Category: DUMIC Blog

If one searches for press about the Duke University Musical Instrument Collections, this 2001 article from Duke Today is most likely to appear first. It details the contents of the instrument collection that G. Norman and Ruth Eddy donated to Duke, in the year that it posthumously arrived on campus. Surviving epistolary sources from Norman demonstrate, however, that the collection’s donation was first confirmed in 1977. At that time Norman described the paintings in his collection as being 20 in number, and by 2001 that number had risen to 90. These paintings, completed in Norman’s own hand and often depicting restored instruments from the collection, demonstrate a connection between the artistic influences reflected in the painting style, the art of preserving instruments, and the broad ethos of the Eddys’ decision to maintain a collection. The inclusion of these paintings in the collection is not only unique, it also sheds light on Norman and Ruth’s intentions for its use at Duke: a pedagogical and organological tool unlike anything of its kind in the American Southeast.

The above image is one such representation of G. Norman’s paintings. The detail in the small, isolated pieces of the deconstructed clarinet are immediately striking, as are the cutaways on the assembled clarinet to the right and the eight-inch lizard sitting atop the ruler at the bottom. As is indicated, the painting depicts a clarinet by the maker Hermann Werde (1770–1841), though there is a disagreement between Norman and Edwin M. Good (1928–2014), the collection’s cataloguer, about the specific date of the instrument. Good also curiously describes the lizard as having “no significance except to suggest that even wooden artifacts have a certain life.” While there does not seem to be any particular association between the animal, the instrument, or the maker, it does appear that Norman had an affinity for adorning otherwise commonplace and utilitarian tools. The below painting is another example, where the eight-inch ruler is accompanied by several early iterations of brass instruments, most notably a serpent.

These two paintings are similar in both artistic style and practical use. The prominent shadows that appear underneath the instruments themselves give a sort of illusion most commonly associated with the trompe l’oeil style. The shadows imply that a light is shone on the image and makes them look somewhat three-dimensional. It is also somewhat unclear if the instruments are lying flat on a surface or hanging on a blank wall. This style had a resurgence in the later nineteenth century, when artists like William Michael Harnett (1848–92) used it for similar effect. In his 1888 Violin and Music, pictured below, the same figural disorientation is displayed, though the nails that hold the bow and string provide a more grounded perspective than either of Eddy’s paintings.

The lifelike and three-dimensional quality of the instruments in Norman’s paintings is reminiscent of two dominating artistic genres often associated with the early-modern period: still lifes and curiosities. Both genres focus on the display of themed items that interact with one another within the frame, and often incorporate items that analogize death, prosperity, intelligence, or some such. As can be seen in the Baschensis still life (below), the collection of diverse stringed instruments highlights their shapes and resonances. Worm’s Museum is notable not only for the collection of animals considered “exotic” during his lifetime, but also because of the use of perspective; it appears that a large sturgeon, a bear, and a set of antlers are all equal in size. Both examples are represented in Norman’s paintings, but in different ways. His clarinets and bugles use a similar “point of light” that casts shadows from a particular angle in still lifes, while the depiction of uncommon animals for the sake of highlighting exoticism is abundant in this particular curiosity.

The ruler in Norman’s paintings is unique for its adornments, but it also represents a long history of instrument sketches. Michael Praetorius’s 1619 Theatrum Instrumentorum is a notable connection because of Praetorius’s use of the “Brunswick foot.” As shown below, the printed book provides illustrations of instruments to scale, based on the ruler at the bottom of the pages. Musicologist Matthew Zeller has translated Praetorius’s inscription for the ruler: “[The Brunswick foot] is the correct length and measure of a half Schuh or foot according to the ruler, which is a quarter of a Brunswick Ell; and according to this, all of the drawings of the instruments that follow have been adjusted to the little ruler always set with them” (138). While Praetorius’s ruler is comprised of five sections and Norman’s displays eight inches, they are otherwise similar in their ability to portray the sizes of instruments and their proportion to one another.

