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The Ecology of Listening: How We Experience Sound

by Paul Paccione

Paper delivered on April 4, 2002; Western Illinois University’s

Distinguished Faculty Lecture (Published in ex tempore,

Volume XII/1, Spring/Summer 2004)

There was something marvelous about the song: it actually

existed , it was ordinary and at the same time secret, a simple,

everday song which they were suddenly forced to recognize,

sung in an unreal way by strange powers, powers which were,

in a word, imaginary; it was sung from the abyss in every

uttrance and powerfully enticed whoever heard it to disappear

into that abyss. (Maurice Blanchot)

A lecture on listening should begin with a story, and I’d like to begin with what is

perhaps one of the more fantastic tales about the listening experience. It is from

the eighth century BC - Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey. As many of you

already know, this is the tale of the Greek hero, Odysseus , who after leaving his

home to fight the Trojan war took ten years in his journey to return home.

The one episode in this long journey home that is of particular interest to us this

evening is Odysseus’ encounter with the enchantresses, the Sirens. In Greek

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mythology, the Sirens were sea nymphs, with the bodies of birds and the heads

of women. Legend has it that they had such beautiful voices that sailors who

heard their songs were lured into danger on the rocks from which they sang. It is

a song that Odysseus is destined to encounter on his route home - a song that

will tempt any sailor to ruin.

Just prior to his encounter with the Sirens, Odysseus is forewarned of the danger

of their song by the sorceress Circe.

but listen to what I tell you now....

whoever comes their way. Whoever draws too close,

off guard, and catches the Sirens’ voice in the air -

no sailing home for him, no wife rising to meet him,

no happy children beaming up at their fathers’ face....

Soon afterwards Odysseus and his crew will arrive within hearing distance of the

island of the Sirens. In order to prevent his crew from hearing their song, he has

his men stop up their ears with wax, and commands them to continue rowing

past the island. But Odysseus wants it both ways. He can’t resist. He is

determined to be the one man to hear the Sirens’ song and still survive. He has

himself firmly bound to the mast of the ship, so that he can hear the Sirens’

voices, yet cannot be physically drawn into danger by their song.

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We were just off shore as far as a man’s shout can carry

scudding close, when the Sirens sensed at once a ship

was racing past and burst into their high shrilling song.....

So they sent their ravishing voices out across the air

and the heart inside me throbbed to listen longer.

I signaled the crew with frowns to set me free -

they flung themselves at the oars and rowed on harder,

Permedes and Eurolochus springing up at once

to bind me faster with rope on chafing rope.

But once we’d left the Sirens fading in our wake,

once we could hear their song no more, their urgent call -

my steadfast crew was quick to remove the wax I’d used

to seal their ears and loosed the bonds that lashed me.

What was so compelling about the song of the Sirens? We will never know - it is

left for our ears to dream about. The poet brings us to an extreme situation, and

here introduces to us a world of unheard sounds. Something remains

untranslatable, indescribable.

Poetry and music are listening instruments that are capable of expressing ideas

and emotions that are often beyond the reach of our ordinary, everyday

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language. It was at the beginning of the twentieth-century, in the third

movement of his Three Nocturnes, that the composer Claude Debussy gave

voice to the Sirens’ song - to what Debussy described as the “sea and its

countless rhythms....the mysterious song of the Sirens as they laugh and pass

on.”

PLAY EXCERPT 1: Three Nocturnes,

by Claude Debussy, Mov’t. III: “The Sirens.”

I cannot speak for you, but as for myself, I’d allow myself to be caught. Such is

the power of sound, of music, of language, and such is the subsequent risk

involved in listening. “Listening involves risk,” wrote the French critic Roland

Barthes, and, “listening will exist only on condition of accepting the risk.”

The risk involves stepping into the unknown. As a result of listening, we may find

that the world is not as we understand it to be.

The listening experience may extend anywhere from the easy to the impossible.

To listen is to be open to experience - to be prepared to become in some way

different from what we already are. Without this openness there is no genuine

listening. Whether listening to language, the sounds of everyday life, nature or

music - a demand is made upon us that does not allow for secure detachment.

Listening pulls us into the world. We are often called into questioning by our

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listening and we are tested by what we hear.

To listen is a choice (you can choose whether or not to listen and how to listen)

and the story of the Sirens presents us with three possible listening choices.

