Review - Phrasing - The Very Life of Music'

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‘Phrasing – the Very Life of Music’: Performing the Music

and Nineteenth-Century Performance Theory
Mine Doğantan-Dack
Nineteenth-Century Music Review / Volume 9 / Issue 01 / June 2012, pp 7 - 30

DOI: 10.1017/S1479409812000055, Published online: 24 May 2012
Link to this article: http://journals.cambridge.org/abstract_S1479409812000055
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Mine Doğantan-Dack (2012). ‘Phrasing – the Very Life of Music’: Performing the Music and
Nineteenth-Century Performance Theory. Nineteenth-Century Music Review, 9, pp 7-30
doi:10.1017/S1479409812000055
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Nineteenth-Century Music Review, 9 (2012), pp 7–30. r Cambridge University Press, 2012
doi:10.1017/S1479409812000055
‘Phrasing – the Very Life of Music’1:

Performing the Music and
Nineteenth-Century Performance Theory
Mine Doğantan-Dack
Middlesex University
Email: [email protected]
Our contemporary perspective of the relationship between the composer, the score and musical
performance during the nineteenth century has been largely shaped by Lydia Goehr’s
widely accepted and equally widely contested narrative regarding the appearance of the
regulative concept of the ‘musical work’ at the end of the eighteenth century. This narrative
has been based on the assumption that during the nineteenth century the score was regarded
as the locus of the work and the music. Goehr’s account, however, is contrary to the essence
of performance-oriented discourses of the nineteenth century. In this article, I present a
narrative account of a neglected thread running along the music theoretical, aesthetic
and pedagogical discourses of this period leading to the emergence and establishment of a
profound conceptual transformation in the way the fundamentals of music making were
understood and explained, and depict the rise of the concept of ‘phrasing’ as a specifically
nineteenth-century phenomenon that diverges from the fundamentals of eighteenth-century
performance pedagogy. I discuss the role of the new concept of phrasing in the performance
theories of Mathis Lussy, Tobias Matthay and Stewart Macpherson and point out some of
the widely employed metaphors and images in the teaching of phrasing during this period.
The article posits that in the performance-oriented discourses of the nineteenth century, the
performer’s first and foremost loyalty was expected to be to ‘the music’ rather than to the score,
the work or the composer.
One of the defining features of nineteenth-century musical thought concerns

the ever-increasing separation of the activities of the composer and the
performer, and the emergence of a new conception of the nature and aesthetic
status of musical performance. Many of our contemporary ways of thinking
about music and musical experiences, including our tripartite classification
of involvement in music as either listeners, composers or performers that we
regard as self-evident, are in fact rooted in this conceptual shift that took place
during the course of the nineteenth century. Our standard understanding of
the performer’s musical activity in the Western classical tradition as categorically
distinct from the processes of composing music is largely the result of the
waning during the nineteenth century of a long aesthetic tradition that based
its foundations on the art of rhetoric. Indeed, prior to the nineteenth century
1
Tobias Matthay, Musical Interpretation (London: Joseph Williams, 1913): 54.
8 Nineteenth-Century Music Review
‘analogies between rhetoric and music permeated every level of musical thought,
whether involving definitions of styles, forms, expression and compositional
methods, or various questions of performing practice.’2 Accordingly, perfor-
mance was regarded as the final stage in the musical art of oratory, or the
pronuntiatio constituting the delivery of the musical oration. Thus subsumed
under one and the same model, compositional practice and performance
were conceptualized as merely the different stages of a unified activity, and in
that sense composing and performing music were not regarded as clearly
differentiated pursuits.
With the nineteenth century came various changes in musical practices that
weakened and ultimately put an end to the rhetorical understanding of the
performer’s role. First, the emerging awareness of a historical repertoire gave
performers a more specialized role in the transmission and dissemination of
pieces of music. As Lewis Rowell writes, ‘the new demands for technical
accomplishment meant that many composers could no longer play their music
acceptably, and the rigorous process of acquiring such a virtuoso technique made
it difficult for a performer to maintain a total commitment to composition.’3
While the eighteenth-century composer was often the performer of his own
music, during the course of the nineteenth century the identity of the performer
came to be defined as one playing the music of those who specialize in
composing. Second, improvisation, which was once a standard part of a concert
by Dussek, Hummel, Czerny and Mozart, gradually started to decline, moving
the performer one more step away from compositional practice. The skills
shaping the musicianship of a performer would no longer be defined in reference
to composing.
Arguably the most significant change concerned the transformation that
took place in the status of the musical score, which set in motion (ongoing)
debates concerning its relationship with the performing musician, paving
the way towards the conception of the performer as an ‘interpreter’. As the
score began to represent the composer’s authoritative text, the continuum
that existed between the score and performances in earlier eras started to break
down such that the notated music could now be understood to embody an
autonomous musical artwork. In contrast to the rhetorically based and
homogeneous eighteenth-century conception, nineteenth-century discussions
about the role of the performer vis-à-vis the score, and thereby about the
interpretative process, would for the first time yield multiple aesthetic models
of performance. For instance, while Liszt promoted the view that the performer
‘is not a mason who, chisel in hand, faithfully and conscientiously whittles
stone after the design of an architect y He creates as the composer himself
created’4, E.T.A. Hoffmann believed that the true performer ‘disdains to let his
own personality intervene in any way’5 in delivering the composer’s work.
Anton Rubinstein’s remarks in this connection render the conflict between these
two notions regarding the performer’s role – either as a transparent medium
2
George J. Buelow, ‘Rhetoric and Music’, in The New Grove Dictionary of Music and
Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: Macmillan, 1980): volume 15: 793.
3
Lewis Rowell, Thinking About Music: An Introduction to the Philosophy of Music
(Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1983): 121.
4
Franz Liszt in Harvey Sachs, Virtuoso (London: Thames & Hudson, 1982): 61.
5
E.T.A. Hoffmann in E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Musical Writings, ed. David Charlton, trans.
Martyn Clarke (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989): 103.
Doğantan-Dack: ‘Phrasing – the Very Life of Music’ 9
transmitting the composer’s message or as a creative artist on a par with the

composer – even more complex:
I hear so much about the subjective and objective in interpretation; which is the
better? I am wholly at a loss to understand what is meant by the objective in
interpretation. Every interpretation, if it is made by a person and not by a machine,
is eo ipso, subjective. To do justice to the object (i.e. the composition) is the law and
duty of every interpreter, but of course each one in his own way, i.e. subjectively.6
Within such diversity of views about the performer’s interpretative activity, and
the attendant conceptual conflicts, the need to explicitly theorize about and
provide explanations for the nature of musical performance and of the performer’s
relationship with the composer, the score and the rising concept of ‘the work’
became urgent. The emergence of the musical performer as an autonomous
category deserving of full attention during the nineteenth century motivated the
first philosophical debates as well as the first psychological explanations regarding
what it is that performers do.
My aim in this essay is to present a thread running through nineteenth-
century musical thought and leading to the emergence of a profound conceptual
transformation in the way the fundamentals of performance making were under-
stood and explained during the nineteenth century. This thread, which moves along
the junctures of nineteenth-century aesthetics, music theory and performance
pedagogy has been entirely neglected in recent accounts concerning the changing
roles of the composer and the performer, the transformations in the status of the
musical score, and the consequent rise of the concept of ‘the musical work’ during this
period. The most widely accepted contemporary account in this connection – namely
Lydia Goehr’s narrative in relation to the appearance of the regulative concept of the
musical work at the end of the eighteenth century and the performer’s stance
regarding the work7 – is based on the assumption that during the nineteenth century
the score was regarded as the locus of the musical work; the implication is that for the
performer knowing, interpreting, and being faithful to the work was identical to
knowing, interpreting, and being faithful to the score. In the words of Goehr
The ideal of Werktreue emerged to capture the new relation between work and
performance as well as that between performer and composer. Performances and
their performers were respectively subservient to works and their composers.
6
Anton Rubinstein, Music and Its Masters: A Conversation on Music, trans. Mrs John
P. Morgan (London: Augener, 189?): 85. The entire book is available on the Internet
Archive, Open Library website at http://www.archive.org.
7
Lydia Goehr, The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the Philosophy of
Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992). Goehr’s thesis has been the subject of
criticism and contestation in various scholarly publications, the best-known being the
collection of essays in The Musical Work: Reality or Invention, edited by Michael Talbot
(Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000). Detailed philosophical analyses regarding
the status and nature of the musical work are undertaken by Stephen Davies in his Musical
Works and Performances: A Philosophical Exploration (New York: Oxford University Press,
2001) and Julian Dodd in his Works of Music: An Essay in Ontology (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 2007). See also the chapter titled ‘The Work’ in Peter Kivy’s Introduction to
a Philosophy of Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 2002). For one of the early
examples of this literature on the philosophy of the musical work, see Roman Ingarden’s
The Work of Music and the Problem of its Identity (London: Macmillan Press, 1986).
The relation was mediated by the presence of complete and adequate notation y
Thus, the effective synonymity in the musical world of Werktreue and Texttreue: to
be true to a work is to be true to its score.8
In her detailed elaboration of this central thesis in her writings, Goehr

