An illustration combining sheet music with a layered set of horizontally layered natural scenes: a sky with clouds, trees, a ground layer with bugs and amphibians, and a water layer with fish.

Orchestra for Public Good

Orchestra for Public Good

An illustration combining sheet music with a layered set of horizontally layered natural scenes: a sky with clouds, trees, a ground layer with bugs and amphibians, and a water layer with fish.

You are reading the HTML version of Sound Systems: The Future of the Orchestra. Visit the book’s home page to download it for free in other formats, including .epub and .mobi.

Table of Contents

Orchestra for Public Good

Orchestra as Game

Orchestra as Network

Orchestra as Infrastructure

Team Members

Deji Bryce Olukotun
Robert H. Simonds
Lisa Villarroel
Joyce McCall

Illustrated by Shachi Kale

Symphony for the Boo Hag

By Deji Bryce Olukotun

Part I. The Abandoned House

The three children pressed themselves against the wall, craning their necks to see whether they stood taller than the high-water mark. The dark line looked like it had been drawn in graphite by a practiced hand, continuing along the wall for fifty feet with barely perceptible dips where the floodwaters had surged and then receded. The wall had mostly held intact, except for a two-foot gap where the stucco gave way after the flood had charged into the stateliest home on the block, swamping its grandeur with a mix of brackish water, street runoff, debris, and bric-a-brac. 

The neighborhood no longer stank as bad as when the flood first hit. Now it just smelled like a stagnant puddle, after the swamp surrounding the ward had swelled, spilling its waters into the streets. The children had been raised to fear the swamp because it was full of mosquitos and unseen things that could make their bellies ache, but they had witnessed enough waterborne death that they didn’t scare so easily anymore. At least, except for the boo hag. Every child in the ward feared the boo hag. 

“There might be saxophones inside,” Sylvan declared, looking at the old mansion.

“For sure,” Eduardo agreed. “Maybe five or six of them.”

“Why would anyone have that many saxophones?” Anusha retorted. 

“He was a musician,” Eduardo insisted.

“Just because you’re a musician doesn’t mean you play the saxophone,” she said. She unfastened her hair and it fell about her waist. The boys were just old enough to recognize her dark locks as lovely, but they didn’t want to give her more to boast about. Anusha already had everything going for her, and she was proud to tell you about it: the best grades, a doting father, and a pantry full of all the most sugary snacks you ever wanted to eat, brought by her cousin each year from Trinidad. On top of that she was an only child, while the two boys fought for attention amongst many siblings.

Sylvan, trying to disguise his disappointment that there might not be a saxophone in the house, said, “There’s probably nothing inside. The Johnsons said they were moving to Austin and never coming back. I counted the moving trucks. There were ten of them. That was after Mr. Johnson drowned.”

“Don’t say that,” Anusha objected. “It’s not polite.”

“Why do we need to be polite?” Sylvan insisted. “He’s dead! He drowned! It’s not like he has feelings.” He didn’t say it with real conviction because he feared the dead, or what could become of the dead after dark. 

“We don’t need a saxophone,” Anusha said. “You need instruments to kill a boo hag. It doesn’t matter what kind of instrument. There might be some inside.”

“How do you even know that?” Eduardo challenged.

“Cousin told me.”

“I don’t see what an instrument can do to the boo hag,” Sylvan said sullenly. “If there are any.” 

“Maybe the music hurts her ears.” Anusha ventured.

“How do you even know if a boo hag has ears?” Eduardo challenged. “Your cousin tell you that, too?”

Stumped, Anusha just twirled her lock in her finger. He had a point.

 “I don’t see why the Johnsons would leave a fancy house like this behind,” Sylvan sulked. 

“Mrs. Johnson told my mama it’s ruined,” Anusha explained. “Something about the foundation.”

Anusha didn’t know what a foundation was, so she was pleased when no one asked her. Together they ambled over to the hole in the wall, where the water had squeezed through. 

The Johnson family had spent a million dollars, according to Anusha’s mother, to make the home flood-proof. There were special drains around the mansion and a built-in vacuum that could empty a swimming pool in five minutes. All it took was one little breach in the wall, and a Category Five hurricane, which hovered over the city for five miserable days, for the whole system to fail.

“I bet they left something behind,” Eduardo insisted. “The movers couldn’t have taken everything.” He stuck his foot through the gap in the wall.

“Don’t!” Sylvan warned. He was a bit younger and spooked easily. “The boo hag could be in there.”

Eduardo stopped mid-step. “No she’s not.”

“She could be in there,” Sylvan went on. “She takes you and she rides you.”

“What do you mean she rides you?” 

“Like you’re her car.”

“That’s stupid,” Eduardo said. “How can you ride a person?”

He retreated from the wall, too frightened to commit. Days after the flood, rumor had it that the boo hag had snatched a boy from the neighborhood. He was found again, but he was changed.

“The boo hag took Quentin, my dad said,” Sylvan continued. “And when they found him he had scratches all over his back and he stopped talking. She took his voice.”

“Quentin’s autistic,” Eduardo pointed out. “He never says much.”

“It was the boo hag, I’m telling you. She rings a bell and she’s got hair like snakes. She can talk to birds like they’re people. She smells so bad you can tell she’s coming from a mile away.”

Anusha was skeptical. “If she smells that bad, then it’s easy to run away from her. You’ll smell her coming.”

“You can’t,” Sylvan insisted. “Because the snakes hypnotize you.”

“That’s like a book my mama read to me once,” Anusha said. “Her name was Medusa. She had a head full of snakes. She didn’t talk to birds. You’re making it up.”

“Her snakes are poisonous,” Sylvan went on. “They’re like moccasins. And they have electricity so they sting you, and they can wrap around you and tangle you up, and then your eyes bug out, and…”

“You’re making that up,” Anusha said.

“Am not!”

“Are too!”

Behind the wall, the mansion towered over them with its Victorian spires and turrets, flecked with tiny stained-glass windows on the upper floors, barely big enough for a mouse. In truth it was a modern home designed to imitate an earlier time, but the kids didn’t know that. The boo hag seemed to be staring out at them from every violet-laced window.

“When does she come out?” Eduardo asked.

“At night,” Sylvan said.

“Then we’ve got plenty of time.”

“I’ll tell you what we need to do,” Anusha explained, “so that the boo hag can’t get us.”

“What?” Sylvan asked eagerly. “We don’t have any instruments.”

“Boo hags like to count things, you know.”

“Like what?” Eduardo asked.