1) Non listening: This is a refusal to listen, a means by which we protect

ourselves from what is being sounded. We, literally or figuratively, stop up our

ears with wax.

2) Defensive listening: This is to hear without listening, in order to protect

our inner selves. It is to bind oneself to the mast and try to hear the Sirens’ song

without risk.

3) Open listening: Finally, this is to relinquish expectations, to listen

carefully and with an open mind. It is a way that opens up instead of shuts off -

the opening-up and gathering-in of the sonorous field. It is other things as well:

the capacity to be touched and moved by what one hears: to be open to,

intertwined with and enchanted by the magical quality of the perceptual world,

and to be unafraid of the possible consequences. To be what the poet Rilke

described as “a being with no shell, open to pain, shaken by every sound.”

What I have described as “open listening,” however, is not an end in itself. It is

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just the first stage in the listener’s development. The starting point is our capacity

to listen. Eventually the ear must learn to make choices, to discriminate, to seek

new relationships and develop new resources. It is not necessary that one

become a musician in order to develop one’s listening capacity. However, the

development and cultivation of our listening capacity requires disciplined practice,

patience and the utmost concentration. There can be no time limit imposed on

this developmental process. When does listening stop? Never. Where does

listening take place? Everywhere.

Another story, this time from the twentieth-century, is the novel Contre Sainte-

Beauve, by the French novelist Marcel Proust. In one episode the author relates

how the sound of a spoon clinking on a plate retrieves a beautiful summer day

from his past. Proust’s involuntary recapturing of a memory from the past is an

example of a type of listening that safe-keeps, that hearkens - the listening that

recalls.

I remember how once when I was traveling by train I strove to draw

impressions from the passing landscape.....Since then, calling to mind those

trees streaked with light and that little churchyard, I have often tried to

conjure up that day, that day itself, I mean, not its pallid ghost. I could

never manage it, and I had lost all hope of doing so, when at lunch not long

ago, I let my spoon fall on my plate. And then it made the same noise as

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the hammers of the linesmen did that day, tapping on the wheels when the

train halted at stations. The burning blinded hour when that noise rang out

instantly came back to me, and that day in all its poetry.........

The American composer John Cage once said that “if people learned to listen

they might discover that they preferred the sounds of everyday life to the ones

they would presently hear in the concert hall... the distinction between music and

sound (or noise) portends a deeper division, namely one that divorces the

listener from the world.”

Similarly, when requested by a publisher to write a book on the history of

techniques of orchestration, the composer Claude Debussy replied: “I have no

desire to write a ‘history of orchestration through the ages’.... To be honest, you

learn orchestration far better by listening to the sound of the leaves rustling in the

wind.”

Another American composer, Morton Feldman, recalls how he gathered all the

sound material for one of his percussion pieces while sitting on a beach, one lazy

summer afternoon, on Long Island.

I wrote it in a few hours, just sitting comfortably on the beach.

And I can actually conjure up the memory of doing it - that kind of muffled

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sound of kids in the distance, and transistor radios, and drifts of

conversations from other pockets of inhabitants on blankets, and I

remember that it all came into the piece, these kinds of wisps of sound -

things that don’t last....

French composer Luc Ferrari’s composition, Presque rien #1 (Almost nothing,

Daybreak at the Beach) (1970), is a vivid and evocative environmental

soundscape portrait of the everyday activities in a small fishing village that invites

us to listen to the sounds of the world.

PLAY EXCERPT 2: Presque rien #1, by Luc Ferrari.

This work demonstrates what a powerful listening tool the recording microphone

can become for the composer - allowing the composer to get up close to and

capture the multidimensional characteristics of transitory sounds. The composer

must be passionate about the sounds he records, in the same sense that the

photographer must be passionate about the things he photographs.

Another skillful listener who listens with care is the naturalist. The naturalist

learns to recognize patterns of sound and to associate them with different

species. Recently, the New York Times has been running a series of articles on a

search that is currently taking place in the Louisiana Bayou for the ivory-billed

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woodpecker (once the largest woodpecker in North America: 20 inches tall) - a

bird that, until recently, was thought to be extinct. The last official sighting of this

bird was in the 1950’s. Recent search teams have been unsuccessful in sighting

the bird. However, they have heard and recorded a brief sequence of raps, a

unique drumming signal that the ivory bill makes when it is hammering bark off of

a tree. It now seems that listening for the bird is the best hope for obtaining

reliable evidence of the bird’s existence.

