Posthuman Collective Composer

The video above is from one of my son, Aodan's, favorite DVDs. It's an Animusic DVD that Charissa, my music teacher wife, brought home for my boys to watch. The Animusic series is a collection of cartoon music videos featuring machinery of various types playing music. Some of the machines are better-mousetrap style contraptions, others are like giant wind-up toys. The one above features robots on a spaceship playing percussion instruments. As we watched the DVD yesterday (and Aodan drummed along on a toy drum), I remarked to Charissa that I was uncomfortable with the possibilities this particular video explored. I am uncomfortable with the extreme posthuman (or maybe dystopian) theme of machines playing musical instruments without apparent human involvement (this is the kind of conversation I routinely subject my poor wife to). Despite my interest in digital literacies/cultures and computer mediation of human literacy habits, I want artistic sensibility and aesthetic to belong to humans. Humans make art. They may use technology to do so (of course they do; musical staffs and symbols are a technology after all), but it is humans that control it in order to turn sound into art.

Then today, a friend and colleague of mine posted a Gizmodo article about a scholarly journal article by Imperial College-London researchers published yesterday in PNAS called Evolution of music by public choice. This study essentially studied the evolution of sound into music in order to compare it to models of evolutionary biology. In this study, researchers basically (I'm skipping important steps for the sake of space. Go read the article) started with clips of randomized noise and allowed people to rate the clips according to musical quality. The top rated clips were then combined in a semi-randomized "genetic" style creating new clips, and the process repeated itself. Over time, the clips begin to sound like recognizable beats, then melodies, then they finally become relatively complex and interesting musical strains (I listened to all the published examples. I encourage readers to at least listen to the commentary and overview offered on the Gizmodo article. It's pretty amazing).

The idea of the study was to study consumer input in the evolution of musical aesthetic by isolating it. In other words, there was no human writing the music: no experimental artistry by a person trying to play with old conventions, no producer looking for a hook, no band members wanting a solo. In removing the factors these factors so they could look at data relating only to the issue they were studying, researchers also removed the people that are typically associated with making music--that is, the composer, lyricist, and producer. Instead, these processes were automated.

Historically, music is considered a humanistic art form, not because it touches a human audience, but because it is created by a human composer. This music, then, is remarkable because it doesn't have that singular person we typically associate with musical composition. But I think the Gizmodo article oversimplifies when it says that "it's possible for digital music to evolve by itself, without creative input from a composer." It is certainly the case that there is not a single human composer. By getting rid of this figure, this experiment abolishes the concept of the genius artist, individually achieving a transcendent artistic artifact. Instead, there is something decidedly posthuman in the composition of this piece.

When I speak of the posthuman here (a term which involves a kind of spectrum of thought), I'm thinking along the lines of Donna Haraway's "cyborg." This involves the idea that the separation between our selves and the objects we make/use is, as it turns out, rather blurry. As we evolve our instruments, those instruments evolve us as well (this idea of "man as ongoing process" is the central theme of posthumanist theories). It is this interplay between our selves and our technology that make us "natural born cyborgs" (Clark). We are, by our nature, part human, part tool.

The DarwinTunes are composed through the interplay between tool (a computer designed by humans running an algorithm programmed by human researchers) and active human beings (the people voting on which clips move on).

Not only is the music produced by DarwinTunes posthuman, but it is also an example of another important element of digital culture in that the human half of the composition process is completely collaborative. Just as the singular artistic genius is replaced by a computer program, so also is he replaced by, not one musician, but thousands of consumers, all of which bring to the process their own cultural histories (in the form of chord progressions, dissonances etc. which seem "natural"), personal aesthetic sensibilities, and so on.

Perhaps, then, the most surprising thing about the DarwinTunes is that, after about 500 generations, they start to sound pretty good.  Pieces of music composed, not by an individual or small collaboration of talented artists, but by a process of negotiation between a piece of technology and collective intelligence may, after enough generations, turn out to be as complex and sophisticated as any experimental piece by Philip Glass. This brings into focus one of the fundamental questions we begin to ask when studying digital culture: Just how important is the "expert/genius/author" after all?

Being Really Useful: A (sort-of) tongue-in-cheek analysis of the Thomas and Friends series

As a father of twin sons, I have been subjected to hours upon hours of Thomas and Friends episodes. My sons also have Thomas the Tank Engine models (two of which actually propel themselves and pull wooden train cars), and Thomas blankets. In fact, my wife discovered a potty training breakthrough for our son Beckett by buying him Thomas underwear. She explained to him, "Thomas is our friend. We don't pee on our friends." After this, Beckett, who is innately logical, tried very hard not to wet his pants and, when he had an accident, he would sulk and say "we don't pee on our friends."

