In recent years, digital technologies have enabled a blending of the real and imaginary within the broader event sector. Such events have blurred the lines between art, leisure, information, and entertainment, offered in an expanding array of multimedia spectacles. These advancements have enhanced visual presentations, incorporating programming, lighting, projections, special effects, and holograms to create seamless combinations of reality and fantasy. The rise of holographic companies in stage design has allowed audiences to experience performances by deceased musicians such as Tupac Shakur, Maria Callas, Roy Orbison, Teresa Teng, and Whitney Houston. Digital holography has also paved the way for virtual pop stars, including Hatsune Miku from Japan and Luo Tianyi from China. These characters are products of a blend of voice software, idol industry frameworks, and fan-driven creativity, enabling entirely new forms of entertainment and audience engagement.
Promotional material for a Whitney Houston hologram concert.
Luo Tianyi, a virtual pop star from China.
A Tupac Shakur hologram performs a live concert.
Like digital technologies, social media and smartphones are deeply embedded in the environments and material circumstances through which we experience, interpret the world, and connect with others. Rather than external forces acting on us, such tools are integral to our daily lives. Platforms–the systems, processes, and relationships they encompass–have also become increasingly significant in shaping, mediating, and expanding our understanding and experience of popular music. The rise of digital platforms, streaming services, and social media requires a rethinking of the economies and industries of popular music, along with the evolving dynamics between recorded and live music. This is particularly relevant in the context of live performances, where digital technology has played a significant role during a period when live events gained increasing commodity value within the “experience economy”, especially as concert ticket prices skyrocketed and the cost of recorded music formats fell.
This according to “Stages, platforms, streams: The economies and industries of live music after digitalization” by Zhang Qian and Keith Negus (Popular music and society 44/5 [2021] 539–557; RILM Abstracts of Music Literature, 2021-17913).
Below, watch a Maria Callas hologram performance, backed by a live symphony orchestra and a video of a Teresa Teng hologram performance with Jay Chou.
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New York’s Morgan Library & Museum recently discovered an autograph by Frédéric Chopin containing 24 bars of a previously unknown waltz. The small-format sheet measuring 130 by 102 millimeters had come into the museum’s possession in 2019 as part of the autograph collection of August Sherrill Whiton Jr., director of the New York School of Interior Design. Experts consulted by the curator Robinson McClellan confirmed the authenticity of the iron gall ink on paper manuscript, which resembles that of Chopin’s early Parisian years (ca. 1830–1835).
The Chopin signature at the upper edge of the leaf is not an autograph, but all other elements reflect the composer’s graphic peculiarities, such as the characteristic shape of the bass clef. Stylistically, the miniature, entitled Valse, displays all of Chopin’s hallmarks. Divided into eight bars of prelude and postlude each, the waltz theme first leads to the dominant, then back to the tonic via the parallel major, melodically and harmonically in keeping with Chopin’s style. However, there are some notable irregularities. The outburst of the eight-bar introduction leading from piano to forte-fortissimo in the shortest time has no direct equivalent in Chopin’s other waltzes; its dynamic range and brash intensity are more akin to the dramatic qualities found in his scherzos.
Read the full post “Chopin discovery at The Morgan Library & Museum in New York” in MGG Online.
Many Moroccans, especially those outside the conservatory tradition, view malḥūn not as music, but as the recitation of poetry. The very name malḥūn adds to this ambiguity. Derived from the Arabic root laḥana, the term has various meanings, including speaking ungrammatically, chanting, and setting words to music. Moroccan scholars themselves are divided on which interpretation is most fitting. The late Mohamed el-Fassi, a prominent scholar and former minister of culture, argued that malḥūn was always intended to be sung while others have suggested that some malḥūn poetry is meant to be recited, not sung. A similar debate exists in Yemen, where a comparable form of dialectical song poetry, known as homayni (or sometimes malḥūn), closely mirrors the Moroccan style. This debate is unlikely to reach a definitive conclusion, as both perspectives hold merit. Malḥūn often breaks standard Arabic grammar and uses nonstandard vocabulary for metrical or poetic effect. Ultimately, it is best experienced through listening—whether recited or, more fittingly, sung.
