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Philosophy of music is the study of fundamental questions about the nature and value of music and
our experience of it. Like any “philosophy of X”, it presupposes knowledge of its target. However,
unlike philosophy of science, say, the target of philosophy of music is a practice most people have a
significant background in, merely as a result of being members of a musical culture. Music plays a
central role in many people’s lives. Thus, as with the central questions of metaphysics and
epistemology, not only can most people quickly grasp the philosophical questions music raises, they
tend to have thought about some of those questions before encountering the academic discipline itself.
(This is as good a place as any to note that I, like most in the English-speaking philosophical world,
focus exclusively on Western musical traditions. For criticism of this tendency, see Alperson 2009.
For some exceptions to it, see S. Davies 2001: 254–94) and Feagin 2007.)
Music is perhaps the art that presents the most philosophical puzzles. Unlike painting, its works often
have multiple instances, none of which can be identified with the work itself. Thus, the question of
what exactly the work is is initially more puzzling than the same question about works of painting,
which appear (at least initially) to be ordinary physical objects. Unlike much literature, the instances
of a work are performances, which offer interpretations of the work, yet the work can also be
interpreted (perhaps in a different sense) independently of any performance, and performances
themselves can be interpreted. This talk of “interpretation” points to the fact that we find music an art
steeped with meaning, and yet, unlike drama, pure instrumental music has no obvious semantic
content. This quickly raises the question of why we should find music so valuable. Central to many
philosophers’ thinking on these subjects has been music’s apparent ability to express emotions while
remaining an abstract art in some sense.
This entry focuses almost exclusively on work in the philosophy of music that is recent—from within
the last fifty years—and in an analytic vein (broadly construed). For a much broader introduction to
philosophy of music, covering its history, major figures, connections with other disciplines, and a
wider range of topics, see Gracyk & Kania 2011. Useful single-author overviews include Scruton
1997, Kivy 2002, and Hamilton 2007.
1. What Is Music?
1.1 Beyond “Pure” Music
For most of this entry, I focus on “pure” or “absolute” music—instrumental music that has no non-
musical aspects, elements, or accompaniments. Most of the philosophers whose work is discussed
below also put the focus here, for at least three reasons. The first is that pure music often presents the
most difficult philosophical problems. It is less puzzling how a musical setting of a maudlin text could
be expressive of sadness, for instance, than how a piece of music without even a programmatic text
could be, since the emotional expression could somehow be transferred to the music from the text.
The second reason is that, though the problems are more difficult, the solutions are likely to be more
easily evaluated in the pure case. Just as apportioning blame is easier when one person is responsible
for a crime than when the blame must be divided between a number of conspirators, the success of a
solution to the problem of musical expressiveness may be clearer if it can explain the expressiveness
of pure music. Thirdly, it is certain that the expressiveness of pure music will play a role in the
expressiveness of “impure” music. Though its text may contribute to the expressiveness of a song, for
instance, the musical aspects of the song must play some role. A maudlin text set to a jauntily upbeat
melody will clearly not have the same overall expressiveness as the same text set to a plodding dirge.
Though I have used expressiveness as an example here, these same points will apply to discussions
of musical understanding and value. There may also be interesting questions about the ontology of
“impure” music, but it is not clear they will be of the same kind as those about the expressiveness,
understanding, and value of such music. (For a sustained critique of this general approach, see Ridley
2004.)
Given the global prevalence of rock music, broadly construed, it is plausible that song is the most
common kind of music listened to in the contemporary world. Film and other motion pictures, such
as television and video-games, are also ubiquitous. There has been some significant work done on the
aesthetics of song (Levinson 1987; Gracyk 2001; Bicknell & Fisher 2013; Bicknell 2015), music
drama (Kivy 1988b, 1994; Goehr 1998), and film music (Carroll 1988: 213–225; Levinson 1996b;
Kivy 1997a; Smith 1996). (See also the chapters in part V of Gracyk & Kania 2011; on hybrid art
forms more generally, see Levinson 1984 and Ridley 2004.) However, it seems that there is plenty of
room for further work on the aesthetics of impure music. “Muzak” is another musical phenomenon
that is ubiquitous, yet has received little serious attention from aestheticians, being used primarily as
an example to elicit disgust. Whether or not there is anything interesting to say about Muzak
philosophically, as opposed to psychologically or sociologically, remains to be seen.
2. Musical Ontology
Musical ontology is the study of the kinds of musical things there are and the relations that hold
between them. The most discussed issues within this field have been the metaphysical nature of works
of classical music (the “fundamentalist debate”), and what it is to give an “authentic performance” of
such works. Recently there has been growing interest in the ontologies of other musical traditions,
such as rock and jazz, and discussion of the methodology and value of musical ontology. (For a more
detailed overview of these debates, see Kania 2008a,b, 2013b, and Matheson & Caplan 2011.)
