The generally unremarkable papers of the composer and conductor Siegmund von Hausegger (1872–1948), which are housed in the Bavarian State Library in Munich, contain a simple photograph album labelled ‘Beethoven’s 9th, 4 April 1938’.1 The volume consists of a handwritten title-page and nine black-and-white photographs mounted, one per page, onto plain, heavy album card. Some of the pictures are near replicas of each other. Some are overexposed.2 There are no captions to the individual pictures and there is no other elucidatory text to accompany the album. The images narrate a single orchestral concert given in a concert hall. The first (Fig. 1) is taken from a position near the front of the balcony. It captures Hausegger at the podium bowing before the audience, the front rows of which are visible along with the orchestra, parts of the choir and the occupants of the balcony opposite. The second (Fig. 2) is framed identically and appears to have been taken mere seconds later: the conductor is now facing the orchestra, hands by his side, in a moment of repose before bringing his musicians to readiness. Figure 1: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger on the podium before the start of a performance by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in the Tonhalle, Munich, 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 1: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger on the podium before the start of a performance by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in the Tonhalle, Munich, 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 2: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger on the podium before the start of a performance by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in the Tonhalle, Munich, 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 2: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger on the podium before the start of a performance by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in the Tonhalle, Munich, 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider The third (Fig. 3), which is clearly taken after the performance and thus some ninety minutes later, shows a triumphant Hausegger on the podium, which is now bedecked with a large wreath of laurels, as he takes the applause of the audience, which has formed a crowd standing directly beneath him. The fourth (Fig. 4), taken from stage left over the shoulder of the leader of the orchestra (1. Konzertmeister) focuses on Hausegger on the podium. In the fifth (Fig. 5), which is taken from the same position, Hausegger shakes the leader of the orchestra’s hand to ongoing applause. Figure 3: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger taking the applause at the end of the concert on 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 3: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger taking the applause at the end of the concert on 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 4: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger taking the applause at the end of the concert on 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 4: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger taking the applause at the end of the concert on 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 5: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger taking the applause at the end of the concert on 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 5: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger taking the applause at the end of the concert on 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider The sixth (Fig. 6) is taken from below the podium and shows Hausegger half-hidden behind the enormous wreath. The inscription on the ribbons is illegible in the picture but reads ‘München—Hauptstadt der Bewegung—4.4.38’ (Munich—Capital City of the Movement—4.4.38).3 In the seventh (Fig. 7) the photographer faces towards the rear of the hall and shoots with his back to the stage, capturing large numbers of audience members who stand, applauding, farther back: the eighth is a near replica of this shot. The final image, which has been taken on another occasion, shows the full orchestra posing in white-tie apparel on the lit stage of its concert hall, in front of the organ pipes and relatively simple Wilhelmine neo-Baroque decoration of the venue, and before the neatly ordered rows of empty stools on the parquet-floored auditorium (Fig. 8). Figure 6: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger on the podium after the concert of 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 6: View largeDownload slide Siegmund von Hausegger on the podium after the concert of 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 7: View largeDownload slide Members of the audience in the Tonhalle, Munich, 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 7: View largeDownload slide Members of the audience in the Tonhalle, Munich, 4 April 1938 source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 8: View largeDownload slide Munich Philharmonic Orchestra source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider Figure 8: View largeDownload slide Munich Philharmonic Orchestra source: Bayerische Staatsbibliothek München Ana 720.7.10. Photo: Arthur Schneider The concert that the album documents was both the last of the 1937/38 subscription series of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra and Siegmund von Hausegger’s final concert as conductor-in-chief after eighteen years in the role.4 The additional celebrations represented by the wreath and the crowding of the stage notwithstanding, the visual sequence of the first eight photographs embodies a narrative chain of the typical unfolding of the social ritual of the symphony concert, beginning with the conductor taking the podium and ending with the applause. The album was clearly gifted to Hausegger as a memento of an occasion that was personally meaningful—not least for this reason much of the imagery has Hausegger as its visual centrepiece. Yet what, if anything, might this short album of mostly quite poor, unlabelled photographs document beyond that? What is most striking about the album, after all, is a two-fold absence. First, unlike more iconic images of art musicking in the Third Reich, there are no visual cues to place the album, or the event it documents, within the political context of National Socialism.5 There are no swastika banners, sculpted eagles or uniformed party leaders in the front row. Rather, everyone in the audience is dressed in civilian clothes. The pictures have been taken in Munich, but they may as well have been taken in Madrid or Manchester. This makes the event the album documents far more typical of quotidian provincial musical life in the Third Reich than the conventional visual repertoire used to evoke the ‘Nazification’ of musical culture implicitly suggests. Indeed, only when one pauses to reflect upon the absence of swastikas is one forced to acknowledge the cultural and historiographical work that such images of ‘Nazified’ concert halls continue to perform, even as scholarship imagines itself to have jettisoned older models of thinking about the Third Reich and the place of culture within it. Second, what is missing is images of the orchestra actually playing and the audience actually listening. The ease with which the viewer of the album can read the narrative of the concert despite the silence that stands at its centre underlines how, to those who live inside the culture of consuming European or ‘Western’ art music, assumptions regarding the purpose, process and character of the event are so naturalized that they are no longer easily recognizable for the culturally specific, contingent reservoirs of non-obvious knowledge that they are.6 Yet, without this knowledge, the act of emplotment that enables the reader of the album to ‘fill in’ the ninety or so minutes of performance that occurred between the second and third images would be impossible. The album would not only be illegible, it would also make no sense whatsoever. Given the absence of any images of the orchestra playing or the audience listening, what, if any, histories of listening to art music in the period might the album open up? In what wider histories of concert-going might the event sit, and to what social habits, practices and dispositions might it bear witness? The answer depends very much on how one chooses to define ‘listening’, and for what set of habits, practices and dispositions one makes the term stand. Viewed as a discrete, empirically isolable phenomenon that might be recuperated at the level of the individual concertgoer, it should be self-evident that it would be nearly impossible to reconstruct personal listening experiences in this instance. However, as the most persuasive scholarship on the history of the senses has shown, listening is rarely best approached in this manner.7 As Christian Thorau and Hansjakob Ziemer have shown, listening in the concert hall may better be imagined as an ‘art’, discernible historically as an ‘entanglement of interdependent practices and discourses about a learnable mode of perception’.8 This ‘art’ was not fixed, but ‘could be adopted and adapted across the public realm to suit a wide range of collective listening situations where it was redefined and practised in accordance with prevailing conventions, ideologies and objectives’. Historically specific instances of listening are to be found, accordingly, at the imperfect interstices of a variety of contingent frames that provided individual listeners with a broadly defined set of behavioural scripts for their practices and interpretative possibilities for their bodily experiences. The merit of Thorau and Ziemer’s approach is that it allows us to acknowledge that these frames were open enough to incorporate, in this context, a range of subject positions that were compatible with National Socialism’s ideological scripts without demanding that we seek a single ‘Nazi’ listening subjectivity in the concert halls of the Third Reich. It allows us to suture the history of concert-going in the Third Reich to a recent historiography that has stressed, in the words of Martina Steber, the ‘contained plurality’ of the period.9 I: Nationalism, German Peculiarities and the Framing of Interpretation In the absence of clear visual cues that enable an appropriate ‘placing’ of these photographs, the temptation is to reach for a reading that amounts, in effect, to a colonization of the album by the lingering assumptions of the ‘Sonderweg’ (‘Special Path’ thesis). For historians, socialized (still) by the conventions of their discipline to think and see ‘nationally’, there may be a stronger instinctive response to see the audience members in the photos as national subjects, and to assume that they are listening, on some level that is determining, as ‘Germans’. For musicologists, there has been a long tradition of exploring how art music was made in cities—as the sites of courtly patronage or of civic institutions such as orchestras and conservatoires.10 Yet the habit of imagining listeners primarily as national subjects also remains, as one prominent recent publication attests.11 Moreover, as soon as one moves outside the critical practice of the discipline and into the realms of the semi-expert, the belletristic and the popular-cultural construction of music history, notions of national specificity, particularly in relation to Germany, remain stubbornly present. Among literary representations, the locus classicus is Thomas Mann’s Dr Faustus, the interest of which in Germans, music and ‘the demonic’ has enjoyed a long reception history that continues to feed more popular cultural imaginaries.12 Early footage such as that of Bruno Walter conducting in the Alte Philharmonie in Berlin in 1930, meanwhile, carries a powerful image of still, highly disciplined, self-controlled and ‘immersed’ listeners sitting in the haut bourgeois cultural space of the concert hall and consuming the ‘imaginary museum’ of the Austro-German musical patrimony.13 Such images work constantly to suture notions of Germanness to the cultivation of musical inwardness and depth, however much scholars labour to deconstruct these tropes.14 Mention of the bourgeois qualities of this listening culture recalls a second set of highly ingrained assumptions associated—especially in a German historiographical context—with cultures of discipline, authority and conformity.15 The ‘Beethoven paradigm’ figures here as an aesthetic yardstick, a normative reference point for consideration of what constitutes seriousness, and as an invocation that audiences work to raise their own listening standard.16 The sense that there are correct dispositions, correct understandings, and that it is the task of listeners to work to achieve them, opens an argument about the disciplining capacities of