frequently uses the notion of ‘the music’ interchangeably with that of ‘the work’,
treating the two as synonyms. For instance, when discussing the model of
performance which she coins as ‘the perfect performance of music’ and which
came about as a direct consequence of the work concept to embody the ideal of
‘faithfulness to the work’, she writes that ‘the perfect performance of music is the
perfect performance of a work.’9 By implication, music – and not only the work –
is assumed to reside, ontologically and epistemologically, in the score. This
unquestioning sleight of hand reducing ‘music’ to ‘work’ is in fact contrary to the
essence of the performance-oriented discourses of the nineteenth century, and
obscures the existence of two separate histories that developed in parallel during
this period: while one of these histories evolved to indeed equate the score with
the work, leading to well-known pronouncements during the twentieth century
by the likes of Hindemith, Stravinsky and Schoenberg to the effect that the
performer is essentially unnecessary for the art of music and that the work can be
experienced and known independently of its performances via score-reading,10
a parallel history was shaped by the belief that ‘the music’ is strictly not in the
notated score, coming into being only in the act of performance, which is essential
for the emergence and communication of any musical meaning. More
significantly, the discourse of this parallel history identifies the performer’s
primary, defining relationship to be with the music rather than with the score or
the work.11 The explicit introduction of the notion of ‘the music’ into the network
of relationships between the composer, the performer, the score and the work
during this period further complexifies the history of nineteenth-century
performance theory.
8
Goehr, Imaginary Museum, 231.
9
Lydia Goehr, The Quest for Voice: Music, Politics, and the Limits of Philosophy
(New York: Oxford University Press, 2002): 141.
10
‘Once we accept the performer as an inevitable necessity in spite of his basic
dubiousness, we may as well try to determine what properties make him estimable’, in
Paul Hindemith, A Composer’s World: Horizons and Limitations (Gloucester, MA: Peter
Smith, 1969): 154. ‘The secret of perfection lies above all in [the performer’s] consciousness
of the law imposed on him by the work he is performing’, in Igor Stravinsky, Poetics of
Music in the Form of Six Lessons (London: Oxford University Press, 1947): 127. ‘Music need
not be performed any more than books need to be read aloud, for its logic is perfectly
represented on the printed page; and the performer, for all his intolerable arrogance, is
totally unnecessary except as his interpretations make the music understandable to an
audience unfortunate enough not to be able to read it in print’, Arnold Schoenberg quoted
in Dika Newlin, Schoenberg Remembered: Diaries and Recollections 1938–76 (New York:
Pendragon, 1980): 164.
11
These two histories do not correspond to the two conflicting performance
conceptions identified by Goehr as the main forces that shaped practice of performance
since 1800 (Goehr, 2002: 134). The parallel history I discuss in this article is not confined to
the conception of the practice of performance as a social phenomenon driven by the desire
for expressive spontaneity, immediacy, and freedom – a conception that Goehr sets against
the Werktreue practice of performance. It is rather a history that problematizes Goehr’s neat
dualistic conceptualization of nineteenth-century performance theory and practice.
The tensions between these co-existing lines of thought partly derive from a
visual versus an aural grasp of the musical score, with the former approach
representing the ideology of the score-as-work where the seeing and reading of
the notation on the tangible, visual object individuates the work, and the latter
that of the music-behind-the-score where the same visual object is construed or
imagined aurally as a sounding phenomenon, with additional expressive details
that the score does not or cannot specify, i.e. as ‘the music’ specifically to guide
performance. The possible historical roots of this rift are to be found, according
to Bujić, in Beethoven’s diminishing ability to continue reliably the tradition
of seamlessly binding the score and performance practice. He writes that as
Beethoven gets
progressively more isolated from the physical datum of sound, he has to rely more
and more on the verbal and graphic additions to the score instead of providing
through his own performance the model of how music is to sound. It is instructive
to compare the relatively sparse expressive markings in the earlier sonatas with the
profusion that can be observed in the late works y The notation becomes more and
more invested with details which are designed to ensure that the image of the
notation, its visual appearance, contains within itself the determinants of ‘the Work’.12
According to Goehr, it is this kind of ‘finished’ or ‘finalized’ visual

representations of pieces of music that ultimately led to ‘a kind of untouchability
which, translated into concrete terms, meant that persons could no longer tamper
with composers’ works’;13 and ‘if a work was untouchable, then barring obvious
extenuating circumstances so was its representation by the composer in
notational form.’14 Even if such was the wish of (some) composers during the
nineteenth century, the score was clearly not untouchable for performers and
performance theorists: few pianists from the mid-nineteenth century, for
example, would have regarded Chopin’s scores as untouchable as they freely
added octaves and ornaments, or left out sections of the music written in the
score.15 Furthermore, there is evidence that composers did not mind the
interpretative liberties performer took in playing their works.16 More significant,
however, is the fact that performers and performance theorists from the second
half of the nineteenth century regarded themselves licensed not only to change
but also to correct the notated score in cases where they believed the visual
representation did not properly guide them in an intelligible and expressive
delivery that would reflect the musical meaning they believed the composer
intended. The implications of this wide-spread practice, exemplified in the
works of such theorists and pedagogues as Mathis Lussy (1828–1910), Hugo
Riemann (1849–1919), Tobias Matthay (1858–1945) and Steward Macpherson
12
Bojan Bujić, ‘Notation and Realization: Musical Performance in Historical
Perspective’, in The Interpretation of Music: Philosophical Essays, ed. Michael Krausz
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1995): 139.
13
14
15
James Methuen-Campbell, Chopin Playing: From the Composer to the Present Day
(London: Victor Gollancz, 1981); Mathis Lussy, L’anacrouse dans la musique moderne (Paris:
Heugel, 1903) discusses performances of Chopin by Anton Rubinstein, in which he left out
sections of the score.
16
See, for example, Performing Brahms: Early Evidence of Performing Style, ed. Michael
Musgrave and Bernard Sherman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003).
(1865–1941),17 are profound as far as the performerly conception of the score is

concerned. Accordingly, the fact that the composer is the creator of the music
does not guarantee that the way he notates it actually reflects his intended
musical meaning, and consequently it is up to the performer to discover the
music behind the notes and correct, if necessary, the notation to guide him in a
performance that is musically meaningful. Within this thread of nineteenth-
century musical thought, the score is to be understood only as a guide for
revealing in performance the music the composer created rather than as the
representation of his final, authoritative work.
The basis of this approach towards the score lies partly in the growing dynamic
conception of the constituents of music during the nineteenth century, rendering the
complete non-congruity between the spatial-static visual mode of the score and the
temporal-dynamic aural nature of music increasingly more evident. The uneasiness
in the face of this obvious conflict between the visual score and the audible music is
most acutely felt and expressed in the context of discussions concerning a newly
emerging concept, which would come to refer by the end of the century to one of
the most basic skills exercised by a performer in conveying ‘the true meaning of the
music’18: this is the concept of phrasing. Proper phrasing in performance requires the
performer to first and foremost mentally hear the music behind the notation rather
than merely to translate into sound the symbols written on the score. In other words,
phrasing is ‘the result of musical perception’.19 As a visual representation, the score
cannot capture the joint phenomenal qualities of the sounds making up the coherent
structure we perceive as music, and in that sense phrasing depends on a musical
comprehension and interpretation of the total aural phenomenal effect of the
individual visual signs on the notated page.
II
The emergence and development of phrasing as a new concept during the