PLAY EXCERPT 3: Field recording of

Ivory-billed woodpecker

Our first reaction after hearing this sound may be, “is that all there is?” But what

may sound to us as insignificant knocking is in this case, for the naturalist, the

only possible evidence of the survival of a member of a species.

Another recent article in the New York Times, entitled “Listen Closely: From Tiny

Hum Came Big Bang,” reports that scientists have discovered, in Antarctica,

traces of colossal sound waves (like the those resonating from an organ pipe)

that were at work when the universe was but a fraction of a second old and no

bigger than a human fist - a tiny hum that some scientists say ignited the Big

Bang. The universe continues to resonate from the explosion, and it seems that

now the medieval myth of the “music of the spheres” has taken on far greater

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significance than that of poetic metaphor.

The Medieval world believed that music was directly related to the proportioned

order of the universe, and that the sounds produced by the turning of the various

planets created one continuously sounding celestial harmony. The myth of the

music of the spheres was born in ancient Greek times. And it is by way of

another great listener, Pythagoras, who in hearing and measuring the ratios

between the sounds made by a smithy beating out iron on an anvil, that

mathematics in Western culture was born.

Thus the composer, the naturalist, the scientist, the mathematician are all

listeners. One may add to this list the psychoanalyst, the poet, the actor, the

director, the storyteller, the preacher, the teacher, the automobile mechanic. One

does not have to be a musician in order to develop an ear for the music around

us. However, processes of self-development do not occur in a vacuum. We are

psychological, social and cultural beings, and our listening is often subject to both

psychological and cultural variables. “We bring ourselves and our conflicts to

words, to poems, and pictures, as we bring them to the world;” writes the literary

critic Frank Kermode, “and thus we change the poems and the pictures, or

perhaps it is ourselves we change.”

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One of the factors that must be taken into account in any attempt to understand

the listening experience is the psychology of the listener: what the individual

brings to the listening experience in terms of background, personal history,

knowledge and experience. “In reading a poem or listening to a piece of music

the listener makes it his own,” wrote the American composer Roger Sessions.

“In many respects, it is the individual imagination of the listener that plays a role

in defining the musical emotion.”

In the jungles of Brazil, listening to the music of his favorite composers: Wagner,

Chopin, Debussy, Stravinsky, the cultural anthropologist Claude Levi Strauss

writes beautifully about experiencing music: “ The intention of the composer

becomes actual through and by the listener.... Music has its being in me and I

listen to myself through it.”

In addition to the psychology of listening, we must also take into account the

cultural dynamics of listening: how both historical and geographical cultural

difference shape the various protocols for listening. A genuine culture is an

organic growth, the development of which is motivated in great measure by a

potential for listening, a capacity to receive, keep and remember. Each culture

has its own way of understanding the world through sound. The Japanese word

for music is “ongaku.” Ongaku means the enjoyment of sounds; it is an all-

embracing concept. Its refinement is noted in the following passage from

Kawabata’s novel Snow Country, which describes the peculiar melody produced

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by the everyday process of boiling water in a tea kettle:

He could make out two pine breezes....a near one and a far one. Just

beyond the far breeze he faintly heard the tinkling of a bell. He put his ear

to the kettle and listened.

But what of those listening experiences that stand apart from the realm of the

everyday? The auditorium in which I now speak is a cultural artifact. It is a

place specifically designed for focused hearing. It is closed off from the outside

world and the sounds of everyday existence. It is meant to house musical

performance of a very specific kind - a one-way communication system: from

composer, to performer, to listener. It is designed to encourage focused listening

and to enable the performers to project to the listener - it facilitates

communication in one direction.

A musical performance cannot be separated from its social function, from its

place within a musical community, from an acknowledged tradition, nor from the

circumstances in which it is heard. The choral music of the Renaissance

composer Josquin Des Prez evokes the vast expanse of the Renaissance

cathedral. The voices are swept away into this vast expanse as they soar in

search of the immense mystery of an invisible God. Wherever one moves in the

cathedral, one is in the middle of the sound. The beauty of the choral music of

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the Renaissance lies in its ability to convey a religious ideal - God as a presence

whose center is everywhere.

PLAY EXCERPT 4: Missa Pange lingua,

by Josquin des Prez, “Sanctus.”

