PLATO said it gave 鈥渟oul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life鈥�. Dr Johnson called it 鈥渢he only sensual pleasure without vice鈥�. And for Tolstoy, it was the 鈥渟horthand of emotion鈥�. From our earliest societies, we have filled our lives with music. Almost everything we do has some musical association 鈥� try going through a day without hearing any. But why does music affect us so powerfully? How does it exact such a pull on our emotions?
Until recently, these questions went largely unanswered, but the study of music and emotions is now a fast-growing field. In this special section on the power of music, we look at what researchers are finding, visit a music therapy centre to see how music can heal, and talk to composers about what is going on in their minds as they create.
DO WE have any control over the roller-coaster ride from sorrow to ecstasy that music seems to take us on? Are there specific chord sequences, rhythms, patterns or other 鈥渃hill and thrill鈥� devices that lead to immediate emotional responses? Do our bodies shape the way we make music and appreciate music? Are musical appreciation and ability innate? Quite unexpectedly, there turns out to be a high degree of resonance on these questions between our contributors to this section.
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One of the big theories is that our physiology dictates the range and organisation of the sounds we call music. Some of the most popular rhythmic patterns in music reflect rhythms in our bodies, especially heartbeat and breathing. And as the psychologist John Sloboda explains (鈥淪how me emotion鈥�), some of the most important emotional 鈥渟ignals鈥� in music echo human vocalisations. If you play around with music the same way we play with speech when we are expressing emotions 鈥� raising or lowering the voice, say 鈥� the music, too, sounds emotional.
This, he says, might explain the universal appeal of many forms of music, since basic human emotions are common to all cultures. Songwriter Mike Stock, formerly of the hit-making team Stock, Aitken and Waterman, acknowledges that for him 鈥渢here have only ever been two songs: either you鈥檙e happy or you鈥檙e sad鈥� (鈥淥n song鈥�).
Sloboda points out that a key aspect of our emotions is that they are tuned to detect change. The change may be positive (falling in love, winning the lottery), or negative (sickness or the death of someone you care about). Either way, the message of change is: pay attention now! We are incredibly good at recognising patterns and, more to the point, deviations in patterns. Since music is essentially pattern in sound, it is not hard to see how it can 鈥渉ook鈥� us with subtle variation in melody, structure or rhythm. As people listen to music, they pick up on the patterns and make predictions about what will come next 鈥� without needing any formal musical training. And when those expectations are violated, the musical surprises inevitably produce emotional reactions.
Of course, there is a strong cultural element to music. The use of scale, tone and harmony differ across the world. In the west, especially, cultural shifts can reshape popular music in just a few years. Stock points out that pop songs have speeded up from a standard 120 beats per minute in the 1980s to around 136 today, a change brought about, he says, largely as a result of the use of Ecstasy in clubs.
How innate is all this? Some researchers are hard at work looking for a single system underlying all responses to music. Part of this involves studying people who have suffered brain damage that leaves them responding abnormally to music. One woman developed problems in recognising melodies that had once been familiar to her. When she was played the Albinoni Adagio taken from her own collection, but not told what it was, she said she had never heard the music before; but then she added that it made her feel sad, and that feeling made her think of Albinoni鈥檚 Adagio. Other researchers have been watching mothers and babies for clues. One study showed that babies seem to respond more when sung to than when spoken to: six-month-old babies seemed 鈥渉ypnotised鈥� by their mothers鈥� singing.
This apparently inborn quality of our response to music underpins music therapy (鈥淲e can work it out鈥�). No matter what the trauma, injury or handicap, therapists believe that anyone can benefit by using music as a way of communicating. Music therapy involves such a huge range of emotions that it can resemble a work of music in itself. Small wonder that many therapists believe their sessions can be a laboratory for studying how music works on people.
What about the creation of music? Vangelis, the composer who scored the films Blade Runner and Chariots of Fire (鈥淔rom the heart鈥�), writes in an utterly different genre to Stock, but their experience of the creative process shows some remarkable similarities. Both are unclear about how the creative impulse translates into music 鈥� whether it鈥檚 a chart hit, an award-winning film score, or a piece they are writing for themselves. Stock reports that 鈥渁ll of a sudden something will happen, and you realise you鈥檝e got something you didn鈥檛 have before鈥�. For Vangelis, it鈥檚 a question of consciously not thinking. He talks of detachment and of trying to be totally 鈥渁vailable鈥�. This is close to what Sloboda says about performers entering a state of absolute absorption, or 鈥渇low鈥�, where they will almost lose their sense of time and space while feeling uplifted and engaged.
We are surrounded by more and more music. We cannot escape it. It is still a tool for social or even spiritual cohesion 鈥� think of 1000 Buddhist monks chanting in unison or a stadium full of football fans singing in support of their team. But it is also increasingly a tool for self-therapy, with people consciously using it to regulate mood or engender a particular emotion. As Sloboda points out, in the 21st century people are more likely to seek profound musical experiences in their cars than in concert halls or cathedrals.
