Has Sculthorpe Misappropriated Indigenous Melodies?

Abstract

The celebrated Australian composer Peter Sculthorpe has sometimes been criticized for his adaptations of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island melodies. But what are the underlying political issues, and what are the ethics of such cross-cultural borrowings? The 1980s marked changes in Sculthorpe's music: a new stylistic synthesis, the fascination with Kakadu National Park and the recycling of a small number of Indigenous melodies dubbed the ‘Kakadu songlines’. These melodies can be seen to conform to one of two pre-existing styles within Sculthorpe's works: one Japanese and one Balinese. Whereas Sculthorpe has carefully selected melodies that easily conform to these pre-existing styles, he has also shaped and moulded his idiom around the ‘Kakadu songlines’. Sculthorpe's careful attribution of the ‘Kakadu songlines’ as Indigenous in origin suggests that he is subtly positioning himself in the cultural and political spectrum. Identification with Aboriginality has arguably benefited him in perpetuating his quintessentially Australian image. Nevertheless, Sculthorpe's persistent fascination with these melodies and his persistent identification with Aboriginal attitudes suggest that a sincere homage to Aboriginal culture is being made. Although Sculthorpe's methods may appear to be vestiges of a bygone era, he has consistently acknowledged his Indigenous sources and heralded Indigenous cultures in Australia and abroad.

Introduction

The music of iconic Australian composer Peter Sculthorpe has been permeated by Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island melodies since the early 1980s. Not surprisingly, this has attracted criticism from certain quarters.1 For some, Sculthorpe's appropriation of Indigenous musical material is culturally insensitive and unethical. However, the political climate in Australia has changed considerably since the late 1970s when Sculthorpe began adapting Indigenous melodies. This was long before the ‘stolen generation’ was exposed,2 long before the Mabo decision and the Native Title Act,3 and long before the neo-conservative backlash to such transformative acts spearheaded by Pauline Hanson.4 Today, borrowing from Indigenous cultures is inherently controversial, as is any representation of Aboriginality by a non-Indigenous person.5 There is also a much greater awareness of issues concerning copyright and intellectual property.

Sculthorpe's constant recycling of certain Indigenous melodies in his music, dubbed by him as the ‘Kakadu songlines’, raises disturbing questions. Has Sculthorpe inappropriately exploited Indigenous cultural heritage? Has he exploited Aboriginal culture in order to perpetuate his quintessentially Australian image?

In such a discussion, no one can claim to be totally impartial. For my own part, I have long enjoyed Sculthorpe's music; as a guitarist I have performed and recorded it, and Sculthorpe's guitar music was the subject of my doctoral research. This history notwithstanding, I endeavour to be even-handed in my examination of this topic.

This topic is inherently subjective and controversial, and there are many sides to the story. For instance, I have not investigated what Aboriginals themselves think of Sculthorpe's appropriations. My aim here is simply to attempt a closer examination of Sculthorpe's use of Indigenous melodies and Aboriginal ideas. I begin by briefly presenting an introduction to the ethics of cultural appropriation and a retrospective of musical representations of Aboriginality in Australia. Secondly, I overview the extent of Sculthorpe's borrowing of Indigenous melodies and attempt to outline Sculthorpe's methods, asking such questions as: to what extent has he adapted, distorted or assimilated Indigenous melodies, and what sorts of Indigenous melodies does Sculthorpe borrow, and why? Thirdly, I investigate Sculthorpe's use of pentatonic melodies from the Torres Strait Islands and the way that he moulded and reshaped his compositional idiom around them, arguably creating an elegant musical synthesis. Fourthly, I discuss Sculthorpe's adoption of Aboriginal attitudes and values in ways that could be variously viewed as exploitative or as displaying profound respect and admiration for Aboriginal cultures.

The Ethics of Cultural Appropriation

Accusations of cross-cultural appropriation have been levelled before at prominent artistic figures—for example, Paul Simon's collaboration with the African ensemble Ladysmith Black Mambazo for the top-selling album Graceland (Erlmann 1999, 169). Typically, such accusations of exploitation suggest that the western artist is benefiting disproportionately in financial terms or, alternatively, that the western artist is exploiting foreign interests in an attempt to resurrect his or her own flagging career. Beyond this, Steven Feld identifies an entire industry of commercial exploitation of Indigenous music from anthropological recordings. He notes that:

the primary circulation of several thousand small-scale, low-budget, and largely non-profit ethnomusicological records is now directly linked to a secondary circulation of several million dollars worth of contemporary record sales, copyrights, and royalty, and ownership claims, many of them held by the largest music entertainment conglomerates in the world. (Feld 1996, 27, quoted in Seeger 2004, 160)

Turning the clock back to the 1980s and 1990s, many people might have assumed that traditional Indigenous melodies of unknown authorship could be presumed to exist in the public domain. But the usual distinctions between public domain and copyrighted material do not commonly apply to Indigenous cultures, where notions of ownership are sometimes turned upside down: where collective ownership can be more important than individual ownership and where a sense of shared cultural heritage is linked with inherited personal custodianship.

In many ways, copyright legislation is the invention of western capitalist societies, designed to protect the rights of individual creators. As Anthony Seeger puts it: ‘the exclusion of traditional knowledge and folklore from copyright legislation resembles colonial relationships established by military might in an earlier era’ (2004, 160). However, recognition of the rights of Indigenous peoples to control their own intellectual property was recently proclaimed by UNESCO (2005), as well as in information disseminated by the World Intellectual Property Organization (2007), also an agency of the United Nations. Much of this policy-making has occurred within the last decade, is yet to lead to legislative change and is still a work in progress.

In terms of modern-day copyright law, should Sculthorpe be paying royalties for his use of Indigenous melodies? And should he be asking for formal permission? When is it OK for a white composer to borrow from Indigenous musical cultures? Should composers confine themselves to representations of their own ethnicity? Is cross-cultural appropriation inherently unethical, or is it a healthy part of an open, tolerant, multicultural society?

Awareness of the problematic ethical issues concerning musical appropriation has existed in Australia for several decades. As far back as 1991, for instance, Sounds Australian devoted an entire issue to ‘Appropriation–Tradition–Borrowing–Theft’ (Schultz 1991; Ellis 1991; Currie 1991; Rowley 1991; Penberthy 1991; Yu 1991; Howard 1991; St. Ilan 1991), with arguments appearing for both sides. For instance, Neil Currie argues that ‘the cultures of many people have been fair game for artists in many disciplines, time out of mind’, and observes further that ‘some people carry a burden of guilt that makes them virtually unable to enjoy ANY appropriation of black culture by white’ (1991, 17). In comparison, Schultz suggests that ‘borrowing may be a euphemism for theft’, and asks whether ‘artistic license is a license to steal?’ (1991, 10).

