When a person attends a classical music concert, he or she immediately notices the synchrony between the different sections of an orchestra, their seemingly amazing ability to simultaneously play numerous parts that differed from each other and bring it all together in a majestic musical performance. Those listeners with more education in classical music may also notice differences in this particular ensemble’s performance as compared to the same piece being played by another ensemble, or even a difference between performances of this piece by the same group. The art of musical performance, especially on such a large scale as a symphonic but even with smaller ensembles such as quartets, is in itself a form of writing and of communication; it is a nonverbal, non-phonetic form, but a form that still conveys information of a sort, focusing on emotional overtones and even attempting to tell stories through the phrasings and specific composition of the piece, with Nikolai Rimksy-Korsakov’s Scheherazade being a prime example of this, with each of the symphony’s four movements telling stories that are separate but still somehow intertwined. As compared to phonetic writing systems, western classical music does have a written language by means of musical notation used for sheet music, and its version of speech is through performance. It adheres to none of the major linguistics theorists’ models fully, creating one of its own through its dynamic and versatile system of flexible tradition.

The western classical tradition of music can generally be compared to a typical phonetic writing system, in that one can break it down into two major components: "writing," the documentation of a composer’s musical fancy into the set musical notation system for others to interpret by means of writing a score, and "speech," the actual, physical performance of the piece. In this rather simplistic view, music does share some similarities with a typical writing system. The notation system for music is structured and formal, having existed with virtually no change since its instatement in Europe several centuries ago. This documentation form is timeless and established; the major difference is the process of mass production of sheet music now. In the past, music was entirely written by hand, rendering reproduction rather difficult; in the modern day, people can use computers to generate and easily reproduce music using the proper notation. The actual writing contains virtually no prosody, no room for interpretation; the documentation is strict, so to speak, in that each piece operates under a set time and key signature, a set or suggested tempo marking, and is made up of the same twelve notes across multiple octaves for a broader range, and depending on the range of the instrument one plays, he or she is constrained to a certain way of reading the notes by means of a specific clef or clefs designated for the specific instrument, and the notes themselves have specific definitions, which vary with the time signatures but remain constant in their basic interpretations. Musical notation is for the most part visual, with the main exception being playing by ear, which is generally not relevant in terms of performance. Music also can exist over time; Rimsky-Korsakov composed Scheherazade in the 19th century, yet the sheet music has endured over time and many hundreds of different ensembles have performed it since then because they are able to read copies of Rimsky-Korsakov’s written score. These ensembles all also have control over the reception of the piece, as they are the ones who can read and interpret and successfully play it; they control how others hear and perceive it.

Conversely, the performance, or the "speech" aspect of music, is not as structured as the notation; the musicians do follow the notes on the page, but they, and the conductor, are at liberty to interpret the delivery of the piece differently, swelling and becoming extremely expressive, broad, and warm during some passages, producing a rough, corrosive sound during others, and expressing regret or even grief by muting still others-and no two musicians will receive the same emotional response to a piece, producing thousands, if not millions, of unique emotional reactions to a single piece. The act of performance is also a real-time act, and perceiving a performance, either by attending one or hearing a recording or a radio broadcast, embodies a passage of time; hearing a symphony, or a passage, or even two notes played involves time passing for the performer as well as the listener. Performance also heavily relies on prosody, as previously stated; if a musician just played the notes on the page, he or she would be missing the point, which is to put one’s heart and soul into the interpretation of the notes on the page and the actual production of the music, to feel every nuance and every moment of emotion, and to instill that emotion and more human meaning into the performance, thus giving it much more significance than just ink on a page ever could. Obviously, the perception of music is entirely aural, and listening to a performance involves time, but especially real-time; a person listens to a piece in the present time, and once the piece is over, or he or she leaves the performance hall or turns off the stereo, the period of listening is over. Additionally, the performance of music does not deliver the same meaning to all listeners; just as no two musicians experience the same emotional response to a piece, no two listeners will, either. Listeners may also not be able to discern all of the specific notes, especially if not educated in classical music or if not familiar with the piece being played; others might even find the music to be boring while their companions are enthralled.

