Glenn Gould: the co-construction of audio technology and (classical) musical culture

Setting a New Stage: The Rise of Audio Recording

The decades following World War II were marked by significant developments in audio and recording technology. On the consumer’s end, devices capable of electronic sound transmission, such as radios, record players, and televisions, were becoming increasingly attainable for a large number of people, and on the producer’s end, innovations for the recording studio, such as microphones, magnetic tape recorders, and editing techniques, were growing increasingly accessible. What was, in the 1940s, still an extremely costly and sparingly used procedure, had by the 1960s crystallized into a practice essential to music making itself (Horning, 2013). By this point, the “live” performance no longer reigned as the supreme mode of musical engagement; “technologically mediated” music was coming to be seen as admirable in its own right, in some (and perhaps increasingly many) cases surpassing the merit accorded to live music.

If a musical “paradigm shift” could be said to have taken place during this period in history, it constituted not only a technological shift, but a cultural one as well. As different social actors used new tools and techniques to make, play, compose, or listen to music, they attributed to them particular significances and values; in turn, the new cultural dispositions that arose from these uses propelled subsequent developments in musical technology.

Numerous scholars of sound studies have undertaken to explicate these socio-technological transformations for cases of popular music (Horning, 2004; Horning, 2013; Moorefield, 2005). Attempts to study them in the context of classical music, however, seem to be less commonplace. Some of this neglect may be due to preconceived essential differences between the genres of popular and classical music, which assume these transformations as notably more relevant to the former than the latter. Moorefield, for example, emphasizes the centrality of the written notation to classical music and characterizes the genre as being “generally recorded live, without overdubs, and with minimal, if any, postperformance enhancement. The idea is to capture the live performance in the tradition of “realistic” recording, as it has existed since the 1870s” (Moorefield, 2005, p. xiv). Here, Moorefield indirectly alludes to the influence of the Historically Informed Performance (or HIP) movement on classical music, which, at least in its early form, holds the aim of “historical correctness” or “authenticity” (entailed, for instance, by a close consideration of a composer’s intentions and the use of period-specific instruments) as imperative to the pursuit of classical music (Older, 2014). By contrast, he describes popular music as embodying characteristics that intrinsically lend themselves to being processed by studio techniques, including “timbre”, “rhythm”, spontaneity, and the generally lesser importance of the pre-written score. While such differentiation seems reasonable to an extent, overstating them belies the sizable impact technological developments have had on the landscape of classical music, and presupposes an irreconcilable disconnect between technological innovation and historically informed performance practices. As it turns out, technologically-directed “postperformance enhancement” became, in the 1960s, as pertinent to the production of classical musical as it did to popular music, and revitalized considerations regarding the “proper” or “authentic” way of performing music.

Canadian pianist Glenn Gould represents perhaps one of the most iconic figures in classical music who confronted these socio-technologicaltransformations head-on. In 1963, Gould took the world by surprise when, at only 32 years of age, after enjoying a successful and prolific concert career, he decided to permanently retire from the concert hall and retreat into the recording studio. The two settings exemplified for Gould dichotomous sites of music production, delineated by their engendering of materially and symbolically distinctive qualities. Insisting on the superiority of the studio, he resolved at a certain point that the only access the public would ever again have to his piano performances are those that he decided to release on record.

Glenn Gould serves as a fruitful lens through which to examine the paradigm shift—away from “live” and toward “technologically mediated” modes of performance—that was taking place in the broader musical landscape in the 1960s. This paper will offer an exposition and critique of Gould’s perspective on these two respective modes, which he saw them as standing in contrast to each other. Technology represented for Gould not only a new and better means by which to practice music, but also a platform for cultural and philosophical reflection. Thus, this paper will investigate the shift in cultural values that Gould thought would be jointly enacted by the employment of particular audio technologies, and elucidate how he envisioned these technologies would altogether reshape the identities of and relationships between different musical actors (e.g. composer, performer, and audience). I will identify three particular advantages that Gould appeared to ascribe to technology—originality, control, and anonymity—and discuss how Gould construed these notions, how he imagined themto arise from various uses of technology, and the ambiguitiessurrounding his ideas. I will then examine the leveling of socio-musical hierarchies that Gould claimed would follow from these technological developments. Although on the outset, the story Gould tells of technology appears to be one of unabashed enthusiasm and radical transformation, a closer reading reveals the plenthora of ambiguity and uncertainty that colored his optimistic expectations. As the propagation of recording technology was still in an early stage, so was its bearing upon traditional musical frameworks (such as HIP) and musical cultures at large, still very much an open question.

