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Making waves: opening keynote for the twentieth anniversary of the feminist theory and music conference.

It is a great honor to have been invited to deliver this keynote. When we first launched the concept of such an event in Minneapolis twenty years ago, no one could have anticipated that it would still be going full blast in 2011. We all owe its continued existence to the intellectual commitments of thousands of participants and the dedication of colleagues who have committed their efforts and resources to host the biennial events in their home institutions. So before we go any further, let's thank Jill Sullivan and her colleagues for throwing this splendid anniversary party--and also all those who have shouldered the responsibility of arranging Feminist Theory and Music Conferences every two years since 1991.

In our various academic and political enterprises, we like to imagine that we can produce an unbroken upward trajectory, whereby breakthrough succeeds breakthrough, all pointing ever forward. When that process seems to stall in a holding position or even to lose ground, we sometimes complain that it was all for naught. A kind of pessimism sets in: if we didn't manage to realize all our ideals, then we may as well not have bothered. So then the sixties failed, the civil rights movement failed, maybe Barack Obama has failed.

The problem with this model is that it demands all or nothing. The world rarely changes once and for all in response to idealistic agendas, but that does not mean that they were futile. More often than not, it's two steps forward, one step back--over and over again. If we take time to notice, we'll find that many elements of our present-day world bear the marks of all those movements; they did in fact make a difference. And once we've recovered from the inevitable setbacks, we buck up and take the two steps forward again. Let's call this wave formation--a metaphor, to be sure, but one that has been widely adopted to describe this process.

For a variety of reasons, feminism may be more prone to successions of waves than other movements. When women my age began to organize politically in the 1970s, most of us did not know that our issues had served as rallying points for previous generations. Some vague recollection of the suffragists who fought for voting rights at the turn into the twentieth century led us to call ourselves second-wave feminists. But, in truth, it was difficult to relate to those pictures of frumpy-looking battle-axes, known to most of us by the patronizing name given to them by their mocking opponents: suffragettes. Looking back, it seems quite remarkable to me that we made any acknowledgment of kinship whatsoever. After all, we had just emerged from the excitement of the sexy 1960s.

Over the course of the seventies and eighties, historians undertook an extensive archaeology, which revealed layer after layer of no-longer-remembered feminist movements. And a pattern began to emerge: alternating generations had to reinvent the wheel--the same arguments, the same grievances, the same strategies for organizing--only to fall into oblivion. On the one hand, it was thrilling to learn that we were part of an ongoing series of activists. But on the other, it was deeply depressing. Why had those accomplishments left behind so few traces, even among other women? Why did each generation of feminists believe itself to be the first of its kind in history? What accounts for the erasure of those aspirations and achievements from memory? Why did we need to do it all over again?

Let's return to our suffragists. I think it's safe to say that no other groups of social activists at that time found themselves so roundly derided, the great triumph of their movement--suffrage--turned into a silly diminutive. Their achievements for women (the extension of the right to vote, the opening up of higher education and jobs) came to seem natural, as if they had always been thus. Despite those truly remarkable accomplishments, their lasting image was reduced to those clusters of frumpy-looking battle-axes.

And who wants to follow that model? You want to disappoint your father? You don't want a husband? You'd rather be like a character in the Monty Python sketch in which the Batley Townswomen's Guild reenacts the Battle of Pearl Harbor, savagely beating each other with handbags and wallowing in the mud? (1)

Soon the personal stakes of admitting allegiances to such causes grow overwhelming, the price too high to pay. Fissures open up, making any kind of collective work nearly impossible. Note how the very concept of a women's guild is held up as hilarious in the Python sketch. Yes, I vote and went to college. But I am emphatically not a feminist! Not like one of them. I am an individual. I acquired all these rights through my own efforts.