nineteenth century is inextricably bound up with the changes that are reflected in
the discourses of music theory, aesthetics and performance pedagogy of the
period. In this section, I first discuss what the new concept of phrasing involves,
consider the factors that contributed to its establishment and explore the nature
of discourses on musical phrasing. I also introduce the first psychological theory
of musical performance proposed during the second half of the nineteenth
century, directly connected to the practice of phrasing.
The first theorist to use the term phrasing (phrasé) in the context of musical
performance is Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny (1762–1842).20 Although compositional
17
See, Mathis Lussy, Traité de l’expression musicale: Accents, nuances et mouvements dans
la musique vocal et instrumentale (Paris: Berger-Levrault & Heugel, 1874); Le rythme musical:
Son origine, sa fonction et son accentuation (Paris: Heugel, 1883); L’anacrouse dans la musique
moderne (Paris: Heugel, 1903). Hugo Riemann’s editions (Phrasierungsausgaben) of Mozart
(1883), Beethoven (1885) and Haydn (1895) Piano Sonatas. Tobias Matthay, Musical
Interpretation, (Boston: Boston Music Company, 1913). Stewart Macpherson, Studies in
Phrasing and Form (London: Joseph Williams, 1911).
18
Stewart Macpherson, Studies in Phrasing and Form, second revised ed. (London: Joseph
Williams, 1932): 8.
19
Macpherson, Studies in Phrasing, second edition, 9.
20
Momigny, ‘Phrasé’, in Encyclopédie méthodique: musique, ed. Nicolas Etienne
Framery, Pierre Louis Ginguené and Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny (Paris, 1791), vol. 2: 279.
treatises from the eighteenth century do include the term ‘phraseology’, which refers
to the way the musical phrase is to be treated in the creation of large-scale forms, to
my knowledge the term ‘phrasing’ does not appear in reference to musical
performance prior to Momigny. Distinguishing for the first time phrasing in
composing and in performing music, he states in reference to the latter that it
concerns not only the articulation of group beginnings and endings, commonly
explained by reference to the rhetorical notion of punctuation (ponctuation), but also
the subordination of the phrases to one another.21 Eighteenth-century performance
discourse employs the term ‘punctuation’ in the context of clarity of performance, an
idea discussed in great detail by each and every writer, invariably through analogies
to rhetoric, as the first requirement for a ‘good execution’. In this connection, much
emphasis is given to the correct communication of phrase (and sub-phrase) divisions
through proper punctuation. To cite but one example, eighteenth-century composer
and critic Johann Schultz wrote that ‘it is incredible how greatly the melody becomes
disfigured and unclear if the phrase divisions are incorrectly marked or indeed not
marked at all.’22 In essence, the practice of musical punctuation concerns the
grouping of notes into musical units mainly by the introduction of more or less
noticeable breaks: it concerns marking and making known the beginning and
ending of each musical phrase by means of pauses and proper accentuation, and
sometimes a diminuendo.
Contemporary musicologists writing about eighteenth-century performance
practices frequently refer to the criteria for correct ‘phrasing’ specified in the
pedagogical texts of the period: for instance, in his Classical and Romantic Performing
Practices 1750–1900, Clive Brown discusses23 how Daniel Gottlob Türk explained
‘phrasing’ in relation to structural accentuation in his Klavierschule24 of 1789. Margery
Halford, in her introduction to the English translation of François Couperin’s L’art de
toucher de clavecin of 1716 includes a section titled ‘Couperin’s definition of phrasing’
where she quotes Couperin’s remarks that the sign resembling an apostrophe
is to indicate an end of the melody or our harmonic phrases and to make it clear
that it is necessary to separate the end of the melody a little before passing on to
what follows. In general, this is nearly imperceptible, but when one does not
observe this little silence, persons of taste and feeling will feel that something is
lacking in the execution.25
Similarly, Stephanie D. Vial’s book titled The Art of Musical Phrasing in the
Eighteenth Century is concerned with the theory of punctuation espoused during
21
Momigny, ‘Phrasing’, 279.
22
Johann Abraham Peter Schultz, in Allgemeine Theorie der schönen Künste, 2 vols, ed.
Johann Georg Sulzer, (Berlin: Georg Ludewig, 1771–4). Quoted from Clive Brown, Classical
and Romantic Performing Practice 1750–1900 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999): 144.
For a detailed discussion of the eighteenth-century views on the role and nature of musical
punctuation see Brown, 1999, chapter two, ‘Accentuation and Punctuation’.
23
Clive Brown, Classical and Romantic Performing Practice, 144.
24
Daniel Gottlob Türk, Klavierschule, oder Anweisung zum Klavierspielen für Lehrer und
Lernende, mit kritischen Anmerkungen (Leipzig: Schwickert, 1789). English trans. by
Raymond H. Haggh as School of Clavier Playing or Instructions in Playing the Clavier for
Teachers and Students (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1982).
25
François Couperin, L’art de toucher le clavecin (Paris, 1716), ed. and trans. Margery
Halford, The Art of Playing the Harpsichord (Van Nuys, CA: Alfred, 1974), 22. Includes
facsimiles from Couperin’s original edition of 1716.
this period. What these and other contemporary writers26 identify anachronis-
tically as discussions of musical ‘phrasing’ in eighteenth-century sources are
in fact discussions about the communication of phrase divisions in performance.
As I shall argue, the term ‘phrasing’ refers to a different concept that comprises
more than the articulation of phrase divisions and, more importantly, is the
offspring of nineteenth-century musical thought. Performance discourses prior to
the last decade of the eighteenth century do not include the term, and therefore
the concept of phrasing: they rather talk about ‘the separation of groups of notes’,
about ‘accentuation’, about ‘punctuation’ for an intelligible delivery of the music.
The term does not appear, for example, in Brossard’s Dictionnaire de musique of
1703, Rousseau’s Dictionnaire de musique of 1768, or Koch’s Musikalisches Lexicon
of 1802.27 From its first appearance in Encyclopédie méthodique of 1791, the concept
of phrasing became an important part of performance pedagogical discourse,
and by the time Riemann published his Musikalische Dynamik und Agogik:
Lehrbuch der musikalischen Phrasierung in 1884, it was part of the standard themes
in theoretical and critical writings on performance. While the nonexistence of the
term itself does not necessarily indicate a lack of awareness about phrasing
in earlier periods, the explicit introduction of the term and concept into
performance discourses is a clear sign of the influence of compelling changes
taking place in musical thought during the nineteenth century.
One of the most significant of these changes motivating the emergence of
phrasing as a concept distinct from punctuation or the grouping of notes concerns a
changing attitude towards two parameters that have been considered indispensible
for the act of music making since the earliest treatises on performance pedagogy:
these are clarity, or intelligibility, and expression. Accordingly, the performer needs to
make music intelligible and expressive in performance so that the listener
understands it and is affected by it. While clarity is routinely associated with proper
musical punctuation within the abundant eighteenth-century literature on perfor-
mance pedagogy, the same sources discuss expression invariably as an issue separate
from clarity: it is always explained in the context of the ‘the passions’ identified in a
composition. While various means of achieving expression – such as use of dynamic
and tempo variations – are stipulated, these being identified as the same means
available to the orator, no theories are put forward regarding the source and cause of
expression in performance. The general consensus is that this is ultimately a matter
of innate talent and sensitivity. C.P.E Bach, for example, wrote in relation to the use of
tempo changes for expressive purposes that its proper execution
demands great critical faculties and a high order of sensibility. He who possesses
these will not find it difficult to fashion a performance whose complete freedom
will show no trace of coercion, and he will be able to manipulate any kind of
passage. However, practice alone will be of no help here, for without a fitting
sensitivity, no amount of pains will succeed in contriving the correct rubato.28
26
See, for example, Elena Letnanova, Piano Interpretation in the Seventeenth, Eighteenth
and Nineteenth Centuries (North Carolina: McFarland, 1991); and Robert Donington, The
Interpretation of Early Music (London: Faber & Faber, 1989).
27
Sébastien de Brossard, Dictionnaire de musique (Paris, 1703); Jean-Jacques Rousseau,
Dictionnaire de musique (Paris: la veuve Duchesne, 1768); Heinrich Christoph Koch,
Musikalisches Lexikon (Frankfurt am Main: August Hermann, 1802).
28
Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Versuch über die wahre Art das Clavier zu spielen (Berlin:
Georg Ludewig Winter, 1753); English trans. by William Mitchell as Essay on the True Art of
Playing Keyboard Instruments (London: Eulenburg, 1949): 161.
Eighteenth-century sources on performance typically advise instrumentalists to

take every opportunity to hear artistic singing in order to learn and understand
the essence of expression in performance, since they share the belief that ‘certain
subtleties of expression cannot really be described; they must be heard.’29 One
assumes that the impossibility of description mentioned in this quotation covers
not only contexts of verbal instruction and critical commentary, but also of
directions written for performers on the score. Here, we already have the seeds of
the conflict between the sounding music and its representations in different
modalities that would come to characterize much of the performance discourse
during the nineteenth century.
One of the most remarkable conceptual transformations that took place during
the course of the nineteenth century is that the means for achieving the
fundamental requirements of intelligibility and expression in an artistic musical
performance converged in the concept and practice of musical phrasing. As a
concept, phrasing evolved to refer to the shaping of the musical phrase and its sub-
units in accordance with their internal dynamic structures in a goal-oriented manner
so as to make it simultaneously intelligible and expressive: a clear and expressive
delivery of the music could be achieved through the same means, namely
phrasing. Today this concept continues to be the very basis of performance
pedagogy. Even though performance styles have changed rather dramatically
between the early nineteenth- and early-twenty-first centuries, conceptually the
practice of performance still relies on the unity of the means for achieving clarity
and expression: we take it for granted that when the performer is able to make
the structure or form of a musical phrase intelligible, he simultaneously renders
it expressive.
The factors that contributed to this momentous change in the history of
performance theory, merging intelligibility and expression into one theoretical
and practical parameter, are numerous, and include the aesthetics of formalism
as well as the rise of a dynamic understanding of tonal material as the basis of
music, which would become a pervasive theme in music theory. I take up each of
these factors in turn to illustrate their contribution to the emergence of the
concept of phrasing, and also to highlight their role in this neglected history
shaped by the idea of ‘the music’ existing firmly beyond the notated score.
The most fervent advocate of musical formalism during the nineteenth
century, namely Eduard Hanslick, put forward the thesis in his influential book
On the Musically Beautiful first published in 185430 that there is no semantic
content to music beyond its structural, formal properties. Form in music comes
into being with its content, and therefore content is inseparable from form:
‘Musical champagne’, wrote Hanslick, ‘has the property of growing with the
bottle.’31 Such an assertion starkly contrasts with the idea in eighteenth-century
musical aesthetics that the puzzling reality of music’s intelligibility without
29
Türk, School of Clavier Playing, 337.
30
Eduard Hanslick, Vom Musikalisch-Schönen: Ein Bertrag zur Revision der Aesthetik der
Tonkunst (Leipzig: Rudolph Weigel 1854), English trans. Gustav Cohen as The Beautiful in
Music (1891, reprint New York: The Liberal Arts, 1957), and Geoffrey Payzant as On the
Musically Beautiful (Indiana: Hackett Publishing Company, 1986). English translation of
selected sections from the eighth edition of 1891 by Martin Cooper in Music in European
Thought 1851–1912, ed. Bojan Bujić (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988): 12–39.
31
Hanslick, Vom Musikalisch-Schönen, trans. Martin Cooper in Bujić, Music in
European Thought, 22.
recourse to conceptual cognition can be comprehended by reference to ‘the