To this day, malḥūn continues to resonate with both the working class and the elites in Morocco. King Hassan II was a prominent patron of Moroccan music, including malḥūn. During his reign, a rising cultural nationalism fostered a renewed interest in traditional Moroccan art forms, such as malḥūn, as well as proverbs and other forms of oral literature in both Arabic and Berber. This cultural revival was part of a broader effort to assert a distinct Moroccan identity, particularly in response to the intellectual dominance of France, and to the cultural influence of Egypt and Lebanon in the Arab world. Malḥūn can be found in a diverse range of contexts, from street performances and religious lodges to the royal palace, often accompanied by various ensembles. According to some sources, malḥūn singers originally accompanied themselves with the deff, a square, double-headed frame drum measuring about 20 to 25 centimeters on each side. Since the primary focus of malḥūn is the poetry itself, no additional instrumentation was required.
This according to The Garland encyclopedia of world music. The Middle East (2013). Find it in RILM Music Encyclopedias.
Watch a performance of malḥūn in Morocco below.
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At the end of the 19th century, a series of narrative essays published in The Atlantic Monthly by Dakota composer and activist Gertrude Bonnin, better known by her self-chosen name Zitkala Ša, focused on the violence of compulsory U.S. boarding schools. Existing research on her activism, however, has overlooked the subversive role of music, dance, and sound in her literary and musical projects, which reveal Zitkala Ša’s sophisticated sonic politics.
The historical tension between the prohibition and appropriation of Indigenous sounds highlights how the boarding school press functioned as a powerful engine for assimilation projects. A close reading of Zitkala Ša’s essay, The Indian dance: A protest against its abolition, along with an examination of its reception, reveals her reverse-gaze strategy and demonstrates her effectiveness in challenging aggressive assimilationists. Similarly, her collaboration on The sun dance opera resulted in a project that defied neat categorization and withheld complete disclosure of the ceremony, establishing its own sonic politics of self-determination. Zitkala Ša wrote the libretto and the songs for the opera, while William F. Hanson, a professor of music at Brigham Young University, composed the score. The songs were inspired by a sacred ritual that was federally outlawed from 1904 to 1978. The opera was groundbreaking, allowing Zitkala Ša to bridge her worlds through music. It premiered in February 1913 at Orpheus Hall in Vernal, Utah, featuring performances by members of the Ute Nation residing on the Uintah-Ouray Reservation.
Zitkala Ša’s years on the Uintah-Ouray Reservation, often mischaracterized as a period of domesticity in her literary career, were marked by significant creative sonic productivity, representing an important phase in her evolving activism that bridged her earlier years of serial publication with the sophisticated vocal activism of her later work.
This according to “Tiny taps and noisy hacks: Listening to Zitkala Ša’s sonic politics” by Kristen Brown (Resonance: The journal of sound and culture 2/1 [spring 2021] 348–362; RILM Abstracts of Music Literature, 2021-7615).
Watch a short documentary on Zitkala Ša’s life in music and activism below.
Japanese conductor Seiji Ozawa (1935–2024), who served as music director of the Boston Symphony Orchestra for 29 years and led the Vienna State Opera for eight years, was celebrated for his dynamic and limpid style on the podium and his distinctive mop of hair, reminiscent of Beethoven’s famous portrait. In 2010, during his hiatus following a major cancer surgery, Ozawa had a series of recorded conversations with Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami, who transcribed and compiled their conversations into the book Absolutely on music.
In light of Ozawa’s death earlier this year, Absolutely on music remains the only published literature that substantially captures Ozawa’s own words and memories. The English title of the book is somewhat misleading. Although the book contains extensive discussions about music—mostly German classical music, which was Ozawa’s favorite—the conversations delve into much more, illuminating Ozawa’s life stories and personality.
