Reflections + A Musical Adventure to Olympic Records

My discussion questions are marked in bold.

The common thread I detected in this week's readings was how to weather the power dynamics affecting ethnomusicology. Michelle Kisliuk proposes we document music culture through experience, embracing our subjective stance. This pushes back against the objectivism of colonial anthropologists, a painful past that Kisliuk confronts throughout her experience.

Given that music is embedded in subjectivity, we can ask how music performance is framed to create power. Small's "A Place for Hearing From Musicking" shows how building grand concert halls designed for classical music performances is a way to uphold Western music hegemony. Everything from their imposing structures to the codified human performance that accompany these concert halls (I especially enjoyed the foyer bit - needing a transition space into the sacred hall itself) suggests that this whole opera house trend isn't really about music: it's about power.

If you need further convincing, ask Kevin, the wonderful owner of Olympic Records. The first time I interacted with him, I asked about those classical music records rammed into a few crates. A fan of Prokofiev, I wanted to know if he classical recommendations. I was extremely shy, and felt like an idiot for even asking: the moment I did, Kevin conveyed that he had little interest in classical music. He did, however, inform me that secondhand classical music vinyls are a sure bet: "the people who owned these things never played them," he said, holding a crisp Romeo and Juliet between his palms. What's the difference, then? When music becomes pure performance, or the mere suggestion of culture, does it stop being music? As soon as Kevin bagged the vinyl for me, I went home and played my mint condition Romeo and Juliet. Even now I play it as much as I can, to make up for lost time.

At the same time, a moment in Small's piece that seemed damning for concert halls - "nor does any sound enter from that world, and none of the sounds that are made here will be allowed to escape out into it" - represents, for Harlem's ball culture, a blanket of secrecy that was ripped off when "Paris is Burning" hit the mainstream circuit. Though the glamor of the scene was immediately embraced, little was done to compensate the black and Latinx performers who face ongoing violence and precariousness. This is discussed at length in Ashley Clark's retrospective critique of "Paris is Burning." I agree that the director went about the release in imperfect ways, and in doing so her documentary shed light on the perhaps grim reality of ethnomusicology: will it inevitably harm the subject it seeks to illuminate? In that respect, should underground music cultures be kept in secrecy, airtightness, and therefore relative safety, as the opera houses of Sydney, New York, and Philadelphia?

What I'm getting at is the idea that exclusivity is power. As long as the Harlem ball scene was able to shut out white supremacy from this particular space, it allowed queer folks of color to express themselves freely. Who decides when an underground scene should be thrust into the world, brought to everyone's attention? Had they wanted to come out to the world, did the ball performers have the necessary clout to do so? Matters of power always complicate the act of shedding light.

Now that what's done is done, it's time to listen to the members of this subcultures and meet their needs. There's no reason why ethnomusicology should be detrimental, especially not in the spirit of fieldwork described by Kisliuk. Jennie Livingston made a documentary about the Harlem ball scene because she believed that other people could learn from this subculture and its values. We should make sure that this learning process is respectful of the subjects. We've done the taking - as evidenced by "Paris is Burning"'s zealous voyeurism - and now it's time to give back.