A Composer's Approach to Music, Cognition, and EmotionAuthor(s): David KeaneSource: The Musical Quarterly, Vol. 68, No. 3 (Jul., 1982), pp. 324-336Published by: Oxford University PressStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/742004 .Accessed: 18/03/2011 17:55

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A Composer's Approach to Music, Cognition, and Emotion

DAVID KEANE

REGARDLESS of how prepared he is to answer, the composer has

always had to ask himself: "What makes a piece of music pleasur- able and interesting?" Even though sociologists, philosophers, music theorists, psychophysicists, and neurologists are not ready to give a complete answer to that question, each time the composer sets his pen to paper he must proceed as though he knew the answer. The follow- ing remarks combine what information we presently have about how we hear music with my own notions of how the gaps in that informa- tion might be filled.

But it is difficult to know where to begin. Does it start in the human fetus? Can the first man in prehistory be said to have felt a need to produce music? I suspect there is a great deal in common between the two, but the fetus is a starting place that requires somewhat less speculation.

The first sounds a human being hears are the internal rhythms of the womb. Chief among these are the regular rhythms of the mother's heartbeat and breathing. I think that the programming of rhythm- the expectation that regular patterns will continue'-takes place in the womb and is continually reinforced after birth by the infant's own breath. After all, there is nothing in our perceptual world with which we are more intimate than our breathing.

You may think that I mean that music is given its raison d'2tre by mystical life forces (or something of the sort), but I merely believe that initially art emanates from a primitive level of the human mind and, because there is no real basis for assuming that art arises from adaptive

I Abraham Moles, Information Theory and Esthetic Perception, trans. Joel E. Cohen

(Urbana, Ill., 1966) p. 68.

324

Music, Cognition, and Emotion 325

processes initiated by a need for survival, the basis for art seems to come from within. Breathing and other body rhythms provide a foundation for art that we can exploit because they occur automati- cally, and the human experience of them is profound.

Any sense impression, if sufficiently strong, leaves in our brains some more or less permanent trace of itself, which materializes in the form of association whenever an immediate sense impression of a similar kind recurs.2 The length and subtle variety of the auditory and tactile sensations of breathing provide a vast experience upon which rhythm, the very essence of music, is built. We could not have music if we were to allow no development of rhythm, although music made with a single level of pitch, or dynamic, or timbre is common.

One of the most important yoga exercises for obtaining control, not only of the body, but of consciousness, is pranayama, a method of controlling breathing to make it entirely rhythmical and at the same time deep and physiologically efficient. A Westerner who tried some of these exercises in a Japanese monastery reported that the experience could be compared "to music, especially when one plays it oneself." Taoism's t'ai-chi ("embryonic respiration") and the Islamic mystical practice of dhikr are quite similar to pranayama.3

Whether or not we consciously develop ritual breathing, we are conditioned by the regular pulsation and the antecedent-consequent relationship of inhalation followed by exhalation. We experience this passively in the fetal stage and actively from the moment of birth and our first intake of air to the moment of death and our final exhalation.

Over this natural ostinato the infant makes vocal sounds. Even in its first few weeks a baby produces simple sounds, and by four months the child begins to make extended series of repetitious sound qualities, especially sounds which are textured by the gurgling of saliva. This activity is carried on particularly when the infant is unaware of the presence of others in the room. Burton L. White states that a child fourteen to twenty-four months old

uses long collections of sounds arranged in sentence-like form, with inflections and

emphases, but with no recognizable word meaning. I have no notion as to the

significance of this gibberish.4

2 Karl Pearson, "Phenomenalism," Philosophic Problems (New York, 1957), p. 171.

3 Terence McLaughlin, Music and Communication (London, 1970), pp. 81-82. 4 Burton L. White, The First Three Years of Life (Englewood Cliffs, N.J., 1975), p. 173.

