Academic literature on the topic 'Theatre grec moderne'

Ever since antiquities, theatre has been a medium of provoking sentimental reaction and an entertainment of the populace especially the elite. Authors of this genre do present active noble characters in their works making as if it is real. We do learn in Greco-Roman Empire how amphitheatre hosted Caesars, their officials and empiric subjects watching the gladiators and the persecuted Christians in the medieval era. Fifty years of cinema and the television as well as the new media have changed the mind-set of the global community towards life in general to form a unique interconnected universal cultural chains. In this research, we would like to use political activism theories called pluralist theories of Norris Pippa as critical lens to analyse the trend of political activism in the modern theatre of the early 21st century in comparison to that of the 20th century which led to violent revolutionary movements.

The essence of the series of essays published by the journal is that with a maximum compactness of the presentation, it provides a summary of the main phenomena of world artistic culture, covered in its entirety both from the point of view of the general historical process, and in relation to the various arts (literature, the fi ne arts, architecture, music, theater and cinema). At the same time, the customary categorization according to national schools and the division into the separate respective arts with the genre specifi cation inherent in each of them are overcome, which answers the positive trends of globalization and provides a holistic view of artistic phenomena. The following artistic and historical periods are considered in stages: the Ancient world, the Greco-Roman world, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance era, the Baroque period, the Enlightenment, Romanticism, Post-romanticism, the fi rst, second and third Modern periods, Postmodernism, and, as an afterword, — “The Golden age of Russian artistic culture.”

The paper is focused on the adaptation of the image of Cerberus in Russian culture of the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Times. Fragmentary information about some characters of the Greco-Roman mythology penetrated into Russian medieval literature from the Byzantine. Christians often borrowed and reinterpreted those images in the traditions of Christian symbolism. One of these characters, Cerberus, the dog of Hades, became an infernal character: a guard or a demon of the Christian Hell. As a dog it turned into an Evil animal, executioner of sinners. Аs a three-headed creature it resembled dragons and other legendary monsters. Perhaps, the story about Hercules, who tamed Cerberus, became the basis of novel in the Sinai Patericon (story about Saint John Kolobos and graveyard hyena). At the beginning of the 18th century Russia experienced a secondary influence of Ancient symbolism through Western European emblematic collections and similar translated works. A lot of exotic images were rediscovered and aquired new meanings. Under the influence of the Jesuit theatre, the mouth of Cerberus became a variation of a well-known in Russia iconographic image of Hellmouth. In the plays by Dimitri of Rostov, the characters sent to the underworld found themselves in the mouth of a monstrous dog – inside an ingenious stage device. Toward the end of the 18th century Hell as a dog’s head appeared also in Russian popular prints, lubok.

Michele Stephen; Desire, divine and demonic; Balinese mysticism in the paintings of I Ketut Budiana and I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana (Andrea Acri) John Lynch (ed.); Issues in Austronesian historical phonology (Alexander Adelaar) Alfred W. McCoy; The politics of heroin; CIA complicity in the global drug trade (Greg Bankoff) Anthony Reid; An Indonesian frontier; Acehnese and other histories of Sumatra (Timothy P. Barnard) John G. Butcher; The closing of the frontier; A history of the maritime fisheries of Southeast Asia c. 1850-2000 (Peter Boomgaard) Francis Loh Kok Wah, Joakim Öjendal (eds); Southeast Asian responses to globalization; Restructuring governance and deepening democracy (Alexander Claver) I Wayan Arka; Balinese morpho-syntax: a lexical-functional approach (Adrian Clynes) Zaharani Ahmad; The phonology-morphology interface in Malay; An optimality theoretic account (Abigail C. Cohn) Michael C. Ewing; Grammar and inference in conversation; Identifying clause structure in spoken Javanese (Aone van Engelenhoven) Helen Creese; Women of the kakawin world; Marriage and sexuality in the Indic courts of Java and Bali (Amrit Gomperts) Ming Govaars; Dutch colonial education; The Chinese experience in Indonesia, 1900-1942 (Kees Groeneboer) Ernst van Veen, Leonard Blussé (eds); Rivalry and conflict; European traders and Asian trading networks in the 16th and 17th centuries (Hans Hägerdal) Holger Jebens; Pathways to heaven; Contesting mainline and fundamentalist Christianity in Papua New Guinea (Menno Hekker) Ota Atsushi; Changes of regime and social dynamics in West Java; Society, state and the outer world of Banten, 1750-1830 (Mason C. Hoadley) Richard McMillan; The British occupation of Indonesia 1945-1946; Britain, the Netherlands and the Indonesian Revolution (Russell Jones) H.Th. Bussemaker; Bersiap! Opstand in het paradijs; De Bersiapperiode op Java en Sumatra 1945-1946 (Russell Jones) Michael Heppell; Limbang anak Melaka and Enyan anak Usen, Iban art; Sexual selection and severed heads: weaving, sculpture, tattooing and other arts of the Iban of Borneo (Viktor T. King) John Roosa; Pretext for mass murder; The September 30th Movement and Suharto’s coup d’état in Indonesia (Gerry van Klinken) Vladimir Braginsky; The heritage of traditional Malay literature; A historical survey of genres, writings and literary views (Dick van der Meij) Joel Robbins, Holly Wardlow (eds); The making of global and local modernities in Melanesia; Humiliation, transformation and the nature of cultural change (Toon van Meijl) Kwee Hui Kian; The political economy of Java’s northeast coast c. 1740-1800; Elite synergy (Luc Nagtegaal) Charles A. Coppel (ed.); Violent conflicts in Indonesia; Analysis, representation, resolution (Gerben Nooteboom) Tom Therik; Wehali: the female land; Traditions of a Timorese ritual centre (Dianne van Oosterhout) Patricio N. Abinales, Donna J. Amoroso; State and society in the Philippines (Portia L. Reyes) Han ten Brummelhuis; King of the waters; Homan van der Heide and the origin of modern irrigation in Siam (Jeroen Rikkerink) Hotze Lont; Juggling money; Financial self-help organizations and social security in Yogyakarta (Dirk Steinwand) Henk Maier; We are playing relatives; A survey of Malay writing (Maya Sutedja-Liem) Hjorleifur Jonsson; Mien relations; Mountain people and state control in Thailand (Nicholas Tapp) Lee Hock Guan (ed.); Civil society in Southeast Asia (Bryan S. Turner) Jan Mrázek; Phenomenology of a puppet theatre; Contemplations on the art of Javanese wayang kulit (Sarah Weiss) Janet Steele; Wars within; The story of Tempo, an independent magazine in Soeharto’s Indonesia (Robert Wessing) REVIEW ESSAY Sean Turnell; Burma today Kyaw Yin Hlaing, Robert Taylor, Tin Maung Maung Than (eds); Myanmar; Beyond politics to societal imperatives Monique Skidmore (ed.); Burma at the turn of the 21st century Mya Than; Myanmar in ASEAN In: Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde no. 163 (2007) no: 1, Leiden

The purpose of the article is to study the Ukrainian choreographic culture in the field of theoretical developments with a focus on the work of Radu Poklitaru and his theatre. The research methodology is based on the application of general scientific methods, namely, systematic analysis, which allowed for an analytical review of the problems of contemporary choreography in Ukraine and the world and to study the contribution of Ukrainian choreographers to the process of formation and development of choreographic culture and art in Ukraine. The outline of time dimensions, substantiation of internal correlations and transformations in the development of contemporary choreography required the use of comparative historical and chronological methods. The method of structural-functional analysis helped to identify specific aspects of the functioning of contemporary dance in the cultural space. Comparative analysis was used to justify changes in the classical art of dance and to prioritise traditions or innovations. The cultural approach was used to analyse the process in question and to determine its role in the overall cultural and artistic process. The scientific novelty of the study lies in the hermeneutic interpretation and generalisation of the significant contribution of Ukrainian artists to the development of choreographic culture and art, in particular, contemporary dance, on the example of Radu Poklitaru’s work and the proof that Ukrainian choreographic culture and art correlate with global processes, being determined by cultural and social factors. Conclusions. On the basis of the scientific and theoretical analysis, it has been determined that Ukrainian choreographic culture is actively studied at the theoretical level by choreographers (O. Gres, Y. Kovalenko, A. Korol, M. Korostyliova, A. Pidlypska, O. Plakhotniuk, M. Pohrebniak, D. Sharykov, E. Yanina-Ledovska) and art historians (O. Afonina, I. Horbunova, I. Drach, O. Zavialova, H. Polianska, Yu. Stanishevskyi, O. Chepalov). The main areas of research of scholars are contemporary dance, postmodern aesthetics, which influences the development of choreographers' thoughts, appeal to the reinterpretation of the classics. This is evidenced by the creative work of Radu Poklitaru, a prominent representative of choreographic culture and art. His ballets are considered in the scientific discourse of modern dance, contemporary choreography in Ukraine and the world in terms of his contribution to this process and the development of choreographic art and culture. Key words: choreography, dance, ballet, theatre, performing arts, postmodernism, choreographic culture, Radu Poklitaru.

