In 1970, the composer Gavin Bryars founded the Portsmouth Sinfonia so that works from the Western classics could be performed by musicians who had not been formally trained within that music’s normal traditions and were often quite unskilled on their instruments. The frequently carnivalesque egalitarianism of the concerts – Bryars has amusing anecdotes in this regard (Griffiths 1985: 151–2) – suggests that during this period the Portsmouth Sinfonia and Bryars were swept up in the sometimes rampant politicized iconoclasm that characterized the immediate cultural aftermath of the upheavals of 1968; it would encourage us to think of Bryars as an example of a far-from uncommon phenomenon – a post-1945 composer attempting to bring political transformation into coordination with musical practice. Indeed, it was at this time that Bryars became good friends with the pianist John Tilbury, who then subsequently became part of Cornelius Cardew’s Scratch Orchestra, the famous experimental group that quickly politicized itself along the lines of the Maoist Marxism then prevalent in radical left-wing circles in Western Europe. Bryars, however, never joined the Scratch Orchestra, and when in the mid-1980s Paul Griffiths asked him whether he had not been tempted, he answered “Not really. I could sympathize politically, but I thought that the combination of politics and artistic activity was what in philosophy one would call a ‘category mistake.’ The criteria for evaluating excellence in each were different, and therefore to apply criteria from one to the other seemed to me inappropriate” (1985: 155).
Bryars had read philosophy at Sheffield University (1961–64), so we can take seriously that “category mistake” invokes Gilbert Ryle’s vision of a philosophy that is concerned with “the replacement of category-habits by category-disciplines” (1949: 8). From this perspective, if the common phrase “music is political” is a category mistake, then the job of philosophy should be to get rid of it and reassert that the “logical type or category to which a concept belongs is the set of ways in which it is logically legitimate to operate with it” (Ryle 1949: 8). One might argue that this project has little bearing outside of concerns regarding the logical cleanliness of philosophy itself, and to a degree Ryle concurs. After all, if a category mistake can be a myth, nevertheless a “myth is, of course, not a fairy story,” and people can often function perfectly well under misconceptions. However, there is a subtly Enlightenment ethos of emancipation underlying Ryle’s project. For example: “Many people can talk sense with concepts but cannot talk sense about them; they know by practice how to operate with concepts, anyhow inside familiar fields, but they cannot state the logical regulations governing their use” (Ryle 1949: 7). The key phrase here is “inside familiar fields,” with its mildly deprecatory implications of habit and convention. If from a pragmatic position it might be argued that we only know something by means of the conventions that dictate its use, from an Enlightenment perspective the home offered by these conventions can keep us in the dark regarding other possibilities. As this chapter will show, there are indeed benefits to be claimed for the sense of belonging that, from Johann Herder’s counter-Enlightenment writings in the eighteenth century (Berlin 2000: 168–242) through to bell hooks’s African American feminist critique today (2009), has been propounded as a predominant life-enhancing value. But Ryle’s continuation opens up a possible correlation between belonging and vulnerability, since for him people who conceptually operate solely within a zone of familiarity “are like people who know their way around their own parish, but cannot construct or read a map of it, much less a map of the region or continent in which their parish lies” (1949: 8).
What if the parish starts to malfunction, necessitating a new understanding of how it should be traversed, or a means of getting out of it? A category mistake, it would seem, is fine only as long as the context in which it functions continues to work. When that ceases to be the case, it needs to be scrutinized. I argue likewise and so will not be motivated here by the more frequently stated aim of arriving at one thing, a kind of music/politics symbiosis in which music is always looking with interest beyond itself to where politics lies. Rather, I wish to contemplate the advantages of a fork in the road that denotes two (music and/or politics). Influenced by a common theme in post-war French philosophy, particularly that of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, I will be more concerned with the singularity of different practices, and so will seek to emphasize the places were music is, in a neutral sense, self-involved and, thus, indifferent to the political (Deleuze and Guattari, 1994).
When music and politics are under discussion today in broadly conceived postmodern discourses, indifference rarely gets presented attractively. In general, this is because it is viewed less as a mere sign of a lack of shared concerns than as an overdetermined attempt to create space and avoid the feelings of vulnerability that occur when the Other is perceived to be too close. Thus, an indifferent space between music and politics gets interpreted symptomatically, as a denial either of the proximity of the relationship between the two, or even as a mask for the absence of any proper relationship of difference at all. What I will call collaborative politics argues against such indifference, claiming that if what we want, in the broad and fully emancipatory sense, is space, then we need to proceed by means of paradox, and bring music and politics closer rather than further away. Categories are the mistake; category mistakes, merely the attempt to rectify them.
