Sound and its Power

Dion Fortune

In sound and rhythm we have a thing that makes an immediate and profound emotional appeal, irrespective of culture or conditioning, and which has the unique power of appealing to the subconscious; conscious, and super-conscious mind simultaneously, and therefore forms the most effectual method we possess of uniting them.

The power of music to stir emotion is too well known to need either stress or analysis, and I will content myself with dealing with the technical use of sound in magic. A good deal has already been written on this subject by Theosophical writers, under the heading of Mantra; but as with so much of the Neo-theosophical writings of the Leadbeater school, it is dogmatic and superstitious, rightly describing phenomena, but rashly interpreting them. For my part, I propose to do more description than interpretation, for we do not know in precisely what manner the results are obtained; at least, I do not, and I suspect even the glibbest of my contemporaries to be in the same boat.

Let us commence our study by classifying the different kinds of sound that are used for magical purposes. These are four in number – rhythm, pitch, vowel-sounds, and consonantal sounds, but the two former can also be rendered instrumentally as well as vocally.

In inducing emotional states, rhythm, in my experience, has far greater power than pitch. This may not apply strictly to those who are naturally musical, and who have cultivated their sensibilities, but for the average person, and for primitive peoples, I think that my dictum will be found to apply. It is easier to endure a steady noise than an intermittent one; and even the daylong hooting of cars at a cross-road is less trying than a barrel-organist who settles down under one’s window.

Primitive peoples have a music which is pure percussion and nothing else, such as tom-tomming, and its effect on the European is truly devastating, showing that even in the most cultured of us there is something that reacts to rhythm, for the reaction of rage is just as much a tribute to its power as is pleasure. Folk not quite so primitive have a very lovely bell and gong music, in which rhythm predominates but tune has begun. An effectual appeal to the primitive in the alleged civilised is made by a drum and fife band, and the League of Nations will never be able to rest on its laurels as long as decent citizens unconsciously keep step and boys run after the band. The decorous Victorian waltz is as surely a mating-call as the belling of stags, and had much the same effect on the gentle does; for deny it who will, a ball-room is the marriage mart of our tribe. In syncopation, borrowed from the negro, we get a return to the tom-tom motif, wherein rhythm, and the break in the rhythm, are the most important factors in the tune.

In syncopated dance-music we combine the belling and the tom-tomming, and its influence can be seen in modern manners and morals. It is interesting to note, however, that the tendency of sophisticated poetry as well as music – both rhythmical arts – is to discard rhythm; and the more sophisticated they are, the less rhythmical they are, and therefore the less they appeal to the popular taste and are limited for their audience to those who are ‘conditioned’ to their symbolism.

The part played by tone, pitch, and timbre is subtler, and it is a curious fact that there are sounds which speak effectually to the subconscious which consciousness does not reckon to be particularly pleasant, such as the nasal vocalisation of the crooner and the lamentable bleatings of a jazz band. These things, which sound as if something had gone wrong with the works of an orthodox orchestra – and syncopation, which sounds as if it were missing on one cylinder, are emotional irritants; and irritants, of which the homely cruet of condiments affords an example, are exceedingly valuable as stimulants, and the more jaded the palate, or the more monotonous the diet, the stronger it likes them, as instance the Anglo-Indian and his curries and the Mexican and his chillies. It is the jaded pleasure-palates of the rich and the monotonous emotional diet of the poor that drive them to jazz.

Very little attention is paid to the phonetics of vocal music, possibly for the good and excellent reason that one comparatively seldom has the opportunity to appreciate them, for vocalists give all their attention to the timbre of their vowel sounds, and regard consonants as difficulties to be overcome. In poetry, however, the subtle music of the consonants plays an important part, and in prose the good writer, while not making play with sounds for their own sake as does the poet, avoids repetitions of dissonances. If poetry were chanted, as it ought to be, instead of being recited as if it were prose, all these factors would immediately become apparent, and the different arts concerned would in consequence take on a finer edge. The old Welsh art of the chanting of poetry to a running accompaniment of harp-music, affords a very interesting example of the setting of music to words instead of the utilisation of words by music; for in song-writing, the words are simply a means of vocalisation; and although there is a point beyond which they may not outrage our sense of the ridiculous, that point is set a long way off. An interesting new art could be evolved, in which the music is used as a background to the chanted words, to emphasise their rhythm, and reinforce the imaginative response of the conscious mind by the instinctive response of the subconscious mind, thus attacking our emotions from two points.

