I will begin with four little stories - four events of my life, separated by big, irregular intervals of time. They have stayed in my memory and not long ago I spontaneously traced them together and thus formed a hypothesis and several questions, which seem to me apt to indicate new paths of research. Therefore, these little stories are by no means mere fits of exhibitionism; but they are meant to give a narrative shape to the epistemological inquiry that led me to the hypothesis and questions I mentioned and which I will share with you along the way. As a child, I discovered, while I was searching the mysterious attic of the house we lived in, several musical scores bound up in leather covers, which bore a title in golden letters: Horile noastre, culese si arangiate pentru piano ("Our Hora Songs, Collected and Arranged for the Piano") by D. Vulpian. As their title indicated, the volumes included the arrangements of some folk dance melodies for which the author was awarded a prize in 1886, as I was later to find out, in a contest organized by the Romanian Academy (Breazul, 1941). The pieces, which were, technically speaking, very simple, had been written - I can tell that now - for ladies enflamed with their husbands' national-patriotic cause and for young ladies educated in the most European fashion. I played some of them on the piano, as well as I could at that time. I found them extremely boring. I realize now it was no wonder: they are so childish in composition and spirit that they could not even provide some satisfaction to the child I was then. Just like the foremost composers of the time - Gavriil Musicescu, Alexandru Flechtenmacher, Eduard Caudella, Alecsandru Berdescu, Louis Wiest, Eduard Wachmann and others - D. Vulpian had invented (1) or copied down folk melodies that were more or less popular in the urban milieu, had simplified and regularized their melodic and rhythmic contour so that they become accessible to the musicians educated in the West, and then had "Europenized" them once again with the tonal-harmonic accompaniment. "Somewhere down the road" - as our grandfathers used to say - when I was a student at the Conservatory, I learned that the Western type of harmonization is definitely incompatible with the folk melodic line; the truly adequate solution is the modal type of harmonization. The idea had then - and I have reasons to believe it still does - the strength of an axiom no one thought of calling under question. Several years later I noticed that our lautari (approx. fiddlers), who serenely turn their back on the refined musical sciences, have long been practicing the Western type of harmonization on peasant melodies. Certainly, the lautari should not be expected to know how the harmonization of the folk song "can" or "cannot" be done, but they harmonize it on behalf and under the control of the communities they serve. Acceptance of these types of harmonization by the communities is a stronger validation than all the scholar axioms put together. (2) In any case, Vulpian accompanied his genuine or mock folk melodies himself, using the harmonies, sequences and tiituri - i.e. melodic and rhythmic formulas of harmony - of the fiddler-performers: which is to say that he accompanied them in a folk manner which inevitably reflected the European musical influences as well.
 Vulpian's scores survived the fierce selections to which I submitted my books several times in 20 years. At some point the boredom of still having them around made me donate them to the library of the Institute for Folklore. Yet not before going through them once again. I noticed that they included, as did the collections of the composers of the time, many "boyar hora-s", abundant with extended seconds - which, as I learned in the know-it-all Conservatory, would lend an "Oriental" note to a melody. The melodies were accompanied with harmonies of the 6/8 formula: ????. As an ethnomusicologist, I often wondered - without ever finding a satisfactory answer - why it was that the boyar hora-s "? la mani?re de Vulpian" have become so rare in folk practice that I never chanced upon one while on the field, and only found a few in the historical recordings stock of the Archives of the Institute for Folklore. (3) I did find, though, the tiitura of a boyar hora, since the lautari still use it with their free rhythm (rubato) slow songs and doine. (I understood later that the metric-rhythmic formula 6/8???.. which the musicians used in their notations, is actually a deviation from the asymmetric formula 5/8???.. Although it inadequately reflects the rhythmic reality it denotes, the former formula is still used by less professional folklorists and by the directors of folk music bands.) The transcriptions of dance melodies I ever did or which I deciphered from trustworthy publications and from archive collections, have, irrespective of the moment when they were put down on paper - which cannot be prior to 1907 (4) - a mainly diatonic melodic profile, and so a rather "European" cast. The more intensely chromatic pieces are, for the most part, big highland hora-s, to which the peasants dance especially at weddings. (5) I heard some of my folklorist colleagues call them Gypsy hora-s, but I have not found any serious documented indication that they were sung exclusively for, or by, Gypsy people. At any rate, judging by Vulpian's and his contemporaries' scores - which I studied eventually - the 20th-century dances have a much more overt diatonic melodic shape than those of the middle and end of the 19th century. And their tonal-harmonic harmonization definitely place them with the sound patterns of the West.