Norman’s ruler showcases particular artistic genres and historical precedent, but it also highlights the ethos of the Eddy’s donation of their collection to an academic institution. In Norman and Ruth’s 1977 letter to Terry Sanford, then President of Duke University, they stated their wish “to commit our antique musical instrument collection, paintings, and supporting materials to Duke University … as we believe very deeply in the future of Duke, its musical arts programs, and in the capital campaign to add to the strength of the University.” At the time Duke’s music department was developing a graduate program for musicology, and in a 1981 memo to Chancellor Kenneth Pye, Dean Craufurd Goodwin noted that the collection “would be an essential basis for courses in ‘organology’—the study of ancient instruments.” In a separate 1981 memo between two Duke employees, the collection was described as being of “interest to the general public and to students,” and that “interest in the arts … in the southeast could be further developed” with the collection being housed on campus. Both Norman and Ruth did indeed have an interest in cultivating organological study in a part of the country that did not already house a well-known instrument collection, like in New York or Boston.

While the ruler reflects influences from artistic genres, its primary use to depict instruments to scale demonstrates a pedagogical orientation. Many of the paintings were completed soon after the respective instruments in the collection had been restored. Norman’s creative output, then, is associated with his work as a restorer and collector, as well as his aims to provide an institution in the Southeast with a robust collection for study. That this representation is present within Norman’s paintings, some completed two decades before their eventual donation to the university, speaks to the Eddys’ long-standing intention for their collection to continue its life in the hands of students.

By Nick Smolenski, Ph.D. Candidate in Musicology, Duke University
with thanks to Dr. Matthew Zeller for his help

While the double flageolet is seldom in use today, it was considered one of the most popular instruments for amateur musicians in the early nineteenth century. The instrument was developed in England, but interest soon took root in Ireland and other cultures across continental Europe as well as the Americas. It was even used by Gilbert and Sullivan as a stage prop in Iolanthe (1882) and The Sorcerer (1877), thus cementing the physical instrument’s status as a cultural phenomenon and not necessarily tied to its unique sound (MacMillan 2010, 569). As with any societal fad, musical or otherwise, there were several instrument makers who attempted to capitalize on its quick rise to fame at the turn of the century. William Bainbridge (fl. 1803–40) was one such figure and the markings on his instrument, included in the DUMIC collection and shown below, confirm this race for recognition as the “inventor” of the double flageolet.

The traditional “English flageolet” is a woodwind instrument that is played on a whistle-shaped mouthpiece made of ivory. It has six finger holes on the pipe with ivory studs that help the player to identify where they should position their fingers. Some early versions also have a hole on the back of the instrument, though it was quickly replaced with a key or nothing at all. As the instrument was further updated throughout the century, metal keys and extensions were added to increase the range of the instrument. The double flageolet unites two English flageolet bodies with a single headstock piece, therefore allowing for air to enter both pipes simultaneously. Its sound is similar to that of a recorder but is also considered closely related to the transverse flute. The novelty of this instrument is the ability to play two melodic lines at once, rather than being confined to a single melody and an accompanying drone.

Details of Bainbridge’s early life are not known, except that he played the oboe and flute in a few London theaters at the turn of the century. The first dated occurrence that can be ascribed to him is a patent granted for his “octave flageolet” in 1803, which extended the range of the English flageolet. He filed several subsequent patent requests in the same year, and thus became the most acknowledged flageolet maker in England at the time. Despite what his many patents may suggest, he was unable to secure a patent for his double flageolet. And even though his double flageolets had “inventor” inscribed on the headstock (shown below), he was also not technically the inventor either. Historian William Waterhouse has traced the intellectual property for the double flageolet to the clarinetist John Parry, who constructed an independent frame for two of Bainbridge’s octave flageolets to be placed into (176). The first instrument maker to patent the double flageolet was Thomas Scott in 1805. Bainbridge’s insistence on inscribing “inventor” and “patent” on his double flageolets points to his insistence that he was indeed the original creator, even when he wasn’t.

