Phonograph Monthly Review, Vol. 5, No. 3 (1930-12)

December, 1930, Vol. V. No. 3 75 The Phonographic Pilgrim's Progress of an Ignoramus By KENNETH B. MURDOCK T HE real musical ignoramus is probably as little known to most readers of the Phono- graph Monthly Review as the wildest denizen of the remotest South Sea island—and of as little interest. Yet the Pilgrim’s Progress of such an ignoramus may go far to reveal the capacity of the phonograph as a worker of miracles, and to that extent concern even those who have never themselves strayed in abysmal darkness. The musical ignoramus is, to define him as a type, one to whom music is a closed book, or at least a book which attracts only by an occasional gleam from the binding. He usually has been struggled with by a conscientious family who have tried to have him taught the piano, but his obvious lack of aptitude has discouraged even their fondness and he has been left knowing nothing more than the distinction between black keys and white. He has been taken, or has grimly gone of his own volition, to a few operas and a symphony concert or two. Now and then an aria has given him an uncomfortable feeling that there must be something in music after all, or a sense of satisfaction of which, except in his most relaxed moments, he is vaguely ashamed. At the concerts he has developed a resentment against the composers’ habit of interrupting what otherwise might be good tunes with more or less meaningless and complicated sounds which, to the ignoramus, spell confusion. The Pilgrims’ Chorus, of course, he likes, because he can follow it, or thinks he can, both as a piece of music with discernible melody and as a more or less shadowy reflection of dramatic action. He hears Tschai- kowsky’s Fifth, and though he is horrified by the din and what seems to him the chaos of the whole, the main theme sticks in his head. For weeks thereafter he makes himself a curse to all about him by whistling that theme or the melody of the Pilgrims’ Chorus, neither of them accurately, and gradually coalescing one into the other, till he has a hybrid of his own with none of the merits of either parent. At about this stage he is usually renounced by all his musical acquaintances. He in turn mocks them as pedants because in conversation they sometimes use such impossible jargon as “de- velopment of a theme,” “variations,” “fugal treatment,” or deal even in such hideous techni- calities as “minor thirds.” He finds that most of his neighbors agree with him, and attempts no further rebellion against the common taste. A sufficiently sentimental tune, presented effu- sively enough, will still make him a little tearful. That for him spells music. Those who mean more by the word seem to him far gone in sense- less and unreasoning faddism. Now and then, though, an ignoramus is saved from the burning, like Christian from the City of Destruction. Generally it is done by an en- thusiastic friend, patient enough and clever enough to drag the ignoramus through the Slough of Despond. Sometimes the friend is wise enough to use the phonograph as a weapon; sometimes the ignoramus discovers its possibilities for him- self. Of course, even armed with a phonograph, the ignoramus may still be unconverted, except by sentimentality, or theatricality, or rhythm so ob- vious that it makes him tap his foot, and even his response to these things may be automatic and shallow. But, given a phonograph and a spark of divine curiosity, which drives him to experiment, and, better still, a friend with good taste and tolerance, strange things may happen—