by Bill Benzon

I must confess, my title is more of a figurative come-on than an accurate indication. I’m not really going to talk about the sixth century pope, Saint Gregory the Great, but rather about the liturgical music that has taken his name, Gregoring chant, aka plainsong. I am, however, going to talk about Sidney Bechet, or rather, I’m going to let Ernst Amsermet talk about him, but mostly as an exemplary practitioner of the music that colloided with the European plainsong legacy early in the 20th century. We’re living in the dust and debris kicked up by that trainwreck [1].

It’s called primitivism: the reexamination and assimilation of the primitive within modern cultural forms. This phenomenon is not confined to music, but is a general aspect of European culture through the 19th and 20th centuries. In the cognitive sphere it gives us the discipline of anthropology. In the expressive sphere it yields primitivism, which parallels the emergence of museums of primitive art. This assimilation employs a metaphor of conquest: just as “inferior” cultures were conquered (and thus needed to be preserved from eradication) by the “superior” European civilization, so emotion was conquered by its superior, reason.

Sidney Bechet, Nov. 1946, Gottlieb Collection, Library of Congress

Europe Makes Itself Through Painsong

The musical version of this story starts with plainsong, the liturgical music of the medieval Christian church. During the medieval period most plainsong was used within religious communities as a daily aspect of their religious life, rather than being performed with a congregation on Sundays. While this body of music has its roots in pre-Christian music of the Jewish service, it is generally known as Gregorian chant, after Pope Gregory I, who played a major role in organizing and codifying the chants late in the 6th Century CE. These chants are generally regarded as the fountainhead of Western classical music, all of whose forms all have some link to their Gregorian lineage, though many other musics are eventually put to classical use. For this reason we can think of the classical music as developing under a Gregorian Contract.

Plainsong is pure melody, sung in unison, utterly without pulse and meter. It is horizontal melody without upheaval; it is, in effect, spirit without body. That is the core conception that over the course of centuries becomes stretched and modified, both by extending its own devices (e.g. the development of parallel vocal lines and then polyphony) and by assimilating other types of music, including various dance styles, whether the courtly minuet of the Baroque and Classical periods or the mazurkas beloved by Chopin.

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by Misha Lepetic

"To be in the world like tulips in a garden,
to make a fine show, and be good for nothing."
—Mary Astell

It seems appropriate that, in its waning hours, the phantasmagoria that was 2017 should have delivered an investment bubble equal parts preposterous and inscrutable. And so we witnessed the stratospheric rise of bitcoin and a veritable menagerie of other cryptocurrencies. Even more appropriately, in a year that made an art out of ratcheting up the tension, this bubble has yet to pop, despite the near-vertical rates of appreciation, followed by a retrenchment that has itself stalled out, leaving us with a most unsatisfying denouement.

In a rush to make sense of it all, many people were happy to pronounce bitcoin (along with cryptocurrency in general, and blockchain as well, because sure why not) as just another episode of the madness of crowds. Knowing glances were cast back to past bubbles, epitomized by the pets.com sock puppet, JP Morgan's shoeshine boy, and of course tulipomania.

But such a rush to judgment can be its own form of madness. To be sure, in these binary times it's difficult to tread a subtler line. The suggestion that we should be pursuing far better questions isn't necessarily the same thing as claiming that ‘this time is different', even though the two stances are easily confused. Instead of dismissing cryptocurrency as the latest demonstration of humanity's inability to learn from its past mistakes, we may rather use it as an opportunity to inquire about the nature of value, and what difference the future may make in relation to the present.

Beginning with the ur-phenomenon of tulipomania, we can find both striking similarities and differences between it and the current situation. For one thing, tulips are a real thing – that is, a commodity. As Mary Astell implies above, flowers may not have much going for them, but they are pretty to look at, and in an affluent society, that counts for something (it ought to be noted that gold is similar, in that its practical value, as jewelry and an industrial metal, is far outstripped by its value as, well, gold). So it was for the Dutch, who saw in tulips a signaling mechanism that rapidly got out of hand.

