Definition of Music

My definition of music tends to be very broad. Very broad:

Music is art where sound is the primary medium.

So, music:

  • A symphony
  • A raging guitar solo
  • A drum circle
  • A rhythmic loop of found sounds
  • Gregorian chant

Not music:

  • A painting
  • A mime performance
  • John Cage’s 4’33” (I’m not saying it’s not art – but it’s not music)

Where do I fit unaccompanied spoken word? It depends – I think a lot of it is musical, where the sound of the voice is an important part of the work, and I think a lot of it isn’t, where the poem is primarily about the words and ideas.

I very carefully do not reference rhythm, or melody, or harmony, or any other technical elements in my definition. Doing so makes the definition far too narrow. I recall a professor in one of my community college music classes two decades ago stating that drumming wasn’t music, since the drums had beat and rhythm, but no melody or harmony. The problem wasn’t with the drums, it was with his uselessly narrow idea of what constituted music.

On the other hand, I have come across variations of an even broader definition than mine:

Music is the organized interruption of silence.

That is too broad to be useful, in my opinion. Accepting this would require us to consider the following things to be music:

  • A conversation about budget spreadsheets
  • A jackhammer tearing up some concrete
  • A cow mooing

Each of those is organized, and each of those interrupts silence. And each of those can be incorporated into music, but I think that calling them music in and of themselves is not reasonable, and more importantly, is not useful.

Dinosaur

The head paleontologist had the work crew haul the brontosaurus into one of the back rooms.  “Thanks guys.  Can you give us a few minutes here?”

As the crew filed out the dinosaur waited, and watched the scientist.  Once they were alone she asked, “What’s going on, Doc?”

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know how to say this…you are a mistake.  We classified you incorrectly, and made some wrong guesses about your skull.  New research shows that you didn’t really exist.”  He looked away, embarrassed.  “I’m sorry.”

The brontosaurus told herself to be cool.  Be cool.  She tried to take a deep breath, but that doesn’t work when you’re just a collection of fossilized bones and a few bits of wire.  No lungs.

“So, Doc, that just means you’ll revise me, make a few tweaks based on the new findings, right?” Be cool.

He sighed and took off his glasses.  “I’m afraid that this is bigger than that.  Brontosaurus is being written out of the books.  You’re all really just Apatosauruses.  It’s not just a simple adjustment.”

“Doc, I’m not just a dinosaur!  I’m THE dinosaur!  I represent the whole superorder in the public mind!” Her voice was beginning to sound frantic.

He smiled sadly.  “Well, actually, I think that Tyrannosaurus Rex is what…”

“No! When people see a T-rex they say ‘Ooo, a T-rex’.  Same thing for Stegosaurus.”  She was panicking now.  “But when people see me they say, ‘Ooo, a dinosaur!’.  When kids draw a dinosaur, they draw me!  When…”

He interrupted her, “I’m sorry.  It’s out of my hands.”  The work crew started coming back into the room.  “There won’t be any pain.  Goodbye.”  He turned and left.

He was wrong.  There was pain, but thankfully it was brief.

Oblivion doesn’t hurt.