Considering the long history of the double flageolet’s predecessors is crucial to understanding its own origin, in particular because it seems the instrument’s developers were deliberately touting creative originality. Historian Douglas MacMillan has traced the origin of the word “flageolet” to the thirteenth-century trouvères, when “Muset de Lorraine wrote of a shepherd playing a wooden ‘flageolet,'” (559). Composer Guillaume de Machaut also composed a piece for flageolet though, as MacMillan states, these early descriptions likely bore no resemblance to the nineteenth-century instrument and was more akin to a kind of recorder. Samuel Pepys is most notable when tracing the instrument’s history, for he records several of his experiences playing the “flagilette,” sometimes accompanied by his wife (ca. 1661–69): “At night into the garden to play on my flagilette, it being Mooneshine—where I stayed a good while…” (Girdham 2002, 397). Even during the seventeenth century the instrument was seen as one for amateurs and for “casual music making.” The flageolet had a brief stint in professional music circles during the eighteenth century, when it was used by Handel and others to imitate birdsong. The effect of mimicking birds became popular enough for an instruction book to be published on the subject in 1730, entitled The Bird Fancyer’s Delight (398).

Origins of the double flageolet are not merely limited to its own history, but also connect to that of the double recorder. The earliest surviving depiction of a double recorder in western culture is contained within a series of paintings of St. Martin, created by Simone Martini in the fourteenth century. Several other pieces of visual art show figures playing double recorders during this period, ca. 1321–1500, including the angel shown below from a fifteenth-century fresco. Roger Blench has noted that double recorders had been in use far earlier than this in non-western areas of the world. He suggests that one of the pipes in the Jacquerio fresco is longer than the other, and that the angel’s fingers are in such a position that a drone is being played on the longer pipe while a melody is performed on the other (1). Use of drones on double recorders with unequal length tubes was customary in Indian performance practice. Considered an “ancient folk instrument,” the Indian musical tradition also utilized double idioglot clarinets which soared in popularity throughout the Mediterranean. The identification of double recorders (known as “satara” in medieval India) as folk instruments is essential to the double flageolet’s

connection with this early predecessor. Both recorders and flageolets are soft in tone and volume, and therefore would have been used primarily indoors, or in small, intimate gatherings. While no known repertories have survived for either the satara or its western iteration, the performance of a drone suggests that it would have been used as a solo instrument or to accompany a singer while performing a countermelody. Such practices are not dissimilar to the use of double flageolets in the nineteenth century: they were usually played in salon and popular cultures by amateur musicians to perform English folk tunes on them.

 

Perhaps the most high-profile performance of the double flageolet occurred in 1805 when the clarinetist John Parry played his own, previously mentioned version of the instrument in several repeat performances of John Braham’s All’s Well on stage at the Covent Garden Theatre “to great applause” (Waterhouse 1999, 176). This moment undoubtedly had an impact on the popularity of the instrument within social circles that could afford to attend such an event and purchase the instrument thereafter. It also comes as no surprise that Thomas Scott applied for a patent in the same year, so he could capitalize on the heightened interest.

Those who made and sold double flageolets catered to the middle and upper classes, or those who participated in salon culture at the time. It became quite fashionable to play the instrument in private gatherings, and the advertisements and handbooks that accompanied flageolets points to this use. Some publications refrained from using musical notation and instead developed a tablature system, though many others did incorporate music notation. According to historian Jane Girdham, the appeal of the instrument was its “sweetness of tone and ease of acquirement” rather than celebrating its virtuosic capabilities. The instrument’s repertory reflects this, that which includes simple duets and arrangements of English folk tunes (400). Surviving advertisements focused on branding the instrument as simple to learn and easy to pick up within an hour or so of practice. Even Bainbridge remarked on its simplicity: “I never yet met with a Performer (and some of them very indifferent ones) but what was able to play several Duetts in the short space of a quarter of an Hour,” (407). While there are no surviving financial records that might have shown how many double flageolets were sold in the nineteenth century, it is clear from the instrument’s fashionable qualities, its ease of use, and its exposure to thousands in Covent Garden that Bainbridge and other instrument makers considered it to be quite profitable. Its profitability thus prompted the battle of the “inventor” inscriptions, even when the makers themselves knew this was untrue.