Collaborative politics argues that music is embedded within what I will call human belongings: the specific realms of human activity and meaning-making that enable us to belong to a certain social locality and which, in turn, therefore belong to us. To ignore such embeddedness would be to attempt to ignore that human world. Lawrence Kramer writes that “classical music can become a source of pleasure, discovery, and reflection tuned not only to the world of the music, rich though that is, but also to the even richer world beyond the music” (2007: 6). Music is here a privileged site for a broadly conceived politics of relationship formation; in collaborating with the world, music encourages us do likewise: “classical music enlarges the capacity of all music to attach itself, and us, more closely to whatever we care about” (Kramer 2007: 33). This is essentially a therapeutic politics whose basic message is that we are not until we collaborate with, and heal the wound that divides us from, that which is. And since “that which is” here denotes socially produced human belongings, we are not, therefore, until we collaborate with collaboration itself. As a result, the implied political subject here looks rather like the music valorized by collaborative politics. Kramer writes that he wants to “reject the idea that there’s a deep musical truth that loose talk about meaning and expression obscures and dumbs down. The meaning and expression are what matters” (2007: 8). Likewise, the subject of collaborative politics redresses the balance of the normative aesthetic categories around which it could be understood to be organized, by rejecting form (the “deep structural truth” that supports the autonomy of the subject from within) in favor of content (human belongings). In order for music to be political, subjects must be social. Without such category mistakes, both music and subjects would be meaningless not only in the literal sense, but also ethically, lacking in the value that makes human life meaningful.
But if human belongings are our earth, why do they need music acting as a gravitational force so that we might remain grounded upon them? Rather than being an esoteric abstraction alienating us from human belongings, music qua music seems to be a privileged means of allowing for that relationship; in order for the one (human belongings), there must be two (human belongings and music). Collaborative politics attempts to suture such problematic splitting through assertions such as Kramer’s that “Music is our premier embodiment of the drive for attachment” (2007: 33). Since music here is merely a manifestation of a constitutive feature (the drive for attachment) of human belongings themselves, we cannot properly talk about two. In fact, in this instance, the displacement of the drive for attachment onto music makes music itself into a virtual human, a kind of cyborg. Music is now somewhat uncannily endowed with a kind of human agency, like Frankenstein’s electrically vivified monster. As Kramer’s continuation attests, “[Music] works, it grips and grasps us,” and so resurrects us from our condition of alienated non-engagement, since this contact is “almost with the electricity of touch” (2007: 33).
However, ravished into this state of arousal by the musical cyborg that we have created, to what do we then attach ourselves? Unless we are either frigid or too-cool- for school, we respond reciprocally, and attempt to embrace the music itself – through dance, movement, attentive listening, singing along, or the canceling out of distractions, by closing the eyes or turning down the lights. Admittedly, one might argue that what allows us to get entrapped in music is attraction to the traces in the music of the very human belongings that had initially motivated the music’s production. However, it would be debatable to conclude that what keeps us lodged there is merely this content (our identity, name, beliefs, and so on). Surely something else, however mediated, also comes into play! Otherwise there would be no need for the embarrassing disorientation occurring when you hit the ground after the music is over, no sobering sense of return after a moment of forgetting, such as we experience when we step out of the concert hall and quotidian concerns resume their whisperings in our ears, like profanities insinuated from the lips of some minor malevolent sprite. Maybe the reason we seek expression for human belongings through such saucy fooling around with music – which, pace Kramer, seems noticeably less efficient than just confronting the meanings directly – is precisely so as to fool around with music. Perhaps the human belongings are just a ruse.