passions of the soul’.32 Eighteenth-century writers believed that since the passions
always came with their natural expressive manifestations in tone, gesture, etc.
immediately and universally recognizable by all people, music’s capacity to portray
these manifestations would secure its intelligibility. The listener’s comprehension of
and affective responses to music was thus explained by reference to his first-hand
knowledge of the passions of the soul. In contrast to this view, formalist aesthetics
no longer required the input of non-musical experiences and knowledge to explain
the intelligibility and expressive powers of music. Music as an art could stand on
its own feet, as it were, and make sense by itself through its musical qualities. Thus
removing the need to refer, as music’s content, to a common emotional life
expressible in instantly recognizable forms, musical formalism was able to hold that
the expressive content listeners hear in music arise from the ways musical materials
are organized. Hence, Hanslick wrote that
the passionate effect of a theme does not arise from any extravagant grief that we
are to imagine in the composer, but from the extravagant intervals in his music, not
from the trembling of his soul but the rolls of the timpani, not from his nostalgic
yearnings but from the chromatic nature of his harmony.’33
It is important to remember that the move towards formalism in music aesthetics

was greatly supported by the sweeping influence of Kant’s analysis of the
cognitive functions of the human mind: indeed, the beginnings of the notion that
there is a mental faculty specifically devoted to musical cognition and providing
a synthesizing form to incoming acoustical stimuli,34 is rooted in Kant’s theory of
the synthetic acts of the mind in understanding phenomena.35 This is the
beginning of the idea that music can indeed be understood and judged in
musical terms, without reference to non-musical concepts. By the end of the
nineteenth century, the hypothesis that meaning can be communicated through
non-conceptual means, music being the prime example of such non-conceptual
cognition, was firmly recognized.36 We find an early expression of the idea that
32
See, for example, the writings of Jean-Baptiste DuBos, Réflection critiques sur la
poësie et sur la peinture (Paris, 1719) and Charles Batteaux, Les beaux-arts réduits à un meme
principe (Paris, 1746). Translations of selected sections from both texts appear in Music and
Aesthetics in the Eighteenth and Early-Nineteenth Centuries, abridged ed., Peter le Huray and
James Day (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 17–22, 31–47 respectively.
33
Hanslick in Bujić, Music in European Thought, 23.
34
One of the most important findings of recent research in the cognitive neuroscience
of music is that, while systematically associated with language and other cognitive
domains including vision, music also displays a neural architecture specific to itself and to
our species. There appear to be neural pathways recruited only during musical
experiences, supporting the hypothesis of a specifically musical way of engaging with
music. See, for example, Isabelle Peretz, ‘Brain Specialization for Music: New Evidence
from Congenital Amusia’, in The Cognitive Neuroscience of Music, eds. Isabelle Peretz and
Robert Zatorre (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003), 192.
35
Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason (1781/1787), trans. P. Guyer and A. Wood
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997); Anthropology from a Pragmatic Point of
View (1798), trans. Mary Gregor (The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1974).
36
Jules Combarieu, for example, defined music as ‘l’art de penser avec des sons’ (‘the
art of thinking in sounds’) in his La musique, ses lois, son evolution published in 1907 (Paris:
Ernest Flammarion), 7; English translation in Bujić, Music in European Thought, 211.
the evaluation of music should be based on musical criteria in Christian Friedrich

Michaelis, who was ‘one of the first to investigate the application of Kant’s
aesthetic theories to music.’37 In his articles published in the Leipzig Allgemeine
musikalische Zeitung in 1806 and 1807, Michaelis argued that
Since the sounds communicate no tangible or visible material objects, and since
they make us conscious of spatial substance other than ourselves (our immediate
awareness of music being in no way dependent on extraneous factors) the sounds
themselves constitute influences on our personality y If the intellect is the source
of that cognitive clarity which thinks, differentiates between, integrates and
coordinates the multiplicity of our sense-impressions, it is natural that an art that
does not express itself through words, which makes use of no code of concepts,
and which does not appeal directly to the intellect, will lack a certain clarity if one
judges it by purely cognitive standards.’38
Foreshadowing the formalist thesis that would later become central to Hanslick’s
work, Michaelis also put forward the idea in relation to music’s form and
content that
Music’s extension is thus movement in time alone; its essence is origin, growth,
change, decline and end y Should then the interest, the charm and the magic of
music necessarily originate in what the melodies mean rather than in the manner in
which they are shaped? I think it is a matter more of musical form rather than of
what the music expresses y what delights and enchants us is how the composer
uses sound to create melody and harmony, thereby evoking a specific reaction: in
other words, it is the form of the music.’39
It is indeed a short step from the aesthetic perspective put forward by Michaelis
here to the two fundamental assertions in Hanslick’s theory, portraying music –
through a memorable image – as tonally moving forms and declaring that it
‘must in fact be grasped as music and can only be understood in its own terms
and only enjoyed in its own way y There is sense and coherence in music, but it
is musical sense and musical coherence.’40
It is not difficult to see how the application of the formalist musical aesthetics
to the domain of musical performance during the nineteenth century provided
the edifice for the concept of phrasing as a theoretical and practical tool:
accordingly, since form and (expressive) content are identical in music, the
communication of one of these dimensions in performance would guarantee the
communication of the other as well. Consequently, when the performer shapes
the musical phrase so as to render its form comprehensible to listeners, he or she
at the same time and through the same means makes it expressive. Phrasing
reveals both the form and the content of music. Furthermore, formalism openly
pointed to the source where the performer should seek solutions to issues of
expression in performance: the musical elements and structures, constituting the
music itself.
In reference to formalist aesthetics, Goehr argued that it has a tendency ‘to
neglect the role of human action, a neglect stemming from an age-old preference
37
le Huray and Day, Music and Aesthetics, 199.
38
Michaelis quoted in le Huray and Day, Music and Aesthetics, 200.
39
Michaelis quoted in le Huray and Day, Music and Aesthetics, 201.
40
Hanslick in Bujić, Music in European Thought, 20–21.
in Western thought for knowing over doing.’41 However, Hanslick’s overlooked,

rarely quoted, yet all-important statement that
Anyone who wishes to specify the ‘content’ of a musical phrase has no choice but to
play the phrase itself. In fact, the ‘content’ of a musical composition can never be
grasped objectively [gegenständlich] but only musically, i.e. as the concrete sounds
of which the work is composed42,
reveals his commitment to the ‘doing’ in the generation of musical meaning as

