Justin Buckley

On the evening of Saturday, October 13th in Halifax, Nova Scotia, the annual arts festival Nocturne will take place, and this snippet of music is my own contribution to it.

The theme of this year’s Nocturne is Nomadic Reciprocity, which among other things asked artists to “reflect on their connection to the political environment of Canada and the Indigenous land we occupy, including the social conditions and each person’s lived experiences as Indigenous and Non-Indigenous people” (More about the festival theme here).

To that end, I’m collaborating with storytellers from Eskasoni First Nation, a Mi’kmaq community in eastern Nova Scotia, on Wind Stories. During Nocturne, they will tell Mi’kmaq legends about the wind. My contribution to Wind Stories is a 6-channel sound installation in which weather data about the current winds will be turned into music like that in the extract above.

During the late winter just passed, I spent a lot of time outside listening to the winds, which are rarely silent near the sea around Halifax at that time of year. After listening closely to the character of the wind – how gusts sweep through nearby trees, how the wind causes things to tap, creak and bang as they are blown – I started to make electronic music that reflected what I’ve learned from the wind.

I wrote software which uses Environment Canada weather data, specifically the current wind direction and wind speed (including how gusty it is), and turns this data into music. When the winds are low, then the music is gentle, and when the winds are stormy, then the music is harsh and dissonant.

A listener can hear what direction the wind is coming from through the harmonies that are created. Each of the four cardinal directions was given its own harmonic palette, and the directions in between are mixtures of these harmonies. The sound of a north west wind is a mixture of the harmonies of north and west, for example. In the extract I posted above, the winds are light to moderate from the south-west.

The installation and storytelling will take place in a large room at the Immigration Museum in Pier 21. Rather than have the music read weather data, I’ve decided to have the software run through each of the wind directions slowly while changing the wind speed manually. If the installation was part of an exhibition over a couple of weeks, for instance, having the software run ‘live’ would work effectively, people could visit from time to time to hear what the current wind conditions sound like according to the software. Because Nocturne is only one evening, I’d like people to be able to hear the music at its most calm and its most fierce.

I’m very excited to be working with Sandra MacDonald, Audrey Johnson, Faye Sylliboy, Glynis Sylliboy and Natasha Hearney from Eskasoni Cultural Journeys at Nocturne!

I currently live in Herring Cove, a village on the outskirts of Halifax, Nova Scotia. In preparation for a larger piece I am working on, I took many field recordings in and around the village throughout this past winter and spring, and this composite of a few of them highlights some of the sounds to be heard throughout the area.

It’s quite challenging to find sounds that are specific to a single place, so that someone listening to recordings of sounds taken there can state ‘yes, I know where that is.’ Sounds both human-made and natural are created by things found everywhere: the wind, car engines, certain birds.

However, taken as a whole, this audio composite says something about what it’s like to live here.

Herring Cove is mainly residential, but a few fishermen operate from the small and well-protected harbour. It’s right on the Atlantic Ocean, so it’s rare that there’s no wind. In late winter, a great deal of the sounds that you hear are things being affected by the wind. The recording starts with the sounds of waves crashing on the granite rock shoreline during one of the many winter storms that occurred early this year.

Amongst the sound of the waves you can hear a groaning buoy, which is so often audible in the distance around the village that you can easily forget it’s there. It’s louder when the wind comes from the east.

The recording transitions into the sound of wind blowing through spruce trees in a small provincial park next to the town. After that, you can hear the sound of the wind rattling the many slightly-loose doors in a cluster of public mailboxes.

Next is the sound of the wind blowing through the hollow bamboo-like stems of dead Japanese Knotweed.

Halifax is a busy port, and Herring Cove sits along the same shore that many container ships pass as they go in and out of Halifax harbour. I took the recording of one ship’s horn as it slowly moved past Herring Cove early one foggy morning. In the distance clangs the bell of another buoy not far from the village’s small harbour.

On another morning shortly afterward I was awoken by a seemingly-angry dialogue between two groups of crows, which you’ll hear next. On close listening, some interesting rhythms form between the calls of the crows in each of the groups, and I found the interplay between both groups somehow musical.

While doing recordings by the sea, I managed to capture the drone of a distant harbour pilot boat before the sound of another engine overtook the first: a fishing boat out out to check its lobster traps. I was close enough that the fisherman onboard noticed me, and after pulling in one of his traps, he waved a lobster over his head in triumph in my direction.

