The Gulf between Music Theory and Practice: Subjectivity, Spirituality, and Other Scholarly Inconveniences

Abstract

For much of history, philosophers and theorists have considered the abstract, rational contemplation of music to be the true form of spiritual activity. This has often come at the cost of making the practical aspect of music (which consists of listening, performance, subjective experience, among others) subservient to theory. This paper examines the implications of separating abstract music theory from its practical side and explores where spirituality can be situated. It was not until the nineteenth century, under the influence of Schopenhauer, that a proper unification of music theory and practice truly took on metaphysical and spiritual dimensions. Schopenhauerian metaphysics allowed music to legitimately become a spiritual refuge in the age of positivism, paving the way for projects such as Scriabin’s Mysterium. The described tension between theory and practice in Western music will be contrasted with Sufism as a point of comparison. The comparison will illustrate how a spiritual movement like Sufism poses a challenge for musicological research. Additionally, reflecting on the state of current music research, the paper explores how music and musicology of the twentieth century onward fall short of the spiritual aspirations of preceding generations.

1. Introduction

Just as a colour cannot be truly described in words but must be personally experienced, so too does music encompass subjective qualities of conscious experience that resist both quantification and communication. If it is permissible at all to consider a connection between spirituality and music, such a relationship is, by definition, purely subjective and a felt experience. To put it another way, if music is, in Vyacheslav Ivanov’s words, the “unmediated herald of the heart’s depths” (see Ivanov 2001, p. 211), it eludes both verbal description and theoretical scrutiny. However, as we will explore, music theory, dating back to the Ancient Greeks, has often been connected with pure rational contemplation. Even those schools of thought that acknowledge the role of felt experience in music cannot evade the scientific inclination towards systematisation and scholarly study. In simple terms, while rational thought can be conveyed using the conventions of reason, semantics, and syntax (i.e., logic and language), subjective experience resists communication, existing solely in the domain of individual perception and feeling. The challenge for musicology is to grapple with the disparity between theory and felt experience.

The title of the present paper is intended to suggest that, ever since Pythagoras, spirituality has been caught in a struggle between abstract music theory and the tangible phenomenon of music perception. This tension becomes apparent when we note that ancient authors not only associated music with the soul but also related it to the cosmos in a theological and metaphysical sense. In attempting to do so, they endeavoured to provide a rational explanation for the relationship between music, the soul, and the cosmos. The crux of the issue lies in the perception of the soul as the seat of reason and contemplation; as a result, for such theoreticians, sensory perception and subjective experience became subservient to the dictates of reason and its rational explanations. This stands in stark contrast to real-life spiritual experiences, which are often ineffable in their essence and resist rational articulation. As it will be discussed, this contrast is particularly pronounced when dealing with profound mystical states and experiences. However, as Andrew Newberg, Eugene D’Aquili, and Vince Rause highlight, one does not require an all-encompassing supernatural encounter to be touched by spiritual experience: “Humans, in fact, are natural mystics blessed with an inborn genius for effortless self-transcendence. If you ever ‘lost yourself’ in a beautiful piece of music, for example, […] you have tasted in a small but revealing way the essence of mystical union” (Newberg et al. 2001, p. 113). The following questions arise: If such experiences are so commonplace and natural, why have theoreticians frequently overlooked the experiential aspect of music? And, when it is considered, why is it often subordinated to theoretical speculation?

It is not that ancient theoreticians were oblivious to the distinction between reason and perception. In fact, some were acutely aware of the problem of perception. However, they often relegated experience to a role subservient to reason. As will be elaborated upon in the section about Schopenhauerian metaphysics and late nineteenth-century music, it was somewhat counterintuitively only in the age of realism and positivism that the non-rational, spiritual, and experiential aspects of music were fully embraced.

For clarity’s sake, it is worth explaining what is meant by “spirituality” in this paper. No single universal definition of spirituality exists that every scholar agrees upon. This is so because “today there are no commonly agreed on characteristics of spirituality, and the traditional definition of spirituality has been changing. Once based on religion, spirituality is increasingly viewed as a broader concept that each individual defines for himself or herself” (Koenig et al. 2012, p. 37). In other words, as our culture and understanding of it change, so does our understanding of spirituality; as a result, a universal definition of spirituality becomes increasingly difficult to pin down. Given that “there is no widely agreed on definition of spirituality today” (Koenig et al. 2012, p. 36), describing spirituality depends on the nature of the research one wishes to conduct. As long as the definition remains constant within specific research, there should be no concerns. Since our topic of investigation is not healthcare, specific religious practices, or anything similar, our focus should be on aspects of spirituality that are relevant for the discussions in the present paper. Bearing that in mind, I would like to propose the following as the definition of the word “spirituality” for the purposes of this paper: “Spirituality” refers to anything that is unquantifiable or anything that cannot be reduced to rational thought or systematisation. Thus, the realm of genuine spiritual experience is subjective experience as directly perceived by the individual. I categorise religious, mystical, metaphysical, and other analogous experiences as forms of spiritual experience. This definition does not dismiss how spirituality is understood within other fields, and it is further respectful of each person’s understanding of spirituality; however, it clarifies the kind of spirituality that is relevant for the present paper.

The next three sections explore the role of theory in music across history and consider the implications these theories have borne on Western thought. As quantification stands in contrast to the subjective nature of spiritual experience, we begin with a brief overview of the history of rational systematisation in music. From this foundation, we will explore whether there is a place for spirituality in music. Given the nature of the topic of this paper, the penultimate section is devoted to comparing the role of spirituality in Western music with that in Sufism. The section will highlight how a mystical movement like Sufism poses a challenge for musicological research, especially when we have historically been inclined to apply rationality even where it might be inappropriate. Finally, in the last section, we will examine how modern musicology compares to the premodern period.

2. The Supremacy of Reason: Outlining the Problem

Ever since the Ancient Greeks, the West has taken the divide between theory and practice as a given. To the Ancient Greeks, this divide manifested as the “soul” (the rational) contrasted with the body (the irrational). It goes without saying that, for most philosophers throughout history, the ideal hierarchy saw the body subservient to the soul, rather than vice versa. In essence, the prevailing viewpoint has been that the rational should govern everything else. Crucially, for the Ancient Greek philosophers and their successors up to the Renaissance, the soul represented the faculty (or seat) of reason. As such, it was not tied to purely subjective experience. While we might link the concept of the soul with spiritual discourse in everyday language, for these philosophers, such a discourse was only permissible if it did not taint the soul with the qualitative subjective experiences drawn from sensory perception. This conceptualisation of the soul, unsurprisingly, had a direct bearing on the evolution of music theory, which has consistently regarded subjective experience as something of a nuisance to deal with.