But then you begin to notice closed doors, double standards, glass ceilings. The head of the search committee at Duke says you will have to be sterilized before you can be considered for an assistant professorship. (2) You try to hunker down to do hard-core, gender-neutral scholarship, and still someone notices that you're actually female. You get paid half what your slacker male colleague receives. "Uh-oh," you say to yourself, "maybe this isn't really about me. Maybe it's time for collective action again." Frustrations build to fuel another organized push for radical change. Despite all those ludicrous images of battle-axes and bra burners you have filed away in the back of your mind, you suddenly find yourself declaring" "Ja, ich bin eine Feministin!" And another wave begins to take shape.

I've been speaking here of my own experience--my generation's initial reluctance to embrace the cause or even to identify ourselves as women. The trough out of which we had to emerge was particularly deep, and memories of previous activists had been nearly entirely eradicated. To the credit of the third-wave feminist movement, which includes many of you present today, that kind of trough and memory eradication did not transpire this time around. The most obvious sign of continuity is precisely the Feminist Theory and Music Conferences that have taken place faithfully for twenty years now. Without these gatherings and regular publications such as the Women & Music journal, we might be in the position now of having to reinvent that wheel all over again. You would not be attending this event if you did not find yourself hailed by the label "feminist." And I think that's cause for celebration.

Since the first of our conferences twenty years ago, feminist music studies have made astonishing progress. I'll start with the field of research already widely recognized as a feminist enterprise at the time: the study of female composers. When I was trained, we were told (if we had the nerve to ask) that there had been no women composers. But over the course of the 1980s, a number of now-classic studies detailing the history of women in Western and non-Western music appeared, laying the groundwork for all subsequent research. We are especially indebted to Carol Neuls-Bates, Jane Bowers, Judith Tick, and Ellen Koskoff for their pioneering efforts. (3)

And so, armed with these new books, we began trying to sneak a woman in here and there as we trucked through our history surveys. Because she was not in the official textbook, however, many students saw this as an imposition of dangerous ideologies on their educational process. The inclusion of even two women over the course of a semester would produce complaints of feminist brainwashing in students' evaluations--not a joke during the period when Lynne Cheney, then head of the NEH, was striving to purge universities of what she called "tenured radicals."

Today, thanks in part to fellow travelers such as Peter Burkholder, women show up throughout standard textbooks such as A History of Western Music; they're just there as part of the official historical record. (4) We have also witnessed a boom in first-rate biographies of female composers. Suzanne Cusick's study of Francesca Caccini and Judith Tick's biography of Ruth Crawford Seeger not only bring a wealth of new information to the table but also raise the bar and transform the methodologies drawn upon for life-and-works research. (5) Within the discipline of music theory, Ellie Hisama has published in-depth analyses of music by twentieth-century women. (6)

Some of the greatest strides in our field have transpired, however, because of vast, often unforeseen changes in the boundaries of our disciplines. The first of these involves the legitimizing of popular music as a terrain for scholarly research. Before 1990, research concerning popular music had taken place elsewhere--in cultural studies programs, English and history departments, and organizations such as IASPM. The paper I gave on Queen Latifah at the 1990 AMS meetings was met with puzzlement and (as usual) outrage.

But the first Feminist Theory and Music Conference coincided with the opening up of popular music as a recognized and even desirable area of expertise. As a result of this shift, the study of women in popular music has skyrocketed, encouraged in no small measure by the burgeoning of female singer-songwriters who have won top awards year after year. This year's conference alone features papers on Sarah Vaughan, Janis Joplin, Bessie Smith, Tracy Chapman, Beyonce, Eva Garza, and (inevitably) Lady Gaga.

If we still have to struggle to demonstrate the historical significance of women musicians from past centuries, no one questions the impact of today's female recording and concert artists. Moreover, issues concerning race, ethnicity, class, and region have become familiar aspects of our research, thanks to the much greater diversity of pop music and the necessity of analyzing it not only through gender but also through these other lenses as well. In my review of The Oxford History of Western Music, I took Richard Taruskin to task for ignoring the leading role African American musicians played in shaping musical cultures of the twentieth century. (7) None of us is likely to fall into that trap.