Unlike Josquin’s, Gustav Mahler’s world is one in which “the Self” is at the center.

It is the world of the romantic composer, virtuoso performer and conductor. The

inner turmoil of the self (the composer as tragic hero) is laid bare and

dramatically exposed. It is a music of the great concert halls, and it is aimed

directly at you, the audience.

PLAY EXCERPT 5: The Song of the Earth

by Gustav Mahler, “Mov’t I: “The Drinking

Song of Earthly Woe.”

The great outdoors is the original contextual space for musical performance. In

another part of the world the wandering minstrel Ram Nepali, moves from village

to village in Nepal, playing the sarangi (a vertically held, bowed, small string

instrument) for anyone who will pay for his meal. In the following statement Ram

states his belief that all of nature is music:

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My nature where I am born - the forest, the birds, and so many butterflies,

nice rivers, and the mountains: this is music. Sometimes birds are

dancing, sometimes there is fog, sometimes it is cloudy. This is all music.

The following excerpt was recorded live on a hillside outside Katmandu. Note the

way in which the natural echo of the hillside valley sets in motion vibrations that

speak for the unique sense of place that surrounds the sound. The music itself

was inspired by the sudden appearance of a cloud of butterflies that appeared

dancing on top of the water, as Ram was sitting by a river with his instrument.

It was all silent. And the sight of the dancing butterflies was so beautiful.

And I started to play this music.

PLAY EXCERPT 6: The Butterflies of Jumia,

by Ram Nepali.

We are surrounded by and filled by a continuous field of sounds: the language

we speak, the sound of tires on the pavement, the rustle of leaves in the trees.

Listening pulls the listener into the world of sound and moves us to establish a

relationship between our world and a different world. To listen is a subjective

choice to immerse oneself in sound and to extract meaning from its presence.

Each person has his/her own listening experience, and may reflect on it. The

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question to ask is - how is “what do I hear,” different from “what am I listening

to”?

One must attend “to the things themselves,” insisted Edmund Husserl, one of

the founding fathers of phenomenology (the study of the essential qualities of

experience). One must be receptive to the pure immediacy of the experience at

the moment it appears. Husserl was interested in how time appeared in

consciousness and for this reason he was particularly interested in music.

Music is made up of a sequence of sounds that exist in time. These sounds are

transitory and impermanent; they belong to the realm of temporality; they cannot

be grasped or possessed; they are always in the process of leaving us. Listening

to music demands the recognition and perception of the memory of the past, the

impression of the present and the expectation of the future: a gathering together

of past, present and future. The act of listening to music immobilizes passing

time; in the words of Claude Levi Strauss, “it catches it and enfolds it as one

catches and enfolds a cloth flapping in the wind.”

In one of his letters to his father describing how he composed, Mozart writes of

his own experience of this musical phenomena:

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....soon one part after another comes to me, as though I were using crumbs

in order to make a pastry according to the rules of counterpoint.

Then it becomes even larger, and the thing truly becomes almost finished

in my head...so that afterward I look over it with one glance in my mind,

and hear it in my imagination not at all serially, as it must subsequently

come about, but as though all at once.

But is a reduction to the pure immediacy of the listening experience even

possible? If so, what else is involved? In what ways are the listener’s

perceptions colored by autobiographical associations, cultural prejudices, our

preconceived analytical conceptual categories, our immediate environment?

How can we prevent these things from hampering our ability to truly listen?

One must bring concentrated attention to both sound and to the listening process

itself. The listener must be consciously aware of, and suspend, the

pervasiveness of certain taken-for-granted beliefs and responses which may

intrude on the listening experience. Listening means not just listening to what we

already understand - to confine ourselves to a given repertory of terms and

standard articulations - but listening for what may exist beyond the more familiar

conventional systems of evaluation.

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“Listening speaks,” is how Roland Barthes describes what takes place in active

listening, and it is in the musical experience that listening most eloquently

speaks.

Musical sounds are vehicles for expression embodying distinctive kinds of

information, and they are organically dependent upon performance. Composer,

performer, and listener form three indivisible degrees of relationship in the

making of music. From conception, to composition, through performance,

reception and understanding, musical communication is an interactive listening

process. If each part of this communication process exists in an environmental

relationship to the others, then an ecology based on listening can exist. The

various links in this chain of communication do not exist isolated from one

another but instead resonate into one another.