However, this is the point at which the model of the musical system deviates from conventional writing. As previously mentioned, none of the major linguistic theories about writing systems can fully apply to music, if even at all.

Ferdinand Saussure’s work with the signified and the signifier does not apply fully; while the signified represents the concept, what the composer thinks and feels while formulating a piece, and the signifier represents the actual documentation of these thoughts in musical notation so that others can read and interpret them, the application of music to this theoretical system ends there. Saussure’s two main points, that the bond between the signified and the signifier is arbitrary and that the signifier is linear, altering with time and outside influences, do not properly define how music functions. The bond between the written or printed sheet music and the musician’s interpretation may be arbitrary due to the aforementioned freedom for emotional interpretation, but the performer is still limited to the meanings of the notations. Additionally, the notation of music has barely changed over the years.

Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations does not apply to music either; it discusses the definition of a language and of assigning meaning to objects by different means. Musical notation is constant; on the treble clef, the note just below the lowest line of the staff is a C natural, and always will be as long as one stays within this clef, but while the notational placement of the C differs between clefs, within each respective clef it remains constant. The value of the C natural note will never change, either. One may move between octaves, depending on the musical notation-the note may be written between the third and fourth lines from the bottom of the treble clef to notate the C natural an octave above the "middle C," or there may be an "8va" symbol over the middle C to alert the musician to play it a note higher. This is fixed notation, and the value of the note is fixed; one must just simply learn the notation, learn the notes, and learn to match the notes to the proper notation in order to learn the basic groundwork of how to read music. Derrida’s argument almost seems similar to Wittgenstein’s in a sense, because it also deals of the meaning of language and how the speaker and listener interpret it, but it focuses on the "trace," the change of meaning over time; once again, this does not apply to music because of its static nature.

Leroi-Gourhan actually discusses the notion of pictorial communication and the evolution of pictures into less detailed, meaning-rich signs; however, this does not necessarily apply either, because the notation used for musical notes does not represent what a note actually looks like, but just its value and length. A musician who read the sheet music to Scheherazade during its 1888 debut would have understood the structure and composition of the music just as well as a musician reading the music today would, because the notation has not evolved over time; it appears exactly the same and carries exactly the same meaning as when it was instituted in Europe centuries ago.

While none of the major linguistic theorists have theories that focus on non-phonetic writing systems such as music, music invents its own theory with each new performance of an existing piece, and with newer, more modern compositions. However, Scheherazade, a more traditional, famous, and widely loved symphony, seems to embody the basic tenets of a linguistic theory of classical music by itself. The background story of the piece as a whole takes place in ancient Arabia. The Sultan Shahriar came to distrust all women after his first wife tried to betray him, and thus decreed that he would have each wife executed the morning after the wedding. He then married Scheherazade, a girl who was well known for her exquisite storytelling skills, which the Sultan learned of from her sister, who spent the night to say goodbye to Scheherazade as part of a plan the two enacted to save the bride’s life. The night of the wedding, Scheherazade began to tell him a tale, but did not finish it; the Sultan, intrigued, let her live so that he could hear the continuation of the story the following night. She continued to tell her tale for 1001 nights. By the time she finished her tale, they had three sons and the Sultan was convinced of her loyalty and wisdom, and he thus overturned his previous decree.