opposed to mere ‘knowing’. Having put forward one of the most influential
music aesthetic theories in his time, there would have been nothing to stop
him from stating instead, had he wished, that one has no choice but to ‘look
at the score’, or ‘read the score’ in order to specify the content of a musical
phrase. Yet, this is not what he claimed: from his formalist stance, he clearly
assumed that firstly, ‘the music’ is not in the signs written on the score, and
that secondly, it comes into being in the act of performance, in the sounding
phenomenon brought about by human agents. It is the performer who animates
the tones to make music, or the tonally moving forms. Furthermore, he believed,
along with Michaelis and other nineteenth-century writers, that at work in
our relationship with music is a specifically musical faculty, functioning in
accordance with its own principles to ensure our comprehension of and affective
responses to music.
While formalism thus provided one of the theoretical pillars upon which the
concept of phrasing was built, the other pillar was supplied by the growing
dynamic understanding of the tonal material in nineteenth-century music theory,
which changed the way the musical phrase itself was conceived and studied.
Prior to the nineteenth century, the study of the musical phrase was part of the
study of form, which belonged firmly in compositional pedagogy. Theoretical
interest in the musical phrase was limited to its capacity to create large-scale
forms, and compositional treatises from the eighteenth century abound in
various techniques to be employed by the composer for this purpose.43 From the
end of the eighteenth century onwards, we see a shift in theoretical focus: the
phrase is no longer scrutinized merely as the relationally defined building block
of musical form, but is approached as a self-sufficient entity. Discussions about
the musical phrase are increasingly concerned with its internal dynamic shape
and its conditions of unity. Among the most influential factors motivating such a
shift is the growing interest in dynamic phenomena, an interest directly inspired
by the underlying tendency of nineteenth-century thought to prioritize becoming
as opposed to being.
41
Goehr, Quest for Voice, 134.
42
Hanslick in Bujić, Music in European Thought, 37. Emphasis mine.
43
See, for example, Johann Mattheson’s Der vollkommene Capellmeister (Hamburg:
Herold, 1739), English translation by Ernest C. Harriss as Johann Mattheson’s ‘Der vollkommene
Capellmeister’: A Revised Translation and Critical Commentary (Ann Arbor: University of
Michigan Press, 1981); Johann Philipp Kirnberger’s Die Kunst des reinen Satzes in der Musik
(Berlin, 1771–9), English translation of vol. 1 and the first part of vol. 2 by David Beach and
Jürgen Thym as The Art of Strict Musical Composition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982);
and Heinrich Christoph Koch’s Versuch einer Anleitung zur Composition(Leipzig: Adam
Friedrich Böhme, 1782–93), English translation of part i and ii by Nancy K. Baker as
Introductory Essay on Composition: The Mechanical Rules of Melody, sections 3 and 4 (New Haven:
Yale University Press, 1983).
In the history of Western thought, the nineteenth century is recognized by the

great emphasis given to such concepts as change, movement, process and
temporality. This emphasis was largely motivated by the scientific developments
of the era. ‘In spite of the cliché which is often applied to descriptions of
nineteenth-century music’, writes Bujić, ‘emphasizing its emotionalism, reliance
on fantasy, the cult of the virtuoso and a certain transcendental tendency, the
century was also the period of immense advances in the sciences.’44 The
important advances made in physiology, for instance, brought about a focus
on process rather than on immobile, static structures within biology that earlier
had focused on anatomy. Application of dynamic conceptions to phenomena
that would now fall within the domain of social sciences, and to the arts
via organicist aesthetics became the hallmark of nineteenth-century thought.
The nineteenth-century French philosopher and critic Ernest Renan (1823–1892)
wrote that
the great progress of criticism has been to substitute the category of becoming for
the category of being y Formerly, everything was considered as being, one spoke
of philosophy, law, politics, art, poetry in an absolute manner; now everything is
considered as in the process of becoming (en voie de se faire).45
Although we already find in Génération harmonique (1737) by Jean-Philippe

Rameau (1683–1764) an explanation of harmonic progression in dynamic terms,
particularly in his account of the musical cadence in terms of the gravitational
pull of the dominant chord towards the tonic,46 it is during the nineteenth
century that a dynamic approach to the melodic dimension of music is for the
first time firmly articulated. François-Joseph Fétis (1784–1871) is usually credited
for having popularized the notion of ‘tonality’ in the 1830s as the sum total of the
relationships between the pitches of the scale regulated by the attractive forces
between them.47 It is, however, in the writings of Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny
that we have the very first expression of not only a dynamic and directional but
also a hierarchical conception of the relationships between the pitches of the
scale. Momigny is the first to systematize the idea of ‘attractional forces’ to
explain this relationship.48 His theory attributes the tonal system an autonomy in
that the principles of movement, development and evolution of tonal forms are
44
Bujić, Music in European Thought, 1.
45
Ernest Renan quoted in Main Currents in Western Thought, ed. Franklin Le Van
Baumer (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978): 464.
46
Jean-Philippe Rameau, Génération harmonique (Paris: Prault fils, 1737), English
trans. as Harmonic Generation (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1974). See also Joel
Lester, ‘Rameau and eighteenth-century harmonic theory’, in The Cambridge History of
Western Music Theory, ed. Thomas Christensen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2002): 753–77.
47
Fétis referred to the inherent melodic tendencies between the pitches as ‘the laws
of tonality’. See Brian Hyer, ‘Tonality’, in The Cambridge History of Western Music Theory, ed.
Thomas Christensen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002): 726–52.
48
See his Cours complet d’harmonie et de composition (Paris: chez l’auteur, 1803–1806);
he writes on page 47 that ‘the tonic is the centre of gravity, the goal of all goals, the end of
all ends. It is to the tonic that the scepter of the musical empire is entrusted.’ Furthermore,
he argues that ‘like the attraction recognized in physics in relation to the inertia of bodies,
this attraction acts in inverse relation to distance: such that a tone that is only half step
away from the one that needs to follow it is much more powerfully attracted by it than it
now seen to arise from the relationships between the tones themselves. In other
words, musical form is not the result of a mechanical, additive process juxtaposing
blocks of tonal material, but an organic one arising from forces intrinsic to tonal
relationships.49 According to this view, the attractional forces render the relationship
between the tones inherently expressive of such qualities as movement, tension and
relaxation, growth and decay, ebb and flow.
The most significant implication of Momigny’s theory of tonal attractions
for the history of nineteenth-century performance theory is the idea that
musical form is primarily a manifestation of a force exercising its authority
inexorably even beyond the will of the composer. The inference that music has its
own laws, subsuming both the composer and the performer, introduces a new
dimension to the debate concerning the relationship between the performer, the
composer and the work. According to such a dynamic, organic understanding,
‘music is understood primarily as motion and as an expression of a force or
will beyond the composer. Within this model, compositions can no longer be
interpreted through reference to the composer’s psychology or biography’.50 The
‘musical work’ the composer creates is like a living organism with a life of its
own, and is in this sense beyond his or her absolute control and authority.
Momigny further substantiates the implications of his theory of tonal attractions,
which posits the functioning of forces in the creative process beyond the
total control of both composers and performers alike, by claiming in his arguably
most momentous departure from his predecessors that music is subject to
laws of understanding innate with man, and that the hierarchy we hear
in the tonal material is purely a psychological phenomenon and cannot be
derived from the physical nature of sounds. In this regard, his theories
display the decisive influence of Kant, who proposed that the forms in which
the acts of understanding, namely reasoning and judgment, are carried out are
within us and not received from outside.51 According to Kant, logic, as the
science of the laws under which the mind operates, would thus be conceived
as inherently psychological. It is precisely in this sense that Momigny calls
his theory ‘the doctrine of musical logic’. He writes that ‘there is a logic of sounds
as there is one of ideas or of the words that present them’ and that the laws
of this logic are written in ‘our soul, in the way we perceive.’52 It is no surprise
would be if separated by a whole step. Here is a new analogy that I have discovered in
nature, one that proves the marvelous harmony that reigns among things least resembling
one another in appearance.’ Cours complet, 52. Translation mine.
49
Lotte Thaler, in Organische Form in der Musiktheorie des 19. und beginnenden 20.
Jahrhunderts (Munich: Katzbichler, 1984) associates the rise of dynamic music theories with
organicist aesthetics, which in turn is related to developments in biology during the late
eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. For a discussion of the relationship between
organicism and music theory, see John Neubauer, ‘Organicism and Music Theory’, in New
Paths: Aspects of Music Theory and Aesthetics in the Age of Romanticism, ed. Darla Crispin,
Collected Writings of the Orpheus Institute (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009):
11–35.
50
Neubauer, ‘Organicism and Music Theory’, 19.
51
See footnote 35.
52
Momigny, ‘Logique de la musique’, in Encyclopédie méthodique: musique, ed. Nicolas
Etienne Framery, Pierre Louis Ginguené and Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny (Paris, 1791),
vol. 2, 105. Translation mine. A similar theory of tonality was proposed by Fétis (see
footnote 47), and the idea that the natural laws of human perception – particularly
auditory perception – play the most significant part in the formation of the laws of the
that the most influential music aesthetics of the period displays total congruity
with this dynamic theory of music and music perception in arguing for the
existence of a specifically musical logic: hence Hanslick would state that the
composer in creating music is subject to an ‘intrinsic rationality y inherent
in the tonal system.’53 Indeed, both the composer and the performer are subject
to the laws of musical logic in that they both experience the tonal relationships
within the Western tonal system necessarily as hierarchical and directional;
they both have to work with tonal material already always in the process of
becoming through the action of tonal forces. This is indeed the basis for
announcing the performer’s primary alliance and loyalty as being to ‘the music’
rather than to the work or the composer; it is only as a by-product of his or
her loyalty to the music that the performer’s loyalty to the composer’s work can
be articulated.
The concept of phrasing emerging as part of a theory of performance
during the nineteenth century is intimately related to this prevailing theory of
musical logic: accordingly, proper phrasing in performance is based on the
performer’s response to the incitement of the active tonal material, to his
recognition of the attractional forces shaping the course of the phrase. Crucially,
it is not sufficient to set off the boundaries of musical phrases through
accentuation and punctuation in phrasing, since the performer also has to direct
each phrase towards its point of repose, thus shaping its inner structure in
accordance with musical logic and sustaining the dynamic impulse till the point
of repose. Indeed, this is how one of the most influential performance theorists
of the second half of the nineteenth century, Mathis Lussy, explained this
basic principle of musical performance.54 He argued that the performer ‘should
not think that it is sufficient to introduce longer notes and rests regularly
and fortuitously into a series of sounds to give them meaning. In addition,
the sounds must be subject to the laws of attraction, of appeal that govern our
tonal system.’55
Lussy’s theory of expressive performance is the first explicitly psychological
theory regarding the role of the performer. Indeed, his conception of expression
in performance constitutes the origins of contemporary research in music
psychology, which is based on the assumption that performance expression and
Western tonal system was corroborated by the leading tone-psychologist of the period,
Hermann von Helmhotz, who wrote in his Die Lehre von den Tonempfindungen of 1863 that
‘it is precisely the physiological part in especial – the theory of the sensations of hearing –
to which the theory of music has to look for the foundation of its structure’, English trans.
A. J. Ellis, quoted from Bujić, Music in European Thought, 283.
53
Eduard Hanslick, On the Musically Beautiful, trans. Geoffrey Payzant (Indianapolis:
Hackett, 1986): 31.
54
While Lussy had substantial influence on his contemporaries, during the
twentieth century his theories were overshadowed by the interest shown in Riemann’s
theories, on the one hand, and to those of Lussy’s pupil Émile Jaques-Dalcroze, on the
other hand. Riemann did not publicly acknowledge the influence of Lussy’s theories
on his own thinking, yet in a private communication with Lussy he wrote: ‘I do not
hesitate in the least in granting you the honour for a very ingenious and scientific solution
to the problem in question [problem of interpretation in performance].’ See, Mine
Doğantan, Mathis Lussy: A Pioneer in Studies of Expressive Performance (Bern: Peter Lang,
2002): 140.
55
Mathis Lussy, Le rythme musical, 2. All translations from Lussy in this article
are mine.
musical structure are somehow related.56 Lussy’s hypothesis that there is a causal
link between musical structures and performance expression is a conceptual
turning point in the history of performance theory. To be sure, the grounds for
Lussy’s theory had already been prepared by Hanslick’s formalist aesthetics,
which hypothesized that every musical work must have spiritual content but
this content ‘cannot be traced to any source other than the musical structures
themselves.’57 If the expressive content of music thus originates strictly in the
musical structures, then the performer’s interpretative activity aimed at
delivering this expressive content intelligibly to listeners must take its cue from
these structures. Departing from his eighteenth-century predecessors, Lussy
claimed that the generating causes of expression in performance are to be found
in the musical structures themselves rather than in the innately talented, inspired
soul of the performing artist. Through his theory, put forward in Traité de
l’expression musicale (1874), Le rythme musical (1883) and L’anacrouse dans la
musique moderne (1903),58 Lussy attempted to establish a ‘grammar of musical
execution’, specifying the relationship between particular kinds of rhythmic-
tonal structures and the expressive profiles they generate in terms of timing and
dynamics in performance.59 In Lussy’s theory the performer plays an active role
in bringing about this inherent, implied expression, by going beyond the visual
score and hearing ‘the music’: ‘Certain artists’, he writes, ‘perceive the
impregnations and incitements behind the notes. They possess the means to
release the musical idea [from the notes] in order to animate and spiritualize the
work they interpret.’60 In other words, performance interpretation is the result of
the performer’s response to ‘the music’, to its constituent structures. As the music
creates certain impressions on the performer, he actively externalizes these
impressions by translating them into subtle changes and adjustments in timing
and dynamics as the music unfolds. In Lussy’s words, ‘musicians hasten, slow
down, display energy and passion, or restrain their ardor and prefer delicacy, not
because of caprice, but under the irresistible impulsion of certain tones.’61
In explaining this mechanism, Lussy writes that
The musical faculty, in its relationship with the notes that generate expression, is
similar to a kind of photographic plate. According to its degree of sensitivity, this
plate is more or less susceptible to receiving impressions and [in turn] to reflecting
them in a more or less powerful and faithful manner. If it is dull, the exceptions, the
subtle irregularities will glide by without leaving a trace. If, on the contrary,
56
Eric Clarke, for example, writes that ‘there is no plausible alternative to the idea
that expression [in performance] is derived from structure.’ See, Eric Clarke, ‘Generative
Principles in Music Performance’, in Generative Processes in Music, ed. John Sloboda
(Oxford: Clarendon, 1988): 11.
57
Hanslick in Bujić, Music in European Thought, 22.
58
For full citations, see footnote 17, above.
59
Lussy did not claim that there is only one correct way of delivering any given passage
of music. Although each kind of rhythmic-tonal structure implies a certain timing-dynamic
profile in performance, these would be subject to variations in the hand of different
performers, but would still retain their generic profile. Also, parameters such as touch,
articulation and timbre would play a profound role in the emergence of different performance
expressions through similar timing-dynamic profiles, an issue Lussy did not explore.
60
Mathis Lussy, ‘De la culture du sentiment musical’, Festschrift zum Zweiten Kongress
der Internationalen Musikgesellschaft (Basel: Reinhardt, 1906): 7.
61
Lussy, ‘De la culture du sentiment musical’, 10.
it happens to be alert, sensitized, the least perceptible irregularities, the most