326 The Musical Quarterly

I submit that this behavior signals the end of a protomusical exploration, an exploration which has been overwhelmed by lan- guage development. For the first year or so, the child engages in discovering sounds that he can make himself and the possibilities for transforming and repeating those sounds which appeal to him, dis- carding those which do not. This activity does not differ in any important way from the basic process in which the composer writes music. But when the infant is in the presence of adults, any sound which can be construed, or misconstrued, as language is encouraged. Any sound which is clearly not language is considered useless by the adults and is therefore discouraged. This discouragement may well be a major factor in the infant's inhibition for free sound exploration in the presence of others, and it is presumably the reason that White finds the decline of abstract sound exploration at about seven months.5

Exactly why this protomusical exploration takes place is unclear. Juan Roederer speculates that over millennia human beings have developed musical capacities in relation to language capability. As language developed, the brain evolved special areas for processing language information. While language itself must be acquired through experience, the mechanism which contains both the capacity for language processing and perhaps the motivation to acquire lan- guage is inherited. Roederer suggests this motivation may manifest itself in the way a cat is "genetically programmed" to practice move- ments which are useful in hunting. He feels that perhaps humans are "genetically motivated" to train the language-handling network in the processing of simple but otherwise genetically irrelevant sound patterns in the way the cat trains itself by chasing biologically irrele- vant objects.6

Regardless of the ultimate function of the experience of infant sound exploration, the experience itself very likely provides the foun- dation for the ability to select and order nonsymbolic materials which appeal directly to the senses. Most of the events which occur external to the infant's control are apparently repetitious (e.g. motor sounds of various domestic appliances) or random (e.g. the coming and going of people). The infant's own capacity for producing events provides a middleground in which the certainty (redundancy) that allows a level

5 Ibid., p. 223. 6 Juan G. Roederer, "The Perception of Music by the Human Brain," Humanities

Association Review, XXX/1-2 (1979), p. 19.

Music, Cognition, and Emotion 327

of satisfactory expectation is balanced with an adequate degree of freshness. Because most infantile sound making is oral, it is structured by the pattern of breathing, a built-in foundation of certainty; but this pattern is subject to both capricious and anticipated modifications which supply freshness. An intimacy with the potential for guiding and monitoring this balance is essential to art making-and the logical extension of art making-art appreciation. But like language, art making is a learned ability, not inborn. I believe that this essential learning by direct experience is interrupted by language acquisition, and that art learning is later resumed in a highly modified and consid- erably less efficient manner.

Western society has conducted music instruction as though musi- cal knowledge can be acquired primarily by internalizing a set of task-performance skills. After language acquisition, protomusical ac- tivities are suppressed. It may be months or years before musical training in one or another form is begun.

When we begin music instruction we assume that "music" is a body of knowledge which exists Independent of people and that the acquisition of musical knowledge may be carried on only with the assistance of a person who possesses a great deal of musical knowl- edge. Such assumptions are unfortunate because the most important aspect of art is the direct experience of the art object. Secondary information is more often misleading than it is helpful unless the perceiver already has a thorough direct experience of the art object itself.

We come to "know" an object through our direct interaction with it. If we pick up a stone, squeeze it, rub it, weigh it, etc., our under- standing of the stone is the record of these operations: that the squeez- ing was resisted totally, that the rubbing produced the sensation of smoothness, that for its size the object was heavy, or light, etc. Those aspects that we failed to explore will remain unknown to us. If we were to try to understand the stone by means of someone else's description of it rather than by direct experience, our idea of the stone would probably be quite different. Moreover, when we encounter the stone itself, our expectations of it based upon merely secondary knowledge might very well blind us to discoveries we might otherwise make.7

If this is the process by which we also learn music-and there is considerable evidence to support this idea-the rigidity of traditional

7 Earl C. Kelley, Education for What is Real (New York, 1947), p. 15.

328 The Musical Quarterly

music instruction with its complete disregard for personal explora- tion and its dogmatic clinging to a skill-development basis for musi- cal comprehension actually impedes the development of some kinds of experiential musical knowledge.

Of course nothing is all bad. The skills which are provided by traditional approaches have been satisfactorily exploited. However, one cannot but wonder if less destructive procedures (provided they can be found) would be of far greater utility to the music student. It is clear that the effect of language acquisition is such that some assist- ance is required for most individuals to recover and develop the musical channel.