culture, and thus of the relationship between socially sanctioned listening habits and bourgeois governmentality. Training the ear, in other words, was part not only of learning the appropriate sensory responses, but also of embracing the correct bodily dispositions—physical, mental, emotional—more generally; in attending the institution of the symphony concert and participating in its social rituals audiences were imbibing a peculiarly nineteenth-century emotional regime and a regime of the senses, disciplining their ears to engage in concentrated listening and their bodies to perfect stillness in a culture of self-control.17 Such audiences, according to this paradigm, were engaging in the assertion of social distinction, indulging in acts of cultural consumption which excluded others most obviously on grounds of cost, but also because attendance demanded the possession of particular resources of cultural capital—the kind that meant one knew who Beethoven was, and the kind that meant one knew when to clap. In other words, they were both asserting social power and submitting to a regime with implicitly authoritarian overtones. Much as scholars have sought to emphasize the shared European nature of the institution, the problem space of the German symphony concert hall echoes with the long historiographical resonances of the Sonderweg still.18 This, in turn, might ease the embrace of a final, equally seductive set of frames, whereby, via a reductionist equation of developments in the musical world and those in the world of politics, the events of a concert such as this might be mapped directly onto the evolution of National Socialist expansionism. In this instance, the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra might easily be read as playing the monumental works of the Austro-German canon as background to the annexation of Austria, which had occurred less than a month before the concert.19 The conservative nationalist Siegmund von Hausegger, an Austrian socialized politically in the pan-German traditions of the pre–First World War era, is replaced by his younger, Nazi-identifying successor Oswald Kabasta, also an Austrian, just as the generals Blomberg and Fritsch are replaced by Jodl and Keitel and foreign minister Konstantin von Neurath by Joachim von Ribbentrop. The substantial literature on the ‘Nazification’ of Beethoven in particular, and culture in general, during the Third Reich, meanwhile, provides a frame for imagining how the music must have been heard by concertgoers listening qua Germans and members of the Volksgemeinschaft (national community).20 II: Continuity, Crisis and Consumption between the Imperial and Postwar Eras The problem with the account gestured to above is that, essentially, it represents an act of reading into the album rather than a reading of it. Yet the temptations of cliché notwithstanding, if one seeks to place this single concert within a wider history of Munich’s musical life between the Wilhelmine and postwar years, both the presence of German cultural nationalism and that of practices geared towards the assertion of social distinction must form part of the analysis. The backbone of the repertoire performed by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra consisted, indeed, of canonical Austro-German works. But it was never rigidly or exclusively so—a wider range of Central European composers and selected composers from farther afield figured regularly, as did modern composers who later became canonical but were experienced as considerably more novel and unfamiliar at the time. There was also a strong culture of performing newer works, albeit by more conservative late Romantic and modernist composers—Hans Pfitzner was an obvious example—rather than by members of the avant-garde. As the name Pfitzner, and indeed that of Richard Strauss, also suggests, the Austro-German repertoire preferred by the orchestra was not generically national but had strongly regional and local inflections.21 The most powerful example of this was Anton Bruckner, around whom a strongly partisan, almost cultic sensibility emerged, so much so that the city’s local musical world cultivated an identity in the early twentieth century as a ‘Bruckner city’.22 This was not a story in which, after 1933, a putatively innocent music was ‘abused’ or ‘distorted’ by the agendas of totalitarian cultural politics.23 Composers, conductors, musical institutions and individual musicians were implicated as agents in the radical project of national cultural revival that the regime imagined itself to be undertaking; their music performed cultural work on behalf of the regime too.24 Siegmund von Hausegger, the figure at the centre of the photographs under discussion here, was a case in point. An Austrian by birth, he embodied conservative, nationalist positions in both politics and aesthetics that had been learned in the haut bourgeois habitus of the imperial era.25 His compositions embraced a post-Wagnerian musical idiom. They often took nationalist mythology for their subject matter and were given in concert in the 1920s and 1930s in contexts that meant that the performances could only be understood as acts of nationalist agitation too. His tone poems had titles such as ‘Barbarossa’ (1900) and ‘Wieland der Schmied’ (1904). A sense of the cultural work that they subsequently performed can be gained by a review of a performance of ‘Barbarossa’ in Munich in November 1918, only days after the armistice and in a febrile atmosphere of nationalist anger: None other than he [Hausegger] would appear … more called upon to give musical form from his own innermost experience to the legend of Barbarossa, that authentically German legend that carries symbolically the yearning for liberation and redemption in the highest sense that resides in all of us.26 Hausegger’s German nationalism had a strongly conservative, patrician aspect to it, carried not least in the palpably archaic language with which he sought to ingratiate himself to the new political dispensation in 1933.27 The fact that he did not join the NSDAP provides one starting point for a close reading of the photographs of his retirement concert. Yet one did not have to be a member of the NSDAP either to embrace the political enthusiasms of the ‘national uprising’ or to buy into the more overtly antisemitic elements of the regime’s ideological offer. Thus, for example, Hausegger was one of many key actors of Munich’s cultural world to sign the ‘Protest Letter of the Richard Wagner City of Munich’ against Thomas Mann in 1933.28 Within two years of the start of the regime he was performing with the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra on behalf of the regional chapter of the SS.29 Other notable gestures of accommodation to National Socialist officialdom included a performance of part of Bruckner’s Eighth Symphony on the occasion of the inauguration of a bust of the composer into the Walhalla monument near Regensburg and a performance at the Nuremberg Party Rally, both in 1937.30 As the programme notes for a performance of ‘Barbarossa’ by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in November 1937, only five months before Hausegger’s retirement, show, his compositions performed valuable cultural work on behalf of the Nazi regime too. The elucidatory notes described a piece in three movements. The first, according to the outline, represented a characterization of ‘the German people’. An opening section described its ‘oppression at the hand of the enemy’ and the people’s ‘deliberate, powerful defiance’, before moving to passages suggesting its ‘yearning for liberation and peace’ and its ‘desperate struggle for freedom’, before a final section narrated the ‘renewed onslaught of the enemy’ and the ‘collapse’. The second movement depicted the ‘Magic Mountain’—the journey of a wanderer into the depths of the mist-shrouded Kyffhäuser mountains, where, according to legend, Emperor Barbarossa and his legions slumbered, oblivious to the ‘yearning cries for liberation’ of his people. The final movement narrates ‘The Awakening [Das Erwachen]’, as Barbarossa heeds the call of his suppressed people; the last sections describe ‘The Battle, a march theme, characterizing the tumult of battle. Final Victory’ before recapitulating in celebratory fashion the motifs that characterize ‘the German people’. Such passages underline that cultural actors did not need to be members of the NSDAP or explicitly committed to a specifically National Socialist form of imperialism—not least because there was no one such thing—to be firmly embedded in the broad discourse of martial nationalism that characterized the Third Reich.31 They underscore that the National Socialist era was not one in which it is meaningful to distinguish in simple terms between a ‘non-Nazi’ and a ‘Nazi’ form of nationalist rhetoric.32 Rather, it was one in which a multitude of discourses of aggressive nationalism worked to stabilize and naturalize the regime and to proselytize for its expansionism. A degree of social distance to the milieu of the local party satraps, or indifference to the NSDAP’s political aesthetics, did not imply rejection of the broad discourse of nationalism upon which the movement and the regime drew. Indeed, in a political culture in which critiques of social elitism and the pursuit of egalitarianism forced a certain defensiveness on the part of institutions such as prestige orchestras, nationalism provided a key means to tie the interests of old cultural institutions to the new political dispensation.33 Oswald Kabasta, Hausegger’s replacement, was, if anything, more overtly committed to the National Socialist movement, and certainly worked hard to assert that commitment in public.34 A sense of his ideological ‘reliability’ formed part of the considerations that informed the decision to appoint him as Hausegger’s replacement.35 Upon hearing of the Anschluss Kabasta, by now officially Hausegger’s replacement, telegraphed Max Reinhard, the head of the Munich city Office of Culture (Kulturamt) with the words ‘Deeply moved, your happy one [Ihr Glücklicher] greets you with “Heil Hitler”—Kabasta’.36 Once in office, he lost no time in gesturing towards his commitment to National Socialist cultural politics: following his inaugural concert at the start of the 1938/39 season, the next subscription concert, which took place on 7 November 1938, was devoted to ‘the memory of the heroes of 9 November 1923’.37 Hausegger, Kabasta and the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra were thus clearly active participants in the nationalist cultural politics of the National Socialist regime. Similarly, the April 1938 concert can be placed within a wider history of musicking in interwar Munich that may reasonably, if somewhat generally, be labelled as ‘bourgeois culture’. As was the case in many larger provincial cities, Munich was home from the late nineteenth century to a number of parallel concert series, priced at different levels, to which varying levels of social exclusivity and prestige cleaved.38 The most prestigious were the concerts of the ‘Musikalische Akademie’, the occasional series of the orchestra of the Bavarian Court—later State—Theatre, which were given in the resplendent surrounds of the Odeon concert hall.39 Aiming at a wider public, the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra—by contrast a full-time symphony orchestra rather than a theatre orchestra—offered three distinctive series of its own. First, it gave an annual series of approximately ten subscription concerts, at which leading conductors and well-known soloists performed large-scale symphonic works together with regular premieres of new music. The concert documented in the photograph album at the centre of this article sat within this series. Second, it offered a less socially prestigious, more numerous ‘People’s Symphony Concert’ (Volkssymphoniekonzert) series. This was given to performing generally familiar, more ‘accessible’ music under the baton of the orchestra’s permanent second conductor, and with local, early career or less well-known soloists, for a considerably lower on-the-door price. Finally, it offered variants of a ‘Sunday’ or ‘Popular’ concert format, at which medleys of marches, waltzes, arias and other short pieces were performed to the accompaniment of food and drink, in entertainments that were continuations of the earlier nineteenth-century miscellany programming tradition rather than manifestations of the more ‘serious’ musical museum culture that emerged later.40 To judge by the advertisements in the programmes and other publications of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in the 1920s and 1930s the middle classes constituted its core public. Indeed, if anything, the focusing of advertising towards the consumption habits of the comfortably situated middle classes became more pronounced from the 1920s into the 