Each of the four movements of the piece tells one of the individual tales that Scheherazade told the Sultan night after night. Each movement embodies an individual story, but because of recurring themes representing the Sultan and Scheherazade that weave their way through the entire piece, the movements have continuity to them, a feel of a tie binding all four together, and the piece as a whole seems to come full-circle. In all four movements, there is a violin solo, high-pitched, sweet, and mysterious, with an exotic, Middle Eastern sound to its orchestration. This represents Scheherazade, never letting the listener forget that she is the woman crafting these tales. At the beginning of the first movement is a powerful near-unison between the brass and the strings, a dark, foreboding, and rather masculine sounding phrase. This represents the Sultan Shahriar’s decree to condemn all his wives to death on the day following the wedding. From there, after a softer, strings-only echo of the initial proclamation that emphasizes the feeling of dread it brings, the woodwinds continue the emotional charge, injecting hope intermingled with anxiety and almost fear into the resounding silence, representing the reaction to the Sultan’s decree and possibly even the plot of Scheherazade and her sister being put into action, but then the sweet sound of Scheherazade’s clever, lilting violin solo, accentuated by the harp, makes the listener take notice and realize that something is happening, and that despite the frightening initial unison decree, there seems to be hope yet.

This entire passage can be, and most likely has been, interpreted dozens upon dozens of different ways. With slower, more ponderous tempos such as this, the lengths of the notes-and rests-make a major difference in the interpretation of the piece, in how the emphasis falls and in the exact emotional response the conductor and musicians want to invoke. Any tempo noticeably faster than this particular one would take away from the dread that the initial proclamation of the Sultan is supposed to leave; any slower tempo, though, serves to simply accentuate the decree that much more, but the conductor is aware that if he or she takes this opening too slowly, it could possibly bore the audience. Similarly, the violin solo is entirely at the discretion of the concertmaster of the orchestra; taking the solo too quickly may make Scheherazade seem almost whimsical and flighty, but taking it too slowly might not instill a proper amount of fascination in her character and her theme. Even the tone in which it is played will reflect heavily on her character; playing too timidly or delicately does not make the listener look to her as a source of hope and intrigue, but playing too strongly would take away from her intricate and clever persona. Just this introduction to the first movement can have a tremendous impact on the listener’s reaction to the piece and on his or her interpretation of the story and the characters. In fact, the way that the five woodwind chords setting up Scheherazade’s entrance is executed in this recording does not appeal to me; I personally feel that the fifth chord, the one that is played twice, is far too ponderous, and should be treated more as a fanfare, with the notes coming more quickly to signal the entrance of an important figure. Playing them as slowly as this recording does seems to instill an awkward uncertainty in the audience, leaving them unsure of what is to follow, but in a more uncomfortable way, and not in a pleasantly anticipatory one, and this unfortunately occurs again in the piece at a very haphazard location, at the end of the final movement, with the same deliberate and awkward hesitation.

The piece then transitions into "The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship," a more lilting, smooth, and flowing movement representing a seafaring voyage, with the pulsing of the cello voice especially representing the constant waves moving and rocking the ship of Sinbad. The movement becomes more whimsical and then recedes, focusing on individual voices to possibly represent the characters in the story, or even the Sultan and those around him; this is up to the discretion of the listener to decide. The horn could represent Sinbad or the Sultan, and the solo woodwinds-the flute, oboe, and clarinet-could represent either those accompanying Sinbad on his voyage or members of the Sultan’s court. This is a transition area, leading to another, more detailed violin solo set to the general theme of the movement, with low voices providing a background to build off and a clarinet complimenting the main voice, smoothly reminding the listener that Scheherazade is still there, with her descriptions guiding the story into new and different directions. The music then launches back into describing the more turbulent sea, with the constant swells and crescendos and recessions in the music, the high and more powerful voices, and the trilling woodwinds all adding to this feeling. Not only could it represent the sea, but it could represent the pride and strength of Sinbad and his crew and their magnificent vessel-the music alludes to quite an imposing presence. But then it recedes again, repeating the previous interlude melody but in a different key to set a slightly new tone to the story, with the cello leading instead of the horn, the order of the answering woodwind voices reversed, and the higher strings providing a background beat and pulse for the music to build on. It builds a more delicate feel to the piece, and the listener can almost feel the tangible presence of Scheherazade, lurking just barely unseen and inscrutable behind the intricately woven pattern of her story. Inevitably, she reveals herself, in a different key that complements the other recent key change, with the flute chiming in and the higher strings providing a softening background presence. The powerful presence of Sinbad and the sea become prevalent once again, but in a new key that seems to warm the scene considerably and hints at an upcoming closure of sorts. And indeed, the music crescendos to a fanfare by the strings with the timpani for emphasis-and then, suddenly, the sea is calm again, and the flute and oboe speak softly but purposefully, followed by an affirmation by the violin section and a general winding down across all the sections, with the movement ending on a softer, much more pleasant note than on which it began.