Similarly, the 2006 issue of Sounds Australian readdressed these issues (Lim 2006a; Boyd 2006; Knopoff 2006). On one side, Anne Boyd makes an impassioned plea that no music should be off limits to composers (in terms of musical borrowing), writing that ‘to place any of it off-limits to those who approach with reverence and awe, is to constrain the collective human musical imagination and creativity, and thus to render our musical world less rich than it might otherwise be’ (2006, 22). On the other side, Liza Lim—in a version of a thought-provoking paper first given as the keynote address at the 2005 Totally Huge New Music Festival in Perth—has a more critical attitude to musical borrowing. Initially, she reaffirms the benefits of cross-cultural interaction, noting that ‘appropriation, borrowing [and] influences … are part of everyday life’ (2006, 12). But she continues by proposing an alternate ideal for cultural interaction, one that critiques the practices of previous generations of composers:

In thinking about better models for correct cultural exchange, at a minimum this would have to include payment for time and information, seeking permission to use any kind of cultural property, and ultimately, true collaboration where artists share equivalent financial and intellectual property rights. (Lim 2006, 12)

Certainly, this model of ‘equal co-contributors’ has become the benchmark of ethical collaboration between Indigenous and non-Indigenous musicians in Australia. There have been many successful and award-winning examples, such as the ‘Crossing Roper Bar’ tour of 2008 that featured collaboration between the Australian Arts Orchestra (an ensemble of non-Indigenous Jazz musicians) and the Young Wagilak Group (a group of Aboriginal musicians). There are weaknesses in this approach, however. The ‘equal co-contributor model’ sometimes creates an ephemeral aesthetic of one-off experimentation, and the act of collaboration can become an end in itself, resulting in a diminution of artistic outcomes. But more to the point, is this model (reminiscent of affirmative action) the only healthy form of cross-cultural interaction in music?

The main limitation of the ‘equal co-contributor’ model is that, while it works well for improvising musicians, it does not align easily with the traditional aesthetic of western composition. In the tradition of western art music, a composer assumes creative autonomy over the artwork as an expression of their individuality, filtering diverse stylistic influences through the sieve of their own judgement and tastes.

It would appear that Sculthorpe is not unaware of the sensitivity of these issues, as demonstrated by the way that he has jumped on the bandwagon of cross-cultural collaborations. Working with the Indigenous musician William Barton, Sculthorpe has added didgeridoo to many of his chamber and orchestral works (in both performances and recordings). Moreover, the successful result of these collaborations is arguably related to the fact that Sculthorpe's style is predisposed to the addition of drones (or already has drones), with long passages of static harmonies and repeating rhythmic ostinati. Significantly, Barton has been given high-profile billing on advertising material and concert programmes (to a previously unheard of extent for a digeridoo player in an orchestral context). One cannot help but wonder whether Sculthorpe's motivations for sharing the limelight are at least partly politically motivated, as if to forestall further criticism of his appropriations of Indigenous melodies.

One such potential critic is (again) Liza Lim, who appears to lump Sculthorpe in the same camp as previous Australian composers who have quoted Indigenous melodies. She writes:

The pattern set by the earliest examples of cross-cultural interactions showed composers' academic reliance on anthropological books and recordings. Aspects of Aboriginal cultures were simply lifted as artefacts representing some generalized concept of Aboriginality—often in well meaning ways—whilst of course continuing to perpetuate colonizing attitudes. (Lim 2006, 10)

Certainly, this seems to describe Sculthorpe's methods quite accurately. Almost all of the Aboriginal melodies he has used have come from anthropological books and recordings—particularly the pioneering work of A.P. Elkin, Trevor Jones and Jeremy Beckett, among others (Jones and Elkin 1956; Jones 1965; Beckett 1981; Kunst 1967; McPhee 1976; Hood 1963; Sculthorpe 1999, 100–1).6 But if Lim's accusation was aimed at Sculthorpe, I believe she has unfairly overlooked the ways his appropriations differ from those of previous generations of Australian composers—as shall be outlined in the next section.

3 Representations of Aboriginality in Western Music Culture: A Retrospective

The endeavours of Australian musicians in the nineteenth century to make Aboriginal music accessible to the general public often displayed the worst kind of cultural imperialism: making corrections and rearrangements, and clothing melodies in European harmony and rhythm, so that they aligned more comfortably with western aesthetic sensibilities (Crisp 1979, 50). Sculthorpe cites a fascinating example of this when he describes an item he found in the State Library of Tasmania entitled ‘Song of the Aborigines of Van Diemen's Land’, ‘arranged by a Mrs Logan and Done by Mifs (sic.)’. Sculthorpe relates that ‘the naked innocence of the chant is clothed in Mendelssohn-like harmonies, supported by an Alberti bass, and crowned with, believe it or not, a Viennese Ländler’ (1999, 201).

Borrowing from Aboriginal culture was increasingly prevalent in Australian music in the mid-to-late twentieth century. Several writers have associated this with the Jindyworobak movement in Australian literature,7 including Deborah Crisp (1979, 50), Roger Covell (1967, 64–5) and, more recently, David Symons (2002). ‘Jindyworobak’ is an Aboriginal word meaning annexing or joining, and its application to western literature implied a cultural renewal through the absorption of Aboriginal culture. As Covell described in his book Australia's Music, the Jindyworobak movement aimed ‘to seek a closer identification with the Australian landscape through Aboriginal traditions and even through borrowings from the languages of the Aborigines’ (1967, 64). But, as Covell points out, the borrowing was ‘basically a longed-for “short-cut” to cultural maturity and national identity’ (1967, 65). Furthermore, the borrowing frequently became superficial; as if, for instance, simply employing Aboriginal words can truly make something more Australian. The musical corollary of this shortcut is the trend among some composers simply to add an Aboriginal title to their works, or superimpose an Aboriginal myth as a programme to the work—often as an afterthought.

The next level in musical Jindyworobakism was to make actual use of Aboriginal musical material. David Symons' survey of the borrowing of Aboriginal melodies by Australian composers lists works by Clive Douglas, James Penberthy, John Antill, Alfred Hill, Mirrie Hill and Margaret Sutherland (2002, 42–3). Symons notes, for instance, Mirrie Hill's quotations of Aboriginal melodies in her Arnhem Land Symphony, and in particular her comments regarding them being ‘adapted to the Western scale’, in ways such that ‘the result is undeniably attractive but hardly Aboriginal in character’ (2002, 42–3).

Gregg Howard has argued that Australian composers have struggled to make a synthesis in their assimilation of Indigenous melodic material. Writing in 1978, Howard states that the uses of Indigenous melodies fall into one of the following three categories, each somewhat flawed:

1.	the derived material may be so abstracted from its original form as to lose its recognizable identity;
2.	in an attempt to accommodate this fact, the composer may contrive the musical expression to the extent that the derived material is caricatured; and
3.	the material may be allowed to retain its recognizable identity and is ‘framed’ by rather than integrated into the musical fabric. (Howard 1978, 38, quoted in Symons 2002, 45)

In 1979, Deborah Crisp also addressed the problem of stylistic integration in an article entitled ‘The Influence of Australian Aboriginal Music on the Music of Contemporary Australian Composers’. While critical of Antill's well-known work Corroborree and others of his generation, Crisp is full of praise for Sculthorpe. She argues that Sculthorpe and others in his coterie were indirectly influenced by Aboriginal music, even though they did not employ direct quotation. Curiously enough, for most of his early career Sculthorpe had consciously avoided the use of actual Aboriginal melodies, instead making deliberate use of Japanese and Balinese melodies and styles. Despite Sculthorpe's acknowledged debt to Asia, Crisp argues, his music actually ends up sounding closer to that of the Australian Aborigines in many of its attributes, such as the reliance on drones, rhythmic ostinati, percussive sounds and a certain static, endless quality (1979, 54).

