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Harry Partch (1901-1974)
The 1942 Demonstration/Recital
Harry Partch (speaker, voice, adapted viola, chromolodian, adapted guitar)
rec (live), 3 November 1942, Kilbourn Hall, Eastman School of Music, New York
Includes 72 page book; also available as digital download
MICROFEST RECORDS MF20 [55]

In November 2019, I reviewed PARTCH Ensemble's Music of Harry Partch, Volume 3. This CD included two bonus tracks, one of which was a live recording of Partch himself performing Barstow at a demonstration/recital he gave in 1942, a recording that I then described as “priceless”. Was I exaggerating? Certainly, I do not think so – nevertheless, and equally certainly, I think I had seriously underestimated its significance. I am duty-bound, without further ado, to try to put that to rights:

In 1923 Partch set out on his lonely path. In the period up to 1930 he developed and documented his radical ideas of finely-resolved, justly-intoned monophony and of speech-music, as well as constructing his adapted viola. Over the subsequent few years he consolidated, writing several pieces in his new form and creating new instruments (notably adapted guitar, kithara and chromolodian – Partch eventually changed this last’s name to chromelodeon). Significantly, when he was ready for it, he started putting on practical “demonstrations” in western USA and latterly in the artistically more (shall we say?) advanced East. In New York these demonstrations helped him to win some financial acknowledgement, in the form of a Carnegie grant that enabled him to further his researches, mostly in London.

But, that relatively luxurious episode apart, Partch’s life was never easy; he lived and worked perpetually under the heavy shadows of homelessness, penury and uncertain health; dire circumstances that were seemingly impervious to any spark of success. By the end of WWII, broadly speaking, Partch had started expanding his artistic horizons in earnest; from this time his growing body of unique instruments and his evolving concept of Corporealism would lead to ever more ambitious projects. He also got into the habit of recording his music, mainly, like his still-accumulating documentation, for the benefit of posterity.

All things considered, Partch left a surprisingly representative recorded legacy, mostly through his own endeavours, but latterly augmented by a few commercially-produced records. However, there was, yawning dauntingly, one hugely significant gap: since the earliest of these recordings dates from about 1945, those proselytising demonstrations, representing the accumulated fruits of that crucial initial stage of his extraordinary career, were a completely closed book – and here I’m discounting the newspaper reviews, which either missed the point or – worse – were of the “Gee whiz, get a load of this!” ilk. For Partch aficionados, matters were made worse by a sense of frustration, brought on by a persistent rumour that, in 1942, a recording had been made of one of those now almost mythical demonstrations – but it was thought to have been destroyed.

I’m grateful to John Schneider for filling in some details of the dénouement. The late Bob Gilmore (a meticulous researcher and Partch’s biographer) had sworn that the acetate recording had indeed been made, but soon afterwards had somehow gone “missing in action”. Such a statement from a major Partch authority shovelled a fair bit of fuel into the rumour machine: after all, Gilmore didn’t say “destroyed” so, surely, at worst hadn’t it simply been “filed”, at some undisclosed location, with the peerless thoroughness of the old British Civil Service (or perhaps, fictitiously but more vividly, the ultimate custodians of Indiana Jones’s “Lost Ark”)?

Recently, this nigh-on 80-years-old rumour was at long last scotched by another researcher: Chris Rainier (an Australian doing a UK Ph.D. on the American Harry Partch) found out that the legendary acetates were alive and well and still in residence at their “birthplace”, the Eastman School of Music. By some supreme stroke of serendipity they had been unearthed from the unfathomable depths of the School’s archival stacks; it’s not certain whether this was by Rainier himself or by someone else who (I guess) would have said to him something like, "Hey, Chris, I bet you’d be interested in these, wouldn’t you?" – just before having his hand bitten clean off. Either way, you can imagine the possible implications for Rainier’s Ph.D. thesis. [See Footnte for an important update.]

At this point, the curious may be wondering: having gained access to this fabled 1942 Eastman recording, why did Schneider publish just Barstow, the very climax of the demonstration/recital, modestly tucked away as a bonus track on an unrelated release? And, for that matter, why Barstow? Why not the “progressions within one octave” from earlier in the demonstration/recital? These would have rendered the “unrelated” release “related” because, in that release’s centrepiece, the Sonata Dementia, Partch elaborates on these very progressions! (Schneider provides the answer: the ingenuity of Partch’s elaboration concealed its use from him whilst he was working on Sonata Dementia. It was only after Schneider had begun on this current issue that Rainier’s acute, scholarly eye had spotted the connection). Somehow, the idea of publishing the entire 1942 recording, which lasts just under an hour and every minute of which is more precious than gold dust, seems to have come as an afterthought. All very puzzling, but happily all now irrelevant, because Schneider has published it; and he’s not only filled that awful yawning gap, but also made a right royal job of it.