At just 25 years old, Ozawa began his career as an assistant conductor under Leonard Bernstein at the New York Philharmonic, where he quickly demonstrated both talent and dedication. Ozawa recalled his audition with Bernstein in Berlin:
“After a concert, we all piled into cabs and went to this sort of strange bar called Rififi where we drank and did the interview. They used the bar’s piano and did a kind of test of my ear…. My English was terrible at the time, so I could hardly understand what anybody was saying, but somehow I managed to pass [laughter] and become an assistant.”
Seiji Ozawa conducting. (Photo: Donald Jones)
Shown out-and-out favoritism by Bernstein, Ozawa made his debut with the New York Philharmonic at Carnegie Hall in early 1961. Unlike other assistants, Ozawa was given opportunities to conduct the premiere of Toshiro Mayuzumi’s Bacchanale alongside other major works, including the finale of Stravinsky’s Firebird, during the orchestra’s tour of the U.S. and Japan. Ozawa remembered Bernstein introducing him to the audience saying, “Here’s a young conductor. I’d love to have you listen to him perform.”
Ozawa did not earn this favoritism by mere good fortune. Earning $150 a week, Ozawa lived with his wife in a small apartment near Broadway. During the sweltering summers, without air conditioning, they spent nights in the cheapest all-night movie theater, where they would get up every two hours as each movie ended, waiting in the lobby before the next one began. But Ozawa had no time for side jobs. He dedicated every spare minute to studying each week’s music, while living backstage at the concert hall. He was the hardest worker among his cohort, often covering for the other two assistants when they had side gigs. Essentially doing the work of three, Ozawa studied scores until he had memorized them. “You have to prepare every last detail,” said Ozawa. And luck, as they say, was what happened when preparation met opportunity.
Ozawa maintained such rigorousness throughout his career. In Boston, he dedicated his early morning–as early as four o’clock–to score reading before rehearsing with the orchestra at ten. In Vienna, where Ozawa did not have a piano at home, he went to the conductor’s room in the opera house and sounded the score on piano until all hours of the night–just as he had done in New York 40 years earlier. Ozawa was a disciplined musician, but he also had a mischievous side when he put down (or occasionally borrowed) the baton. In the mid-1960s, aside from his tenure in Toronto, Ozawa was often invited by Eugene Ormandy to guest conduct the Philadelphia Orchestra. As Ozawa recalled,
“Eugene Ormandy was a tremendously kind man…. He once gave me a baton of his, and it was terrific, a special-order item, very easy to use. I had so little money in those days, I couldn’t afford a custom-made baton. One day I opened his desk drawer and found a whole row of them. I figured he wouldn’t miss a few batons if they were gone for a while and helped myself to three. But I got caught right away. [Laughter.] He had this scary woman for a personal secretary. She probably made a habit of counting the batons in his drawer and she grilled me. “You took them, didn’t you?” “Yes, I’m sorry, I took them.”
Murakami: How many batons were there in the drawer?
Ozawa: I don’t know, maybe ten.
Murakami: Well of course they caught you if you took three out of ten!
In 1963, Ozawa was appointed as the music director of the Ravinia Festival in the Chicago area. A rising star, he soon made his television debut on CBS’s game show What’s my line?
Ozawa on the game show What’s my line? in 1963.
Absolutely on music came out as an intermezzo anticipating Ozawa’s ongoing musical career, though illness ultimately curtailed his public activities in the following decade. For readers discovering the book after Ozawa’s death, this intermezzo becomes an echo of his finale. Reading it during my daily subway commute to Manhattan, I could literally hear the rumble of the train that Ozawa had grumbled about while recalling a live recording at Carnegie Hall. I was on the R train, passing right underneath the venue. For an instant, my ear connected with Ozawa’s, reactivating a strand of his memory from 1977.
Memory is such a powerful human ability. It freezes a snippet of time and preserves it like amber, shareable through storytelling and, in that way, multiplies and remains alive. In the book’s afterword, Ozawa wrote, “Once I started remembering, I couldn’t stop, and the memories came back with a nostalgic surge . . . Thanks to Haruki, I was able to recall Maestro Karajan, Lenny, Carnegie Hall, the Manhattan Center, one after another, and I spent the next three or four days steeped in those memories.” Reading these memories, we thus keep them alive, through which we commemorate their owner, Seiji Ozawa.