The Co-construction of (Musical) Technology and (Musical) Culture

Gould saw technology as affording numerous advantages that were diminished or negated in the live performance of music. Gould’s championing of technologically mediated modes of producing music is inextricably bound up with the values he thought should drive a musical performance and the ways in which he regarded technology as embodying those values. Discussed in this section are three particular values that Gould appears to emphasize throughout his discussions concerning his preference for technological innovation; namely, originality, control, and anonymity. I will analyze how Gould's arguably ambiguous conception of each of these values sheds light on the co-construction of musical technology and musical culture, whether as a departure from established notions of what musical practices (ought to) consist in or a reaffirmation thereof.

Originality

Traditional conceptions of historically informed performance practices are predicated on the idea that playing a piece of music in an “authentic” way implies rigorous consideration of the composer's intentions and the historical context within which he (or she) was situated (Older, 2014). Gould's approach to music, however, has often been deemed to oppose such traditional conceptions. Famously described as “idiosyncratic”, Gould frequently made decisions regarding such matters as musical technique, instrumentation, or embellishment, which deviated from what was commonly seen as standard practice. To Gould's critics, his Mozart sonatas were always much too fast or far too slow; his Bach prelude staccato where it ought to be legato. Even his basic assessments of which musical works were agreeable, and which ones hardly deserving of his attention, often went against the grain of the popular opinion of his day. On multiple occasions, Gould expressed a blanket aversion to composers of the early romantic period, remarking that none of them “knew how to write for the piano”, and that he would likely “[never] make a Chopin record” because he “[didn’t] think [Chopin was] a very good composer” (Gould, 1984, 34 [1976]). His intensive pursuit of J. S. Bach, on the other hand, was virtually unmatched. Gould’s unconventional disposition seems to have taken root early on, as he recalls in a conversation with Bruno Monsaingeon that his “Bach renditions [...] were considered outrageously avant-garde” (Gould, 1984, p. 34 [1976]) by his teachers, in the least because he was always loath to make use of the piano pedal.

Gould’s own explanations for his tendency to perform or apprehend music in an unusual fashion suggest an inextricable connection with his enthusiasm for technology. Gould, it seems, valued his interpretative prerogatives as a performer more so than he did traditional conceptions of how a piece ought to be played. His priority was to perform music the way he wished to perform it, rather than to adhere to established theories on how particular historical circumstances determine the “correct”, “authentic” interpretation of a piece. His wishes seem at times motivated by a penchant for originality for its own sake; Gould conceded (once again, to Monsaingeon) that at least one reason behind his use of “a lot of very odd tempos” in his performance of “the A-major Mozart sonata” (Gould, 1984, p. 40 [1976]) was that “to [his] knowledge, [...] nobody had played it like that before, at least not on record” (Gould, 1984, p. 41 [1976]). His experiments with “contrapuntal radio” (Gould, 1984, p. 376 [1971]), most notably in his broadcast of “The Idea of North”, again demonstrate his propensity to explore the full range of possibilities of a medium and the techniques afforded by it, in order to produce a highly novel work. Gould’s privileging of recording technology at a time when its mere use was still fraught with controversy, then, serves both as a means for realizing his desired interpretations of musical compositions, and in itself constitutes an instance of his asserting his performer’s prerogatives.