Seven or eight years ago, I was at a conference in Berlin dedicated to Roma music (more exactly, to the music of the Roma and Sinti people); together with Prof. Rudolf Maria Brandl - an authority on post-medieval and modern Greek music - I was listening to recordings of Greek and Moldavian fiddlers' music. The Moldavian pieces were composed in a rather unusual style, with relatively archaic undertones and unambiguous "Oriental" connotations. After the hearing, he asked me for a copy of that recording and commented (I quote from memory): "I have always been of the opinion that whoever wants to study Phanariot music needs to pay closer attention to the music of today's Romanian lautari." I recalled then the anthologies of Greek and Turkish songs, or songs composed in that manner, that circulated in psalm-like notation in the Romanian Principalities as early as the first part of the 19th century (6); Anton Pann's famous Spitalul amorului ("The Hospital of Love") (Pann, 1850); the Gypsy lautari from the Romanian Principalities who sang in Istanbul sometime around 1800 (Alexandru, 1908, p. 267) and other facts and documents, which, considered together, supported with historical proofs Prof. Brandl's conjecture.
Only some three months ago I was engaged in a debate on musical themes with several professionals, among whom composer Dan Dediu. He was telling us that he admired George Enescu's Third Sonata for piano and violin (op. 26, written in 1925) as an outstanding masterpiece; that, nevertheless, he couldn't help feeling somewhat irritated by the fact that its melodic pattern displayed too many extended seconds, probably more of them than actually existed in that fiddlers' music which the sonata seemed to take as its source of inspiration. I replied: "I don't think that Enescu charged it on purpose. It may be that at his time the extended seconds were more numerous than they are at present?" I don't think that, at that moment, I was thinking of any valid argument that could support my view. But my answer, which sprang out unthinkingly, was a sign of the short-circuits that were starting to occur in my mind. If the discussion had gone on, Dan Dediu could have contradicted me by reminding us that Enescu's Rhapsodies - works of his adolescent years, written in 1899 (op. 11), whose melodies effectively quote musical sequences in a fiddler's performance - are definitely more diatonic (7); I would have probably reminded him too that those works had been written in a cultural climate that was bound to influence them - at the time, Enescu was studying musical composition in Paris? But the discussion came to an end before any argument could be expressed. And I made a mental note, for further reflection, of the question of the high frequency of the extended seconds in the composer's mature work and their absence in his early creations.