Continuing in this aestheticist vein, we could note the seemingly sublime experiences that we can have of music of whose culture and time we have next-to- no understanding. I, for example, listen to North Indian Rāgas, and yet, without any particular pride, I can confess to having never made the effort to find out anything about their “cultural contexts.” Of course, one might argue here that I merely prove the opposite point by means of an unfortunate case study, and that what keeps me attached to North Indian Rāgas is precisely not their music, per se, but rather that the music presents itself as a screen onto which I can project the shoddy Orientalist fantasies of my own culture and so reaffirm my sense of belonging to it. As Carolyn Abbate has rightly pointed out, music is decidedly sticky: “Words stick to it, as anyone who has tried to get the ‘lyrics’ for Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony out of his head knows all too well. Images and corporeal gestures stick as well” (2004: 523). And so of course do racist political fantasies. But if, as reception history and film music attest, almost anything can attach itself to the same piece of music, then music is also potentially indifferent to human belongings, like a dog that stares out blankly from the series of anthropomorphic costumes in which its lonely owner has it dressed.
If the world of human belongings requires the world of music in order to keep us bonded to it, then that would imply that human belongings are in some sense insufficient in-and-of-themselves for the humans for whom, collaborative politics asserts, they are fundamental; likewise if human belongings are being employed merely to allow for a musical romp in the hay. In both cases, the presence of an autonomous musical trace reveals a lack within human belongings and so is potentially performing the function of critique – a function which the following shows to be appropriate.
Collaborative politics seeks to keep us bonded to human belongings either in order to preserve them against the damaging large-scale political forces of the present or as an assertion of human belongings’ ability to be housed in accordance with presently existing political frameworks. Collaborative politics therefore tends to claim that it is possible to separate and shield certain kinds of human belongings from mediation by large-scale political forces; it asserts the power of locality and particularity to resist being fully consumed by universality. But why can human belongings remain meaningfully and productively autonomous in the face of such politics when collaborative politics asserts that music itself cannot be autonomous of human belongings? Admittedly, the two situations may not be comparable, so to ask such a question could constitute a category mistake. But the discrepancy might also be evidence of a perspectival trick whereby the political and the musical are made to appear as smaller (less powerful) than they actually are so that we can be successfully convinced of the primary value of human belongings.
Considering the political, the rhetorical justification for collaborative politics’ potentially covert move would be necessitated by the fact that today’s large-scale political forces frequently do decimate local-level human belongings. And so to center a politics today solely on human belongings would be tantamount to an escapist denial of the political per se. For in the present global problematic, the political is, as Alain Badiou has written, “something that – in the categories, the slogans, the statements it puts forward – is less the demand of a social fraction or community [i.e. the subjects of human belongings] to be integrated into the existing order than something which touches on a transformation of that order as a whole” (2002: 109). For example, take the numerous examples of indigenous peoples defending their lands (and so their social faction, community, human belongings) against violent incursion by pan-global forms of capitalism. Since the logic of capital is structurally constituted so that it cannot retreat and respect a zone of difference, indigenous groups have to strive for some kind of transformation of the existing order as a whole in order to secure their human belongings; this accounts in part for the development of socialist and Marxist revolutionary politics in areas such as the Mexican states of Oaxaca and Chiapas, or in Evo Morales’s Bolivia. In order to be effective sources of resistance, their human belongings must undergo dialectical mediation with regard to the universalized forms of capitalism by which they are threatened. As a result, they can no longer be human belongings in and of themselves. If this does not happen, indigenous peoples would end up like the parishioners using category mistakes in Ryle’s metaphor, and so they would be more vulnerable to being annihilated.
The stark conclusion here, therefore, is that if human belongings cannot produce the means for understanding how their own existence is threatened, then they are not life-enhancing. The potential autonomy of music merely exacerbates such a conclusion, for if, in part, we can sustain elevated degrees of attraction to music precisely because something in it exceeds the trace of the human belongings out of which it and we ourselves emerge, then that suggests that there is a need that human belongings per se can not fulfill.
Collaborative politics, then, is ideological to the degree that it works to exclude from circulation the understanding that human belongings are in fact not enough. By comparison, what I call the politics of critique makes this assertion into its founding credo. Within the politics of critique, the function of the music is no longer to attach us to that which already exists and can be known (in the sense of being articulated through language with regard to its meanings). More dialectical in orientation than collaborative politics, it points, on the one hand, toward a different condition of social life yet to come; and on the other, engages in the paradox of giving voice to that which, at present, cannot be known in the normative sense. The former, for example, is an idée fixe in the work of Jacques Attali. Music “heralds, for it is prophetic. It has always been in its essence a herald of times to come” (1985: 4). It “makes audible the new world that will gradually become visible . . . it is not only the image of things, but the transcending of the everyday, the herald of the future” (1985: 11). “Music was, and still is, a tremendously privileged site for the analysis and revelation of new forms in our society” (1985: 133). Regarding the latter, Lydia Goehr, talking of the German Romanticism that informs her own position, writes that the purely musical” came to serve,
as a repository for all that which could not be captured by a philosophical theory constrained solely by the authority of reason . . . “The purely musical,” more specifically, served as a general metaphor symbolizing a repository for all that was unknowable by ordinary cognitive or logical means.