It would seem important, moreover, that such assistance should take place as early as possible. There is considerable evidence that certain kinds of learning can be easily acquired at early ages but only with great difficulty, if at all, at later periods. D. Sergeant and S. Roche studied absolute pitch, clearly a skill requiring traditional methods. They reported in 1973 that of more than 1,000 professional musicians investigated, 95 percent of those whose training was on a musical instrument before the age of four possessed absolute pitch, but only 5 percent of those who began instrumental study between twelve and fourteen possessed it.8

Whether absolute pitch memory is a desirable ability or not, I think the evaluation and selection skills required for music composi- tion certainly are desirable. It may very well be that all or most children might also develop considerable ability in musical composi- tion, and consequently music listening, if the protomusical abilities of infancy were exercised and extended rather than abandoned.

The work of the Polish psychoacoustician Andrezj Rakowsky may shed some light not only upon why most people do not acquire absolute pitch but perhaps why simple tone matching is difficult for many individuals. Rakowsky feels that because infants cannot, for anatomical reasons, produce the absolute-pitch patterns of adult speech, they ignore the pitch and pay sole attention to the relative pitch sequences which can then be transposed to pitches manageable by an infant voice. This extended experience of absolute-pitch sup- pression may deeply affect a child's later ability to remember pitch in

8 D. Sergeant and S. Roche, "Perceptual Shifts in the Auditory Information Processing of Young Children," Psychology of Music, I, II (1973).

Music, Cognition, and Emotion 329

an absolute way.9 Thus we see yet further impact of language acquisi- tion upon musical skills.

Perhaps the most perplexing aspect of recovering the lost proto- musical channel is not that language has the ascendancy over pro- tomusical experience but that we employ language as the primary vehicle for music instruction. There are two significant drawbacks to verbal approaches to music teaching: (1) music cannot be adequately represented by words, and (2) (perhaps a corollary of 1) music can be grossly misrepresented by words. But while most musicians are gener- ally aware of the former, they often fail to consider the latter.

The compelling desire to speak about music when we know words are inadequate has frequently inspired us to use simile and analogy. This may be inspired by a good deal more than expediency. Juan Roederer speculates that the brain does not store information in a simple point-to-point distribution but that various aspects of a piece of information are distributed over the entire brain in much the same way that an optical hologram has information about one point of the photographed object spread over the whole film. Roederer calls this "holologic" representation.'

Experimentation has revealed that neurons on the surface of the brain will respond, for example, when a visual stimulus is perceived at a particular point in space (but not at other points) and will respond when an auditory stimulus is perceived at the same point in space (but not at others). Therefore, one might be justified in proposing that a musical passage which suggests an analogy with a sunset, a poem, or a painting might well share a good many of the same neurons in the brain of the perceiver. That is, the cerebral processing and registration may be in part similar or even identical. Perhaps, beyond a certain point, the brain is concerned only with the substance of the sensory message and not particularly with the sensory channel.

Such an arrangement might well suit the brain, but it often raises problem 2 above: we attempt to understand our musical experience by comparing it to our experience of watching a sunset. We forget that it is only our response that the two actually Have in common. The two phenomena themselves are quite distinct and unrelated. The verbal

9 Andrezj Rakowski, "The Magic Number Two: Seven Examples of Binary Apposition in Pitch Theory," Humanities Association Review, XXX/1-2 (1979), p. 33.

10 Roederer, "The Perception of Music," p. 14.

330 The Musical Quarterly

problem can mislead us even further, as Postman and Weingartner explain:

Apparently, one of man's most primitive traits is to respond to the symbols he invents as if they are whatever it is that he invented them to symbolize. The words assume, so to speak, a life of their own and can become more important than the reality they are intended to codify. An especially interesting example of this can be found in the conventional responses to "dirty words," by, say, the U.S. Post Office, which acts as an official censor of published materials. Post Office officials rarely, if ever, object to a description of sexual activities provided that an author has used a certain set of verbal symbols. However, if the author has chosen "dirty words" to describe the same events, he may find himself in court and possibly in prison. It is not the event itself that distresses the Post Office. It is the words."

But even if we fully understood how the brain stores its informa- tion, we would not be particularly closer to comprehending why the brain responds positively to some music while finding other music unsatisfactory.

Lazare Saminsky relates in his Physics and Metaphysics of Music'2 that he was initially deeply attracted to the famous remark by the seventeenth-century philosopher and mathematician, Gottfried Leibnitz: "Music is a veiled exercise in arithmetic by the soul unaware of its counting." Saminsky then remarks that "I had not quite realized at that time that here we have merely a statement on acoustics, not a philosophy of music."