Yet, Gould’s alleged statement that “the only excuse for recording a work is to do it differently” (Gould, 1984, p. 458 [1981]), and disdain for “that whole area of prejudice that has concerned itself with finding chronological justifications for artistic endeavors” (Gould, 1984, p. 99 [1964]) seem at least somewhat disingenuous. Despite Gould’s purported dismissal of historical considerations in crafting his interpretations, and his proclamation to be driven foremost by the desire to shed fresh, original light on old works, his approach is not so unambiguous in practice. Throughout his writings, it is evident that Gould was extremely well-versedin a multitude of composers, and that his knowledgeof their intentions and historical contexts did to some extent inform his interpretative approach—even if it is to defy certain historically-grounded arguments for how one is “supposed to” play a piece. Gould's essay collection include numerous thorough analyses of musical works, which frequently did not center directly on his own insights, but rather elaborated on how the composer's intentions and historical circumstances may figure into a proper understanding of the work. For instance, Gould remarks that “what Bach has in mind is a very different order of fugue from that represented by the C-major or E-major fugues discussed above” (Gould, 1984, p. 19 [1972]) in his discussion of the 'Art of the Fugue', notes that 1912 was a period during which “Sibelius was otherwise engaged with his most radical form-as-process experiments in symphonic development” (Gould, 1984, p. 105 [1977]) in his evaluation of a number of Sibelius' sonatines, and describes Schoenberg as “experiencing [in 1942] a return to large-scale architectural interests and […] experimenting once again with the use of tonality” (Gould, 1984, p. 130 [1962]). Whether Gould, in his actual recordings, conformed to or defied historical understandings of particular composers or compositions, these kinds of statements indicate that he at least undertook to cultivate such understandings.

Rather than classifying Gould's “originality” as unequivocally opposed to “historical authenticity”, one may also consider that the two approaches may not be nearly as incongruous as they are often suggested to be. To the “purist” who objects to playing J. S. Bach's keyboard works on a piano (rather than, for example, a harpsichord or clavichord), on grounds that Bach had not known the piano during his lifetime, Gould would retaliate that such views falsely presuppose Bach as a “slave to the instruments [for which] he wrote” and contend instead that Bach was “a very practical man” (Gould et. al, 1992) who, had he had access to it, would gladly have used the piano. The purist, in this case, in advocating such a narrow view of historical authenticity, is arguably less faithful to the spirit and intentions of the composer, and thus conceivably less authentic. Such reasoning may be extended to consider that the use of even more contemporary musical tools (such as the recording studio) to perform Bach pieces, assuming that Bach would have embraced such innovations, does not necessarily detract from the authenticity of the performance.

Conversely, it also seems that the use of technology does not necessarily encourage innovation or originality. Gould concedes that a number of his recording endeavors, such as some of his Mozart sonatas, have been less than inspired, pursued “simply for the sake of completeness” despite that he “had no convictions about [them] whatsoever” (Gould, 1984, p. 458 [1981]). Thus, cracks in Gould’s overarching perspective that technology necessarily frees one from the constraints of “social-chronological” (Gould, 1984, p. 99 [1964]) considerations, or that it necessarily fosters more innovative ways of performing, begin to surface. Rather than giving rise to an approach that promotes originality and defies musical authenticity, the shift toward technologically mediated modes of musical performance may be alternatively conceived. On the one hand, it may elicit ways of expanding notions of historically informed performance practices, and on the other, it may nullify the pursuit of originality altogether.

Control

As has been alluded to in the previous section, one of technology’s key advantages, in Gould’s eyes, was the extent to which it afforded him creative control. Technology allowed him to achieve his musical aims with an exactitude apparently unattainable through the live setting. Whereas the live concert gave the artist only one chance at performing—and however he rendered a musical work during that single attempt was presumed to constitute a finished, standalone product, warranting the attention and judgment of an audience—recording technology allowed him to do multiple “takes”. The artist could play a single piece (or part of a piece) as often as he wished, each time altering the tempi, dynamics, and other musical elements, to his liking. Through a process called “splicing”, the best bits of each of those takes could then be assessed, isolated, and reassembled into a cohesive, final record that approximated the artist’s ideal interpretation of the piece far more closely than what he could typically achieve in any single, continuous performance.