Ajzenstat, Janet, Paul Romney, Ian Gentles and William D. Gairdner, eds. Canada's Founding Debates. By Alan Cairns 847Lazar, Harvey, ed. Canada: The State of the Federation 1999/2000: Toward a New Mission Statement for Canadian Fiscal Federalism. By Hugh Mellon 848Mouchon, Jean. La politique sous l'influence des médias; Monière, Denis. Démocratie médiatique et représentation politique: analyse comparative de quatre journaux télévisés : Radio-Canada, France 2, RTBF (Belgique) et TSR (Suisse); et Gingras, Anne-Marie. Médias et démocratie. Le grand malentendu. Par Maud Vuillardot 850Livingstone, D. W., D. Hart and L. E. Davie. Public Attitudes towards Education in Ontario 1998: The Twelfth OISE/UT Survey; and O'Sullivan, Edmund. Transformative Learning: Educational Vision for the 21st Century. By Benjamin Levin 853Perrier, Yvan et Raymond Robert. Savoir Plus : outils et méthodes de travail intellectuel. Par Veronique Bell 855Salazar, Debra J. and Donald K. Alper, eds. Sustaining the Forests of the Pacific Coast: Forging Truces in the War in the Woods. By Jeremy Rayner 856DeLuca, Kevin Michael. Image Politics: The New Rhetoric of Environmental Activism. By Michael Howlett 857Beem, Christopher. The Necessity of Politics: Reclaiming American Public Life. By Loralea Michaelis 858Kennedy, Moorhead, R. Gordon Hoxie and Brenda Repland, eds. The Moral Authority of Government: Essays to Commemorate the Centennial of the National Institute of Social Sciences. By Joseph M. Knippenberg 860Atkinson, Hugh and Stuart Wilks-Heeg. Local Government from Thatcher to Blair: The Politics of Creative Autonomy. By G. W. Jones 862Geoghegan, Patrick M. The Irish Act of Union: A Study in High Politics, 1798-1801. By Gary Owens 863Sabetti, Filippo. The Search for Good Government: Understanding the Paradox of Italian Democracy. By Grant Amyot 864Stein, Eric. Thoughts from a Bridge: A Retrospective of Writings on New Europe and American Federalism. By Manuel Mertin 866Janos, Andrew C. East Central Europe in the Modern World: The Politics of the Borderlands from Pre- to Post-Communism. By Paul G. Lewis 869Higley, John and Gyorgy Lengyel, eds. Elites after State Socialism: Theories and Analysis. By Marta Dyczok 870Lomnitz, Larissa Adler and Ana Melnick. Chile's Political Culture and Parties: An Anthropological Explanation. By Ken Roberts 872Itzigsohn, José. Developing Poverty: The State, Labor Market Deregulation, and the Informal Economy in Costa Rica and the Dominican Republic. By Andrew Schrank 873Davenport, Rodney and Christopher Saunders. South Africa: A Modern History. By Hermann Giliomee 875Matthes, Melissa M. The Rape of Lucretia and the Founding of Republics. By Lori J. Marso 877Gorham, Eric B. The Theater of Politics: Hannah Arendt, Political Science, and Higher Education. By Herman van Gunsteren 878Dodd, Nigel. Social Theory and Modernity. By J. C. Myers 879Sciabarra, Chris Matthew. Total Freedom: Toward a Dialectical Libertarianism. By Paul Safier 881Sztompka, Piotr. Trust: A Sociological Theory. By Fiona M. Kay 882 Laugier, Sandra. Recommencer la philosphie. La philosophie américaine aujourd'hui. Par Dalie Giroux 884Bishop, John Douglas, ed. Ethics and Capitalism. By Raino Malnes 886Orend, Brian. War and International Justice: A Kantian Perspective. By Howard Williams 888Buchanan, Allen, Dan W. Brock, Norman Daniels and Daniel Wikler. From Chance to Choice: Genetics and Justice. By Travis D. Smith 889Young, Iris Marion. Inclusion and Democracy. By Jeff Spinner-Halev 891Shapiro, Ian and Stephen Macedo, eds. Designing Democratic Institutions. By John S. Dryzek 893O'Brien, Robert, Anne Marie Goetz, Jan Aart Scholte and Marc Williams. Global Governance: Multilateral Economic Institutions and Global Social Movements. By Stephen McBride 894Giddens, Anthony. Runaway World: How Globalization Is Reshaping Our Lives. By Trevor Salmon 896Haglund, David G., ed. Pondering NATO's Nuclear Options: Gambits for a Post-Westphalian World. By T.V. Paul 897Bertsch, Gary K. and William C. Potter, eds. Dangerous Weapons, Desperate States: Russia, Belarus, Kazakstan, and Ukraine. By Benjamin E. Goldsmith 898Shlaim, Avi. The Iron Wall: Israel and the Arab World. By Salim Mansur 900Aldecoa, Francisco and Michael Keating, eds. Paradiplomacy in Action: The Foreign Relations of Subnational Governments. By Hans J. Michelmann 901Davis, James W. Threats and Promises: The Pursuit of International Influence. By David Rousseau 903Lavoy, Peter R., Scott D. Sagan and James J. Wirtz, eds. Planning the Unthinkable: How New Powers Will Use Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Weapons. By Greg Dinsmore 905

Introduction This paper offers a survey of familiar popular music performers and songwriters who reference coffee in their work. It examines three areas of discourse: the psychoactive effects of caffeine, coffee and courtship rituals, and the politics of coffee consumption. I claim that coffee carries a cultural and musicological significance comparable to that of the chemical stimulants and consumer goods more readily associated with popular music. Songs about coffee may not be as potent as those featuring drugs and alcohol (Primack; Schapiro), or as common as those referencing commodities like clothes and cars (Englis; McCracken), but they do feature across a wide range of genres, some of which enjoy archetypal associations with this beverage. m.o.m.m.y. Needs c.o.f.f.e.e.: The Psychoactive Effect of Coffee The act of performing and listening to popular music involves psychological elements comparable to the overwhelming sensory experience of drug taking: altered perceptions, repetitive grooves, improvisation, self-expression, and psychological empathy—such as that between musician and audience (Curry). Most popular music genres are, as a result, culturally and sociologically identified with the consumption of at least one mind-altering substance (Lyttle; Primack; Schapiro). While the analysis of lyrics referring to this theme has hitherto focused on illegal drugs and alcoholic beverages (Cooper), coffee and its psychoactive ingredient caffeine have been almost entirely overlooked (Summer). The most recent study of drugs in popular music, for example, defined substance use as “tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, cocaine and other stimulants, heroin and other opiates, hallucinogens, inhalants, prescription drugs, over-the-counter drugs, and nonspecific substances” (Primack 172), thereby ignoring a chemical stimulant consumed by 90 per cent of adult Americans every day (Lovett). The wide availability of coffee and the comparatively mild effect of caffeine means that its consumption rarely causes harm. One researcher has described it as a ubiquitous and unobtrusive “generalised public activity […] ‘invisible’ to analysts seeking distinctive social events” (Cooper 92). Coffee may provide only a relatively mild “buzz”—but it is now accepted that caffeine is an addictive substance (Juliano) and, due to its universal legality, coffee is also the world’s most extensively traded and enthusiastically consumed psychoactive consumer product (Juliano 1). The musical genre of jazz has a longstanding relationship with marijuana and narcotics (Curry; Singer; Tolson; Winick). Unsurprisingly, given its Round Midnight connotations, jazz standards also celebrate the restorative impact of coffee. Exemplary compositions include Burke/Webster’s insomniac torch song Black Coffee, which provided hits for Sarah Vaughan (1949), Ella Fitzgerald (1953), and Peggy Lee (1960); and Frank Sinatra’s recordings of Hilliard/Dick’s The Coffee Song (1946, 1960), which satirised the coffee surplus in Brazil at a time when this nation enjoyed a near monopoly on production. Sinatra joked that this ubiquitous drink was that country’s only means of liquid refreshment, in a refrain that has since become a headline writer’s phrasal template: “There’s an Awful Lot of Coffee in Vietnam,” “An Awful Lot of Coffee in the Bin,” and “There’s an Awful Lot of Taxes in Brazil.” Ethnographer Aaron Fox has shown how country music gives expression to the lived social experience of blue-collar and agrarian workers (Real 29). Coffee’s role in energising working class America (Cooper) is featured in such recordings as Dolly Parton’s Nine To Five (1980), which describes her morning routine using a memorable “kitchen/cup of ambition” rhyme, and Don't Forget the Coffee Billy Joe (1973) by Tom T. Hall which laments the hardship of unemployment, hunger, cold, and lack of healthcare. Country music’s “tired truck driver” is the most enduring blue-collar trope celebrating coffee’s analeptic powers. Versions include Truck Drivin' Man by Buck Owens (1964), host of the country TV show Hee Haw and pioneer of the Bakersfield sound, and Driving My Life Away from pop-country crossover star Eddie Rabbitt (1980). Both feature characteristically gendered stereotypes of male truck drivers pushing on through the night with the