By now, it must be obvious to anyone that this issue is something very special. For one thing, it’s a recording of perhaps the Twentieth Century’s most strikingly original – and certainly the most “way out” – musical mind. For another it preserves one of the numerous public presentations he made, summarising what he’d achieved during his first ten or so years of work. For another, this is the only recording of Partch in action in that important initial period, and also the earliest extant recording of any of Partch’s music. And for yet another, it shows the mostly self-taught Partch to be already a theoretical and practical musician of staggering ability. To describe this as a “historical issue” in the generally accepted sense would be a gross understatement; would it be more accurate at least to call it a “history-making issue”?

And, with that in mind, you can rejoice in the fact that you won’t need a mortgage to effect your purchase. The cost-conscious may like to know that about half an hour of the recording comprises musical performances that they’ll want to re-visit (actually, it’s also likely they’ll want to re-visit the “lecture” part, but maybe not as often!). So, let’s look at what your modest outlay will get you. As you weigh up the deal, bear in mind that this is much more than just a common or garden CD-in-a-jewel-case job: it comes in the form of a book – a proper book, mark you, 72 pages long and close to A5 in size, with a commendably rigid hard back enclosing very good quality paperwork. The only remotely awkward point is that you may have difficulty slotting it onto your CD (or even DVD) shelf – presented end-on, it only just fits my CD shelving. As a housing for a single CD it is indeed a luxurious package.

The documentation is comprehensive and remarkably well written by an author who is considerate of his readers, where necessary filling us in on not only the evident “action” but also what is happening during the numerous gaps in the proceedings, gaps that are populated only by mystifying “noises off”. The book includes Schneider’s extensive and well-researched essay, interspersed with numerous pertinent photographs and reproductions of fascinating original documents, including a ten-page extract from Shigeyoshi Obata’s 1922 English translations of Li Po (the text for the Seven Lyrics of Li Po). Moreover, Schneider provides not only the background leading up to and including the event, but also the aftermath. Although all the performed texts are included, you’re hardly likely to need them, on account of one of the inestimable advantages of Speech Music.

There’s one delightful design detail for your family and friends to “coo” over. The inner front cover is a photograph of part of the surface of the first acetate, showing the type-written, pro-forma label on which has been inscribed by hand “98.1”. I’d imagined that this was the rotational speed of the recording (r.p.m.), but apparently it is actually Eastman’s file reference: “98.1” is “reel/disc number 98, side 1” – the recording speed of acetate cutters is 33 r.p.m. (probably shorthand for 33⅓). We are also advised that the “max. pressure on [the] needle point [is] 3 oz.” (that’s all of 85 grams; and yes, the word should be “force”, not “pressure”!); and there’s a copyright condition: “This record not to be used commercially” (I hasten to confirm that Eastman is duly credited for permitting Schneider to ignore this legal admonition). The really neat bit, though, is that inside the back cover there’s a similar picture, this time of the Part 4 side (hence the “98.4”), its label incorporating a mount for the CD, the label of which is identical to the image of the acetate label, so that the CD is effectively hidden in plain sight – provided, of course, it is properly aligned when in place.

For those living in the Twenty-First Century, the issue is also available as a digital download, in 24/96 hi-res FLAC, standard 16/44 FLAC and MP3, although not all retailers offer all three options. Of course, in place of the hard-back book digital purchasers have to make do with a PDF file (before you buy, do make sure that this is included). Granted, an e-book is much less cuddly than a real book, but at least you do get the documentation (which is far from always being the case, isn’t it?), so you can view the book’s entire contents on your “device”; in fact, the book’s page size (210 mm. high by 140 mm. wide) is considerately commensurate with the screen size of a typical tablet computer.