The fishing boat engine transitions into the sound of a garbage truck going in reverse down a long street, which sounds commonplace at first until the beeping of its reverse signal slowly merges into the landscape as the truck gets further away.

I don’t know yet the names of the birds making the calls in the remaining segments of the recordings, but you’ll certainly be able to pick out at least three woodpeckers. The windswept soundscapes of winter have given way to the active spring texture of birdcalls.

The starting point for what follows was a short passage in a book that linked the farming practices of Balinese rice farmers with gamelan music. The success of this ancient system of farming is partly connected to the musical practices of the region through its temple system and religion. I was struck by this example, from How To Thrive in the Next Economy by John Thackara, of how a culture’s art form helped to ensure the longevity of its civilization.

The description of this system brought to mind another passage I recently discovered from the preface of the Classic of Poetry, a text written during the Han dynasty in premodern China:

“Feelings emerge in sounds, when the sounds have patterning, they are called tones. The tones of a peaceful age are serene and happy, indicating its government is well-run; the tones of a chaotic age are bitter and angry; indicating its government is off course; the tones of an age going to ruin are filled with sadness and brooding, as its people are in difficulty.”¹

It’s clear that the arts play a major role in how a society thinks about itself, but I was always interested in how music in particular does this, especially instrumental music, which, without the use of lyrics, is more open to multiple interpretations. The example in Thackara’s book gave a working example of an instrumental musical form connected to what we nowadays call sustainability, which led me to think about the tones of our own society, focused as it is on growth at the expense of the rest of the living planet. It goes without saying that we are living today in an age where the consequences of our terrible treatment of the Earth are starting to come back to haunt us.

Earlier in his book, Thackara discusses what he calls the metabolic rift between humans and the planet: “The idea that a combination of paved surfaces and pervasive media have rendered us cognitively blind to the health of the living systems of which we are a part.”² Continuing in this line of thought, author John Michael Greer explores where this rift may have come from by discussing paradigms: deep sets of beliefs that most people aren’t consciously aware of, but which shapes every person’s thought whether they accept or reject them.

In a blog post, Greer writes about the main paradigm that our society views itself with, namely, the paradigm “that human beings are above nature — in the full literal sense of the word, supernatural.”³ He goes on to write that the self-praise we give to ourselves has “all the characteristics that most other cultures have traditionally assigned to their gods.” This paradigm is one of the core reasons, in Greer’s view, behind our treatment of the planet and why efforts to do anything about it have failed. If humanity sees itself as being dominant over nature, then they “can’t possibly need to rethink their own choices for nature’s sake.”⁴

Both Thackara and Greer go on to discuss paradigm shifts (the term coined by Thomas Kuhn in his book The Structure of Scientific Revolutions) and apply the concept to changes in cultural ideas. If the task ahead of us is to look again at our relationship with the rest of the living world, then perhaps music can play a role in this cultural paradigm shift.

Music about nature in Western classical music

There are many examples of art which deal with the topic of nature, I will pick only two from the Western classical music tradition. The first is the French composer Olivier Messiaen’s “From the Canyons to the Stars . . .” written in the early 70s. In his book The Rest Is Noise, Alex Ross writes that Messiaen, given the assignment of creating a work for the American Bicentennial, “travelled to the canyons of Utah and gazed for days at the boldly colored terrain, listening also to the songs of the local birds.”⁵

The area made an impression on him: “In his sketchbook he wrote of the “immense solitude” of the place, of the whiff of terror and death in its hot and cold hues. He collected his impressions in a programmatic narrative that was variously ornithological, geological, astronomical, and spiritual.”⁶ Messiaen wrote a lengthy composition for small orchestra which is considered by Ross to be one of the composer’s greatest works.

Rather than attempt to describe the work, I will link to a recording of it.

I have a recording of the piece, to me it does evoke jagged rock formations and empty spaces. I chose to include Canyons because it shows some of the shortcomings of art which is tied to environmentalism or to nature. I don’t doubt the intentions of the composer, the merits of the work itself, nor the ability of the work to “leave its audiences in a state of exhilaration and touches more than once on the sublime”.⁷

But it’s the context that is problematic. Although Ross writes in a review that “the work is less a portrait of a particular landscape than of the richness of the mind contemplating it”,⁸ the composition is closely linked to the red canyons of Utah partly because the titles of each of its movements, and the background story behind its creation (which is of course often used to promote performances of the work).