help of a truck stop waitress who has fuelled them with caffeine. Johnny Cash’s A Cup of Coffee (1966), recorded at the nadir of his addiction to pills and alcohol, has an incoherent improvised lyric on this subject; while Jerry Reed even prescribed amphetamines to keep drivers awake in Caffein [sic], Nicotine, Benzedrine (And Wish Me Luck) (1980). Doye O’Dell’s Diesel Smoke, Dangerous Curves (1952) is the archetypal “truck drivin’ country” song and the most exciting track of its type. It subsequently became a hit for the doyen of the subgenre, Red Simpson (1966). An exhausted driver, having spent the night with a woman whose name he cannot now recall, is fighting fatigue and wrestling his hot-rod low-loader around hairpin mountain curves in an attempt to rendezvous with a pretty truck stop waitress. The song’s palpable energy comes from its frenetic guitar picking and the danger implicit in trailing a heavy load downhill while falling asleep at the wheel. Tommy Faile’s Phantom 309, a hit for Red Sovine (1967) that was later covered by Tom Waits (Big Joe and the Phantom 309, 1975), elevates the “tired truck driver” narrative to gothic literary form. Reflecting country music’s moral code of citizenship and its culture of performative storytelling (Fox, Real 23), it tells of a drenched and exhausted young hitchhiker picked up by Big Joe—the driver of a handsome eighteen-wheeler. On arriving at a truck stop, Joe drops the traveller off, giving him money for a restorative coffee. The diner falls silent as the hitchhiker orders up his “cup of mud”. Big Joe, it transpires, is a phantom trucker. After running off the road to avoid a school bus, his distinctive ghost rig now only reappears to rescue stranded travellers. Punk rock, a genre closely associated with recreational amphetamines (McNeil 76, 87), also features a number of caffeine-as-stimulant songs. Californian punk band, Descendents, identified caffeine as their drug of choice in two 1996 releases, Coffee Mug and Kids on Coffee. These songs describe chugging the drink with much the same relish and energy that others might pull at the neck of a beer bottle, and vividly compare the effects of the drug to the intense rush of speed. The host of “New Music News” (a segment of MTV’s 120 Minutes) references this correlation in 1986 while introducing the band’s video—in which they literally bounce off the walls: “You know, while everybody is cracking down on crack, what about that most respectable of toxic substances or stimulants, the good old cup of coffee? That is the preferred high, actually, of California’s own Descendents—it is also the subject of their brand new video” (“New Music News”). Descendents’s Sessions EP (1997) featured an overflowing cup of coffee on the sleeve, while punk’s caffeine-as-amphetamine trope is also promulgated by Hellbender (Caffeinated 1996), Lagwagon (Mr. Coffee 1997), and Regatta 69 (Addicted to Coffee 2005). Coffee in the Morning and Kisses in the Night: Coffee and Courtship Coffee as romantic metaphor in song corroborates the findings of early researchers who examined courtship rituals in popular music. Donald Horton’s 1957 study found that hit songs codified the socially constructed self-image and limited life expectations of young people during the 1950s by depicting conservative, idealised, and traditional relationship scenarios. He summarised these as initial courtship, honeymoon period, uncertainty, and parting (570-4). Eleven years after this landmark analysis, James Carey replicated Horton’s method. His results revealed that pop lyrics had become more realistic and less bound by convention during the 1960s. They incorporated a wider variety of discourse including the temporariness of romantic commitment, the importance of individual autonomy in relationships, more liberal attitudes, and increasingly unconventional courtship behaviours (725). Socially conservative coffee songs include Coffee in the Morning and Kisses in the Night by The Boswell Sisters (1933) in which the protagonist swears fidelity to her partner on condition that this desire is expressed strictly in the appropriate social context of marriage. It encapsulates the restrictions Horton identified on courtship discourse in popular song prior to the arrival of rock and roll. The Henderson/DeSylva/Brown composition You're the Cream in My Coffee, recorded by Annette Hanshaw (1928) and by Nat King Cole (1946), also celebrates the social ideal of monogamous devotion. The persistence of such idealised traditional themes continued into the 1960s. American pop singer Don Cherry had a hit with Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye (1962) that used coffee as a metaphor for undying and everlasting love. Otis Redding’s version of Butler/Thomas/Walker’s Cigarettes and Coffee (1966)—arguably soul music’s exemplary romantic coffee song—carries a similar message as a couple proclaim their devotion in a late night conversation over coffee. Like much of the Stax catalogue, Cigarettes and Coffee, has a distinctly “down home” feel and timbre. The lovers are simply content with each other; they don’t need “cream” or “sugar.” Horton found 1950s blues and R&B lyrics much more sexually explicit than pop songs (567). Dawson (1994) subsequently characterised black popular music as a distinct public sphere, and Squires (2002) argued that it displayed elements of what she defined as “enclave” and “counterpublic” traits. Lawson (2010) has argued that marginalised and/or subversive blues artists offered a form of countercultural resistance against prevailing social norms. Indeed, several blues and R&B coffee songs disregard established courtship ideals and associate the product with non-normative and even transgressive relationship circumstances—including infidelity, divorce, and domestic violence. Lightnin’ Hopkins’s Coffee Blues (1950) references child neglect and spousal abuse, while the narrative of Muddy Waters’s scorching Iodine in my Coffee (1952) tells of an attempted poisoning by his Waters’s partner. In 40 Cups of Coffee (1953) Ella Mae Morse is waiting for her husband to return home, fuelling her anger and anxiety with caffeine. This song does eventually comply with traditional courtship ideals: when her lover eventually returns home at five in the morning, he is greeted with a relieved kiss. In Keep That Coffee Hot (1955), Scatman Crothers supplies a counterpoint to Morse’s late-night-abandonment narrative, asking his partner to keep his favourite drink warm during his adulterous absence. Brook Benton’s Another Cup of Coffee (1964) expresses acute feelings of regret and loneliness after a failed relationship. More obliquely, in Coffee Blues (1966) Mississippi John Hurt sings affectionately about his favourite brand, a “lovin’ spoonful” of Maxwell House. In this, he bequeathed the moniker of folk-rock band The Lovin’ Spoonful, whose hits included Do You Believe in Magic (1965) and Summer in the City (1966). However, an alternative reading of Hurt’s lyric suggests that this particular phrase is a metaphorical device proclaiming the author’s sexual potency. Hurt’s “lovin’ spoonful” may actually be a portion of his seminal emission. In the 1950s, Horton identified country as particularly “doleful” (570), and coffee provides a common metaphor for failed romance in a genre dominated by “metanarratives of loss and desire” (Fox, Jukebox 54). Claude Gray’s I'll Have Another Cup of Coffee (Then I’ll Go) (1961) tells of a protagonist delivering child support payments according to his divorce lawyer’s instructions. The couple share late night coffee as their children sleep through the conversation. This song was subsequently recorded by seventeen-year-old Bob Marley (One Cup of Coffee, 1962) under the pseudonym Bobby Martell, a decade prior to his breakthrough as an international reggae star. Marley’s youngest son Damian has also performed the track while, interestingly in the context of this discussion, his older sibling Rohan co-founded Marley Coffee, an organic farm in the Jamaican Blue Mountains. Following Carey’s demonstration of mainstream pop’s increasingly realistic depiction of courtship behaviours during the 1960s, songwriters continued to draw on coffee as a metaphor for failed romance. In Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain (1972), she dreams of clouds in her coffee while contemplating an ostentatious ex-lover. Squeeze’s Black Coffee In Bed (1982) uses a coffee stain metaphor to describe the end of what appears to be yet another dead-end relationship for the protagonist. Sarah Harmer’s Coffee Stain (1998) expands on this device by reworking the familiar “lipstick on your collar” trope, while Sexsmith & Kerr’s duet Raindrops in my Coffee (2005) superimposes teardrops in coffee and raindrops on the pavement with compelling effect. Kate Bush’s Coffee Homeground (1978) provides the most extreme narrative of relationship breakdown: the true story of Cora Henrietta