Arguably, Crisp overstates Sculthorpe's debt to Aboriginal music (at least in his music prior to 1980), for the musical qualities she identifies are of a very abstract and general nature. However, through purpose or coincidence, Sculthorpe seemed to have adopted musical qualities that predisposed his music to the smooth inclusion of directly quoted Indigenous musical material (which he began to use extensively in the 1980s and 1990s). In Sculthorpe's music, Indigenous melodies sound like essential components of his idiom rather than foreign objects.

I believe Sculthorpe has been more successful than many of his predecessors in creating a smooth synthesis of western and Indigenous musical material, and propose two reasons for this alleged success: firstly, Sculthorpe has carefully chosen melodies that would easily conform to his style and that, in some cases, echo motives previously occurring in his music; and, secondly, he has consciously moulded his style around particular Indigenous melodies that he recycles.

Melodic Recycling in Peter Sculthorpe's work

For Sculthorpe, creating an instantly recognizable aural signature became an explicit aim. In an interview with Andrew Ford published in a volume entitled Composer to Composer, Sculthorpe responds to the question ‘What is your quest?’ with ‘It's all bound up in trying to create my own language’ (Ford 1993, 40; Hayes 1993, 11). Undoubtedly, Sculthorpe's stylistic consistency is intricately linked with his penchant for self-plagiarism, rearranging his own works, or reusing melodic material from previous works. Throughout the 1980s and 1990s, Sculthorpe's recycling involved the constant reuse of certain melodies of Indigenous origin, which he calls ‘Kakadu songlines’. During these years, a small number of Sculthorpe's works made explicit reference to Kakadu National Park in their titles or programme notes, but a larger number of works have used these melodies.

The principal Indigenous melodies in Sculthorpe's music during his Kakadu period, the so-called ‘Kakadu songlines’ (Sculthorpe 1999, 256), are outlined in Table 1, which has been restricted to works between 1974 and 1996, the period in which his use of these melodies arguably reached its zenith. Table 1 also demonstrates the sources from which Sculthorpe obtained these Indigenous melodies. With the exception of the Elcho Island Lament, they all are taken from anthropological books or recordings. Indeed, Sculthorpe had a fascination with ethnomusicology, teaching the subject at the University of Sydney and often quoting melodies from other cultures in his music, as shown in Table 2, showing works that make use of melodies from Papua New Guinea, Japan, Native America and Gregorian chant.

Table 1 Appearances of the ‘Kakadu Songlines’ in Sculthorpe's Works, 1974–1996.

Name	Source	Work	Style/type
Groote Eylandt Melody	Of Groote Eylandt origin, sourced from Jones (1965, 333, Elkin recording 76A)	Song of Tailitnama (1974) and multiple derivative works	Japanese idiom, with [01568] or in scale harmonies
		Earth Cry (1986)
		String Quartet No. 12 (From Ubirr) (1994)
Djilile	From Arnhem Land, sourced from Jones and Elkin (1956, 339, Elkin recordings 24A and 12A)	Essington (1974)	Unique (pitches, A, B, C, D, and lower auxiliary G)
		Port Essington (1977) Dua Chant (1978)
		Djilile (1986; multiple versions)
		Kakadu (1988)
		Dream Tracks and Tropic (1992)
Elcho Island Lament	As sung by the Elcho Island tribal elder, Mawuyul Yathalawuy	Manganinnie (1980)	Japanese idiom, with [01568] or in scale harmonies
		The Visions of Captain Quiros (1980)
		Quiros (1982)
		Kakadu (1988)
		Nourlangie (very loosely) (1989)
		Threnody (1991–1992)
		Dream Tracks and Tropic (1992)
		From Kakadu (1992)
French Atlas Chant	Collected by a member of the Baudin expedition published in Paris, 1824	Sun Song 1/Jabiru Dreaming (1989) String Quartet 11 (Jabiru Dreaming) (1990) and Jabiru Dreaming (1992)	Balinese idiom, but the melody is based on a major scale
		Third Sonata for Strings (1994)
Torres Strait Dance-Song	From the Torres Strait Islands, sourced from Beckett (1981, recorded in the 1960s)	Nourlangie (1989) Little Nourlangie (1990) Nangaloar (1991)	Balinese idiom, based on a major pentatonic melody
		A Sun Song for Eric (1991)
		From Nourlangie (1993; multiple versions)
Estatico Melody (the descriptive term for its appearance in Tropic)	From the Torres Strait Islands, sourced from Beckett (1981; recorded in the 1960s)	Dream Tracks and Tropic (1992) String Quartet No.13 (Island Dreaming) (1996)	Balinese idiom, with a major pentatonic melody
Sabai Melody	From Sabai in the Torres Strait Islands Beckett (1981; recorded in the 1960s)	Songs of Sea and Sky (1991) From Kakadu (1992) From Sabai (1993) Sabai (1994)	Unusual—based on [01568] but sounds major rather than like the Japanese in scale

Table 2 Other Works by Sculthorpe, 1974–1996, Employing Melodic Quotations.

Works	Melodic source
String Quartet No. 9 (1975), Burke and Wills (1985), Burke and Wills Suite (1985)	Unspecified Aboriginal melodies
Sun Song (1976), Cantares (1979), First Sonata for Strings (1983), String Quartet No. 10 (1983)	Native American melodies
Landscape II (1978), Mangrove (1979), Piano Concerto (1983)	Japanese saibara melodies
Requiem (1979), Cantares (1979), Quiros (1982), Momenti Mori (1993)	Gregorian chant
Three Pieces for Prepared Piano (1982)	Balinese melodies
Simori (1992; multiple versions)	Melodies from Papua New Guinea

The concept of songlines (or dreamtracks) is an Aboriginal idea that Sculthorpe reportedly encountered through the book Songlines by Bruce Chatwin (1987), who describes songlines as marking the steps of the ancestors during the dreamtime when they sang the world into existence (see Sculthorpe 1999, 256). Chatwin's book succeeded in popularizing the concept of songlines, although, as a work of fiction by a non-indigenous author (albeit bathed in anthropological detail), it is not an authoritative voice. Sculthorpe's use of the term as an affectionate nickname for his own melodic recycling is figurative, but perhaps it is also intended to suggest that these melodies have special significance in his music: denoting a sense of place, as well as being symbols of the dreamtime and Aboriginal spirituality.