This is as good a place as any to consider the sound-quality. Direct-cut acetate discs, need I say, come a very poor second to the contemporaneous standard 78 r.p.m. shellac discs. These invaluable discs are no exception but, in a sense, they have been fortunate in avoiding discovery until after digital restoration technology had become firmly established. Having obtained permission to publish the recording, producer John Schneider gave Scott Fraser the job of licking the audio into shape. Unusually, or possibly uniquely, the published recording includes two short tracks entitled “Before” and “After”; these allow you to judge for yourself how effective the audio restoration has been. However, these two tracks are included only with the digital download; apparently, the idea of including them occurred only whilst preparing the download master files – when the physical issue had already gone into production. But not to worry, you don’t even have to ask Microfest nicely; anyone interested can find these tracks on this webpage (at the bottom of the samples play-list).

The sound is wonderfully clear and open, capturing the extraordinary performer with warmth and intimacy, without pushing into the shade the audience, whose reactions are an important aspect of the overall experience – the engineers did an excellent job of placing the microphone! To supplement my subjective impressions, I did a bit of visual checking. Having compared superimposed frequency analyses of these two tracks, I can confirm that the cleaning has had a negligible impact on the signal; in fact, it was sufficiently successful to permit some degree of re-equalisation to open out the rather constricted treble inherent in the original recording. Although some surface noise is still audible, the improvement is wholly remarkable – especially in view of all the other, singularly nasty, acetate-specific noise components (whistles, hums, saw-tooth buzzes etc.) that – thankfully – Fraser has practically eliminated!

There is one other noise, heard occasionally when the chromolodian is being played, which sounds a bit like (but isn’t) incipient “feedback howl”. I wondered whether this was coming from the innards of this early incarnation of the chromelodeon, but soon gave up the idea when I recalled that I’ve never heard it on any of my other early recordings featuring that instrument; in any event, fret not; it is far from obtrusive.

These days, my first reaction to hearing any audio restoration is to wonder wistfully what Pristine’s Andrew Rose would have made of it, but this in no way detracts from the altogether first-rate job that Fraser has done. I’d hazard that, if Partch could have heard this, he might well have been a lot less dismissive of the acetate medium.

Finally, what about that all-important audio content? Well, this recording is not billed as “complete”, and quite properly so because there are two bits missing, both related to limitations of the recording medium. Firstly, as the sound fades up Partch is already speaking. Schneider offers his own conjectures as to how this glitch came about; my own feeling (based on personal experience) is that the presumably inexperienced recording engineers, anxious to not waste recording space (and possibly lose a bit off the other end), were simply “caught napping” by Mr. Partch, whom probably they hadn’t primed to give them a nod just before he started speaking. As it happens, Partch is still very much at the “preamble” stage, so we lose little or nothing of any real significance.

Secondly (track 15), the beginning of Partch’s description of his adapted guitar is clipped, because the engineers couldn’t get a fresh acetate up and running quickly enough (we can conjecture that Eastman’s resources didn’t run to two parallel cutting machines). For once, Schneider didn’t devote a few words to cover what’s missing; however, it probably amounts to no more than the re-fretting of the instrument for the justly-intoned scale, and such information is easily available elsewhere (e.g. see here on Chris Rainier’s website). Happily, we don’t miss the key point, regarding the manner in which the guitar is played!

As you listen, it’s as well to be mindful of what’s going on here. This event took place at a time when all that modern stuff like dodecaphony, polytonality, complex metres and such-like were still new (or very nearly so); and this audience were about to hear an exposition of something so radical as to make these “revolutionary developments” of the early Twentieth Century seem, comparatively, quite mundane. Partch’s speaking voice is gratifyingly clear (“subtitles” not at all necessary!); and, especially in view of the subject matter, his demeanour is modest, informal, quietly persuasive and slightly hesitant: he really doesn’t sound at all as though he’s dropping a bomb on the world of music!

Sadly, his first attempt at humour falls almost as flat as a pancake; whilst the second raises the merest, tentative titter. But, although their import is actually quite serious, the words, “After I have heard the true, the tempered requires resolution,” nonetheless brings the first, real rolling ripple of laughter; their ribs are further tickled by Partch’s subsequent quotation. The impression is that, initially, the audience is as bemused as Partch is hesitant, even a little apologetic for potentially setting his monophonic cat among the tempered pigeons of centuries of unquestionably great music, but after the first burst of merriment you can feel both Partch warming to his task and his audience being inexorably drawn in, increasingly gripped by the revelatory nature of what is unfolding before their ears. Should I mention that this audience comprised the very sort of people whom Partch considered to be deprived of a proper knowledge of “the science of their art”? Yes, I should, because their reactions ultimately indicate a willingness to learn!