1930s. In October 1926, for example, the Mitteilungen des Konzertvereins carried advertisements for music instrument and notation shops, for singing lessons, for music-and-dance lessons, for piano repairs, for gramophone records and for music theory lessons; only a minority were for cafés, hotels and jewellers.41 These spoke to readers with a minimum level of disposable income, but the weight of advertising was geared towards a broad, musically interested and musically literate milieu as much as towards a specific socio-economic formation. By the late 1930s, however, the balance had strongly shifted. The orchestra’s concert programmes now contained advertisements for cars, restaurants, hotels, cafés, clothes shops, interior decorators, life assurance, jewellers, cosmetics and leather accessories, as well as music shops, instruments and gramophone records. The advertisements spoke, in short, to middle class consumption habits.42 Something of what contemporary observers understood to be in operation in the workings of this stratified musical culture, with different series aimed at different segments of middle class consumption, was captured by Theodor Adorno in his 1932 essay ‘On the Social Situation of Music’. With his characteristic blend of acidity and acuity he noted how the upper bourgeoisie loves concerts; in the concert hall it cultivates the humanistic-idealistic educational ideology—without compromising itself; this ideology attracts the educated in large numbers, including its impoverished and petit-bourgeois representatives. The ambiguity of ‘education and property’ which achieves ideological reconciliation in the concert hall is expressed conspicuously in the doubling of orchestras in numerous cities: while the ‘Philharmonic’ plays for the upper bourgeoisie in expensive concerts, the exclusivity of which is guaranteed by the family subscription system, performing with highly famous guest stars and very limited number of sanctioned, likewise ceremonial works, the ‘Symphony Orchestras’ serve the middle stratum with cautious doses of novelties within the educational traditionalist program through the inclusion of resident ‘local’ talent and for low-priced admission, as long as the economy makes such participation possible.43 Yet as Adorno’s allusions both to the presence of factions within the audience and to the vicissitudes of the economic context implied, assumptions regarding audience cohesion, institutional stability and cultural continuity that cleave to images of orchestral concerts are in need of complication. While much persuasive scholarship on the Weimar Republic has called into question the interpretative frame of ‘crisis’, and while the term was often deployed in highly self-interested, partisan manner by actors of the art musical milieu as they sought to defend their institutions against the alternative attractions of the burgeoning leisure industries, there was much more to its usage than mere rhetorical flourish.44 In the case of provincial orchestral culture, it had a certain descriptive power. This manifested itself in highly fluctuating attendance patterns, a strong degree of economic fragility and a corresponding level of institutional instability that were as much part of the context of listening to art music in the interwar period as were the pursuit of immersion and contemplation.45 The Munich Philharmonic Orchestra was a good example. Formed as a private enterprise by Franz Kaim in 1893 to promote his family’s piano business, the orchestra got into financial difficulties following Kaim’s construction of the Tonhalle, in which the concert under discussion took place, in 1895.46 Following years of uncertainty, the mayor of Munich, Dr Wilhelm von Borscht, engineered the formation of a Konzertverein (concert association), formed of local supporters who rescued and sustained the orchestra and its hall through membership dues and donations. The Konzertverein was dominated by local notables and wealthy patrons.47 These included a number of aristocrats, mostly minor gentry but numbering one princess among them. For the most part, however, they were drawn from a wide range of bourgeois professions—such as commercial lawyers, civil servants and the academically titled. Each category of membership came with a corresponding set of entitlements to tickets; each category supplied delegates to the association’s governing board in a manner that—rather like the Prussian three-class electoral system—greatly privileged the influence of the wealthiest or most generous patrons.48 From 1913, the city council also paid an annual subsidy to the orchestra. In the words of a retrospective published in 1939, ‘in this way it was also possible to survive the fateful war and postwar years’.49 However, the onset of the postwar inflation brought the citizens’ associational model to the point of crisis once again, as the assets of the social strata which provided financial support were destroyed. In 1920, the treasurer of the association reported that it was undergoing a ‘difficult struggle for existence [schwerer Existenzkampf]’.50 In 1921 it acknowledged that ‘the future lies very dark before us’.51 When the hyperinflation was finally liquidated, the effective bankruptcy of the Konzertverein was plain to see. The annual report of the association for 1923/24 characterized the situation thus: Whereas beforehand everyone had money for the theatre, for concerts, or for other pleasures, suddenly no-one had any money any more. It appeared that, to the detriment of our undertaking, those who were our most loyal concertgoers, the Mittelstand, had no money, while those who had money had as yet no understanding of music. This phenomenon has not been peculiar to Munich, it was and is common to the whole of Germany.52 The orchestra and its concert hall were effectively socialized by the municipal government.53 Its players acquired the status of public employees, and the orchestra—which had hitherto been known as the Kaim Orchestra or Munich Concert Association Orchestra—formally acquired the name Munich Philharmonic Orchestra. Although the associational model of organization was formally retained, it was this act of municipal socialization that allowed the National Socialist regime to assert its authority over the orchestra swiftly in 1933, by which point the massive economic crisis of the Depression had brought it to the verge of collapse again.54 The failure of the autonomous associational model precipitated the search for new ways of building audience, most notably in the increased prominence of block purchase sales of tickets to visitor organizations at reduced rates.55 The membership list of the Konzertverein for 1929 and 1930 included a new category of ‘corporate members’, of which there were four: the Christian conservative ‘Theatergemeinde’, the SPD-supporting ‘Münchner Volksbühne’, the Bayerisches Volksbildungsbund (the Bavarian adult education association) and the conservative nationalist ‘Deutsche Akademie’.56 The Theatergemeinde, for example, paid an annual subscription of 100 Reichsmark, for which it received 200 tickets for each subscription concert at a reduced rate of 1.20 Reichsmark, along with as many tickets for the People’s Symphony Concerts and Popular Concerts as it could sell for a mere fifty Pfennig.57 This organization is perhaps the most interesting, first, because it was eventually absorbed into the Nationalsozialistische Kulturgemeinde (National Socialist Cultural Community), and via that into the Kraft durch Freude (Strength through Joy) organization of the Deutsche Arbeitsfront (DAF, German Labour Font) and then, in the postwar period, reconstituted itself as a citizens’ visitor organization. It therefore offers the possibility of exploring elements of continuity and transformation among those sections of the audience that sat mostly behind the ‘core’ subscription public of the orchestra. Secondly, it provides insights into how orchestras were forced, by virtue of the purchasing power of such organizations, to adjust the repertoire they offered to the demands of this public. The Theatergemeinde, which was represented by co-optation in the orchestra’s management structures, had been formed in 1919. Its membership fluctuated with the fortunes of the economy, but stabilized at around 13,000 in the mid-1920s. It claimed that a statistical survey of people’s backgrounds created by us proves that all sections of the people are represented in the Theatergemeinde: blue-collar workers, white-collar workers, graduates, civil servants, commercial salespeople, craftsmen and other tradespeople, members of the free professions, pensioners and students. The majority of our members consist of commercial white-collar employees, mid-ranking public employees and salespeople.58 Celebrating its ten-year anniversary in 1929 it proclaimed that the foundation of the Munich Theatergemeinde … is part of the great people’s Theatre Association movement which, in the days of the German collapse, against the background of the experience of that time and from the flames of deepest national need, emerged to provide spiritual resistance, and to give the broadest strata of the people of our miserable, collapsed country a sense and idea of religion, morality, order, discipline, conscience and responsibility via a programme of ethical orientation.59 The capacity of such generically Christian-conservative, but highly polysemous cultural criticism to segue into something more overtly reminiscent of National Socialist cultural politics was evident in remarks on the organization’s agenda of influencing the repertoire of those institutions from which it purchased tickets. These comments were offered specifically in relation to the theatre, but were relevant across its different fields of cultural activity: as with the spiritual, so is the social ideal anchored in the goals of the Theatergemeinde, with the ambition of offering People’s Comrades good performances at manageable prices, available on the same basis to each member without privileging particular classes or groups—in accordance with the aim of being a pure People’s Theatre and with the ethical goal of the Theatergemeinde as a community of sensibility.60 The increasingly radical nationalist proclivities of the middle class constituency that formed the Theatergemeinde’s membership were even more explicit in its 1931 attack on ‘Cultural Bolshevism’, which it described as something that wants and is nothing other than the systematically pursued contamination [Verseuchung] of the German people in its sensibilities, manners, morals, beliefs and its faith in God … Both the cultural and the economic future of our people would be destroyed if contamination by the Bolshevik spirit were able to undermine further the inherited morals and manners of the broadest circles. Happily, however, resistance to this putrefaction, in which we also recognize the main causes of our national dividedness and our cultural and economic downfall, is taking hold in ever wider circles.61 One cannot know the turnover in the Theatergemeinde and thus the extent to which the membership of the 1920s were the same as those of the 1930s: the continuous presence of an organization does not imply the continuous presence of the same individual listening subjects. Just as epistemologically challenging however, is the assertion—or unspoken assumption—that the membership of the organization, be they that of the Theatergemeinde or the DAF, internalized the discourse of its publications and framed their own listening in accordance with it. That this assumption should be met with a degree of scepticism is suggested by the suspicions of cultural administrators that more pragmatic, mercenary agendas drove the use of visitor organizations by concertgoers. The Konzertverein complained on more than one occasion that the purchasers of cheaper tickets through the DAF were not so much expressing a commitment to the Volksgemeinschaft as acting as rational consumers who had found a pragmatic way to pay less for that which they would have bought anyway. Indeed, as early as June 1934 the Konzertverein was complaining to the city Office of Culture that, while guaranteed sales of 250 tickets had brought ‘a certain stability’ in the level of visitors, it was becoming increasingly clear that wealthy concertgoers who used to purchase subscriptions to the concerts at normal prices are turning more and more to the visitor organizations in order thereby to access tickets at reduced prices, so that it has become a rare thing for any concertgoers to buy tickets in the higher categories at normal box office prices at all.62 This had the consequence that, despite growing tickets sales in terms of volume, the income of the orchestra was actually falling. Two years later, it was complaining that ‘It can also be stated for a fact that, without being a member of the Labour Front or Kraft durch Freude, many