There exists an age-old conundrum, identified by Pythagoras: Why do certain intervals produce consonant sounds, that is, sounds that are more pleasant than others (see Cohen 1984, p. 1)? Put differently, is there a correlation between pleasing sounds and numbers? It is noteworthy that this line of inquiry intrinsically bifurcates the world: on one hand, there is the experience (of agreeable sounds) and, on the other, the theory (of numbers). While the question itself may appear innocuous, historical endeavours to resolve it have often come inadvertently at the cost of diminishing the value of subjective experience in comparison to reason. This is particularly ironic given that it is subjective experience which prompts the question to begin with.

Leading theoreticians such as Pythagoras, Ptolemy, Boethius, and Zarlino turned to reason to elucidate perception. In other words, they sought rational explanations for phenomena that are not wholly rational, thus embedding a trend in music theory that persists to the present day. While Pythagoras endeavoured to make sense of non-polyphonic relations, Zarlino aimed to rationalise consonances in the emergent polyphonic system that recognised thirds and sixths as harmonious. Yet, despite their temporal separation by almost a millennium, both appealed to a shared underlying principle. In his work Quantifying Music, Floris Cohen highlights such a rift (as espoused by theoreticians like Zarlino) between theoretical cognition and the listener’s experience, terming it the “chasm between sense experience and abstract numbers” (see Cohen 1984, p. 7). Similarly, Benito V. Rivera describes Zarlino’s approach of distancing music theory from subjective experience as “ivory-tower pronouncements”, rooted in his broader “abstract speculation” (see Rivera 1995, pp. 145–46).

The depth of Zarlino’s abstract speculation becomes evident when one considers his methods. In an effort to substantiate his arithmetical series that underpins his “numero senario”, Zarlino did not hesitate to delve deeply into esotericism. In his endeavour to elucidate why the number six (which forms the foundation of his numero senario) holds significance, Zarlino enumerates the following rationales: six of the twelve Zodiac signs are positioned below the hemisphere with the remaining six situated above; he speaks of “six substantial qualities of elements” (Sei sostantiali qualità de gli Elementi); he references six “types of motions”; mentions six directions; alludes to “six degrees of man” (i gradi dell’Huomo); and delineates six ages (età) of man (see Zarlino 1966, pp. 29–31). As one delves further into Zarlino’s justifications, they become increasingly arcane and peculiar. I have chosen to omit the detailed elaboration of the aforementioned sixfold categorisations primarily because they might confound the contemporary reader. The crucial takeaway here is that, despite its profound reliance on esotericism, Zarlino’s music theory garnered acclaim and acceptance, primarily because Western thought had, over time, grown accustomed to such an approach. Floris Cohen refers to this tendency as “number mysticism” and argues,

Zarlino’s thinking represents a characteristic mixture of Aristotelianism and neo-Platonic number mysticism. As such it was quite typical for Renaissance science, which, however, was soon to be replaced by the profoundly different scientific approaches characteristic of the Scientific Revolution.

(Cohen 1984, p. 7)

Even though I personally do not endorse the term “number mysticism”—simply because it implies that “mysticism” is something negative in general—Cohen’s description of the era is valid.

If we consider the case of Boethius, whose influence on music surpassed that of any other theoretician and remained unparalleled for nearly a millennium until the emergence of Gioseffo Zarlino, it becomes clear that not much had evolved over the course of almost a thousand years in terms of how theorists thought. It is notably peculiar that although the very opening line of De institutione musica acknowledges the issue of perception, the treatise itself largely relegates perception as a subsidiary phenomenon, one deemed inferior to reason. Similar to Ptolemy, Boethius does not regard sensory perception as reliable, believing that sense “arrives only at an approximation” (see Boethius 1989, p. 163; see also Solomon 2000, sec. 3.1). It is worth noting that, although Boethius frequently advocates aural tests (see for example 160–161 Boethius 1989, pp. 160–61), these assessments are not designed to challenge or overturn any theoretical abstractions. Framing it in Popperian terminology, these tests do not serve as genuine attempts at falsification. If there are any credible aural tests to mention, then Boethius posits an intractable paradox by simultaneously asserting that even though the principles he elucidates “concerning the fundamentals of music may not be discerned by the ears […], the faculty of reason can grasp this matter” (see Boethius 1989, p. 102). In essence, he seems to be suggesting that if one conducts a test and fails to perceive the described sound, there is no cause for concern, as the explanation is “sound”—pun intended—on a rational basis. Such a viewpoint, it can be argued, is a direct consequence of an over-reliance on abstract thought.

Ignoring the importance of perception, Boethius had no incentive to take the actual practice of music seriously. Consequently, in De institutione musica, he defends the gap between theory and practice. However, the peril of such a division is unmistakable: the theoretician becomes ensnared in pure abstraction. Boethius employs the adjective “noble” to distinguish theoreticians from performers. Yet, much like genuine nobilities, oligarchs, and their ilk, theoreticians of the ivory tower ensnared in the “noble” bubble of abstraction lose touch with the actual world. Such pure abstraction is susceptible to producing eccentric and fruitless ideas that bear no resemblance to reality. Here is a manifestation of a pronouncement that Boethius formulated leveraging his “faculty of reason”:

The hypate meson is assigned to Saturn, whereas the parhypate is like the orbit of Jupiter. The lichanos meson is entrusted to Mars. The sun governs the mese. Venus holds the trite synemmenon. Mercury rules the paranete synemmenon. The nete is analogous to the orbit of the moon.

(Boethius 1989, p. 46)

A parallel can be drawn between this line of thought and that observed in Zarlino. Whilst such arguments possess poetic merit, they fall short in engendering musically induced spiritual experiences. This inevitably leads to the following question: can such a rational tendency to abstraction accommodate spirituality?