Not everyone warmed to recording and splicing techniques as much as Gould did. What Gould touted as the epitome of creative freedom, frequently deploying emancipatory rhetoric (and the metaphor of filmmaking) to describe the process—“one should be free to “shoot” a Beethoven sonata or a Bach fugue in or out of sequence, intercut almost without restriction, apply postproduction techniques as required” (Gould, 1984, p. 359 [1975] [emphasis added])—others regarded as “dishonest and dehumanizing” (Gould, 1984, p. 337 [1966]). The consensus among Gould’s dissenting contemporaries was that recording was “never going to take the place of the concert” (Gould, 1984, p. 355 [1974]); only, at best, serve as a lackluster substitute for it. By likening the process of “chip[ping] off and replacing” “one wrong note … so it sounds right” to “fixing a false tooth” (Gould, 1984, p. 287 [1971]), pianist Arthur Rubinstein, in a conversation with Gould, reluctantly acknowledged a use for splicing, while in the same breath underscoring its purportedly disingenuous nature. He further emphasized its limited utility in remarking that the “labored” quality that a musical recording takes on by virtue of being heavily edited renders it “not persuasive” and “not art anymore” (Gould, 1984, p. 287 [1971]). To such charges of edited recordings as being somehow less “real” or less “genuine” than its live counterpart, Gould would retort that they misapprehend the essence of technology; it should not be regarded as a “noncommittal, noncommitted voyeur” (Gould, 1984, p. 355 [1974]), confined only to the role of passively capturing information, to begin with; its very generative potential should be embraced and exploited to produce new kinds of works.

For that matter, in Gould’s view, the performer was not the only figure in music to whom increased control would be conferred by the emergence of musical technologies, and the recording studio not the only form of such technology. Likely inspired by his own zeal for record and radio listening, Gould seemed equally convinced that the broader innovation of electronic sound transmission would fundamentally transform the way audiences engaged with music. By their very capacity to accommodate different auditory inclinations, mechanical audio devices such as the gramophone and the radio, Gould posited, would invite listeners to consciously consider their own preferences, and ultimately bring about a more active form of listening. The simple act of “dial twiddling” (in order to, for example, adjust the volume), Gould recognized as already “interpretative” (Gould, 1984, p. 247 [1962]), albeit in a small way. The very possibility of hearing a piece as often as one liked, in the comfort of one’s home (as in the case of when Gould felt positively “drunk on” Rubinstein’s “F-minor Brahms Quintet”, replaying it “five times [over the course of a] few weeks” (Gould, 1984, p. 288 [1971]), represents another way in which technology offered control to the consumer. No longer constrained by the availability of live musicians, listeners could now decide for themselves when, where, and what they wanted to hear. And this was only the beginning: Gould envisioned that “the modestly resourceful controls of [the home listener’s] hi-fi” (Goud, 1984, p. 92 [1964]) would eventually be succeeded by more sophisticated controls that would expand the “participational possibilities” (Gould, 1984, 247 [1962]) of the listener.

The shift toward technologically mediated forms of music was purported to correspond to a shift in increased control; the user of the technology would be able to accurately render a musical work according to any set of desired specifications. Such expectations, however, raise the question of to whom such control would be accorded, and how it would impact existing power dynamics between different social actors involved in the musical experience. Gould posited thatthe beneficiaries would encompass groups from both sides of the “producer” and “consumer” spectrum. A later section of this paper will explore more closely Gould's vision of how social relationships in music may be re-negotiated in light of these technological developments.