Finally, two months ago - that is, in May 2001 - I was managing a recording with a taraf of Botosani, in the Peasant's Museum. Its leader, Constantin Lupu, is 53. He is an excellent violinist and an enlightened former peasant, living now in town. He works as a musical specialist at the Botosani Center for the Preservation of Tradition - a fact which is not, in itself, necessarily a guarantee of his competence or superiority; quite the contrary. But Constantin Lupu is really very good. For some 30 years now, he has been traveling around the villages in his county, searching for undiscovered, old musical pieces, which are no longer currently played and may well disappear for good. (I will note, in a probably necessary aside, that George Enescu was born and spent the first years of his childhood in Liveni village, Botosani county, and later became quite familiar with Dorohoi town, where his father lived for a while.) A passionate and tenacious man, Lupu managed to recuperate and restore to limited and probably temporary circulation a musical material which is relatively old - since it was taken over from elderly people and is ignored by the succeeding generations - and homogenous from a stylistic point of view. He worked with old people no one cared to remember, in places no one cared to go to, with tape recorders he does not like to remember. He knows where each and every piece comes from. He transcribed them all and included them in a collection of melodies recently published (Lupu, 1998). He can give admirable performances of them, probably even better that the musicians he learned them from. The boyar hora-s are well represented in Lupu's repertoire. His cobza-player, Costica ???, aged 73, accompanies him, just as he used to when they were young, with three-sound harmonies invested with the classic tonal functions: tonic, dominant, under-dominant. The cobza-player told me that his father, a village violinist who, sometime at the beginning of the 20th century (that is, shortly after the time of Enescu's debut as a composer), he was already playing a whole lot of boyar hora-s. It was not only the source of Costica Lupu's songs that pleaded for their old age, but their structural details too - I'm saying that, well aware of how hazardous such a statement can be. Some of them reminded me of the Greek pieces I had listened to together with Prof. Brandl. Some others put me in mind of D. Vulpian's dusty scores. Finally, some made me think of the kletzmer music, which I have much listened to in the last decade on records and tapes. (The kletzmer music of the Eastern Jews, shaped along several centuries in a wide geographical space that includes the Balkans, is now heavily promoted by all American and European music companies.) The melodies with kletzmer influences surprised me on the very first hearing. The mystery was soon dispelled, though, when Lupu told me that the villages where he collected them - ????.. - had sheltered, up to a point, large Jewish communities. (8) But there may be another explanation to those songs' Jewish outline. The whole Northern Moldavia was populated with numerous and compact groups of Jews up until the eve of WWII. Constantinople too had its own Jewish minority, with its professional musicians who could skillfully play Jewish music as well as all the other types of music practiced in the metropolis. Some of them even came to the Romanian Principalities early on, where they would play in front of the boyars lazily reclining on their sofas the same sort of music that was being played for the Sublime Porte. On the other hand, there were the best lautari in the Romanian Principalities, who used to travel, even in the 18th century if not earlier, to Istanbul, where they could learn all the tunes that might please the ears of their clients there and at home, so Jewish pieces included - by the side of Turkish, Greek and Persian music (Alexandru, p. 267). At any event, Costica Lupu's music had a Balkan flavor which, I thought, came out of the mixture of south-eastern elements (Greek, Jewish and, probably, Turkish) it incorporated. A mixture kept together, though, by a healthy local substance: his music never ceased to be mainly, and recognizably, Romanian. The events I have recounted here called one another in my memory, urged me to reflect on the issues they raised, propelled me to resume the reading of several books I had long forgotten and suggested to me several observations and assumptions.
 In the 16th-19th centuries, the music played at the Romanian noble courts - the princely courts included - was feeding on two sources. The first source, probably considered to be the superior of the two, enriched it with Turkish, Greek, Persian, Jewish and other musical styles and pieces, which made the fashion in the multiethnic and cosmopolitan Tzarigrad, yet were also circulated across the whole south-eastern European area. The second source, of folk extraction, refreshed its reservoir of dance melodies, doine and songs with pieces originating in the rural milieu and/or in the mahala (outskirts). The circulation of the melodies and related styles was nevertheless multi-directional: from top to bottom, and from bottom to top, that is, from the high level to the base, and the other way round, and from the center to the peripheries and back. It is doubtless that the two musical strata of distinct extraction - local and, respectively, Balkan - were, because practiced by the same performers, mutually contaminated.