Although Partch’s demonstration adopts an obviously logical sequence, it does have about it an element of theatrical crescendo. After his preamble, he proceeds to explain the difference between the familiar 12-tone equal-tempered (Partch just says “tempered”) scale and his just-intonational (“true”) scale, in passing clarifying the reasons why we have adopted a tempered scale at all. Having discussed some basics of his 43-tone true scale, he exemplifies on the chromolodian the differences between tempered and true in the elements of tonality: intervals, numerous major triads (this precipitated Partch’s aforementioned mirth-inducing observation), and also some resolutions.

He goes on to demonstrate the relationship between his scale and the 8-tone diatonic scale (i.e. a tempered “key”). Having played, at breakneck speed, an “octave” of the 43-tone scale, he repeats it at a much slower tempo, underlining (with the aid of good old tonic sol-fa) where within this “octave” the steps of the diatonic scale appear. They sound to be an awfully long way apart. In passing – and possibly with the intention of making his tonalities seem less outlandish to the unaccustomed ear? – he illustrates a bizarre ancient Greek enharmonic scale that exists in a tonal universe which the piano can’t hope even to approximate, one which “Plato denounced as ‘effeminate – and degenerate’”. Although the notes were actually played in ascending order, so weird is this scale that you keep getting a vertiginous feeling that some of them are not!

The climax to the “dramatic crescendo” came in the form of a remarkable demonstration of the huge resources of his 43-tone scale: Partch played a sequence of harmonic “progressions within one octave” –three full minutes’ worth of utterly astonishing, mesmerising sounds. More than anything else, this graphically spot-lit the “colours that you probably never dreamed existed” that Partch had mentioned earlier; Schneider sums up its innovatory qualities rather well: “. . . even today [this is] capable of jarring the most seasoned Modernist sensibilities.” Listening, I can well believe that. It is perhaps significant that Partch’s by now closely involved audience greeted this prodigious parade, not with animated applause, but with stunned silence.

If the audience, musicians all, were clearly very much impressed, would the same apply to ordinary music-lovers listening to this recording? That is debatable, for two main reasons. Firstly, Partch demonstrated using the chromolodian which, being a reed organ, is particularly rich in overtones, clouds of sound that conspire to confuse the layman’s ear. Oh, doubt not: you will hear a difference – what you may not grasp straight off is its significance. We mere mortals would probably stand a better chance if the tones used were much purer (as in “flute-like”), but Partch did not have any such instrument at his disposal. Secondly, where directly comparing tempered and true versions of the “same” thing, he tended to “flick” rapidly back and forth between one version and the other. While this is fine for the quick ears of practising musicians, it doesn’t give untrained ears enough time to “focus” fully on each sound. It would have helped if he’d prefaced each sounding with the word “tempered” or “true” as appropriate, and held the sound for a full couple of seconds. Still, at least we can, at our leisure, simply listen repeatedly to that part of the recording until we do “get” it!

Note: It would seem that, over a span of 46 years, Partch’s approach to demonstrating differences between true and tempered remained unchanged. In March 2005, I reviewed Innova’s Enclosure 4 video. Regarding the 1968 film The Music of Harry Partch I observed, “It’s a pity that Partch used the chromelodeon to demonstrate the difference between a justly-intoned major third and the same interval in twelve-tone equal temperament. The rich cloud of overtones of the instrument – a substantially-modified harmonium – . . . [ensures] that most mortals will be hard-pressed to spot any difference, particularly with the perfunctory, almost impatient demonstration that Partch gives.” And here, mind, he was supposed to be addressing, not musicians but specifically a general audience!

As the demonstration ended, if I’d been there I’m sure that I’d have been thinking, “Well, this is all very fascinating, but surely it’s only of academic interest, isn’t it? After all, we are getting along nicely enough with our 12 tempered tones, aren’t we?” then I – and anyone else of a similar frame of mind – was in for a rude awakening, because Partch was about to introduce his concept of Speech Music. Of course, the very term would have provoked a further question: “Won’t this be the same as the Sprechstimme ‘popularised’ by Schoenberg?” Needless to say, the answer was a resounding “No”! For a start, as Partch explained, he’d traced the origin of his Speech Music all the way back to ancient Greece and China, and thence forward into the Renaissance – and even into the Twentieth Century, as something that W. B. Yeats prayed for but never gained (though, when Partch visited him in 1934, he came precious close).