concertgoers with considerable income procure cheap Kraft durch Freude tickets via intermediaries’.63 Such claims underline the difficulty of assessing the extent to which audiences actually changed in their broad social composition during the 1930s, despite the regime’s rhetoric of social and cultural egalitarianism, and, equally, the difficulty of isolating a singular ‘National Socialist’ listening subject out of the myriad of sources from which consumer behaviour in the era of the Third Reich can be read. The dangers of drawing straight, bold lines between discourses of cultural nationalism, rhetorics of community, a Romantic aesthetic of ‘inwardness’ and depth, a body culture of immersive concentration and the listening habits of individuals are suggested, finally, by the increasing presence of an overtly star-driven, sensation-seeking culture fostered by concert agencies with a commercially focused agenda. In its announcement of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra’s 1932/33 season, for example, the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten foregrounded not the repertoire but the ‘artists’—the star soloists who, by now, appeared to constitute the main attraction. Noting, first, a series of special chamber concerts, it continued that ‘a cycle of “Master Concerts”, which once again features the most prominent names, is also foreseen’.64 Of the soloists, it emphasized that the series of singers begins with the greatest star among Italian singers of the moment, Beniamino Gigli … while among the violinists a new ‘wonder child’, the eleven-year-old Ruggiero Ricci, is drawing particular attention to himself. He comes from America and is supposed to be equalled among the child prodigies in his talent only by the young violinist Yehudi Menuhin, who was also introduced to Munich audiences a few years ago. Events at the Gigli concert suggest that such ‘star culture’ generated an atmosphere and behaviours that were quite different to those of the ideal bourgeois listener foregrounded by much scholarship. Fending off newspaper reports that fights had broken out among the audience, the Konzertverein admitted that upon opening of the hall there occurred a boisterous rush on the part of the holders of standing tickets, as is usual with such ‘sensation’ concerts. As usual, the standing ticket holders all wanted to get places as close as possible to the podium; as will be obvious to anyone, this is not possible. However, our own house personnel were able to maintain order.65 This does not appear to have changed in the following season. Too many tickets for standing places had apparently been sold for a return visit of Beniamino Gigli, the concert suffered from overcrowding, and many were forced into an overspill room. The Konzertverein, which had provided the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra on an agency basis to accompany the singer, reported now that during the break the holders of standing tickets in the hall expressed their dissatisfaction with chanting and loud calling, and there was a danger that they would fall over into the rows of seating in front of them with the full force of their weight as they pushed forwards.66 In short: the fortunes of the orchestra fluctuated greatly with the economy as a whole. Its institutional form and its relationship to its public evolved constantly. Its audience appears to have been anchored in the middle classes, but only in the broadest sense, and not in a manner that precluded others attending. The subjectivities of its listeners were varied. While cultural nationalism formed part of the discourse that surrounded the institution of the symphony concert, the presence of other logics, most obviously an increasingly commercial, star-driven one, reminds that the listening habits of the audience in the interwar period cannot be reduced to simple formulae of bourgeois self-formation or nationalist affirmation. III: Listening to Beethoven, 4 April 1938 These contextualizing remarks open up a number of possibilities for reading the apparently unpromising photographs contained in the album. Given the centrality of the trope of fixed seating to the powerful telos of the domestication of the ‘unruly’ audience, the engineering of bourgeois bodily discipline and the soliciting of concentration over the course of the nineteenth century, it bears pointing out, first, that the seating is not fixed. Rather, it has been laid out in rows specifically in preparation for this concert, by a caretaker (as is always the case, the working class people whose agency is co-constitutive of the event are absent in such images) who will stack the chairs up at the side of the hall afterwards. This reflects the fact that the hall had long since ceased being a dedicated symphony concert hall, and was now a multipurpose venue that was hired out for different events on different days. The sense of aura, in other words, was not permanently present in the building, its material fabric or its space, but was called forth by the character of the particular musical event. The attempt to produce visually ‘appropriate’ surroundings in a building that is not particularly resplendent is suggested, similarly, by the sight of curtains that have been pulled across a radiator (Fig. 1)—though the use of drapes was partly in pursuit of optimal acoustics, it also marks an effort to mask the banally functional elements of the building by people in search of the illusion of separation from the world outside. The seating in the front rows is also noticeably more elegant than the standard hall seating visible in Figure 8, suggesting that for this socially prestigious event more comfortable chairs have been made available for those in the front rows. This is not, however, just about comfort—the visual distinctiveness of the chairs communicates the social prestige of the occupants of these chairs to those sitting in less ornate seats. Given the occasion, it is particularly striking that several of the front seats are empty. This fact, which, together with the absence of party uniforms, does much to call forth a sense of everydayness to the image, and might thus be taken as indicative of the apparent absence of a ‘politics’ to the event, offers a starting point for recognizing precisely the opposite. These are not the seats of subscription holders who have not bothered to attend an everyday event, but rather seats reserved for the political and administrative elites. The emptiness of such seats was a subject of occasional complaint by disgruntled concertgoers unable to get tickets for a sold-out event, but as the orchestra administration explained in response to one such complaint, although it is indeed true that often at concerts many good seats are not taken, this reflects the fact that they are reserved and free seats that are sent in advance to senior civil servants, city council members or members of the press but are then not taken up. Such tickets were not intended for sale in the first place.67 In this context, the empty seats may be read slightly differently—the absence of party uniforms, in particular, and the overwhelmingly civilian quality of the clothing (only one uniform, unidentifiable, can be seen in the entire album) suggests, if anything, a degree of distance between the NSDAP leadership and Hausegger, a distinguished member of a more socially rarefied, cultivated milieu and the representative of an older, conservative nationalist generation of cultural actors.68 As argued above, this was not a case of fundamental ideological opposition, but rather reflected an element of distance between the habitus of Munich’s elite cultural institutions and the populist, egalitarian proclivities of the National Socialist movement. What is equally apparent is the generally very well-to-do social status of the audience who occupy the seating near to the stage. This is visible in the clothing of the women, one or two of whom wear fur stoles. It is arguably more visible in the appearance of many of the men.69 The very neatly coiffured and groomed hair, on which a liberal dose of tonic catches the hall lighting, is one indicator; the highly polished shoes are another. Another is the presence of a small number of dinner jackets between the lounge suits. Yet the mix of clothing at the front of the hall also points to an element of in-betweenness about the social status of the event, which is clearly less rarefied or exclusive than it might be, and to the challenge of reading people’s social status—as opposed to their claims of such—from what they are wearing. Consider, for example, the neatly groomed man sitting in the third row, wearing black tie. As Hausegger takes his bow (Fig. 1), the man sits, clapping, like everyone else. As Hausegger turns to the orchestra and prepares to conduct (Fig. 2), however, he stands up. Moreover, he appears to turn to the rear of the hall. Is this the confidence—arrogance, even—of the social elites, so comfortable in the environment that they assume that everyone else should wait until they are ready to start? Or the somewhat differently motivated behaviour of the parvenu, who is wearing a dinner jacket for the first time and wants everyone behind to see him? Or perhaps someone who is simply taking a last chance to settle comfortably because, having got out of work late, he arrived in something of a rush? We cannot know, because gestures do not carry their own explanations.70 What we can say, instead, is that it is too easy in a context such as this to make assumptions about who people are on the basis of what they are wearing. If nothing else, the symphony concert hall, no less than the theatre or opera house, was a site of simulation.71 One clue as to what motivates the man to stand and turn to face the rear lies in the fact that, as Hausegger faces the orchestra, several audience members appear to turn their heads to the rear of the hall. A plausible explanation is that of a noise at the back as doors open and close to admit someone who has arrived late and is disturbing others. Such a commotion underlines that the social codes governing punctuality, quiet, discipline and immersion in the concert hall had not yet fully stabilized themselves or, insofar as they had, the influx of new listeners brought about by the comparative prosperity of the late 1930s had loosened them once more.72 In its Konzertanzeiger of October 1939, for example, the orchestra felt compelled to issue a set of guidelines under the rubric ‘You will have more pleasure and no irritation when visiting a concert if you note the following’— Turn up punctually yourself. We ensure that the concerts start punctually and are thus able to finish punctually. If you arrive at the Tonhalle ten minutes before the concert there is a rush neither at the ticket office nor at the cloakroom. You can thus prepare yourself to absorb the art on offer in peace and do not need to rush up the stairs in order to just make it to your seat as the first notes of the overture are being played.73 The guidelines continued with a pronunciation that underlined how late entrants were still perceived to be a disruptive nuisance: in the interests of allowing uninterrupted enjoyment for the great majority of visitors who have arrived punctually, in future those arriving late will only be allowed in at the end of a full piece, i.e. not between two movements of a symphony any more. Strikingly, too, the audience in the first two images looks decidedly relaxed. Many are leaning back in their chairs, or have their legs and arms folded. Everyone seems to be smiling. There is certainly no intimation of impending aesthetic immersion. It is a celebratory occasion, most obviously because it is Hausegger’s retirement concert; it is the final concert of the season, and thus an event in the social cycle; the particular piece of music, Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, was also often attended by a more festive atmosphere—partly also because, as a choral piece, and thus one with a large array of amateur performers, it induced a slightly different sense of occasion. Even as the conductor enters the moment of stillness before the concert begins, in the second image, we can see several people smiling and chatting. This is before the music starts, but if these people are about to embrace a posture of contemplation and concentration they are leaving it quite late. It is instructive, moreover, to look more closely at who is speaking to whom. In the front two rows, one can see audience members talking across the rows to the people sitting in front or behind them. The temptation might be to imagine them as part of an audience of subscribers who have the same seats week-in, week-out, year-in, year-out, and who have got to know each other over time, forging a community of concertgoers that underpins the sense of listening itself as a shared experience—the experience of being part of the ‘Hörergemeinschaft’ (community of listeners) repeatedly invoked in contemporary musical literature.74 However, as noted, these front rows were reserved for members of the local political and functional elites, who were as likely to know one another from highly overlapping networks of power as from attendance at these concerts. Otherwise, one sees the other audience members—most of whom, at this point in the 1930s, would probably have been subscribers and thus part of the ‘imagined community’ of the orchestra’s core public—chatting to the person next to them on the same row. This apparently banal observation reminds that people arrived from across the city in couples or in small groups, listened to the music and returned to the anonymity of the city in those same configurations too: the capacity of the music to engender a sense of audience ‘community’ through its performance that outlasted the aesthetic experience itself can, in all likelihood, be greatly overstated. What of the audience farther back in the hall? One of the most interesting aspects of the album is the fact that, quite unusually, some of its images capture not just the people sitting nearest the stage but also those sitting in the less expensive seats towards the middle and rear. The two images that do so are taken after the performance and during the applause, so even less can be said about the listening postures of those whom they capture. The clearest indicators of the social differences between most of these people and most of those at the front of the hall lie in the clothing and—more so—the coiffeurs of some of the women. In this sense, the price segmentation of the tickets maps in a broad sense onto the social distinctions visible between those at the front and those nearer the back. Yet just as striking is another form of difference, visible in the greater disparity of ages between audience members towards the back of the hall compared to those at the front. Unlike the images of the front, those of the middle of the hall contain both a number of obviously very young adults—perhaps students—and a number who are clearly much more elderly. Rather than imagine the audience as stratified in rigidly class terms, it may be appropriate to imagine this as a more diffuse milieu of musically interested people, anchored in ‘bourgeois society’ in the very broadest sense, but governed by distinctions which also reflect different purchasing power at different stages of the lifecycle. Certainly, the surviving letters to her parents of a young student who attended the concerts of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in 1933/34—‘I am now exceptionally frugal, and go above all to concerts and to the theatre only for tickets priced up to 1 RM’—would corroborate this.75 Given that the album contains no photographs taken while the performance was underway, how might historians approach the listening experiences of the audience? One starting point lies in the large numbers of concert programmes visible in the hands of audience members. The weekly Konzertanzeiger of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra carried not only advertisements and announcements of programmes and of forthcoming concerts, but also extensive written notes to introduce and accompany each piece for audience members. From 1938 these were written by the influential nationalist music critic and publicist Wilhelm Zentner, who enjoyed a long career from the Weimar era through to the 1960s in Munich as an author of programme notes, newspaper and magazine articles and belletristic books on Austro-German music.76 The programme for this particular concert does not appear to have survived, but Zentner’s notes for the corresponding final concert of the season in 1941 give a strong sense of the tone of his writings on Beethoven. These hovered between a cultural nationalist voice that might have spoken at any point between the late nineteenth and mid-twentieth centuries and something inflected with more strident overtones that enable one to place it more specifically within the context of the National Socialist era. In the Konzertanzeiger for April 1941 he wrote that As the crowning culmination of both this year’s philharmonic concerts and the Beethoven cycle Kabasta placed the performance of the Ninth Symphony. Once more such a finale leads us to one of the most stirring pinnacles of German music, and only from its heights can the words of the master—that music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy, be comprehended in its full extent and depth.77 Three weeks later, however, in a retrospective of the Beethoven cycle of which this concert had been the climax, he hit a more aggressive note: The Town Philharmonic Concerts for 1940/41 have sounded to an end—but in the hearts of all listeners they will sound on as a triumph of the German will to prevail, which, in the days of the great struggle of fate, remains aware at all times that this is a matter of defending not just country and people, the nation and its right to life, but also the immeasurable values of German culture against our enemies.78 While programme notes elucidated the work for the audience, offering them the opportunity to ‘listen through reading’, as one influential interpretative paradigm has put it, newspaper and journal reviews commented on the occasion and the performance both for readers who had been at the event and for those who had not, again furnishing those who had been in the audience with a narrative that they might use to frame their own listening experience.79 Something of how nationalist critics set the concert against the background of Hausegger’s career in Munich can be seen, indeed, in Zentner’s review of the occasion in the Zeitschrift für Musik, in which he wrote that the fact that in the years of musical degeneration Munich mounted such manly resistance to all attempts to de-Germanize its artistic life, that one never completely forgot here what German nature and art are, and how much one owes to these, is to a very great extent down to the activities of Hausegger and to his unerring stance.80 While Zentner drew on the familiar critique of ‘cultural Bolshevism’ to celebrate the national commitments of Hausegger, others reached for a romantic, masculine language that drew on the semantic fields of expressiveness, power and irresistibility. Writing in the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten, for example, Richard Würz observed that Hausegger performed the piece ‘this time with particular warmth, penetration and great perceptiveness’, and that the force and the strength and the richness of the tension in the first two movements had an enthralling, irresistible effect; the inner greatness and the moving expressiveness of the long movement were just as exhaustively realized as the dithyrambic momentum of the choral finale.81 For the Münchner Zeitung, meanwhile, Alexander Berrsche opined that Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is the work that everyone names as soon as the talk is of von Hausegger. For nearly two decades we have heard it every year under his direction, and the image of this symphony has been impressed on the countless hearts through his interpretation—we can no longer get away from his tempi, his accentuations, his dynamics.82 Berrsche continued, ‘this is not just habituation, but rather an act of immediate recognition, of being sure right from the first impression. And from the earliest encounter onwards we have not stopped admiring the masterful “rightness” of a Hausegger performance.’ Yet the sense among local critics that Hausegger had a distinctive, recognizable and very constant way of conducting Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony presents historians with a quandary as far as reading the quality and style of the performance on 4 April 1938 from the accounts of the reviewers is concerned, for other accounts of his performances of the same piece suggest a very different style. In its review of the corresponding end-of-season performance at the final subscription concert of the 1932/33 season, for example, the Münchner Neueste Nachrichten also began by acknowledging that he had a recognizable style, asserting that ‘Hausegger’s profound interpretation of this work is well known. It is one of his greatest achievements as a conductor, an interpretation of the highest penetration and most thoughtful development, with a strong element of personal confession and with intelligent disposition in its build-up.’83 However, the reviewer went on to complain that Hausegger conducted too fast: ‘It remains open to question whether the Scherzo and the ending might have been played more effectively by pursuing greater clarity, namely if, through just a little restraint in the tempo, the instrumentalists had been able to play even more precisely.’ The reviewer admonished that a well-known old piece of conducting wisdom tells us that such pieces, if played more clearly and sharply, even at a slower pace, still ‘sound’ livelier than when played at this extremely accelerated speed, in which the details become too blurred. The ‘Dionysian intoxication’ is, after all, supposed to be experienced by the listener, not by the performer. Even allowing for the inherent vagueness and overall brevity of the reviews, the differences in the accounts by the reviews from 1933 and 1938 raise a number of questions. Had Hausegger’s performing style evolved over the 1930s, embracing a more luxuriant, indulgently expressive tone in keeping with the imagined demands of the new regime’s romantic nationalist cultural politics—despite the claims of more than one reviewer that he had had a clear, immediately recognizable, stable approach for years? Or was it that the language of the reviewers, rather than the nature of the performance, had evolved over the 1930s, as critics learned to enunciate an aesthetic language that felt more in keeping with whatever they imagined the expectations of the editors, readers and political leaders to be—a discourse of monumentality and depth that National Socialism appeared to privilege across a variety of fields?84 If so, did audiences hear the music and the performance ‘directly’, or in a manner that was mediated through the changing language of the critics? Or had two critics simply heard two quite similar performances very differently? The problem of using reviews to approach listening experiences in anything but the most general of ways becomes more intractable still when one acknowledges, as critics occasionally did, that listeners did not simply imbibe and internalize the accounts of programme-note authors and reviewers, but brought very different forms of cultural resource or levels of musical expertise to the act of listening too. As Berrsche wrote in his review of the 4 April 1938 performance, for the musical listener it was always a joy to follow the convincing tempi in their almost unnoticeable development, their quiet legitimacy determined equally by their place within the organic whole. But the best in the interpretation was also immediately understood by totally simple and untutored natures: its spiritual power, the larger-than-life quality of its dynamics and its accents, its glowing expressivo, the force of its inner tensions, its Beethovenian-German courageous pursuit of immensity.85 In acknowledging that there was more than one listening experience in the room, Berrsche’s account was an improvement on most reviews, which tended to note simply the ‘enthusiastic’, ‘deeply moved’ or ‘stormy’ response of ‘the audience’ in a manner that homogenized entirely the concert public’s encounter with the performance. Nonetheless, in claiming to know the minds of other members of the audience he was still taking an epistemological liberty which it is not for the historian to repeat. At most, the accounts of newspaper reviews provide starting points for considering the range of discourses upon which audience members were able to draw when framing their own experiences. The comparatively diverse and open range of discourses that circulated around both Beethoven and art music throughout the period of the Third Reich—a reflection, again, of the ‘contained plurality’ that characterized the cultural politics of the era—was such that only the most general of links can be made between the varieties of cultural nationalism with which most critical vocabularies were inflected at this time, the specific concert under consideration and the politics of the particular moment (the Anschluss with Austria) in the wake of which it occurred.86 In any case, placing the concert and the listening experiences of its audience solely within the context of the nationalist politics of the era, however open one imagines those to be, conceals as much as it helps us understand. The concert sat within a number of other frames, constituted out of traditions that were not directly related to the politics of the