When I was
a kid in South Africa, my parents always had the radio tuned to SABC, the South
African Broadcasting Company, the English–language government radio station. (There
was also an Afrikaans equivalent, SAUK, but my parents spent their years in
South Africa acting as though those
people didn’t exist, so we never listened to that station.)
SABC had
news—controlled and limited, because this was during Apartheid—music, and old
radio serials from the UK and the US. A couple of those serials were science
fiction, which I loved. Others were mysteries and spy dramas, which we often
listened to together. Some of the music was popular music, but as I remember
it, for a large part of the day, the station played classical music.
For the
most part, the kind of classical music was what is often called “light classical
music” or just “light music.” Here’s the definition from Wikipedia: “Light
music is a less–serious form of Western classical music, which originated in
the 18th and 19th centuries and continues today. Its heyday was in the mid–20th
century. [These are] ... usually shorter orchestral pieces and suites designed
to appeal to a wider context and audience than more sophisticated forms such as
the concerto, the symphony and the opera.”
Note this
phrase used in the definition: “form of Western classical music.” You’ll see
why that’s important.
I loved
that music. I was as entranced by it as I was by the science–fiction radio
serials. I can’t say which of those two, the music or the serials, carried me
away more completely to a more wonderful and beautiful universe. The only
competition was the supply of adventure/escape fiction from the local library.
If I could have spent all of my time reading those novels while listening to
those radio serials and classical music, I would have been in heaven.
When I was
in my teens, we moved to the US. It was a difficult adjustment. That was in
1957, and 68 years later, at this writing, I still haven’t adjusted fully. But
what I did have that was unchanged was adventure/escape fiction and music. By
then, “music” meant to me both classical music and the exciting new music, Rock
and Roll. I alternated happily between the two genres.
When I
could manage it, I bought records. Not R&R, though: classical. It was still
mostly light classical. It was what I knew and loved. I would play something classical
from the 19th century on the record player, and I would close my eyes and be
carried away by the beautiful melodies to another and better place.
The time
came for me to escape from my parents’ home and go to college—Indiana
University in Bloomington, Indiana. There I met Leonore; we recently celebrated
our 57th anniversary. But that’s another story (and a very happy one). Long
before Leonore and I met, I made friends with a fair number of music students.
I don’t
know how it ranks now, but back then, IU had one of the world’s great music
schools, and one of the biggest. There were a lot of music students on the
campus. They came from all over the country and world. They didn’t get into
that school unless they were already very good and accomplished.
I was a
math/physics/astronomy major, but almost all of my friends were in other
fields, mostly the arts, and of those, most were in music. One of the first
questions my new musician acquaintances asked me was what kind of music I
liked.
“Classical,”
I said.
They were
delighted. It was not the response they had expected. They reeled off the names
of a number of composers of long ago, a very few of which I recognized, and
asked which ones I preferred.
“None of
those,” I said. “Tchaikovsky. Rimsky–Korsakov.” I named a few others whose
music I loved.
“Oh,” they
said, disappointed and disapproving. “You mean Romantic music.”
“Romantic”
was not a word I associated with music. Nor did I understand the sneer in their
voices. So they told me about the various periods into which music is divided
and listed prominent composers in each (most particularly J. S. Bach, who was a
god to the I.U. music school in those days), and they explained to me that
music of the Romantic Period was the least of all of them and should be shunned
by all right–thinking people.
(Somewhat
later, I would be told by a music student that he particularly hated
Tchaikovsky because T’s music is so hard to play. He reacted badly when I told
him that I thought that said more about the performer than the composer.)
I must give
those music kids credit. They introduced me to new worlds of music, Bach
included, that I grew to like a great deal. But never as much as I love Romantic
music, which I still consider the greatest music of all.
But that’s
not what I want to talk about. Instead, let’s discuss nomenclature.
Those music
students objected to my referring to the entire category of music as classical
music. They insisted that Classical must only be used to refer to one period of
such music, the period roughly between 1750 and 1820. I don’t remember if they
had a term for the entire musical genre, something they used the way I used “classical.”
In the
decades since those days, I’ve encountered that particular musical pomposity a
few times from musicians. There was even a commercial classical music station
in Denver years ago—KVOD, of beloved memory—that switched to calling itself a “concert
music” station instead of a classical music station, the on–air explanation for
which change was a lecture that could have come from the mouths of those music–student
friends of mine of long ago. Listener objections were loud enough that KVOD dropped
that silliness and went back to calling itself what it was, a classical music
station.
The next
paragraph might strike you as an odd digression. It isn’t.
As a math
geek, I learned, possibly in high school, the special way mathematicians use
the words “series” and “sequel.” In ordinary English, it’s common to speak of a
series of events. But from the viewpoint of mathematics, that’s wrong, wrong,
wrong! You can’t say that! Never mind the formal definitions. In simple terms,
a sequel looks like this: 1, 8, 13, 95, 2, ... (The “...” means “It goes on and
on that way forever or at least until the sun goes nova and incinerates all the
mathematicians.”) By contrast, a series looks like this: 1+8+13+95+2+... So “a
series of events” means that somehow the events are added together, which makes
no sense. But “a sequence of events” makes perfect sense.
So, from
now on, don’t you ever let me hear you refer to a series of events. You are
only allowed to say “a sequence of events.” Right? You’ll obey me on that, won’t
you?
No, of
course you won’t. You will completely ignore my beautiful mathematical examples
above and go right on using “series” incorrectly, won’t you?
Of course
you will. And so you should.
Mathematicians
have good reasons for defining terms such as “series” and “sequence” precisely.
Precision, conciseness, and clear
communication are essential when mathematicians or musicians or bricklayers or
accountants or ... are talking within
the confines of their specialty. And why not use some ordinary words from
ordinary English for the purpose? They own those specially defined words and
phrases within the confines of their specialty. But they don’t own any words or
phrases outside it.
The English
language belongs to everyone who speaks it, not just to mathematicians or
musicians, etc. A math student who uses “series” or “sequel” incorrectly should
expect to be upbraided. A mathematician who tries to dictate how non–mathematicians
use those words should expect to be laughed at.
Mathematicians
don’t own the language, and they don’t even own mathematics. It belongs to all
of us. So does music. So does the term “classical music” as it is used by
everyone who isn’t a musician—and, I’m pretty sure, by many, perhaps most,
musicians in casual conversation.
All over
the world, there are radio stations with “classic” or “classical” in their
names, stations that play music ranging from Medieval to Romantic, and even
unfortunately that 20th–century stuff. Classical music, in other words.
Try it yourself.
Google “classical music radio stations” and see how many hits you get. You’ll
get a huge list of such stations—a stupendously long series of them.