The purpose of this process is more than one of transferring sound: it is a

process for the negotiation of meaning. Musical communication can serve as a

model for communication in our everyday lives. The writer Christopher Small

believes that the meaning of music lies not just in musical works but in the totality

of the musical performance: “It is an activity in which humans take part in order

that they may come to understand their relationships with one another and the

greater pattern which connects.” In this sense, a musical performance can stand

as a metaphor for relationships between person and person (chamber music),

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between individual and society (the concerto), between the individual and the

natural world (musique concrete), and between the individual and God (the

Mass). These various musical genres have the potential to teach us about

relationships in all their complexity. “The world of social action and event, the

world of time and process, has a particularly close association with the ear. “The

ear listens, and the ear translates what it hears into practical conduct,” wrote

Northrope Frye, in the Anatomy of Criticism.

An ecology of listening requires more than just contact with sound. It requires

sensitivity toward sound, a curiosity about how it operates and how it affects us,

and about how it interacts within various forms of communication. Ecology is

defined as the study of the relationships between living organisms and their

environment. The word ecology is originally derived from two words (oikos and

logy) meaning, roughly, house and word. Ecology is the study of conditions of

inhabiting, and an ecology of listening involves listening as coexistence and

cohabitation. But definition is not my final concern - it is rather the search for

possible ways in which we can dwell with, abide by and co-exist with sound, to

create the space where listening can be carried out with care (a concert hall, a

cathedral, a hillside, a classroom, between each other and inside ourselves).

Listening is a reflective experience. It is only through repeated listening and a

willingness to suspend standard time measures that one can gain a finer sense

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of discrimination. Listening belongs to time and, in today’s world, time’s flow is

no longer integrated - it is fragmented. A multitude of modern-day distractions

encroach upon our listening. Experience now comes to us via a series of shock

waves. It has become harder and harder to listen, not only to music, but to the

sounds around us, to each other, to our cultural history, and to ourselves.

Skillful listening is both accepting and critical. Ultimately, it is creative. The

practice of listening consists of both the cultivation of one’s own sensibilities and

the ability to acknowledge the sensibilities of others. Each of the individual

examples I have presented to you this evening (from literature, science, and

music) establish a ecological connection (that is, an intercommunication and a

mutual engagement) between the sound of things and the inner being of the

human self. Listening begins within ordinary routines of everyday day life

(listening to the rich multiplicity of the world) and ends in what is yet unheard (the

imagination). “The soul dreams and thinks, then it imagines,” wrote the French

philosopher Gaston Bachelard.

Listening is ultimately an aesthetic skill, and the aesthetic experience demands

time, solitude, patience, reflection and ultimately trust - a responding receptivity.

The listening experience is a reciprocity-governed process that is dependent on

the ability to listen to what the material is telling you. It demands that sound be

lived directly. Good listening requires a disposition to get close to and listen to

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what the other has to express - and the ability to look inside the material and

ourselves with the ear. Preservation is characteristic of a listening attitude.

Sound is housed in memory, and it is in this sense that the philosopher Martin

Heidegger has written eloquently about listening as both “a gathering, a

sheltering - a hearing that preserves.”

In his poem, “Listening to A Dead Language,” W.S. Merwin beautifully expresses

the way in which listening can safe-keep, and preserve the expressive potential

in all language and in ourselves:

There is nothing for you to say. You must

Learn to listen first. Because it is dead

It will not come to you of itself, nor would you

Of yourself master it. You must therefore

Learn to be still when it is imparted,

And, though you may not understand, to remember.

What you remember is saved.....

I would like to close my lecture with our listening together to a complete musical

composition that in some mysterious ways embodies everything I have been

speaking about. The piece I have chosen for us to listen to is Charles Ives’ The

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Unanswered Question. It is a short work (5 minutes in length), for solo trumpet,

woodwinds and strings. Ives wrote this piece at the turn of the century (1908) - a

period of turmoil in society, culture and the arts. This was the time of the advent

of modernism. Listening to it now, at the turn of another century, the work

maintains its original power to nourish reflection in the listener.

Before we listen, I’d like to briefly provide some background information on the

composer and the work. Charles Ives was an American composer, born in

Danbury, Connecticut. He was a Connecticut Yankee who lived from 1874-1954.

