The Voice

For theatergoers who crave something haunting, beautiful, and disturbingly human—the first production of the Los Angeles City College Theatre Academy this semester could be the perfect way to enter the “season of shadows.”

“The Intruder” at the Caminito Theater directed by Paul Coates, begins Oct. 22.

The production runs through Oct. 25, with evening performances at 7 p.m. and a 2 p.m. matinee on closing day. Admission is free.

Source: Raluca Topor, Staff Reporter, The Collegian Wired, LACC 2025

Belgian playwright Maurice Maeterlinck wrote the play in 1891, and the original performers were marionettes. Director Paul Coates, an LACC alumnus, adapted the work for live actors, reshaping it for a modern audience.

“The original play had puppets, masks, distance,” Coates said. “I wanted breath. I wanted the fear to live in the room.”

The story follows a family awaiting news about a mother who has just given birth. A blind grandmother senses that someone—or something—is approaching the home. Coates said he gave names and backstories to characters that were originally unnamed.

“It’s about the unseen,” he said. “Something foreign is coming, and it’s not good. The play was written 130 years ago, but it still connects to the fears people have today.”

Film producer and teacher Christina Hart plays the grandmother. She says she joined the project because of her longstanding collaboration with Coates.

“She knows everything that’s going on,” Hart said of her character. “They ignore her, but she’s right. Each rehearsal, I discover more about what she knows.”

Hart says she values the opportunity to work with LACC students.

“The technical team here is strong,” she said. “The lighting, the set, the sound—they all contribute to the story.”

Sound design plays a central role in the production. Sound designer Lou Hartman says the audio landscape reflects the family’s tension and uncertainty.

“Sound is the family’s nervous system,” Hartman said. “When the baby is born, you don’t hear it cry until the end. Every creak and silence tells you something’s wrong.”

First-year acting student Lily Sutera plays both the midwife and the young grandmother. She says the play’s timing makes it a fit for October audiences.

“It’s mysterious and full of questions,” Sutera said. “It’s like peering into someone’s life through a window.”

Coates says the production explores how people react to uncertainty.

“We all wake up wondering what might happen next,” he said. “This play looks at that feeling—the unknown that hangs over us.”

EDITORIAL

Returning students and freshmen face a critical window when rent, food and enrollment hang in the balance — but most aid programs kick in only after that window closes.

A 40-something, I walked onto the Los Angeles City College campus this fall with equal parts hope and anxiety. Acceptance into the Herb Alpert Music Program felt like winning a lottery I’d forgotten I’d entered — a chance to finally pursue music and storytelling after two decades of living life according to other people’s schedules, other people’s emergencies, other people’s lives.

I left my job as a flight attendant. Found a studio apartment three miles away from campus. Enrolled in journalism classes alongside my music coursework. I was ready to work harder than I had in years to build the life of my dreams.

What I was not ready for was discovering that LACC’s support infrastructure operates on a timeline that doesn’t match student need.

The First-Semester Blind Spot

Here’s the brutal arithmetic of returning to college: 16 units, five classes, daily instrument practice and reading loads that stretch past midnight leave approximately zero hours for a traditional job. Yet rent comes due every first of the month. Expenses do not wait until after your first semester GPA has posted.

I tried to get ahead of it. In August, I came to campus early to map out financial aid options, emergency grants, work-study programs — anything that might bridge the gap between student loans and actual survival costs.

Most offices were closed. Programs hadn’t started yet. Come back in September, I was told.

September brought construction detours, classroom confusion, and a tidal wave of syllabi. It also brought the realization that I was navigating a labyrinth without a map.

My FAFSA grant disbursement was denied due to an international bachelor’s degree from two decades ago that apparently disqualifies me, a government policy that punishes exactly the kind of returning students that colleges claim to want. Success and City Cares programs exist, but with GPA requirements that exclude first-semester students, or operating hours that don’t align with class schedules, or simply inadequate publicity that leaves most students unaware of the programs.

Structural Barrier

The problem isn’t a lack of resources — it’s a lack of coordination and transparency about those resources.