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by Daniel Ranard

"I am in the world and at the same time in myself: is there geometry more beautiful?"
—Abdelmajid Benjelloun

When someone learns you're in academia, sometimes they ask questions you're not qualified to answer. An economist friend was asked once: "Oh, so how long do eggs last in the fridge?" And so it is, perhaps, with asking physicists about consciousness. You may as well ask a philosopher, a neuroscientist, or really anyone else – after all, we all have first-hand knowledge of that spark of life inside our skulls.

But I want to write on what physicists think about consciousness. Not because they deserve special authority, but because they provide an important point of reference. The physicist's worldview usually contains some aspect of physicalism (asserting the only "real" things are physical things, governed by physical laws), reductionism (asserting all observable phenomena are explicable in terms of their microscopic parts), and positivism or operationalism (asserting that the only meaningful concepts are empirically testable). And in recent generations more than any others, it seems, this web of attitudes permeates the zeitgeist. It is our inheritance from the success of 20^th-century physics.

This inheritance alters the way we frame questions about the mind and consciousness. While Descartes asked how the physical realm interacts with the realm of the mind and soul (his answer: the pineal gland), today we immediately privilege the physical. If the world consists only of the physical, how does the conscious mind arise? If your brain is a soup of electrons and protons, how does this soup come to harbor an interior experience? What gives rise to thoughts, feelings, and sense of being?

Philosophers have devised an intricate taxonomy of responses to the question of how consciousness relates to the physical world. Where do modern physicists fall within this taxonomy, especially as a community whose attitudes have historically shaped the framing of the question?

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by Yohan J. John

Once upon a time there was a village on the edge of a vast jungle. In it there lived a little girl who loved to explore the depths of the jungle. One day she heard a sound she had never heard before. She followed it until she came to a great old tree. High up in the branches she spotted a beautiful songbird. She sat by the tree for a time, enchanted by the bird's song. She returned home and told her friends about the bird. In a few days she became known as the Bird Girl, because she led the other children to the great old tree where the bird sang its tune. Soon enough, the adults went along too. Everyone agreed that the bird made a most wonderful music, unlike anything ever heard in those parts.

But the path to the great old tree was dangerous — there were slippery rocks and tangled roots. Wild animals prowled in the shadows. Still, the beauty of the bird's song had an irresistible pull. The village elders decided that the bird should be captured and brought to the village. Soon enough, the bird was caught, and placed in a cage. The Bird Girl told everyone that the song had somehow changed, and that something important had been lost. The elders did not pay her much attention. She went back to exploring the jungle, but rarely told the elders what, if anything, she found.

The villagers gathered every evening to behold the bird and its song. Word spread to neighboring villages, and soon curious pilgrims arrived. The villagers began selling food and trinkets to the visitors. The bird was a blessing!

One day the king was traveling through the region, on his way home from a victorious battle. He heard stories of the songbird, and decided to see it for himself. The bird proved even more impressive than he imagined. Nowhere in the kingdom was there a bird such as this!

The king decreed that such a bird could not be hidden away in an obscure village. He took it to the capital, where more people could be touched by the grace of its song. The villagers were sad to see the bird go, but they could hardly stand in the way of a king.

In the capital city, the king displayed the bird at his court. The courtiers told the king that such a bird could not possibly be placed in a crude wooden cage: it must have a royal cage, befitting its miraculous nature. And so a golden cage was built for the bird.

Over the years the king continued to embellish the cage: jewels and engravings were added to every bar. A temple was built especially for the bird. It was almost as marvelous as the king's palace. People arrived from every corner of the kingdom to behold the bird, hear its song, and marvel at its glorious cage. One day the Bird Girl came — though by this time she was called the Bird Woman. She muttered about how the bird's song had changed. As before, no one listened.