3. Coming Tantalisingly Close to Full-Scale Spirituality

Notwithstanding the assertions in the preceding section, it is vital to underscore that theoreticians active up to the sixteenth century came tantalisingly close to recognising a significant role for spirituality in music. In fact, they assigned roles to spirituality in the musical realm that have been unparalleled in subsequent Western thought. Had it not been for the precedence given to rational thought and abstract contemplation, these theoreticians might well have presented a full-scale spiritual account of music. While the prior section shed light on their shortcomings, this section will accentuate their triumphs.

An appropriate starting point might be the distinction between premodern mathematisation and the kind of mathematisation that took place after the Renaissance, particularly following the advent of rationalism. In the former period, mathematisation was intertwined with the contemplation intrinsic to the soul, thereby possessing a spiritual dimension. This is eloquently exemplified in the religio-philosophical Hermetic treatise, Asclepius:

To truly know music is nothing more than understanding how the entire universe is ordered and what divine plan has distributed all things: for this order, in which all individual things have been assembled into one whole by an artistic reason, will produce a kind of infinitely sweet and true harmony, with divine music.

(Trismégiste 1945, pp. 312–13)

In contrast, what the scientific worldview introduced was not mathematisation as a natural contemplative activity of the soul but rather as a means to decipher the book of nature.1 This perspective paved the way for the quantification of nature (through atomisation, physiologisation, systematisation, and mechanisation) for entirely secular objectives. In earlier times, studying nature equated to the spiritual activity of the soul, as the soul engaged in contemplating nature. Thus, when Pythagoras contemplated the cosmos, he was partaking in a spiritual endeavour. This was no longer the perspective of the new mathematicians and physicists. Just as one might peruse a book out of mere curiosity, devoid of any spiritual impetus, it became conceivable to explore the grand book of nature for reasons other than spiritual enrichment. The rationalists’ approach to the systematisation of music was symptomatic of a broader cultural trend which saw nature being de-animated and mechanised.

The spiritual inclination of bygone times was not exclusive to renowned figures like Pythagoras and Plato but was also evident in the works of lesser-known personalities. One such figure is Maximus of Tyre, also known as Cassius Maximus Tyrius. For Maximus, God is a choir leader and, through His activity, harmony emanates from Him (see Maximus of Tyre 1997, sec. 13.3). In viewing this harmony as omnipresent, there was undoubtedly a spiritual dimension at play: the “theorist hears harmonies everywhere, just as some mystics see God in everything” (Godwin 1993, p. 22). For ancient theorists, these harmonies represented the divine in action.

Undoubtedly, music held a spiritual significance for Maximus; after all, he describes music as the “most ancient of all the studies in the soul” (see Maximus Tyrius 1804, p. 4). In a revealing remark, Maximus poses and responds, “What is the good in music? Harmony” (τί εν μουσικῆ τὸ ἀγαθόν; ἁρμονία.) (Maximus Tyrius 1995, p. 463). Observe that the word “good” is translated from the original Greek “τὸ ἀγαθόν”. This is not a neutral term as one might use in casual conversation to describe a cup of tea as “good”; instead, it carries significant theological and metaphysical weight. This deeper sense of the “good” is famously dealt with in Plato’s Republic (Plato 2004, secs. 508e–509a).

Perhaps Western readers might gain a more intuitive understanding of the concept of “good” in the Ancient Greek context when they consider its appearance in the Bible. For instance, consider Psalm 54:6, which states: “I will praise your name, Lord, for it is good.” The Greek translation of this line from the Hebrew Bible reads, “ἑκουσίως θύσω σοι, ἐξομολογήσομαι τῷ ὀνόματί σου, Κύριε, ὅτι ἀγαθόν.” Readers will doubtless recognise the profound sanctity of God’s name in Judaism; thus, the word “good” in this context goes far beyond casual descriptors like commenting on the weather. Similarly, Maximus uses the word “good” in a non-ordinary sense.

In light of the explanations provided, whenever we encounter discussions of music and harmonics in the writings of ancient theoreticians, we should not immediately assume they are referring to the sort of songs one might passively listen to whilst sipping coffee at a café. For instance, in the Republic, “Plato’s Muses make their appearance in context as goddesses of intellectual, not sensible, harmony” (Brumbaugh 1968, p. 176). Accordingly, song “is the perceivable embodiment of the more intellectual mathematical realm of harmonious structure over which the Muses preside” (see Brumbaugh 1968, p. 176). We observe a similar trend in other contexts. For instance, Ptolemy likens the harmonicist not to a poet but to an astrologer (see Solomon 2000, sec. 5.13). Similarly, consider Maximus, who explicitly states,

Mark well that I am not referring to the kind of music produced by pipes and song and choruses and strings, which appeals to the soul on an irrational level and is prized for its pleasantness to the ear.

(Maximus of Tyre 1997, sec. 37.4)

As we can observe, for Maximus and other theoreticians of the time, there are two kinds of music: the lower variety, played by instruments and intended for listening, and the higher variety, orchestrated by divine forces and designed for contemplation. Thus, while the former type engages our senses, the latter appeals to our intellect. Even though there are two distinct types of music under discussion, one could argue that the lower type is merely a distorted expression of the higher variety. In other words, the lower type might be viewed as a flawed reproduction of the higher form. This perspective resonates with Platonic philosophy, which posits the superior type as the ideal form from which the inferior is imperfectly derived. However, it is crucial to remember that this reproduction is deemed an unfaithful shadow, undeserving of genuine attention. Here, we can note that, for Plato, not only is what we commonly think of as “reality” nothing more than shadows (Plato 2004, secs. 515b–c)—implying that there are two types of reality, a lower one comprised of shadows and a higher one containing true Forms—but there are also two types of people: those who “see the things in the world above” and those who refuse to abandon the world of shadows (Plato 2004, secs. 515c–516b). This elucidates why contemplation about music, which deals with the ideal forms themselves, is considered the true activity of the theoretician, and why practical music and the subjectivity it involves are dismissed as secondary phenomena. Whereas the theoretician is regarded as the one who has managed to leave the cave of shadows to contemplate true Forms, those who practice music as a concrete phenomenon are thought to be engaging with mere shadows.