moment concerned, or indeed to the context of the National Socialist regime at all. The first, as noted in passing, was the tradition of performing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at the end of each subscription season.87 The second was the tradition of celebrating significant milestones in the life or career of prominent figures in Munich’s musical establishment, or figures closely associated with the musical life of the city, with dedicated concerts.88 Thus, in October 1932, for example, a set of concerts of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra had been dedicated to the celebration of Hausegger’s sixtieth birthday. The Münchner Neueste Nachrichten recounted how an audience had gathered in festive mood in the Tonhalle on Friday night to celebrate the 60th birthday of Siegmund von Hausegger, the loyal following of a master admired by all, a following that proved, both in the number that turned out and in the enthusiasm with which the performance of his works was greeted, that it was fully aware of the significance of Hausegger for music and for the cultural life of Munich.89 The occasion was marked, in this instance, by a speech by Mayor Karl Scharnagl, who offered ‘the congratulations of the city and the entire population and announced that the celebrant had been awarded the Golden Medal of Honour of the City of Munich for his great services to musical life’. At this concert the orchestra’s deputy conductor, Adolf Mennerich, conducted performances of some of Hausegger’s own works. In the second of his ‘birthday concerts’, meanwhile, Hausegger conducted the orchestra in a performance of pieces by Bruckner and Schubert. The Münchner Neueste Nachrichten noted that ‘Hausegger had chosen Bruckner and Schubert for the evening … his two Austrian fellow countrymen, the beauty of whose music is surpassed by none of the other great masters.’90 What is also easily underestimated, in other words, when examining similar such concerts that took place in the Third Reich, is the extent to which the performance of canonical Austro-German composers in a city such as Munich drew on a set of supranational cultural imaginaries anchored in a sense of southern-German–Austrian Catholic cultural space that cut across the political caesura of 1933. More than this, the tradition in which the concert of 4 April 1938 sits of celebrating figures from the local musical world on significant personal occasions underlines that of all the frames that are easily missed, the most significant in this context is that of the civic.91 Rather than look simply at the texts of programme notes or at reviews of the piece, extrapolating from these what the performance might have meant to the audience, it makes more sense to read the specific concert and the social practices that it incorporated more firmly within the seasonal cycle of subscription concerts given each year, and to place those within the wider rhythms of urban social and cultural life in turn. These were supported, subvented and promoted by the local authorities as part of a programme of cultural activities that was anchored in a sense of municipal prestige, civic identity and the wish to foster an urban public sphere. To argue this is not to point to the presence of a ‘local’ culture that was untarnished by, still less stood in opposition to, the ‘totalitarian’ demands of the regime. Rather, it opens up possibilities for thinking further about how ‘the civic’ was itself a key site on which meaning was produced in National Socialist Germany, and on which, precisely via the continuities in social practice that ran from the 1920s (and before) into the 1930s, the regime was able to naturalize itself.92 For bourgeois consumers of art music, conversely, the range of cultural nationalist discourses that cleaved to such social rituals was a crucial means by which their social institutions and practices could stabilize themselves within the National Socialist civic cosmos.93 The workings of this civic culture are evident in the photographs discussed here not only in the presence of some of the city’s political and functional elites, but also in the massive wreath that bedecks the podium after the concert. At first sight, the inscription ‘München—Hauptstadt der Bewegung—4.4.38’ reads like the crude intrusion of National Socialist politics into the rarefied space of the concert hall, an imposition of totalitarian power claims onto the putatively unpolitical practice of musicking. However, it would be more accurate to see this as a National Socialist inflection of an existing set of practices geared towards the constant (re)production and celebration of civic identity. The identification of the orchestra with the city and through the city with the National Socialist movement was underlined by its renaming as the ‘Orchester der Hauptstadt der Bewegung’ (Orchestra of the Capital City of the Movement) in 1938;94 conversely, the emphasis placed by National Socialist power-holders on the civic as a site of cultural production is show by the fact that, as well as changing the name of the subscription concerts in the late 1930s from the francophone-inspired ‘Abonnementskonzerte’ to the German ‘Stammkonzerte’, they were renamed for the 1938/39 season the ‘Städtische Philharmonische Konzerte’ (Civic Philharmonic Concerts) too.95 IV. The Civic and the Creation of Cultural Meaning in Mid-century Germany Writing in the Festschrift produced on the occasion of the sixtieth anniversary of the formation of the orchestra in 1953, Wilhelm Zentner opined that As one of the main bearers of artistic culture the Munich Philharmonic has been inextricably linked with the musical life of the capital city of Bavaria for sixty years now. Their significance is in no way limited to serving purely local needs, counting as they do among the leading German concert orchestras of European rank and reputation. Great names and equally great musical deeds, which have contributed decisively to the expansion of Munich’s reputation as a leading musical city, are etched into their history.96 Though it simultaneously evoked local, national and supranational reference points, the text called upon the second and third of these to underpin rhetorically reputational claims that were being firmly credited to the first. The pride that was being articulated here was primarily a civic one, and the continuity that was being celebrated was of a local kind too. Much had happened in the fifteen years since Hausegger had conducted his valedictory concert in April 1938. The outbreak of war had witnessed a substantial expansion of the orchestra’s activities, as its subscription concerts were given a second, a third and finally a fourth time during the war to satisfy ever-expanding demand.97 The repertoire had undergone a substantial process of renationalization upon the outbreak of war, following a brief period during Kabasta’s first season in 1938/39 in which a more varied range of music had been performed. The experiences of the blackout had led to many concerts being moved to weekend mornings, rather than played in the evenings, disrupting the long-standing rhythms of bourgeois social routine. The bombing of the Tonhalle in 1944 had forced the orchestra to perform in temporary lodgings, including venues such as beer cellars. Like other orchestras that had survived that far, it was closed down in the summer of 1944 as part of the ‘total war’ measures of that moment, with those musicians who were not conscripted to other war work ending the war as members of a ‘Gau rump orchestra’ performing for the benefit of wounded soldiers in military hospitals. All of this took place in a wider context of sustained and massive violence, culminating in the multidimensional, chaotic destructiveness of the last months of the war that profoundly affected performers and audiences alike. After the war, the orchestra was swiftly re-established. In the immediate postwar years it demonstratively performed much contemporary and foreign music, including that by Jewish composers, as well as its familiar standards from the Austro-German canon. Its programming choices carried an unmistakable element of philosemitic performance of distance from the cultural politics of the National Socialist era, a distance that was also asserted rhetorically in constructions of the orchestra’s history in the postwar period. Zentner’s account, with its assertions of banal continuity across the sixty years of the orchestra’s existence and its equally bland implication that the institution had moved through a politics-free space as its history unfolded, might easily be read as a simple reflection of the putatively amnesic political culture of the 1950s, with its repeated assertions of the orchestra’s close identification with the city riding apologetically on the coattails of the refrain, common in the period, that the ‘civic’ had been a victim of the ‘totalitarian’. Similarly, it drew unmistakably on a deep-seated, widespread habit of thought after 1945 that imagined the ‘local’ as having represented an oasis of decency during the violence of the Nazi era and thus the foundation point for the emergence of a post-fascist liberal political culture.98 Certainly, local critics such as Zentner lost no time in learning the new democratic script. His programme notes for a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony by the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra in December 1950 were a case in point. The final choral movement, in particular, was now interpreted for its audience very differently: Beethoven’s musical language is like a source of healing at which all who approach it in need of sustenance can be cured, whatever their status, their faith, their race. The master’s lofty idealism was directed at the community of all the good and noble, his gaze encompassed all of humanity with love and commitment. Thus the Ninth Symphony, akin to the spiritual position of Classicist poetry, becomes a revelation of the ideal of humanity from its highest pinnacle.99 The contrast between Zentner’s martial, nationalistic account of Beethoven in the Nazi era and his liberal-universalist reading of 1950 stands as a prime example of the ways in which the discourse of music critics was inflected with the ideological vocabularies of the moment, and it is no surprise that a powerful strand of historiography has sought to read such language in this way.100 But reading musical discourse for its obviously ‘Nazi’ or ‘liberal’ ideological script is not a licence crudely to reduce one to the presence of the other, to ignore the iterations of other kinds of ideology that echo simultaneously through the moment and the text, or to miss the elements of the event under consideration here that cannot be read in those terms. Here it is worth refocusing the scholarly gaze on some elements of the practices of civic art musicking that crossed the dictatorial–democratic divide of 1945. By the 1949/50 season the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra—now relabelled the ‘Orchestra of the State Capital City Munich’—had fully re-established its various series and cycles of concerts, albeit under slightly different names, performing two-hour programmes of Western art music that were disproportionately, though not uniquely, centred on a largely familiar, if slightly enlarged repertoire of Austro-German music, both to subscribers and occasional purchasers. The orchestra gave subscription concerts, conducted by its conductor-in-chief, along with separate one-off concerts with guest conductors given outside the subscription and separate concerts for the reconstituted Theatergemeinde, concerts ‘For the Working People of Munich’ and ‘Concerts for Students’ mostly conducted by the orchestra’s standing deputy, all of which drew on prewar institutional antecedents.101 The programmes were presented with elucidatory notes to inform and educate concertgoers; the visual quality of the event (for example the white-tie dress) and its formal choreography (the layout of the seating) were in most respects similar too.102 While much was still fluid, particularly as far as performance venues were concerned, the underlying patterns of the bourgeois social ritual of the symphony concert were, in other words, rapidly reconstituting themselves in the wake of the currency reform. Given this strong element of re-established continuity it makes sense to read Zentner’s Festchrift contribution of 1953 less as a mere cynical act of denial of the horrors of the Third Reich, the rupture of war or the violence that attended it—the evidence of this was still everywhere plain to see and scarcely needed referencing for contemporaries—than as an expression of local identity and commitment to the ‘civic’, anchored in the author’s own lived experience as an actor in the musical life of the city since the First World War. This, in turn, might open the possibility of reading concerts such as those at the centre of this essay in a manner that takes them outside both clichéd habits of thought concerning totalitarianism, propaganda and cultural ‘distortion’ and habits of thinking about German art musicking that assume them to have been expressions of German national(ist) exceptionalism. The bourgeois social practice of concert-going as an articulation of civic identity became highly inflected with the demands and agendas of National Socialism, as did just about everything else in the period, but the former cannot be reduced to an expression of the latter. In this sense, Pamela Potter’s recent call to pursue cultural histories of the National Socialist era that start from the recognition that cultural life under conditions of twentieth-century dictatorship was more similar to cultural life under democracy than is sometimes assumed can only be underlined.103 What remains, however, is the need to make full sense of the many small differences that together constituted the ‘National Socialist inflection’ of the practice that this article has sought to locate, and to understand how, in turn, these connect to the story of the destructive violence of the regime. Footnotes * This article was produced with the help of grants from the British Academy and the Leverhulme Trust, both of whose support I gratefully acknowledge here. I am similarly grateful to audiences at the universities of Southampton, St Andrews and Oxford and at the Max Planck Institut für Bildungsforschung, Berlin, for their feedback on presentations of the work in progress, and to Pauline Fairclough and Thomas Irvine for their comments on earlier drafts. I have been unable to trace copyright holders for the images reproduced in this article. 