[0:05]I would like to begin our first session with the keynote lecture. We are honored to have with us Professor Owen Wright, one of the true pioneers of the field. Many of you are already familiar with his groundbreaking work, but allow me to briefly introduce him. Professor Wright is emeritus Professor of Musicology of the Middle East at SOAS, University of London. His numerous significant publications include Music Theory in the Safavid Era, Music Theory in Mamluk Cairo, and On Music, which is his Arabic edition and English translation of Rasail Al-Ikhwan Al-Safa. His scholarship has profoundly shaped the field and his contributions were celebrated in Festschrift Theory and Practice in the Music of the Islamic World. Today, he will take us on a journey through Timurid music and Without further ado, please join me in welcoming him, Professor Owen Wright. Please.

[1:10]Well, good morning, everyone. Thank you Shifa for organizing this event, but it's your fault that I'm here, although I do have to take responsibility for what follows, which is an attempt to provide a kind of backdrop, if you like, against which your research can sparkle and punch holes in it. It's clear from the titles and abstracts of the papers that most of you have seized upon the aspect of transmission or transmissions and the result is a concentration on the possible survival of elements of Timurid practice within the various success of traditions, whether in the Ottoman Empire, Safavid Persia, Central or South Asia. This emphasis, I thought it might be useful to begin with an outline of what I think the label Timurid music might imply. The definition seems initially straightforward. We have a time for all practical purposes the 15th century and a place.

[2:29]You might like to challenge some of the borders of this map, but I'm not going to dwell on that. And an area stretching from the Caucasus to Central Asia, within which we find major centers of patronage, above all the courts of Samarkand and Herat. But what does that tell us? Art historians, and it's salutary to acknowledge their presence here, have long wrestled with the various merits and demerits of regional, confessional or period demarcations. And with them we might wonder how useful, how informative dynastic terminology is. Does the label Timurid identify or suggest anything distinctive? What segments of the musical map are involved? The documentary evidence has little or nothing to say about the musical implications of the activities of Sufi orders during this period. And saving the mention of the occasional instrument is silent concerning folk music. We are then perforce concerned primarily with the art music stratum, asking about the nature of Timurid practice and how it might have differed from what preceded and what followed. What did it inherit? What did it bequeath? To what extent was it monolithic, preserving down to the end of the century, the idiom described at its beginning? And to what extent did it differ when compared with the idioms favored in contemporary cultural centers elsewhere in Damascus say or Amasia? The diachronic access is relatively easy to comment on. Even if by no means abundant, there is sufficient evidence to point to evolutionary change as a constant, even if moving at different speeds, at different times. The picture painted by Maraghi resembles but nevertheless differs from that provided by Shirazi a century earlier. And further developments are revealed in post Timurid texts. Interpreting the synchronic access is less straightforward, partly because of an imbalance in the nature and quality of the available information. There are several substantial theoretical texts that can justifiably be termed Timurid, all belonging to what is now conventionally termed the systematist school. But one or two traveled and acquired Ottoman connections or at least dedications, but the extent to which they also reflect musical practice at the Ottoman court during the 15th century is impossible to assess. Similar texts that can be situated elsewhere are far fewer. The Anatolian theoretical literature of the time is different in character and in content. And there's a striking lack of Timurid parallels to the literature produced elsewhere on Samarkand or to the emergent stream of Arabic texts, often with a markedly cosmological component. For other forms of contextualization, we may turn to literature and to art. And I'm sorry to step into Shiva's territory here, but at least pleasant things to see. First then, the standard and morally reprehensible conjunction of music and wine drinking, familiar to historians of Islamic art, but one here treated with levity. If you can tear your eyes away from the magnificent opulent awning over the seated prince and concentrate on what is below, you will see in the foreground an abandoned empty wine jar, but with further supplies prominently displayed center and left. And figures in various stages of inebriation by the tearing their clothing befuddled or having passed out, all the while serenaded by a singer holding a book. there of which more later, and a player of a very large lute. Echoed, possibly with humorous intent, by what for a moment looks like a punning counterpoint, a miniature lute before it resolves into a globular thin-necked wine jar.