“Like anything. My grandma kept a strainer on her porch because it’s full of holes. The boo hag will count the holes. Could be pieces of corn. Could be rice. Boo hags count them. They get distracted and lose their way. They can’t get in.”

“Did you bring any corn?” Eduardo asked.

“No. But that’s how you stop them.”

“How about inside the house?” Sylvan suggested. “Maybe there’s some corn in the kitchen.”

“That’s a great idea, Sylvan,” she said. “We can go look in there. We put the corn on the doorstep and the boo hag won’t come in. Then we can look for some instruments.”

Committed to their plan, the three climbed through the wall into the yard with renewed vigor. The manicured lawn was spongy from the flood but largely intact, anchored to the earth by a special deep-rooted grass. Anusha led them around the side of the house, which she had once visited during a social call with her mother, who had used all kinds of fancy words that she never used at home. Wondrous. Delightful. And the worst one, sublime.

The kitchen door was bolted, but they found a window that had been taped shut with plastic sheeting. They tore off the sheeting and scrambled inside, being careful to avoid a shard of glass jutting from the frame. Inside, the cabinet doors were open and the shelves were bare, except for some soggy paper plates and plastic utensils. The Johnsons had taken the oven and range, the microwaves, refrigerator and freezer, the dishware and glasses, the cutlery and spice rack. There was nothing in the pantry. The light switches did not work.

“How many forks did you find?” Anusha asked.

“Five,” Eduardo said, counting them up. “Plus there’s some straws. One, two—seven of them. That’s twelve things.”

“Twelve won’t slow her down,” Sylvan complained. “Even my baby sister can count to twelve. And she’s three.” 

They continued rifling through the kitchen, frustrated that the room could be so large and hold so little of value. Outside, the sun perched in the hazy afternoon sky, laced with clouds as wispy as palm fronds. 

“Found it!” Anusha said triumphantly, thrusting a plastic shaker into the air. “Salt!” 

“The boo hag is afraid of salt?” Eduardo asked, incredulous.

“It stops her.”

“How?”

She dashed some salt into her palm. “Try to count them.”

“I can’t,” Eduardo said. “It’s too small.”

“Exactly,” she said. “There are too many pieces for her to count!”

Her companions lit up with excitement. 

“It hurts the boo hag if she touches it, too. I don’t think she likes it on her skin, my grandma said.” 

They unlocked the kitchen door from the inside and proceeded to shake salt all around the great house, being careful not to sprinkle it into puddles, where it would dissolve. Even little Sylvan stopped cowering around every corner and clinging to Anusha and Eduardo’s shirts.

“That should do it,” Anusha said. “We’ve protected the whole house.” 

“Let’s look around,” Eduardo replied. He was relishing the home as if it was an empty canvas for destruction—he was intent on bashing something to smithereens. 

They started on the ground floor. The Johnsons had left behind moldy couches, chaises longue, ottomans, coffee tables, and credenzas. There was a projector that didn’t respond to their commands, so Eduardo stomped on it with a satisfying crunch. The Johnsons were rich by the standards of the ward, where many parents worked two jobs, and they seemed even more greedy after deserting the city and leaving nothing fun behind. They didn’t need all the stuff they took with them and probably wouldn’t ever use it. Anusha found an old doll that she thought her baby cousin might enjoy, with yarn for hair and porcelain cheeks, but its arm was torn off gruesomely, as if a dog had gnawed on it. The only other toy they found was an aluminum baseball bat, which Eduardo put to use smashing things that could be smashed and cracking things that could be cracked. 

At the far end of the first floor, they came to a room with a heavy padded door.

“Help me,” Anusha said. The three children leaned their weight against the door and forced it open. Inside it was dark and there were no windows. A musty smell wafted from the room, a scent of old wood and hidden secrets. 

A peal of fear rung through Anusha, as if she had entered the lair of some evil creature. She felt that she was being watched, not just by the two boys but by something else, and it was in the walls and in the dank air. As much as it scared her, she could also sense longing, a desperate plea for her, or anyone else, to help. 

She steadied herself. The boo hag only came out at night. 

Could it be the ghost of Mr. Johnson, the drowned man? But she didn’t fear the dead like Sylvan did. She had seen enough bloated bodies during the floods to know they didn’t come alive again, even if you wanted them to. Besides, a rich family like the Johnsons would have held a funeral and cared for the body.

“Hold the door open,” she instructed, “so it doesn’t shut on me.”

She stood still for a moment, her eyes adjusting to the dark. She noticed a large, crumpled form on the floor. She mustered up her courage to touch it with her foot and tapped something hard. It was hollow inside. When she reached for it, she heard an out-of-tune twang.

“It’s an instrument,” she shouted, to the relief of the boys. 

“A saxophone?” Sylvan asked.

“No, it’s got strings on it.”

“Let me see it,” Eduardo said. Leaving Sylvan posted at the door, he went in and plucked the strings himself. “Maybe they forgot to take it with them?”

“No,” Anusha replied confidently. “The wood is soggy. It’s no good. I think it’s a bass.” 

Taking this as his cue to smash something, Eduardo dragged the instrument into the light and swung the baseball bat into it, mashing the wood with a thud. He kicked it several times until his foot got tangled in the strings, beaming a bright smile, satisfied with himself. 

“I’m going to look around some more,” Anusha said. “This must be a music room. There might be another one in here. Don’t smash it, Eduardo.”

“You said it was broken.”

“That one was broken, but there might be a good one.”

She found two hard cases and dragged them into the adjoining room. The first case held a long pipe crafted from rosewood, festooned with shiny metal keys. Anusha snapped it together to find it was half-again as large as she was. Gripping it tightly so that it wouldn’t fall over, she leaned it against her shoulder and pressed the keys, feeling a satisfying tension in the springs. Inside a felt compartment—still dry—she found a mouthpiece like a metal twisty straw.

“Is it a sax?” Sylvan asked.

“No, it’s made of wood. Saxophones are metal.” She blew into the mouthpiece and produced a deep breathy note, enough to hint that nicer sounds could come from it, if she could do it properly. 

The second case held a tiny flute, which Sylvan insisted on playing first because he could actually hold it by himself. It emitted a shrill note that split their ears. 

The third instrument was a clarinet, but it was warped and soggy like the bass. Eduardo heaved it against the wall. 

“I guess the Johnsons liked music,” Sylvan observed. 

“It was the dad,” Anusha remembered. “He played classical music.”

“Classical?” 

“It’s the kind of music you hear in vids. You know, when something important happens like someone dies. Or when they fall in love.”

Sylvan scrunched his face. “He made vids?”