Crippin’s poisoning. Researchers who replicated Horton’s and Carey’s methodology in the late 1970s (Bridges; Denisoff) were surprised to find their results dominated by traditional courtship ideals. The new liberal values unearthed by Carey in the late 1960s simply failed to materialise in subsequent decades. In this context, it is interesting to observe how romantic coffee songs in contemporary soul and jazz continue to disavow the post-1960s trend towards realistic social narratives, adopting instead a conspicuously consumerist outlook accompanied by smooth musical timbres. This phenomenon possibly betrays the influence of contemporary coffee advertising. From the 1980s, television commercials have sought to establish coffee as a desirable high end product, enjoyed by bohemian lovers in a conspicuously up-market environment (Werder). All Saints’s Black Coffee (2000) and Lebrado’s Coffee (2006) identify strongly with the culture industry’s image of coffee as a luxurious beverage whose consumption signifies prominent social status. All Saints’s promotional video is set in a opulent location (although its visuals emphasise the lyric’s romantic disharmony), while Natalie Cole’s Coffee Time (2008) might have been itself written as a commercial. Busting Up a Starbucks: The Politics of Coffee Politics and coffee meet most palpably at the coffee shop. This conjunction has a well-documented history beginning with the establishment of coffee houses in Europe and the birth of the public sphere (Habermas; Love; Pincus). The first popular songs to reference coffee shops include Jaybird Coleman’s Coffee Grinder Blues (1930), which boasts of skills that precede the contemporary notion of a barista by four decades; and Let's Have Another Cup of Coffee (1932) from Irving Berlin’s depression-era musical Face The Music, where the protagonists decide to stay in a restaurant drinking coffee and eating pie until the economy improves. Coffee in a Cardboard Cup (1971) from the Broadway musical 70 Girls 70 is an unambiguous condemnation of consumerism, however, it was written, recorded and produced a generation before Starbucks’ aggressive expansion and rapid dominance of the coffee house market during the 1990s. The growth of this company caused significant criticism and protest against what seemed to be a ruthless homogenising force that sought to overwhelm local competition (Holt; Thomson). In response, Starbucks has sought to be defined as a more responsive and interactive brand that encourages “glocalisation” (de Larios; Thompson). Koller, however, has characterised glocalisation as the manipulative fabrication of an “imagined community”—whose heterogeneity is in fact maintained by the aesthetics and purchasing choices of consumers who make distinctive and conscious anti-brand statements (114). Neat Capitalism is a more useful concept here, one that intercedes between corporate ideology and postmodern cultural logic, where such notions as community relations and customer satisfaction are deliberately and perhaps somewhat cynically conflated with the goal of profit maximisation (Rojek). As the world’s largest chain of coffee houses with over 19,400 stores in March 2012 (Loxcel), Starbucks is an exemplar of this phenomenon. Their apparent commitment to environmental stewardship, community relations, and ethical sourcing is outlined in the company’s annual “Global Responsibility Report” (Vimac). It is also demonstrated in their engagement with charitable and environmental non-governmental organisations such as Fairtrade and Co-operative for Assistance and Relief Everywhere (CARE). By emphasising this, Starbucks are able to interpellate (that is, “call forth”, “summon”, or “hail” in Althusserian terms) those consumers who value environmental protection, social justice and ethical business practices (Rojek 117). Bob Dylan and Sheryl Crow provide interesting case studies of the persuasive cultural influence evoked by Neat Capitalism. Dylan’s 1962 song Talkin’ New York satirised his formative experiences as an impoverished performer in Greenwich Village’s coffee houses. In 1995, however, his decision to distribute the Bob Dylan: Live At The Gaslight 1962 CD exclusively via Starbucks generated significant media controversy. Prominent commentators expressed their disapproval (Wilson Harris) and HMV Canada withdrew Dylan’s product from their shelves (Lynskey). Despite this, the success of this and other projects resulted in the launch of Starbucks’s in-house record company, Hear Music, which released entirely new recordings from major artists such as Ray Charles, Paul McCartney, Joni Mitchell, Carly Simon and Elvis Costello—although the company has recently announced a restructuring of their involvement in this venture (O’Neil). Sheryl Crow disparaged her former life as a waitress in Coffee Shop (1995), a song recorded for her second album. “Yes, I was a waitress. I was a waitress not so long ago; then I won a Grammy” she affirmed in a YouTube clip of a live performance from the same year. More recently, however, Crow has become an avowed self-proclaimed “Starbucks groupie” (Tickle), releasing an Artist’s Choice (2003) compilation album exclusively via Hear Music and performing at the company’s 2010 Annual Shareholders’s Meeting. Songs voicing more unequivocal dissatisfaction with Starbucks’s particular variant of Neat Capitalism include Busting Up a Starbucks (Mike Doughty, 2005), and Starbucks Takes All My Money (KJ-52, 2008). The most successful of these is undoubtedly Ron Sexsmith’s Jazz at the Bookstore (2006). Sexsmith bemoans the irony of intense original blues artists such as Leadbelly being drowned out by the cacophony of coffee grinding machines while customers queue up to purchase expensive coffees whose names they can’t pronounce. In this, he juxtaposes the progressive patina of corporate culture against the circumstances of African-American labour conditions in the deep South, the shocking incongruity of which eventually cause the old bluesman to turn in his grave. Fredric Jameson may have good reason to lament the depthless a-historical pastiche of postmodern popular culture, but this is no “nostalgia film”: Sexsmith articulates an artfully framed set of subtle, sensitive, and carefully contextualised observations. Songs about coffee also intersect with politics via lyrics that play on the mid-brown colour of the beverage, by employing it as a metaphor for the sociological meta-narratives of acculturation and assimilation. First popularised in Israel Zangwill’s 1905 stage play, The Melting Pot, this term is more commonly associated with Americanisation rather than miscegenation in the United States—a nuanced distinction that British band Blue Mink failed to grasp with their memorable invocation of “coffee-coloured people” in Melting Pot (1969). Re-titled in the US as People Are Together (Mickey Murray, 1970) the song was considered too extreme for mainstream radio airplay (Thompson). Ike and Tina Turner’s Black Coffee (1972) provided a more accomplished articulation of coffee as a signifier of racial identity; first by associating it with the history of slavery and the post-Civil Rights discourse of African-American autonomy, then by celebrating its role as an energising force for African-American workers seeking economic self-determination. Anyone familiar with the re-casting of black popular music in an industry dominated by Caucasian interests and aesthetics (Cashmore; Garofalo) will be unsurprised to find British super-group Humble Pie’s (1973) version of this song more recognisable. Conclusion Coffee-flavoured popular songs celebrate the stimulant effects of caffeine, provide metaphors for courtship rituals, and offer critiques of Neat Capitalism. Harold Love and Guthrie Ramsey have each argued (from different perspectives) that the cultural micro-narratives of small social groups allow us to identify important “ethnographic truths” (Ramsey 22). Aesthetically satisfying and intellectually stimulating coffee songs are found where these micro-narratives intersect with the ethnographic truths of coffee culture. 