This brings our discussion full circle: all in all, despite the fleeting instances of spirituality that Western culture has observed, these instances have been mostly limited to the realm of intellectualism: “It was an intellectual language which was applied to metaphysical abstractions and from them made known the harmonic laws, just as algebra, the scientific part of mathematics, is applied by us to physical abstractions and serves to calculate relationships” (D’Olivet 1987, p. 56). This naturally introduced friction between theory and experience, preventing spirituality from becoming fully integrated into musical culture. However, the reader would be mistaken to assume that once Western philosophy distanced itself from the ancients, matters improved. Matters are scarcely better when we move away from the esotericism of contemplating the music of the spheres and delve into the realm of human music. As pointed out by Jeremy Begbie,

Music-making and hearing are properly considered the foundational realities of music. […] By contrast, our culture has schooled many of us into thinking of music as basically about written ‘works’ [...]. Much modern musicology has revolved around the study of works, treated as if they were self-contained objects […] rather than their acoustical and physical characteristics as experienced.

(Begbie 2003, pp. 9–10, my emphasis)

In the subsequent section, we will examine how the period spanning from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries differed from what preceded it.

4. The Transitional Period

The period between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries can be seen as transitional. As Stephen Toulmin highlights, what distinguished the thinking about Nature during this time, particularly in the seventeenth century, from earlier perspectives were “two features that are shared by all mechanical or mathematical views of Nature: the deanimation of Nature, and the associated separation of God the author of the Creation from Nature, its object” (see Toulmin 1985, p. 41). In other words, “there was no longer any way of seeing God as being in the World of Nature, let alone as being that World” (Toulmin 1985, p. 42). It should not surprise the reader that this new worldview brought with it a fresh approach to music.

The implications of this transitional period for music become especially evident when we consider the publication of a treatise like A Philosophical Essay on Musick by Francis North, 1st Baron Guilford in 1677—a decade before the publication of Newton’s Philosophiæ Naturalis Principia Mathematica. Being a child of his time, in Roger North’s words, his lordship “fell upon a pleasing speculation of the real mechanism whereby sounds are distinguished into harmony and discord, or disposed to please or displease our sense of hearing” (North 1826, p. 206). In this work, we observe how the nature of music and the pleasure derived from it are reduced to mere mechanics. This perspective emerged from the cultural climate of the era and mirrors the same thinking that, a decade later, led to Newton’s reduction of nature to mechanics. Roger North continues, “He [Francis North, 1st Baron Guilford] found that tones and accords might be anatomized, and, by apt schemes, be presented to the eye as well as the ear, and so music be demonstrated in effigy” (North 1826, p. 206). The word “anatomized” is not used haphazardly by North; for instance, we can cite William Turner’s Sound Anatomiz’d as another representative publication from this transitional period. This was the age of not just Newton and physics but also of modern anatomy and anatomists such as Marcello Malpighi, Frederik Ruysch, and Jacob B. Winslow. Humanities majors in every era, afraid of being considered irrelevant and outdated, tend to imitate the scientific atmosphere of their time. In an age dominated by physicists and anatomists, we should not be surprised to find books and treatises that concern themselves with the anatomy and physics of sound. North’s and Turner’s books signalled the emergence of this new interest in the scientific exploration of sound, detached from spirituality.

Just as nature was, owing to Newton, reduced to numbers, music began to be reduced to numbers. The Baroque era and the Age of Rationalism that succeeded it witnessed the publication of many works that treated music as a mechanical or numerical system. Among others, we could mention: The Theory of Musick Reduced to Arithmetical and Geometrical Proportions (1705) and Proposal to Perform Musick, in Perfect and Mathematical Proportions (1688) by Thomas Salmon; Musica mathematica by Abraham Bartolus; Harmonics, or, The Philosophy of Musical Sounds by Robert Smith; Harmonie universelle by Marin Mersenne; A Treatise of Musick: Speculative, Practical, and Historica by Alexander Malcolm; and Principes d’acoustique et de musique by Joseph Sauveur.2

It should be emphasised that listing the aforementioned works does not suggest that every single work written on music concerned itself with physics or mathematics; rather, it is meant to demonstrate how the general atmosphere of an era influences the culture of that era. In an age where everything is reduced to numbers, the field of music would feel antiquated if it did not adapt. Music had to be mathematicised to be perceived as relevant by the wider community. Even as late as 1773, Charles Burney wrote that when he visited the Elector of Saxony’s library, he encountered a collection “more rich in old musical authors, and in old compositions” than any other he had seen in Europe (see Burney 1773, p. 128). Yet, intriguingly, he notes that the musical books he sought were categorised alongside others in mathematics (see Burney 1773, p. 129).3

It is true that theoreticians from the Ancient Greeks through to the Renaissance also employed numbers to discuss music; however, for the ancients, numbers held a sort of metaphysical significance that disclosed the divine mechanisms of nature. But, despite the disparities between the role of mathematics in the previous era and this transitional period, a common thread exists: “Most of the mathematical theorists are dismissive about the evidence of sense perception” (Barker 2010, p. 410).

It was only in the nineteenth century that the experiential aspect of music was widely accepted as something irreducible to reason. Yet, somewhat paradoxically, this emphasis on experience and irrationality thrived in an era that was far from spiritual. The subsequent section explores how, in the age of realism and positivism, the spiritual dimension of music received its metaphysical legitimation.

5. Schopenhauer and the Metaphysical Legitimisation of Music

The mechanisation and mathematisation of nature did not conclude with rationalism; in fact, they intensified during the Industrial Revolution and its aftermath. Yet, one must ask the following: how is it that an era which viewed the world as mere mechanical clockwork also gave rise to the most profound metaphysical composers of all time, including Liszt, Wagner, Mahler, Bruckner, and Scriabin? This is the paradox:

Nineteenth-century Romantic thought had led us to believe that the composer was someone special, almost a god, set apart from the rest of ordinary society. He was someone in touch with the muses who waited for inspiration to strike before pouring out his soul, by means of some mystical process, in order to produce works of art to be revered by the masses almost as if they were holy relics—a surprising attitude, one might think, for an age which paradoxically saw the rapid development of logical scientific knowledge and method.