Despite its numerous predecessors, the double flageolet was considered to be a new and exciting instrument that was also musically accessible within nineteenth-century English circles. Surviving flageolets from this period make it clear that authenticity and the status of “inventor” were profitable selling points, even though knowledge of the instrument’s intellectual property became muddled with inaccuracies. That flageolets built by both Bainbridge and Scott bore the same patent inscriptions implies that the Bainbridge name was enough to sell instruments in mass quantities, despite his claims to originality being blatantly false. In this context, then, it seems that Bainbridge may have indeed won the race for recognition, even though he had not invented nor patented the double flageolet.

By Nick Smolenski, Ph.D. Candidate in Musicology, Duke University

E. Guilbaut is somewhat of an historical enigma. Despite his high-profile accomplishments at the turn of the twentieth century—named President of the “Association des Cornettistes de Paris” and the inventor of the “embouchure rayée,” or groove-throated mouthpiece—little else is known of his history. Guilbaut developed his mouthpiece at Couesnon & Cie, considered the most famous musical instrument company in the Western world by the end of the nineteenth century. An entry from a surviving Couesnon catalog (shown above) promotes the grooved mouthpiece as a new and fundamentally improved tool for any brass player of any skill level. Curiously, this revolutionary adaptation disappears entirely in Couesnon catalogs from 1910 and is never featured again, though groove-throated mouthpieces have continued to be developed by other instrument makers (even in the present day). Guilbaut’s name vanishes as quickly as the grooves themselves, and thus the Couesnon cornet mouthpiece in the DUMIC collection can be dated ca. 1900–1910.

While Guilbaut produced a number of groove-throated mouthpiece models, one in particular stands out from the others because of its soft rubber rim (“bords souples en caoutchouc rose”). The width of the metal rim, underneath the rubber, is about as wide as other Guilbaut cornet mouthpieces. As the above photos show, the rubber creates a narrower rim, privileging flexibility and range over endurance. The cup and throat are also quite narrow, which creates a brighter tone and relieves fatigue. The grooves in the throat help to minimize resistance and encourage more lip vibration, expanding range and broadening tone quality in the process. According to Guilbaut, these effects were caused by the grooves directing air more immediately through the throat and backbore, rather than it circling within the cup and creating additional resistance.

Couesnon’s catalog details how the new groove-throated mouthpiece was advertised to the average consumer. The rubber rim was promoted not only for comfort, but as a pedagogical aid. Younger players “whose muscles have not yet acquired great resistance” will find that the mouthpiece helps to produce the necessary level of resistance while simultaneously alleviating lip pressure, a bad habit which often leads to poor technique. Couesnon also reaches out to professional players and older novices, suggesting that fatigue and inaccuracy is a thing of the past. They allude to its universal application in musical settings by listing balls, parties, and concerts as ideal events to play on the mouthpiece. While they are not listed, outdoor events such as processionals, parades, and military events would have also been ideal considering the shape and material of the mouthpiece.

If the mouthpiece was as ubiquitous as the catalog suggests, why did Couesnon cease production in less than a decade? While sales are what ultimately drive or stall production—I suspect this case is no different—the company’s history and successes provide a more holistic explanation, namely that Couesnon had the resources and creative fortitude to experiment with new technologies. By 1900 Couesnon & Cie was known across Western culture as an award-winning brand in quality, accuracy, and innovation of musical instruments. Guilbaut’s groove-throated, rubber-rimmed mouthpiece just happened to be an innovation that was short lived.

Couesnon was initially established and named after Auguste Guichard in 1827 before Pierre Gautrot, brother-in-law to Guichard, took over as proprietor in 1845. The company opened its first factory in Château-Thierry in 1855, and by 1890 it employed over 200 instrument makers (the largest musical instrument factory at the time). Business partners and company names changed periodically until 1882, when the business opened a factory in Paris and became permanently known as “Maison Couesnon.” Historian Thomas Le Roux details how its social and architectural prominence contributed to its role as a leading innovator of brass, percussion, and woodwind instruments. Amédée Couesnon, son-in-law to Pierre Gautrot, was CEO when the company was awarded a gold medal at the 1889 World Exhibition in Paris, celebrated especially for their instruments’ “good quality and accuracy.” By 1900 Couesnon was asked not to compete in the Exhibition because they had swept whole categories each year. Amédée was later knighted by the Légion d’Honneur in 1893 before assuming the position Officer of the Academy in 1895. Couesnon & Cie expanded to eleven factories in 1911, while Amédée’s son, Jean Couesnon, facilitated the company’s partnership with Columbia Phonograph Company in the United States, thus cementing its international legacy before its steady decline caused by the 1929 market crisis.