The fourth column of Table 1 attempts to show that Indigenous melodies in Sculthorpe's oeuvre fall mostly into one of two styles that are closely aligned with particular Asian five-note scales (as shown in Figure 1). These melodic styles are as follows: firstly, those that lend themselves to in-derived harmonies or a Japanese idiom, such as the Groote Eylandt Melody and the Elcho Island Lament (as shown in Figure 2); and, secondly, those that are based on a major pentatonic scale or a Balinese idiom, such as the Torres Strait Dance-Song and the Estatico Melody (as shown in Figure 3). Note that Djilile and the French Atlas Chant (as shown in Figure 4) stand slightly apart from these two categories. However, the French Atlas Chant, although not pentatonic, is harmonized in ways that place it firmly within Sculthorpe's Balinese idiom.

Figure 1 Asian Five-note Scale Forms used by Sculthorpe: (a) in scale (or hirajoshi koto tuning), being set class [01568], and (b) major pentatonic scale, being set class [02479].

Figure 2 ‘Kakadu Songlines’ of the Japanese Idiom: (a) Groote Eylandt Melody, and (b) Elcho Island Lament.

Figure 3 ‘Kakadu Songlines’ of the Balinese Idiom: (a) Torres Strait Dance-Song, and (b) Estatico Melody.

Figure 4 The Other Two Most Common ‘Kakadu Songlines’: (a) Djilile (the melody) as it appears in Djilile (the work), and (b) The French Atlas Chant as it appears in String Quartet No. 11 (Jabiru Dreaming).

It is remarkable that these two melodic categories almost perfectly reflect the two melodic styles observed by Michael Hannan in 1974 (as part of an interview with Peter Sculthorpe about his work Rites of Passage):

Michael : The static harmonic accompaniment has remained an important part of your style, but since Sun Music III, your melodies, though mostly tonally simple, are usually quite complex rhythmically. This style of melody appears first of all in the first rite, ‘Preparing the Ground’, with a pentatonic gamelan-like vibraphone accompaniment …

Peter : This, of course, is a very good example of my variational technique.

Michael : Yes, this is true … but we shall come to that soon … The second kind of characteristic melody is much more spacious—almost unmetrical. It involves your favourite falling semitone motive, and sounds quite like a very elongated improvisation on only a few tones, the two which are a semitone apart being the most important. (Hannan and Sculthorpe 1974, 15)

Hannan's first style closely fits what I call Sculthorpe's Balinese idiom (associated with melodies such as the Torres Strait Dance-Song, the Estatico Melody and the French Atlas Chant), and, as can be seen, it is with these melodies that Sculthorpe constructs rhythmically intricate variations. Hannan's second style perfectly fits what I call Sculthorpe's Japanese idiom (associated with the Groote Eylandt Melody and the Elcho Island Lament). The fact that these styles pre-existed in Sculthorpe's oeuvre is very significant, begging the question: what were Sculthorpe's motivations in explicitly identifying these melodies as Indigenous in origin?

The music of Indonesia (particularly Bali) and Japan has a long-held fascination for Sculthorpe. He took great interest in Balinese music, after discovering Colin McPhee's Music in Bali: A Study in Form and Instrumental Organisation in Balinese Orchestral Music (McPhee 1976). Sculthorpe's early Balinese-influenced works include Tabuh Tabuhan (1968, not to be confused with Colin McFee's work of the same name) and String Quartet No. 8 (1969). In the 1970s, Sculthorpe experimented with Japanese musical influences, including the quotation of saibara melodies in works such as Landscape II (1978), Piano Concerto (1983) and Mangrove (1979); using compositional techniques of Japanese derivation, such as the so-called fuori di passo (out-of-step) textural effect heard in Mangrove or Landscape II; the use of Japanese scales in works such as Koto Music I and II (1973–1976); and the use of Japanese philosophical concepts in Snow, Moon, and Flowers (1971).

It is therefore interesting to note that when Sculthorpe began using actual Indigenous melodies, he was particularly discriminating in his choices, selecting motives with a view to their potential for homogeneous incorporation into his musical idiom. It is entirely possible that composers do this almost unconsciously. For instance, Mervyn Cooke makes similar observations about Debussy and Britten and the way Indonesian gamelan styles influenced them:

On a purely musical level … the most satisfying experiments with gamelan material have been achieved by composers who perceived in Indonesian music elements already inherent in their compositional thinking. Both Debussy and Britten had shown themselves to be exploring novel compositional techniques prior to their contact with Indonesian music, and the gamelan acted as a catalyst by throwing up fortuitous musical parallels that focused their attention on the more radical aspects of their own style. (Cooke 1998, 280)

Cooke goes on to quote Neil Sorrell's observations that, rather than finding something startlingly new in Indonesian influence, Debussy found confirmation of the new directions his music was taking:

The key word is influence, with its suggestion of bringing about a change of course. With Debussy a much more fruitful word would be confirmation. It seems far more plausible that what he heard in 1889 confirmed what he had, at least subconsciously, always felt about music, and that this experience went far deeper than a desire to imitate something new and exotic. (Sorrell 1990, quoted in Cooke 1998, 280; emphasis added)

With Sculthorpe, the extent to which his choice of Indigenous melodies confirms pre-existing aspects of his style is almost uncanny. I now introduce some detailed examples.

The Elcho Island Lament

Many people would recognize the Elcho Island Lament as the opening melody of Sculthorpe's tone poem, Kakadu (premiered in 1988 at the Aspen Music Festival, Colorado). Sculthorpe's relationship with this tune can be traced back to his award-winning score for the film Manganinnie (1980),8 where he heard the tune sung by the leading Aboriginal actor Mawuyul Yathalawuy, a tribal elder from Elcho Island (see Hayes 1993, 70; Sculthorpe 1999, 254). In telephone conversations with me, Sculthorpe explained that the original form of this melody was the pitch content of the first ten bars of From Kakadu (as shown in Figure 5). The basic three-note unit E–F–E is transposed down a fourth to B–C–B and then the initial unit is repeated. In his use of the tune, Sculthorpe extended the melody to give it some symmetrical qualities, in that he tagged on a repetition of the basic motivic unit, transposed up a fourth (A–Bb–A) to balance symmetrically the earlier transposition down a fourth.

Figure 5 The Elcho Island Lament as it Appears in From Kakadu, mm. 1–14.

The most striking aspect of this melody is its focus on the interval of the semitone, which Hannan had identified as part of Sculthorpe's second melodic style. Moreover, the basic outline and interval structure (to which Sculthorpe ascribes Indigenous origin) can be shown to match very closely a pre-existing original melody in the vocal line to his earlier work, The Song of Tailitnama (1974)—as shown in Figure 6. So why did Sculthorpe choose to quote the Elcho Island Lament? And if it so closely resembled his own original melody, why did he choose to call it a quotation?

Figure 6 Comparison of: (a) the vocal melody from The Song of Tailitnama, mm. 26–40 (from 1974) with (b) the Elcho Island Lament as it appears in From Kakadu, mm. 1–6.