1 Bayerische Staatsbibliothek (BSB) ANA720 Nachlass Siegmund von Hausegger 7.10, ‘Beethovens 9te., 4 April 1938’. 2 On photography in the National Socialist era see, most recently, Elizabeth Harvey and Maiken Umbach, ‘Introduction: Photography and Twentieth Century German History’, Central European History, 48, 3 (2015), pp. 287–99; on privately curated albums also Maiken Umbach, ‘Selfhood, Place and Ideology in German Photo Albums, 1933–1945’, Central European History, 48, 3 (2015), pp. 335–65. 3 Stadtarchiv Munich (StadtAM), KA 208, Aktennotiz, 4 Apr. 1938. 4 For an overview of Hausegger’s tenure with the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra see Alfons Ott, ‘Chronik des Orchesters bis zum Jahre 1938’, in Regina Schmoll gen. Eisenwerth (ed.), Die Münchner Philharmoniker von der Gründung bis heute (Munich, 1985), pp. 43–82, esp. here pp. 73–9. 5 The notion of ‘musicking’ upon which this essay draws is based on Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening (Middletown, Conn., 1998). 6 My thoughts here are guided by the essays in Clifford Geertz, Local Knowledge (New York, 1983). 7 An excellent summary of the literature is offered by Jan-Friedrich Missfelder, ‘Period Ear: Perspektiven einer Klanggeschichte der Neuzeit’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 38 (2012), pp. 21–47. My understanding of the history of the senses, and of listening within that, draws upon Martin Jay, ‘In the Realm of the Senses: An Introduction’, American Historical Review, 116, 2 (2011), pp. 307–15, and Sophia Rosenfeld, ‘On Being Heard: A Case for Paying Attention to the Historical Ear’, American Historical Review, 116, 2 (2011), pp. 316–34, both contributions to a forum on the history of the senses; and upon ‘Forum: The Senses’, German History, 32, 2 (2014), pp. 56–273, which pays greater attention to the multisensory qualities of perception. I have outlined an approach to historicizing listening to art music in greater detail in Neil Gregor, ‘Music, Memory, Emotion: Richard Strauss and the Legacies of War’, Music & Letters, 96, 1 (2015), pp. 55–76. For a recent discussion shaped more by the intellectual trajectories of musicology see Listening: Interdisciplinary Perspectives, supplement 1, Journal of the Royal Musical Association, 35 (2010). 8 Christian Thorau and Hansjakob Ziemer, ‘The Art of Listening and Its Histories—An Introduction’, in Thorau and Ziemer (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Listening to Music in the 20th and 21st Centuries (Oxford, forthcoming). 9 Martina Steber, ‘Regions and National Socialist Ideology: Reflections on Contained Plurality’, in Claus-Christian W. Szejnmann and Maiken Umbach (eds), Heimat, Region and Empire: Spatial Identities under National Socialism (Basingstoke, 2012), pp. 25–42. 10 Amongst older works see William Weber, Music and the Middle Class: The Social Structure of Concert Life in London, Paris and Vienna between 1830 and 1848 (London, 1975); more recently A. Pieper, Music and the Making of Middle-Class Culture: A Comparative History of Nineteenth-century Leipzig and Birmingham (Basingstoke, 2008); Rüdiger Ritter, Wem gehört Musik? Warschau und Wilna im Widerstreit nationaler und städtischer Musikkulturen vor 1939 (Stuttgart, 2004). 11 Sabine Mecking and Yvonne Wasserloos (eds), Inklusion & Exklusion: ‘Deutsche’ Musik in Europa und Nordamerika 1848–1945 (Göttingen, 2016). 12 For a classic statement of this nexus see the 1958 study Erich Heller, Thomas Mann: The Ironic German (repr. Cambridge, 1981), p. 265; for a recent remobilization of the trope see Wolf Lepenies, ‘Vorwort: Eine (fast) alltägliche Deutsche Geschichte’, in Misha Aster, ‘Das Reichsorchester’: die Berliner Philharmoniker und der Nationalsozialismus (Siedler, 2007); something of the longevity of the habit is captured in the unmistakable allusion in the title of Sarah Zalfen and Sven Oliver Müller (eds), Besatzungsmacht Musik: zur Musik- und Emotionsgeschichte im Zeitalter der Weltkriege (1914–1949) (Bielefeld, 2012). The most recent account of this tradition, which also works to reinscribe that which it analyses, is Dieter Borchmeyer, Was ist Deutsch? Die Suche einer Nation nach sich selbst (Berlin, 2017), esp. pp. 728–905. 13 Lydia Goehr, The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works: An Essay in the Philosophy of Music (2nd edn, Oxford, 2007; 1st edn, 1992). 14 ‘Mozart: Symphony No. 40–Finale—Bruno Walter conducts (1930)’, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NV3ICecRBKc, accessed 14 Dec. 2016. 15 The locus classicus of this argument and the attendant assumptions is in the founding texts of the Sonderweg debate of the 1970s and 1980s. See Hans-Ulrich Wehler, Das Deutsche Kaiserreich 1871–1918 (Göttingen, 1973); the unfolding of the subsequent discussion can be traced in Jürgen Kocka and Allan Mitchell (eds), Bourgeois Society in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 1993). The classic critique is David Blackbourn and Geoff Eley, The Peculiarities of German History: Bourgeois Society and Politics in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Oxford, 1994); see also Geoff Eley, From Unification to Nazism: Reinterpreting the Nazi Past (London, 1986). For recent critical reflections see ‘Forum: Class’, German History, 30, 3 (2012), pp. 429–51. 16 On the emergence of the ‘Beethoven paradigm’ see Goehr, The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works, pp. 205–42; for an empirically focused iteration of the argument see James H. Johnson, Listening in Paris: A Cultural History (Berkeley, 1995). 17 See, for example, the account in Peter Gay, The Bourgeois Experience, Victoria to Freud, vol. 4: The Naked Heart (London, 1995), pp. 11–34, which is telling not only for the Germanocentrism of its argument but also for the assumptions about Germans’ propensity to inhabit such subjectivities that inform its ‘asides’. For an excellent overview of this paradigm, with further references: Sven Oliver Müller, ‘Die Politik des Schweigens: Veränderungen im Publikumsverhalten in der Mitte des 19. Jahrhunderts’, Geschichte und Gesellschaft, 38 (2012), pp. 48–85. 18 The European contexts of the social practice are underlined in recent works by William Weber, The Great Transformation of Musical Taste: Concert Programming from Haydn to Brahms (Cambridge, 2008); Sven Oliver Müller, Das Publikum macht die Musik: Musikleben in Berlin, London und Wien im 19. Jahrhundert (Göttingen, 2014). For a recent argument which places much stronger emphases on German musical exceptionalism, and maps that directly onto the wider historical narrative, see Sabine Mecking, ‘“Deutsche” Musik, eine Illusion?’ in Mecking and Wasserloos, Inklusion & Exklusion, pp. 5–30, here p. 21. Of older works which posit a strong link between musical listening, nation-building and the habitus of the emergent bourgeoisie see Sanna Pederson, ‘A. B. Marx, Berlin Concert Life and German National Identity’, 19th-Century Music, 18, 2 (1994), pp. 87–107; for the implication of the formation of national musical canons in (German) chauvinist political projects see Anselm Gerhard, ‘“Kanon” in der Musikgeschichtsschreibung: nationalistische Gewohnheiten nach dem Ende der nationalistischen Epoche’, Archiv für Musikwissenschaft, 57, 1 (2000), pp. 18–30. 19 A programme underpins, for example, Bryan Gilliam, ‘The Annexation of Anton Bruckner: Nazi Revisionism and the Politics of Appropriation’, Musical Quarterly, 78 (Oct. 1994), pp. 558–83. This argument is also made specifically a propos Hausegger and the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra by Alexander Rehding, Music and Monumentality: Commemoration and Wonderment in Nineteenth-Century Germany (Oxford, 2009), pp. 187–96. 20 For a particularly crude statement in this mould see Michael Kater, ‘Introduction’, in Michael H. Kater and Albrecht Riethmüller (eds), Music and Nazism: Art under Tyranny 1933–1945 (Laaber, 2003), pp. 9–13; on Beethoven reception in Nazi Germany see Martin Geck and Peter Schleuning, ‘Geschrieben auf Bonaparte’: Beethovens ‘Eroica’—Revolution, Reaktion, Rezeption (Reinbek, 1989); David B. Dennis, Beethoven in German Politics, 1870–1989 (New Haven, 1996), and more generally by the same author Inhumanities: Nazi Interpretations of Western Culture (Cambridge, 2012); Esteban Buch, Beethovens Ninth: A Political History (Chicago, 2003); on the intrusion of metaphors of violence and subordination into the language of music criticism before and during the Nazi era more generally see Karen Painter, Symphonic Aspirations: German Music and Politics, 1900–1945 (Cambridge, Mass., 2007). 21 The curation of local and regional repertoires was not an act of distancing from nationalist cultural agendas but a practice via which those agendas were pursued, as the case of Pfitzner, in particular, shows: see for example Sabine Busch, Hans Pfitzner und der Nationalsozialismus (Stuttgart, 2001); Birgit Jürgens, ‘Deutsche Musik’—das Verhältnis von Ästhetik und Politik bei Hans Pfitzner (Hildesheim, 2009). 22 Neil Gregor, ‘Bruckner, Munich and the Longue Durée of Musical Listening, 1905–1950’, in Neil Gregor and Thomas Irvine (eds), Dreams of Germany: Music and (Trans)national Imaginaries (forthcoming). 23 Such an argument is carried, for example, by the title of Erik Levi, Mozart and the Nazis: How the Third Reich Abused a Cultural Icon (New Haven, 2010). 24 Richard Etlin (ed.), Art, Culture and Media under the Third Reich (Chicago, 2002), p. xvii. 25 For Hausegger’s views on music and aesthetics see Betrachtungen zur Kunst: gesammelte Aufsätze von Siegmund von Hausegger (Leipzig, 1921). 26 ‘Theater und Musik’, Münchner Neueste Nachrichten (MNN), 20 Nov. 1918. 27 StadtAM, KA 208, Hausegger an Fiehler, 7 Apr. 1933. 28 Klaus Bäumler, ‘Thomas Mann und der “Protest der Richard-Wagner-Stadt München” (1933)’, in Stefanie Hajak and Jürgen Zarusky (eds), München und der Nationalsozialismus: Menschen. Orte. Strukturen (Berlin, 2008), pp. 273–302. 29 Oscar von Pander, ‘SS-Konzert’, Die Musik (Dec. 1934), pp. 205–6. 30 ‘Anton Bruckner zog in die Walhalla’, in Hakenkreuzbanner, 7 June 1937, and Erwin Bauer, ‘Musik auf dem Parteitag der Arbeit’, Die Musikwoche, 9 Oct. 1937, both reproduced in Josef Wulf, Musik im Dritten Reich: eine Dokumentation (Gütersloh, 1963), pp. 147–9; 248–9. 31 This is underlined for the field of musicology by the emblematic account in Pamela E. Potter, Most German of the Arts: Musicology and Society from the Weimar Republic to the End of Hitler’s Reich (New Haven, 1998). 32 Geoff Eley, ‘Empire, Ideology and the East: Thoughts on Nazism’s Spatial Imaginary’, in Szejnmann and Umbach, Heimat, Region and Empire, pp. 252–75. 33 This argument is made compellingly throughout Moritz Föllmer, ‘Ein Leben wie im Traum’: Kultur im Dritten Reich (Munich, 2016). 34 On Oswald Kabasta see the empirically useful but unfortunately hagiographic Engelbert M. Exl and Michael Nagy (eds), ‘… mögen sie meiner still gedenken.’ Die Beiträge zum Oswald Kabasta-Symposium in Mistelbach vom 23. bis 25. September 1994 (Vienna, 1995). 35 StadtAM, KA 177, Konzertverein München e.V. an die Vorstandschaft des Konzertvereins München e.V., 17 June 1937. 