Second, the last twenty years have seen the powerful emergence of queer studies. The legendary AMS meeting in Oakland in 1990 allowed (albeit with considerable reluctance) the first session on gay topics. Only after the late Philip Brett threatened the program committee that he would picket the hotel was his proposal for a panel on Handel, Schubert, Tchaikovsky, and Britten finally accepted. The vision of the incomparably debonnaire Saint Philip marching on the sidewalk with a placard managed to sway the committee. To the enormous chagrin of the conference organizers, virtually everyone showed up for this historic session; after the ballroom filled past capacity, dozens of listeners piled up the hallway outside trying desperately to overhear the proceedings. Liz Wood similarly opened up the terrain of lesbian history and criticism, and together Brett, Wood, and Gary Thomas published in 1994 the pathbreaking book Queering the Pitch" The New Gay and Lesbian Musicology. (8) Judith Peraino's Listening to the Sirens: Musical Technologies of Queer Identity from Homer to Hedwig extended this agenda yet further. (9) Put simply, AMS sessions focusing on queer issues no longer even raise eyebrows. Indeed, the evening event sponsored by the LGBTQ Study Group now qualifies among the highlights of each annual meeting. Who could have predicted that in 1991?

Third, a change of emphasis has occurred over the last twenty years in part owing to the influence of the late Christopher Small's neologism "musicking," in part to a swerve toward sociological models such as those of Pierre Bourdieu. (10) Although the discipline had long paid lip service to the roles played by female patrons from Isabella d'Este to Isabelle Stewart Gardner, our models of what mattered in music history had continued to focus exclusively on the Great Men who composed the music. And even though hundreds of twentieth-century composers received their training at the hands of Nadia Boulanger and legions of other female teachers, these women rarely showed up as crucial figures for research in their own right. Their contributions to the development and sustaining of music cultures, their shaping of tastes, their incomparable pedagogical skills were continually pushed to the margins--regarded rather like the leftist women of the sixties who were seen as merely providing coffee and other creature comforts to their revolutionary boyfriends.

When we view our area of study not as an object but rather as an activity--indeed, an activity necessary for cementing the bonds upon which human society depends--then female patrons, salonnieres, teachers, and scholars are not mere handmaidens (as rey teachers used to call them if they referred to them at all). Research by Ruth Solie, Ralph Locke, and Cyrilla Barr, among others, has put the spotlight back on these women, whose energies and social connections deeply influenced their own historical moments and our own. (11) They now appear rightly as movers and shakers, as makers of music cultures.

A fourth shift came about with the development of performance studies as a field within the social sciences and humanities. When professors in English, philosophy, and anthropology departments started to grab onto this word, they did not have in mind what musicians think of as the art of rendering notation into sound in front of an audience. Rather, they theorized "performance" as the way an individual assembles her or his identities for deployment within social situations.

Yet the circulation of this term in its new guise has encouraged us to rethink the traditional emphases of our disciplines, to reconceptualize the stars of the concert stage along these lines. Before 1990 the singers who brought music dramas to life were deemed unworthy of serious attention; they were the scorned purview of opera queens. But opera queens (of both sexes) have always known that opera cannot exist without its divas, and female singers are finally getting their due. Feminist scholars such as Mary Ann Smart and Naomi Andre have brought the study of stage gesture and vocal timbre into the very center of music research. (12) Even the august Philip Gossett jumped on this particular bandwagon when it allowed him to hang out with his favorite stars. (13) It seems to be a lot more fun than squinting at Beethoven sketchbooks.

One final frontier: interdisciplinarity. Twenty years ago most music scholars developed their research projects within narrowly defined disciplinary limits. Few read outside their own field. But each of the movements I've mentioned so far--popular music, queer theory, performance studies, music sociology, not to mention feminist theory--has required serious interdisciplinary engagement. No longer just fads of the lunatic fringe, writers such as Jacques Derrida, Gilles Deleuze, Julia Kristeva, Michel Foucault, Paulo Friere, Rosi Braidotti, Mikhail Bakhtin, Michel de Certeau, and Homi Bhabha now show up on syllabi for first-year graduate students. We now expect educated musicians to know how to deploy the ideas of such thinkers in their work. Once again, who'd a thunk it?