Note: Presumably for reasons of timing, Partch’s introduction of Speech Music makes no mention of the need for a highly-resolved just-intonational scale. So, in case you’re wondering: although it isn’t particularly obvious, all human speech involves musical tones (something that the Sprechstimme brigade had completely overlooked); the tones in speech are true tones; hence the instrumental accompaniment also must be true-toned; Partch determined experimentally that the human ear can resolve intervals of the just-intonational “ratios of 11” (far finer than equal temperament’s equivalent of the 5-limit); that gives us 28 true intervals; Partch’s scale contains 43 because he added, entirely legitimately, 15 “multiple-number ratios” as harmonic “gap fillers”; not unreasonably assuming that the voice can produce what the ear can resolve, it follows that this scale can be used to harmonise with any and all expressive speech (or rather, the tones inherent in that speech), to complement and intensify the emotive content of the words.

To explain the concept, Partch focussed on the practical aspects of producing (composing) Speech Music. He related two methods of acquiring the sequence of speech tones and rhythms, though to be brutally fair his description of these methods as “completely different” is evidently a slight over-statement. The first is to have someone with the text in his very blood recite the words while you reproduce the tonal inflections on (say) the adapted viola and your assistant notates what is played; the other is, in effect, to infuse the words into your own blood, memorising them and practicing them for weeks until the inflections become “crystallized” in your own mind, and only then setting them down. In both cases, the harmonising follows as the final, compositional step – and the only material difference between them is the source of the tonal inflections.

Partch illustrated the results obtainable from both methods, the first using a line from The Lord Is My Shepherd (vocal inflections provided by an actual Cantor), and the second a line from Li Po’s A Dream (his own “crystallized” inflections); each line was spoken twice, once accompanied by the notated inflections and once by his composed harmonised accompaniment. He might usefully have prefaced each with the speech alone – but he didn’t; if it’s any consolation, it turned out he wouldn’t have had enough time.

Might we object that this is essentially no different from harmonising a singing voice? Certainly, in terms of method it is not entirely dissimilar. In terms of principle and practice, though, they could hardly be more different. For one thing, in singing the voice, limiting itself to the diatonic scale, operates primarily as any other musical instrument, and “pitch cues” can originate in any participant; whilst in Speech Music the voice speaks, tonally unconstrained, and all the pitch cues necessarily come from the voice only.

Of course, once the inflections have been notated, it works only if the performer uses those identical inflections, which corresponds roughly to a song’s subsequent singer having to stick to the notes as written. For another, the tones inherent in speaking are not related by any harmonic tonality, but range freely (“atonally”) through the entire scale. It should be said that, although Partch gives full credit to the ancients for inventing Speech Music, it is clear that their scales would have enabled at best a crude approximation to Speech Music (or conversely have severely constrained the range of expressive inflections), and that Partch is the first to appreciate and realise fully the true-toned fine structure of the speaking voice’s scale.

Right, back to the plot. Having done with demonstration, Partch launches his recital. The first item, the whole of The Lord Is My Shepherd, is the only one supported by the chromolodian. To some extent, this does not particularly enlarge upon the single line Partch has already used in his demonstration; fascinating as it is historically, it struck me as being otherwise a relatively academic exercise – especially in view of what followed. Partch introduces his adapted viola and the first of the seven selections from his 17 Lyrics of Li Po, a full performance of A Dream.

This proves to be a coup de théâtre that puts even his earlier “progressions within one octave” in the shade. Thus far, his examples (along with The Lord Is My Shepherd) have been, shall we say, “conservative”, carefully selected to illustrate his points as clearly as possible. Now he introduces A Dream in some detail, but then excuses himself while he goes to “wet his whistle”; and on his return further delays with some tuning up. Was he feeling a bit nervous, or slyly cranking up his audience? Probably both. Settling his adapted viola between his knees – and removing the kid gloves – Partch, with electrifying intensity, pitches into his performance of A Dream, and shows them just what his Speech Music is really capable of.

It’s quite likely that the audience was partly astonished by the sheer virtuosity of Partch’s performance, as both vocal actor and instrumentalist; however you can bet your bottom dollar that for the most part they were “blown away” by Partch’s extraordinarily vibrant vindication of all that he had earlier been “demonstrating” so earnestly. This time he was met, not by the stunned silence of sheer surprise, but by a solid storm of spontaneous applause.