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by Paul Braterman

Translations change the course of civilisations. The translation project begun by Caliph al-Mansour in the 8^th century CE, and accelerated under his grandson Harun al-Rashid, made available in Arabic scholarly writings from Greek, Aramaic (Syriac), Persian, and Indian sources, and laid the foundation for the flowering of science and philosophy in the Islamic world during Europe's Dark Ages. A second translation project, from the 10^th century onwards, was in the other direction, from Arabic to Latin. Among its initiators was Gerbert d'Aurillac, the future Pope Sylvester II, and it reached its height in Toledo in Spain where for a while Christianity and Islam came into close contact and where Gerard of Cremona translated al Khwarismi and Avicenna (ibn Sina), as well as Arabic versions of works by Ptolemy and Aristotle. It refreshed Europe's contact with classical learning, while also conveying what was then current scholarship. It was the pathway through which Christian Europe rediscovered Aristotle, while Avicenna's clinical expertise is mentioned in the Canterbury Tales. His writings on geology, which I have discussed elsewhere, were among those translated at this time, but originally misattributed to Aristotle.

R: Avicenna expounding pharmacy to his pupils, from the 15th century "Great Cannon [sic] of Avicenna"; Wellcome Library via Wikimedia. Click to enlarge.

Happily, if belatedly, another translation project is now under way, from English to Arabic, focused largely on science-related topics of general interest, with special attention to evolution.

Why evolution? Not only because of its central role in modern life sciences, but because the response to evolution is a test of willingness to accept reality. Not just to accept that sacred texts require interpretation (we all know that anyway), but that human beings are part of nature. And because the teaching of evolution is under attack in the Arabic-speaking world (as it long has been next door, in Turkey, where last June it was dropped from the textbooks).

Acceptance of evolution is low throughout much of the Islamic world. In Saudi Arabia, school texts describe "Darwin's theory" as blasphemous and unscientific. In territory controlled by ISIS, the teaching of evolution was banned. In July, ISIS was finally driven from Mosul, its last major stronghold in Iraq. In August, Iraq itself dropped evolution from the school syllabus, on the grounds that the syllabus was overcrowded and that evolution was never really taught anyway. The Iraqi Education Minister, Omar Mahmoud Mohamed Iqbal Al-saydali, has religious party connections and while he has a degree in education (more that can be said for his opposite number in the US, or the UK or Scotland, for that matter) he has no special training in biology.

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by Ashutosh Jogalekar

A few years ago, historian of science Steven Shapin had a review of Steven Gimbel's capsule biography of Einstein. The biography itself is quite readable, but Shapin also holds forth with some of his more general thoughts on the art of scientific biography and the treatment of famous scientific figures. He mulls over the tradition of writing about scientific lives that initially tended to treat its inhabitants as scientific heroes but which in recent times has sought more to illuminate their human flaws. Pointing out the triumphs as well as the follies of your subjects is of course an important thing to keep in mind for preventing a biography from turning into a hagiography, but as Shapin points out, one can bend over backward in doing this and err on the other side:

"The “human face” genre was an understandable response to hagiography, but more recently it has lapped over into a commitment to dirt-digging. Some modern scientific biographies mean to show great scientists as not just human but all-too-human, needing to be knocked off their pedestals. Galileo—we are now told—was a self-publicizing courtier, sucking up to his Medici patrons; Robert Hooke was a miser who molested his niece; Newton was a paranoid supervisor of torture who cheated in a priority dispute; Pasteur was a careerist power broker who cut ethical corners; even gentle Darwin was channeling laissez-faire capitalist ideology and using illness as an excuse to get colleagues to face down his scientific opponents on his behalf. Weary of stories about the virtues attached to transcendent genius, biographers have brought their scientific subjects down to Earth with a thunderous thump."

This view does not quite conform to the post-modernist ideal of treating every achievement as a subjective product of its times rather than as the unique work of an individual, but it does go a bit too far in discounting the nature of the few genuinely intellectually superior minds the human race has produced. The approach also tends to conflate people's scientific achievements with the social or personal aspects of their lives and somehow asks us to consider one only in the "context" of the other. But it seems odd to say the least to declare that Feynman is not a role model for science communication when millions of young people of all colors, nationalities, genders and political views have been deeply inspired by his teaching, books and science (more on this later). When it comes to being a successful model for science communication, shouldn't the product speak for itself rather than some preconceived ideology?

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by Carol A Westbrook

Did you give any Christmas presents this year? Or Hanukkah or birthday presents? Did the lucky recipients send you note by post, email, text, or at least a phone call? No? Well where, then, are their manners!

Yes, where, actually, are their manners?