I found the information on the LACC Foundation website about scholarship timelines and eligibility requirements to be insufficient. Staff members at different offices gave contradictory information about the same programs. No centralized database exists to show first-year students all of the types of aid they might qualify for and when each application opens.

This is not about individuals failing to help students. The counselors, professors, and administrators I’ve encountered work with genuine dedication and limited resources. Many go beyond their job descriptions to help students navigate the system.

But good intentions can’t compensate for structural design flaws.

When the students who most need emergency aid — those in their first semester, before they’ve established GPAs or campus connections — are systematically excluded from accessing it, that is not just bureaucracy. That is a policy choice.

The Cost of Timing Failures

Financial precarity doesn’t wait for spring semester. Students are making impossible calculations right now: Drop to part-time status and lose full-time aid eligibility? Skip meals to cover textbooks? Move farther from campus where rent is cheaper but transportation costs multiply?

Some don’t make it to the moment when aid finally arrives. They drop out during or after that first brutal semester, before they can access the scholarships and programs that become available to continuing students.

We lose their potential, their perspectives and their contributions to campus culture and classroom discussions. We lose exactly what colleges exist to cultivate.

What Structural Change Looks Like

The fixes are not complicated.

Create a centralized digital portal listing every scholarship, grant, emergency aid program, and work-study opportunity available to LACC students, with clear eligibility requirements and application timelines. Update it monthly. Make it the first link sent to admitted students.

Front-load emergency aid access. First-semester students may face the highest financial vulnerability and have the least institutional knowledge. Priority access to emergency grants should reflect that reality, instead of only rewarding students who’ve been attending long enough to build GPAs and connections.

Coordinate communication across departments. Financial aid, student services, the Foundation office, and academic departments should operate from shared information about deadlines and eligibility. Students shouldn’t receive different answers depending on which office they visit.

Extend pre-semester support. Open key offices and programs in August, before the semester begins, when returning students are trying to plan their finances and schedules.

Support That Arrives in Time

I’m still here. I’m still practicing scales at midnight, still submitting journalism assignments, still believing this was the right choice despite the financial stress that wakes me at 3 a.m. some nights.

But I’m lucky — I have a reliable vehicle I can use to deliver packages and give rides to passengers, a support network, and enough privilege to absorb mistakes and confusion. Many of my classmates don’t have those buffers.

LACC has remarkable programs and people committed to student success. Those resources only fulfill their purpose if students can access them during the window when access matters most.

Right now, that window closes before most first-semester students even know they should be looking for it.

The heartbeat of campus life at Los Angeles City College is about to return to the Student Union. 

After years without a functioning cafeteria, LACC will open its newly renovated dining space for business on Feb. 9, according to Dr. Olga Diaz, Vice President of Student Services at Los Angeles City College. 

“I have been here for a year, and the cafeteria function has not existed since my arrival,” Dr. Diaz said in a Zoom interview. “What is currently in the Student Union, when you walk in, is a wall with the college logo on it. That wall is going to go away when the construction is complete.” 

Students who peek through the windows have already seen signs of progress. 

“If you look inside, you can see it has taken shape,” Dr. Diaz said. “You can see the floor; the media content being installed. The cafeteria kitchen is ready. The color scheme looks like it is almost done, and it is.” 

Before opening day, crews will install tables and furnishings. After that, Pacific Dining, the district wide food vendor that already operates LACC’s food trucks, will move in, staff the kitchen and test equipment. 

One of the biggest upgrades will be the way students pick up food. The cafeteria will introduce a locker-based pickup system connected to a new ordering app. 

“There will be an app where you can place your meal order,” Dr. Diaz said. “Your meal will be put into a locker if that is what you choose. Then you can come by and grab it. Think of it like Amazon Locker but for food.” 

Alongside grab and go options, full meals will be available. While the final menu is still under development, Dr. Diaz said students can expect a range of offerings. 

“You will have vegetarian options, salads, cheese pizza,” she said. “For kosher, halal or allergy free options, I will make sure Vice President Carter is aware, so the vendor is mindful of those needs.” 

Pricing is also being negotiated. Shannon Carter, Vice President of Administrative Services, is working with Pacific Dining to create a daily City meal deal which will offer a complete meal at a consistent student friendly price. 