“No,” she said, “he played in a—” she searched for the words, “—in the symphony orchestra. You dress up for it. Everyone wears nice clothes and you sit and listen to the musicians.”

“Do you dance?” Sylvan asked, suddenly intrigued. Despite his timid nature, he loved to move his body to music.

“No, you listen. That’s what my mom told me.” 

“Sounds boring.”

“I don’t think it is boring, if you get ready for it. It’s special to go to the symphony, like on a date.”

“Gross,” concluded Eduardo.

Anusha carefully placed her wooden horn back into its case, snapping the lid shut. Maybe someone could teach her to play it, and if not, she’d keep it in her room and admire the sheen of the wood. It was beautiful even if it was forgotten.

Pleased with their discoveries, the three children started back towards the kitchen when they heard a ting, like the chime of a bell. 

“Did you hear that?” Sylvan asked.

Eduardo put his finger to his lips. They froze in place.

The chime sounded again, a resonant tone that filled the dampened kitchen.

“It’s the boo hag!” Sylvan whispered.

“She can’t get in,” Anusha reminded him. “We’re protected.”

But they had missed something while they were playing with the instruments. Anusha realized, with horror, that the sun was no longer shining. 

“It’s raining!” Eduardo said. “Salt dissolves in water.”

Anusha’s eyes grew wide. “Let’s get out of here!”

Holding their breath, they climbed out of the kitchen window as the chimes continued to ring. The salt was already dissolving in the heavy raindrops, and they sprinted as fast as they could to the hole in the garden wall, lugging their instruments with them.

Part II. The Boo Hag

“Look at what we have here,” the boo hag said. She had a lined face the color of cumin, with watery dark brown eyes. She wore a straw hat crowned with bougainvillea flowers and a flower-print dress that covered her spindly ankles. In one hand she held a thick brown stick; on the other, a brass bell was tied to her middle finger. 

Eduardo raised the salt shaker above his head. “Stay back!”

The woman cackled, revealing a set of yellow-brown teeth, with a gap in the middle. “Of course, young man! I’ll stay right here.” She glanced at the hole in the garden wall. “I thought there might be children around here. I’m glad I stuck around.”

“Why,” Anusha asked, “so you can ride us?” 

The woman looked confused. “Ride you? No! No, no! Not at all. I’m not the boo hag.”

“Then who are you?” Eduardo insisted.

“I’m here to get your help to call the boo hag back home where she belongs. My name is Leticia and I’m an usher.”

“An usher,” Anusha said. “So you’re hunting her?”

“No, you can’t hunt a boo hag. They’re far too powerful. She’s out and she’s lost and she’s looking for a way back, which is why she’s riding folks to find her way home. Your salt might hold her back for a little while, but a boo hag won’t stop moving until she finds a home. And her home is the swamp. The hurricane blew her out of it.”

“How do you know?” Sylvan asked. 

“Because I saw her.”

The children gasped. “Where?” Anusha asked.

“Here and there. You can see her out of the corner of your eyes. You ever get an eyelash in your eye and it tears up? It’s like that. If you try hard, you can glimpse her in a reflection, a puddle or a mirror. I saw her just a few hours ago.”

“Weren’t you scared?” Eduardo asked.

“No,” the usher said. “Boo hag’s scared of us during the day. She’s tired and frightened. She just wants to go home like the rest of us. Nighttime is when she gets desperate enough to ride someone.”

“I think she was in the house with us,” Anusha said.

The usher looked startled, but nodded her head. “Could be. But you’re safe now.”

The drizzle had stopped, although the gunmetal sky looked as if it would rain again soon. Sensing the children’s fear, the usher pointed to Sylvan’s instrument case. “Will you show me what you got?”

Sylvan glanced at his friends before stepping bravely forward. “It’s a flute,” he said, “and it’s mine.”

“Why don’t you open it for me, so I can see, young one?”

He snapped it open, careful to maintain his distance so she couldn’t grab it. 

“Oh, it’s a piccolo. One of the loudest instruments in the symphony. Brentford Johnson was quite a woodwind player, back in his day, bless his soul. Take good care of it. There aren’t too many of those left.”

“I found one too,” Anusha blurted out.

“Did you now?” the woman said, sounding impressed, as Anusha snapped open her case. “You’ve found quite the buried treasure inside that house. Johnsons left in a hurry, didn’t they? I think it was too painful for Susie to take along Brentford’s instruments after he drowned. Didn’t think she would leave them there… ah, you’ve found a bassoon! And a beautiful one at that. You’re lucky to have found an instrument like that. It’s hard to play but it’s just a lovely sound. They’re rare and quite expensive. You’ve done well, kids. These instruments will be perfect for the concert.”

“So we can kill the boo hag?” Sylvan asked.

“No, it’s not to kill her. We don’t want to do that. We need the boo hag.”

“Why?”

“If you come with me, I’ll show you.”

The children followed the old woman, preparing to bolt at any moment. She took them to the swamp, which hugged the neighborhood from end to end. The kids roamed there frequently. Their parents allowed them to wander the wetlands as long as they stayed within sight of the houses and returned by sunset, when a will-o’-wisp could entice them to a charmed death. The long grasses lay flat like they’d been combed by a hair pick, stripping them of life. There were no egrets stalking the shallow waters to stab frogs with their yellow spearpoint beaks. No terrapins. No newts. Not even the chirp of a cricket. The silence gave them a creepy feeling, as if the raging hurricane had swallowed all the sounds in its path before moving on. There wasn’t even noise. This swamp had protected them from the worst of the storm, and it had been utterly devastated.

“This silence is why we’re putting on our concert,” the usher said. “This is the boo hag’s home. And we need her back here where she belongs, breathing life into this place.” 

“We don’t know how to play anything,” Eduardo observed. “And you want us to put on a concert.”

“You may not know how to play,” Letitia said, “but I can tell you want to learn, or you wouldn’t have taken a bassoon from the Johnsons. Anyway, it’s not that kind of concert. That’s not the kind of music the boo hag listens to. We’re going to play her kind of music. We’ve set it all up at the symphony hall for tomorrow. But we should get going. It’ll be dark soon and we should get indoors.”

That night the three children turned in their beds, Eduardo recalling the momentous trail of destruction he had left throughout the Johnson home, Sylvan clutching the piccolo to his chest, and Anusha remembering the varnished syrupy gleam of the bassoon, which she had fastened carefully shut in its case and slid under her bed. All of them sprinkled their doorways with salt.