(Cross 2009, p. 131)

It was Schopenhauer, above all, who, through his metaphysics, legitimised the “mystical process” in music. Ironically, Schopenhauer takes a complete turn and returns to Plato to support his metaphysics. Just as Plato concerned himself with contemplating Forms (or Ideas) and dismissed what our senses present as mere shadows, Schopenhauer too sought to glimpse through the veil of Maya. However, he did so with a twist: While what lies beyond the veil of Maya may be inaccessible, we do have access to the next best thing—music. Schopenhauer regarded “music as the copy of an original that cannot itself ever be directly presented” (see Schopenhauer 2010, p. 284). This copy is far superior to anything else the world as representation offers, for it is quite faithful to the original: “music is an unmediated objectivation and copy of the entire will” (Schopenhauer 2010, p. 285). Thanks to this new metaphysics, all existential and spiritual questions could be posed and answered directly in the language of music, and the answers would be far more precise than anything ordinary language could ever provide. After all, why bother questioning in any other language when music is the “universal language to the highest degree” (see Schopenhauer 2010, p. 289)? Recognising the potential of this metaphysics, some composers wasted no time in seeking spiritual solace in the realm of music.

Delving into the nuances of spirituality in the works of composers such as Liszt, Mahler, and Scriabin exceeds the scope of this section—indeed, an entire book could be devoted to the relationship each of these composers had with spirituality. Furthermore, the aim of this paper is not to give a comprehensive account of the spiritual underpinnings in these composers’ works but rather to contextualise their spiritual perspectives. However, I believe it would be beneficial to provide a broad understanding of what spirituality signified to these composers. So, before we probe the question, “In what context did these composers operate?”, I trust the ensuing paragraphs will aid the reader in recognising the pivotal role of spirituality in the lives and oeuvre of the aforementioned composers.

The spiritual manifested differently in each of these composers: Liszt’s music was religious, Mahler’s metaphysical, and Scriabin’s mystical. Nevertheless, they all owed a significant debt to Schopenhauerian metaphysics, which legitimised the role of music as an expression of the irrational. In terms of grandiosity, Scriabin stands out the most, being “convinced of the tremendous power which music might have for the spiritual well-being of mankind” (see Godwin 1987, p. 43). The effects of his final project, the Mysterium, “were to exceed by far any Platonic or Wagnerian ambitions: beginning with the enlightenment of its beholders, it would spread worldwide to bring about the Apocalypse and usher in the New Age” (Godwin 1987, p. 43). Scriabin’s Mysterium was meant to bring about the “spiritual transcendence of humanity”. By the end of the Mysterium, “matter would dissolve into spirit; the material world would be annihilated, and humanity would achieve spiritual communion with the divine. Thus Scriabin’s Mysterium would surmount the limitations of art and become a religious act” (Ballard and Bengtson 2017, p. 586). Scriabin was influenced not only by Schopenhauer but also by Russian Cosmists. It would not be an overstatement to assert that what Russian Cosmists, such as Fyodorov and Solovyov, achieved for Russian thought paralleled what Schopenhauer accomplished for European thought. To truly understand the Mysterium as a project, one must be familiar with the significance of concepts like “sobornost” (coбopнocть) and “all-unity” (вceeдинcтвo) in Russian spirituality (for further discussion on the Mysterium, see Morrison 1998).

Similarly, Mahler “solemnly ascribed a religio-metaphysical mission to musical art” (see Floros 2012, p. 67). Here is what the Mahler scholar Floros articulates about Mahler and his music:

Gustav Mahler is one of those artists whose art and personality cannot be separated. His symphonic writing, paradoxical as this might seem, expresses his world view; it has a literary and philosophical background. His religious and philosophical thinking cannot be separated from his work.

(Floros 1985, p. 54)

Both Mahler and Scriabin were profoundly influenced by Liszt, for whom music was a religious act (for more discussions on Liszt and religion, see Müller 2019; see also Coleman 2023; see also Merrick 2008). Liszt’s spirituality is palpably evident in works such as Christus and Harmonies poétiques et religieuses. When examining Liszt’s art-religion compositions, one encounters a composer who not only juggled “multiple forms of the concept” but also aspired to “transform both religion and art” (Garratt 2021, pp. 155–56). However, listeners may not immediately recognise the religiosity infused into seemingly secular works like his Piano Sonata in B minor. This latter piece, for example, is centred obsessively around the Cross motif—a motif also cherished by Mahler (for more discussions on the usage of the Cross motif in Liszt’s Piano Sonata in B minor, see Merrick 2008, chap. 14).

In contrast to previous ages, this marks the first time in history that theoretical thought became subservient to experience. Regarding Scriabin, for instance, Schloezer, who knew Scriabin intimately, wrote, “To Scriabin, spiritual action always exercised priority over theoretical thought” (Schloezer 1987, p. 55). And, he further noted, “Art to him [Scriabin] was synonymous with spiritual transfiguration” (Schloezer 1987, p. 103). Or, consider the strange and unconventional formal layout of the final movement of Mahler’s First Symphony, which arose from Mahler’s programmatic vision, depicting the “spiritual struggle” of the movement’s hero (for more on this topic, see Buhler 1996). Or, consider how the “subject of the Second [Symphony] is formulated as an existential and eschatological question” (see Floros 1985, p. 54).

What is evident in the works of Liszt, Mahler, and Scriabin is the belief that music and spirituality are not only intertwined but that, crucially, music is a transformative religious act. Music, in this view, is not merely something to be leisurely enjoyed for passive pleasure. It becomes a space where one confronts eschatological questions, undergoes spiritual transformation, and unites for a common purpose. We should not ignore the fact that Scriabin’s Mysterium was intended—quite literally, not just figuratively or metaphorically—to transform the Cosmos and all of humanity.

The question is: Why did composers and theoreticians not make theory so decisively subservient to experience during, say, the Middle Ages when the Church reigned supreme? What shifted in the nineteenth century? The answer lies in understanding the paradox of late Romanticism, as articulated by Carl Dahlhaus:

Early nineteenth-century music could be said to be romantic in an age of romanticism, which produced romantic poetry and painting and even romantic physics and chemistry, whereas the neo-romanticism of the later part of the century was romantic in an unromantic age, dominated by positivism and realism. Music, the romantic art, had become “untimely” in general terms, though by no means unimportant; on the contrary, its very dissociation from the prevailing spirit of the age enabled it to fulfill a spiritual, cultural, and ideological function of a magnitude which can hardly be exaggerated: it stood for an alternative world.