[7:21]In the second painting, although stylistically quite different, the architectural laying is layering is not dissimilar. And the position of the socially inferior musicians is once more in the foreground. Food and drink are again served, but in a more restrained manner, and the main figures and their attendance are entertained by a long-necked lute, too long to be contained within the frame, a rim-blown flute and an upper-chested harp chang. Depictions of instruments are often quite precise, but here we encounter two inaccuracies or organological infelicities, if you prefer, the anatomically implausible hand positions of the nay player and the tuning tassels on the lower bar of the harp that extend beyond the array of strings. The third painting moves outdoors as the princely couple are entertained this time by another truncated lute, a singer again holding a book. A more accurately depicted harp, although the performer might have found it a strain to reach the furthest strings, and at last a percussion instrument. The ubiquitous frame drum DAF, Daire, in its various forms. The player here, right hand resting, and evidently not contributing much at this moment, seems to epitomize the relaxed nature of this idyllic garden scene. As here, instrumentalists in the ensembles portrayed in paintings are normally no more than three or four in number, performing on one or two string instruments, a nay and a daf. In addition to the oud with its angled and curved peg box, the lute types represented include its much larger counterpart, the Shah Rud, usually richly decorated, and a double chested or buzz. Less frequently encountered are the long-necked lutes, although this is not necessarily indicative of a difference in regional or social distribution. The other main string instruments depicted are a bowed vertically held spike fiddle, Kamancha, and as we have seen, the upper-chested harp. The depiction of ensembles is also context sensitive, showing, for example, a standard combination of nay and daf in representations of Sufi dancing. An iconography also allows some glimpses into the significant role played by female performers, sadly absent from the textual record, but depicted both as instrumentalists performing most frequently on harp and frame drum, and as dancers. The iconographical record provided by Timurid paintings of court scenes and others related to the princely cycle, thus helpfully records aspects that theorists may disregard. And although there's no reason why painters should feel obliged to explore beyond inherited types, the fact remains that their delineations of instruments are often sufficiently realistic in their precision to suggest observation rather than artistic convention. Yet the visual record is still restricted to a relatively narrow range, and it would not be unreasonable to interpret the contrast with the earlier variety observed by Maraghi in Samarkand as reflective of the more subtle cultural norms of the Herat court with a reduced core of preferred instruments, from which others, presumably with folk or other ethnic associations, had been excluded.