Clearly, Sculthorpe was attracted to this melody because it had a close affinity with his Japanese idiom. Sculthorpe has made similar remarks concerning his use of Japanese melodies. He writes:

Usually, I employ Japanese aesthetic and musical ideas when they're related to my own, or when they can be easily incorporated into my musical language. The melodies of saibara, for instance, are very similar to the melodies that I fashion myself. (Sculthorpe 1999, 147)

There are many examples of Sculthorpe's Japanese idiom, but another excerpt from the Song of Tailitnama (as shown in Figure 7) makes an excellent example, being clearly based on the in scale or the notes E, F, A, B and C.

Figure 7 The Song of Tailitnama (1974, revised 1994, mm. 1–15). Note: Showing a vocal melody clearly based on the in scale and, in this case, the notes of the hirajoshi tuning of the koto (E, F, A, B, C).

Similarly, the harmonizations of the Elcho Island Lament often exhibit the notes of the in scale. Figure 8, for instance, shows a setting of the Elcho Island Lament in Tropic, where the melody appears with the complete in collection or set-class [01568]. In From Kakadu, in comparison, the harmonic setting of the Elcho Island Lament is slightly different; nevertheless it is still associated with set-classes that are subsets of the in scale—and in particular [0157] (as shown in Figure 9). The chord [0157], which I dub the ‘Kakadu’ chord (not to be confused with the Woollahra chord), is a particularly significant one in his more recent music and I shall comment on it subsequently.9

Figure 8 Tropic, mm. 13–28. Note: Showing one and a half statements of Djilile, followed by an interruption derived from the Elcho Island Lament, harmonized with all five notes of the in scale (D, E, F, A, Bb).

Figure 9 Set Class [0157] in the Harmonization of the Elcho Island Lament, mm. 1–4 of From Kakadu.

The Groote Eylandt Melody

The principal theme of The Song of Tailitnama (1974) was actually Sculthorpe's first adaptation of an Australian Aboriginal melody (excluding the Two Aboriginal Songs of 1949) (Philpott 2004, 83; Hayes 1993, 39), although in the same year Sculthorpe used Djilile in the film score Essington. Hannan asserts that the theme was modified from a Groote Eylandt melody in order to make it conform to the Japanese in scale (or ‘hirajoshi’ scale): what would have been D natural becomes D flat (1989, 76). Hannan also suggests that the repetitive melodic structure of the Groote Eylandt Melody was a stylistic inspiration for Sculthorpe. The melody appears as an example of Aboriginal music in Roger Covell's book, Australia's Music: Themes of a New Society (1967, 326), and Covell sourced the melody from an essay on ‘Australian Aboriginal Music’ by Trevor Jones (1965, 333). The original melody and Sculthorpe's adaptation are shown in Figure 10 and Figure 11, respectively.

Figure 10 Excerpt of the Original Groote Eylandt Melody. Note: Transcribed by Trevor Jones as it appears in Covell (1967, 326).

Figure 11 Excerpt from The Song of Tailitnama (Version for Soprano and Piano, 1994, mm. 25–35). Note: Showing Sculthorpe's modification of the intervals of the Groote Eylandt Melody (right hand of piano) to conform to the Japanese in scale (C, Db, F, G, Ab); what would have been D natural becomes Db.

In this case, Sculthorpe's modifications to the original melody significantly alter its sound to the extent that it no longer sounds Aboriginal at all. The significant point, however, is that this melody could potentially conform to Sculthorpe's Japanese idiom with surprisingly minor alterations—just one note, in fact. To be fair, however, the composer's note to The Song of Tailitnama does not explicitly mention that an Aboriginal melody has been adapted. It would appear that Sculthorpe himself was more reticent to present this melody as being Indigenous in origin than was Hannan, his eager disciple.

Djilile

Djilile is one of Sculthorpe's most loved and frequently used melodies. The piece of the same name exists in multiple versions and the tune itself is a symbol of the dreamtime in Sculthorpe's music (Mellers 1991, 94–8). Djilile stands somewhat apart from the other melodies in that it does not closely align with either the Japanese or Balinese idiom. However, as with the Elcho Island Lament, this melody actually echoes pre-existing motives in Sculthorpe's music. Taken from the Dua camp in Arnhem Land, as recorded by A.P. Elkin and transcribed by Trevor Jones (Jones and Elkin 1956, 339), and meaning ‘whistling duck [on a billabong]’, this melody, shown in Figure 12, was first used by Sculthorpe in the film score for Essington in 1974.

Figure 12 Djilile as it Appears in the Work Djilile.

The music of Essington vividly depicts the issues of cultural integration and adaptation facing early settlers in Essington, on Australia's northern coast, in 1838. The melody is first presented ‘in period costume’ so to speak, sounding not unlike Mendelssohn. But as the film progresses the musical setting of this melody changes, becoming more consistent with Sculthorpe's own contemporary idiom. What the composer was aiming for, however, was something that (at least for the television audience) would be a musical trope symbolizing Aboriginality. Sculthorpe writes that ‘by the end of the film, the theme is completely transformed: it becomes Djilile, a tribal melody from Arnhem Land’ (1999, 207).

Curiously, as with the Elcho Island Lament and the Groote Eylandt Melody, the pitch content of Djilile is almost identical to a tune Sculthorpe had used in a previous work—his String Quartet No. 4 (final movement, ‘Country Dance’), written in 1950 (Sculthorpe 1999, 263–4). In telephone conversations with me circa 2002, Sculthorpe confessed that he was blissfully unaware of this connection until it was pointed out to him by someone else,10 and this has also been documented in a recorded interview with Sculthorpe by Robin Hughes (Sculthorpe 1998). He also described how he was immediately attracted to this melodic material when first hearing the Elkin recordings. Arguably, Sculthorpe instinctively (and perhaps unconsciously) recognized that this melody was something he could easily use and adapt to his own compositional idiom.

Steven Knopoff (2006) has compared Djilile in the original A.P. Elkin recordings with its uses by Sculthorpe in a paper entitled ‘Cross-cultural Appropriation: A Musicologist's Perspective’, in which he details the extent to which Sculthorpe has altered the tune. He concludes that, from a listener's perspective, ‘Sculthorpe's version of the tune was unrecognisable in respect of its original version’, and goes on to say that ‘Sculthorpe's use of Djilile creates an illusion of an Aboriginal sound that has little basis in reality’ (Knopoff 2006, 27). He continues with the speculation that his readers might have differing reactions to this knowledge: some relieved that Sculthorpe's cultural theft is so minimal, and others incensed by the extent of his ‘misuse’ of the tune.

Identity Propaganda or a Respectful Homage?

Based on this examination of the etymology of the Elcho Island Lament, the Groote Eylandt Melody and Djilile, it would appear that Sculthorpe has used Aboriginal melodies in name only. As noted previously with Britten in Cooke's comments and Debussy in Sorrell's, Sculthorpe has only appropriated material that is almost identical to his own. Curiously, Neil Currie has suggested that ‘a composer's suitability for the task of appropriation may depend on his ability to find a source music that resembles his own music or to alter his musical style according to the characteristics of the source’ (1991, 17). If so, then we can conclude that Sculthorpe is very successful at integrating melodies of Indigenous origin into his music.