–Written by Stella Zhizhi Li, Associate Editor, RILM
Read more in Absolutely on music: Conversations with Seiji Ozawa by Murakami Haruki (New York City: Alfred A. Knopf, 2016; RILM Abstracts of Music Literature 2016-23727). Besides the English translation, find the Japanese original and translations of the book in 11 languages in RILM Abstracts of Music Literature.
As a child prodigy, Quincy Jones was awarded a scholarship to what would later become the prestigious Berklee College of Music, where he began his studies in 1951. He further honed his skills by studying arranging in Paris under the guidance of the highly influential teacher Nadia Boulanger. Born in Chicago and raised in Seattle, Jones was immersed in music from a young age. At just 12, he performed in a gospel group, and by the age of 14, he formed his first band with a young Ray Charles. Despite their early collaboration and lifelong friendship, Jones and Charles surprisingly did not work together more closely in later years. Reflecting on their bond, Charles once remarked, “Quincy had a loving style about him. He was genuine. We hit it off right away.” Their relationship, formed during their teenage years in Seattle, remained a strong and enduring one throughout their lives.
In the 1950s, Quincy Jones moved to New York, where his reputation as an arranger quickly began to flourish. He worked as a freelancer on recording sessions for labels such as Epic and Mercury, collaborating with a range of iconic artists including Clifford Brown, Tommy Dorsey, Count Basie, and Sarah Vaughan. In 1953, Jones joined Lionel Hampton’s Orchestra, further cementing his place in the jazz world. By 1956, he became the musical director for an orchestra that toured internationally with the legendary Dizzy Gillespie, marking a pivotal moment in his career and solidifying his role as one of the most sought-after arrangers and conductors of his time.
Jones returned to New York long enough to become the musical director for Harold Arlen’s blues opera Free and Easy, which featured a band that included renowned musicians such as Clark Terry, Phil Woods, and Budd Johnson. The production toured Europe in 1959 and 1960, further expanding Jones’ influence in the jazz and music world. During this period, he also arranged songs for artists like Peggy Lee and Billy Eckstine and conducted the Count Basie Orchestra during joint performances with Frank Sinatra.
In the 1960s, Jones served as an artist and repertoire (A&R) director for the Mercury label, where he played a key role in producing a string of chart-topping pop hits for a variety of artists. He also established himself as a prolific composer of soundtracks and a recording artist in his own right. However, in 1974, Jones suffered a near-fatal stroke, which posed a serious threat to both his career and his life. Despite this setback, his resilience and dedication to music would help him recover and continue to shape the music industry for decades to come.
Quincy Jones with Michael Jackson (early 1980s).
Jones’ success continued throughout the 1970s and 1980s. He produced albums for iconic artists like George Benson and Chaka Khan, further establishing his versatility and influence across genres. However, it was his legendary partnership with Michael Jackson that truly cemented his place in music history. Jones played a pivotal role in producing Jackson’s first three platinum solo albums, Off the Wall, Thriller, and Bad, albums that propelled Jackson to global megastardom.
Besides his work with pop and jazz musicians, Jones earned widespread recognition for his film and television scores. He won an Academy Award in 1967 for his work on the score for In cold blood, showcasing his talent as a composer for cinema. His contributions to the music world were not limited to recording; he also became co-producer of the Montreux Jazz and World Music Festival, further solidifying his influence in shaping the direction of both jazz and international music.
This according to the Encyclopedia of music in the 20th century (2013). Find it in RILM Music Encyclopedias.
Watch a 1965 performance the Quincy Jones Orchestra (with Jones directing) below.
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The hsaìng waìng ensemble of Myanmar (Burma) derives its name from its primary instrument, a circular drum set consisting of 21 drums suspended in a round wooden frame. The ensemble leader plays melodies on this drum, also known as the pat waìng. The frame comprises eight gold-plated sections adorned with inlaid glass pieces. Inside, the 21 double-headed drums are conical with a rounded bulge at the top, and while they have two membranes, only the upward-facing one is struck. Each drum is tuned to a fixed pitch using paste and has a range of over three octaves. Alongside the oboe, the drum serves as a leading melodic instrument in the ensemble.