Yet we have not pursued all the possibilities introduced in 1991 as aggressively as we might have, in part because of an accident in timing. When the first Feminist Theory and Music Conference took place twenty years ago, second-wave concerns were just poised to enter into our disciplines. But the book most responsible for changing the tide, Judith Butler's Gender Trouble, appeared at precisely the same time. (14) Third-wave feminists questioned the label "woman" and leveled the charge of "essentialism" against the paradigms of their immediate predecessors.

For disciplines that had already exhausted the agendas of the second wave, this shift in locus made a certain kind of sense. After all, academic careers are built on innovation, the possibility of reaching beyond what had come before. But music scholars had not really begun to pursue the projects that had transformed most other disciplines in the humanities and social sciences over the course of the 1970s and 1980s. Right at the moment when those projects might have been undertaken, a collision of waves more or less canceled them out.

Recall that the organizers of the first of our conferences did not call it Women and Music but rather Feminist Theory and Music, and the difference is significant. At the time of that first conference in 1991, feminist theory had produced some of its most spectacular effects by scrutinizing widely accepted canons in a wide variety of disciplines from the vantage points of newly articulated perspectives. Although the project of bringing women to light continued unabated in those fields, the possibility of examining gender politics in the works of Shakespeare, Picasso, Hitchcock, and Newton also now arose. To be sure, these were the efforts that caused sparks to fly, for most established scholars held that Shakespeare, Picasso, Hitchcock, and Newton were not really men; they were universal subjects. But to the extent that the prestige of these men had set the presumably value-free terms of their respective fields, they also made it difficult for other modes of expression or methods to emerge as legitimate. That's why second-wave feminists went after the masterworks with hammer and tongs.

Alas, at the time women in other departments were banding together to deconstruct the assumptions underpinning their disciplines, we in music studies lacked the tools necessary for such endeavors. The analytical and historical methods we had inherited posited an unbridgeable divide between the music itself and any kind of social signification; indeed, we learned to celebrate that divide as what makes music superior to all other cultural media. So while others were busy analyzing the politics of camera angles in Hitchcock or metaphors buttressing Newtonian physics, we had no ways of addressing how gender ideologies might have influenced musical conventions and modes of representation.

The collision twenty years ago involved not only the tensions between second- and third-wave feminism but also the differences between traditional and critical musicology. My book Feminine Endings, just published in 1991, has had a much greater impact on so-called New Musicology than on feminist music studies. (15) Along with Rose Rosengard Subotnik, Larry Kramer, and Richard Leppert, I have attempted to expose the cultural meanings in the abstract forms of classical music. (16) Gender always qualifies as a biggie in social ideologies, and it seemed to me then (and no less now) that gender permeates the value-neutral canon of European art music, just as it does painting, literature, or the sciences. Don't kill the messenger for pointing this out.

Armed, however, with the new buzzword "essentialism," some critics seized onto the latest trends in feminist theory to shut down the enterprise of interpreting music before it even got off the ground. In many cases, the people bandying this term around had no idea what it meant. When I asked one detractor to define "essentialist" for me, he smugly replied: "It's someone who thinks it's essential to talk about gender." Once unleashed within music studies, "essentialism" became the reigning term of disapprobation. Any conversation could be brought to a screeching halt by its mere mention, even though prominent feminist theorists in other fields were then formulating models such as Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak's "strategic essentialism": approaches that allowed for collective action while sidestepping the problem of reducing all women to a single one-size-fits-all model. (17)

These various collisions resulted in a lost opportunity for music studies, and I want to suggest that at least some of us return to the project of interpreting music. But that project has recently become even more difficult with the growing popularity of what I see as a particularly pernicious brand of essentialism: the essentializing of music itself as ineffable, it may be in part because I was raised in an evangelical denomination in which I was told just to accept what I was told. Bur if I couldn't swallow the positions of the church without questioning them, I certainly cannot abide the idea that the music produced by human beings is somehow beyond cultural critique.