It rained much of the night. Anusha awoke as a breeze ruffled the curtains in her room, wondering if she had dreamt up the bassoon, and was reassured when she snapped open the case and the rosewood gleamed in the pale morning light. Sublime, she thought. Over breakfast, her mother told her that the boo hag had ridden someone new: an adult this time. 

“I don’t want you playing outside for a while, Anusha. It’s not safe anymore.”

“She doesn’t take people during the day, mama.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Usher told me.”

“That batty old woman?” Her mother sipped her coffee, the scent of chicory wafting across the table. “What does she know about the boo hag? She moved here from Lake Charles only five years ago.” 

“Seems to know a lot. Did you ever see one?”

“A boo hag came through the ward when I was a girl, after a storm like this one. I stayed inside like I was told. You’ll do the same if you know what’s good for you.”

“Yes, mama.”

Nervous, Anusha clung to her parents’ arms on the way to the concert hall, with the sidewalks steaming from the evening rains. Her family had spent several nights at the hall taking refuge from the hurricane, sleeping on bunk beds with a thousand other people. Inside she noticed the place had changed. The bunk beds had been folded away and chairs had been set up in concentric circles around an elevated podium. 

The usher, wearing a marvelous dress the color of rich chocolate, welcomed her to the center of the hall. 

“I brought something for you, Anusha,” she said, handing her a small cloth bag. Inside were three tiny wedges of wood. “They’re reeds. For your bassoon.”

“Thank you,” Anusha exclaimed. She had thought something might be wrong with the instrument, but now she understood that it was missing a piece, even if she didn’t know how the piece worked. Reeds! She waited as more children arrived with their families, the usher guiding them to their seats. Eduardo and Sylvan perched right next to Anusha, looking as awestruck at the concert hall as she was. Here, they had huddled together in the howling wind during the storm, fearing the roof would collapse. Over there, they had lined up for the toilets until they clogged. Since then, the place had been swept clean and organized, and a pleasant floral scent permeated the air.

A hush fell as the two victims of the boo hag were accompanied into the room. There was Quentin, the boy, who stepped slowly into the hall and was guided to a seat, still unable to speak. Next was a man named Mr. Canejo, who had to be helped to his chair, grimacing as he sat down, a vacant look in his eyes. They both looked down at their feet as if studying their shoes. Their haggard faces sent chills through the children, who whispered to each other, wondering who the boo hag might strike next. 

“If she can ride an adult,” Sylvan said, “she can ride anyone.”

“Quiet,” Anusha hissed.

Next, the musicians entered the hall carrying their instruments: flutes, oboes, clarinets, horns, trumpets, a tuba, and then congas and a xylophone. There were kettle drums, too, and a harp and violins. There was even, to Anusha’s delight, a bassoon. Two of them! 

The usher was walking up and down the aisles, explaining what was happening. 

“That is an A note,” she said, as a pure tone rang from a violin and the musicians softly played their instruments. “The musicians are tuning their instruments so they sound better together.” 

“When will we play for the boo hag?”

“We’re playing for her already,” the usher replied. “She’s here, watching us. Don’t be afraid. We’re going to help her home.”

Anusha glanced around, trying to spot the boo hag, and remembered that she had to see her in a reflection or out of the corner of her eye. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw a tangle of hair in the shimmer of a brass trumpet, but the shape moved on, and she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. If the boo hag was here, she did not want to be seen. Quentin and Mr. Canejo were still staring at their shoes.

“Thank you all for joining us,” the conductor announced. “And thank you to everyone who donated instruments to our community orchestra. We lost many of them in our storeroom when it flooded. We dedicate this concert to everyone who passed during the storm, and we thank the Johnson family for donating the money for us to clean up this hall.” 

The audience applauded politely. 

Solemnly, the usher handed each child a kind of device made from wood. The devices felt heavy, as if there was a weight inside, with a small antenna jutting out of one end. There was a flared plastic mouthpiece. Each mouthpiece was a different translucent color. Sylvan had a blue one, Eduardo a yellow one, and Anusha’s was purple. 

“We know you’re afraid,” the conductor continued. “We all are. The hurricane destroyed our wetlands and ravaged our offshore waters. We need the wetlands. They are the invisible barrier that protects us from harm, slowing down hurricanes and quieting the waves. And they are the home of the boo hag, who stewards the land. She is unsettled because of climate change—damage that we ourselves caused—and she is looking for a path home. 

“We’re going to play a different kind of music today. Researchers have used microphones to listen to our wetlands, and now we have enough data to talk back. Each of you holds in your hands an instrument called an ecophone. It’s a new kind of musical expression, which we will use to welcome back the species that were lured away. When you blow into your ecophone, the sounds you make will be playing through little speakers our scientists have scattered throughout the wetlands. Each ecophone is tuned to be heard by a particular species, which is marked by the color on your instrument. Just wait for the mouthpiece to light up and you’ll know when to play. We’re going to play a welcome song now that the hurricane is gone. We will be speaking the language of the fishes and the flowers, of the turtles, frogs, egrets, and thrushes. We will be speaking her language. The language of the boo hag.”

A live video feed of the wetlands was projected on the wall, nearly three stories high: a jumble of tangled reeds, half-drowned cypress, clumps of river grass, and masses of decomposing leaves. The area looked strewn apart and desolate, like the rest of the ward, just as Anusha remembered it from yesterday.

The usher turned to face the children. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” the children replied, even Eduardo, who had quit trying to look bored. They waited until the conductor raised her arms like the wings of a swan, flapped once, and the concert began.

The first ecophones to light up were the cicadas and the crickets, which hummed their wavering calls as the children blew into their instruments; next were the softly clicking turtles; then the warblers; and the egrets, and the crows and the mockingbirds. One ecophone hissed like a water moccasin, another clucked like an alligator, and still another pulsed like a catfish.

The symphony musicians soon joined in, embracing the natural sounds of the swamp with woodwinds, like a gentle breeze. The bassoonist raised the instrument to his lips to puff low dulcet tones—a deep and resonant sound. The music surged and retreated, dreamlike, atop the chortling of the children’s ecophones. The symphony hall filled with dread, then passion, and expansiveness, until the movement ended with the plucking of a harp. Every so often Anusha heard something familiar, a swing that drew her along with the bang of a kick drum and the clash of high hats. The movements cycled between this feeling of charging energy and inquisitiveness, of menace and release, and Anusha could feel her body swaying from the linking of the natural to the expressive.

All at once, the room hushed, the air pressure dropped instantly, leaving a feeling of expectation. Everyone looked around, trying to understand what had gone missing. 