The effect of Canyons becomes similar to landscape painting or photography. Although the piece celebrates a specific place, it does so by making it appear more exotic, more otherworldly – its ‘naturalness’ is exaggerated. Listening to the piece is a sort of sonic tourism – listeners take a break from their normal (likely urban) reality to go ‘into’ nature through music, and then return. Paradoxically, a separation between humanity and the rest of nature is reinforced, not diminished, in the minds of its listeners.

Jean Sibelius’s tone poem Tapiola (1926) for orchestra is also a work of classical music about nature, connected less to a specific location on a map, instead, according to Daniel Grimley, it is “a sound-portrait of the northern forest realm from the Finnish national epic, the Kalevala, which invokes notions of finality, blankness, and death.”⁹ It is one of my very favorite pieces of music, here is a recording.

Sibelius is a composer who is often associated with nature because it was the subject matter for much of his music. For some, Tapiola was Sibelius’ last word on Romanticism. Burnett James or Ernest Newman (I’m afraid I have lost which book this is from) writes:

“For the later Sibelius, whatever may have been the case in the days of his rampageous youth and young manhood, the destiny of man was not to be fulfilled, the wound healed, by immersion in and identification with the world of nature or some vague idea of the cosmos, as the Romantics thought. Tapiola affirms, as the Fourth Symphony intimated and much that came after it confirmed, not oneness or identification with but contemporary civilized man’s alienation from nature.”

Canyons was a composition which was descriptive; it aimed to describe a place, and one composer’s reaction to it, with music. Much of the classical music canon that concerns itself with nature, from Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons to Debussy’s La Mer, deals with it in this way. On one level, Tapiola is descriptive of the forest environment, but on another it is a statement about the alienation of humankind from nature. Sibelius, like the Romantics, had a sense of the sacredness of nature, and Tapiola was a cry of mourning for the loss of this sacredness as the divide between civilization and nature grew. Did his bleak tone poem, an example of the sad and brooding tones that indicate an age of ruin, foresee the resulting age of ruin caused of our own making?

If so, Sibelius was right. As people have become more distant from natural environments, partly due to urbanization and partly due to technology, art concerned with nature has declined in importance – just as it is most needed.

However, if past societies limited themselves to simple depictions of nature in their art, then that already shows that people in the past had an unhealthy relationship to it. Art has the capacity to explore ecological relationships: what it means to exist, as a single person or as a civilization of people, within the web of connections between many non-human beings and their enveloping environment. If all that art can borrow of nature are things to please the senses – landscapes, mountain views and forest wilderness – then perhaps this art has simply made visible a superficial relationship with nature which has partly resulted in the mess we are in.

In order to illustrate this, we need to turn back to the Balinese gamelan example.

A different view of nature

Stephen Lansing is an anthropologist who has written extensively about Balinese society. In his book Perfect Order, he describes briefly the subak system:

“Farmers also belong to organizations devoted to the man­agement of rice terraces for which we must use the Balinese word subak, because no equivalent term exists in English. Subaks are egalitarian or­ganizations that are empowered to manage the rice terraces and irriga­tion systems on which the prosperity of the village depends, and they too have frequent meetings that are governed by the same strict democratic etiquette. Between them, the village and subak assemblies govern most aspects of a farmer’s social, economic, and spiritual life.” ¹⁰

The system is apparently very old, Lansing writes that there are 1000-year-old inscriptions which describe it.

Lansing describes his research of water temples in Bali. The region is very mountainous and water sources flow across the territory of many subaks, and these water flows have to be coordinated across subaks upstream and downstream from each other. This coordination is done by priests in water temples in each subak. Farmers plant rice while taking their neighbours into account, and not by trying to grow as much rice as possible.

In the video of a talk that Lansing gave for the Long Now Foundation (from 47:30), Lansing describes the Balinese calendar’s role in this water coordination. He explains that time is linear for us, our concept of time having a past, present and future is deeply embedded in the grammar of our language. For the Balinese, time is made up of cycles of different lengths running together, there are a number of weekly calendars within several larger-scale calendars, such as the lunar calendar. There are calendars with 2 day weeks, 3 day weeks, 8, 9 and 10 day weeks, and so on. Lansing goes on to explain that time is dense for the Balinese, the patterns which results from these interlocking cyclic calendars is the basis for determining water access rights for farmers. Lansing points out that, to the Balinese, order appears if the cycles are integrated well. ¹¹

Interestingly, gamelan music is also based on the principle of the subdivision of cycles. Both Lansing and Thackara referenced research by ethnomusicologist Judith Becker about this, which I sought out: “The organization of time as cyclical units with smaller cycles moving within larger cycles and with points of cycle coincidence marking important moments of time is also the basis of the organization of the music system.” ¹² In his talk, Lansing suggests that time and music, for the Balinese, “are metaphors for one another”.¹³

I started this piece out by mentioning how interested I was in a system of music which was tightly enmeshed in a civilization’s relationship to the rest of the living planet. Both Lansing and Becker point out further relationships between the agricultural system, the musical system, the religion of the region. This system has worked for at least a thousand years without damaging the planet.