(Dahlhaus 1989, p. 5)

In other words, music emerged as a sanctuary in an era that seemed devoid of spiritual spaces. The imperatives of industrialism, colonialism, positivism, and global expansion demanded the sidelining of spiritual worldviews—such as a harmonious coexistence with nature, the unity of mankind, existential quest, and the sanctity of life. According to Dahlhaus, music stood out as the sole artistic medium resisting the pull of realism and positivism: “music increased its influence because it was almost alone in bearing the burden of providing an alternative to the realities of the world following the Industrial Revolution” (Dahlhaus 1989, p. 8). As a result, music became the most conducive and acceptable medium in which to grapple with spiritual and existential questions. This sanctification of music as a space for spiritual introspection is starkly evident in Mahler’s Second Symphony whose first movement (Totenfeier) concludes with these words in the score: “Here follows a break of at least 5 minutes” (Hier folgt eine Pause von mindestens 5 Minuten). Regarding this unusual command for a “pause of at least five minutes’ duration,” Richard Taruskin writes, “Requiring of the audience that they sit still and contemplate what they have heard for five minutes is explicitly to require that they behave as they would in church” (Taruskin 2005, p. 20). Totenfeier should not be considered merely as a representation of a solemn rite, for in making such a demand, it has effectively “stopped being a representation of a solemn rite and has actually become such a rite” (see Taruskin 2005, p. 20). This newfound musical sanctuary, tasked with presenting an alternate reality, flourished on the fertile foundation of Schopenhauerian metaphysics, which portrayed music as

a copy of the will itself, whose objecthood the Ideas are as well: this is precisely why the effect of music is so much more powerful and urgent than that of the other arts: the other arts speak only of shadows while music speaks of the essence.

(Schopenhauer 2010, p. 285)

I might have given the wrong impression that nineteenth-century Europe was the only period in human history where music and spirituality became fully intertwined. To correct this assumption, the next section provides an overview of music in Sufism. Much like Schopenhauerian metaphysics, Sufis pursue what cannot be articulated or conveyed in everyday language through rational means. However, while Schopenhauer and his metaphysics offered a musical refuge in an unspiritual age to an audience that was not consciously spiritual, Sufism presents music as a path for those actively seeking mystical union with God.

6. The Case of Sufism: Spirituality and Music in Absolute Harmony

It would be a significant oversight if the present paper confined itself solely to Western culture. The role of music as a spiritual practice seems especially pronounced in Sufism, and many points discussed in this paper can be observed within this rich tradition. Therefore, this section aims to briefly cover the topic of music in spiritual Sufi practices as a point of comparison.

Throughout this paper, I have posited that if we are to consider spirituality and music within a single category, we must recognise the limitations of rational enquiry. While rationality falls within the realm of communication, spiritual experience resides in the realm of subjective experience. Consequently, and somewhat paradoxically, when discussing spirituality, we are compelled to omit its most essential component (i.e., subjective experience from the first-person perspective) because it is inherently incommunicable and inaccessible to others. The Sufi tradition exemplifies precisely how one can couple music and spirituality in an experiential way: by situating music within the realm of ethics rather than theory.4 Other mystical schools have undoubtedly integrated music into their traditions; however, as Joscelyn Godwin, a musicologist specialising in mysticism, esotericism, and the occult, has observed, the metaphysics of music in Sufism is a “phenomenon to which the West can offer no parallel” (see Godwin 1993, p. 92). I hope that this brief account will sufficiently demonstrate to the reader the unparalleled nature of music within this movement. Furthermore, following this brief overview of Sufism, the concluding section of this paper will explore the challenges Sufism presents to contemporary musicology in researching spirituality.

Sufis “have made music one of the strongest features of their own religious practices”, and, distinct from other mystical traditions that incorporate music, for the Sufi, music tends towards the “inward path of the concentrated listener” for the Sufi (see Godwin 1987, pp. 66–67). Perhaps the most renowned reference to music familiar to every Sufi (within the Mevlevi order) comes from the prologue of Rumi’s Masnavi, where he speaks of the reed flute. Here, the reed flute (ney) stands as a metaphor for the mystic’s (or Sufi’s) quest for God. Beyond its metaphorical resonance, the reed flute holds a central place in Sufi practice:

The reed had a special significance for Rumi since it served a dual purpose: it furnished the reed-flute (the ney) that played the music to which he danced and the reed-pen with which his poetry was written. In both instances, the function of the musician and the poet can itself be likened to that of the reed, for they too are instruments of the self-expression for a spiritual unity. At one point, Rumi says: ‘I am the flute, the music is Thine’, but then he quickly corrects himself, saying ‘No, no. Thou art the flute and the music’: he reminds us that within the Divine Unity there is no separation between the musician, the flute, the music, and the breath that gives them life and makes them what they are. Similarly, the poet dictating the Mathnawi sees himself as both pen and poem, before reminding us that these two are not separate from the source of their inspiration.

(Baldock 2016, p. 184)

As evidenced in the lines above, the music emanating from the flute is perceived as more than mere notes. To Rumi, words are at best “shadows” of reality (see Rumi 1999, p. 7). Language can produce neither understanding nor experience in the mystic: “In talking there is only enough to produce a hint of stimulation” (Rumi 1999, p. 59, my emphasis).5 The breath that transforms into music from the flute is perceived by Sufis in a manner distinct from the breath that forms words. For Sufis, words are, in common usage, tethered to reason and rational thought. Sufis categorically reject rationality (and the mode of communication through language associated with it) as a legitimate avenue on the spiritual journey. Consequently, if a Sufi desires to express their inner state, alternative means must be sought. Given that music perception is intrinsically more subjective, it proves a more effective medium than words for evoking mystical experiences. Regarding the Sufi practice of samā’, which provides precisely such an effective medium for evoking mystical experiences, the scholar Kenneth S. Avery writes, “The ability to understand directly, intimately and experientially (the term for this being dhauq, literally ‘taste’) is valued more highly in religious understanding than the more familiar ‘rational’ approach to knowledge” (Avery 2004, p. 154).