 Towards the end of the 19th century - i.e. when the village lautari became more numerous and responsibly aware of their role as professional musicians of the village world (9) - the courtly songs and (eventually) the mahala tunes began to penetrate, rather slowly and probably in forms of a more rural outline, the space of the villages, after having first passed through the marginal mahalale, then the fairs, town markets and inns. I expect this latter statement to sound rather debatable, so I'll explain: although I am not an enthusiastic adept of the "decayed goods" theory, now obsolete in many people's opinion, I confess that the research observations I made both in my library studies and on the field, have confirmed it on a good number of occasions, at least in relation with the particular case of Romanian traditional music. The truth is that the theory would not have been so successful had it not been solidly supported by actual facts. Constantin Lupu's dance melodies are a very likely instance of these "decayed cultural goods". So, in the late 19th-century and early 20th-century Romanian Principalities, the urban and rural fiddlers' music was still bearing - in some respects and to some degree - the unquestionable mark of the Phanar. Could this mark have been as intense and colorful along the centuries prior to this time, which is to say during the whole period when the Romanian Principalities' political life had been under the shadow of the Crescent Moon? I cannot venture an answer. All I can firmly say is that all along the 19th century, the Romanian fiddlers' music grew on the field of an amiable contest between the Southeastern and Western influences, where the latter gradually managed to tone down the former. Therefore the Phanariot mark grew dim, first in the music of the towns and fairs, and later in that of the villages; I can think of no other explanation why it is almost completely absent from the earliest folklore archives. At the beginning of the 20th century, professional popular music all across Romania was swept into a process of refashioning along Western lines - one captured in George Enescu's Rhapsodies op. 11 as well.
 The time of Enescu's Rhapsodies and the time of Vulpian's Hore were only separated by several decades. Still, Enescu, an adolescent educated at the European school of music, was first struck by and attracted to the folk stylistic stratum, to which his education introduced him. Vulpian, a mature man from another generation, rather had an ear for the Oriental stratum that had embraced his boyhood. But later, when Enescu grew up, when his tastes became more refined and diversified, he had the revelation of this Phanar-scented music one could still hear in the town pubs. It was this music that murmured at the back of his ear when he composed The Third Sonata for piano and violin, Childhood recollections, Village Suite, the final part of The Sonata for cello op. 26 no. 2 etc., and also, to some extent, his later works (Oedipus, Chamber Symphony, etc.).
The pan-Balkan wave that faded almost entirely from the music of the first three decades of the 20th century makes us think of the present situation.
 Indeed, in the latter decades, all Romanian fiddlers' music has been under the constant and aggressive pressure of some South-Eastern European influences. I leave out the genres that have always been tributary to the Balkans (such as the love songs in Wallachia and Oltenia, and the mahala music of Bucharest), since a thorough investigation of their different and at the same time more complicated situation would lead to a too lengthy digression. I will only refer to that musical category that includes the famous "manele", much reviled of late, as destroyers of national specificity.
 The Southern influences became fully present in Romania towards the end of the '60s, in the so-called "music of Banat". It came into being in the Western parts of the country, where the Romanian and Serb lautari often crossed the border (10) back and forth in order to play at their neighbors' weddings, and so did not miss the chance of performing a profitable exchange of trendy styles and melodies. The music of Banat, which soon came to be called Serb music, was not actually the music of the Serb peasants, but a very popular pan-Yugoslav sort of music, circulated and partly even invented out of political reasons by the groups in multiethnic Yugoslavia. (11) As soon as it became known, the "Serb music" was hugely successful. It swiftly permeated and at times even pulverized the fiddlers' music of Oltenia, Wallachia, and then made a less spectacular impact on the music of Transylvania. Nevertheless, the Serb (i.e. pan-Yugoslavian) music was lent slightly different shades by the particularities of the local style. (For instance, the Serb music of Moldavia was different from that of southern Wallachia.) It took it about 15 years - during which it came to be known as Gypsy music (because it did not really sounded like the Serbs' music, and also because the people did not really know who they should attribute it to (12)) - to reach even Maramures, Oas and Bucovina, i.e. the so-called unbreakable fortresses of the Romanian rural traditional spirit. The new music was played "live" at big-time parties and during the "slack" intervals of nuptial ceremonies, but, above all, people listened to top-volume recordings of it, wherever they felt like: on the porch, inside the house, on the balcony, on the street, in pubs, parks, trains, and autobuses. Average people loved it dearly, yet declined full-fledged identification with it, as a suggestion that they did not consider themselves either its unique creators or benefactors. They looked around and tried to set it down to "others": in Romania, the music was said to be Serb; in Serbia and Bulgaria, it was said to be Romanian or Turkish (function of its apparent stylistic dominant) etc. We too experienced, therefore, the advent of a composite sort of music, which melted into a globalizing pot the musical variants of the ethnic groups in a relatively large geo-cultural area. (Fenomenul aparitiei unei muzici compozite, care topeste într-o retorta globalizanta muzicile grupurilor etnice dintr-o arie geo-culturala relativ extinsa, se produce prin urmare si în jurul nostru. De tradus mai aproape de varianta rom.)