elusive facts will make a clear impression, excite its activity and will be reflected
with energy and force.62
Lussy is also insistent that that the notes need to be comprehended in accordance
with musical logic, that is mentally heard, imagined and interpreted as music
before any performance expression could arise:
The performer, who does not feel either the attractions of the tonic, or the need for
the regularity of accented notes and symmetry of rhythmic groups, is not affected
in any special way by the irregular notes; [he] accepts passively, without resistance,
not only the notes most destructive of the key, of the mode and of the measure, but
even the most incongruous rhythmic irregularities. Thus he renders them without
passion, without energy, without life, without poetry: [for] he cannot express what
has not affected him.63
One of the examples Lussy gives to illustrate how the tonal-rhythmic

structures imply expressive timing profiles to be employed in phrasing them
in a clear and expressive delivery is the beginning of the third movement of
Beethoven’s Piano Sonata op. 13, which involves an anacrusis (Example 1).
According to Lussy, the three pitches preceding the initial downbeat provoke a
slight acceleration not only because they descend, but also because they start on
the weak part of a weak beat. They are deprived of the support only the strong
part of a beat can provide: ‘as a result, a certain anxiety, a certain nervous
agitation resembling the experience of a bather who loses his balance manifests
itself by an accelerando.’64 Furthermore, the attraction of the notes of the anacrusis to
the mediant pitch on the initial downbeat, inherent in the diminishing size of the
intervallic steps, is augmented by the acceleration.
Ex. 1 Beethoven, Piano Sonata in C minor op. 13, mvt. iii, bars 1–3
Another example demonstrating the necessity of relying first and foremost on

one’s musical sense rather than on the notation in the practice of phrasing concerns
Chopin’s Nocturne op. 48 no. 2, which starts with a phrase that appears anacrustic
on paper (Example 2). However, this beginning lacks the quality of moving
towards the initial downbeat, which is an essential feature of anacrustic
beginnings. Because of the absence of a determinate initiation, this phrase is
experienced neither as ‘moving away’ not as ‘moving towards’ giving it a unique
expressive quality; in Lussy’s words this is an example of a ‘decapitated’ [décapité]
phrase and as such it proceeds ‘in a heavy, hesitant, anxious manner’ since it lacks
the ‘assurance’ an initial downbeat provides.65 Accordingly, the absence of an
initiating impulse temporarily ‘paralyzes’ the attractions between the notes.
62
Lussy, Traité, 9.
63
Lussy, Traité, 8.
64
Lussy, L’anacrouse, 13.
65
Lussy, Le rythme, 15.
Ex. 2 Chopin, Nocturne op. 48, no. 2, bars 1–3
Lussy’s theory furnishes the rising idea of the performer-as-interpreter during the
nineteenth century with a clear, specific meaning: accordingly, the performer is
an interpreter of music in accordance with musical logic and the laws of musical
perception. In this sense, the performer’s first and foremost loyalty would be to
the music. Lussy is explicit in articulating the necessity of following the laws of
musical perception in the interpretative process. He writes that the artist has no
freedom other than observing these psychological laws. If he strays from them
and violates these principles
he produces [something] false [and] ugly. All artistic education, all teaching has no
other purpose than making these laws known [to the student]. Leading him to
cultivate, strengthen [and] rectify his innate dispositions, so as to set him to carry
out by himself what he glimpses, in conformity with these laws.66
One of the most fundamental skills of the performer is thus inferring the dynamic
shape of the music from the signs on the notated page, and realizing it in sound.
Lussy refers to the performer as a ‘psychological barometer par excellence’67 who
responds in this way to the dynamic profile of musical structures and expresses
them in performance. A similar idea forms the basis of the teachings of Tobias
Matthay, one of the most influential performance theorists and pedagogues in the
English-speaking world during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
According to Matthay, the performer needs always to work from an aural image
derived from the score. He advises the performer always to ‘pre-listen all the time
as to what should be y let Music tell you what to do’,68 and ‘give the closest and
most intimate attention to Music itself – to musical Feeling and Shape.’69 By ‘pre-
hearing’, Matthay means ‘the ability to keenly visualize or auralise things apart
from their actual physical happening outside of us.’70 The crucial role of the
performer in mediating between the visual notation and the sounding music is
highlighted when one recalls the representational limitations of the musical
score. Tracing the articulation of these limitations in nineteenth-century musical
thought once again takes us back to Momigny. In a remarkable early account of
the discrepancy between notation and performance, Momigny makes a
distinction between ‘music for the eye’ and ‘music for the ear’. Differentiating
between artificial and natural beats,71 Momigny argues that notation represents
the artificial beats by diving the piece into equal spans, whereas in reality the
natural beats in a piece of music are qualitatively different in representing,
through the function of the tones that occupy them, either beats of repose or
66
Lussy, Le rythme, 91.
67
Lussy, Traité, 117.
68
Matthay, Musical Interpretation, 7.
69
70
71
Jérôme-Joseph de Momigny, La seul vrai théorie de la musique (Paris: chez l’auteur,
1821). Facsimile edition (Geneva: Minkoff, 1980): 118–19.
beats of action, indicating differences in duration. In other words, Momigny