(Goehr 1998: 18)
Rather than seeking the collaborative political end of keeping present that which potentially threatens to recede into the past, the politics of critique thus attempts to draw that which seemingly is not yet into that which already is. Predominately dialectical, what it values in human belongings is their potential for becoming as opposed to their ability to constitute themselves as what G. W. F. Hegel might have referred to as immediacies – the kinds of self-enclosed systems into which collaborative politics can sometimes strive to transform human belongings. Because it is the underlying formal lack (in Hegel’s terms, negativity) in that which has been conceptually determined that allows for such becoming, the politics of critique aims to encourage as a constitutive feature of human practices, the keeping open of the gaps, silences, and fissures that this lack creates; to invoke the famous passage in Hegel’s preface to the Phenomenology (1977: §32), it seeks to keep us tarrying with the negative, for through a paradoxical exchange, by being exposed to the fact that our concepts are less, we get the magnificence of more, the full presence produced by an absence. Thus, as we move from the politics of collaboration to the politics of critique, and from belongings to becomings, the active subjects implied by these politics shift their orientation from content (what they are) to form (the constitutively open structure that allows for what else they might be). In doing so they attain what Goehr refers to as their authentic voice, the source of their autonomy.
Goehr writes that “a practice is always more than any theory which either describes and or prescribes it” (1998: 38); it contains an excess that is produced by the inability of the theory to fully determine it. However, when we seek to eradicate that excess – by forcing what we can articulately understand things to be (which is another way of saying their theories) to appear indistinguishable from their potentiality (their practices) – then situations lose their “openness” and so we get less. “To leave a theory limited [in other words, constitutively open] and its corresponding practice undetermined allows competing political ideals and conflicting expressions of those ideals to exist within a single practice” (Goehr 1998: 38); it is productive of what she calls “large mindedness” (Goehr 1998: 41), which is the precondition in her argument for a highly pluralized yet intensely dialectically mediated social life. Without the potential for becoming that is engendered by such “large mindedness,” “individuals lose their expressive potential or autonomy, and the community within which they live becomes . . . ‘defunct’” (Goehr 1998: 38). Attali takes the point to a higher rhetorical pitch, asserting that the large mindedness of becoming is, in fact, the defining value of human life itself. Thus, the politically repressive nature of the world in which we live is indicated by the fact that “Our society mimics itself, represents and repeats itself.” It is as if “our society” were suffering from some fatally narcissistic disorder, constantly striving to see, and so preserve, the reflection of what it already is. But as the myth of Narcissus attests, if we cannot see something other than ourselves, then we die. And so this mirroring of the existent social structures only occurs as a result of an economy: in short, “instead of letting us live” (Attali 1985: 134). Our revolt against this economy occurs when we strive for “the emergence of the free act, self-transcendence, pleasure in being instead of having” (Attali 1985: 134). Instead of belongings.
For my argument, the advantage of the politics of critique lies in the fact that it does not have to hedge around the issue of musical autonomy. Rather than being a hindrance to the attainment of its political vision, the music qua music is one of the privileged markers not only of the feasibility of that political vision, but also of its presently existing reality. This does not imply that music is unmediated. “Undoubtedly,” Attali writes, “music is a play of mirrors in which every activity is reflected, defined, recorded, and distorted”; there is no question, “Art bears the mark of its time” (1985: 5). Critical politics is here in thorough agreement with collaborative politics; we cannot compose, perform, or listen to music outside of our historical moment. But the politics of critique acknowledges that musical material is mediated in a way that is different to the essentially more linguistic orientation of human belongings, and, moreover, that this difference makes a difference with regard to our positioning in relationship to our historical moment when music is present.