But since the degree of borrowing is minimal, the question remains as to why Sculthorpe went to such lengths to attribute these melodies to Indigenous origin? Is this a case of identity propaganda? Knopoff suggests that Sculthorpe has not really appropriated as much as represented Aboriginal melodies. But even so, Sculthorpe's decision to represent the music of another ethnicity is itself problematic. Recent years have brought to light ways that Australian culture at large exploits Aboriginality as part of the image it presents to the world, a sanitized image of a unified and reconciled Australia.11 In a similar fashion, it is unavoidable to conclude that, to some extent, Sculthorpe's identification with Aboriginality perpetuates his position at the spiritual heart of Australian musical composition. In essence, this is a more subtle and sophisticated form of Jindyworobakism.

While not deliberately exploitative, Sculthorpe may have subtly benefited from this process, even though its effect on his fame and financial status may have been negligible. As Knopoff points out, Sculthorpe's works ‘have attracted interest in part because of their ostensive referencing of Aboriginal song, without bringing any direct benefit to the culture whose music inspired the work’ (2006, 27).

However, there are other ways of looking at Sculthorpe's love of these particular melodies, even if they are partly fictitious representations of Aboriginality. His continued use of the so-called ‘Kakadu songlines’ demonstrates a lasting commitment and love for them, suggesting that this is more than a mere political stunt. Rather, Sculthorpe treats these melodies as precious commodities worth savouring again and again.12 He compares this process with that of a painter who obsessively repaints the same subject in order to explore its myriad aspects (Sculthorpe 1999, 264). In this way, Sculthorpe's works from the Kakadu era could be construed as a subtle glorification of Aboriginal culture.

Assimilation or Synthesis? The Syntax of Sculthorpe's Balinese and Japanese Idioms

So far, we have seen that Sculthorpe chooses his melodies carefully. But to what extent did he shape and mould his musical style to fit these melodies? Is there a case to be made for a paradigm of synthesis, rather than assimilation, thereby side-stepping the negative connotations of colonization?

The 1980s and 1990s saw the emergence of a new stylistic consistency in Sculthorpe's works and a pronounced fascination with Kakadu National Park. As stated above, in the music of his ‘Kakadu era’, Sculthorpe combined mainland Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island melodies with structural techniques from Bali and scale-forms from Indonesia and Japan. These seemingly diverse elements were combined in a new and rich synthesis.

The way that Sculthorpe's style has evolved and moulded itself around Indigenous melodies is seen in the unique harmonic syntax associated with his Balinese idiom. Sculthorpe had begun using pentatonic melodies in the late 1960s in imitation of Indonesian music.13 But in the 1980s he uses Torres Strait Island melodies based on major pentatonic scales, all of which are derived from material collected by ethnomusicologist Jeremy Beckett (1981). Although often altered in minor ways (and variously described as derivations or adaptations), these melodies usually remain quite close to their original models in terms of pitch content, if not in rhythm. Again, it could be suggested that identity is a factor in Sculthorpe's choice of Torres Strait Island rather than Balinese melodies. Alternatively, it could be argued that Sculthorpe has developed a Balinese idiom with a new level of sophistication: one that, while based on his earlier Balinese experiments (such as in Sun Music III), has been purposely constructed to allow the inclusion of Torres Strait melodies, harmonized in new and interesting ways.

In this Balinese idiom, the accompanying texture typically contains only two or three chords/sonorities that are repeated in a loop. Each sonority is constructed using an isorhythmic ostinato, which consists of a three-note motive repeating cyclically to create an ethereal layer of sound. An excellent example is shown in Figure 13 from Nourlangie, as well as Figure 14 from Tropic. A conceptual analysis and comparison of these passages is given in Figure 15, which attempts to illustrate the layered and sectional construction of the musical texture in diagrammatic form, summarizing the pitch content of each layer and segment (namely, the melody and the repeating three-note motivic cells—labelled alphabetically).

Figure 13 The Torres Strait Dance-Song (Violin 1) in Nourlangie, mm. (97) 100–12. Note: Based on a Major pentatonic scale and showing Sculthorpe's archetypal techniques for harmonizing pentatonic melodies.

Figure 14 Excerpt from Tropic. Note: Showing the Estatico Melody (of Torres Strait origin) and Sculthorpe's archetypal techniques for harmonizing pentatonic melodies.

Figure 15 Comparing the Harmonic Patterns in the Ostinati (Each Consisting of a Three-note Repeating Cell) used to Accompany Pentatonic Melodies in Tropic and Nourlangie: (a) Tropic, mm. 115–16 (repeating six times) and 119–255 (repeating three times), and (b) Nourlangie, mm. 100–65 (repeating three times) and 201–62 (repeating three times).

Such passages as these have their own harmonic nomenclature of sorts in Sculthorpe's music, with ‘home’ and ‘away’ sonorities clearly in evidence (when the melody begins again, the ‘home’ sonority is resumed) despite the non-functional nature of the sonorities employed. In Tropic, the Estatico Melody (of Torres Strait origin) is repeated and varied, but with similar harmonization each time. The music between rehearsal marks 10 and 11 in Figure 14 constitutes one statement of the melody, and hence a full cycle of the accompaniment. The repeating ostinato is clearly seen in the first guitar part. The ‘home’ sonority is the pitch-set (A, G, E), which is used at the beginning of each statement of the melody. The two ‘away’ sonorities are (D, C#, F#) and (B, E, D). The music simply cycles these three sonorities. Curiously, each of these three sonorities is itself created by the cyclic repetition of a three-note motive. The repetitions of each motive create cross-rhythmic interest in their interactions with the prevailing meter, coming in and out of phase (being therefore a type of isorhythm).14

Sculthorpe acknowledges that Balinese music is the source of inspiration for these passages (1999, 259; Ford 1993, 43). In telephone conversations with me circa 2002, he admitted that writing such ostinati had become so second nature that he deliberately has to stop himself from writing them. However, despite its sources of inspiration, there is much about this idiom that is original in and unique to Sculthorpe's music.

Sculthorpe's Japanese idiom demonstrates a similar stylistic synthesis, combining Indigenous melodies with harmonies derived from the Japanese in scale. The association of the Elcho Island Lament, for instance, with Sculthorpe's Japanese idiom was previously outlined (see, for instance, Figure 8). Intriguingly, many of Sculthorpe's works from the ‘Kakadu era’ exhibit an alternation of the Balinese and Japanese idioms.

The sonority [0157], which I dub the ‘Kakadu’ chord, frequently appears as a bridging or linking sonority, a kind of punctuation at points of structural transition.15 Indeed, it emerges as perhaps the most prevalent sonority in Sculthorpe's later music.16 Being a subset of the in scale, [0157] is clearly linked to the Japanese idiom, but it also contains a clear quartal triad (consisting of stacked fifth or fourths), a sonority associated with the pentatonicism of the Balinese idiom. In this way, [0157] can function as a pivot between the two idioms, enabling Sculthorpe to move seamlessly from one to the other and thus facilitating the use of Indigenous melodies from both idioms in the same composition.