It was her. She was no longer in the room, but in the wetlands. On the projection, the boo hag emerged as a smudge of light on the edge of the swamp in an undeniably human form, tangled dreadlocks swirling about her head like the eye of the hurricane. Her eyes were the color of thistle blossoms and they raged with fear and power. The audience gasped. She was their protection, and the pit of fear that stirred in the night. The conductor waved so that the children blew into their instruments once again, and the boo hag skimmed along the surface of the water like a water strider, her steps delicate as raindrops, the wild grasses swaying around her. Her expression was frightened and nervous, the look of someone who had been hiding for a long while, and was blinking in the light. 

“Keep playing,” the conductor instructed, as the children quieted down. “Don’t be afraid.”

The boo hag darted about, at one moment looking directly at the camera installed in the swamp, questioning its foreignness, hovering over an old beer can, touching things that were not meant to be in her home. The conductor motioned for the children to play louder, and they did, breathing the sounds of the swamp. In the symphony hall, the victims of the boo hag were standing now, as if gaining strength. Quentin called out in joy as she released him. Mr. Canejo fell to his knees and cried aloud.

Finally, the boo hag leaned back and rested on the soft tops of phragmite reeds as if they were the most comfortable mattress in the world. As the music played on, chirping and croaking and warbling, she lay down her head to sleep—her kind of music. Our kind of music.

Illustration of a natural scene blended with sheet music. The scene, which contains sky, trees, ground, and water elements, is torn into scraps like paper. From the borders of the illustration, five hands emerge as if to reassemble the torn pieces.

The Orchestra as Anchor Institution

By Robert H. Simonds

Artists in the Living World

“An institution may hold itself to the highest standards and yet already be entombed in the complacency that will eventually spell its decline.”

–John W. Gardner, Self-Renewal: The Individual and the Innovative Society, 1963

Not long before the United States entered World War II, the poet and public servant Archibald MacLeish wrote, “the work of American artists…is a national resource, important enough to be mobilized along with men and arms.”1 A successful mobilization in defense of life, liberty, and happiness would require armies of painters, writers, and musicians. When called upon, however, the nation’s artists were caught off guard.

From his perch as Librarian of Congress, MacLeish observed that artists had long since turned their attention inward and disengaged from public discourse.2 He slyly wrote that contemporary artists failed to influence modern life because their work was “not actually contemporary or modern, but belong[ed] to a time earlier than our own.”3 Artists had little to say about the rapid transformations, economic dislocations, and anti-democratic threats around them because their language was entombed in the traditions of the past.4

For the common good, MacLeish argued, artists must return from society’s periphery and “reoccupy the living world.”5 Artists needed to engage with current realities, leverage modern technologies, and speak the language of the day. If they continued to create only for like-minded aesthetes, he warned, their art would simply “die…and pass unnoticed.”6

From Potent Symbols to Stranded Assets

“I look forward to an America which will steadily raise the standards of artistic accomplishment and… enlarge cultural opportunities for all of our citizens.”

–President John F. Kennedy, Remarks at Amherst College, 1963

A MacLeishian vision came into focus in the subsequent years. Public endowments, private investments, and foundation funding underwrote the formation of a vibrant American arts sector. Symphony orchestras reflected the postwar “cultural boom” wherein arts institutions grew in numbers, financial and artistic capacity, and managerial sophistication.7,8

By the 1950s, top orchestras and prominent classical musicians were potent international symbols of America’s cultural strength.9 In the 1960s, the Ford Foundation awarded $80.2 million to 61 orchestras to further three domestic objectives: professionalize performances, deepen the artistic talent pool, and “reach larger and more diversified audiences.”10 Today’s professional symphony orchestras are legatees of those investments and successes. They have business-like administrative structures,11 constitute a fiercely competitive labor market,12 and produce more than $2 billion in annual economic activity.13

Yet those resources and assets felt hollow in recent years when the nation faced political, economic, and public-health threats. Skilled orchestra professionals quickly sensed a need to “serve” their communities, but they could not translate that urgency into impact. When stirred to mobilize for the greater good, artists and administrators were caught off guard once again, this time by their diminished public stature. The field had long since turned its attention inward, and its well-intentioned efforts, if they were noticed at all, were met with a muted response.

Critics can claim, with good evidence, that these crises simply laid bare orchestras’ structural vulnerabilities: the United States’ ever-evolving demographics, competitive cultural markets, and changing philanthropic priorities have passed orchestras by. Whereas they were once muscular examples of American dynamism, today orchestras appear to be bloated, brittle, and backward-looking relics.

But it is shortsighted to so quickly write off large American orchestras as stranded assets. They have loyal audiences, strong philanthropic partnerships, and are rich in human capital. Like other industries, if orchestras evolve, perceptions of them will evolve as well. While classical music may be stagnant, orchestral institutions have other resources to mobilize. Those whose primary purpose is to preserve classical music’s traditions will fade further to the periphery. However, the institutions that engage with current realities and materially improve their communities will become more artistically relevant and financially sustainable over time.

Orchestras as Anchor Institutions

“City building that is meant to last depends on institutions that are empowered to act for long-term market and social returns rather than short-term political or economic gain.”

–Bruce Katz and Jeremy Nowak, The New Localism: How Cities Can Thrive in the Age of Populism, 2017

Great cities are enduring because they are always changing. They are populated with entrepreneurs, industries, and institutions whose innovations lay the foundation for future prosperity. And “[i]nnovation,” as a 2022 report from the Roosevelt Institute underscores, “is the most important driver of economic growth and is central to improving people’s lives over the long run.”14

But sudden technological and social transformations can be destabilizing. Amid the protracted recovery from the COVID-19 pandemic, Americans are experiencing rapid shifts in where we work and live, how we consume and produce, and what values we hold and support. “The result,” in the words of the American historian Arthur Schlesinger, “is a perennial gap between inherited institutions and…an environment forever in motion.”15

As social, technological, and economic shocks widen that inevitable gap, inherited institutions, like major symphony orchestras, must find new ways to keep up and contribute. The “anchor institution” framework, I believe, offers an actionable and service-oriented vision for innovation that is resonant with the capacities of large-budget orchestras. Coined in 2001, the term refers to nonprofits that are large and longstanding regional employers, control significant real estate holdings, are affiliated with the creative economy, and have the capacity to leverage their business operations for public benefit.16,17

In this framework, an orchestra’s commitment to its mission and its investments in the community’s economic well-being are mutually reinforcing. As the anchor institution expands its capacities as landowner, local employer, and workforce developer, it also attracts new patrons, sources new funding, and generates new goodwill.18 Michael Porter, a professor at Harvard Business School, calls this reciprocity between an anchor institution and its surrounding community “shared value.”19

Shared value, it is important to note, is distinct from shared values.20 The common commitment between the community and the anchor institution is not necessarily expressed through ideological consensus; rather, it is revealed through purposeful strategic decisions that bridge education, infrastructure, and employment gaps. Porter advocates for “operating practices that enhance the competitiveness of a company while simultaneously advancing the economic and social conditions in the communities in which it operates.”21 Put simply, orchestras that care about their neighbors’ success as much as their art will, in turn, receive more support for their core mission.