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In the late 2010s, I owned and operated a bespoke drum-building company, and during that time, I was commissioned to build a frame drum by the partner of a musician who was also a magic practitioner. The commission was fitting despite my business not being related to magic or Paganism directly. I have been working with drum construction in all of my research projects during my academic career, a touring percussionist for decades, and the company focussed on making drums inspired by Lovecraftian narratives and Lovecraftian Futurist music. Due to the nature of Lovecraftian horror and science fiction being potentially supernatural-related, and given my performance experience and ethnomusicological background, I understood the details of the request and planned my construction in accordance with their interests. The decisions made regarding materials, style, and decorations with respect to the expected functionality, performance techniques, and desired aesthetics outlined a distinct relationship between the magical and musical qualities desired in the final product. These decisions were informed by the values upheld by the commissioner of the drum – values that parallel those of the performers, makers, and audience that make up the joint musical and magical community. The ways in which these decisions were informed, then, regulate the interactions not only with the music involved but also with the musical instruments and their construction. Perhaps this is less evident in a situation where an instrument is mass-manufactured, but taking as an example the set of decisions associated with this bespoke commission, informed by values based on a belief system and the practices associated with that belief system, a network of maker, player, and expectations of the instrument’s function can be highlighted. In turn, this raises interesting considerations about the relationship between building instruments and magic-related practices. Fig. 1: Commissioned drum that houses magical associations along with performative expectations. (Photo: Lisa Courtney) Most of the discussion herein pertains to building frame drums and my client’s interest in Wicca and Paganism, but neither magic, nor this discussion in general, need to be restricted to Wiccan, Occult, or Pagan practices exclusively. Magic in the broad context of how it can influence and inspire creative, ritual, or sonically functional practices can fall under the umbrella of Shamanism, Satanism, Spiritualism, Theosophy, Voodoo/Vodun, Taoism, Shintoism, Druidism, or any area of perceived magic (even fictional or self-constructed belief systems). Magic in the context of being a highly valued concept and concern makes magic (using any definition) relevant and a vehicle for better understanding the complex relationships between creative production and cultural, religious, and/or social values and belief systems. Drums and magic (using this broad definition) simply form an excellent, clear example of this dialectic network. Music and magic are inexorably linked together (Godwin; Connor, Sound and Musical). There are numerous accounts, both folkloric and academic, of how sonic qualities such as tempo, timbre, and pitch work in conjunction with hermetic powers, spiritual happenings, and theosophical practices through harmonic, melodic, and rhythmic means (Sharpe). Broad considerations of music and cosmology arise in Blavatsky’s esoteric instructions, functional use of music appears in the heterophonic improvisation supporting shamanic practices of Korean musok (Koudela and Yoo 94), and even the scientific explanations of Kepler link music to astronomy attempting to show the intertwined nature of music, spirituality, and the human soul. Lewis, in Witchcraft Today, cites multiple instances of music in relation to magic practice, from accompanying incantations to ritual dancing, to a long list of contemporary popular and folk music artists performing magic-related and -inspired material. The human body is sometimes used to produce this sonic enhancement or connections (Eason), but musical instruments are also used for a variety of reasons. Drums are often one of those instruments, incorporating the textures, pulses, or simply the sheer volume they can provide. Drumming is an essential part of engaging with Zangbeto, the vodun guardians of Benin (Okunola and Ojo 204); playing damaru (sometimes made from human skulls: Cupchik 34) is a highly valued musical element of Tibetan Chöd magic practices (Cupchik 34); Druidic land healing ceremonies rely on frame drums to open magic channels between the practitioner and the Earth (O’Driscoll); the original function of Czech vozembouchy was to ward off dark energies and provide protection during rituals (Connor, Constructing the Sounds 25); Korean Mudang use drums (and music/noise) to allow deities and spirits to speak through them at Gut ceremonies (Wróblewski); similarly, Tlingit Ixt (shamans) employ frame drums to both represent and conjure the ancestors about whom they are singing (Olsen 212). It probably cannot be said which came first – the intention to use percussion instruments for magical practices, then constructing them accordingly; or making percussion, then deciding these instruments are useful for magical purposes. However, recognising the influence that magic has on drum-making contemporaneously can be informative, unravelling how performance in magic-related contexts and the construction of percussive instruments designed to be used for such purposes, or those selected for their musical or magical properties, highlight a dialectic between drum-making and magic. Musical instruments are made, generally speaking, with a few common intentions in mind (Connor, Constructing Musical), then designed and built with specific performance expectations and functionalities informing the final construction (Connor, Constructing Musical). Frame drums follow this model; therefore, the commissioned drum mentioned above, where the magical element was considered a primary concern for the patron, can assist with outlining the design/maker-player-inspiration/beliefs/practice network that links them together. When starting the dialogue between maker and patron to realise the drum being commissioned, which wood should be used was the initial consideration. They wanted something “powerful” and “meaningful” but did not know what was available or would exactly match their practice interests, so I suggested some wood I had recently been given that thought might suit: a neighbour had a black walnut tree on their property which had been struck by lightning and was no longer considered safe and it was chopped down due to compromised structural integrity. Pieces of it were given to me. After describing this wood, even though all they knew about the properties of the tree was that it had been struck by lightning, the choice to use it was made instantly, citing simply the fact that it was special, had potentially absorbed the element of electricity into the element of wood, and hinting at the notion that “it was meant to be” as the reasons for incorporating the black walnut into the drum. Fig. 2: Black walnut wood from the tree struck by lightning. (Photo: author) Next was the number of sides for the drum. Most frame drums are circles or something similar, so that would count as either one-sided (not a moebius strip, but rather a simple circle) or infinite-sided (if taken as a number of infinitesimally small mini sides). As a maker, I also offered various other ‘barrel-style’ frames including 5-, 7-, 8-, 11-, and 13-sided models, each with their own Lovecraftian or related association (many of these are prime numbers, but in this case, that is irrelevant). The patron chose the 13-sided version of the barrel frame construction. The skin for the drum was not discussed, simply for the reason that options other than goat skin were more difficult to obtain and there was a time frame placed on the order, as the drum was a gift for the patron’s partner. Once the basic elements were set, we chatted about how the drum would be played, given that the performance style and playing technique would heavily inform some of the construction decisions. We also briefly mulled over the desired tone/timbral qualities, and finally the decorative aspects that would wrap up the construction decisions being made, allowing me to move forward and realise the project in accordance with the commission parameters. Each of these aspects held multiple considerations, akin to architectural design (Vitruvius; Pelletier), based on a triad of materials to be used, functionality expected, and aesthetics valued by the maker, player, and (in this case) the commissioner. The decisions made are consequential to the final design holistically and are therefore important, but of greater concern for this discussion is what informed these decisions and why. Effectively, only six decisions were made; each one was or would have been influenced by magic, affecting almost all aspects of the construction in some manner. With regards to the first decision on wood type, the black walnut was chosen, but not for its density which would have slightly increased the drum’s sustain, its availability (abundant), or discouraged for the fact that black walnut is heavy, and therefore, depending on the primary performance technique expected, the wood may have repercussions due to its sheer weight. Instead, the decision was made based on the one fact that it was struck by lightning. This gave the now-owners a sense of magical injection into the wood, and therefore drum itself. The feeling expressed was that there existed a (great) possibility that the wood, being a primary magical element that represents a connection to the