He earned his living, all his life, running an insurance company in New York City

- composing in the evenings and on weekends. “An unheard, unhonored and

unsung Sunday composer,” was how Leonard Bernstein described him, in a

series of lectures he delivered at Harvard in the 1970’s, tellingly titled “The

Unanswered Question.”

The title alone sets up certain expectations (or questions) in the listener.

Obviously, the work poses a question that goes unanswered. But, what is the

question? And how is it possible for sound to pose a question? Do all pieces of

music pose some kind of mysterious question that goes unanswered?

By providing a brief descriptive forward to the piece, Ives provides the listener

with some reference points:

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The strings play pianissimo (softly) throughout with no change in tempo.

They represent the “Silence of the Druids - Who Know, See and Hear

Nothing.” The trumpet intones “The Perennial Question of Existence,”

and states it in the same tone of voice each time. But the hunt for the

“Invisible Answer” undertaken by the flutes and other human beings

becomes gradually more active, faster and louder... These “Fighting

Answerers,” as time goes on....seem to realize a futility and begin to

mock “The Question” - the strife is over for the moment. After they

disappear, “The Question” is asked for the last time, and “The Silences”

are heard beyond in “Undisturbed Silence.”

Ives was greatly influenced by America’s transcendentalist philosophers

(Emerson and Thoreau, in particular) and the transcendentalists asked some

very profound questions about the nature of existence. In The Unanswered

Question, the trumpet asks a metaphysical question. It asks this question seven

times. This musical question is only a small melodic fragment (it is not a Pucinni

melody), consisting of only 5 pitches. It is disjunct (using large leaps between

pitches), and atonal (what some may describe as dissonant). It sounds modern.

The question is intoned in the same manner each time and at the same neutral

dynamic level. In performance the trumpet is off stage.

The question is answered six times by the flutes, who gradually become more

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and more agitated, either by the question itself or by each other. The musical

answer is arrhythmic, highly dissonant and becomes progressively more shrill.

There is no agreement amongst the flutes. They have stopped listening to each

other. The strings remain removed from the musical argument. They are either

content, clueless, or they are just not prepared to listen - it is up to the listener to

decide. The music they play is tonal. This is a more traditional musical language

that contrasts with the trumpet and winds. It is consonant, sustained, conjunct,

yet it mysteriously wanders aimlessly. The strings are in another time-zone from

the trumpet and the winds, moving at a much slower pace, slowing unfolding the

same chord progression only three times.

What is interesting about this work (and particularly American) is that Ives never

resolves the musical argument. The European composer bound by tradition

might feel obligated to resolve the argument (this, afterall, is the basis of the

great instrumental form - the sonata). Respecting irreconcilable differences,

Ives chooses to let the matter remain unresolved rather than force agreement.

In The Unanswered Question, the three instrumental strata coexist in separate

worlds that never intersect each other (listen to each other), and at the same time

they coexist and create a unified whole. It is by way of the listener’s

responsibility and ability to listen to multiple perspectives - to listen

polyphonically, to many different voices - that the work’s unity becomes evident.

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The seventh, and final, statement of the question goes unanswered by the flutes.

It echoes and resonates in the silence. It is a powerful example of the creative

function of silence relative to sound - the silence is as active as the music that

precedes it. There are no last words.

PLAY #7: The Unanswered Question, by Charles Ives.

Recorded Excerpts

1) Claude Debussy, Nocturnes, Montreal Symphony Orchestra, Charles Dutoit,

conductor (London, 1998).

2) Luc Ferrari, Preque Rien, #2, (Deutche Gramaphone 2543 004).

3) Ivory-Billed Woodpecker (www.zeiss.com).

4) Josquin des Prez, “Sanctus,” Missa Pangue Lingue; in The Best of the

Renaissance, The Tallis Scholars, Peter Phillips, conductor (Phillips, 1999).

5) Gustav Mahler, “Das Trinklied von Jammer der Erde,” Lied von der Erde; in

Mahler Orchestral Songs, Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra, Bernard Haitnik,

conductor (Philips, 1996).

6) Ram Saran Nepali, The Butterflies of Juma, Recorded by Hans

Weiseyhaunet; in The Book of Music and Nature (Middletown: Wesleyan

University Press, 2001).

7) Charles Ives, The Unanswered Question, in American Elegies, Orchestra of

St. Lukes, JohnAdams, conductor (Elektra Nonesuch, 1991).