The subak system was made into a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The UNESCO webpage states that:

“The overall subak system exemplifies the Balinese philosophical principle of Tri Hita Karana that draws together the realms of the spirit, the human world and nature. Water temple rituals promote a harmonious relationship between people and their environment through the active engagement of people with ritual concepts that emphasise dependence on the life-sustaining forces of the natural world.”¹⁴

A different example of a society which has profound links to its surrounding environment is ethnomusicologist Steven Feld’s reports about the Kaluli people of Papua New Guinea. It is a well known-example, I came across quite a number of references to Feld’s work from different sources.

Feld released an album of field recordings made in Papua New Guinea in 1990, called Voices Of The Rainforest. In the liner notes of my copy of the recording Feld offers some descriptions of the music and the people who made it. He describes the rich sonic environment of the rainforest as a “never-ending and dense soundscape”¹⁵, and goes to write about how Kaluli people sing along with the creatures of the rainforest, and how they consider their songs to be part of the same overall soundscape as the calls of wildlife. Feld writes:

“There are no single sounds in the rainforest. Everything is mixed into an interlocking soundscape. The rainforest is like a world of coordinated sound clocks, an intersection of millions of simultaneous cycles all refusing to ever start or stop at the same point. The Kaluli hear their rainforest world as overlapping, dense, layered. And they apply the same principle to their own music. People’s voices layer like the trees of the forest canopy. Sounds of drums or axes arch up and out like tumbling waterfalls into swirling waterpools.”¹⁶

What strikes me about the recordings is that if you removed the sound of the rainforest behind the music of the Kaluli, it would sound incomplete. The Kaluli listen to their environment, and make music accordingly, and a listener can hear this dialog.

This is speculation on my part which has arisen from the example of the Kaluli, but it could be that civilizations that have a stable, more integrated role with the rest of nature do not romanticize it to the degree that Western civilization has. A society that has lost its connections with nature’s workings would tend to have a simpler view of the natural world than those which have not, as perhaps shown in music-making practices which can’t help but allow the rest of nature to seep into the music.

The wholeness of music

I know of only a few examples of Western music which take the topics I’ve raised into account. A contemporary American composer, John Luther Adams, has lived for a great deal of his life in Alaska and has made numerous compositions that are related to the natural world, and he has also written on the subject.

He has discussed how he thinks about music in a ecological way, in the sense that ecology can refer to a totality of forces and elements at play: “The essence of music is not the specific patterns of harmony, melody, rhythm and timbre. It’s the totality of the sound, the larger wholeness of the music.” He has explained that he sees a role for the composer in today’s age of environmental crises: “Music can contribute to the awakening of our ecological understanding. By deepening our awareness of our connections to the earth, music can provide a sounding model for the renewal of human consciousness and culture.”¹⁷

Together with a software programmer, Adams created a large-scale installation called The Place Where You Go To Listen at the Museum of the North in Fairbanks, Alaska, and wrote a book which detailed the process. Sensors detect the time of day, the season, the weather, even seismic activity in the area, and turns these patterns into sound, music and light. A chamber in the museum is open to the public to experience the work.

What I find most interesting about the piece is not its high-tech component, rather its connection to a specific place: The resulting music is not just about a place (as is Canyons), but also located in the place – and according to the time scales of that region. As Adams writes: “events unfold in the same tempos as in nature.”¹⁸

That example leads me to some things that can be drawn from the limited set of examples I have touched on which point at a few possible directions for a music more connected to the living planet.

That said, I should note there is no way to change a culture quickly; the Balinese system of rice farming and its musical forms took centuries to evolve. It’s also important to note that there are some in Western culture who realize that society has overextended itself, that it has used up too many resources, that it has created pollution that will take centuries to fix; but for many, the paradigm that humanity has used up until now is still too deeply entrenched.

There seems to be potential, within the restrictions I have just outlined, to explore music-making which draws on ecological structures for its formal characteristics, music-making which is more firmly connected to specific places, and music-making which takes the ways humankind interacts with the rest of nature as its content.