The historical roots in modernity for this veneration of music’s difference to language lie in the late eighteenth century. Previously, music had tended to be thought of as inferior because it could not point to the world with the same purportedly efficient lack of ambiguity as language. From the turn of the nineteenth-century onwards, however, it was precisely this ambiguity that started to seem attractive, and it has held a certain line of attention ever since (for example, from the Schlegels, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche, through to Adorno and Goehr). The reason for this interest can be reduced to consideration of this truism: that music can seem incredibly meaningful even though we are often at a loss to say, beyond the application of a somewhat Neanderthal expressive labeling system, what it actually means. Frequently one hears the report: that music has given articulation for a listener to something that had been too profound to be touched by words; that it is as if, to give one of Adorno’s variations on this theme, “We do not understand music – it understands us” (1998: xi); that exposure to music when it does this makes life more meaningful.
Thus, if music is insufficient as a normative form of meaning, conversely, music frequently reveals that meaning itself is lacking with regard to what makes life meaningful. And if music shows meaning to be insufficiently meaningful, and meaning also, in this instance, attaches us to what is, then music shows us that meaningfulness arises not solely from increasing our proximity to the existent, but from the possibility that even from our position inside a historical condition we can expand the relational space between ourselves and what is and so create distance. Thus, Goehr writes that in the nineteenth century, “The idea that a philosopher should become a musician was dependent upon seeing in music, or, rather, in the musician, the capacity to view the world at a distance” (1998: 32). This, for example, would explain the strange sense of expansiveness and release that is frequently attendant on musical expression, even when, as for example with melancholic music, the condition to which it refers is one that when experienced for real produces a physiological sensation of weighty incarceration (see Goehr 1998: 22). For Goehr, this space that music qua music produces within the existent is political because it allows for what she refers to as a “freedom within”: “The key to this notion of freedom within is the idea that music is immanent and social, but it is not merely or instrumentally social. Rather, it aspires to be resistantly social through its purely musical form” (Goehr 1998: 13). Music thus opens up the possibility of life being otherwise and in doing so embodies not so much “our drive for attachment” as perhaps our drive for dignity.
Within the politics of critique, humans subjects act as if they are just engaging with music for music’s sake, “Doing for the sake of doing,” “Playing for one’s own pleasure,” as Attali puts it. And yet by doing so it transpires they are doing something else, “Inventing new codes, inventing the message at the same time as the language,” creating the “conditions for new communication” (Attali 1985: 134). Thus, the “purely musical” is never pure, which accounts for why Goehr, through recourse to Wagner, makes it interchangeable with “the purely human” (Goehr 1998: 46). Admittedly, for Goehr, the “purely human is deliberately empty of specific or ‘prejudicial’ content.” And thus “In being empty, this regulative ideal perhaps remains essential, but it is not regressively essentialist” (Goehr 1998: 130). Nevertheless, by preserving the word “human,” she draws attention to a constitutive limit of both collaborative politics and the politics of critique: that they function only by thinking of musical activity as an expression of either self or group, of the human’s desire for relationship either to their own subjectivity, or to the subjectivities of others. Thus, “Music is political already in virtue of the fact that music is a practice of human expression or performance working itself out in the world, in particular communities” (Goehr 1998: 128). In short, in most of today’s talk about music and politics, we are dealing with a profound imbalance, since there is almost no consideration of the possibility of an outside to politics, however broadly conceived. Of course, for the purposes of an effective politics, this may indeed be a necessary rhetorical move; for philosophy, however, it is sophistry.
So what if some human activity is motivated by the pleasure that is taken precisely by engaging with something that it not completely inside the practices of human subjectivity and its social manifestations? Such engagement may indeed be beneficial to the human project; swimming in the sea may do wonders for my mood and may make me into a “better human.” But I do not go swimming in order to be a better human. Moreover, the fact that my swimming may be incorporated beneficially into the economies of my human subjective/social life does not mean that it is merely such; since most things can do more than one thing, what something is cannot be reduced to what it does. After all, I may love swimming so much that I am prepared to trash my human belongings (by breaking appointments, ignoring responsibilities) just so I can get more sea time. Undoubtedly, there is often a miasma of humanly produced meanings flying around me whilst I am swimming. But I am not simply swimming in them – unless I can somehow float without water. And anyway, if I dive under the water, I can momentarily be free of them. The fact that my freedom soon reaches its limit when I must come up for air, does not eradicate the pleasure created when, through underwater swimming, I am briefly in excess of my normal human inscription. In fact, one might argue that the focused physical and mental effort necessary to be in excess and the pleasure that is the prize are mutually emboldening.