 In all socialist countries - Bulgaria, Hungary, Slovakia, Albania - music was not to the liking of the authorities, because uncontrollable and likely to undermine the sacrosanct national specificity in a serious way.
 In the Romania of the '80s, this mixed music was the object of an incredibly virulent media campaign of  "folklore de-pollution (era chiar termenul folosit de autoritati. Poate fi preluat??)", initiated by the party bodies and promoted by the intellectuals subservient to the regime. The players lived under threat of brutal administrative penalties. The music, though, stubbornly fought back. Improvised, energetic, lively, vulgar, healthily anchored on to the realities of the present (particularly due to the prosaic texts in verse it combined with), rejecting the cliches of folklorism and defying the commandments of official nationalist ideology, it grew as an expression of the simple people's need of freedom, and at the same time as an attempt of regional musical globalization. (13)
 After 1989, the pan-Balkan mixed music - this is, I believe, the term that suits it best (cf. Radulescu, 2000) - boomed unhindered all over the Romanian space. Ordinary people have changed its denomination several times: firstly, because it continually shifted shape, and they felt it was slipping through their fingers; secondly, because they traveled and learned more and thus found out that the names they used to call it by were not very accurate. The former music of Banat and/or Serb music becomes, in turn: Gypsy, Turkish, Arabian, and Oriental. The latter denomination (Oriental music) seems to be more satisfying, because both correct and vague: it is true that the new music is fraught with Oriental influences, but the Orient - even if we are only talking of the Near or Middle East - is a large area, inhabited by many peoples and ethnic groups, and a producer of different musical styles.
 The components of today's pan-Balkan style differ as to source, aspect and relative weight from those of the 19th century. The "Turkish-Persian-Arabian" elements - I follow Gheorghe Ciobanu's suggestion (Ciobanu, 1970) in grouping them by dash in order to make evident their interconnection, cohesion and the impossibility to tell them apart - have naturally perpetuated in drastically new forms. The Greek and Jewish elements have visibly withdrawn and have been altered beyond recognition; while the Serb, Gypsy (14) and other elements have become stronger. At first, the hypothetically Serb elements were predominant, at least in the western part of the Balkan area; later, the Turkish, Romanian and Macedonian etc. elements tried to take the upper hand; and lately, elements of an unidentified origin - the result of complex pan-Balkan mixtures - have become overbearing.
 An interesting thing to note is that in Romania, the pan-Balkan music unexpectedly reactivated a musical genre specific to previous centuries: the manea. This heavily ornamented "melancholy love song" that had its own peculiar metric-rhythmical structure, had circulated until the 19th century in the Romanian urban milieu, in combination with Turkish, Greek or "Persian" verses (Alexandru, 1980, p. 265; Breazul, ???). It had also made its way into the rural fiddlers' craft in the Principalities, which made Tiberiu Alexandru note in 1980 (Alexandru, 1980, p. 273): "Some old fiddler of the provinces south the Carpathians still knows how to play a Turkish manea." The Bucharest fiddlers do remember, even to this day, the few manele of old, which were the delight of their parents' and grandparents' generation. Lately, some second-rate politicians who think they are men of culture have been patriotically vilifying the manea and suggesting - just like at the time of the communists - that it be banned from musical practice. Such an initiative not only gives proof of the said politicians' totalitarian reflexes, but also of their ignorance and obtuseness: they do not realize that its former longevity and popularity points to the masses' adherence to the manea, one which cannot be demolished by punitive measures.