Their Thomas craze has subsided some in favor of Veggie Tales and Elmo, but during the height of their Thomas fandom, when we were watching the show constantly, I would make fun of the oft repeated phrase "really useful engine," a phrase repeated ad nauseam in the Thomas and Friends series. I, somewhat jokingly, insisted that the show was designed to brain-wash children into accepting the ethos of being "really useful" as sacrosanct. Of course, I made these assertions in jest, mostly because there is nothing so particularly insidious about teaching children to be useful.

Then, yesterday, I was picking up the horrifying mess my boys hourly make when I came across their "Thomas & His Friends Help Out" DVD. While I walked the DVD back to the living room (I found it in the bathroom, of course), I haphazardly read the back of the sleeve. The description of the stories contains a quote ascribed to the railway director, Sir Topham Hatt: "Helping out is one of the best ways to show that you're a Really Useful Engine." I instantly noticed the divine capitalization used in the phrase Really Useful Engine. This capitalization, usually reserved in modern English for proper nouns and pronouns for the deity, suggests that the ethos of being Really Useful is, in a very interesting way, treated as sacred within the context of these stories. Since this is the case, I thought, perhaps this ethic deserves a little attention. What does is mean to be Really Useful? What makes this ethos culturally appropriate, and what cultural systems does it privilege?

It may be tempting to think it silly to analyze a children's television program, that it is, on it's face, an over analysis, a pedantic intellectual exercise. I admit that this is true. I am, in fact, writing this blog mostly in jest. But, I would also argue that our children's television shows are indeed worthy of scholarly analysis. This is because, considering how much time our children spend watching television, educational and otherwise, it's reasonable to argue that these shows are one of the important activities through which we enculturate our children. In a way that probably ought to make us uncomfortable, it makes perfect sense that the nation that produced the ghastly Struwwelpeter stories also produced the Holocaust (see Katz, Steven B. "The Ethic of Expediency: Classical Rhetoric, Technology, and the Holocaust." College English 54.3. 1992). This is because a society's cultural productions, especially those considered didactic, inculcate its members into the society's organization, ethics, and systems. So, what ethics and what systems are being privileged when we teach our children that it's important to be "Really Useful Engines?"

First of all, understand that within the context of the Thomas the Tank Engine TV shows (I confess, I haven't looked at the books, so I cannot speak for them), the goal of every character is to be regarded as "Really Useful," especially by Sir Topham Hatt, the Director of the Railroad. It is indeed, their only form of payment. The phrase "Really Useful" appears in nearly every episode and is, in fact, part of the theme song of the show. An engine becomes Really Useful in the ways one might expect: by being on-time, by working hard, and by performing well at difficult, work-centered tasks.

This is a decidedly industrial ethic. Work hard, and you shall be regarded as Really Useful. And, of course, to be called Really Useful is the ultimate compliment in these stories. Thomas and Friends, then, privileges an ethos that is undoubtedly industrial rather than, say, one that is relational. In the quote I gave from Topham Hatt earlier in this post, the reader may notice that one "help[s] out" (relational) in order to show that we are "Really Useful" (industrial). This quote, which succinctly provides the moral of these stories, seems to privilege the industrial over the relational. We do the work of relationship (helping out) in order to become industrious (really useful). The relational serves the purposes of the industrial, rather than the other way around.

This seems to fit well with cultural ethic of the industrialized west, specifically the UK and the US where these shows are produced. In many eastern cultures (especially middle-eastern), which are more relational, one might expect an inversion of this moral. One tries to be "really useful" (industrious) in order to "help out" (foster relationships and cohesion). In the west, we tend to privilege industriousness in an extraordinary way. We place great personal value on industrial value. That is to say, we often judge others by their ability to contribute through work. We introduce ourselves to strangers by telling them what we "do," which always means what we do to make money. Indeed, a good puritan work ethic is part of the fabric of our society, a society that counts on its members' ability and willingness to work. Industriousness is an important ethic with regard to the the maintenance of the military-industrial complex, which is, after all, the core of a capitalist society.

What we learn from this (which will not really be a surprise) is that we begin inculcating cultural values at a very early age,a and through seemingly innocuous, even wholesome, media. As an individualistic, capitalist society, we teach our children from a very early age the importance of individual achievement and industriousness. We want them to want to be Really Useful, because our society requires useful members--that is, members who do good work. If these lessons aren't exactly purposeful (I abjure the thought that Reverend Awdry was purposefully brainwashing children into good little corporate slaves) it is only because these ethics are so naturalized that these lessons happen automatically any time we write something we believe to be educational. These lessons just seem seem right and good in and of themselves. The ethics they teach are, for better or worse, sacrosanct.

I hope you've found this analysis Really Useful. Even better if you're a publisher who finds it industrious.