Clearly, Sculthorpe has cultivated a style that synthesizes diverse cultural influences. Previously, I argued that he has been discriminating in choosing Indigenous melodies that will easily conform to his two principal idioms (Balinese and Japanese). The extent to which these idioms have been tailored to fit the Indigenous melodies is more difficult to demonstrate. But I suggest that a new level of sophistication emerges in the ‘Kakadu era’ works, combined with a more clearly defined stylistic syntax, one that is moulded about the Indigenous melodies themselves. If this is so, then we can speak of Sculthorpe's stylistic synthesis (and the positive connotations of multiculturalism), rather than stylistic assimilation (with the negative connotations of colonization). At the very least, we should give Sculthorpe the benefit of the doubt.

The Appropriation of Aboriginal Beliefs and Values

So far, this discussion has focused on Sculthorpe's use of Indigenous melodies; however, his fixation on Aboriginal culture extends much further. His embracing of Aboriginal culture is similar to the original Jindyworobak movement in that it strives for cultural renewal and for the creation of a stronger sense of Australian identity through identifying with Indigenous culture (problematic as this may now seem). Indeed, this was the path advocated by Roger Covell in his 1967 book Australia's Music. In the chapter ‘Jindyworobakism and More’, Covell calls for a deeper and fuller appreciation of Aboriginal music. He ends the chapter by quoting the painter Ainslie Roberts to advance the notion that Australian composers should adopt ‘Aboriginal’ attitudes, whether or not they make use of actual Aboriginal music:

By virtue of thousands of years of usage, the history of Australia belongs to the Aborigine. This history was not physical, but sprang from his ancient mythology, by which his daily life and custom were ruled and which gave him complete identity with his physical surroundings. The white man, because of his relatively brief tenancy of Australia, lacks such a rich identification. Access to the original sprit of the land can only be gained through the mind of the Aborigine. (Roberts, quoted in Covell 1967, 87)

Such idealized views of Aboriginal people have become less fashionable. For instance, the notion of Aborigines' unique identification with the landscape was attacked in an article printed in the Weekend Australian. The author, William Lines, attempts to debunk what he calls the ‘myth of the ecological Aborigine’, whose traditional practices are portrayed as the epitome of sustainable land management (2008, 21). He writes that, ‘by the beginning of the 21^st century, this endemically patronizing view of Aborigines as moral lessons for effete Europeans became an overriding, unchallenged cause for left-wing intellectuals’ (Lines 2008, 21). What really annoys him is the perception that ‘the philosophy of environmentalism comes from the spiritual outlook of Indigenous peoples’ (2008, 21). Moreover, as previously pointed out, identification with Aboriginality by a non-Aboriginal person is inherently controversial, with its suggestion of a more subtle form of cultural colonization.

Notwithstanding these objections, there are multiple ways in which it could be considered that Sculthorpe has adopted Aboriginal attitudes in his music. In particular, his attitudes towards the land have gradually altered from more typically European reactions—loneliness and estrangement (e.g. the Irkanda series)—to one reflective of Indigenous attitudes, with a sense of deep connection and belonging. Sculthorpe's quasi-Aboriginal attitude to the land has more than a tinge of conservationism. For instance, in the programme note to his work Earth Cry, Sculthorpe writes: ‘perhaps we now need to attune ourselves to this continent, to listen to the cry of the earth, as the Aborigines have done for many thousands of years’ (1986). It could also be noted that Sculthorpe has been, on occasion, an advocate for Aboriginal issues, particularly in his String Quartet No. 14, which highlights the historical incident of the terrorizing of Tasmanian Aboriginals at Quamby Bluff (Philpott 2004, 83).

The concept of the dreamtime that is so central to Australian Aboriginal mythology has also inspired many of Sculthorpe's works, along with the aforementioned concept of songlines. Another illustration of Sculthorpe's new-found sense of identification with the landscape is seen in the joyful melodies that he writes. Consider, for example, the Estatico Melody in Tropic (or Dream Tracks). The word ‘estatico’ sums up the style well, evoking a sense of unrestrained joy that has reached such a feverish level that a trance-like state is achieved. In these sections, the land is no longer something simply to be feared: it is also to be loved. No longer evoking the loneliness and harshness of the Australian bush, Sculthorpe now takes joy in its uniqueness. He writes in the programme note to Tropic that the piece concerns his ‘most-favoured part of this earth’ (Sculthorpe 1992).

This transformation reminds me of a plaque at Torndirrup National Park in Albany, Western Australia, which contrasts the attitudes of early Dutch, English and French explorers with those of modern Australians. Many of the early explorers described Australia as harsh, ugly and unforgiving. But those who have lived on the continent for a longer period of time have come to appreciate its mysterious depths and rare beauty.

To sum up: Sculthorpe's adoption of Aboriginal beliefs and values could be viewed in two ways. On the one hand, his identification with Aboriginal attitudes could again be viewed as subtle exploitation, using Aboriginal culture to position himself at the spiritual core of Australian identity. On the other hand, the depth and persistence of Sculthorpe's attachment to Indigenous values arguably demonstrates a respect for Aboriginal culture. His attention to Aboriginal melodies has placed Aboriginal music in the spotlight, creating greater public awareness of the richness of Indigenous cultures.

It is difficult to determine the reaction of Indigenous peoples to Sculthorpe's music. Certainly, their voice on this issue deserves to be heard and would be worth investigating. In his autobiography, Sculthorpe (1999, 213) notes his special relationship with the Aboriginal elder Burnam Burnam. Deborah Hayes makes claim to Sculthorpe's good relationships with Indigenous leaders (Hayes 1993, 29; Baum 1985, 23). And I earlier mentioned Sculthorpe's many collaborations and musical tours with the highly regarded didgeridoo player William Barton. Anecdotally, I observed that Sculthorpe was well received by Aboriginal musicians at a concert at Nourlangie Rock, Kakadu National Park, in 1993.

Conclusion

I have demonstrated that the specific Indigenous melodic material adopted (and adapted) in Sculthorpe's music is often of the most abstract kind, and typically echoes motives already contained in his earlier pieces. His explicit acknowledgement of Indigenous origin, therefore, is difficult to read. Although his borrowings are sourced from anthropological books and always credited, Sculthorpe appears to have subtly benefited from aligning himself with Aboriginality, perpetuating his image as the quintessentially Australian composer.

However, the extent to which Sculthorpe has moulded and reshaped his idiom around the Kakadu songlines demonstrates that he has striven to create a synthesis between diverse musical influences, one that is arguably more successful than previous generations of Australian composers in their quotations of Aboriginal melodies. The way that Sculthorpe allows Indigenous music to shape and influence his style could be construed as a reversal of the colonial power structures. Similarly, the depth and persistence of Sculthorpe's ongoing fascination with these melodies suggests that he is making a sincere homage to Aboriginal culture, acknowledging and celebrating its diversity and richness.

The reaction of Indigenous Australians to Sculthorpe's borrowings is difficult to determine. For many Australians, however, the net effect of Sculthorpe's attention to Indigenous music has been a rise in public awareness and appreciation of Aboriginal culture. In some ways, Sculthorpe's methods may be vestiges of a bygone era, methods that future generations of composers should perhaps avoid. However, posterity may find that it is the celebration of Indigenous culture which is the true legacy of Sculthorpe's musical ‘appropriations’.

