What a brilliant idea JSAM was in 2007. In eleven volumes (and counting), it has engaged at least three generations of readers with deeply researched and thoughtful articles, imaginative (and hefty) bibliographies, and reviews of print scholarship and a growing array of media. Authors, editors, reviewers, submission evaluators, leadership and staff members at the Society for American Music and Cambridge University Press, all of whom are responsible for the journal's quality and even its very existence: thank you.

This article investigates Revolutionary-era American political culture through contrafacta of the British anthem “God Save the King.” Before, during, and after the Revolution the tune was frequently set with new lyrics that addressed political topics. The formats through which the song circulated (it was disseminated widely in manuscript and print), shaped the meaning and reception of these various contrafacta. Tracking “God Save the King” through the eighteenth century reveals how the United States remained connected to Britain, even when the lyrics—and the goals of the Revolution—repudiated that bond. Song versions also provide a musical map of the fragmenting political landscape of the early Republic. Ultimately, the diversity of the formats and the song versions reveal the ambivalent relationship between postcolonial United States and Britain, as well as the diversity of political culture within the United States.

The Martin and Morris Music Studio (MMMS) imprint permeated the first fifty years of black gospel music. Jointly owned by singer/impresaria Sallie Martin (1895/6–1988) and composer/arranger/pianist/organist Kenneth Morris (1917–88), the MMMS delivered gospel songs to an eager public and offered ordinary Americans the chance to see their names in print as author or composer on the cover of a gospel octavo, copies of which could then be sold to benefit that same ordinary American. Their influence extended far beyond that service, however. Martin and her Singers performed and popularized music bearing the MMMS imprint in venues ranging from small churches in the Deep South to national conventions in Washington, D.C., and widened circulation of MMMS music via Los Angeles recording studios. The unprecedented accomplishments of the MMMS, active from 1940 to 1993, have not been fully explored. Relying on transcribed interviews of the owners by Bernice Johnson Reagon, James Standifer, and others, accounts in historical newspapers, and company archives, this article addresses that void. The centrality of the MMMS in twentieth-century gospel of all types is clarified through examination of contexts for black-owned music publishing in the last century, the owners’ early business models, and their changing roles in the creation, publication, popularization, and dissemination of gospel music for more than fifty years.

Largely because of its troubled publication history, Bitter Music—Harry Partch's journal of a portion of his travels as a hobo—has attracted little scholarly or popular attention. This article aims to help elucidate Bitter Music by examining the influence of hobo philosophy on its creation and reception. Certain aspects of the historical and current hobo subculture's ideology—particularly bricolage, anarcho-syndicalism, radical egalitarianism, and non-hierarchical temporal perception—appear to motivate various factors in Partch's creation of the journal and his later attempts to destroy it. Additionally, I examine how hobo philosophy animates Partch's approach to speech, song, and instrumental music, culminating in a close reading of the journal's longest musical-textual entry. The article concludes with an examination of how Bitter Music’s publication history further enhances the resonance of hobo philosophy with the ways in which the journal is apprehended by readers and, in the current century, listeners.

For three weeks in 1955 and 1956 the Everyman Opera Company staged Porgy and Bess in Leningrad and Moscow. In the previous two years, the Robert Breen and Blevins Davis production of Gershwin's opera had toured Europe and Latin America, funded by the U.S. State Department. Yet when Breen negotiated a performance tour to Russia, the American government denied funding, stating, among other reasons, that a production would be “politically premature.” Surprisingly, however, the opera was performed with the Soviet Ministry of Culture paying the tour costs in full. I argue that this tour, negotiated amid the growing civil rights movement, was a non-paradigmatic example of cultural exchange at the beginning of the Cold War: an artistic product funded at different times by both the United States and the Soviet Union. Through an examination of the tour's archival holdings, interviews with surviving cast members, and the critical reception in the historically black press, this essay contributes to ongoing questions of Cold War scholarship, including discussions on race, identity, and the unpredictable nature of cultural exchange.