To be clear. I have no interest in depriving listeners of pleasure. Most of my teaching focuses on how to produce dramatic, effective performances based on close readings of scores. I myself go into conniptions of bliss when I attend a superb concert. But don't ask me to park my critical faculties at the door when I enter the Met or Severance Hall.

When I began my graduate work in musicology (ahem) forty-five years ago, the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy of ineffability had long held sway over the discipline. I did not start poking holes in that ideology because I wanted to study women bur because I wanted to be able to make sense of seventeenth-century music. Yet I was informed by my teachers--and by countless rejection slips from journals--that this music simply didn't work; its composers had not yet figured out how music was supposed to go. Silly me, I thought that this was just the sexiest music ever, not rough drafts of musicians groping their way blindly (or deafly) toward eighteenth-century tonality. (18)

So given my chosen terrain, I had no choice but to deconstruct the premises of the canon, a project I have come to think of as Effing the Ineffable. And along the way I picked up other repertories that similarly had been deemed unworthy of serious attention because of their inability to stand up to the standards established by the mainstream: early music, popular music, world music, French music, postmodern music, American music, music by women. Repertories marked, in other words, as Other with respect to capital-M Music, as somehow defective. When we avoid dealing with values articulated by "the music itself," we perpetuate those claims--or at least allow them to go unchallenged.

Do we traffic in essentialism if we ask if a particular composition presents a woman's point of view? Clearly, many believe this to be the case. When Feminine Endings first appeared, a number of prominent composers expressed serious qualms about the danger of being thrown back into the ghetto of "women composers" (a ghetto, by the way, only if we agree to accept such terms). But imagine if we balked at the fact that Nobel Laureate Toni Morrison offers new perspectives based on her experience as an African American woman. To be sure, if push came to shove, she could no doubt write a brilliant novel about an urban male academic struggling with potency issues; she could choose to camouflage her voice and publish something like Portnoy's Complaint instead of Beloved. Think how much poorer we all would be as a consequence.

Many female composers choose to produce music indistinguishable from that of their male colleagues. Let me say once again that I applaud their achievements, and I teach their music in my courses on new music. But I am increasingly invited to direct workshops for composers--men as well as women--who want to explore ways of getting beyond what has been presented to them as value-neutral modes of writing music. And I am increasingly asked by women to write about their music precisely because they know I will deal with expressive content as well as technical strategies.

Moreover, I receive CDs on a regular basis from composers--women and also men--located in France, Italy, Norway, Germany who have produced music in response to Feminine Endings. A year ago I was treated to a concert in Stockholm of new music by women. In the course of our workshop, I learned how each composer had thought seriously about her gender, among other issues, when writing. The pieces differed enormously from one another, and some featured bombastic gestures to rival anything in Mahler. Bur no one was trying to pass underneath the radar, it was thrilling.

Among the most successful artists writing from a woman's point of view today is Finnish composer Kaija Saariaho. Saariaho's most recent opera, Emilie, focuses on Emilie le Tonnelier de Breuil, marquise du Chatelet (1706-49)--scientist, mathematician, still-influential game theorist, long-time companion of Voltaire, translator of the standard French version of Newton's Principia. (19) Emilie realizes that she will not survive the birth of her child by a ne'er-do-well poet who has abandoned her, and over the course of the monodrama, she moves from appeals to her lover to reminiscences of her affair with Voltaire, from concerns about her unborn infant to reflections on the scientific documents she has just completed. She hovers between a life of extraordinary intellectual and sexual daring and the mundane postpartum death that befell so many women of her time. Saariaho has occasionally taken flak for addressing women's issues in her work: in a review of Emilie, a male critic took her to task for perpetuating the essentialist stereotype of women and childbirth. As if we had tons of operas with that theme, compared to ones with scenes of valiant warriors marching off to battle.