Myanmar’s relative geographic isolation has allowed certain traditional instruments, such as the bow harp and drum circle, to endure from earlier periods of Indian influence in Southeast Asia, while such instruments have largely disappeared in neighboring countries. The distinctive sound character of the hsaìng waìng is strongly influenced by Indian traditions, particularly in how its drums are tuned to a fixed pitch. Unlike many membranophones that produce rhythmic beats, the drum circle in the hsaìng waìng plays melodies. The hsaìng waìng is closely connected to the orchestral traditions of the neighboring countries including Thailand, Cambodia, and Laos, as well as Java and Bali (Indonesia). These ensembles play an integral role in accompanying religious ceremonies and theatrical performances, highlighting their cultural significance in the region. They typically combine hump gongs with wind and string instruments, drums, cymbals, and other percussion instruments, often incorporating related phase structures characterized by repeating counts of four.
Watch a contemporary performance by a hsaìng waìng ensemble.
The oldest surviving musical instruments from Myanmar are bronze drums, likely cast in the last centuries B.C.E. and now held in private collections. The earliest descriptions of musical instruments can be found in the annals of the Tang Dynasty, which provide detailed accounts of the 35 musicians and dancers from the Pyū Kingdom who performed at the Chinese imperial court in Chang’an during the New Year celebrations of 801/802. Their ensemble included four cymbals, two iron clappers, four conch shells, two harps with phoenix heads, two zithers with crocodile heads, a lute with a dragon head, another lute with a cloud-shaped neck, five stick zithers, four flutes, a pipe, six drums, and two large and two small mouth organs, each with eight pipes. Additionally, there was a unique mouth organ featuring two elephant tusks as a calabash wind chamber, along with two mouth organs made from two or three ox horns for pipes.
The image at the beginning of the post is of Burmese musicians at the Shwedagon Pagoda in Rangoon circa 1895. Below are two images of hsaìng waìng ensembles performing. In the first, the ensemble is accompanied by three women singers.
A monster’s vocality and capacity for communication have been complicated themes since the earliest adaptations of the novel. The evolution of the monster’s speech, along with the dynamics of its silence, reveals how essential vocality is to forming a sympathetic portrayal of the character. Each new version highlights this relationship, demonstrating that even in adaptations where the monster’s voice is largely absent, vocality remains crucial to shaping audience empathy.
This dynamic mirrors what performance theorist Marvin Carlson describes as “ghosting”, a phenomenon where theater productions are infused with multiple layers of history. This creates interpretations linked to the audience’s memories of the written text, the performers, props, and even the performance space. In the case of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, these layers are even more complex and elusive, reflecting its extensive and varied influence over the two centuries since the novel’s publication.
Within this context, the monster is frequently depicted as dim-witted and inarticulate, if not entirely silent. Restoring the creature’s voice–along with the eloquence and insight it can convey–highlights an often-overlooked aspect of Shelley’s novel, particularly in relation to the pop culture narrative surrounding the “Frankenstein complex”, which influences how we interpret all Frankenstein texts, from film adaptations to staged dramas and the original novel. In this sense, the silencing of the monster significantly affects our capacity to empathize with them and shapes our understanding of their connection to our own humanity.
This according to “Listening to the monster: Eliding and restoring the creature’s voice in adaptations of Frankenstein” by Jude Wright (Journal of adaptation in film & performance 8/3 [2015] 249–266; RILM Abstracts of Music Literature, 2015-90335).
The scene below from the 1931 film Frankenstein (directed by James Whale), illustrates how vocality can shape character empathy.