To make the leap now from swimming in the sea to engaging with music would involve an unacceptable analogy between water and musical material, as if music were nature. However, although the making of music is (leaving aside birds and computers) done by humans, the resulting musical sounds are no more human in themselves than a chair. Music exhibits not only a degree of ineradicable indifference to its origins – a feature that is merely exacerbated by the nomadic proclivities of musical recordings – but, like nature, a certain indifference to human subjectivity altogether. As a result, music is the darkest form of democracy, for the most depraved of humans can still be magnificent listeners, composers, or performers. Likewise, a man does not drown because he is a racist, but because his swimming fails him. To assert, as a Goehr might, that a serial killer’s “subjective freedom . . . to be musical” opens up the possibility of the serial killer being otherwise is only tautologically true: self-evidently he is capable also of being a musician. But to conclude that in becoming a musician the serial killer opens up a gap within his serial killing activities through which a more human human could materialize is to make a dubious association of talent/ proclivity with the Good. In part, this association emerges from the use of an inappropriate metaphor: openness. Like swimming under water, composing, performing, and listening well to music emerge less from an initial opening up of ourselves to how we might be otherwise, than from an initial skill for focusing on abilities we already have, or have developed, onto certain materials (water, musical sound) in the hope of then being able to momentarily experience the pleasure of exceeding our normal inscriptions. We cut things out, not let things in. The pleasure gained from such exceeding is self-justifying, and so not compromised when it fails to open up productive transformations in subjective/social life. This is not to say that it cannot. However, it is to acknowledge that when it does, it is not as a result of music being political, but more often from a kind of moral luck produced by the mad chance of where music happens to land when it finds itself thrown onto the roulette wheel of the human project.
But if music and politics are two separate singularities, why has so much discourse of the past twenty-five years sought to show otherwise? I offer the following conclusion as a provocation for further debate. The wide-spread circulation of “music as politics” is a symptom, the overdetermined affect produced by the attempt to repress the awful truth: that in the period beginning in the late 1970s – including Thatcher, Reagan, New Labour, aggressive Neo-Liberalism, and the exponential increase of the power of corporations over all aspects of everyday life – the political has increasingly been lacking, castrated. Music, amongst other things, has had to appear as political in order to mask this lack. For Bryars in the early 1970s, by comparison, this was not necessary. With 1968 and other events still reverberating as a productive catalyst in the political imagination, there was still the possibility of politics, and so of that something else too: music. However, today, in the presiding discourses, we have to ask: do we have either at all?
See also Adorno (Chapter 36), Continental philosophy and music (Chapter 26), Plato (Chapter 28), and Value (Chapter 15).
Abbate, C. (2004) “Music – Drastic or Gnostic?” Critical Inquiry 30: 505–36.
Adorno, T. W. (1998) Beethoven: The Philosophy of Music, trans. E. Jephcott, ed. R. Tiedemann, Palo Alto: Stanford University Press.
Attali, J. (1985) Noise: The Political Economy of Music, trans. B. Massumi, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.
Badiou, A. (2002) Ethics: An Essay on the Understanding of Evil, trans. P. Hallward, New York and London: Verso.
Berlin, I. (2000) Three Critics of the Enlightenment: Vico, Hamann, Herder, ed. H. Hardy, London: Pimlico.
Deleuze, G. and Guattari, F. (1994 [1991]) What Is Philosophy?, trans. H. Tomlinson and G. Burchell, New York: Columbia University Press.
Goehr, L. (1998) The Quest for Voice: Music, Politics, and the Limits of Philosophy, Berkeley: University of California Press.
Griffiths, P. (1985) New Sounds, New Personalities: British Composers of the 1980s in Conversation with Paul Griffiths, London: Faber and Faber.
Hegel, G.W.F. (1977 [1807]) Phenomenology of Spirit, trans. A.V. Miller, Oxford: Oxford University Press.
hooks, b. (2009) Belonging: A Culture of Place, New York and London: Routledge.
Kramer, L. (2007) Why Classical Music Still Matters, Berkeley: University of California Press.
Ryle, G. (1949) The Concept of Mind, London: Hutchinson.