Maison Couesnon’s most visible and celebrated factory was located in the 11e Arrondissement of Paris (94 Rue d’Angoulême). In the first decade of the twentieth century the factory expanded to two buildings, complete with a covered hall and a courtyard between them. The second building became Couesnon’s lavish “La salle de l’harmonie,” within which orchestras would perform concerts and musicians could test their instruments in a controlled acoustical setting. Le Roux notes that the hall and courtyard became important spaces in which social classes uniquely intermingled throughout each season. Maison Couesnon thus became a cultural epicenter as well as a site for quality craftsmanship.

With this company history in mind, Guilbaut’s “embouchures rayées” can be viewed as a representation of musical invention at a time when Couesnon was at its financial and cultural height. Even though Maison Couesnon was asked not to compete in the World Exhibition because of their winning so many awards, they were still allowed to present new models and promote their products. Couesnon became the gold standard for brass instruments in particular; hiring staff to cultivate new techniques like the grooved throat was paramount to their continued success. The legacy of the groove-throated mouthpiece is integral to understanding the impact Couesnon had on the greater musical instrument industry. While Guilbaut’s mouthpiece was short lived, the technique was picked up by other instrument makers in post-war America and continues to be developed since its invention over a century ago. That a single mouthpiece can illustrate the cultural and creative impact of a French instrument company speaks to the profound influence of the elusive Guilbaut.

By Nick Smolenski, Ph.D. Candidate in Musicology, Duke University

The mandolin has seen few innovations since its development in the eighteenth century. Societal and artistic contexts surrounding the instrument have varied widely, however, and few are more colorful than Boston at the turn of the twentieth century. The mandolin pictured below resides in the DUMIC collection and was constructed by a Boston-based instrument maker. Thanks to avid forum contributors and historians like Christine Ayars, it is possible to date the construction of this particular mandolin: ca. 1900.

While the metal nameplate on the headstock provides the most information (pictured above), there are other tell-tale signs on the instrument. A.C. Fairbanks Co., the name inscribed on the plate, was originally named Fairbanks & Cole Co. when it was founded in 1880 Boston. Albert Fairbanks and William Cole quickly became known for the exceptional quality of their banjos, and at the time it was the only instrument they made. After David Day joined the company in 1883 and once Cole left in 1890, its name was changed to A.C. Fairbanks Co. and remained unchanged until 1904. For the next five years they developed seven banjo models that included the newly patented “electric tone ring.” The first mandolins were produced around 1900, over a decade after the instrument became popularized in America by a group of Spanish musicians touring New England in 1880. The number “90” is carved into the back of the headstock, just under the plate, signifying that it was indeed the 90^th mandolin manufactured by A.C. Fairbanks and therefore created within the first year of production (if banjo sales are any indication of the company’s output, approximately 1,000 would have been sold each year).

The mandolin’s bowlback and “Regent” label provide further context. David Day is thought to be the maker who brought the bowlback patent to the company. Day had ties to Vega, another instrument maker company that would later acquire A.C. Fairbanks in 1904 and keep Day on as manager of operations. While Vega was better known for their cylinder backs, their bowls were shallower than that of the Fairbanks mandolin. Once Vega took over, they replaced the inner label that once bore the Fairbanks “Regent” logo with “The Vega Co.,” even though the nameplate still listed A.C. Fairbanks Co. These details show that DUMIC’s mandolin was constructed before Fairbanks’s selling to Vega in 1904, but somewhat close to that date since Day was able to contract a bowlback patent similar to the Vega style.

