Whose History Is Classical Music?

Why isn't classical music called 'Western art music'?

We tend to think of history as an objective record. But if that were truly the case, then this would merely be 'canonical Western art music'—yet reality is not so.

Regarding classical music, we often hold a mindset that if a work hasn't been passed down, it automatically isn't worthy of serious performance or study. This teleological narrative subtly influences us, leading us to believe that those who left no name, especially female musicians, simply weren't important enough, great enough, or 'canonical' enough.

But when we actually open the history of Western music, we notice something off: why are the names left behind in this repeatedly told, taught, and performed history so similar? They are mostly European, white, male, and often from social classes capable of affording long-term training, educational investment, and cultural accumulation.

And we often lack vigilance toward this 'commonness.' When we lament today that learning music requires substantial financial support, and subconsciously tie classical music to 'elite privilege,' we have already built an invisible wall. But can genius only emerge within that wall? Talent is scattered like weeds across all classes—it's just that the voices outside the wall, we don't know where they went.

So perhaps the real question is not 'why some people didn't appear in history,' but rather:

Can classical music represent 'music' itself?

The history of classical music has never been a naturally formed list, but rather one that has been constantly filtered, edited, and consolidated. Music schools decide what is worth learning, textbooks decide what is worth remembering, concert halls decide what is worth performing, critics decide what is worth discussing, and “classics” are shaped under the combined influence of these institutions into a standard that appears neutral but is in fact full of choices.

In other words, the history of Western music not only records works but also defines: what counts as a work, what counts as creation, and even what can be called “music.”

This is particularly evident in how the “canon” is constructed. It is hard to argue that the canon is merely a natural sediment, because equating it with Western art music is highly unreasonable. Authoritative textbooks like The Norton Anthology of Western Music have for decades shaped the basic framework of college music history curricula: what is the “main line” and what is a “side branch”; what is “art music” and what is “non-art music”; which names are essential to know and which appear only occasionally as supplements. Even though later editions gradually incorporated jazz, blues, ragtime, and even began to include more female and Latin American or Eastern European composers, the core structure has long revolved around a Eurocentric, white-male, and “linear evolution” historical imagination. By the 8th edition, works by female composers still accounted for a very low proportion, and African American composers often appeared only in the “jazz” section, rarely being truly seen as part of the “classical tradition.”

So the question is never just “who has been left out of history,” but: this history was written from the very beginning according to whose standards.

What first exposed this problem was often gender.

Women were not absent from musical life. On the contrary, for a long time they existed abundantly in domestic performances, salon culture, music education, teaching practice, and performance activities. But traditional music history tends to favor documenting professional music production that takes place in public spaces and centers on composers. Thus, although women were never absent from musical life, they often failed to enter history as “creators.” Moreover, to enter the canon, it is not enough to simply “have written works”; one also needs a series of steps: publication, circulation, entering the public eye through premieres, maintaining influence through repeated performances, receiving positive early reviews, gaining endorsements from authoritative composers, and receiving adequate music education and training.

In other words, it's not that women lack music, but rather that they often lack the entire social mechanism to turn their works into 'history'—or rather, that mechanism was never designed for them.

A deeper problem is that this exclusion is not only practical but also conceptual. Since the 19th century, much music criticism and intellectual tradition has assumed that women are more suited to be performers, muses, and assistants rather than composers. Consequently, what is seen as natural, reasonable, and authoritative in men often becomes 'inappropriate,' 'immature,' or 'not grand enough' for women. For example, women are relatively absent from symphonic and operatic repertoires because these grand musical forms are often associated with male physical strength, leaving most women to solo singing, piano, or small chamber ensembles.

This also explains why female musicians like Clara Schumann and Fanny Mendelssohn, who were recognized in their lifetimes, did not smoothly enter the canonical historical narrative.

I will elaborate on this in the next article:

But it is still insufficient to understand the exclusion in classical music only as a gender issue.

On the issue of race, classical music has long disguised a single experience as a 'universal experience.' We are accustomed to saying 'great composer' or 'great violinist,' rarely realizing that these unmodified titles often default to white musicians. Conversely, when the subject is Black, Asian, or another minority, identity labels often precede the music itself. It is as if some people naturally represent the 'universal,' while others can only represent 'their own group.'

To understand this bias, we must confront three questions:

• Does classical music refer to a period? Or a music dominated by white men in Europe?
• Is classical music truly an extension of Greek music?
• Is classical music a form of music that transcends humanity, life, and even spirit?

Classical music is often described as a high art that transcends ethnicity, body, and reality, nearly 'colorless and transparent'; but in fact, it is itself a Europeanethnic music tradition formed under specific historical conditions. The reason it can be called 'universal' is not that it truly has no position, but that it has long occupied the position of defining 'what counts as high music.' The so-called 'Whiteness' (Whiteness) here does not always appear as naked discrimination; it more often appears as a default standard: whoever does not need explanation is the standard; whoever always needs special explanation is the exception.

In the context of classical music, if it is not correct, then it is wrong.

More alarmingly, even in music movements that claim to speak for women, this issue does not automatically disappear. Many platforms, curations, and lists aimed at 'female composers' ultimately highlight mostly white women. That is, exclusion in classical music has never been one-dimensional; it is not simply 'men oppressing women,' but the result of overlapping operations of gender, race, and institutional centrality.

I will continue this discussion in the second essay:

If we push further, we find that the 'refinement' of classical music itself is far more than an aesthetic issue.

There has always been a very close relationship between classical music and class. Who has the conditions to learn an instrument from childhood, who can afford the lengthy and expensive training, who understands concert hall etiquette, repertoire systems, and the language of appreciation, and who can persist in an unstable, low-paying, network-dependent industry — these are not problems that can be solved by 'passion' alone.

The reason classical music is often considered a deeper, more complex, and more advanced art is precisely because a whole set of middle-class production and consumption patterns have formed around it: quiet, focused, restrained, and reverent listening; formal dress and performance spaces; a preference for 'complexity' and 'depth'; and the ability to present this taste as natural.

Thus, classical music is not only an art form but also a mechanism of social distinction. On one hand, it narrates itself as the most universal and sublime art in human civilization; on the other, it continuously validates the legitimacy of a certain class taste in reality. Even the question of 'what qualifies as the evaluation criteria for all music' is often secretly monopolized by the value system within classical music. Terms like 'fast-food music' and 'serious music' appear to distinguish works, but in fact, they distinguish people.

I will elaborate on this part in the third essay:

Looking back, the question 'Whose history is classical music?' is not just about a few overlooked composers or adding footnotes to old history. It truly forces us to confront: How was the so-called 'orthodoxy' formed? Why are some people always in the main text while others remain on the margins? Why are some pieces naturally called 'classics' while others are always treated as raw material?

Therefore, revisiting the history of classical music is not about denying those who have already entered history, nor is it about simply distributing the word 'great' equally to everyone. More importantly, we need to ask anew:Who set the standard for greatness, and who has the power to uphold it?

If past music history told us 'how great works were born,' then today we might add another question:

Exactly who has the right to decide what counts as great?