Notes

¹ For instance, John Carmody's piece for the Australian Literary Review (2008, 22) was entitled ‘The Sound of Other People's Ideas’ (which may have been an editorial decision). However, Carmody paints a picture of Sculthorpe as a great partygoer with a continual inability to meet deadlines (hence the recycling of material), and suggests that Sculthorpe's cultural prominence has more to do with the fact that he was in the right place at the right time.

² The ‘stolen generation’ refers to people of Aboriginal Australia and Torres Strait Island who, while children, were forcibly removed from their Indigenous families for placement in institutions or foster care. This practice was a matter of public policy in Australia in many jurisdictions until the 1970s. With the best of intentions, Indigenous children were removed when it was deemed that their health was at risk, and half-caste children were routinely removed with a view of assimilating them into white society. These practices were widely attacked in Australia in the 1990s, and were brought to international attention through such films as Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002) and Australia (2008). Former Prime Minister John Howard came under intense pressure for refusing to issue a formal government apology, which was finally given by Labor Prime Minister Kevin Rudd in 2007.

³ In the Mabo vs. Queensland case of 1992, the High Court of Australia (its highest judicial authority) upheld the claim of Eddie ‘Koiki’ Mabo that his people held native title to land in the Torres Strait. This established a precedent that the land title of Indigenous peoples is recognized in common law, thereby undoing the perpetuated legal fiction of ‘Terra Nullius’ (whereby the land was considered to have no owner prior to colonization). This landmark decision was followed by clarifying government legislation in the Native Title Act of 1993, and brought about an avalanche of native title claims across the country. It is widely proclaimed as a turning point in the situation of Indigenous people in Australia.

⁴ Pauline Hanson was elected to the House of Representatives as federal member for Oxley (Queensland) in 1996, but was immediately evicted from the Liberal party (the conservative party in Australian politics, oddly enough) due to her perceived racist comments. Hanson argued that a kind of reverse racism existed in Australia, such that Aboriginals received more benefits than non-Aboriginals. She also attacked multiculturalism and immigration (citing fears that Australia would be swamped by Asians), and advocated protectionist economic policies. Her new hard-right political party ‘One Nation’ became a significant minority party in the Queensland parliament in the 1998 elections. However, Hanson lost her federal seat in October 1998 and the party slipped into disrepute and declining popularity. Continuing to be a controversial figure, she was convicted of electoral fraud in 2003, spent time in jail, but was later acquitted.

⁵ An interesting example of this is the criticism of representations of Aboriginality in the Sydney 2000 games (Barney 2005, 146; Hanna 1999, 15; Godwell 2000, 245).

⁶ For instance, the melody first used in Song of Tailitnama is sourced from the work of A.P. Elkin and Trevor Jones (see Jones 1965, recordings 33 and 76A on the accompanying recording by Elkin). Similarly, Djilile was taken from Jones and Elkin (1956, recordings 24A and 12A). The Torres Strait Dance-Song used so effectively in the guitar concerto Nourlangie, the Torres Strait melody first used in Songs of Sea and Sky, and the Estatico melody in Dream Tracks (not to mention Tropic) were sourced from a recording compiled by Jeremy Beckett (1981). Likewise, the melodic material for Simori (for piano, but also for guitar and flute) was taken from Jaapp Kunst (1967). Likewise, Sculthorpe (1999, 100–1) acknowledges that his imitations of Balinese music were particularly guided by the work of Colin McPhee (1976) and a particular recording entitled The Exotic Sounds of Bali (Hood 1963).

⁷ The Jindyworobak movement was essentially a literary movement in the mid-twentieth century, involving poets such as Rex Ingamells and Ian Mudie.

⁸ The score won the Australian Film Institute's Best Score Award and a Sammy Award for the Best Theme Music.

⁹ Certain pitches from the melody are treated as non-chord tones, and the entire in collection is not always present. But the harmonies are centred on subsets of the in collection, such as [0156] and [0157]. The later tetrachord (which I dub the ‘Kakadu’ chord) is particularly prevalent in Sculthorpe's music of the last several decades. It should not be confused with [0145], which has been dubbed the ‘Woollahra’ chord (after the suburb of the composer's residence). See, for instance, Hayes (1993, 15), where she describes how Sculthorpe's students first coined the expression ‘Woollahra’ chord and its most prominent appearance at the beginning of the Sonatina (1954), where it appears with the pitches G–B–F#–A#. Sculthorpe himself has spoken of the chord (1969, 10), describing it as ‘made up of two pairs of major 7ths superimposed at the interval of a [major] third’ (clearly forming [0145]). Note that Covell cites the ‘Woollahra’ chord in his article on Sculthorpe in Grove Music Online (Covell, c.2001), but his description of it as ‘a stack of 3rds intersected by an augmented 4th’ is inconsistent with the previously published explanations. In contrast, the use of the ‘Kakadu’ chord [0157] is entirely an observation of my own.

¹⁰ In these conversations, Sculthorpe credited Nick Milton (a violinist and, more recently, a conductor) with revealing to him this similarity. At the time, Milton was studying Sculthorpe's string quartets for a PhD dissertation at Columbia University (which he left incomplete). The composer is in print saying much the same.

¹¹ See, for instance, footnote 5.

¹² See also Sculthorpe (2007).

¹³ Indeed, in Sun Music III (1967) he quoted a Balinese melody taken from Colin McPhee's book A House in Bali, a work preceding his larger monograph Music in Bali (McPhee 1976). During the filming of a television documentary, Tabuh Tabuhan, Sculthorpe made personal contact with the composer, Lotring, who becomes a feature of the film.

¹⁴ Rhythmic effects such as this are also commonly seen in American minimalist music.

¹⁵ For instance, it occurs between repetitions of the Torres Strait Dance-Song in Nourlangie (such as two bars before rehearsal mark 15), constituting an insertion among sections exhibiting the Balinese idiom.

¹⁶ Substantiation of this claim (with musical examples) is not possible within the limits of this paper. But a few quick examples could be cited here from Sculthorpe's guitar works. [0157] is frequently heard throughout the opening movement of From Kakadu (1993, for solo guitar) (see, for instance, Figure 9). It is deeply embedded in the Piu mosso section of Into the Dreaming (1995, for solo guitar). In Nourlangie (1989, for guitar and orchestra), [0157] is used between repetitions of the Torres Strait Dance-Song (see footnote 13). It appears as a bridge between the Torres Strait Dance-Song and the ‘Risoluto’ theme (octatonic, with many similarities to the Japanese idiom), such as at mm. 263–6 and 287–8. In Tropic (1992, for two guitars, clarinet, violin, percussion and double bass), [0157] is especially prevalent. It appears in the guitars in the ‘Lontano’ music (which recurs and is developed several times throughout the work). It is also used as a harmonic accompaniment to Djilile throughout the ‘Molto sostenuto’ and is particularly prominent in the several inserted interruptions featuring the Elcho Island Lament (as seen in Figure 8).