“There will always be something affordable,” Dr. Diaz said. “A complete meal, not just fries.” 

Students will be able to pay with cash, debit or credit cards, and the cafeteria will be open to everyone on campus including faculty, staff and community members. 

For students who rely on aid to eat, the college is developing ways to connect programs like EOPS food vouchers directly to the new cafeteria. 

“That is our goal,” Dr. Diaz said. “Vouchers should be available. The process might look different, but we want students to have access to food through financial aid, EOPS or any of our support programs.” 

One possibility is using the black magnetic strip on the back of student ID cards to create a declining balance system similar to a debit card. The system has not yet been built. 

Food trucks will remain on campus, but their placement may shift. 

“The food trucks were a replacement for the old cafeteria,” Dr. Diaz said. “They have proven they are welcomed here. We may not have as many, but we can move them around based on where students need access, such as near SciTech or the library.” 

A small pizza kiosk outside the Cinema building will also continue operating. 

Hours of operation are still being finalized. Dr. Diaz said the administration is considering when campus is busiest, including Saturdays, and will release more details as the opening date approaches. 

Dr. Diaz also shared conceptual drawings of the cafeteria layout, color scheme and student lockers, noting that these guided much of the planning process. 

The Herb Alpert Department will present a series of free public concerts at the Alpert Recital Hall.

Months of preparation by student performers across jazz, classical, world and contemporary music will conclude the Fall semester in December.

Photo: Raluca Topor, Student Staff, The Collegian Wired, LACC 2025

The Herb Alpert Music Department will present a series of free public concerts at the Alpert Recital Hall. Months of preparation by student performers across jazz, classical, world and contemporary music will conclude the Fall semester in December.

Below is the schedule of upcoming concerts by student ensembles. All events will take place in the Alpert Recital Hall on the second floor of the music building. There is no admission fee, and all concerts are open to the public.

The fall series began on Oct. 30, with the annual Faculty and Staff Concert. The remaining events feature student ensembles led by LACC faculty across multiple disciplines.

Jazz Combos, directed by professor Euro Zambrano — Tuesday, Dec. 2, from 1–3 p.m.

Classical Chamber Ensembles, directed by Dr. Christine Park and West African Drumming, directed by professor Trevor Anderies — Thursday, Dec. 4, from 1–3 p.m. and 6–8 p.m.

Jazz Band, directed by professor Trevor Anderies — Thursday, Dec. 4, from 6–8 p.m.

World Music: Brazilian Batucada directed by professor Kassandra Kocoschis, Balinese Gamelan directed by professor Caroline Reyes, Mariachi directed by professor Euro Zambrano — Monday, Dec. 8, from 3–5 p.m.

World Music Salsa Band, directed by professor Kassandra Kocoschis and professor Euro Zambrano — Tuesday, Dec. 9, from 6–8 p.m.

Pop Music Workshop, directed by Trevor Anderies — Wednesday, Dec. 10, from 1–3 p.m.

LACC Choir, directed by Dr. Irene Kim with Neil Windt on piano — Thursday, Dec. 11, from 6–8 p.m.

For directions to the Alpert Recital Hall and current campus access information, visit lacc.edu/about/map.

For updates on event schedules, visit the department’s website at lacc.edu/academics/pathways/pae/music-dept/calendar.

Brett sits with the quiet steadiness of someone who has lived more than one life already. In our journalism classroom at Los Angeles City College, he speaks with a measured confidence, shaped by years in the Army and sharpened by a lifelong fascination with history, music and the strange corners of subculture that most people overlook. 

This is Brett’s first semester at LACC. He arrived here the way many of us did through detours, closed doors and the realization that California universities rarely make room for students who didn’t follow a traditional path. “Some of my credits didn’t transfer,” he said. “City college was the best place for me to start from scratch.” He chose LACC partly for opportunity, partly for place. “I like the location. I can start my day in Hollywood and get almost anywhere in L.A. within an hour.” 

Brett’s major is history, with a focus on the Cold War era of American politics and society. But his academic curiosity stretches beyond textbooks. He studies film history, niche corners of punk and experimental music, and underground movements that rarely appear in official archives. His goal is to write deeply, consistently, and professionally. “There’s so much obscure culture that it doesn’t get recorded. I want to preserve those weird, interesting things through a historical and journalistic lens.” 