It is true that our lifestyles have changed considerably since the days that the etiquette books were written. Many of the old rules are no longer relevant, while there are many new circumstances that Emily Post did not consider: cell phones, social media, gender equality, unconventional marriages, to name a few. This does not mean you have a license to ignore all of the etiquette rules that your parents taught you.

The rules of common courtesy make it possible for us to live together in harmony, without misunderstanding, insult, or hurt. These rules are there for a reason: to allow us be kind and polite to everyone without having to think about it–even if we can't stand them. As every etiquette book will tell you, if you are uncertain what is proper, then use common sense, treating everyone with kindness and respect.

Forgetting to say "thank you" is just one of example social rules that people break without thinking. There are many others that are especially important in getting along in today's society, and many which particularly vex me. I began to compile a list, which began to sound like Ko-Ko's song in the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, The Mikado,

"I've got a little list
Of society offenders
Who might well be underground
And who never would be missed"

Rather then sending this list to the Lord High Executioner, I will share it with you.

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by Christopher Bacas

There’s a sidewalk grate in Beverly Road station. Train sounds rise; squealed intervals evaporating as you pass. Underground, sun squeezes through the grid like skin pressed on a window screen. On the brightest day, its gutter brims gold, but never overflows. During heavy rains, the station’s walls sluice water that puddles next to the benches. When trains pass, delicate ripples ply their surface. On a grey April morning, feet bridging two platform lakes, I heard a heavy thud. The whoosh of air preceding it didn’t register. Three days of rain swelled my skull. Between the tracks, garbage sank in oily swamps. Over a dry stretch, a man lay face down; nylon backpack listing across his tan jacket. Instantly, a horizontal window opened and time upended.

Matter is quite un-material. Atoms are flickering emptiness. In that chasm, cosmic forces act on infinitesimal scale. Particles unravel and reconstitute; their paths, limitless sorcery. Mass doesn’t tally the apple’s downward push, but the warp of gluons lacing quarks into its nuclei. Ancient eyes tuned to vibrations of air and earth, not dancing voids, we see only objects, immobile and too, too solid.

I looked left for an oncoming train. The tracks ran straight to “The Junction”, terminus of the 2 and 5 lines. From the intervening stop, an approaching train’s headlamps tilt down, then steadily rise. In front, on the rails, parallel mercury streams advance. Now, two oncoming lights shimmered, guttering ahead, backlighting people near the turnstiles.

“Stop the train! Stop it!”

I jumped to the tracks. A man further down joined me. We rolled the body face up, then grabbed handfuls of clothing and ankles. He was heavy and the platform shoulder high. We couldn’t heave past the bumper at its edge. From above, hands pulled the jacket and dragged him across concrete.

Leaning into the bumper, I discovered it was soft underneath; a rubber Mille Feiulle. In its layers, street grit and countless bug carcasses, the sour delta of 21st century Flatbush delivered by gushers of spring rain. I pushed down and couldn’t clamber onto the platform. Hands grabbed mine, and I stumbled up. Behind us, the stopped train, unblinking.

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by Max Sirak

(Rather listen? Go right on ahead…)

Ho, ho, ho!

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and Praise, Pelor!

Last year for my December column, I borrowed a Steve Martin bit from SNL about wishes and riffed on it. (Here) This year, in the spirit of giving, I'm going to offer up a useful lens and associated vocabulary you can use to analyze behavior and decisions. But before we get to the goods, I'm going to take a moment and explain how I got familiar with this system.

Back In The Day

Ah, the year was 1993. Radiohead's first album, Pablo Honey, debuted. Bill Clinton became President. The Unabomber was running amuck. David Koresh was holed up in Waco, TX. And, because I was twelve years old, none these events garnered much of my attention.

Computer camp did.

That's right. The summer between sixth and seventh grade, me and two buddies, Josh and Andy, went to a weeklong, overnight programing camp. C++. BASIC. Visual BASIC.

I wasn't a strong coder. I never made it past your basic BASIC, but the week I spent at Cleveland's own, Ursuline College, influenced me greatly. It was there, amongst the caffeine- fueled, acne-riddled adolescents, who spent all their time staring at screens (long before it was cool…), I was introduced to a lifelong hobby.

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