2.1 The Fundamentalist Debate
Musical works in the Western classical tradition admit of multiple instances (performances). Much of
the debate over the nature of such works thus reads like a recapitulation of the debate over the
“problem of universals”; the range of proposed candidates covers the spectrum of fundamental
ontological theories. We might divide musical ontologists into the realists, who posit the existence of
musical works, and the anti-realists, who deny their existence. Realism has been more popular than
anti-realism, but there have been many conflicting realist views. I begin with three unorthodox realist
views before moving on to more orthodox Platonist and nominalist theories, concluding with a
consideration of anti-realism.
Idealists hold that musical works are mental entities. Collingwood (1938) and Sartre (1940)
respectively take musical (and other) works to be imaginary objects and experiences. The most serious
objections to this kind of view are that (i) it fails to make works intersubjectively accessible, since the
number of works going under the name The Rite of Spring will be as multifarious as the imaginative
experiences people have at performances with that name, and (ii) it makes the medium of the work
irrelevant to an understanding of it. One might have the same imaginative experience in response to
both a live performance and a recording of The Rite of Spring, yet it seems an open question whether
the two media are aesthetically equivalent. But see Cox 1986, and Cray & Matheson forthcoming, for
recent attempts to revive idealism.
David Davies argues that musical works, like all works of art, are actions, in particular the
compositional actions of their composers (2004). Thus he revives what we might call an “action
theory” of the ontology of art. (An earlier defender of such a view is Gregory Currie (1989), who
argues that artworks are types of action, rather than the particular actions with which Davies
identifies them.) Although deciding between theories of musical ontology is always to some extent a
matter of finding a balance between the benefits of a theory and its cost in terms of our pre-theoretic
intuitions, action theories have a particularly hard row to hoe since they imply that an instance of a
work is some action performed by a composer, rather than a performance. In order to make up for
such damage to our intuitions the theoretical benefits of an action theory would have to be quite
extensive.
Guy Rohrbaugh has proposed a new ontological category for musical, and other multiple works of art
(2003). He argues that since the kinds of things we attribute to musical and other art works, such as
modal and temporal flexibility, cannot be accounted for by any extant ontological theory and,
moreover, that these problems arise not just for artworks, but such things as “species …, clubs, sorts
of artifact, and words” (199), we are justified in positing a new kind of entity: a historical
individual that is “embodied in”, but not constituted by, physical things such as scores and
performances. (For criticism of this view, see Dodd 2007: 143–66.)
Most theorists think that some kind of Platonist or nominalist theory of musical works is more
plausible than those so far considered. Nominalists hold that musical works are collections of concrete
particulars, such as scores and performances (Goodman 1968; Predelli 1995, 1999a,b, 2001; Caplan
& Matheson 2006). While this view is attractive because it appeals only to the least problematic kinds
of entities, it faces serious challenges. Though many of our claims about musical works may be
paraphrasable into claims about sets of possible performances, some seem to make intractable
reference to works. For instance, most performances of The Rite of Spring—even including the
possible ones—include several wrong notes. Thus it is difficult to imagine how the paraphrase schema
will avoid the nonsensical conclusion that The Rite of Spring contains several wrong notes. The
solution to this problem seems to lie in an appeal to the work as independent of its various
performances, but such an appeal seems unavailable to the nominalist. (For a recent defense of
nominalist theories against some standard objections, see Tillman 2011.)
Platonism, the view that musical works are abstract objects, is perhaps the currently dominant view,
since it respects more of our pre-theoretic intuitions about musical works than any of the other
theories. On the other hand, it is the most ontologically puzzling, since abstract objects are not well
understood. Nonetheless, Platonism has been tenacious, with much of the debate centering around
what variety of abstract object musical works are. What we might call “simple Platonism” (known
simply as “Platonism” in the literature), is that works are eternal existents, existing in neither space
nor time (Kivy 1983a,b, Dodd 2007). According to “complex Platonism”, musical works come to
exist in time as the result of human action. The view is motivated by a number of features of musical
practice, including the intuition that musical works are creatable, the attribution of various aesthetic
and artistic properties to works, and the fine-grained individuation of works and performances (e.g.,
in terms of who composed them, or what instruments they are properly performed upon) (Ingarden
1961; Thomasson 2004; Wolterstorff 1980; Wollheim 1968: 1–10, 74–84; Levinson 1980, 1990b,
2013a; S. Davies 2001: 37–43; Howell 2002; Stecker 2003a: 84–92).