Clearly, Balinese gamelan is an example of music which has a sophisticated understanding of ecological time, which is embedded deeply in the form of the music itself. In the history of Western classical music, there are similarly useful musical forms for those, like myself, who are interested in Western music theory.

An extract from a book I came across recently which describes an encounter between Bach and Frederick the Great of Prussia. Frederick, an amateur composer himself, favored a style of music which was based on a single prominent melody which was embellished by a harmonic accompaniment. Bach of course was an expert in counterpoint and fugue, which were centuries old crafts:

“Bach’s cosmos was one in which the planets themselves played the ultimate harmony, a tenet that had been unquestioned since the “sacred science” of Pythagoras; composing and performing music was for him and his musical ancestors a deeply spiritual enterprise.”¹⁹

The meeting between Bach and Frederick the Great was a milestone in the shift from this spiritual view of music to one that looked at music as essentially about providing pleasure. Music, for Frederick, was entertainment – and this mindset continued as the Classical style of Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven developed.

But even in Bach’s time, harmonic considerations had become more important than the older ideal in counterpoint, in which independent melodic lines came together to form the harmony. In one of my books on counterpoint, the author Knud Jeppesen compares this to the style of 16th century composer Palestrina: “Bach’s and Palestrina’s points of departure are antipodal. Palestrina starts out from lines and arrives at chords; Bach’s music grows out of an ideally harmonic background, against which the voices develop.” ¹⁹ Jeppesen then quotes Heinrich Wölfflin:

“No longer do individual parts unite in a harmony in which they continue to maintain their individuality, the parts have been subordinated to a dominant central motive, and only the combined effect of the whole gives them meaning and beauty.”²¹

I wonder if there is potential for an ecologically conscious music to draw upon the older traditions of counterpoint. Especially in today’s popular music, the use of a single melody dominates. Am I going too far in suggesting that a form of music that incorporates multiple voices operating independently within a whole a good model for an ecological music?

Adams’ piece The Place Where You Go To Listen is a good example of what I consider to be another avenue of exploration for ecological music. The composition draws on for its subject matter information about the place in which it is situated. This is similar to the music the Kaluli make: the environment becomes part of the music.

One of the criticisms I raised about Canyons was that, after it was created, it had no further connection to the place that inspired it. This is an institutional problem; composers get commissions to make music which is performed in concert halls, whether they take nature as a subject or not. But I see potential to actively pursue music which is created with specific places in mind – and performed in those places. And to have sounds from the place become part of the composition. This idea was partially explored already, the sound artist and musician Bernie Krause created The Great Animal Orchestra, music written for a symphony that also incorporated recordings of animals.

In John Thackara’s book I have quoted from previously, he discusses the concept of bioregions. He writes: “A bioregion is literally and etymologically a ‘life-place’, in Robert Thayer’s words, that is definable by natural rather than political or economic boundaries. Its geographic, climatic, hydrological, and ecological qualities – its metabolism – are complex and unique.”²² But his concept of bioregions also is “at heart a social and cultural process, not a technical one. A sense of belonging, and shared responsibility for the land, is the social glue that binds diverse groups together.”²³ Music based on a bioregion could certainly help with that social glue.

Lastly, music could be created which draws attention to natural processes, or to the processes through which humankind relates to the rest of nature. That means partly opening up an awareness of the deeply set paradigms that humankind has used until now to deal with the rest of the natural world, but also to draw attention to specific activities in which humankind draws upon nature. In the Dark Mountain journal, Martin Prechtel uses writing in this way to explore an older way of dealing with agriculture, where seeds were treated with great respect, where farming was not simply a practical thing as it is today, but also a deeply spiritual endeavour.²⁴

While writing this I stumbled across an article by writer Paul Kingsnorth about his experiences with environmentalism. He learned that:

“Any attempt to protect nature from the worst human depredation has to speak to people where they are. It has to make us all feel that the natural world, the non-human realm, is not an obstacle in the way of our progress but a part of our community that we should nurture; a part of our birthright. In other words, we need to tie our ecological identity in with our cultural identity.”²⁵

That seems to me like a task that music could help with.

I have explored with a few limited examples how music as an activity might have relevance in a cultural paradigm shift: Music can operate on the level of symbol and narrative, and together with poetry and song, subvert the deep set paradigms of our culture. Music is of course a performative art, and the place and the manner in which it is performed can help draw attention to that place. And music is created with musical rules, which are partly a matter of acoustics but owe a great deal to cultural convention. These are all things which musicians can take into account when composing music with ecology in mind.