The anchor institution framework, therefore, requires sustained coordination with civic, business, and community leaders to shape regional strategy. Cultural organizations routinely trumpet the downstream economic impact of their activities, but the anchor institution’s explicit strategy is to drive new economic growth.22 In order to achieve shared community goals, orchestras will need to strike a balance between their artistic missions and the economic and societal realities of the moment. And the act of aligning an orchestra’s mission with public-minded operations sets off a cascade of interesting questions, tradeoffs, and considerations.

Take, for example, my former employer, the Louisville Orchestra (LO). In a conservative state where the relationship between urban arts institutions and lawmakers is typically strained, the LO has attracted transformative public funding from an unlikely source. The Kentucky General Assembly allocated $4.3 million in public funds to support the LO in bridging the urban-rural divide.23 While reducing the number of core classical concerts in Louisville, the LO is increasing its impact across the state. It is deploying musicians as ambassadors, collaborating with folk and bluegrass artists, and convening audiences to address political and cultural polarization through inclusive arts-and-culture offerings.

In addition to the social returns these “In Harmony” tours produce, the LO is expanding its addressable markets for audiences, philanthropy, collaboration, and economic impact. The tours create new kinds of demands for the orchestra players, guest musicians, composers, and arrangers, as well as new administrative jobs to manage these complex projects. By reducing its reliance on classical music and growing as an anchor institution, the Louisville Orchestra has become more artistically, culturally, and economically relevant across the state.

Cultural institutions also have a critical role to play in their immediate surroundings. As remote work has emptied offices in the downtown cores, the in-person amenities that connect people and invigorate street life are more vital than ever.24 Because non-profit anchor institutions operate through all business cycles, orchestras can provide stability that undergirds long-term planning.25 As a strategic resource for cities trying to rethink downtowns after pandemic-era disruptions, arts and culture infrastructure will be a critical component of the next urban economy.26

Reimagining Programming, Rethinking Real Estate

“[L]ively, diverse, intense cities contain the seeds of their own regeneration, with energy enough to carry over for problems and needs outside themselves.”

–Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, 1963

Classical music is in a bind. While visual art, theater, and dance effectively balance traditional and contemporary programming, classical music’s most popular repertoire was composed centuries ago. Its presenters are trapped between a sense of obligation to perform new works, which audiences often resist, and an overreliance on older music’s predictable returns. But an industry that merely repeats itself and is unable to produce resonant new works is in decline.

To be clear, I have devoted decades to the production and distribution of contemporary classical music. The art form deserves great performances of standard repertoire as well as disciplined advocacy of new voices. But orchestras are not only in the business of classical music preservation. Unlike smaller presenters, orchestras must do what’s good for classical music while also serving the broader public welfare.

This dilemma is not easily reconcilable and has led to paralysis in the field. But rather than agonize over that irreconcilability, the anchor institution actively wrestles with it. The contest between competing values reveals what resources need to be mobilized and why. What if, in this moment of destabilized downtown economies and wrenching social issues, American orchestras saw local economic and cultural stimulus as their primary functions? How would that shift the field’s perceptions about the artistic merits of popular programming, technology’s potential in the concert hall, and concerts with regionally relevant themes and guest artists? How would it shift strategies involving the real estate that orchestras control and acquire?

To imagine an example, we can look to the past. In the 1920s, the industrialist and philanthropist George Eastman founded the Rochester Philharmonic Orchestra (RPO), another former employer of mine, with an understanding that a reverence for classical music could coexist with serving a community function. The newly formed RPO imported top musical talent to expertly perform masterworks in the resplendent acoustics of Kodak Hall. But the orchestra and its state-of-the-art venue also served “people who,” in Mr. Eastman’s words, “[were] not particularly interested in music.”27 He reasoned that the RPO could perform classical music for 150,000 people per year, or it could also accompany silent films and reach two million.28 The city of Rochester, at the time, was home to cutting-edge companies that pioneered new film and motion picture technologies.29 Eastman envisioned how the arts and culture, science and technology, and other business sectors were self-reinforcing in a well-integrated regional economy. The Eastman Kodak Company supported jobs, the schools trained workers, and the cultural institutions “enrich[ed] community life.”30 Eastman knew a century ago what many of today’s orchestras have forgotten: great cultural institutions are not luxury goods; they are community trusts. And today, long after Rochester’s mammoth twentieth-century corporations are all but gone, the universities, institutes, hospitals, music schools, and orchestra they endowed now anchor the city in the twenty-first century.

But to plan for the next hundred years, orchestras must deploy an updated framework. “The Anchor Project,” a 2018 report by Karen Brooks Hopkins, former president of the Brooklyn Academy of Music, revealed that members of the public tend to view major cultural institutions as powerful symbols of regional identity but as weak agents of economic growth and civic leadership.31 As anchor institutions, orchestras become drivers as well as beneficiaries of a healthy creative economy. They will need to become less self-contained and use their assets to support an eclectic arts sector. Their capacity to fulfill demand for high-quality symphonic concerts is established (though arguably, this function is becoming increasingly rarefied), but they must now help to create the conditions that attract diverse artists, curious audiences, and sustained investment. This begins with creative use and acquisition of real estate.

The World Economic Forum reports that people of all ages and backgrounds—younger people, in particular—put a premium on the “experience economy,”32 and are willing to pay for uplifting experiences and to live close to the amenities that produce them. So, paradoxically, as rents soar in cities with attractive cultural offerings, the regional artistic infrastructure is under increasing pressure to survive.33 But where high rents stifle an arts scene in the short term, orchestras have a self-interested reason to act in the long-term interests of the arts market.

Orchestras can step in to (re)develop smaller and more versatile venues for forward-looking programming, industry networking, music production, and workforce development. A retail storefront that is failing today could be converted to an arts incubator with a decades-long time horizon. This conversion would generate creative possibilities for the orchestra’s membership, but it would also provide a platform to exploit the orchestra’s know-how, regional profile, and brand visibility to create awareness for up-and-coming musicians and provide behind-the-scenes job experiences that are integral to cultural production. Orchestras, by leveraging their longevity and legitimacy, can plant the seeds of a continually renewing arts ecosystem.