Earth, stability, and the specific properties of the black walnut (Teague), was enhanced by the lightning. Various wand makers suggest that a wood type may have powers it possesses or resonates (Maclir) or links to the magical lore associated with the wood (Beggetta, Gross, and Miller; Theodore). Here, the wood was merged with or infused with another magical element, lightning, sometimes considered representative of power, energy, or brightness/purity (Teague). Whether or not these qualities were something that the patron was seeking or simply a bonus is irrelevant; the fact that the tree had been struck with lightning translated to a specific decision based on magic-related traits valued by the commissioner. The number of sides was actually suggested by me; however, to be clear, the final decision was confirmed by the patron. I offered the 13-sided barrel frame construction as a consideration based on the fact that I already offered these as part of my regular frame drum options, inspired by Lovecraftian horror narratives that include references to the number thirteen, the most recurring being “the thirteen gates of the Necronomicon” found in cosmic horror stories (Levenda; Tyson 13-21, 385-402). To be clear, although Lovecraft, Paganism, and magic are more than simply aligned (Price), Lovecraftian horror often implies magical practice diegetically, but the reader typically discovers the perceived magical elements to be something supranatural rather than supernatural, thus magic becomes explainable science, at least exegetically (Littmann). The number 13 still has relevance in the stories, where it shows up, which is why I often used the number 13 in my drum designs. However, it was another association of a 13-sided drum that aligned with the interests of the patron. In Pagan calendars, there are thirteen full moons per year—the final one serving as the mark of harvest and the new year celebrated during Samhain (Wittington). Acoustically speaking, 13 sides change the drum’s timbre (as compared to a circular frame), slightly reducing the midrange, and increasing some higher-end frequencies, but the acoustics of the instrument were of seemingly lower importance than the magical associations the 13 sides provided. For a Wiccan or Pagan, this choice of a number of sides was one of two that probably would not be ignored (the other being a 5-sided option). Playing techniques expected to be used are often a primary consideration for making instruments in my personal experience, both during my time as a frame drum maker and during my internship with a drum builder in Germany as part of my PhD research. The playing techniques expected during creative/expressive performance definitely informed the construction of the drum, but magical expectations, meaning how the drum was expected to be played during magic-related practices, were also a consideration for the expected playing technique. Factors like playing with hands only, using a beater or stick only, a combination of the two, use of finger rolls, beater position (i.e. upright like a bodhran tipper, sideways like a shaman drum, or above like a trap set or pow-wow drum), and position of the drum itself (i.e. upright holding it from underneath, resting it on the player’s knee, held between the player’s legs while seated, or being held by handle) were discussed. How the drum is going to be played for a performance partially depends on the expectation of the drum’s function musically—is the player going to stand on stage, sit in a recording studio, or participate in a ritual, for instance. In this case, there was an expectation of all three, but given the nature of the commission, that being a patron commissioning the drum as a gift for her partner as a romantic and magic-based token of affection with added functionality, the magic-related expectation became the principal influence on her decisions. In the end, the patron opted to incorporate all the possibilities for performance techniques, giving her partner the most flexibility. This decision provided her partner with the capability to participate in ritual activities easily as well as giving him ergonomically sound means to perform (creatively) with the drum in a recording or live setting. The tonal qualities of the drum were already partially decided, but one other important point was also discussed: one influenced by magic considerations. The leading edge of the drum (where the rim of the frame interacts with the skin stretched over the top of it) has several possible ways to be designed. For my drums, I offered two options that can be considered what equates to more or less the two timbral extremes: a flat leading edge similar to a typical shaman drum or bodhran, or a timpani-style leading edge that has a curved, quarter-circular rounded edge with a very small ledge underneath that. The flat edge makes the drum respond with an even set of frequencies when struck in the centre of the skin and often has a shorter sustain to the sound produced in comparison to a drum with a rounded or pointed edge (Crosby). The timpani-style edge gives an emphasis on lower frequencies, often complementing those with a highlight of high frequencies (giving the aural illusion of fewer midrange tones) and adds a fairly long sustain to the sound created (Crosby). For a creative performance-only commission, the decision would be almost entirely timbral, but for this patron, a consideration of ritual practices and magical context came into play: the lower tone expected to be provided by the timpani leading edge, combined with the longer sustain aligned with the patron’s sensibilities of how the human body may respond to those tonal qualities. Furthermore, the sheer volume was taken into account, as the loudness perceived when playing a lower-pitched drum with a greater sustain can assist with awakening spirits or deities as seen by a practitioner of Paganism (Gustafson), thereby making the timpani leading edge the appropriate choice for the commissioned drum. Visual aspects of drum construction are often almost purely aesthetic. This, however, does not exclude them from being an integral part of the drum’s construction, and in fact, they may be the initial factor to which a player or audience member reacts when first interacting with the drum. The commissioned drum already holds some aesthetic distinction, given its shape and the material choices made. Beyond that, some other visual aspects were notably influenced by the drum's expected magical association. The black walnut being used had a greyish tint to it in an unfinished state, but the suggestion I made was to finish the wood, oiling the frame instead of staining it, giving it a more or less natural finish, but much darker in hue. As far as I can tell, that was entirely a personal taste choice and not based on anything magic-related, but the other visual choices, both decorative, were definitively inspired by Pagan or Wiccan beliefs. The outside of the frame was requested to be wood burned with designs that included various sigils and markings meaningful to the patron and her partner. The sigils have a direct relationship to magic, and it was/is expected that when the drum is played, the decorations would “speak to the universe,” emanating their messages through any given ritual or performance (akin to Tibetan lungta or wind horse flags; Adalakanzhu 13). The specific meaning of the sigils is being redacted on purpose due to the private nature of their meaning; let it suffice to say that they are simultaneously magical and romantic in nature, binding the couple in various ways. Parallel to the wood burning on the side and bottom of the drum was a design made from henna on the front of the skin. The design also presented sigil and sigil-like elements alongside magic or fantastical artwork serving as a sort of cultural flag that the instrument was not only an instrument of sound creation but also one of magical practice (see figure 3). Figure 3: Decoration on the front of the commissioned drum's skin Fig. 4: Wood-burning decorations on the bottom edge of the commissioned drum This commissioned drum is not the only example of relationships between an instrument’s construction and the belief system upheld by the maker, player, and/or audience of the music made with it. Another drum I made recently was for a graduate student who obtained his master’s degree from my current university: as a congratulations gift, I built a drum for him. Upon his request, the drum was 11-sided, which aligned with some of the student’s Buddhist beliefs and practices, and also incorporated all expected playing techniques into the construction, with mainly shamanic and meditative performances in mind (see figure 5). Fig. 5: 11-sided drum built for a graduate student who is also a practicing Buddhist Another example is a 5-sided drum I created for a professional musician performing in a Neo-medievalist band with very strong Gothic and