Journalism, for him, is not just a class. It’s a bridge. 

Brett grew up navigating the world differently. As someone on the autism spectrum, social interaction has not always come naturally. “I don’t always grasp every nuance of people,” he said. “History, communication and journalism classes help me understand how to talk to people better.” His Army years added another layer of growth, discipline under pressure, adaptability, and courage. “My jobs haven’t made me fearless, but they’ve made me very courageous,” he said. “I’ve learned to act in spite of fear.” 

From fast food counters to military bases to Amazon routes, Brett’s work history is a patchwork of demanding environments. He credits those experiences with building the resilience he carries into college life. “Despite all that pressure, I’m still shining,” he said. 

In class, Brett is direct, opinionated, and always curious. He writes about live music, alternative scenes, and cultural spaces that refuse to fit neat categories. He hopes to turn those interests into a future in music journalism. “It makes you a more well-rounded writer,” he said. “Some of my favorite writers, like Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway, were journalists first.” 

When asked what he would tell other students who struggle to stay engaged with topics that don’t immediately inspire them, his advice came without hesitation: “Find the one thing that draws you in. Put all your energy into that. You’ll surprise yourself with what you can do.” 

As we wrapped up our interview, I told him how much I appreciate the diversity of voices in our class, his included. Brett shrugged with a small smile, as if he was still learning to take the compliment. But that’s part of his story too. 

Introduction

This paper emerged at the intersection of academic inquiry and personal memory. What began as a music history assignment gradually unfolded into a process of cultural remembrance, personal reconciliation, and healing. Having left Romania many years ago and built a life in the United States, my relationship to Romanian music has long lived beneath the surface, carried quietly through language and an unexplainable emotional response to certain sounds. Returning to this repertoire through study reawakened memories I did not realize I was still holding.

I remember winter evenings from childhood, when the sound of the sobă burning filled my grandparents’ house with warmth and rhythm, a steady pulse beneath conversations, stories, and silence. Music existed then not as something separate, but as part of life itself, woven into seasons, work, celebration, and grief. Studying Romanian music history has felt like listening again to those early soundscapes, now with analytical tools but the same emotional resonance.

Romanian music developed primarily through oral transmission, ritual practice, and collective creation. Its evolution cannot be understood solely through composers or written scores, but through the interplay of instruments, ceremonies, social structures, and historical events that shaped a living tradition across centuries. This paper examines the history of Romanian music through four interrelated dimensions: its ancient pre-Christian foundations, the layering of Byzantine and Orthodox influences, the development and social function of folk instruments, and the roles of key documentarians and ethnomusicologists who preserved these traditions for scholarly study.

The methodological challenge in studying Romanian folk music lies in the nature of the sources themselves. As Constantin Brăiloiu observed, "Folkloric musical creation is not the work of an individual consciousness, but the result of a collective and anonymous process."1 This collective orientation means that Romanian music must be understood not as a series of fixed compositions but as a dynamic system of transmission, variation, and adaptation shaped by geography, ritual necessity, economic structures, and political constraint.

I. Ancient Roots: Dacian and Pre-Christian Foundations

Prior to written notation and the establishment of Christian liturgical practice, music in the Romanian territories functioned primarily within ritual and cosmological frameworks rather than as aesthetic performance. The Dacians, a Thracian people who inhabited the Carpathian region before the Roman conquest of 106 CE, practiced a spiritual system centered on nature worship, solar symbolism, fertility rites, and cyclical conceptions of time.2 Musical expression was embedded within these ceremonies rather than separated as autonomous performance, serving functions of invocation, healing, and communal coherence.