In Sufism, poetry is favoured over treatises due to its innate musicality, thanks to rhyming and its potential for repetition. This allows words to be perceived as sounds, disassociated from their exoteric or commonly understood meanings.6 Moreover, the usage of literary devices in poetry (such as puns, assonance, alliteration, and double meanings) loosens the bonds between phrases and concrete meanings, allowing for loose associations to be formed. For Sufis, “[t]he significance of linguistic expression cannot be restricted to a single level of meaning” (Avery 2004, p. 57). In this regard, Avery mentions how “inducing a dissociative reaction” often takes place “through ‘misunderstanding’ a spoken phrase because of its multivalent or homophonic characteristics” (Avery 2004, p. 57). Furthermore, in Sufi samā’ ceremonies—which incorporate music, dancing, and poetry—the whirler continually repeats God’s name (Ridgeon 2008, pp. 143–44). The significance of this repetition is underscored when we consider that the continuous repetition of a word imbues it with a musical quality. As a result, the word transcends its role in rational discourse and is appreciated purely as sound. Sound, with its musical qualities, is far more fluid than the fixed denotations of words. While the latter facilitates exoteric communication, the former is apt for esoteric understanding and mystical experiences. This experiential aspect of mysticism, evoked by repetition, enables what Avery refers to as to as “dissociative” or “altered state reactions” throughout his book A Psychology of Early Sufi samā’: Listening and Altered States. Discussing an unnamed practitioner who “heard a verse whose melody and words excited him”, Avery writes, “A typical dissociative reaction ensued and the man began repeating the verse […]. Finally, the man was overcome by joy, and fainted.” (Avery 2004, p. 99). He explains,

Though the arousal is not specified, it is stated to have been the effect of the music (or melody) and the words, i.e., resulting from both the sonic and the semantic impact of the verse recital. The arousal produced or accompanied the dissociative reaction which included the compulsive repetition of the verse, and eventual fainting with joy.

(Avery 2004, p. 99)

As can be seen, whether it is God’s name that is repeated or poetry, it is often the musical quality of the sound, as experienced through repetition, that induces altered states in the Sufi.

Before concluding this section, there is one final aspect to discuss: the relationship between ethics and spirituality, exemplified by the ney. Recently, there has been a noticeable surge in the ney’s popularity. Social anthropologist Banu Şenay attributes this newfound interest to a broader resurgence in Sufism (see Senay 2014, pp. 405–7). Highlighting the ney’s “symbolism and spiritual associations”, she writes, “Many ney students I met during my research praised the ney’s spiritualised meanings as stimulating in them a curiosity to learn it in the first place” (Senay 2014, p. 410). This spiritual dimension is paramount in striking a balance between ethics and theory. One salient point about the ney is the emphasis on ethics during the teaching of the instrument. As an integral part of its verbal structure, spoken word aims to place both “musical artistry and technical competency to be situated within a realm of ethical conduct” (see Senay 2015, p. 526). This emphasis aligns naturally with Sufism. In Sufi practices, the primary focus is on “adab”. There is no direct English equivalent for “adab”, but it can be thought of as “proper conduct” or “courtesy” (for further discussion on adab, see Lewisohn 1999, pp. 33–34). Such conduct forms the foundation of Sufi spirituality. Interestingly, the same term is also used to signify “culture” and “education”—in Persian, for instance, the academic study of literature is termed “adabiyát”. In stark contrast, Western musical culture places no emphasis on ethics in relation to musical instruments. For instance, even with the organ—an instrument deeply tied to the church and spirituality—when taught in conservatories, there appears, to my knowledge, no clear focus on spiritual ethical conduct.

This absence of an intertwined sense of ethics and spirituality was not always the norm in the West. Although the West may not have an exact counterpart to the concept of “adab”, this concept can be comprehended as an ethical-religious practice within the Sufi tradition. If we perceive adab as such a practice, rather than practices specific to the cultures of Persia and Turkey, we begin to identify parallels in the West during periods when music held greater spiritual significance. For instance, the Ancient Greeks differentiated music into two categories: the higher music (“the divine music of the spheres”) and

that human ‘music’ exemplified by the great tradition of Orpheus, Amphion, Homer, Hesiod, Lycurgus, Themistocles, Pindar, Tyrtaeus, Telesilla, Alcaeus and Anacreon, but now lost, which trains the human soul to virtue. This latter seems not merely continuous with but identical to ethical philosophy.

(Maximus of Tyre 1997, p. 293n13, note by M. B. Trapp)

For someone like Maximus, as well as Plato and other Ancient Greeks, this distinction between the divine and the earthly is tangible; consequently, Maximus does not believe that the earthly human type of music, as imperfect as it may seem compared to the divine music of the spheres, is devoid of connection to the soul. Rather, human music possesses an ethical dimension and can cultivate the soul, since it is not estranged from it. This suggests that earthly music is not entirely bereft of a spiritual dimension; it merely requires discernment to perceive it. This assertion is grounded in two main reasons: (a) Human music, being a reflection of divine music, inevitably retains an element of the divine’ (b) It has the capacity to instruct the soul. Given the latter, it is not only feasible to discuss music in ethical terms, but we should also actively recognise its ethical potential. Here is Maximus discussing the ethical potency of music, presenting a rhetorical question:

As for the human form of music that revolves about the soul, what else can it be but a means of training the soul’s emotions, soothing its violent and impulsive element, and conversely rousing and inciting what is too relaxed and feeble in it?

(Maximus of Tyre 1997, sec. 37.5)

In this context, one might also refer to Plato’s renowned examination of music in The Republic. In this Platonic dialogue, it is asserted that “musical training should be taken up before physical training” (Plato 2004, sec. 377a, my emphasis). Had the Greeks not perceived music as intimately connected to the soul, Plato would not have engaged in discussions on whether music should precede, coincide with, or follow physical training. Yet, given such a profound connection to the soul, the underlying notion is that music can influence the soul, thus spiritually preparing an individual for physical training. In essence, due to its spiritual dimension, music holds the potential to “tune”—pun intended—an individual for physical conditioning. Rather than fixating on the seemingly peculiar logic behind Plato’s exclusion or endorsement of certain musical styles, particularly when he mentions “soft harmonies” and the like, our focus ought to be on the fundamental relationship between music and the soul, as this foundational belief paves the way for Plato’s subsequent arguments.