Although the other six Lyrics are more succinct and less overtly melodramatic, they are still far more absorbing and involving than the Speech Music examples that preceded A Dream in his programme. What we hear is precisely the difference between a dispassionate demonstration of principles using simple samples and the impassioned performance of real music. These six Lyrics, with their imaginatively varied accompaniments, admirably illustrate the breadth of applicability of Speech Music, plus the fact that it is music – and hugely enjoyable music at that.

At the end of the Lyrics, Partch does something that will resonate with anyone who has given a presentation: he asks whether he’s OK for time. You can hear Howard Hanson’s reply, insisting that they must hear the hitchhiker piece (Barstow), even if it means cancelling classes! Partch, presumably unwilling to deprive students of their education (perhaps he might have been advised by a line in Barstow, “What the hell do they think this is?” and simply over-run), decides to skip his planned Shakespeare setting, and proceed directly to that much-desired finale.

Of course, this recording of Barstow is the very track that I’ve already reviewed (you’ll find it near the end). Although what I said then still stands, I need to add a little more. Hearing it in the context of his demonstration and (especially) his performance of Li Po’s A Dream, made me more aware of just what’s going on in Partch’s “engine room”. Whilst, compared to the other versions of Barstow, this still feels very much on the wild side, I found myself conscious of the intimate connections between what the voice is intoning or chanting and the strenuously strummed sounds of the adapted guitar. I think that this is simply because, with what has led up to it still fresh in my mind, I am at least semi-consciously seeking those connections. Heard in context, this solo Barstow is even more of an ear-opener!

Note: In all the reams that I’ve read about Partch, I cannot recollect (i.e. I’ve probably missed, or simply forgotten about) anything defining Partch’s “intoning voice” and “chanting voice”. Particularly because Partch’s use of these terms runs contrary to most people’s conceptions, it’s important to be aware of them. Happily, Schneider’s book reproduces the typed leaflet Partch submitted to the Guggenheim in May 1942 – and that leaflet provides the definitions: the “intoning voice” uses the pure 43 tone scale freely, i.e. it speaks; the “chanting voice” generally uses a pure diatonic (7-tone) scale, i.e. it sings. Remember those – they may come in handy one quiz-night!

I must mention the rather ticklish matter of how these performances compare with those on later recordings. It’s “ticklish” because, although other recordings do exist, they are not entirely comparable! Innova’s Enclosure 2 (review) includes Ten Lyrics of Li Po. Recorded in 1947, it includes 5 and omits 2 of the Lyrics presented here; and features Partch on adapted viola, but sharing the vocals with William Wendlandt. The acetate sound is very dull and clicky, but the performances make this a worthy adjunct to the present recording for anyone particularly taken by the Li Po Lyrics.

Also on Enclosure 2 is a 1945 recording of Barstow, in the 1943 version for chromolodian, adapted guitar, kithara and two voices. You’ll find a video recording of a performance of the 1968 version on Enclosure 8 (review); and on New World Records’ The Harry Partch Collection – Volume 2 (review) there’s an audio recording of the same version played by the same performers; and then there’s the best recording of all on the famous Columbia LP The World of Harry Partch (which may still be available as a digital download). However, you’ll note that none of these is of this original 1941 version for voice and adapted guitar, of which the recording on this CD can lay claim to being the “world première recording” – and also the only recording.

How should I sum up this release? Did I hear someone suggest “briefly”? OK, then, the limited edition (N.B!) CD-plus-book package inevitably costs more than a normal CD, but less than you might imagine; whilst the particularly cost-conscious can save a fair bit by opting for a download. However, what you get is a real slice of history, a rare, invaluable and beautifully restored recording of Partch, the musical maverick nonpareil, both pleading and proving his case through a persuasive “lecture/demonstration” and triumphantly convincing solo performances. John Schneider and his team deserve a resounding round of approbation for putting, to paraphrase my earlier review, “this priceless recording, its sound brushed up into its Sunday best, where it belongs – before the public.”

Paul Serotsky

Footnote

Following publication of this review, Andrew Granade (Prof. of Musicology, UMKC Conservatory, Kansas City) kindly wrote to me, to resolve the outstanding uncertainties. Briefly, he it was who, in 2004 while working on his dissertation, unearthed the recordings. These he discussed in both his thesis and his book Harry Partch: Hobo Composer (2014). Prompted by the book, Ph.D. student Chris Rainier  wrote to Granade (2016), who sent him a copy of the recording. Subsequently, Rainier advised Schneider of its existence. Thus, it actually took 17 years for the rediscovered recording to reach the public’s ears!