Oh My God, Charlie Darwin

"Without music, life would be a mistake”: Nietzsche’s particular formula for a generally accepted truth—music occupies an important place in our lives. We are constantly exposed to it, whether the melodies are of our own choosing, or selected by others. We listen to it while shopping, riding elevators, driving our cars. We hum it to ourselves, we tap our feet to its beat. So the importance of music is plainly observable; the nature of that importance, however, remains a mystery. Why is it that we are so keen to fill our lives with melodies and rhythms? What part of us responds to music in such a way as to create some sort of dependence on it? These kinds of questions can seem a little daunting, as they beg for a whole host of different approaches, from the biological to the philosophical. There are a few evolutionary theories that form a good place to begin such a discussion. So I have a few hypotheses as to the emergence of music to offer you, gleaned from various readings over the years.

Many such hypotheses involve the idea that music evolved for a functional reason, that is, to suit a specific need within human evolution. What that need might be is of course the object of much debate. But one fairly widely accepted theory is the Darwin’s idea that musical ability is like a peacock’s tail, a distinctive feature of a good mate. This idea does offer an explanation for the groupie mentality, and the ruthlessness of fans clawing at each other for a guitar pick tossed into a crowd. Advocates of the Darwinian theory support their claim by pointing to the close ties between music and romantic interest; after all, most lyrics circle around love, lost or found, requited, unrequited, and any other qualifiers you can come up with. But if love is a recurring theme in lyrics across all genres, isn’t it simply because it’s a recurring theme in our lives? Just because music turns to love for inspiration, does not necessarily mean it evolved to enable it. So this first theory can seem a little shaky.

A second hypothesis is that music evolved as a means to bind groups of early humans together, to give them an advantage over those less musical, and therefore less cohesive. This theory offers a strong explanation for our attachment to national anthems, as well as for bonds existing between people with similar musical interests. The counterculture movement of the 1960’s, for example, was largely unified by folk music; so much so, that Bob Dylan’s movement from traditional acoustics to decidedly non-folksy electrics was perceived by some as a complete betrayal of their cause. So there’s definitely something to be said for this theory, which emphasizes the relational, social aspect of music; and can serve to remind us that music is more thoroughly enjoyed when shared.

While both these hypotheses can be compelling, there is something unsatisfactory about the idea that music surfaced simply to as a functional response to an evolutionary need, like a knee-jerk reflex. So this brings me to one last, nonfunctional theory: that music emerged as an accident, and was then taken up and transformed by our creative abilities. According to this theory, as I understand it, music came about as a consequence of auditory capabilities developed for language and communication, the spoken word leading to the song. Metaphorically speaking, if all these things were a house, then language proper would be the roof over your head, the walls put up to provide shelter from the elements—the functional reason for the house’s existence. But music and literature, the means of expression rather than strict communication, are what we fill the walls with; the accidental consequence of blank space created just to keep out wind and rain.

I like this last idea because it emphasizes the close ties between music and literature, as well as the role of human creativity in the emergence of both forms. It stipulates that we used what we accidentally inherited to invent something wonderful and elevating. But that’s all that can be said for any of these theories, really—that one is more liked than the others. What we are left with is what we can gather from the common ground between the conjectures: the simple (and satisfactory) truth that music is buried deeply within us and those who came before us, and that it is something that enriches and enlivens, soothes and inspires. So though the cause may remain a mystery, the effects are coming in loud and clear.

(And for those wondering about the post title—a great album by the Low Anthem. Give it a listen)

-Melany

The Seekers: Busking in Philadelphia

-- Courtesy Jeff Metzner/jeffmetzner.com

Planted in front of a rusted statue in Rittenhouse Park, Philip De Genova wipes a maple seed from his brow and then continues to play, coaxing soft whistles from a wooden flute. He cleans sweat from his disc-shaped glasses and then turns one of the wrinkled sheets on his music stand, singing as he goes so the rhythm never breaks. “La da di daaaaaa, bada da baaaaa…”

At 67-years-old, Phil is like the grandfather of Philadelphia’s “buskers”, a term for people who perform in the streets, or underground, or anywhere in public, really. Phil is delicate, seasoned, and reflective. He wears long silvery hair and a puffy mustache. You can find him busking around the city everyday, but only for the last couple years. He spent seven before that studying Philosophy and Theology in Rome, stifled in the Catholic order’s orchestra.

“They didn’t like it when I played what I wanted,” he says, pressing one eye against the end of his flute, examining it like a telescope. “They wanted me to play their stuff.” So Phil camped under the Ponte Sant’ Angelo bridge instead, near the Vatican. Because the bridge’s tubular shape mimics the flute’s, Phil relished performing there. “The sound was perfect,” he beams.

“I never used to put out the basket [in Rome],” he says nodding to an open flute case strewn with dollars. “And if people gave me money I’d give it to the homeless that used to hang around the river.” But when he came home in 2008, Phil started playing at the local concourse and put out a basket for donations. “As soon as someone put a dollar in there, I thought, ‘Wow, this is pretty cool.’” He laughs. “Now I don’t even think twice about it…it pays all my bills…I don’t even go to the bank anymore.”

Phil considers the money a gratuity, a way for people to tell him that they like what he’s doing, and he should keep doing it. But not everyone agrees, like the man who works on the third floor of the high-rise that faces his corner of the park. “He would call the police every day on me,” Phil says. Eventually, Phil suggested to the police that the man was abusing their system and they stopped accepting his complaints. But that wasn’t the end of it. “One day…he came down…and he started to berate me, so I just looked at him, “cuz I don’t get involved in people’s negativity, y’know…” he says, sweeping away the air with the back of his hand. He lifts the flute to his mouth, twittering lightly.

Sometimes when Phil’s down at the local concourse, he gets pestered by kooks and the homeless. “I don’t get a thick skin, “ he says, shaking his head. “But I do learn to let it bounce off. That works better than having a thick skin…that interferes with the music.” Whenever Phil gets into a topic he doesn’t like, he’ll break eye contact, drift off for a moment, and retreat into his flute. Phil will admit to certain gripes — he hates being muffled by the leaf-blowers in the park and he stiffens when he talks about his time with “the Catholics” in Rome. He’ll quickly try to dismiss it all, to keep the air clean for his music, but some things always reappear. When Phil explains that any familiar “Catholic” tunes you hear are borrowed from the Protestants, he adds, “But I have to be careful talking about certain things."

Today Phil is playing oriental melodies, his favorite. Their tone is pastoral and proud, but with sadness underneath. Phil’s in touch lately with a couple of Chinese artists as potential collaborators, particularly with a woman who plays the erhu, a two-string fiddle resembling a homemade vacuum cleaner. “A warm natural sound,” he says. “Perfect for the flute.” Phil’s not sure what will become of it all, but either way he’s not looking to make waves in the music world this late in the game. He just enjoys sharing his gift now, unencumbered — he hasn’t taken orders since his late-50’s army stint. Phil’s content living a monastic life, quiet and solitary, the way he was trained. “…We’re all loners,” he says of the busking community. “Almost all of us.”