7. Discussion

In Between Romanticism and Modernism, Carl Dahlhaus points out that, despite the fact Wagner left an undeniable mark on his time, defining it is not exactly an easy task. This is because the mark manifested itself “less in a system of categories than in vague but powerful currents of feeling and in slogans which gave the currents an eruptive rather than a rationally comprehensible expression” (Dahlhaus 1989, p. 10). Despite such produced “powerful currents of feelings”, romanticism appears as an inconvenient anomaly in the history of music. It feels to me that we set aside this Wagnerian (or more aptly, Schopenhauerian) approach quite some time ago. Yet, regardless of contemporary musicologists’ sentiments about transitioning away from romanticism, it is evident that, in doing so, we did not forge a novel direction; instead, we have found ourselves returning to a period where everything non-rational is either sidelined or explained in terms of reason. Even with the rising popularity of qualitative research, phenomenology, and related methods, reason retains its primacy. This dominance persists because all research in musicology (and associated fields) must adhere to academic guidelines which, being profoundly secular, ensure outcomes that do not encourage spiritual experiences, let alone induce such experiences in the reader. When reading an academic research paper, regardless of its qualitative nature and methodology, one is not expected to be engrossed by, to borrow Dahlhaus’ phrase, a “vague but powerful current of feeling” emanating from an “eruptive rather than a rationally comprehensible expression”. Yet, it is worth noting the inherent challenge: such is precisely the essence of musically induced spiritual experience. When undertaking research on such a subject, in an ideal scenario, there ought to be an acceptable process for conveying those findings. Considering such findings are not strictly rational and theoretical, I remain sceptical about the depth and breadth of current research into spirituality.

As of the day of writing this paper, if one searches for musicology conferences it becomes immediately clear that the vast majority, broadly speaking, fall into five categories: those related to science (e.g., cognitive science, psychology, biology), ethnomusicology, popular music, historiography, and music theory. What is conspicuously absent are conferences dedicated to the subjective experience of music in a practical form (not merely in theory), as it is this facet that encapsulates the ineffable spiritual experiences found in music. Based on my own limited experience, I have never encountered a conference with the objective of inducing a spiritually felt experience in its attendees—such an idea would probably even be deemed preposterous. One might assume that psychological studies and conferences offer a sufficient platform for discussing the role of subjective experience in spirituality; however, it should be noted that, at present, all fields of study adhere to a rigorously scientific methodology wherein subjective experience is bracketed and sidelined. Here is a sobering portrayal of the current state of psychology:

[N]ot all psychiatric and psychological research should become neurobiological because that is now easy to publish [such research] internationally. Research into subtle psychological processes that are very unique and very complex and never statistically provable is seriously lagging behind. That worries me. It is research where measurement becomes difficult and where results are not so easy or unambiguous to read. [...] Psychology faculties are tending more and more towards neurobiological research, because that is scientifically credible. And university budgets are so limited that we do have to call on external funds, for example from the pharmaceutical industry, which is very rich and therefore partly in control. That will further skew the process I describe above. There’s money for neurobiological research, but not for a publication or study about, let’s say, the place of spirituality in therapeutic work.

(de Wachter 2019, pp. 47–48)

When a field like psychology struggles in today’s academic climate to secure sufficient funding to explore the subjectivity inherent in spirituality, how can we expect that integrating musicology with psychology would be any more fruitful in examining spirituality? Consequently, one would be hard-pressed to locate reputable journals willing to publish studies that do not strip spirituality of its fundamental essence.

Ethnomusicology might be the second field that comes close in this context. However, here too, the ethnomusicologist is constrained by a scientific framework. To grasp the magnitude of the problem, consider the topic of Sufism, a part of my own culture, which this paper has only briefly touched upon. If a musicologist were fortunate enough to receive funding for researching spirituality in Sufi practice, they would be venturing into a seemingly insurmountable task. If the spiritual experience is the focal point of the study, how is the musicologist expected to conduct scientifically sound research on a spiritual movement that categorically refutes the notion of capturing spiritual experience in rational terms, let alone language? To phrase it humorously yet starkly: unless the researcher is prepared to publish their findings in poetic form, they cannot purport to have conveyed the spiritual experience of the Sufis.

To offer a straightforward illustration, the concept of unity is central to Sufi practice. For the Sufi, the apex of experience is the mystical realisation that the perception, the perceived, and the perceiver are all the same. In the realm of music practice, facilitating this experience of unity is the ultimate aim. For the Sufi, all verbal or theoretical articulation falls short of truly grasping the essence of Sufi practice, as it centres around a deeply personal and subjective experiential knowledge. Thus, the ethnomusicologist who embarks on a journey to explore the role of music in Sufism is undertaking the impossible task of delineating the indescribable. From the Sufi perspective, such an endeavour is misaligned with the essence of Sufism. This is not only because the attempt to encapsulate the ineffable is inherently futile but also because it lacks utility in advancing what truly matters in Sufi practice. For the Sufi, any spoken or written word that does not directly aim to nurture the progression of spiritual experience misses its mark entirely. Consequently, any scientifically (or academically) rooted study into the nature of spirituality in Sufi practice disqualifies itself, from the Sufi perspective, by its very nature.

Perhaps the Western musicologist might be sceptical of my assertions—and they are, indeed, entitled to their stance. However, I am merely drawing attention to Sufism as it represents a facet of my own culture. While the Western (ethno)musicologist has every right to their viewpoint and methodology, it would be prudent for them to at least understand the inherent essence of a mystical movement like Sufism from the perspective of the movement itself. Sufis, generally embracing and tolerant, would naturally be welcoming to any scholar exploring their traditions. Yet, such receptiveness should not be mistaken for the notion that a Sufi believes the academic will uncover anything fundamentally intrinsic to Sufism insofar as spiritual experience itself is concerned. This is because the crux of Sufism is rooted in personal experience, and by its very nature, is beyond formulation. A scholar, aiming to explore mysticism under the current musicological framework (which is informed by the scientific method), inevitably bypasses the quintessence of mysticism—that is, the spiritual experience itself which can be neither researched nor described.

Proposing a solution to the current situation exceeds the scope of this paper. My primary objective in this paper has been to shed light on the actual state of our field. While seeking a solution to our challenges may be profoundly difficult—perhaps even an insurmountable task considering the paradox I have outlined—choosing to overlook the reality of the situation is certainly not a sustainable approach in the long term.