[11:30]Various Timurid instrumentalists and composers are referred to in the Babu Nama, the memoirs of Babur who visited Herat in the dying days of the Timurid court before embarking on his campaign in Northern India. They include performers on nay and oud, but also on Bishak, the spike fiddle with sympathetic strings, and some are said to be expert on two or all three of them. Most also composed, and Babur offers critical evaluations, rating them from outstanding to mediocre, and notes the forms in which they excelled. A clear indication that the differences between them were of significance. Mention is also made of a non-performing composer with a small but high quality output. For singers, we must turn to Wasifi, who lists virtually equal numbers of singers and instrumentalists, all male, who performed at one extravagant majlis. Interestingly, eight of the ten singers were Labbard Hafiz, suggesting that as elsewhere, the secular and the sacred were not mutually exclusive. Elsewhere, reference is made to the rarely portrayed plucked dulcimer Qanun, the technically innovative master of which was an aristocratic amateur, Khwaja Abdul Allah Marwari. Such passages are helpful in extending our knowledge of which instruments were performed at court, but contain no more than frustrating hints of the nuances of the social relationships between patrons and performers, or of the range of musical styles favored, and still less of economics. Nor is further insight provided by Maraghi's comments on how musicians should act in a majlis, as they are standard generalities concerning good behavior and decorum, centered upon the qualities of tact and reticence, supported by the need to choose songs with texts suitable to the audience. To speak of a distinctive profile, a set of features peculiar to Timurid practice, would it seems be hazardous. Although perhaps one might venture a significant, the fact that, contrary to their Ottoman, Safavid and Mughal counterparts, Timurid rulers were consistent in their support, guaranteeing the important benefit of sustained interest. Hardly surprising then, that the Herat court during the reign of Husain Baiqara, should become a byword for artistic patronage, still held in high esteem as late as the 17th century. Presaging then, its later role as a mythic past, related to which is the presumption of enduring influence, as Timurid musicians ventured forth, both during the 15th century, and especially after the Shaybanid capture of Herat in 1507. The consequent diffusion of a Timurid repertoire, meeting, it seems, no resistance in centers of patronage elsewhere. However, given the norm of oral transmission, that repertoire was not notated. As a result, beyond whatever information could be gleaned from biographical and historical works or extracted from the visual record, any characterization of the fundamentals of musical practice will have to be derived from technical treatises and their analytical presentation of modal, rhythmic and formal structures. The theoretical literature, some of it shown above, beginning with Maraghi and continuing through Jami, Abdul Aziz, and Ban'i, shows a remarkable consistency. But in doing so, raises a question. Does it reflect a consistency of idiom over a long span, maintained by chains of master-pupil relationships, within which faithful transmission and reproduction of repertoire and performance style was a core value, reinforced by the need to meet the aesthetic standards of an informed and demanding audience? Or does it drift into the mechanically derivative? The account it provides becoming gradually more distant from the norms of an evolving practice. Indeed, the same question can be posed already at the beginning, for Maraghi's coverage of theory is highly indebted to that elaborated in the mid-13th century by Al-Urmawi, and amplified around the turn of the 14th by Qutb al-Din Shirazi. To what extent then might it merely embody an orthodoxy derived from earlier authorities, possibly already at some remove from early 15th century practice? Fortunately, Maraghi includes sufficient novel and independent descriptive material to indicate that even if the analytical armature is unoriginal, the idiom to which it is applied is that familiar to Maraghi himself. As a young man, he was closely associated with the Jalairid court. First in Tabriz, then in Baghdad, where he remained until 1393 when it too was taken by Timur, who then sent him along with other artists and craftsmen to the new capital that he was constructing at Samarkand. To it, Maraghi came equipped with a mastery of the art music tradition common to the major cultural centers of Iraq and Western Persia. And it was this that must have formed the core of the normative idiom he propagated in the Timurid court, first in Samarkand, and thereafter in Herat.