In contrast to all these realist views stand those of the anti-realists, who deny that there are any such
things as musical works. An early proponent of such a view is Richard Rudner (1950), though it is
difficult to say whether he is best interpreted as an eliminativist or a fictionalist, the two anti-realist
views currently on the table. According to eliminativists, there are no such things as musical works,
and thus we ought to stop trying to refer to them. Ross Cameron (2008) defends such a view, but only
with respect to “Ontologese”—the language we speak when we do ontology. He argues that ordinary
English locutions such as “there are many musical works” can be true without there being any musical
works. (For critical discussion, see Predelli 2009 and Stecker 2009.) According to fictionalists, the
value of discourse about musical works is not truth, and thus we ought not to abandon the discourse
despite the non-existence of its subject matter, but rather adopt a different, make-believe attitude
towards it (or perhaps we already do so). (See Kania 2008c, 2013b; for criticism, see Letts 2015.)
Much of this debate over the fundamental ontological category to which musical works belong has
turned on “technical” issues, that is, controversial general metaphysical claims about the nature of
properties, causation, embodiment, and so on (e.g., Howell 2002; Trivedi 2002; Caplan & Matheson
2004, 2006; Dodd 2007; Cameron 2008). In the face of this, some theorists have pointed out that
musical works are cultural entities, and thus the methodology appropriate to uncovering their
ontological status might be quite different from that of general metaphysics (Goehr 1992; S. Davies
2003a; D. Davies 2004; Thomasson 2006, Kania 2008c). There currently seems to be as much interest
in the methodological questions as in first-order theorizing. (For recent examples, see Kania 2008c;
D. Davies 2009, 2017; Predelli 2009; Stecker 2009; Dodd 2010, 2013; and Mag Uidhir 2013.)
4. Understanding Music
A central topic in the understanding of paradigmatically representational art forms, such as literature
and film, is what constitutes an acceptable interpretation of a work. One debate concerns whether
there is a single correct interpretation of any work or multiple acceptable interpretations; another
concerns the constraints on acceptable interpretations, e.g., the extent to which the artist’s intentions
may or should be taken into account. Though these questions seem equally applicable to musical
works (S. Davies 2002a; Dubiel 2011), most of the literature on understanding music has focused on
the nature of more basic musical understanding, presumably because this seems more mysterious than
the understanding of language or pictures. (The latter are significant philosophical topics in their own
right, of course, and it is an interesting question whether there should similarly be a general theory of
music as a medium, independent of questions of music’s artistic or aesthetic use (Kania 2013a).)
An additional complication is that two arguably distinct activities go by the name of “interpretation”
in music: what might be called performative and critical interpretation (Levinson 1993). While a
critical interpretation of a musical work (often called an analysis) is roughly equivalent to an
interpretation of a novel, typically expressed linguistically, a performative interpretation is a way of
playing or singing the work, typically expressed in a performance of it. It is not easy to clarify the
relationship between these two kinds of musical interpretation, but see Levinson 1993, Maus 1999,
Thom 2007, and Neufeld 2012. For the remainder of this section, I focus on basic musical
understanding.
Animals can hear music in a sense—your dog might be frightened by the loud noise emitted by your
stereo. But we do not hear music in this way; we can listen to it with understanding. What constitutes
this experience of understanding music? To use an analogy, while the mere sound of a piece of music
might be represented by a sonogram, our experience of it as music is better represented by something
like a marked-up score. We hear individual notes that make up distinct melodies, harmonies, rhythms,
sections, and so on, and the interaction between these elements. Such musical understanding comes
in degrees along a number of dimensions. Your understanding of a given piece or style may be deeper
than mine, while the reverse is true for another piece or style. I may hear more in a particular piece
than you do, but my understanding of it may be inaccurate. My general musical understanding may
be narrow, in the sense that I only understand one kind of music, while you understand many different
kinds (Budd 1985b: 233–5; S. Davies 2011c: 88–95). Moreover, different pieces or kinds of pieces
may call on different abilities, since some music has no harmony to speak of, some no melody, and
so on. Many argue that, in addition to purely musical features, understanding the emotions expressed
in a piece is essential to adequately understanding it (e.g., Ridley 1993; S. Davies 1994; Levinson
1990d: 30; Scruton 1997; Robinson 2005: 348–78). (We have seen, in the previous section, the role
this claim plays in some explanations of why we seek out music that elicits negative emotional
responses.)
Though one must have recourse to technical terms, such as “melody”, “dominant seventh”, “sonata
form”, and so on, in order to describe specific musical experiences and the musical experience in
general, it is widely agreed that one need not possess these concepts explicitly, nor the correlative
vocabulary, in order to listen with understanding (Budd 1985b; 245–8; S. Davies 1994: 346–9;
Levinson 1990d: 35–41; see DeBellis 1995 and Huovinen 2008 for dissenting views). However, it is
also widely acknowledged that such explicit theoretical knowledge can aid deeper musical
understanding and is requisite for the description and understanding of one’s own musical experience
and that of others (Kivy 1990).
