In the story of music-making, blind musicians have played an intrinsic role,
helping to drive the development not only of musical styles but also of
instruments, instruction, and aesthetics. Many musical practices were cultivated
first within blind communities and adopted only later by sighted musicians,
often with a gradual erasure of their original context. The history of the
Spanish guitar offers a compelling case study of this progression, demonstrating
how the contribution of blind musicians could be both wide-reaching and yet,
over time, forgotten. The history of this contribution is challenging to
recover, for in Spain as elsewhere, blind musicians left almost no direct
historical evidence of their activities; and yet, once reconstructed, it offers
a vital new perspective, one that challenges standard approaches to guitar
historiography, with its traditional emphasis on repertoire and celebrated
individuals.
Rather than belonging to the margins of guitar history, the work of blind
Spanish guitarists has direct implications for its central narrative. It is
essential for understanding the emergence of the Spanish classical guitar in the
19th century and for situating pivotal figures—such as Francisco Tárrega,
Antonio de Torres, and even Andrés Segovia and Agustín Barrios—within a broader
cultural context in which blind musicians played a vital role. Furthermore, this
perspective may offer valuable insights into the study of Spanish musical
pedagogy and aesthetics, particularly the concept of duende—as well as into the
organological development of the guitar.
The six-course guitar is still a little-known instrument. One need only look at
books on the history of music to verify that claim: there is hardly any mention
of it, nor are its composers or repertoire often cited. In fact, researchers
have given far more attention to other plucked-string instruments than to the
six-course guitar—whether for reasons of tradition or ideology—leading to a
major gap in the literature. The repertoire of the Spanish Golden Age, to take
one example, has been thoroughly explored, in the domains of both vocal and
instrumental music (as in the vihuela). Similarly, there is quite a lot of
research on the five-course Baroque guitar (as exemplified by Gaspar Sanz and
Francisco Guerau): witness the several commercial and critical editions
available. And there are plenty of studies of composers such as Fernando Sor and
Dionisio Aguado—who are, moreover, already known to people outside our
specialized field of the history of the guitar.
Perhaps the lack of documents, printed scores, or manuscripts associated with
the six-course guitar has hindered research into the instrument. Some documents
held in public libraries are available online; others, such as those in the
private archive of Navascués, can be accessed only with great difficulty. It is
therefore not surprising that today we are familiar with names such as Luis de
Narváez or Gaspar Sanz, while composers such as Juan de Arizpacochaga, Isidro
Laporta, or José Avellana are completely unknown.
The purpose of this text, therefore, is to present the six-course guitar, its
particularities, and its function in a society that could be characterized as
bourgeois.
The following work is reviewed:
Guitar Making in Nineteenth-Century London: Louis Panormo and His
Contemporaries, by James Westbrook (Halesowen, UK: ASG Music, 2023)
classicalguitar.co.uk/shop/guitar-making-in-nineteenth-century-london
[http://classicalguitar.co.uk/shop/guitar-making-in-nineteenth-century-london]
A review of Luigi Legnani: Catalogo tematico delle edizioni a stampa per e con
chitarra [Thematic Catalogue of Printed Editions for and with Guitar], by Marco
Mustardino (Rome: Aracne, 2023).
Playing the guitar develops physical skills but also ways of listening and
thinking about music. For example, guitarists often conceptualize chords as
two-dimensional shapes—an approach that is foreign to pianists. What does it
mean, then, to think like a guitarist? This article approaches “guitar thinking”
through music theory and cognitive science. Psychological experiments help to
reveal auditory, visual, and tactile aspects of guitar playing and to show how
guitarists respond to the instrument’s affordances (i.e., its possibilities for
action). Additionally, recent research in music theory models fretboard space
and examines patterns of body-instrument interaction. To demonstrate this mode
of analysis, the article discusses Leo Brouwer’s Estudios sencillos, nos. 1 and
7. Ultimately, this investigation suggests that the guitar is not only a tool
for producing musical sound; it also produces musical knowledge.
Anglo-American guitarist Henry Worrall appeared on the American scene just as
the guitar reached a plateau of popularity. As vital as the guitar itself, the
prevailing social, philosophical, and aesthetic tenets of Worrall's era also
wove a unifying thread through his life, career, and oeuvre. His immersion in
both the graphic and musical arts; his straddling of vernacular and high
culture; his connection to nature and especially agriculture; his nationalist
and regionalist sympathies; and his fondness for folk, popular, and heroic
musical themes all drew from and evinced a Romantic worldview. Here, Ferguson
discusses Worrall's professional life.
This article is one of a series of five by Peter Danner on the history of the
guitar in the United States from the late eighteenth to the early twentieth
century. Written between 1977 and 1994, these articles first appeared in early
issues of the GFA’s magazine Soundboard. They are reprinted here in tribute to
Danner’s pioneering contribution to guitar research and to bring them to the
attention of a new generation of scholars. The author has generously provided a
newly written introduction to the series.
In this guest editorial, the author provides evidence of the unreliable nature
of the majority of Tárrega’s first editions, and the substandard quality of most
modern editions. The author argues that in light of the recent availability of
formerly inaccessible primary sources, the time is right for a scholarly edition
of Tárrega’s complete works with state-of-art editorial methods.
For over sixty years, guitarists of my generation have been familiar with the
so-called Segovia Scales—the systematic scale fingerings advocated by the
Andalusian maestro. They have been an influential—some might say a
definitive—bestseller since their first USA publication in 1953. Countless
guitar students have incorporated them into their daily practice routines. For
the publisher, Columbia Music, they seem to be the goose that laid the golden
egg. Are they everything that Segovia wanted them to be? Two books of recent
date on guitar technique attest to their enduring value and relevance. Thomas
Offermann wrote in 2015: “The fingerings of the scales used here mostly
correspond to those of Andrés Segovia.” A revised edition of the 1953
publication came out in 1967. It was republished in 2011 and has remained in
print. The original preface by Segovia was partly removed and replaced with a
"Historical Note" by Thea E. Smith, the granddaughter of the publisher,
Sophocles Papas. She attested that they were “one of the best-selling guitar
publications of all time.”
In this previously unpublished talk from 2004, delivered two years after his
retirement from public performance, Julian Bream traces his own career in
relation to the evolution of the modern guitar, recounting his early encounters
with nineteenth-century guitars, the introduction of nylon strings to replace
gut, innovations in guitar construction, and a transformative meeting with
Andrés Segovia. But at the heart of the talk is his approach to sound. Bream
discusses the essential elements of his tone production, including his
right-hand position with its characteristic “three-quarter Tárrega bend” of the
wrist, and his strong preference for the rest stroke. He goes on to explain how
guitars in the style of Hauser’s late period actively encourage such a style of
playing, from the strutting pattern of the top to the tuning relationship
between the top and back plates. In conclusion, he voices skepticism toward
certain technologies and concern that they may already be constraining
individual artistry and creativity.