the voice was valued for its expressive qualities and worked in and through a battery of memorized melodic embellishments that allowed it to stitch one image to the next on the basis of the storyteller's own experience and knowledge.⁵ It was a voice, consequently, that worked in the moment, a voice that drew energy and inspiration not only from the hand's scratchings but also from those that had gathered to listen. The first alphabets did little to change the dynamics of the event, they being nothing more than crudely assembled compilations of idiosyncratic phonograms (that is, z = buzzing bee) designed to define the possibilities of language as a vocabulary of names.⁶ Etched into bark, tree, stone, and parchment, however, they came to have a longevity that allowed the sounding codes they represented to be carried "word of mouth" from place to place. Where the spoken word had once been both fleeting and fluid, gone before it was fully sounded, it now had a repeatability that served to fix both its spellings and its meanings. And it was not long before the spinning of a tale had become a matter of second sight, the work of an extraordinary memory able to "recall" that which the storyteller had not been present to hear.⁷

The gift worked through a self-conscious awareness of oneself as...