The second movement then immediately picks up with Scheherazade transitioning the story onwards to "The Story of the Kalendar Prince," which deals with a prince who disguises himself as a member of a wandering musical tribe known as the Kalendars. However, the solo is different, dipping almost provocatively low before suddenly spiraling up to a crisp, striking peak to signify a noticeable change in the feel of the story. The solo then immediately gives way to a more rigid, lower, sober melody in the woodwinds and accentuated by the other lower voices, and then echoed by a higher voice that starts to add a bit of intrigue to this more rigid scenario, which seems to represent the prince and his transition from his kingdom to silently, secretly joining the Kalendars. The melody is then repeated at a more rapid tempo by the higher strings, from where it builds and then switches off to the woodwinds again, which continue this clever, slightly furtive theme, before the cello interjects with an echo of the beginning, alternating against the woodwinds and brass carrying the faster melody, until the oboe finally carries the passage to a close, and there’s a moment’s rest. This moment is suddenly broken by a stronger, more active and jaunty lower theme that echoes its way across the rest of the orchestra, which could be the Kalendars discovering the stranger in their midst. The high strings then echo the initial strong interruption, and the other sections pick up the pace, launching into a high-spirited melody, which seems to symbolize the Kalendar’s good-natured acceptance of the prince on their travels. This follows with a very stylistic woodwind run with strings providing an undertone via constant pizzicato, possibly standing for a member of the tribe performing a solo while the others fall back and watch, but this immediately launches back into the newer, jaunty "group" theme, dropping to a more mischievous echo before slowly picking back up and regaining strength and gusto as it moves along, rising and falling several more times with the winds and brass leading and the strings providing a constant rhythmic nuance in the background, via either arco or pizzicato style playing. It then suddenly drops into another stylistic solo, and then picks the original melody back up in a more energetic rendition, representing the prince once again, but this time immersed in the tribe. This continues for some time, before a series of slower, more pronounced instrumental solos begin in the woodwinds, and then work their way to the solo violin, once more representing the imperceptible storyteller Scheherazade. The cello then picks up the melody, and from there, the other sections chime in one by one, building and building, louder and faster and stronger towards an inevitable climax that ends the movement with giving the listener a thrill of exhilaration.

The third movement, "The Young Prince and the Young Princess," starts off on a much daintier, more stately note, with the high strings carrying the warm, lush melody, winding down with a woodwind run ending the phrase, followed by a near-echo of the beginning by the celli and a higher wind run, with a key change altering the feel of the piece ever so slightly. This movement is a more romantic one, with the higher voices representing the princess and the lower ones standing for the prince. The two voices then intertwine, the lower carrying the melody as the higher accentuates it with delicate runs, and this is then echoed by the higher strings carrying the melody and the winds chiming in with runs of their own. Then, abruptly, the melody changes to a more festive one carried by the winds, and they and the strings switch off carrying the next bit of melody, the strings’ version more fluid and the winds’ more reminiscent of a parade. The melody then climaxes, hesitates, and melts into the tune from the beginning, with the high strings carrying it and giving the princess a more delicate and emotional feel with their hesitations and emphasis. The prince/cello is quick to respond, with another high princess/violin run in response. And then Scheherazade makes her presence known in what I believe is the most lush violin solo in the entire piece, which seems rather fitting, since this movement is the most sentimental of the piece. The horns and winds begin to accompany her, and then suddenly she takes on a new voice, leading the rest of the orchestra into a powerful and high melody, symbolizing the strength and power of the love that the prince and princess share for each other. The melody winds down into a more lush rendition with the violin dancing along the edges once again, seeming to move towards a soft, docile conclusion, but suddenly the jaunty, more fun-filled melody appears briefly with the high strings leading the orchestra higher, climaxing, and slowly backing away, moving towards a definite conclusion-but unexpectedly, the woodwinds take over at the end, and propel the movement to a quick and happy ending by quietly but mirthfully echoing the feel of the jaunty theme once more.