Additionally, orchestras can use real estate to integrate their mission with community wellness. For years, classical music’s aging audiences have been perceived as a sign of its cultural weakness, but the nation is on the precipice of an unprecedented demographic shift. The U.S. Census Bureau projects that by 2034, Americans over the age of 65 will outnumber those under 18.34 Therefore, the need is urgent for institutions to address the so-called “silver tsunami.” Orchestras can be natural partners with larger anchor institutions, like healthcare providers, to serve older populations in need of social activities. In particular, “social prescribing” leverages arts-and-culture activities as preventative medicine and is administered through connecting healthcare with community-based services.35 Orchestras can increase and deepen the impact of their offerings for older citizens’ participation, helping them live more connected and fulfilling lives.

Ultimately, orchestras shouldn’t grow only for growth’s sake. They can build on assets they’ve inherited, reclaim an ethos of innovation, and activate the latent potential in these enterprises. In the anchor framework, they use their art, programs, and operations to make connections, build relationships, create jobs, and improve everyday life.

Risk, Opportunity, and Highest Form of Service

“Look outside at the opportunities, the needs. Where can we, with the limited resources we have…really make a difference, really set a new standard?”

–Peter Drucker, Managing the Non-Profit Organization: Practices and Principles, 1990

Embracing the anchor framework comes with risks. Institutions that prioritize growth and experimentation will risk mission creep, overstretching the existing workforce, and alienating the core supporters and donors who love the mission as is. However, without growth, orchestras and classical music will be increasingly irrelevant and isolated. These trends are already in motion.36

Despite the tradeoffs, the anchor framework provides a plausible, actionable way to make orchestras more financially and culturally viable over the long run by amplifying dynamic economies,37 producing more relevant art, and creating the connections that fortify regions against future shocks.38

At the beginning of my career, in the wake of 9/11, a leading orchestral executive poignantly said that a major orchestra’s best response to that horrifying attack was to “[deliver] great music…with uncompromising artistic excellence.”39 And at that moment, nearly a quarter century ago, I believe he was right. Uncompromising commitment to excellence signaled stability in that traumatic moment. When I left the stage twenty years later in 2021, amidst a spate of different crises, I was convinced that our highest form of service now required compromise and responsiveness.

In another twenty years from now, I imagine what people will remember is whether these institutions began to measure success by what problems they solved and what new opportunities were generated. Did they hold themselves accountable for public outcomes? Did their artists find meaning in creating for their fellow citizens again? Did they ultimately find their way back from society’s periphery? Or did they resist, turn inward, and retreat further from public life?

Notes

An Executive Order for a Public Orchestra

A Public Health Thought Experiment

By Lisa Villarroel, MD MPH

This chapter begins with a hypothetical executive order from the Office of the Arizona Governor as a speculative example of how orchestras could be harnessed by governments to support community health. This notional order, along with the discussion that follows it, serves as an invitation to think about the societal role and benefit of orchestras, the use of music and other collective cultural experiences to advance public health, and how communities could structurally and economically support orchestras to enhance public well-being.

Executive Order 2063-06

Establishing the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good

WHEREAS, Arizonans have suffered disproportionately from Long COVID, threats of secession, moral injury from the border crisis, depression, anxiety, substance use, and lack of social connectivity; and,

WHEREAS, rates of suicide, depression, substance use, anxiety, and AI-toxification are among the highest in the nation and public indices measuring feelings of belonging, long-term attention, connectivity, general happiness, and community resiliency rank among the lowest;

WHEREAS, there is an urgent need to address the well-being, health, and happiness of Arizonans; and

WHEREAS, a healthy, connected, and happy population is shown to increase productivity and economic prosperity in a region; and

WHEREAS, exposure to human-created live music has been shown to improve well-being of listeners; and

WHEREAS, a professional orchestra, formerly known as the Phoenix Symphony, employs hundreds of staff both professionally skilled and differently skilled to perform live, yet suffers from lack of funding and public attendance; and

WHEREAS, the Arizona public at large would benefit from free, open access to live, professional symphonic music; and

WHEREAS, the Arizona Department of Human Flourishing has already been established for projects to focus on mental wellness, social connectedness, transcendental idealism, and life affirmation, with expanded Departments of the Arizona Arts Council and Interpersonal Connectedness;

WHEREAS, establishing an independent external oversight commission can facilitate the State of Arizona’s acquisition of the Phoenix Symphony and implementation as a new statewide community orchestra that acts as a common public good; and

NOW, THEREFORE, I, Governor of the State of Arizona, by virtue of the power vested in me by the Arizona Constitution 2.0 and the laws of this State, hereby order and direct as follows:

  1. The Phoenix Symphony is hereby renamed the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good;
  2. The Independent Symphony Orchestra Oversight Commission (the “Commission”) is created to facilitate the new establishment of the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good as a new public entity. Members shall include:
    1. Two members of the Arizona Senate, one from a county classified as rural, and one from a county classified as urban.
    2. Two members of the Arizona House of Representatives, one from a county classified as rural, and one from a county classified as urban.
    3. Two members who represent the professional musicians of the newly named Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good.
    4. Three community members, at least one from a county classified as rural. None of these members may be an elected official, state or local government employee, or professional artist or arts leader.
    5. Two members from the former Phoenix Symphony Board of Directors.
    6. Two members from the Arizona Department of Health Services, representing the Office of Digital Wellness and the Office of Whole-Person Health.
    7. One member from the Artificial Intelligence Toxification Control Centers.
    8. One member appointed by the Office on Tribal Relations, within the Office of the Arizona Governor.
    9. Two members representing local public health departments, one from a county classified as rural and one from a county classified as urban.
    10. One member from the Arizona Department of Loneliness.
    11. Two current members from the Arizona Department of Human Flourishing.
    12. One member from the Arizona Department of Education.
    13. One member from a private insurance company.
    14. One member from the Arizona Health Care Cost Containment System (AHCCCS).
    15. One member from the Arizona Department of Recreation and Community Wellness.
    16. One member from the Commission for the Deaf and Hard of Hearing.
    17. Two members from the Arizona Attorney General’s Office.
  3. The Arizona Department of Human Flourishing shall designate the Chair of the Commission.
  4. Within six months of the first meeting, the Commission shall report the public acquisition of the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good (previously named Phoenix Symphony), and placement of its staff within the Arizona Department of Human Flourishing.
  5. Within twelve months, the Commission in conjunction with the Arizona Department of Human Flourishing shall reopen the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good as a public entity and service, with performances thereof free for all to attend.
  6. On an annual basis, the Arizona Department of Human Flourishing shall submit a report to the Office of the Arizona Governor on the functioning of the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good and its impact on Arizonans, including a focus on equity and representation. The report shall enumerate the following metrics, and include analysis and commentary on furthering the public mission of the orchestra:
    1. How many Arizonans are exposed to live music from the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good, subclassified by census tract, ACE score, and community belonging scale.
    2. How many concerts are held, in what locations throughout the state, each year, subclassified by census tract and social vulnerability index, Mitre’s mental wellness index,1 and the Community Resilience Index.2
    3. How many screen-free recreational hours are facilitated through the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good concerts.
    4. How many community connection opportunities, defined as community engagement events, festivals, and/or planned social gatherings, are held in conjunction with the live music.
  7. The following Arizona state agencies shall make changes by June 30, 2064 to ensure and enhance access to the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good, including:
    1. AHCCCS shall write a policy to provide free transportation to and from live orchestral events as they do for medical treatments, under their Social Prescribing program; and
    2. AHCCCS shall write a policy to reimburse providers for counseling patients on social connectedness and writing prescriptions to public events and performances, under their Social Prescribing program; and
    3. Arizona Department of Administration shall update the Health Improvement Points to include attending an orchestral performance or other events by the Arizona Department for Human Flourishing; and
    4. Arizona Department of Education shall be required to expose students to a live orchestral event once a year; and
    5. Arizona Department of Health Services shall enhance surveillance on well-being associated with public orchestra attendance; and
    6. Arizona Department of Health Services shall enhance literature availability and awareness of health impacts of digital addiction and digital “washes,” impact of connectivity on health, and impact of exposure to human-generated live music on health and sense of wellness; and
    7. Arizona Department of Corrections shall bring the symphony into all public and privately operated correctional facilities at least once per facility per year, and make the performance accessible to all inmates.
  8. The Arizona State Legislature shall allocate an annual budget of $30 million to the Arizona Department of Human Flourishing for the orchestral division.
  9. This Executive Order shall take effect immediately upon signature.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto set my hand and caused to be affixed the Great Seal of the State of Arizona.

DONE at the Capitol in Phoenix on this 23rd day of February in the Year Two Thousand Sixty-Three and of the independence of the United States of America the Two Hundred and Eighty-Seventh.

::: ::: :::

An Executive Order for a Public Orchestra: Analysis and Discussion

As a government employee, I am obligated to report that the counterfactual executive order which precedes this essay, regarding the government’s acquisition of an orchestra in order to enhance public health and well-being in the Arizona population, does not reflect the view of my employer—or myself. This is a work of imagination.

But suppose some future Arizona administration did see fit to acquire an orchestra? It wouldn’t be without precedent. In 2022, a philharmonic orchestra became the newest government agency of the Republic of Malta.3 At various points in American history, musical ensembles have been funded and operated through park districts, military budgets, even emergency relief appropriations.

Usually, public funding for the arts is compelled by cultural or economic motives, with a nod toward its impact on health and well-being.4

Hence, the thought experiment: what if public health was the primary reason for a multimillion-dollar arts acquisition, like a symphony orchestra?

After all, it is the role of the government to protect the health and well-being of its population. As I write, over 33,000 Arizonans have died of COVID-19,5 leaving behind grieving survivors.6 Opioid overdoses continue to climb. Nearly a quarter of adolescents report they seriously considered committing suicide in the past year.7 Pre-pandemic studies suggest that Arizonans don’t feel connected to their communities8,9 and the Surgeon General’s post-pandemic report suggests that loneliness and isolation has become a national epidemic.10

That’s not to mention emerging concerns such as the population health impacts of Long COVID,11 extreme weather events,12 an increasingly polarized political climate,13 increased gun violence,14 impacts of social media on youth,15 digital addictions,16 and the introduction of artificial intelligence in our lives.

Could the public health mission here, the health and wellness for all Arizonans, be improved by an “orchestra for the common good”? An orchestra, say, whose performances are free and accessible to all—as healthful and wholesome as a stroll in the park?

In fact, the public health impact of parks may serve as a potent analogue: Over the past twenty years, studies have found that contact with nature or green spaces corresponds with enhanced immune functioning,17 lower levels of stress,18 reduced rates of depression and anxiety, reduced cortisol levels,19 and more prosocial behavior in kids.20

As for the intersection of music with health and wellness, studies show that live music can boost creativity and cognition, reduce stress hormone levels, support social connection, and even extend life expectancy.21 Likewise, a peer-reviewed study showed that shared music listening (for example, at a concert) enhances a sense of social connectedness among older adults.22

Practically speaking, an Executive Order would be just the first step. The state legislature would need to vote to ensure ten-year funding for the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good. The state would need to fill new positions to operate the orchestra (or at least facilitate the transition of the existing staff and musicians from nonprofit workers to public employees) and to oversee partnerships with the various agencies to enhance and measure the impact of the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good on (1) population health and wellness (Arizona Department of Health Services), (2) academic performance (Arizona Department of Education), (3) billing practices for orchestra prescriptions through healthcare (Arizona Health Care Cost Containment System), and others. One may well imagine the formation of a new state agency, the Arizona Department of Human Flourishing, to oversee the Arizona Orchestra for the Common Good and similar endeavors aimed at offsetting the time that people spend alone, anxious, and online.

Once the orchestra has been established as a government entity, public health methodology would demand a transparent, data-driven approach with stakeholder input applied to the programming and functioning of the orchestra, continuous assessment and policy adjustments, and public comment available on priorities and long-term plans.

One can imagine orchestral epidemiologists conducting investigations into sound baths and musical therapies, and impacts of acoustic modifications and digital detoxification. Further analysis might recommend comfortable and more accessible seating, modifications to make the experience accessible to deaf and hard-of-hearing populations, and some method for attendees to connect without digital intrusion.

Meanwhile, concerned citizens may lobby to extend “public good” events to include drum circles, bachata dance clubs, and slumber parties; the governor’s office will want to know how open-carry policies would affect the public health benefit of live performances; medical licensing and regulatory boards, perhaps in league with the pharmaceutical industry, may worry about overreliance on prescriptions for “public good” events at the expense of allopathic23 and pharmacological treatments—

—at which point the thought experiment ends, with my imaginary inbox as overflowing and urgent as my real one.

Notes