Anonymity

A third aspect of technology that Gould repeatedly lauds is its capacity to endow the performer with a cloak of anonymity. Anonymity implies the concealment of identity. In the case of the technologically mediated musical performance (e.g. the production of music in a recording studio), this is achieved by the artist’s never personally encountering his audience while he performs or while the audience listens to the recorded track. To Gould, the state of being anonymous encompasses a number of subtly distinct but interrelated advantages, bearing also on the two previously discussed. Anonymity is supposed to draw audience attention away from the performer and toward the actual piece being performed, in that way fostering a “purer” engagement with music on both sides of the performance. It is supposed to grant the artist a safe haven in which he can be “[allowed] the time and the freedom to prepare his conception of a work to the best of his ability” (Gould, 1984, p. 452 [1981]). It is also idealized as a condition under which corporeality and materiality—and all of the baseness and inconvenience they supposedlyentail—are greatly diminished. The caprices of the body (or, as Gould calls them, “trivia”) “like nerves and finger slips” (Gould, 1984, p. 452 [1981]) are eliminated by the great innovation of studio editing.

By contrast, the concert hall literally places the individual performer center stage. His body and mannerisms are visible for hundreds of eyes to see and judge. Rather than strive for musical perfection, the temptation may be to pander to the whims of a present, excitable audience, play up one’s antics, and put on an entertaining show. While proponents of the live performance, such as Arthur Rubinstein, contend that it is precisely the element of “personal impact”—in his view sorely missing from “[records] and radio and TV” (Gould, 1984, p. 285 [1971])—that comprises the appeal of the live concert setting, to Gould it represents a severe drawback. If Gould had his way, he would completely do away with audience response, as he proposes in his provocatively titled essay, “Let’s Ban Applause!” Gould believed that physiological impulses such as “adrenaline” or “shallow externalized public manifestations” (Gould, 1984, p. 246 [1962]) should have no part in driving art, but that instead its proper appreciation should take place internally for each individual; quietly, contemplatively, and away from the public eye. Accordingly, Gould asserted that the production of music should be designated to the types of places that would curtail the elements of personal recognition and corporeal whims, which to him meant above all the recording studio.

Once again, it is questionable whether the distinction between the “live” and the “technologically mediated” performance, with respect to the latter fostering anonymity and thereby engendering a superior form of musical engagement, is truly as clear-cut as Gould proclaimed. Perhaps the most conspicuous irony here is that Gould’s very act of championing recording technology and, during the latter part of his career, resisting live performances so vehemently, became a prominent aspect of his public persona. Retreating into the recording studio did not draw attention away from Gould and entice people to focus exclusively on the works that came out of that studio. Rather, it became an explicit matter of interest, augmenting Gould’s image as the enigmatic and idiosyncratic piano player.

One may also question Gould's supposition of recording technology as epitomizing disembodiment and thereby nullifying the relevance of “specific personal performance information” (Gould, 1984, p. 452 [1981]) in music. Once again, ironically, Gould's recording style may be considered among the most distinctive precisely for the “corporeal” and “extramusical” elements that often manifest themselves within it. He was notorious for being in the habit of humming while playing the piano even during his recording sessions (Thomson, 1958), resulting in the fact that many of his album tracks feature a subtle but discernable humming alongside the piano music that they are primarily meant to showcase. Thus, it is not unambiguous that technology curtails the corporeal aspects and personal antics of the performer. In Gould's case, at least, recording technology served to all the more draw attention to such attributes.

In Gould's explicit conception of technology, it has easily “superseded the concert” because it “has the capability to create a climate of anonymity” (Gould, 1984, p. 452 [1981]), enabling the artist to, in a sense, liberate him- or her- self from the material and personalfactors that Gould viewed as compromising the musical experience. Gould's own studio practices, however, through which his performer's persona and physical peculiarities are blatantly put on display, suggest that such narratives of technological transcendence may be overly simplistic.

Reshaping Socio-Musical Structures

Gould seemed convinced that the large-scale employment of musical technologies (accompanied by the realization of the virtues he thought them to embody) would culminate in the collapse of the social hierarchies that had heretofore plagued music. The regime of the live performance, he contends, is chiefly culpable for the rigid demarcations between the composer, the performer, and the audience. Under this scheme, each of these social identities takes on a definitive role and relate to each other within a strict hierarchy of power. The composer is held to be the supreme force of creativity; the performer a lesser creative agent, while still lording over the audience; the audience mere spectators, having no active part in the production music. With the rise of technology and the “participational possibilities” that would be afforded by it for all parties, however, Gould hypothesized that these three previously distinct identities were poised to become considerably more conflated.