Archaeological evidence and later ethnographic survivals suggest that Dacian musical practice included chanting, rhythmic movement, and percussive sound accompanying solar rites, seasonal transitions, initiation ceremonies, and healing rituals. While no notated music survives from this period, the continuity of certain ritual structures into the modern era provides indirect evidence of pre-Christian musical forms. As Ion Grumeza notes in his study of Dacian culture, the integration of music into sacred practice reflects a worldview in which sound functioned as a mediating force between the physical and spiritual realms.3

One of the most significant survivals of this pre-Christian musical worldview is the Călușari ritual, a male-only ceremonial dance combining music, movement, and symbolic gesture. Historically associated with healing, protection from malevolent forces, and the maintenance of community boundaries, the Călușari exemplify music's liminal function, existing between performance and ritual, between the profane and the sacred. When Dimitrie Cantemir documented these dances in the 18th century, he noted that they were performed "not merely for pleasure, but for healing, protection, and the expulsion of illness,"4 suggesting continuity with much older healing practices.

The instruments employed during this early period were necessarily simple and derived from available materials: wooden flutes carved from elderwood or willow, horns fashioned from animal bone or wood, frame drums, and above all the human voice. Their purpose was not aesthetic display but functional, serving as invocation of spiritual forces, communication across distances, and the reinforcement of communal identity through synchronized sound and movement. This collective orientation, as Brăiloiu would later emphasize, remained central to Romanian folk music even as it evolved through subsequent historical layers.

II. Roman, Byzantine, and Orthodox Layers

The Roman occupation of Dacia (106-271 CE) and the subsequent establishment of Byzantine influence following Christianization did not erase indigenous musical traditions but rather initiated a process of syncretism that would define Romanian musical culture for centuries. As Christianity spread through the Romanian territories between the 4th and 9th centuries, Byzantine chant became the foundation of sacred musical life, introducing both notational systems and new modal structures while paradoxically preserving many characteristics of oral transmission.

Byzantine liturgical music, monophonic and modal in structure, shaped Romanian musical sensibility through its emphasis on vocal ornamentation, modal flexibility, and text-music integration. Written in Byzantine neumes, a system of notation that indicated melodic contour and ornamental patterns rather than precise pitch, church music existed in a liminal space between written and oral tradition. This notation allowed for regional variation and improvisational flexibility while maintaining liturgical continuity across the Orthodox world.5

Significantly, pre-Christian customs did not disappear with Christianization but were instead absorbed and recontextualized within the new religious framework. Solar rituals associated with the winter and summer solstices merged with Christmas and Midsummer celebrations; fertility rites connected to agricultural cycles were incorporated into the liturgical calendar; and healing practices involving music and dance persisted in nominally Christian contexts. This process of religious syncretism meant that Romanian music retained elements of its pagan past even as it adopted Byzantine liturgical forms.

Funeral lamentations, known as bocete, represent one of the most ancient and emotionally charged Romanian musical forms to survive this transition. Sung primarily by women at wakes and funerals, bocete exist in a liminal space between speech and song, structured yet improvisational, serving the function of carrying the soul of the deceased toward the other world while providing emotional catharsis for the living. These laments preserve melodic patterns, textual formulas, and emotional registers that likely predate Christianity, suggesting continuity with ancient mourning practices. Brăiloiu identified funeral laments as essential to understanding Romanian collective musical creation, noting their combination of fixed formulaic elements with individualized improvisation.6

III. Folk Instruments and the Sound of the Land

Romanian folk instruments mirror both the geography and the economic structures of rural life, reflecting a musical culture shaped by pastoral work, agricultural cycles, and the acoustic properties of mountainous and forested landscapes. Unlike Western European art music, which developed increasingly complex instruments to serve composed repertoire, Romanian folk instruments evolved to serve functional needs: communication across mountain valleys, accompaniment for dance and ritual, and the solitary expression of shepherds during long periods of isolation.

In recent years, as I returned to playing guitar and singing medicine songs in my contemporary practice, I noticed how naturally Romanian melodic contours resurfaced in my playing: long, ornamented melodic lines, subtle rhythmic elasticity, and a tendency toward modal rather than harmonic thinking. These characteristics echo the expressive world of traditional Romanian instruments, which prioritize voice-like phrasing and emotional nuance over formal structural development.