References

1. Tian, Xiaofei. “The Emperor’s New Music.” Lapham’s Quarterly, Fall 2017, 203-04.
2. Thackara, John. How To Thrive In The Next Economy. London: Thames & Hudson, 2017, pg 18.
3. Greer, John Michael. “The twilight of anthropolatry.” Ecosophia. June 21, 2017. Accessed January 13, 2018. https://www.ecosophia.net/the-twilight-of-anthropolatry/.
4. Greer, John Michael. “The twilight of anthropolatry.” Ecosophia. June 21, 2017. Accessed January 13, 2018. https://www.ecosophia.net/the-twilight-of-anthropolatry/.
5. Ross, Alex. The rest is noise: listening to the twentieth century. New York: Picador, 2013, pg 494
6. Ross, Alex. The rest is noise: listening to the twentieth century. New York: Picador, 2013, pg 494
7. Ross, Alex. “MUSIC REVIEW; A Messiaen Rarity Pays Homage To Utah’s Topography and Birds.” The New York Times. August 11, 1994. Accessed January 13, 2018. http://www.nytimes.com/1994/08/11/arts/music-review-a-messiaen-rarity-pays-homage-to-utah-s-topography-and-birds.html.
8. Ross, Alex. “MUSIC REVIEW; A Messiaen Rarity Pays Homage To Utah’s Topography and Birds.” The New York Times. August 11, 1994. Accessed January 13, 2018. http://www.nytimes.com/1994/08/11/arts/music-review-a-messiaen-rarity-pays-homage-to-utah-s-topography-and-birds.html.
9. Grimley, Daniel M. “Music, Landscape, Attunement: Listening to Sibelius’s Tapiola.” Journal of the American Musicological Society 64, no. 2 (Summer 2011): 394-98.
10. Lansing, J. Stephen. “Perfect Order: Recognizing Complexity in Bali.” 2006, 5.
11. Perfect Order: A Thousand Years in Bali. Performed by Stephen Lansing. The Long Now. February 13, 2006. http://longnow.org/seminars/02006/feb/13/perfect-order-a-thousand-years-in-bali/. At 47:30
12. Becker, Judith. “Time and Tune in Java.” The Imagination of reality: essays in Southeast Asian coherence systems, 1979, 197-210.
13. Perfect Order: A Thousand Years in Bali. Performed by Stephen Lansing. The Long Now. February 13, 2006. http://longnow.org/seminars/02006/feb/13/perfect-order-a-thousand-years-in-bali/. At 47:30
14. “Cultural Landscape of Bali Province: the Subak System as a Manifestation of the Tri Hita Karana Philosophy.” UNESCO. Accessed January 20, 2018. http://whc.unesco.org/en/list/1194.
15. Feld, Steven. Voices Of The Rainforest. Recorded August 1990. CD.
16. Feld, Steven. Voices Of The Rainforest. Recorded August 1990. CD.
17. Adams, John Luther. “In Search of an Ecology of Music.” Accessed January 14, 2018. http://johnlutheradams.net/in-search-of-an-ecology-of-music-essay/.
18. Adams, John Luther. “In Search of an Ecology of Music.” Accessed January 14, 2018. http://johnlutheradams.net/in-search-of-an-ecology-of-music-essay/.
19. Gaines, James. “The Art of Feud.” The Guardian. January 14, 2005. Accessed January 14, 2018.
    https://www.theguardian.com/music/2005/jan/14/classicalmusicandopera.jsbach.
20. Jeppesen, Knud. Counterpoint: The Polyphonic Vocal Style of the Sixteenth Century. New York, NY: Dover, 1992.
21. Jeppesen, Knud. Counterpoint: The Polyphonic Vocal Style of the Sixteenth Century. New York, NY: Dover, 1992.
22. Thackara, John. How To Thrive In The Next Economy. London: Thames & Hudson, 2017, pg 29.
23. Thackara, John. How To Thrive In The Next Economy. London: Thames & Hudson, 2017, pg 28.
24. Prechtel, Martin. “The Marriage Contract with the Wild.” Dark Mountain MMXVII, no. 12 (2017): 114-25.
25. Kingsnorth, Paul. “The lie of the land: does environmentalism have a future in the age of Trump?” The Guardian. March 18, 2017. Accessed January 20, 2018. https://www.theguardian.com/books/2017/mar/18/the-new-lie-of-the-land-what-future-for-environmentalism-in-the-age-of-trump.