36 StadtAM, KA 167, Oswald Kabasta an Ratsherr Max Reinhard, München, 12 Mar. 1938. 37 Konzertanzeiger der Münchner Philharmoniker, Tonhalle, hrsg. vom Konzertverein München e.V., 15 (1938/39), 3 Nov. 1938. 38 See the historical overview contained in Konzertverein München e.V (ed.), Die Münchner Philharmoniker. Orchester der Hauptstadt der Bewegung (Munich, 1939), which, for all its obvious attempts to emphasize the social egalitarianism of the Munich Philharmonic Orchestra compared to the more exclusive Court/State Theatre Orchestra, captured a truth of sorts about local orchestral politics and social distinction. 39 On the history of the Odeon see Heinrich Habel, Das Odeon in München und die Frühzeit des öffentlichen Konzertsaalbaus (Berlin, 1967). 40 The simultaneous presence of such series and formats in the musical offerings of cities throughout much of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries would appear to demand the complication of the telos of ‘transformation’ that underpins the argument of Weber, The Great Transformation. 41 See, for example, the Mitteilungen des Konzertvereins München e.V., 17 Oct. 1926; Mitteilungen des Konzertvereins München e.V., 7 Feb. 1927. 42 Konzertanzeiger, 10, 16 Feb. 1939. 43 Theodor Adorno, ‘On the Social Situation of Music’ (1932), in Richard Leppert (ed.), Theodor W. Adorno: Essays on Music (Berkeley, 2002), p. 420. 44 Moritz Föllmer and Rüdiger Graf (eds), Die Krise der Weimarer Republik: zur Kritik eines Deutungsmusters (Frankfurt/Main, 2005); further: Rüdiger Graf, ‘Either—Or: The Narrative of Crisis in Weimar Germany and Its Historiography’, Central European History, 43, 4 (2010), pp. 592–615. 45 For an overview of the struggles of provincial orchestras in the 1920s see Andrea Therese Thelen-Frölich, Die Institution Konzert zwischen 1918 und 1945 am Beispiel der Stadt Düsseldorf (Kassel, 2000), pp. 24–64. 46 The following overview draws on Schmoll gen. Eisenwerth, Die Münchner Philharmoniker. 47 StadtAM, KA 1070/2, Stiftungsmitglieder (undated [Feb. 1914]). 48 StadtAM, KA 1070/7, Satzungen des Konzertvereins München e.V., 10 June 1914. 49 Dr Otto Meyer, ‘Werden und Wachsen der Münchner Philharmoniker’, in Konzertverein München, e.V. (ed.), Die Münchner Philharmoniker: Orchester der Hauptstadt der Bewegung (Munich, 1939) (copy in StadtAM, KA 177). 50 StadtAM, KA 1070/7, Bericht des Schatzmeisters (undated ). 51 StadtAM, KA 1070/6, Bemerkungen für Herrn Oberbürgermeister (undated [Dec. 1921]). On the evolution of provincial Konzertvereine in the 1920s see also Michael Walter, Hitler in der Oper: deutsches Musikleben 1919–1945 (Stuttgart, 2000), pp. 42–70. 52 StadtAM, KA 171, Jahresbericht über den Konzertverein München für das Geschäftsjahr 1923/4. 53 That such a pattern of gradual socialization was not unusual is shown by the experience of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra, which also moved from private corporate to social ownership via increasing reliance upon municipal subsidy, culminating in its takeover by the local authorities during the Depression. See Fritz Trümpi, The Political Orchestra: The Vienna and Berlin Philharmonics during the Third Reich, trans. Kenneth Kronenberg (Chicago, 2016), pp. 54–65. 54 See for example the account of the orchestra’s affairs in ‘Konzertverein München’, MNN, 30 Mar. 1933. A vivid account of what the Nazi seizure of power meant for state employees locally is offered by Florian Wimmer, Die völkische Ordnung von Armut: kommunale Sozialpolitik im nationalsozialistischen München (Göttingen, 2014). 55 See, for example, StadtAM, KA 212, Direktorium des Stadtrates der Landeshauptstadt München/Einladung, 6 July 1931; Rundschreiben an sämtliche Gesang- und Musikvereine Münchens 1931; see also the overview of Munich’s visitor organizations provided in Sonja Neumann, Musikleben in München 1925–1945: Zwischen Arbeitsmarkt, Bürokratie und Ideologie (2009), pp. 117–24. 56 StadtAM, KA 176, Mitgliederliste 1929, 1930. 57 StadtAM, KA 176, Konzertverein München e.V., Vergünstigungen, 1 July 1931. 58 Hugo Schott, ‘Die Theatergemeinde München in ihrer wirtschaftlichen Bedeutung’ in Theatergemeinde München (ed.), Die Theatergemeinde: 10 Jahre Theatergemeinde München e.V. 1919–1929 (Munich, 1929), p. 31. 59 G. Aug. Baumgartner, ‘Warum Theatergemeinde? Rückschau und Ausblick zum 10jährigen Jubiläum’, in Theatergemeinde München, Die Theatergemeinde: 10 Jahre Theatergemeinde München e.V., p. 4. 60 Ibid., p. 12. 61 ‘Unsere Stellung zum Kulturbolschewismus. Vortrag des 1. Vorsitzenden der Theatergemeinde München, Kommerzienrat G.A. Baumgärtner, bei der Delegierten- und Jahresversammlung 1931’, in Die Theatergemeinde München, 12/1931, pp. 1–2. On critiques of ‘cultural bolshevism’ in music in the interwar period in general see E. John, Musikbolschewismus: die Politisierung der Musik in Deutschland 1918–1938 (Stuttgart, 1994). 62 StadtAM, KA 176, Konzertverein München e.V. an das Kulturamt der Stadt München, 21 June 1934. 63 StadtAM, KA 177, Konzertverein München an Städt. Kulturamt, 20 May 1936. 64 ‘Der Münchener Konzertwinter 1932/33’, MNN, 16 Sept. 1932. 65 StadtAM, KA 233, Vorstandschaft des Konzertvereins München an Schriftleitung der MNN, 19 Oct. 1932. 66 StadtAM, KA 233, Geschäftsstelle des Konzertvereins München e.V. an die Vorstandschaft des Konzertvereins München, 16 Nov. 1933. 67 StadtAN, KA 1070/8, Konzertverein München e.V. an die Vorstandschaft des Konzertvereins München e.V., 1 July 1935. 68 For the invitation to attend one of Hausegger’s final three subscription concerts and the refusal of Munich mayor Karl Fiehler (sent by his office, not him), see StadtAM, KA 208, Konzertverein München e.V. an Karl Fiehler, 4 Mar. 1938; Oberbürgermeister Fiehler (i.A.) an Konzertverein München, 26 Mar. 1938. Oswald Kabasta’s inaugural concert at the start of the following season, by contrast, was attended by a broad section of the local political and administrative elite, at least according to the claims of the local press: ‘Kabastas Antrittskonzert: Begrüssung durch Ministerpräsident Siebert’, MNN, 2 Nov. 1938; ‘Die Münchner Philharmoniker unter ihrem neuen Leiter’, Neue Freie Volkszeitung, 1 Nov. 1938. 69 On (women’s) clothing in the period see most recently Isabella Belting, ‘Gretchen mag’s mondän!’ Damenmode der 1930er Jahre (Munich, 2015). 70 Clifford Geertz, ‘Thick Description: Towards an Interpretive Theory of Culture’, in Geertz, The Interpretation of Cultures (New York, 1973), pp. 3–30. 71 On the habits of simulation among nineteenth-century audiences see Cormac Newark, ‘Not Listening in Paris: Critical and Fictional Lapses of Attention at the Opera’, in Phyllis Weliver and Katharine Ellis (eds), Words and Notes in the Long Nineteenth Century (Woodbridge, 2013), pp. 119–44. 72 On the expansion of ticket sales during the 1930s see StadtAM, KA 170/2, Bericht über die Städtische Philharmonische Konzerte 1938/9. 73 Konzertanzeiger der Münchner Philharmoniker, 18, 8 Oct. 1939. 74 See for example the reference to the ‘Münchener Hörergemeinde’ in StadtAM, KA 5, Tätigkeitsbericht des Orchesters der Haupstadt der Bewegung ‘Die Münchener Philharmoniker’ und des Konzertverein München e.V. in der Tonhalle im Rechnungsjahr 1937 (1. April 1937–31. März 1938). 75 Deutsches Tagebucharchiv Emmendingen, Sig. 1834/1 (Briefe, 1932–1939), Letter, ‘Marianne’ to her parents, 2 Nov. 1933. 76 Zentner’s Nachlass can be found in the Bavarian State Library, Munich, NL ANA 677. 77 Wilhelm Zentner, ‘10. Städtisches Philharmonisches Konzert’, Konzertanzeiger der Münchner Philharmoniker, 12, 2 Apr. 1941. 78 Wilhelm Zentner, ‘Die Städtische Philharmonischen Konzerte 1940/41’, Konzertanzeiger der Münchner Philharmoniker / Orchester der Hauptstadt der Bewegung, 14, 26 Apr. 1941. 79 Leon Botstein ‘Listening through Reading: Musical Literacy and the Concert Audience’, 19th-Century Music, 16, 2 (1992), pp. 129–45; Christian Thorau, ‘Die Hörer und Ihr Cicerone: Werkerläuterung in der bürgerlichen Musikrezeption’, in Andreas Jakob, Andreas Haug and Eckart Liebau (eds), Musik—Bildung—Textualität (Erlangen, 2007), pp. 207–20. 80 Wilhelm Zentner, ‘Konzert und Oper / München’, Zeitschrift für Musik, 105, 5 (May 1938), pp. 546–7. 81 Richard Würz, ‘Siegmund v. Hauseggers Abschied. 10. Orchester-Stammkonzert der Philharmoniker’, MNN, 6 Apr. 1938. 82 ‘Siegmund von Hauseggers Abschied’, Münchner Zeitung, 6 Apr. 1938. Alexander Berrsche was a pseudonym of music critic Alexander Lösch. 83 ‘Beethovens “Neunte”. 10 Philharmonisches Konzert’, MNN, 29 Mar. 1933. 84 On the discourse of musical monumentality see Rehding, Music and Monumentality; on its inscription in music journalism in modes allied to authoritarian politics see Painter, Symphonic Aspirations. 85 ‘Siegmund von Hauseggers Abschied’, Münchner Zeitung, 6 Apr. 1938. 86 Steber, ‘Regions and National Socialist Ideology’, pp. 25–42; in similar vein Lutz Raphael, ‘Pluralities of National Socialist Ideology: New Perspectives on the Production and Diffusion of National Socialist Weltanschauung’, in Martina Steber and Bernhard Gotto (eds), Visions of Community in Nazi Germany: Social Engineering and Private Lives (Oxford, 2014), pp. 73–86; on the openness of cultural discourses in the German Democratic Republic see Elaine Kelly, Composing the Canon in the German Democratic Republic: Narratives of Nineteenth-Century Music (Oxford, 2014); see also the similar argument made apropos the cultural life of the Soviet Union in Pauline Fairclough, Classics for the Masses: Shaping Soviet Musical Identity under Lenin and Stalin (New Haven, 2016). 87 See, for example, StadtAM, KA 5, Tätigkeitsbericht des Orchesters der Hauptstadt der Bewegung ‘Die Münchener Philharmoniker’ und des Konzertvereins München e.V. in der Tonhalle im Rechnungsjahr 1937 (1. April 1937–31. März 1937) which notes that the previous season was closed with the same piece; and ‘Zum 10. Städtischen Philharmonischen Konzert am 13. April 1939’, Konzertanzeiger der Münchner Philharmoniker, 14, 30 Mar. 1939 for the corollary a year after. 88 See, in similar vein, ‘Kallenberg-Ehrung’, MNN, 13 Jan. 1933; and ‘Philharmonisches Konzert 27.3.1939: Richard Strauss Ehrung zum bevorstehenden 75. Geburtstag’, Konzertanzeiger der Münchner Philharmoniker, 13, 23 Mar. 1939. 89 ‘Hausegger-Ehrung. 1. Volkskonzert der Philharmoniker’, MNN, 23 Oct. 1932. 90 ‘Hausegger-Ehrung. Erstes Abonnements-Konzert’, MNN, 27 Oct. 1932. 91 Here I seek to build on the pioneering work of Hansjakob Ziemer, Die Moderne hören: das Konzert als urbanes Forum 1890–1940 (Frankfurt/Main, 2008); more generally in respect of the same city see Christian Thorau, Andreas Odenkirchen and Peter Ackermann (eds), Musik—Bürger—Stadt: Konzertleben und musikalisches Hören im historischen Wandel; 200 Jahre Frankfurter Museums-Gesellschaft (Frankfurt/Main, 2011). For a detailed account of the civic institution of the concert between the Weimar and Nazi periods in a provincial city see also Thelen-Frölich, Die Institution Konzert zwischen 1918 und 1945. 92 This point is made at greater length in Neil Gregor, ‘National Socialism and the Cultural-Historical Turn’, Vierteljahrshefte für Zeitgeschichte, 65, 2 (2017), pp. 229–41. 93 Föllmer, ‘Ein Leben wie im Traum’. 94 Meyer, ‘Werden und Wachsen der Münchner Philharmoniker’. 95 ‘Rückschau’, in Konzertanzeiger der Münchener Philharmoniker, 15, 30 June 1939. 96 Wilhelm Zentner, ‘60 Jahre Münchner Philharmoniker’, in Sechzig Jahre Münchner Philharmoniker 1893–1953 (Munich, undated ), p. 7. 97 Neil Gregor, ‘Listening as a Practice of Everyday Life: The Munich Philharmonic Orchestra and Its Audiences in the Second World War’, in Thorau and Ziemer, The Oxford Handbook of Listening to Music in the 20th and 21st Centuries (forthcoming). 98 The workings of this are explored in detail in respect to Nuremberg in Neil Gregor, Haunted City: Nuremberg and the Nazi Past (New Haven, 2008). 99 ‘4tes Philharmonisches Abonnementskonzert. Gesamtleitung Fritz Rieger. 6.12./7.12.1950. Aula der Universität’ (concert programme). A copy of the programme can be found in BSB, Mus.Th.1792as 1950. 100 Emblematic of this approach is Dennis, Beethoven in German Politics. 101 See the collection of concert programmes for 1950–1952 contained in the archive of the Bayerisches Staatsbibliothek, Mus.Th.1792as. 102 See for example the photograph of the orchestra performing in the main hall of the University of Munich in 1951 in Schmoll gen. Eisenwerth, Die Münchner Philharmoniker, p. 120. 103 Pamela E. Potter, Art of Suppression: Confronting the Nazi Past in Histories of the Visual and Performing Arts (Berkeley, 2016). © The Author(s) 2017. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the German History Society. All rights reserved. This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/open_access/funder_policies/chorus/standard_publication_model)
German History – Oxford University Press
Published: Nov 14, 2018
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