I have no idea where the "soul" comes in but I am inclined to think there is more to the counting than Saminsky is prepared to recognize. The key is whether we understand the importance of the numbers to be absolute (as I think Saminsky takes it) or relative.

Heinrich Schenker hinted at this relatively when he admonished his readers: "We should learn to assume in [musical tones] biological urges as they characterize living beings." He goes on to say that tones have a will toward resolution, a resolution predetermined at the outset by the shape of the Ursatz (the vertical and horizontal plan) the only resolution which would satisfy a good Gestalt. ~

Of course, Schenker's error was not in assuming a will but in assuming that the will comes from the physical nature of a note or group of notes. The will comes from us.

11 Neil Postman and Charles Weingartner, Teaching as a Subversive Activity (New York, 1969), p. 106.

12 Lazare Saminsky, Physics and Metaphysics of Music and Essays on the Philosophy of Mathematics (The Hague, 1957), p. 2.

13 Eugene Narmour, Beyond Schenkerism (Chicago, 1977), pp. 35-36.

Music, Cognition, and Emotion 331

Myriad pieces of information reach us through our senses almost constantly throughout our waking life, and almost all of that infor- mation relates to our previous experience. Yet we select only a very limited amount of that information to attend to, and no two people will attend to precisely the same things. The selection is made upon more than past experience; it is based upon our perception of the purpose or function of those objects that we perceive.'4

Purpose in music has to do with knowing what has happened and, on the basis of present information, making predictions about what will happen. Purpose requires that, consciously or unconsciously, we perceive the number and kind of events taking place in order to make predictions about numbers and kinds of future events. Leibnitz attrib- uted this function to the soul because he was aware that he did not respond to listening to music by saying to himself: "two of those, and three of those, and one more of those. ...." "Two" and "three" and "one" are the verbal symbols for numbers, not the numbers them- selves. The infant engages in musical activities long before it has acquired the symbolic means of storing information. Nevertheless, the infant has no difficulty in producing events of identical length or with the same number of subdivisions within an event.

A few years ago, I shared a hospital room with a severely affected stroke victim who had broken his hip. The man, about seventy, could occasionally provide his last name upon request but was otherwise completely unable to communicate even though he was apparently fully conscious. The thing which fascinated me was that he frequently engaged in extended periods of softly singing wordless tunes to him- self. While the melodic intervals were indistinct, or perhaps merely other than the diatonic pattern that I am accustomed to following, the melodic shape and the number of events in each phrase were quite clear. He produced phrases of three eighth notes in complementary pairs. These were sometimes identical pairs but most often they were symmetrical: antecedent-consequent.

It is no surprise that a man with seventy years of experience of the world should produce music with a plan simiilar to that of most of the music he must have heard over those years. We know that speech and music are processed in completely opposite hemispheres of the brain's cerebral cortex'5 so that despite the impaired speech this man's musi-

14 Kelley, op. cit, pp. 46-47. 15 Juan Roederer, Introduction to the Physics and Psychophysics of Music (New York,

1975), pp. 165-66.

332 The Musical Quarterly

cal capacity was probably fully intact. Nevertheless, I think it is significant that despite his condition, or because of it, he chose to make music frequently, day after day. I think it is even more significant that he chose to create antecedent-consequent patterns which correspond to the familiar pattern of inhalation-exhalation.

The basis of the expectation that there will be a release of air after the intake of the breath, the expectation that a second phrase will release the tension created by the first, Leonard B. Meyer calls "contin- uation." Repetition is predictable to the degree that it is not necessary to attend to the outcome-the outcome is certain. Continuation is also predictable, but it is so only to the extent that we can anticipate the general process and outcome, but we must attend to that process to find out precisely which of the apparent possibilities will be realized. In order to assess future outcomes at any level of musical pattern, we must comprehend the implications imbedded in the portion of the music already heard.16

While we are prepared to admit that a good deal of this assessment could be performed in our conscious mind while we listen to music, I think it is safe to say that most of us do not find ourselves saying, "Aha! if the music did that then the next thing must be either an exact repetition or a repetition one scale step higher or else it will cadence, but if not... ," anymore than we find ourselves counting. If Meyer is correct about continuation, then counting and assessing must be going on somewhere in us.