To start with, Gould conceived of the performer who tinkers extensively with recording technology in order to put together his or her interpretation of a musical work as being “very like the composer” (Gould, 1984, p. 287 [1971]). The work of recording is far from being merely corrective or archival, and as such, the job of the recording artist is not only to play back what has already been created. Rather, in the way that Gould described it—“when you begin, you don't quite know what it is about. You only come to know as you proceed. [...] I very rarely know, when I come to the studio, exactly how I am going to do something. I mean, I'll try it in fifteen different ways, and eight of them may work reasonably well, and there may be a possibility that two or three will sound really convincing. But I don't know at the time of the session what result is finally going to accrue. And it does depend upon listening to a playback and saying, “That doesn't work; it isn't going to go that way; I'll have to change that completely.”” (Gould, 1984, p. 287 [1971])—the process is filled with uncertainty, experimentation, and creative decision making. The recording artist's thorough immersion in the creative process, thus, undermines the distinction that was supposed to clearly separate him (or her) from the composer.

In a similar vein, Gould regarded audience members who performed the various “interpretative” acts technology afforded them (as discussed in the “Control” section above) as composers in their own right. Gould's extolling of the “new kind of listener” who is “at the center of the technological debate” as “an associate whose tastes, preferences, and inclinations even now alter peripherally the experiences to which he gives his music” (Gould, 1984, p. [1966]) likewise highlights the creative potential of the consumer. In other words, Gould believed that technology would encourage creative input from all sides of the producer/consumer spectrum, displacing the idea that it trickled down from the composer, to the performer, to the audience, and ultimately rendering obsolete “the class structure within the musical hierarchy” (Gould, 1984, p. 352).

While Gould may be commended forseeking to lift some of the social boundaries that traditionally pervade music, he may be accused of simultaneously partaking ina certain kind of musical stratification himself. Gould often wrote explicitly only of the three aforementioned identities—composer, performer, and audience—as in his statement, “Electronic transmission has already inspired a new concept of multiple-authorship responsibility in which the specific concepts of the composer, the performer, and, indeed, the consumer overlap.” (Gould, 1984, p. 92 [1964]), and in so doing omits other groups who are arguably, and especially in light of the increasing prominence of recording sites, as relevant to the act of music making, such as engineers, record producers, and sound technicians.They are referred to in some of his essays (Gould, 1984 [1966]) and feature in some of the video clips that capture Gould while he is working in a studio (Monsaingeon et. Al, 2002). However,rarely does he elaborate on their creative role in the production of music to the same extent as he does for the composer-performer-audience trichotomy. Additionally, Gould seems neither to address the impact of their presence upon his studio performance, despite that he found the presence of the concert hall audience to be a nuisance, nor comment upon the ways in whichtheir prerogatives may at times constrain his, as is illustrated in one particular video showing Gould as having to repeatedly stop and start his performance at the piano, depending on whether some sound technicians judged the reverberation or a particular microphone placement to be correct(Monsaingeon et. al, 2002). Engineers, technicians, and producers, among other social groups, seem to be curiously absent from a story that touts technology as effectuating inclusive participation in the practices of music making.