What might an instrument’s production date tell us about its history? Who would have played mandolin at the turn of the century, and what is the significance of A.C. Fairbanks producing mandolins in Boston? It turns out that a great amount of information regarding its use can be observed 120 years later, even if the identification of its original owner is not known. 1900 Boston was home to a unique co-mixture of musical genres, primarily German Romanticism, Irish and African-American folk songs, and traditional American dance tunes. Bostonians were not merely representing musical trends popular in the broader American context, they were also cultivating their own unique style. Composers like Amy Beach and Edward MacDowell combined the above genres in singular works. Music originally performed in homes in the 1890s suddenly spilled onto the streets and into dance halls, and vice-versa. The mandolin thus became sonically and symbolically enwrapped in every aspect of Boston’s musical landscape at the turn of the century.

The A.P. Schmidt Company, founded in 1876 Boston, surged to the top of the market as a music publishing and foreign import establishment. Its owner, Arthur Paul Schmidt, is largely viewed as responsible for popularizing German and German-influenced concert music across New England, most especially in Boston. The Company became the main publisher for the group of composers now known as the Second New England School or the “Boston Six,” which included Amy Beach, Edward MacDowell, and Horatio Parker among others. Signs of German influence in classical music also took architectural form with the opening of Boston’s Symphony Hall in 1900. According to Tony Long, the shape and acoustics of the hall were constructed by the firm McKim, Mead & White with the intention to mimic the Neues Gewandhaus in Leipzig, which itself had opened in 1884. To this day, the only face carved into the plaques above the Symphony Hall stage is that of Beethoven’s.

While the Boston Six composed grand works for orchestras and opera houses, some also wrote for domestic spaces. Edward MacDowell is perhaps most famous for his parlor song “To a Wild Rose,” which became the opening movement in his 1896 piano suite, Woodland Sketches. Its tranquil character is largely due to the simple, modally-tinged melody and harmonic structure of the “A” section. It contrasts from the following “B” section, which includes a more dramatic and Romantic-influenced chordal progression. Parlor songs, such as the one described, are highly versatile and allow for a myriad of instruments to play them. Cadenza, a New York-based musical journal, reported in 1899 that “in the parlor the mandolin and guitar … produce a soft and desirable music, which makes a pretty effect, and it is for this reason that they are being used to such an extent in private residencies.” Historian Paul Sparks notes that in 1890s Boston “shop-girls started to carry mandolin cases in public, to give the impression that they were really Society ladies.” The mandolin found its way into urban high society, becoming as fashionable as it was accessible.

The mandolin was by no means exclusive to middle-class culture at this time in Boston. As a direct result of Ireland’s Great Famine in the 1840s, Boston became home to a great many Irish-American immigrants. One of the most influential events that cemented the tradition of Irish folk music in the city was the founding of the Intercolonial Club in 1907, one of the dance halls on Dudley Street. Celtic bands comprised of fiddlers, flautists, and players of mandolin and other stringed instruments lit dance floors aflame with Irish and American dance tunes. Amy Beach united her compositional background (influenced by Dvořák, who was in America from 1892–95) and musical surroundings with her 1896 Gaelic Symphony, which features folk tunes from the British Isles. That the symphony premiered in Boston reflects an interest for Irish tunes to be represented in the city’s German-dominated classical tradition.

What does this mean, then, for contextualizing the mandolin in the DUMIC collection? While original ownership cannot be traced with any certainty, it is entirely possible to imagine what music would have been played by mandolin owners in Boston, ca. 1890–1910. Despite its being created by an instrument maker who originally specialized in banjos, an instrument that is more directly linked to folk tune performance in nineteenth-century America, this mandolin was a symbol in high society and a versatile instrument to be used in parlors as often as dance halls. It pervaded numerous aspects of musical life in Boston and inspired prominent American composers to write around its own diverse history. To contextualize this instrument is to appreciate its presence in 1900 Boston, in a time before it became synonymous with the blue grass and jazz genres, ca. 1920–50.

By Nick Smolenski, Ph.D. Candidate in Musicology, Duke University