A plausible suggestion has been offered by Anton Ehrenzweig in his The Hidden Order of Art.'7 He speaks of unconscious scanning, a normal and constant process of our subconscious mind. While the conscious mind selects, represents, examines, and even rearranges experience symbolically, the unconscious mind scans the whole of the experience, absorbing every detail. The unconscious mind does not have to make choices. For example, while the conscious mind follows and analyzes a single melody line, the unconscious mind encompasses all of the polyphonic voices. Ehrenzweig uses this model of uncon- scious scanning to account for the artist's decision-making process when an obscure or totally unlikely choice is made but that in the end seems to be a good, if not the best, choice even though no simple logical reason for the selection may be apparent. Unconscious scan-

16 Leonard B. Meyer, Emotion and Meaning in Music (Chicago, 1956), p. 13. 17 Anton Ehrenzweig, The Hidden Order of Art (London, 1973).

Music, Cognition, and Emotion 333

ning seems an equally plausible accounting for the location of the counting soul of Leibnitz and the continuation assessment of Meyer.

For a time, cinemas were using split-second tachistoscope images of candy and popcorn flashed upon the motion-picture screen for durations long enough to be registered on the retina but not above the critical threshold for conscious perception. Sales of candy and pop- corn increased by prodigious amounts. But subliminal suggestion did not make people buy food; it merely placed the idea in the subcon- scious mind. The subconscious mind then did what it normally does: it offered the information gathered to the conscious mind. The con- scious mind may reject the thought or ponder it. If the thought was pondered, a decision was made and the food was either bought or it was not.

When we listen to music, the patterns which imply change or repetition are registered and scanned by the subconscious mind. From moment to moment the conscious mind draws simple conclusions about every and any level of pattern in the music. Conscious attention darts from here to there focusing and reflecting upon various aspects of the music while myriad details are statistically sampled and the re- sults, in an understood, but nonsymbolic form, are passed on from the subconscious mind. Most of these details are ignored by the conscious mind. The results of unconscious scanning are not pondered by the conscious mind, but they are nevertheless a part of the total expe- rience. For example, we may determine that a major scale has been played on the piano as a conscious evaluation, but we may also determine that the piano is slightly out of tune without knowing which notes in particular were mistuned nor which were flat and which were sharp. This assessment of unconscious scanning neverthe- less remains as a conviction that the piano is out of tune. Unconscious vision has been proved capable of scanning serial structures and gathering more information than conscious scrutiny lasting a hundred times longer.'8 The difference in experience for each listener, then, rests not in what he hears but in what he chooses to pay attention to. He may in fact choose not to pay attetition at all.

In our world the child deprived of the protomusical exploration in which he selected kinds and durations of events to suit his attention span is expected to listen to a piece of music that someone else has selected. When he tires of listening but the music continues, the child

18 Ibid., p. 47.

334 The Musical Quarterly

shifts his conscious attention to something other than the music. For most music there is no difficulty in withdrawing attention. Our sub- conscious mind may hear and analyze music but our conscious mind may be engaged in something else entirely. We listen to music only when we choose to listen. And we normally choose to listen only to music which draws our attention.

There are two aspects of music which draw attention: cognitive attractants (interestingness) and sensory attractants (pleasingness). Social norms aside, most people are likely to agree about the success of sensory attractants in a piece (if it is possible clearly to separate the sensory from the cognitive in actual experience). Sensory attraction arises from the effect of a piece of music and it appeals primarily to the subconscious mind. Conscious attention is drawn, or perhaps con- scious activity is somewhat suspended, for a time because the sensa- tion is pleasurable. Cognitive attraction arises through perceived complexity and involves the conscious mind in symbolic representa- tion, processing, and prediction. The conscious mind becomes en- gaged in understanding function and relationships both within the work at hand and in contrast to previous experiences.

These two categories are of course ideal extremes. No musical work, or even a portion of it, is entirely based upon sensory or cognitive attractants. But that will not prevent me from making a few generalizations about these attention-drawing mechanisms. Because the aspects which are knowable in music of a sensory attractant nature are immediately known to the subconscious mind and, other than a desire for the pleasurable sensation to continue, because the conscious mind is not actively involved, time acts adversely upon-sensory music. As time passes the listener gradually grows habituated to the stimulus and eventually ceases to pay attention at all. What was initially refreshingly pleasant simply becomes "normal." One might say that freshness is inversely proportional to the length of exposure time to sensory attractants.