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DEUMM Online digitizes, enhances, and extends the Dizionario enciclopedico universale della musica e dei musicisti (DEUMM), the most important modern music dictionary in the Italian language. Comprising a broad range of entries (persons, topics, dances, genres, geographical locations, institutions, instruments, and works), DEUMM Online uses advanced and intuitive search and translation functionalities. This venerable music encyclopedia, which has set the standards in modern Italian music lexicography, is, in its new online format, once again an indispensable node in a comprehensive, international, networked research experience.
For those unable to join the Rome event in person, the event will be live streamed on YouTube by Fondazione Roma Tre Teatro Palladium, accessible directly from the following QR code:
The program (below) will include Daniele Trucco’s DEUMM-inspired music, greetings from Luca Aversano (President, ADUIM), Marcoemilio Camera (President, IAML Italia), and Tina Frühauf (Executive Director, RILM), as well as presentations by Zdravko Blažeković (Executive Editor, RILM), Stefano Campagnolo (Director, Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Roma), Alex Braga (composer), and DEUMM Online’s general editors Antonio Baldassarre and Daniela Castaldo. Pianist Giuseppe Magagnino will also perform works by Ellington, Beethoven, The Beatles, and more.
And mark your calendars: DEUMM Online will be featured again at the following events:
19 November 2024: Turin, hosted by Istituto per i Beni Musicali di Piemonte at the Teatro Regio
21 November 2024: Milan, hosted by the Archivio Storico Ricordi in the Biblioteca Nazionale Braidense
Historical and contemporary Japanese attitudes toward the ukulele have framed both the instrument and Hawaii as objects of idealized longing and utopian desire. This yearning embodies what Christine Yano describes as a “plucked paradise”—a concept that combines music-making on a stringed instrument with the imagery of flowers being harvested for personal enjoyment. In this context, plucking a string creates a soft, fleeting sound, while plucking a flower represents a subtle act of aesthetic appropriation. Both evoke a paradise that is temporary, sensual, and aestheticized.
Cover of a Japanese book of ukulele sheet music.
These perspectives raise important questions about the meanings that participants ascribe to the ukulele and its music in Japan. How do infrastructural elements, particularly the influence of Japanese Americans, contribute to the growth of ukulele culture in Japan? For instance, Japanese Americans like Haida “Harry” Yukihiko, considered the “Father of Hawaiian music in Japan”, and his brother Katsuhiko brought their knowledge of and enthusiasm for the ukulele to Japan in the 1920s when they visited to repatriate the ashes of their father but stayed to study at a university. Their enthusiasm for Hawaiian music and in-between status, with direct access to both Hawaii and Japan, helped foster the first ukulele boom in Japan. By examining the various dimensions involved in creating this “plucked paradise,” we can uncover the tensions, conflicts, and creative forces that shape this cultural exchange.
This according to “Plucking paradise: Hawaiian ukulele performance in Japan” by Christine R. Yano (Japanese studies 35/3 [2015] 317–330; RILM Abstracts of Music Literature, 2015-82904).
Below, the Japanese duo Fukulele perform Clap your hands and sing with me, a song about world peace composed by Roy Sakuma. The group played the song at the 2022 Ukulele Festival Hawaii’s Global Play Along. The following video features the Japan Junior Ukulele Orchestra performing the same song.
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The main entrance to the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts’s exhibition Lou Reed: Caught between the twisted stars opens up on Lincoln Plaza, directly adjacent to the The Metropolitan Opera house. On a sunny day, the Met’s … Continue reading →
Seven strings/Сім струн (dedicated to Uncle Michael)* For thee, O Ukraine, O our mother unfortunate, bound, The first string I touch is for thee. The string will vibrate with a quiet yet deep solemn sound, The song from my heart … Continue reading →
Introduction: Dr. Philip Ewell, Associate Professor of Music at Hunter College and the Graduate Center of the City University of New York, posted a series of daily tweets during Black History Month (February 2021) providing information on some under-researched Black … Continue reading →
For it [the Walkman] permits the possibility…of imposing your soundscape on the surrounding aural environment and thereby domesticating the external world: for a moment, it can all be brought under the STOP/START, FAST FOWARD, PAUSE and REWIND buttons. –Iain Chambers, “The … Continue reading →