argues that even though the beats of the natural measure appear equal to the eye
in notation, in a good execution they are not equal at all. The score, when
perceived visually, represents none of the qualitative and hence durational
differences between the beats, none of the musical action or repose. Momigny’s
stance towards the score is at the root of the idea, which would become pervasive
in the performance discourses of the second half of the nineteenth century, that
the score – already inadequate in its visual spatial mode in representing the
music – becomes, in effect, misleading when the truth of the musical idea behind
the notes is distorted by incorrect notation. The implication, once again, is that
the performer has to be led by his own musical sense and not just the score, and
always remain faithful to the laws of music ruling over the music the composer
created and committed to notation.
An example of incorrect notation, given by Lussy, concerns Brahms’s
Hungarian Dance No. 6 in D-Flat major. While Brahms notated it in , as seen
in Example 3, Lussy states that both Hans von Bülow and Anton Rubinstein –
and indeed the French pianist Francis Planté as well – performed this piece in
time, as shown in Example 4.72 According to Lussy, the perceived measure,
which is determined by the length of the rhythmic units in this example, includes
four and not two beats. In a remarkable passage, Lussy writes:
It is truly astonishing that Brahms, so rich in his rhythmic conceptions, has written
this phrase in . Quibblers say: ‘If Brahms wished so!’ Can Brahms or any other
genius wish for the impossible, the absurd, that which is against nature? Brahms,
like Beethoven, etc. could have had moments of distraction. It’s up to us to resist
their incorrect incitements. It is highly probable that Brahms played this piece
differently than he wrote it. In any case, Bülow, who studied with Brahms, played
it as we have shown.73
Ex. 3 Brahms, Hungarian Dance No. 6, bars 1–7, as notated by the composer
Ex. 4 Brahms, Hungarian Dance No. 6, as notated by Lussy
Lussy adds that if we try to sing the melody in , it is ‘mechanical, lifeless,

without poetry: a [mere] pendulum.’ In , the melody regains ‘all its grace, all its
lightness; its weight and mechanical appearance disappear.’74 Intelligibility of the
72
73
74
phrase requires time signature, which also brings out its proper dynamic shape
and thereby expressive content. What is most significant for the nineteenth-
century history of the ideology of the-music-behind-the-score is that Lussy actually
assigns performers epistemological primacy through this and other similar
examples: by arguing that the anacrustic nature of this phrase was revealed to
him during performances by the said performers, Lussy elevates them to the
status of the true source of musical knowledge.
Another example from the pervasive practice of correcting the incorrect notation
of composers, this time by Matthay, concerns Schumann’s first Novelette. Example 5
shows Schumann’s incorrect notation, and Example 6 is Matthay’s re-barring of the
same phrase to indicate its true musical meaning. Matthay writes that such careless
notation serves only ‘to ensure that unmusical players will perform the piece
musically ‘‘upside-down.’’ Even many of the great Masters have sinned sorely in
this matter of the true notation of their works.’75 In reference to Schumann’s first
Novelette, he states that ‘from the barring of this [phrase] (totally incorrect as it is)
one would imagine, that the piece was meant to sound all upside-down musically y
But of course he did not mean this; therefore here, as so often elsewhere, we must
totally disregard the written barlines (or written accentuation) and must be led by our own
musical sense.’76 Clearly, this is not the expression of an attitude that regards the score
as the site of a sacred, fixed, immortal text representing the final word of the
composer; it is rather the manifestation of a widely-shared stance towards the score
in nineteenth-century performance discourse that sees its basic – and possibly only –
function to be an accurate guide for the performer in devising an intelligible and
expressive performance of the music created by the composer.
Ex. 5 Schumann, Novelette op. 21, no. 1, bars 1–4, as notated by the composer
Ex. 6 Schumann, Novelette op. 21, no. 1, as notated by Matthay; dotted lines
indicated by ‘b’ represent Matthay’s re-barring of this passage
75
76
Matthay, Musical Interpretation, 37. Second italics in this sentence are mine.
Because musical notation is incapable of representing any of the motion,

impulse and directionality generated by tonal relationships, comprehension of
which is crucial for the performer’s interpretative activity, the performance
discourses during the second half of the nineteenth century become increasingly
preoccupied with exploring other means – including imagery, metaphors and
even graphic illustrations – to explain to the aspiring performer how to conceive
of the dynamics of the musical phrase. The anxiety felt towards the rising of the
score into prominence as the composer’s authoritative text in certain parallel
musical discourses of the century manifests itself in attempts to articulate
through different means that which is essential for the art of musical performance
yet cannot be represented by the score: the dynamic qualities of music. For example,
performance discourses frequently urge the performer to conceive of the internal
structure of the musical phrase as an organic unity in order to facilitate correct
phrasing. The unity of the rhythmic-tonal movement that individuates a musical
phrase and its inherent directionality are much emphasized. In phrasing, the
impulse that initiates the phrase and its sub-units needs to be sustained until the
arrival point, shaping the inside of the phrase as in a single, unified movement, a
continuous dynamic flow. This is achieved only when ‘all the efforts that the artist
makes converge towards the final note of the rhythmic units, period, and phrases.’77
In a little-known passage, which one scholar describes as giving a ‘rather strange
explanation’78 although it is in fact entirely in keeping with the new concept of
phrasing, Riemann argues that the successive melodic progressions within the unit
of music to be phrased are perceived ‘as an actual covering of the intervals between
the notes’, whereas the interval between the last note of the phrased unit and the
first note of the following unit to be phrased are not perceived in this way ‘and may
thus be called ‘‘dead’’ intervals.’79 According to Riemann, the living organic quality
of music thus resides in and originates from inside the musical phrase. This kind
of organicist imagery is a defining characteristic of Matthay’s theory of musical
interpretation as well. Matthay describes a phrase in performance as ‘a growth,
or progression of notes towards a cadence, shown by means of Tone and Rubato
inflections.’80 He further notes that ‘this idea of Movement is the vitalizing spark
which turns mere notes into living music, this sense of Purpose – this sense of
progressing somewhere’,81 and he contrasts this organic approach to earlier
pedagogical approaches (presumably in eighteenth-century sources, although
Matthay does not refer to specific names or texts)82 by writing that the latter
presented music as ‘consisting of chunks or solid segments of accented and of
unaccented bars, thus giving the mis-impression to the learner that Music
consists of dead, disconnected bits of sound-stone or brick, instead of a living
mass, a continuous swing and swirl of Growth.’83
77
Lussy, Traité, 117. Emphasis mine.
78
Luger Lohmann, ‘Hugo Riemann and the Development of Musical Performance
Practice’, Proceedings of the Göteborg International Organ Academy 1994, ed. Hans Davidsson
and Sverker Jullander (Göteborg: Göteborg University, 1995): 263.
79
Hugo Riemann, System der musikalischen Rhythmik und Metrik (Breitkopf & Härtel,
1903): 14, quoted from Lohmann, ‘Hugo Riemann’, 263.
80
81
82
Matthay, Musical Interpretation, 35, footnote 1.
83
Matthay, Musical Interpretation, 34. Matthay also notes that the practice of
‘phrasing’ applies not only to the shaping of the musical phrase but also to musical
In performance discourses of the nineteenth century, the most common model