[17:53]Of the various topics into which his treatment is divided, modal structure, rhythmic cycles, compositional forms, instruments and behavior, it's the treatment of melodic modes that receives the greatest attention, preceded by a lengthy presentation of interval sizes and combinations thereof. What you see here then, only to be noted in passing, I suggest, are the basic combinations of intervals that serve as the building blocks of melody. The minor sign indicating a neutral pitch, hovering somewhere between natural and flat. One or two of these building blocks seem to have functioned as separate entities, but they were mostly combined or extended in various ways to produce more complex modal structures, each recognized as independent and nearly all named. They form a significantly more extensive corpus than that described by Al-Urmawi, which represents the core of the repertoire current in Baghdad during the final years of the Abbasid Caliphate. It is taken over virtually intact by Maraghi, pointing to its survival under Ilkhanid and Jalairid patronage, while some of the subsequent additions had already been noted by Shirazi. There is unfortunately insufficient evidence to determine whether there were any shifts in compositional style during this period that would have affected their utilization in practice, for what we know of them is primarily their outline intervallic structure, an abstract, only occasionally supplemented by indications of prominence, melodic contour or direction. At the head of his catalog, Maraghi places the two classes itemized by Al-Urmawi, one consisting of 12 modes, the other of six. Al-Urmawi also refers to a third class, termed combination, Murakkab, but mentions just two, while Shirazi introduces a group of nine, termed branch, Shoba. In both cases then, we have growth driven by processes of derivation, and this is carried further by Maraghi, who records an increase of the Shoba category to 24. And the 6 to 12 to 24 relationship is clearly not fortuitous. There is, though, no structural logic behind the expansion. Some of the derivational relationships proposed appear arbitrary, and the arithmetical neatness conceals a rather haphazard process of accretion. Noteworthy is that several of the more recent additions embody unexpected combinations or explorations of units that are of infrequent occurrence in the inherited mode stock, suggesting perhaps a readiness to experiment. In addition, Maraghi follows Shirazi in exploring the significant area of modulation. It is Shirazi who pioneers investigation of the melodic potential of moving from one mode or modal nucleus to another, in transitions that maximize the number of common pitches. Lists are given of such A to B pairs, and some modes are defined in these terms. Maraghi notes that the same pitch set may serve for more than one mode, and thereby points to a gap between the theoretical definitions of most modes, given at the same pitch, and the more flexible approach of performers, incorporating transposition. But he then goes further, specifying groups that constitute zones for modulatory development. Each group comprises modes from the various sets, and the internal ordering is hierarchical. An arrangement in itself indifferent to any notion of modulatory facility, and occasionally a group will contain what appear to be quirky juxtapositions. Yet the basic principle of linkage overall is undoubtedly similarity between pitch sets, allowing for smooth transitions. This is also made evident in the sequence Maraghi uses in one of his own compositions to combine all the modes of the sets of 12 and 6. More unusual transitions are, however, recognized in the course of his discussion of vocal technique. He concentrates first on the need for mastery of intonation, and then command of modal structure, including combinations, where there is a binary divide between the readily understood, Arib al-Fahm, combinations marked by propinquity and overlap, and the recondite, Baid al-Fahm, marked by dissimilarity.

[23:17]The question how to negotiate the latter is not explored, but it is clearly implied that the skill required was both desirable and appreciated. The whole topic may appear rather recondite, but its importance is confirmed in later texts, where complex modulatory sequences are foregrounded. We have then a Timurid stage within a long-term trend, one previously surveyed by Shirazi, and exemplified in the composition by Al-Urmawi that he notates. This composition was notated in around 1700, and it's therefore at least 300 years old.

[23:55]But but how much older than that might it be? Could it claim Timurid ancestry? Well, no. There's no trace of its rhythmic cycle in Timurid catalogs. But the question still remains, what justification might there be for the claim that the Ottoman and Safavid traditions, at least, are descendants of the Timurid and that Timurid compositions survive in them?

[24:49]Evidence for continuity elsewhere, whether in Safavid Iran or Shaybanid Central Asia, is also thin on the ground. Indeed, it hardly goes beyond references to the movements of a few musicians, such as Najm al-Din Kawkabi, who returned to Bukhara after the demise of the Timurids. However, we may note that complex modulatory sequences are also foregrounded in his treatise.

[25:22]And it is in them that we may begin to find analogies, possibly even precursors, to the conventional organization of forms and pieces that will eventually congeal into the flexible large-scale suite forms that characterize the Central Asian, Iranian, Azeri, and some Arab traditions. Here, however, we appear to be dealing with a residual degree of bimucicality, bolstered by a lingering consciousness of origins, rather than with any presumption of a significant Timurid impact on the development of court music in Mughal India. What remains available for inspection is thus primarily a body of concepts, an authoritative inventory of structures, of their activation, unfortunately, we know much less, so that the reality of Timurid practice remains indistinct, hovering elusively behind both the documentary void and an ideological construct. We are left with the afterglow of the dispersal of influential Herati musicians and the consequent creation of a radiant golden age. An elaboration of the Ubi Sunt Topos set in motion by an obscure sense of inferiority, latterly reinforced by the existential crises of the modern era.

[27:56]And that ends my existential crisis for the moment. So, thank you very much.