At the base of the musical experience seem to be (i) the experience of tones, as opposed to mere
pitched sounds, where a tone is heard as being in “musical space”, that is, as bearing relations to other
tones such as being higher or lower, or of the same kind (at the octave), and (ii) the experience
of movement, as when we hear a melody as wandering far afield and then coming to rest where it
began. Roger Scruton (1983; 1997: 1–96) argues that these experiences are irreducibly metaphorical,
since they involve the application of spatial concepts to that which is not literally spatial. (There is no
identifiable individual that moves from place to place in a melody (S. Davies 1994: 229–34).)
Malcolm Budd (1985b) argues that to appeal to metaphor in this context is unilluminating since, first,
it is unclear what it means for an experience to be metaphorical and, second, a metaphor is only given
meaning through its interpretation, which Scruton not only fails to give, but argues is unavailable.
Budd suggests that the metaphor is reducible, and thus eliminable, apparently in terms of purely
musical (i.e., non-spatial) concepts or vocabulary. Stephen Davies (1994: 234–40) doubts that the
spatial vocabulary can be eliminated, but he is sympathetic to Budd’s rejection of the centrality of
metaphor. Instead, he argues that our use of spatial and motion terms to describe music is a secondary,
but literal, use of those terms that is widely used to describe temporal processes, such as the ups and
downs of the stock market, the theoretical position one occupies, one’s spirits plunging, and so on.
The debate continues in Budd 2003, Scruton 2004, and S. Davies 2011d.
Davies is surely right about the ubiquity of the application of the language of space and motion to
processes that lack individuals located in space. The appeal to secondary literal meanings, however,
can seem as unsatisfying as the appeal to irreducible metaphor. We do not hear music simply as a
temporal process, it might be objected, but as moving in the primary sense of the word, though we
know that it does not literally so move. Andrew Kania (2015) develops a position out of this intuition
by emphasizing Scruton’s appeal to imagination while dropping the appeal to metaphor, arguing that
hearing the music as moving is a matter of imagining that its constituent sounds move (see also de
Clercq 2007 and Trivedi 2011: 116–18). Kania explicitly models his theory on the popular Waltonian
theory of fiction (Walton 1990). Whether this is a benefit or a cost depends on how similar our basic
experiences of music and fictions are (and, of course, on the truth of Walton’s theory of fiction).
Moving from basic musical understanding of short passages to that of complex works of instrumental
music, Jerrold Levinson makes a case against what he sees as the paradigmatic conception of musical
understanding as a matter of the apprehension of form (1997). As a replacement for this
“architectonicism”, he promotes “concatenationism”: the view that basic musical understanding
consists in following the musical and emotional qualities of passages of music, and transitions
between them, that are short enough to be apprehended as a single experience (“quasi-hearing”). He
qualifies this basic idea considerably, allowing for the experience of previous parts of the piece, and
anticipation of future parts, to modify one’s experience of the music in the moment. He also allows
that architectonic awareness may play a role in enhancing one’s moment-to-moment experience, and
may even play an ineliminable part in the understanding of some pieces. Nonetheless, Levinson
maintains that the part played by architectonic knowledge in basic musical understanding is minimal,
and that the cases where architectonic knowledge is necessary are very much the exception.
Peter Kivy has taken up the gauntlet on behalf of the architectonicists (2001; see also S. Davies 2011c:
95–9). While Kivy acknowledges that the kinds of experiences Levinson champions are necessary to
basic musical understanding, he defends the idea that grasping the large-scale form of most pieces of
Western classical music, at least, is necessary for an adequate understanding of them. He does not
deny that the experience of the form of a piece in listening to it is more intellectual than quasi-hearing,
but he rejects Levinson’s argument that it is non-perceptual, and thus marginal to an adequate
experience of it as music. Rather, Kivy argues, such experience is a matter of bringing one’s
perceptions under sophisticated concepts. (A tactic Kivy does not consider is an attempt to hoist
Levinson with his own contextualist petard, arguing that even if architectonic listening is non-
perceptual it is a well-established mode of understanding pieces of music in the Western classical
music world, and thus that to argue music must be understood primarily perceptually is to beg the
question.)
Despite the heated debate that Levinson’s view has generated, it is not clear that there is so much
disagreement between the architectonicist and the concatenationist. Both agree that the aspect of
musical understanding the other emphasizes is a non-negligible component in the full understanding
of a musical work. Levinson has been explicit since the first publication of his view that he intends it
more as a polemic against and corrective to architectonicism, rather than as a replacement for it (1997:
ix–xi; 1999: 485; 2006a). Perhaps that purpose has now been fulfilled, but see Huovinen 2013 for a
revival of the debate and an attempted synthesis.
(For more detailed introductions to these and other topics in musical understanding, see S. Davies
2011c and Huovinen 2011.)