used for representing the unity of the organic movement encompassing the
phrase is breathing or respiration. Although eighteenth-century discourses
regularly advised instrumentalists to make every effort to listen to good singers
in order to learn the secrets of expression in performance, presumably by hearing
how they use their breath in delivering the music, it is during the nineteenth
century that this is made an explicit model in performance pedagogy. It is well
known that Chopin, for example, frequently ‘advised his pupils not to fragment
the musical idea, but rather carry it to the listener in one long breath.’84 Lussy’s
theory of expressive performance also identifies respiration as the ideal model to
represent the alternating pattern of action–relaxation that defines the basis of the
musical phrase: Lussy finds in breathing the origin of directed rhythmic motion,
since inhalation or action is always experienced as leading to exhalation or
relaxation.85 Good phrasing in performance always unfolds in this directed
manner, sustaining the originating impulse through the phase of action till the
point of repose in an unbroken, uninterrupted manner. During the last decade of
the nineteenth and first decades of the twentieth century, much research was
carried out within the newly rising science of music psychology on the bodily
basis of musical rhythm, and one of these researchers, R.H. Stetson, writing in
1905, asserted in a statement corroborating the teachings of nineteenth-century
performance theorists that ‘the dynamic form of the phrase is the form of
a movement; there is a rise to a central point of effort and then a decline at the
end y In reciting verse, or in singing, a phrase becomes a single act of expiration;
indeed, just this movement of breathing is probably the origins of musical
phrasing.’86 Aside from providing a physical model for musical phrasing, breath
and breathing, which since the earliest times have been associated with ‘life’ and
‘giving life’, also appear as metaphors in the performance discourses of the
nineteenth century to allude to the power of the performer to bring the notes that
remain inert and dead on paper to life: perhaps the best known quotation in this
connection comes from Liszt who said that the performer ‘changes the earthy form
into a living being, penetrating it with the spark which Prometheus snatched from
Jupiter’s flesh. He must send the form he has created soaring into transparent ether:
he must arm it with a thousand winged weapons; he must call upon scent and
blossom, and breathe the breath of life.’87
sense units of all sizes. He writes: ‘it really does not signify whether we consider the music
unit to be a ‘‘motif,’’ ‘‘idea,’’ ‘‘section,’’ ‘‘phrase,’’ or ‘‘sentence.’’ All this is purely a matter
of nomenclature, music terminology – a point of exceedingly small importance artistically.
What does matter is that y Music units (or the more complex ‘‘phrase’’ or ‘‘sentence’’
organisms) are always in themselves again progressions towards definite landmarks.’
Musical Interpretation, 39.
84
Karakowski in Jean-Jacques Eigeldinger, Chopin Pianist and Teacher: As Seen by His
Pupils, trans. Naomi Shohet, Krysia Osostowicz and Roy Howat (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1989): 44.
85
For a discussion of why Lussy prefers respiration as a model over other
physiological functions such as the processes of systole and diastole, see Mine Doğantan,
Mathis Lussy, chapter 3.
86
R.H. Stetson, ‘A Motor Theory of Rhythm and Discrete Succession’, Psychological
Review 12/4 (1905): 315.
87
Liszt in Sachs, Virtuoso, 61. Another analogy that became popular in theories of
performance after the mid-nineteenth century concerns the dynamics of the musical phrase
and of bodies moving in physical space, the implication being that in good phrasing tones
The history of nineteenth-century performance theory I narrated in this article

not only opens up new debate about Goehr’s widely discussed representation of
the multiple ideologies behind the performance practices of this period, but it
also highlights the unbroken continuity between nineteenth-century performance
pedagogical practices and those of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries,
where the driving imperative continues to emphasize loyalty to ‘the music’
before anything else. In my view, contemporary music performance studies has
not been sufficiently aware of the seamless continuation of the theoretical
concepts and discourses that support performance pedagogy across the two
centuries. When a performer and pedagogue writes in 2000 that phrasing ‘should
be regarded as the soul of an expressive musical performance’,88 or that ‘The
musical score is Sleeping Beauty, the performer is the Prince releasing her from
the spell’,89 researchers often fail to read such discourse as the manifestation of a
tradition deeply rooted in nineteenth-century performance thought. Similarly,
the striking correspondences between contemporary journalistic performance
criticism and nineteenth-century performance discourse with regard to the
imagery and metaphors employed are often not recognized and articulated.90
Arguably the most significant import of the historical narrative I have
presented in this article, however, is the awareness it brings regarding the
major role the performer’s discourse played in shaping nineteenth-century
musical thought: acknowledging this fact is vital not only for any research that
attempts to explain the history of the relationship between the composer, the
performer, the score and the musical work in the Western tradition, but also for
the future direction of contemporary music performance studies, where the
issue of integrating the performer’s discourse within the discipline – and
recognizing the epistemological equality of the act of music-making in the
behave as if they are subject to the natural laws of physics. As tones are imagined to exist
in a musical gravitational field and related through the forces of musical attractions, it is
only logical that phrasing, which shapes the tones in accordance with their inherent
directional tendencies, would be compared to the movement of physical bodies set in
motion. Theorists who advocated this model during the late nineteenth century include:
Dom André Mocquereau (1849–1930), who is primarily known as the originator of the
revival movement for Gregorian chant and for the restoration of the smooth, continuous
quality of plainchant performance (see his Le nombre musical grégorien ou rythmique
grégorienne, volume 1, Rome: Tournai, 1908). Mocquereau’s model, which explains the
dynamics of a rhythmic group or the musical phrase by reference to the behaviour of a ball
that is thrown in the air and depicts a trajectory before falling on the ground (depicted also
graphically by Mocquereau), is replicated in all its details – though without any
acknowledgement – by Edward T. Cone in his influential Musical Form and Musical
Performance of 1968), and by John Blackwood McEwen (1868–1948), a student of Matthay
(see his The Thought in Music, London: Macmillan, 1912). There are visual representations
of the dynamics of the musical phrase in Matthay as well (1913), a practice that has
recently been revived in research concerning shaping music in performance, as in John
Rink’s notion of ‘intensity curve’, for example. See, John Rink, ‘Translating Musical
Meaning: The Nineteenth-Century Performer as Narrator’, in Rethinking Music, ed.
Nicholas Cook and Mark Everist (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999): 217–38.
88
Boris Berman, Notes From the Pianist’s Bench (New Haven: Yale University Press,
2000): 61.
89
Grigory Kogan quoted in Boris Berman, Notes, 140.
90
Mine Doğantan-Dack, ‘This is Outstanding Playing of Poetic Sensibility: The
Metaphor of Poetry in Journalistic Criticism’, paper presented at the SMA Study-day on
Performance Criticism, London, IMR, Dec. 2009.
generation of disciplinary knowledge – remains a challenge and an ongoing

quest.91 Should we need an example to draw inspiration from in closing the
rift that musicology introduced between ‘doers’ and ‘knowers’ in music92 during
the latter part of the twentieth century, we only need to take a closer look at
the history of nineteenth-century musical thought to note the integral part the
performer’s activity and discourse played in shaping it.
91
See, for example, Mine Doğantan-Dack, ‘Recording the Performer’s Voice’, in
Recorded Music: Philosophical and Critical Reflections, ed. Mine Doğantan-Dack (London:
Middlesex University Press, 2008): 292–313; Mine Doğantan-Dack, ‘Practice-as-research in
Music Performance’, in Sage Handbook of Digital Dissertations and Theses, ed. R. Andres, S.
Boyd-David, E. Borg, M. Domingo and J.England, Sage, 2012.
92
Joseph Kerman, Musicology (London: Fontana, 1985): 195–6.

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‘Phrasing – the Very Life of Music’: Performing the Music

Nineteenth-Century Music Review / Volume 9 / Issue 01 / June 2012, pp 7 - 30

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‘Phrasing – the Very Life of Music’1:

One of the deﬁning features of nineteenth-century musical thought concerns

transmitting the composer’s message or as a creative artist on a par with the

In her detailed elaboration of this central thesis in her writings, Goehr

According to Goehr, it is this kind of ‘ﬁnished’ or ‘ﬁnalized’ visual

(1865–1941),17 are profound as far as the performerly conception of the score is

The emergence and development of phrasing as a new concept during the

Eighteenth-century sources on performance typically advise instrumentalists to

recourse to conceptual cognition can be comprehended by reference to ‘the

It is important to remember that the move towards formalism in music aesthetics

the evaluation of music should be based on musical criteria in Christian Friedrich

in Western thought for knowing over doing.’41 However, Hanslick’s overlooked,

reveals his commitment to the ‘doing’ in the generation of musical meaning as

In the history of Western thought, the nineteenth century is recognized by the

Although we already ﬁnd in Génération harmonique (1737) by Jean-Philippe

it happens to be alert, sensitized, the least perceptible irregularities, the most

One of the examples Lussy gives to illustrate how the tonal-rhythmic

Another example demonstrating the necessity of relying ﬁrst and foremost on

Ex. 2 Chopin, Nocturne op. 48, no. 2, bars 1–3

beats of action, indicating diﬀerences in duration. In other words, Momigny

Ex. 4 Brahms, Hungarian Dance No. 6, as notated by Lussy

Lussy adds that if we try to sing the melody in , it is ‘mechanical, lifeless,

Because musical notation is incapable of representing any of the motion,

In performance discourses of the nineteenth century, the most common model

The history of nineteenth-century performance theory I narrated in this article

generation of disciplinary knowledge – remains a challenge and an ongoing

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