 I am not trying now to determine why today's fiddlers' music is looking towards the Balkans again. Neither am I trying to see why it is that the various styles of music interfere and coagulate in a generally undivided pan-Balkan style, which comes as a symbolic reply to the tensions among the ethnic groups in the region. I will not look into the signification that the change of balance among the musical styles that make up the mixture may have, or, in other words: into the reason why the Greek features faded away and made room for the Serb elements, which themselves eventually drew back and cleared the stage for the modern Turkish and Arabian influences, etc. Nor do I care to know, for the time being, whether the Balkan influences do or do not affect the identity of Romanian music. I agree, though, that all these rhetorical questions actually point to research topics worthy of interest. But there is another question haunting me now: Could it be that the Balkan influences on Romanian music are recurrent? Could it be that they come in and out, like the ebb and flow? I could formulate this question after realizing that the pan-Balkan propensity, which identifiably goes back to the end of the 19th century, is again manifest now, after a short ebbing, at the end of the 20th century. This is, certainly, too little to base a theory on. But the hypothesis is worth investigating. If it does stand, it would mean that we are now on a wave crest that will disintegrate after a while - hard to tell how long it may take - in order to make room for the alternative "pan-European" diatonic wave. It would also mean that the purist defenders of the Romanian musical specificity can rest assured: today's manele will disappear? for a while, at least. The first objection the above hypothesis will have to face is that the Romanians' folk music has by no means been subject to circumstantial stylistic fluctuations of such a large scope. Its endurance in time has been repeatedly demonstrated by numerous and authoritative voices. I agree. But I have not for one second referred to the music of the peasants, but to that practiced by the lautari. The assumptions I started out from were that the music of the ploughmen, shepherds and ordinary townsfolk, and the music of the professional lautari, although branches of the same trunk, have had partially autonomous developments. I also assumed, from the very beginning, that the fiddlers' music can allow - under the pressure of factors which I will not mention here for the sake of coherence in argumentation - apparently spectacular, yet actually rather superficial and reversible transformations, which is not the case with the peasants' music, an undoubtedly more inert type. 
 When and if the hypothesis of the "pan-Balkan waves" has been proved to reflect the reality of Romanian musical life, a series of new questions will be raised. Two of them already come to mind:
 The first question would be whether the other sectors of the oral tradition culture are or are not affected by pan-Balkan waves similar to those at work in today's music - this might be an exciting path to follow for the specialists in other domains of ethnology.
 The second question is whether there is any connection between a certain pan-Balkan wave and the dominant ideologies; the balance of power among the Balkan peoples and ethnic groups; and the political situation of south-eastern European countries at the time of its birth. A provisional answer would be to notice the Western-oriented stylistic development of the fiddlers' music at the end of the 19th century and in the first part of the 20th century - one which seems to echo the general orientation of the Romanian Principalities, and eventually of the Kingdom of Romania, towards the West. I will come back now to the four narrative episodes I started with, "pour faire le point".
 In Vulpian's time, the post-Phanariot pan-Balkan wave was starting to recede, yet kept some of its force, especially in the towns. Less than two decades later, though, Enescu's rhapsodies stood up high on the crest of the subsequent wave, i.e. of the pan-European wave, of a mainly diatonic sort of musical expression. (The latter was probably very vigorously felt in big towns, but also in smaller towns, of the size of Costache Enescu's Dorohoi.)
 At the same time, the village fiddlers of Bucovina, obviously lagging behind urban times, were still practicing a sort of music that was gradually vanishing from the big Romanian towns. At any rate, this is what Prof. Brandl seems to believe, and so do I. Actually, a period of 50 or 100 years does not mean much when it comes to a rural oral sort of music, especially at a time when cultural transformations were rather slow. Also, before taking refuge in the villages, the Phanariot music lingered for a while in the outskirts and fairs of the towns or in the smaller towns, thus giving the peasants a chance to become familiar with it. Enescu discovered it and explored its potential expressiveness in works he himself described - for reasons I find perfectly legitimate - as "of a folk Romanian nature."