Pagan influences and aesthetics. The shape of the drum was selected for both its timbral qualities and the relation to Lovecraft and the occult, specifically a pentagram reference being made indirectly and directly (in the form of a Necronomicon symbol emblazoned on the goat-skin head; see figure 6). Fig. 6: 5-sided drum in progress (finished in 2017) Fig. 7: A commissioned 5-sided, Lovecraft and magic-inspired drum. (Note: this is not the drum mentioned above, but a different commission with similar traits) Another 13-sided drum that was also commissioned to be a prize for a contest that was Pagan and Lovecraft-related, was also decorated with a large Necronomicon symbol and other rune and rune-like sigil images (see figure 8). Fig. 8: Lovecraft-inspired drum for competition prize Even the 7-sided drum I offered had a belief system inspiration: my aunt who wanted to learn to play the bodhran, and wanted a style that showed off her religious faith, commissioned a 7-sided drum as a Christian-based frame that was just as representative of beliefs as the magical or Lovecraftian-inspired frames. In all cases of barrel-style drum frames, especially those with an odd number of sides, the timbre is affected by the overall shape and ways in which the membrane vibrates, creating a series of interference patterns that often highlight some of the upper frequencies and dampen some of the midrange frequencies simultaneously (an enhancement of the bass comes from the leading edge of the drum, as mentioned above). The point to note here is that the number of sides does slightly have acoustic considerations, but more than the sound, the number of sides has strong semiotic and visual aesthetics (plus some ergonomic factors) that inject social and (sub)cultural values into the drums via their design, which is what makes the number of sides important. Fig. 9: 7-sided drum for a Christian patron Something to which I have already alluded is the notion that values upheld by the performers, makers, and audience of a community are entangled with both the music involved and the musical instruments played and their construction. Concepts of circles can represent reincarnation, protection, cycles of celestial bodies, or notions of regeneration, and translate to frame shape or ensemble performance configurations. Drum shapes as well as skin types can influence sonic qualities that in turn evoke magical properties or specific deities/demons. Beliefs can fuel trance-inducing rhythmic patterns played until an ecstatic state is achieved by the practitioner, which practically requires consideration for performance techniques employed, and therefore instrument design. Widening the lens that focusses on the relation between drum-building and magic practices, an undertaking of any creative or design endeavour comes to light in which a level of agency decides expected functionality, materials, and aesthetics. Examining how the makers, operators, and community members involved develop the network between themselves and what they produce can highlight the perception, value, and ways in which they incorporate the world around them physically and philosophically. Acknowledgment Unless otherwise noted, all photographs by the author. References Adalakanzhu, Ella. “The Wind Horse Flag.” Skipping Stones 14.1, (2002): 13. Beggetta, Albert, Barry Gross, and James Miller. Compendium of Wooden Wand Making Techniques. Fox Chapel, 2021. 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À partir des mises en scène de L’Orestie d’Eschyle, d’Œdipe roi de Sophocle et des Bacchantes d’Euripide diffusées dans les institutions nationales en Allemagne, en France et au Royaume-Uni entre 1973 et 2010, la thèse procède à une archéologie du commun, en explorant, d’une part, le concept de commun, et en particulier ses enjeux politiques, à travers une analyse des mises en scène contemporaines du chœur tragique et en étudiant, d’autre part, ces mises en scène à travers l’expression du commun. Ce travail propose donc de mettre au jour la construction et la circulation du discours sur le commun dans et entre ces trois pays. L’analyse des spectacles, d’abord, expose les éléments qui font ou entendent faire du chœur une incarnation du commun et met en perspective ces choix avec la réception de la tragédie grecque. Le discours sur le commun qui se construit ainsi au théâtre est ensuite confronté aux discours philosophiques et anthropologiques du moment mais aussi aux événements économiques, politiques et sociaux afin de faire apparaître les échos, les analogies, les ruptures et les discontinuités. Ainsi, entre 1973 et 1980, la mise en scène du chœur des Bacchantes a donné du commun une représentation utopiste où la communauté est fondée par le rituel. Dès 1980, à partir des Orestie de Peter Stein et Peter Hall qui tiennent lieu de modèles, le chœur devient un collectif où ce que les individus ont en commun est précisément leur singularité. Dans la continuité, jusqu’en 1999, les mises en scène d’Œdipe roi racontent la naissance de l’individu moderne à laquelle le chœur sert de cadre archaïque. Enfin, et malgré les tentatives dans des mises en scène de L’Orestie, au tournant du millénaire, pour refonder la communauté à partir d’une mémoire commune, les tragédies grecques montées dans les années 2000 présentent un désespoir de communautés – au double sens objectif et subjectif de l’expression. Cette archéologie du commun, qui reflète la globalisation à l’œuvre, est donc en creux une archéologie de l’individu
Analysing productions of Aeschylus’ The Oresteia, Sophocles’ Oedipus the King and Euripides’ The Bacchai in national theatres in France, Germany and the United-Kingdom between 1973 and 2010, this thesis proposes an archaeology of the common (in the sense of « what we have in common ») both exploring the political implications of the concept – thrown into sharp relief by the various ways ancient choruses were staged – and studying the productions themselves through the type of community that they make manifest. This work intends to highlight the construction and the circulation of contemporary discourses about the common within, and between, these three countries. Performance analyses first focus on the elements that make, or intend to make, the chorus into an incarnation of the common and put these choices into perspective through the reception of Greek tragedy. The discourse about the common thus built in theatres, is then confronted with philosophical and anthropological discourses, as well as with economic, political and sociological events in order to call attention to echoes, analogies, disruptions and discontinuities. Thus, between 1973 and 1980, performances of choruses in The Bacchai were built upon rituals, putting forward a utopian conception of the common. From 1980 onward, as Peter Stein’s and Peter Hall’s Oresteia became established models, the chorus morphed into a collective in which individuals had their singularity in common. Following this, until 1999, the performances of Oedipus the King hailed the birth of the modern individual, for whom the chorus acts as archaic backdrop. Lastly, and despite attempts in performances of The Oresteia at the turn of the millennium to rebuild a community out of common memory, Greek tragedies staged in the 2000s show the despair of, and about, communities. This archaeology of the common, reflecting the globalisation of European societies, is therefore indirectly an archaeology of the individual

Abstract The book explores the role of music in fostering cosmopolitanism at the turn of the 20th century, focusing on Rio de Janeiro, the capital of Brazil at the time. It explores the aftermath of the 1888 abolition of slavery and the first two decades of the newly established republican government—roughly from 1889 to 1910, when the city also experienced an urban metamorphosis in terms of architecture and overall landscape, promoted by the new government and meant to “modernize” the city. Of particular interest are the various musics performed in new venues that sprawled throughout the city center and its surroundings and how they opened new spaces for artists, musicians, and audiences, who engaged with a variety of musics and performance practices to express, problematize, and ultimately help shape modernity in the fin-de-siècle city. The book explores case studies of opera, operetta, and the music hall songs, while covering an array of spaces of music-making—from the concert hall to the theater and the music hall, from the movies and the circus to the streets. It shows how Rio de Janeiro’s residents shared with residents of many contemporary cities a sense of world connection and disconnection characteristic of their times, focusing on the sociocultural interrelatedness provided by music and music-making. The work offers a story of musical Rio de Janeiro, a city that, like other contemporary cities, grew to become one place containing many worlds.