The fourth movement wastes no time in setting itself apart from the others; the strings break in with a minor-key, strong and forceful melody. The title of this final movement is long: "Festival in Baghdad / The Sea / The Ship Goes to Pieces on a Rock Surmounted by a Bronze Warrior / Conclusion." Scheherazade suddenly makes her presence known, in a tone equaling the feel of the opening but with the delicacy that makes her melody so distinctive still there. Her melody spirals up, leading straight into a more powerful, orchestra-wide echo and expansion of the initial theme as the festival starts to become more visible--and then Scheherazade appears again, her tone seeming more alarmed and not quite as delicate...and she leads into the opening of the festival, which starts quietly and becomes stronger and more energetic as the movement progresses, changing several times to reflect the different sights to see, all of which are just as new and curious and the rest. But suddenly, the melody drops and echoes the third movement, hinting at the continuity of Scheherazade’s stories, possibly to suggest that the prince and princess are attending this festival-before it launches again into a faster, more slippery quiet theme that once again works its way up to a stronger, more imposing force. The theme changes several times, never losing the power, or quickly building up and returning if it drops away again or takes on a more delicate and exotic feel. The melody repeats several times, switching keys-but suddenly, at approximately seven minutes into the last movement, the music changes, becomes more urgent, and I believe this is where it changes to signify the churning sea, or noticeably changes, if it had moved on earlier. The listener can certainly notice the sea at 7:55, powerful, roiling, seeming to toss Sinbad’s ship in a terrific storm, lightning flashing overhead, rain pouring down in waves, the woodwind runs adding to the rising and falling winds and waves as the winds add a very imposing sense of power to this, with the strings suddenly interjecting, rising and falling to signify a climactic wave rearing over the ship, crashing against it, driving it towards the rocky shore-and at approximately 9:15, the ship meets its untimely doom against the rock surmounted by a bronze warrior. The melody suddenly drops away, becomes much more delicate and timid, seeming to hope that Sinbad survived the terrible wreck, and the orchestra echoes the first movement...and then enters Scheherazade, her voice sounding undeniably mournful from the beginning, and climaxing in a high, drawn out sound that contrasts sharply with the low, heavy themes from the lower voices as the piece moves towards its ending. The five-chord woodwind solo from the beginning of the first movement reappears here as a fanfare honoring Sinbad’s life and courage, and Scheherazade’s voice drops and rises to another constant high, almost making the listener visualize a woman lowering her face in mourning but lifting it again, tears brimming in her eyes, to recall fond memories and to smile sadly, as the storm recedes and everything becomes calm once more as the orchestra’s sound softens and dies away, mourning the death of Sinbad.

Scheherazade offers an excellent example of the versatility and true meaning that music can embody, by telling a continuing story and displaying a wide variety of emotions, from pride and power, to furtive yet carefree mirth, to gentle and sweet romance, to exhilaration, excitement, fear, sadness, and finally mourning, all within one piece. While the entire classical music repertoire does not contain this broad range in emotion, the vast majority does exist with the intention of impressing some kind of specific meaning on the listener, and that meaning can be amplified through individual interpretation and improvisation of a sort, but it must be done carefully so as not to tarnish the composer’s intended message. For those who are well versed enough in the genre to appreciate its subtleties, The art of conveying emotion through a medium with no words, such as western classical music, can make the meaning that much more powerful and striking, thereby affirming that communication does not always have to be verbal or phonetic in order to be effective.



(The time markings referred to in the above refer specifically to the recording by the London Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Jose Serebrier, of Scheherazade and the Russian Easter Overture by Rimsky-Korsakov, by Reference Recordings.)