Two, or rather three, science fiction novels have provided me with some food for thought about the therapeutic process. One is Timequake, by Kurt Vonnegut, the other two are the second and third parts of the Foundation trilogy, by Isaac Asimov. In Timequake, Vonnegut introduces the titular concept, a scenario in which the whole world jumps back in time by 10 years and everyone is forced to relive the previous 10 years exactly as they did the first time around. When they arrive back where they started, the challenge is to make the adaptation back to having free will again. Cars crash because the drivers can’t remember how to control them. Kilgore Trout runs through the streets shouting “Free will! Free will!” Vonnegut draws a parallel with “real life timequakes” in the form of theatrical performances, where actors are compelled to respond to each other in the same way and make the same decisions every night. Another comparison might be with the experience of watching a film or TV programme which you have seen before. The important thing is the contrast between the moment just before the timequake ends and free will begins again. Although there is nothing obvious here to the outside observer, the difference between these two states is enormous. It’s the difference between knowing exactly what is about to happen next, from moment to moment, and being unable to change it, and then suddenly having no knowledge. It’s going from singular possibility to infinite possibility in a single moment.
In music therapy, when sessions begin to feel like timequakes, we know something is wrong. Predictability indicates stagnation. This can happen in small ways, such as when a client always plays the same tune in the same way. It can be in a broader sense, such as that feeling of repeating the same session from week to week – while the details might change, the fundamental feeling and status quo remains fixed. We need to find a way out of the timequake, to help the client, and ourselves, to rediscover free will.
In Foundation, Asimov introduces a truly terrifying villain called the ‘Mule’. The Mule looks like an ordinary human being, but he has the ability to manipulate others’ emotional state at will. This enables him (spoiler alert - almost) to take control of the entire galaxy. Characters come under his power in full awareness of what is happening to them, but they are unable to resist because, once under his control, they don’t want to. Rather than manipulating their will, a common device in other science fiction, or in fairy tales, he instantaneously manipulates their motivation. This is an interesting variation on the brainwashing idea, as usually those under the control of a dictator or a wicked witch are portrayed as robot-like, with their emotions suppressed. The minions of the Wicked Witch of the West instantly become benign and enlivened once Dorothy throws the bucket of water on her. In Asimov’s story, the Mule’s followers are happy to follow him, because they love him. They know why this is, because the Mule has no reason to conceal anything. Asimov has possibly created one of the most formidable and chilling villains in all of fiction, because in doing so he questions the nature of free will. The Mule’s followers feel themselves to be free, even though they know they are not, a fascinating paradox.
In music therapy, a pervasive fantasy is that we are going to make our clients feel better through our interventions. We know that change has to come from them, but we also want them to change. Perhaps we would like to think that music has the power to achieve this. The danger is that as long as we want a client to change, the dark magic of the ‘Mule’ might seem like a very useful power to have. What if, by merely wishing it, we could change a client’s emotional state? What a force for good this could be. A child in an anxious traumatised state could be immediately transformed into a calm and happy person. Job done. So, would we want the Mule’s powers if they were offered to us? Of course not. Because central to our concept of humanity is this elusive concept of free will. Some neurologists will tell you that free will is actually an illusion produced by certain aspects of brain function, but that it is an important illusion. Maybe so. But as therapists we are fully paid up followers of the free-will-believers-club. We subscribe to the illusion, if it is an illusion, because fundamentally we believe in our clients’ humanity, in their individuality. Feeling better would not be a fair exchange for this.
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