In the history of theatre buildings, the Teatro Olimpico in Vicenza by Andrea Palladio is often regarded as the archetype of the evolution of spaces for drama and music in modern European culture. Even within the specific subject of architectural acoustics, the Olympic Theatre represents a sort of symbolic beginning of a new era, since the main idea which led to its realisation, that is, the transformation of the Greco-Roman theatre into a closed volume, started to pose problems that had previously been unknown or neglected due to the completely different sound-propagation processes experienced in the open-air theatres of antiquity. This chapter focuses on the recent campaign of acoustic measurements carried out by the author in the Teatro Olimpico. Among the results discussed are the long reverberation time and low clarity, which make the hall more suitable for music than speech.

Abstract work: This inscription from Delphi authorizes the establishment of maenadic rites to Dionysos in the city of Magnesia in ancient Asia Minor (modern Turkey). For an overview of the use of inscriptions in the study of women’s religions, see the Introduction to section 2. translation: A. Henrichs in Lefkowitz and Fant, pp. 113–14, no. 115. text: I. Magn. 215a: 24–40. bibliography: See entry 1. Go to the holy plain of Thebes to fetch maenads from the race of Cadmean Ino. They will bring you maenadic rites and noble customs and will establish troops of Bacchus in your city. In accordance with the oracle, and through the agency of the envoys, three maenads were brought from Thebes: Cosco, Baubo and Thettale. And Cosco organised the thiasus named after the plane tree, Baubo the thiasus outside the city, and Thettale the thiasus named after Cataebates. After their death they were buried by the Magnesians, and Cosco lies buried in the area called Hillock of Cosco, Baubo in the area called Tabarnis, and Thettale near the theatre.

This chapter considers rhizomatic adaptation from an ecofeminist perspective in John Lyly’s Love’s Metamorphosis (1589), which begins with an unconventional scene. A wounded stage tree protests her assault with a long speech concerning two other Ovidian tree heroines, Daphne and Myrrha. This surprising moment in the theater disrupts centuries of lyric tradition wherein women who turn into trees become mute plants, especially since she speaks with grafts of Ovidian verse and wax writing tablets positioned as though they grew from her branches. After discussing how grafting complicates the arboreal model for adaptation, this chapter turns to history of the book scholarship to explore what exactly wedges into the crevice of Ovid’s early modern bark, and how Deleuze’s assumptions about material books fall short of the variety of texts and composition practices that comprise early modern literacy.

If vaudeville spoke so effectively to modern life and if it was so popular, why did it disappear after World War I? There was nothing inevitable about vaudeville’s decline; but its vulnerabilities were apparent even as it grew. As vaudeville became more popular, some entrepreneurs tried to separate their businesses from the mass of variety theaters by creating what they called the “big time,” a glitzier vaudeville based on palatial theaters, glamorous amenities and high-priced celebrities. Referencing characters like Fred Proctor, Edward F. Albee, and Sherman Dudley, this chapter shows how managers formed national chains and booking cartels and tried to strangle out their competitors. These tactics drove managers who could not secure enough affordable celebrity acts to reduce overhead by showing movies. The cost of ever-increasing glamor burdened “big time” chains with staggering overhead, something which made them vulnerable when the market contracted sharply after WWI. The cause of vaudeville’s decline was both structural and unrehearsed.

This chapter examines a related bid for political agency (1964–67): the pursuit of interiorized subjectivity as proof of moral personhood. As the Egyptian theatre grew more ambitious, playwrights strove to create dramatic exemplars of authentic Arab political action. This in turn required characters who were “deep” enough to qualify as fully fledged moral subjects and hence modern political agents, such as Hamlet. Looking at two landmark plays in which critics have heard Hamletian echoes, Sulayman of Aleppo by Alfred Farag and The Tragedy of Al-Hallaj by Salah Abdel Sabur, the chapter argues that the “Hamletization” of their Muslim protagonists is neither subversive in spirit nor driven by any desire to seize mastery of a colonizer's text. Rather, Hamlet serves as a model and even an emblem of psychological interiority.

Abstract Bibliographical Note.-The abundant literature of the drama is more satisfactorily treated in the appendices to F. E. Schelling, Elizabethan Drama (1908), and vols. v and vi (1910) of the Cambridge History of English Literature, than in R. W.Lowe, Bibliographical Account of English Theatrical Literature (1888), K. L. Bates and L. B. Godfrey, English Drama: a Working Basis (1896), or W. D. Adams, Dictionary of the Drama (1904). There is an American pamphlet on Materials for the Study of the English Drama, excluding Shakespeare (1912, Newbery Library, Chicago), which I have not seen. Periodical lists of new books are published in the Modern Language Review, the Beiblatt to Anglia, and the Bulletin of the English Association, and annual bibliographies by the Modern Humanities Research Association (from 1921) and in the Shakespeare Jahrbuch. The bibliography by H. R. Tedder in the Encyclopaedia Britannica (11th ed.) s.v. Shakespeare, A. C. Shaw, Index to the Shakespeare Memorial Library (1900-3), and W. Jaggard, Shaluspeare Bibliography (19u), on which, however, cf. C. S. Northup in J. G. P. xi. 218, are also useful. W. W. Greg, Notes on Dramatic Bibliographers (1911, M. S. C. i. 324), traces from the publishers’ advertisements of the Restoration a catena of play-lists in E. Phillips, Theatrum Poetarum (1675), W. Winstanley, Lives of the Most Famous English Poets (1687), G. Langbaine, Momus Triumphans (1688) and Account of the English Dramatick Poets (1691), C. Gildon, Lives and Characters of the English Drainatick Poets (1698), W. R. Chetwood, The British Theatre (1750), E. Capell, Notitia Dramatica (1783), and the various editions of the Biographica Dramatica from 1764 to 1812. More recent are J. 0. Halliwell-Phillipps, Dictionary of Old English Plays (1860), and W. C. Hazlitt, Manual of Old English Plays (1892); but all are largely superseded by W. W. Greg, A List of English Plays (1900) and A List of Masques, Pageants, &-c. (1902). His account of Warburton’s collection in The Bakings of Betsy (Library, 1911)serves as a supplement. A few plays discovered later than 1900 appeared in an Irish sale of 1906 (cf. JahYbuch, xliii. 310) and in the Mostyn sale of 1919 (cf. t.p. facsimiles in Sotheby’s sale-catalogue). For the problems of the early prints, the Bibliographical Note to ch. xxii should be consulted.