All this excursion into the realms of music must not be treated as a digression from the subject of this chapter, which is alleged to be sound in relation to magic; it is, rather, a gathering together of the building materials upon the site; for if there is one thing above all others that I have striven to show in this, and my other writings, it is that the magical powers, which are but the practical application of occult knowledge, are neither hocus nor miracle, but depend upon the development of skill in the in the use of certain little-understood capacities of the human mind. The power of the mantra or chant is simply a specialised application of the well-known influence of music in general; it is music applied, not to pleasure, but to power, and has for its criterion psychology instead of aesthetics.

Having thus prepared our minds for a rational understanding of the matter instead of either scoffing or gaping, let us now consider exactly what is done when magicians get down to their rites. I have seen a very great many rites of widely different types, and I have observed that there are certain factors that bring power, and that when these are not utilised, the power generated is minimal; as soon as these are used, up goes the psychic pressure at once, and the two most potent are incense and chanting. In speaking of occult rituals, it must be understood that I refer to what they can be, and what they ought to be, and not what, alas, they so often are; for there are very few people in Europe who combine technical skill with an intelligent appreciation of first principles. However powerful a ritual may be, the power will not come through unless it is adequately worked. I have seen a ritual wherein the chief officers arrived late, unpacked their robes from brown paper parcels in open lodge, collected the candidate from the stairs, where he had been put to sit in a half-initiated state while this process was going on, and started off once more. I maintain that these conditions do not conduce to the best results. I also maintain, however, that a system which survives such handling must have something in it beyond autosuggestion.

Leaving aside these minor defects, which are due rather to the frailties common to human nature, than to any faults inherent in the occult system of illumination, let us consider what can be done with a ritual, and what is done under reasonably good working conditions.

The principles of all rituals are the same – first the sealing and then the dedication of the place of working, and then the invocation of the power. I do not propose to give instructions for the practical workings because, in the first place, they are useless in untrained hands, and in the second place, they can be dangerous to sensitives; in fact, anyone who is mediumistic can burn their fingers very badly in these matters unless working under experienced guidance. Nonpsychics obtain nothing if they experiment ignorantly with these things, and psychics may obtain more than they bargain for.

Inside this cleared and consecrated place the astral temple is then built by visualising it in the imagination, and the work of the imagination is aided by descriptive ritual setting forth the various incidents associated with the tradition of the personality, whether mythical or historical, that is to represent the cosmic potency to be invoked. For an example of such workings, attend the three hours’ service on a Good Friday in any Catholic or Anglo-catholic church. Note especially the hymns by which it is punctuated at intervals, which are not designed merely to relieve the cramped limbs of the congregation.

Various reforms have been introduced at various times into church music, and many a well intentioned cleric has tried to brighten his service with the help of new hymnals containing tunes to which the music-hall has nothing to teach, but for building the true mystical atmosphere the Gregorian chant with its curious barless beat is unequalled. An interesting example of the Gregorian chant adapted to modern liturgical use is to be found in the processional hymn which is sung every Christmas-day in Westminster Abbey. Anything more impressive than this hymn, drawing near and dying away through the length of the great nave, I have never known.

In certain rites the chants form a very important part of the ceremony because by means of them emotional tension of both operators and onlookers is worked up until effective invocation becomes possible. Such chants are adapted to their purpose in a very special way; these are, in the words of the Eastern Tradition, mantric, that is to say, sound as well as sense plays a part in their influence. This, of course, is the case with all poetry, but in the case of the magical invocations certain psychological principles are involved, which we will now proceed to study. The appeal of ritual, as cannot too often be made clear, is to the subconscious mind, evoking it to visible and conscious appearance; and it is the subconsciousness, thus energised and directed, that is capable of the feats that are commonly ascribed to supernatural causes.

In appealing to the subconscious mind we must always remember that its consciousness is of a very simple and primitive type, and that for anything to sink into it and take effect, reiteration is necessary. Any ceremonial chant, therefore, to be effective, must be monotonous. But as the conscious mind rebels against monotony and withdraws its attention, the ideal chant, though consisting of a few very simple musical phrases, rises and falls by the simple expedient of the change of key; and because the subconscious mind is a primitive mind, the rhythm must be strongly marked, as it is in all folk-music.

The question of pitch is an important one. Modern music is built up around the pitch to which the pianoforte is tuned, which is popularly called concert pitch. Mantric music, however, builds up around the primitive pitch, which is half a tone lower than concert pitch, and consequently sounds abominably flat to cultured ears. It also rises and falls by quarter-tones. It can neither be played on the piano nor rendered in ordinary musical notation, and its effect is either to exasperate or fascinate according to temperament.

For its rendering the full singing voice is unsuitable; in fact, mantric music, played in the ordinary pitch and sung with the ordinary voice, is ineffectual; but rendered as it is meant to be renderedin the primitive manner, it is exceedingly potent for the induction of change of consciousness in both performers and listeners.