It’s Classical Music Is What It Is

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.