But Saariaho goes beyond marking her subject matter as woman oriented; she has also developed a musical vocabulary designed to simulate desire by means of what I call smoldering intensities: a dense fabric of low drones, extended trills, and static ostinatos disrupted occasionally by violent eruptions or rushes of passion. Saariaho studied composition in Helsinki along with Esa-Pekka Salonen (former conductor of the Los Angeles Philharmonic) as a fellow student, and that connection may have given her greater access to concert programming and recording than may have been feasible otherwise. But it is surely the lush, sensual modernism of her music that attracts and holds listeners. She is best known for her opera L'amour de loin, which traces the longing of troubadour Jaufre Rudel for a woman--Clemence, countess of Tripoli--he has never seen. If you do not know this opera, buy the DVD as soon as you can. (20)

I want to give you a much shorter sample of Saariaho's music, the first song in her cycle named after Saint Teresa's Castle of the Soul, though with lyrics drawn from Hindu Vedas and ancient Egyptian prayers. (21) The song unfolds in three strophes, respectively comparing the beloved to a vine clinging to a tree, an eagle striking the ground in order to fly, and the sun circling the earth. All three strophes conclude with the same refrain, "be my lover and do not withdraw from me," which invokes both carnal yearnings and the hope of spiritual transcendence in the tradition of the Song of Songs. Each of the three verses is introduced by a pulse deep in the bass drum: a heartbeat, perhaps, but also a kind of heated drone. Glissandi in harp and piano smear across the soundscape, blurring our sense of key center, as do the tone clusters in piano and strings. Human voices enter with murmured snippets of the lyrics, like promptings from a subliminal source. The vocal soloist (Dawn Upshaw) enters then and sings the lyrics with an angular, tormented melodic contour, seeking a place of accord. Only with the last verse does the orchestral accompaniment finally bow to the exigencies of her prayers. The elements of what has seemed a mostly dissonant composition converge with the union of Divine Love.

If I ended there, we would have to take a break for cold showers. So I'll try to stop on an upbeat--a feminine ending, as it were. In 1974 the disco group Hues Corporation released their hit single "Rock the Boat," a song with what I hear as decidedly mixed messages. (22) The verses describe the ideal of a stable love relationship as a quiet harbor, and timid cautionary interjections of "don't tip the boat over" occur throughout. But to my ear, they are overwhelmed by the saucy challenge "I'd like to know where you got the notion" and the imperious command, "Rock the boat!" The two men in the group sing the romantic verses, reportedly because the group feared that a woman fronting the trio would damage them commercially. So then it's left to H. Ann Kelly to underscore the punchy "rock the boat" over and over. (23)

For all the triumphs of the last twenty years, our ship has been anchored in that quiet harbor perhaps a bit too long. Despite those voices that will warn you not to tip the boat over, that you are cradled in a discipline of love and devotion, we need another wave to push feminist music studies to the next level. I have no idea what that would be--it's entirely up to you and your generation. I'd just like to leave you with the notion to ROCK THE BOAT!

(1.) See

(2.) This actually happened to me in 1975. I realized only recently that North Carolina, where Duke is located, was pursuing a policy of forced sterilization at that time. It didn't only involve poor women of color.

(3.) Carol Neuls-Bates, Women in Music: An Anthology of Source Readings from the Middle Ages to the Present (New York: Harper & Row, 1982); Jane Bowers and Judith Tick, eds., Women Making Music: The Western Att Tradition, 1150-1950 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1987); Ellen Koskoff, ed., Women and Music in Cross-Cultural Perspective (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 1989).

(4.) Peter Burkholder, Donald Jay Grout, and Claude V. Palisca, A History of Western Music, 8th ed. (New York: Norton, 2009). Burkholder's editions build on the series initiated by Grout, who included few or no women. Another important fellow traveler, James Briscoe, made scores by women widely available. See James W. Briscoe, New Historical Anthology of Music by Women (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004).