 The Phanariot wave was, in a specific Moldavian manner, extremely slow in disintegrating at the periphery, so that Costica Lupu had the chance to witness its withdrawal and to carry its echoes on to the threshold of the 21st century. His is, certainly, an artificial restoration. Yet I believe it is priceless, because it will be able to help future musicologists - as it has me - fill in the void spaces on a rather excessively fragmented historical-stylistic picture. I will draw my argument to an end, on a prudent and slightly pessimistic note.
 Much has been written on the music of Oriental extraction or influence that circulated on the Romanian territory in the last centuries. But none of our contemporaries can claim that he or she knows what it really sounded like. The available information allows, of course, for a partial and imperfect imaginary reconstruction of it. For example: a presentation of the musical instruments of the time, to be found, for instance, in Tiberiu Alexandru (1980), is an indication of a general tone quality, but nothing more. Neither the psalm-like notations (as compiled by Anton Pann at the middle of the previous century) nor the European linear notations (such as Vulpian's and his contemporaries') can offer real guarantees of accuracy. They only approximate pitches and rhythms, while leaving out - as necessarily well-known - important stylistic details, which remain obscure to today's musicians. As a matter of fact, the notations were not conceived as documents for the use of posterity, but as clues to help those willing to enrich their musical repertoires. The very selection of the melodies included in the collections of the time bore an ideological mark. Anton Pann was a man of the Balkans who was satisfied to be one, while Vulpian and the composers of his age were determined to make a point of the European orientation of their country. Opting some pieces in and some out, each of them negotiated the world of sounds function of their convictions, aspirations and esthetic criteria, which were, for the most part - yet not altogether - the others' too.
 Therefore, any consideration of the oral musical styles of the previous centuries can only be partial and provisory.
 And therefore too, the hypothesis I have formulated here has an intrinsic degree of fragility I am forced to admit to.
Bibliographical References Alexandru, Tiberiu, 1980, Vechi relatii muzicale între Tarile Românesti si Orientul Apropiat ("Old Musical Relationships Between the Romanian Principalities and the Near East"), in vol. Folcloristica, organologie, muzicologie ("Studies of Folklore, Organs and Musicology"), Bucuresti, Editura Muzicala, pp. 252-275. Breazul, George, 1941, Muzica româneasca de azi ("Today's Romanian Music"), chap. IV, "Culegerea melodiilor populare" ("Collecting Folk Melodies"), in P. Nitulescu, Muzica româneasca de azi, Bucuresti, pp. 221-368.
Brighton, Simon, Mark Ellingham, David Muddyman and Richard Trillo (eds.), 1999, Rough Guide. World Music, London, The Rough Guides. Ciobanu, Gheorghe, 1970, Lautarii din Clejani ("The Fiddlers of Clejani"), Bucuresti, Editura muzicala. Georgescu, Corneliu Dan, 1984, Jocul popular romanesc. Tipologie muzicala si corpus de melodii instrumentale ("Romanian Folk Dance Songs. Musical Typology and a Corpus of Instrumental Melodies"), Bucuresti, Editura muzicala. Lupu, Constantin, 1998, Folclor muzical instrumental din judetul Botosani ("Instrumental Musical Folklore of Botosani County"), Botosani, Centrul creatiei populare. Pann, Anton, 1850, Spitalul amorului sau cantatorul dorului ("The Hospital of Love and the Singer of the Tender Heart"), Bucuresti.   1955, Cântece de lume ("Songs for Everyone"), ed. Gheorghe Ciobanu, Bucuresti, ESPLA. Radulescu, Speranta, 1984, Istoria tarafului satesc traita si comentata de lautarii însisi ("The History of the Village Taraf as Lived and Explained by the Lautari Themselves"), in Revista de etnografie si folclor ("The Journal for Ethnography and Folklore"), 29, no. 2, Bucuresti, Editura Academiei, pp. 159-170. 2000, Musiques et metissage pan-balkaniques en Roumanie, in Cahiers de musique traditionnelle", 13 ("Metissages"), Gen?ve, pp. 151-162. Rice, Timothy, 1994, May It Fill Your Soul. Experiencing Bulgarian Music, Chicago and London, The University of Chicago Press. Sugarman, Jane C., 1997, Engendering Song, Chicago and London, The University of Chicago Press. Slobin, Marc (ed.), 1966, Returning Cultures, Durham and London, Duke University Press. Voicana, Mircea (co-ord.), Clemansa Firca, Alfred Hoffman, Elena Zottoviceanu, 1971, George Enescu. Monografie ("George Enescu. A Monograph"), Bucuresti, Editura Academiei R.S.R. Vulpian, D., 1885, Musica populara ("Folk Music"), vol. I: Balade, colinde, doine, idyle ("Ballads, Carols, Doine, Idylls"), Bucuresti, Socec. 1886, Horile noastre culese si arangiate pentru piano ("Our Hora Songs, Collected and Arranged for the Piano"), Bucuresti.   NOTES (1) At the time, the boyars with some musical education would compose folk pieces, especially dance tunes, which they themselves played or had played: "Several young ladies and gentlemen of different classes of the society find a noble entertainment in composing horas and other national songs, which they have the fiddlers perform", writes Nicolae Filimon in 1864 (cf. Breazul, 1941, p. 239). Also see Alexandru, 1980, p. 271.