On the other hand, if there are many levels of perceivable complex- ity to be educed, cognitively interesting music grovs more attractive with time as the listener comes to understand its processes and is able to follow and predict events to a degree which is increasingly satisfy- ing. Thus freshness is directly proportional to the length of exposure to cognitive attractants, although sooner or later we reach a point of diminishing returns, a point that varies greatly from individual to individual.

Music, Cognition, and Emotion 335

This brings us to the initial problem: How should the composer approach making a composition? We know that listeners may choose not to listen and that in such an event the music merely dissolves into the myriad random and cyclic events that comprise the background of his daily experience. If the composer wishes to have an audience he must attract the listener's attention. Meyer suggests that the key is to create a pattern of a sort that can be understood, allowing general future outcomes to be predicted with reasonable accuracy without being obvious.'9 That makes memory crucial to musical perception. When we think we have found a significant relationship in a painting, we have only to look back and forth between the two points in question. When we identify what appears to be a significant relation- ship in music, we have only the memory of the second point to compare with an even older memory of the first. If the music is sensorily attractive we have no real interest in the memory of relation- ships, but if the music holds a potential for cognitivie attraction, we must get some aspects of the musical events into conscious focus. That is the composer's responsibility.

I believe that the composer must identify the needs (not necessarily desires) of the audience he wishes to address. If the only audience he requires is himself, that is his privilege of course, but then he must not complain about an audience that fails to appreciate his music. If a composer desires a larger audience, he must come to understand how those individuals that comprise that audience listen to music. The composer need not embrace musical tradition but he must be aware that the past has a profound impact upon how people listen to music. He must assess the balance of sensory and cognitive attractants to create something that will appeal to the largest portion of his intended audience.

Many composers consider it demeaning to cater in any way to anyone but themselves. But they must give up the nineteenth-century notion of the composer as a divinely inspired high priest who has a vision to impart, perhaps at the expense of his own well-being, for the sake of enriching the lives of those who have the sense and education to appreciate his vision.

The only message in music is the experience itself. But unlike any ongoing experience, musical experience is intended to provide a com- prehensible experience, complete and somehow satisfying. However,

19 Leonard B. Meyer, Explaining Music: Essays and Explorations (Berkeley, 1973), p. 48.

336 The Musical Quarterly

if the means of engaging a listener's attention are not contained in a piece of music, the experience will be of no value.

The responsibility of communication between composer and lis- tener lies with the composer. If we signal someone at a distance in order to get his attention and a tree intervenes, obscuring his view of us, we could not very well expect him to respond unless we found the means of eliminating the obstruction between us. If we expect him to take the initiative, particularly when he may have no idea what he should be looking for, we will be signaling behind the tree to no purpose. Of course, once we obtain his attention we will certainly require cooperation and intelligence from him if our message is to be understood.

Moreover, a composer cannot assume that his own personal re- sponse to his music is in any way universal, because beyond the differences in personal experiences other listeners bring to a piece of music, the composer has an intimate acquaintance with the purpose, conception, birth, and evolution of his music that no other listener can ever approximate. The composer must make a conscious effort to imagine how the listener encountering these sounds for the first time will hear his music despite his personal response, not on the basis of it.20

A work of art is Utopian. The artist creates a world and all its rules. But he does not have the power to create the people who will live there. That perfect world will not function if it does not serve the people for whom it was designed.

FURTHER REFERENCES

John Booth Davies, The Psychology of Music (London, 1978). W. J. Dowling, "The Cognitive Psychology of Music," Humanities Association Review, XXX, 1-2 (1979). Mircea Eliade, Yoga: Immortality and Freedom, trans. W. R. Trask (New York, 1958). C. I. Lewis, "Knowledge and the Given," Philosophic Problems (New York, 1957), pp. 148-57. Leonard B. Meyer, Music, the Arts, and Ideas (Chicago, 1967). R. T. C. Pratt, "The Inheritance of Musicality," Music and the Brain (Springfield, 1977). Robert W. Witkin, The Intelligence of Feeling (London, 1974).

20 David Keane, Tape Music Composition (London, 1980), Chap. IX.