(5.) Suzanne Cusick, Francesca Caccini at the Medici Court: Music and the Circulation of Power (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2009); Judith Tick, Ruth Crawford Seeger: A Composer's Search for American Music (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000).

(6.) Ellie M. Hisama, Gendering Musical Modernism: The Music of Ruth Crawford, Marion Bauer, and Miriam Gideon (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006).

(7.) Richard Taruskin, ed., The Oxford History of Western Music, 6 vols. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). My review-article appears in Music and Letters 87, no. 3 (2006): 408-15.

(8.) Philip Brett, Elizabeth Wood, and Gary C. Thomas, Queering the Pitch: The New Gay and Lesbian Musicology (New York: Routledge, 1994). See also Brett's posthumous collection Music and Sexuality in Britten: Selected Essays, ed. George E. Haggerty (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006).

(9.) Judith Peraino, Listening to the Sirens: Musical Technologies of Queer Identity from Homer to Hedwig (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005).

(10. Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening (Hanover, NH: Wesleyan University Press, 1998); Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1984).

(11.) See Ruth Solie's edition of Sophie Drinker's classic Music and Women: The Story of Women in Their Relation to Music (1948; Solie ed., New York: Feminist Press at CUNY, 1995); Ralph Locke and Cyrilla Barr, Cultivating Music in America: Women Patrons and Activists since 1860 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997).

(12.) Mary Ann Smart, Mimomania: Music and Gesture in Nineteenth-Century Opera (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); Naomi Andre, Voicing Gender: Castrati, Travesti, and the Second Woman in Early-Nineteenth-Century Italian Opera (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006).

(13.) Philip Gossett, Divas and Scholars: Performing Italian Opera (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008).

(14.) Judith Butler, Gender Trouble: Femmism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990).

(15.) Susan McClary, Feminine Endings: Music, Gender, and Sexuality, 2nd ed. (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004). See my "Feminine Endings at Twenty," Trans: Revista transcultural de musica 15 (2011), special edition on music and women, dedicated to the twentieth anniversary of my book,

(16.) See, for instance, Rose Rosengard Subotnik, Developing Variations: Style and Ideology in Western Music (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991); Subotnik, Deconstructive Variations: Music and Reason (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995); Lawrence Kramer, After the Lovedeath: Sexual Violente and the Making of Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000); Richard Leppert, The Sight of Sound: Music, Representation, and the History of the Body (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995).

(17.) See Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics (New York: Routledge, 1988).

(18.) Only after I've retired from UCLA is my dissertation work finally coming out in print. Better late than never, they say! See my Desire and Pleasure in Seventeenth-Century Music (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012).

(19.) Kaija Saariaho, Emilie, libretto by Amin Maalouf (premiere, Opera de Lyon, March 1, 2010).

(20.) Kaija Saariaho, L'amour de loin, libretto by Amin Maalouf (premiere, Salzburg Festival, August 15, 2000), DVD starring Dawn Upshaw and Gerald Finley, Esa-Pekka Salonen, conductor, Peter Sellars, director (Deutsche Grammophon, 2005).

(21.) Kaija Saariaho, Chateau de l'ame (1996), recording with Dawn Upshaw, Esa-Pekka Salonen, conductor (Sony, 2001). The recording is available for download through iTunes and

(22.) Hues Corporation, "Rock the Boat" (1974), originally on the album Freedom for the Stallion (1973). See the performance at

(23.) The women present m the audience for this 9:00 a.m. talk leaped to their feet and danced joyously all the way through the entire track. Karaoke machines all over town were pressed to play this oldie continually throughout the rest of the weekend. It became the conference's theme song.
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Author:McClary, Susan
Publication:Women & Music
Article Type:Conference notes
Geographic Code:1USA
Date:Jan 1, 2012
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