(2) The truth is that the "axiom" of the necessarily modal harmonization of the folk song is not simply a bizarre idea; among other things, it expresses - in a quite oblique way - the contempt that the scholarly musicians of the first half of the 20th century felt towards the Gypsy "spoilers" of Romanian folklore and of the national specificity.
(3) The stock, unofficially and rather improperly called "Brailoiu", was established around 1928-1943 and has, for most of its part, been built by Constantin Brailoiu, with the help of numerous assistants, among whom Tiberiu Alexandru, Harry Brauner and Emilia Comisel.
(4) This is the time when the first recordings on wax cylinders were made by Bela Bartok in Transylvania - these are the recordings the author eventually used for neat, detailed transcriptions, the first of the kind really to be trusted.
(5) The chromatic elements present in the doine and other musical categories taken to be archaic, particularly the extended seconds ranging between the 3rd and 4th levels of the minor modes - both fluctuating and intonationally uncertain - have a different origin from the similar elements in the (hypothetically) south-eastern dances. My belief is that the former are subsumed to a sound system prior to the Turks' coming to the Balkan Peninsula.
(6) Euterpi, Pandora and Armonia, published in 1830 and, respectively, 1843 and 1848. The collections are mentioned by George Breazul in his study, Muzica româneasca de azi, 1941, p. 252.
(7) Incidentally, Vulpian includes in his collection several of the diatonic melodies of the Rhapsodies - yet another confirmation of his pro-European tendency. (See Voicana, 1971, p. 45.)
(8)  Silvia Andriescu, a folklorist and choreographer, who was present at the debate, testifies to the same.
(9) At the time, the peasant lautari were still rare as compared to the size of the rural population. See Radulescu (1984).
(10) The dwellers of the Romanian Banat did not need a visa to cross the border to Yugoslavia. A welcome facility for the fiddlers, who were hired to play at weddings and parties on the other side of the western border whenever there was need. The occasions were numerous, because the music-players of Romania had a good reputation and their music was to the liking of the Serbs.
(11) This is the kind of music Simon Brighton calls - taking over a usual Serb phrase - novo-componovana narodna muzika (Brighton, 1999, p. 273).
(12) In the Balkans, the Gypsies are everywhere and nowhere in particular. Those who attribute the mixed music to them manage thus to avoid "locating" it in a precise state, geographical area, or ethnic group. As professional musicians - a status they enjoy in all Balkan countries - the Gypsies are also the main practitioners of the mixed music, a further confirmation of their identification with it.
(13) For further details, see the studies included in the anthology Returning Culture, Slobin (ed.), 1996.
(14) I cannot tell whether the "Gypsy elements" are more significant now than they used to be one or two hundred years ago. The sure thing is that, generally speaking at least, people are now more prepared to notice and to identify them as such. The problem is that neither the Gypsies nor the peoples or ethnic groups that host them can identify beyond doubt the specifically Gypsy tunes, elements and musical features.