It is also worth noting that Gould himself acknowledges (if in a somewhat sly manner) potential problems with his utopian view that technology would serve to place the audience on an equal footing as the performer. In an especially peculiar monologue in which Gould undertakes to interview himself, “interviewer Gould” asserts the view that “the artist, however hermetic his life-style, is still in effect an autocratic figure. He’s still, however benevolently, a social dictator. And his public, however generously enfranchised by gadgetry, however richly endowed with electronic options, is still on the receiving end of the experience” (Gould, 1984, p. 319 [1974]). In other words, he suggests that the respective natures (or definitions) of performing and listening necessarily situate the artist in a higher and more active position than the audience, no matter the technology with which the latter is equipped. In the lines that follow, “interviewee Gould” never quite satisfactorily addresses this challenge to his usual championing of technology. Perhaps the rhetorical strategy Gould employs to present this argument is even more interesting than its analytical substance. The fact that Gould poses as simultaneously the interviewer and the interviewee in the conversation raises some questions concerning how his statements should be interpreted—whether they ought to be read as uttered completely in earnest or tongue-in-cheek; whether Gould is hinting at his own uncertainties regarding the feasibility of granting equal power to the audience and the performer by means of technology; whether it is a fair representation of the views of the so-called “antirecord lobby” (Gould, 1984, p. 337 [1966]). The unusual format of the interview, in which Gould poses both the answers and the questions that are asked, seems on the one hand, to constitute an enactment (if humourous) of Gould’s desire for maximum control, and on the other hand, to mirror the ambiguity that surrounded the newly emerging recording technology and its anticipated implications for musical culture.

Conclusion

Glenn Gould constitutes a fruitful lens through which to study the intertwined stories of the co-construction of recording technology and musical cultures, and the pursuit of historically informed performance practices, particularly in the domain of classical music. Gould was greatly optimistic about the possibilities of technological innovation, and believed that its propagation would lead toward generally more original, controlled, and disembodied musical engagement. That is, each actor involved in the making of music (including, in the least, the composer, the performer, and the audience) would be encouraged to shape it according to their own personal and uniquewishes, be maximally empowered to do so, and collectively seek to position the music—rather than their own egos and physical manifestations thereof—as the focal object of interest, ultimately resulting in their more equalized relationship. The reality of the matter, however, did not appear to be nearly as straightforward. In spite of Gould's explicit views, a number of his subtler remarks and actual experiences reveal that the technology that he so firmly extols frequently contribute in ways that resist his expectations. It may constrain as much as it liberates; establish hierarchies as much as it may topple them; publicize the performer as much as it may play him down.

In a similar way, while Gould's approach may initially appear as being at odds with traditional notions of musical authenticity, a closer examination reveals that they are reconcilable in a number of ways. Gould may be said to espouse the “other authenticity”, a more recent strand of HIP, which takes a performer's personal prerogatives, rather than the exclusive consideration of historical factors, as pertinent to the construction of authenticity in music (Older, 2014). Beyond that, it is evident that Gould often invokes historical information in his discussion and pursuit of musical works, even where he seeks to go against the prescriptions of established theory. Rather than countering the framework of HIP, Gould's musical practices may be seen to stimulate further reflection on the rightful place of historical information in the contemporary performance of classical pieces, and what it means to play music in an “authentic” way.

A study of Gould may lead one into a tunnel of speculation regarding his bearing upon the music scene of the present day. One may wonder how recording technology has indeed come to shape (and been shaped by) musical cultures; whether what has materialized in the 21^st century is in keeping with the perspectives Gould put forward in the mid- to late- 1900s; how Gould himself may in retrospect apprehend the developments that have taken place.There are several contemporary phenomena that Gould would conceivably lament. Given the ubiquity of mobile, passive, on-the-go listening, for example, it seems doubtful that Gould would have deemed the proliferation of audio technology as having helped to cultivate active and participatory listeners on a wide scale. On the other hand, Gould may laud the development of digital software, which has opened up a world of compositional possibilities for amateur musicians at home. Perhaps he wouldregarded with ambivalence the relationship that has materialized between the recorded and the live performance. Although a significant revaluing of the two modes may be said to have taken place—i.e. “recording quality” is now often that to which the live performance of contemporary music aspires—the problems of social hierarchies, creative constraints, and egocentric whims seem thereby to have been no more resolved.

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Thomson, H. (1958). Glenn Gould on his eccentricities [interview]. Retrieved from http://www.cbc.ca/archives/discover/great-interviews/gould-on-his-eccentricities.html 

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