Key folk instruments include the fluier (a shepherd's flute associated with solitude and open landscapes), the caval (a longer end-blown flute used in pastoral contexts), the cobza (a lute-like instrument reflecting Byzantine and Ottoman influence), the țambal (a hammered dulcimer central to lăutar ensembles), the vioară (fiddle, capable of extreme emotional nuance from exuberance to lament), and the bucium (a long wooden horn used for communication across mountains).7

As a sound healer and ceremonial singer working in contemporary contexts, I recognize these instruments not merely as historical artifacts but as technologies of nervous system regulation and emotional connection. Their tones carry grounding, trance-inducing, and emotionally cathartic functions, qualities that continue to inform my contemporary practice of using sound for healing and ceremony. The fluier's breathy, overtone-rich timbre; the țambal's shimmering, bell-like resonance; and the vioară's capacity for vocal-like expression all serve functions beyond aesthetic pleasure. They regulate emotional states, facilitate trance, and create conditions for collective emotional experience.

IV. Dimitrie Cantemir and the First Written Bridge

The 17th and early 18th centuries represent a crucial turning point in the documentation of Romanian musical traditions through the figure of Dimitrie Cantemir (1673-1723), a polymath, philosopher, composer, and diplomat whose work stands at the intersection of oral and written musical cultures. Cantemir lived between multiple worlds: Moldavian, Ottoman, and Western European. His unique position allowed him to document Romanian and Ottoman musical practices at a historical moment when oral traditions risked disappearance under political upheaval and cultural change.

Educated in Constantinople and later active in Russia and Germany following his exile from Moldavia, Cantemir possessed both the cultural insider knowledge necessary to understand Romanian folk traditions and the scholarly training to systematize and record them. In his geographical and ethnographic treatise Descriptio Moldaviae (Description of Moldavia, written 1714-1716), Cantemir provided detailed documentation of dances, rituals, instruments, and social customs, including colinde (winter solstice songs), wedding songs, epic ballads (balade), magic incantations, and funeral dirges.8

Cantemir described various dance forms including circle dances (hore), single-file dances, and male ritual groups like the Călușari, emphasizing their healing and magical functions rather than merely their entertainment value. His documentation reveals an understanding of music and dance as embedded within social and cosmological systems rather than as autonomous aesthetic practices. This perspective aligns with what later ethnomusicologists would recognize as characteristic of folk cultures: the integration of music into the fabric of lived experience.

Beyond documentation, Cantemir was also a practicing musician and music theorist. He composed instrumental works and developed theoretical writings on Ottoman and Romanian music, using Ottoman notation systems and playing the tambura (a long-necked lute). His musical compositions and theoretical work represent the first conscious synthesis of Romanian folk tradition within a written, scholarly framework, bridging the gap between oral transmission and notated music.9

V. Lăutari, Social Class, and Economic Survival

From the medieval period onward, Romanian musical life became increasingly intertwined with the professional class of musicians known as lăutari, itinerant performers, often of Romani ethnicity, who transmitted musical repertoire across regions and generations while adapting constantly to changing patron demands and cultural influences. The lăutari occupied a complex social position: essential to weddings, feasts, aristocratic courts, and village celebrations, yet often marginalized due to both their ethnic identity and their association with professionalized entertainment rather than agricultural labor.

The lăutar tradition represents a crucial mechanism of musical transmission and innovation in Romanian culture. These professional musicians absorbed Turkish, Slavic, Greek, Hungarian, and later Western European musical elements while preserving distinctive Romanian melodic contours, rhythmic patterns, and modal structures. Their repertoire included wedding songs, dance music, funeral laments, epic ballads, and urban art songs, performed on instruments including the violin, țambal, cobza, accordion, and double bass.10

Economic realities profoundly shaped lăutar musical practice. Their livelihood depended on patronage, which meant that musical style evolved in continuous dialogue with audience expectations, economic incentives, and power structures. Danceable rhythms, emotional expressivity, and technical virtuosity became essential for economic survival. Music thus became not only a cultural practice but a profession requiring constant adaptation and innovation. The tension between preservation of traditional forms and the necessity of satisfying patron demands created a dynamic musical culture characterized by variation, improvisation, and stylistic flexibility.

VI. Politics, Occupation, and Musical Identity

Romanian territories existed for centuries under Ottoman suzerainty (with Moldavia and Wallachia as tributary principalities from the 15th to 19th centuries), while also experiencing pressure from Austro-Hungarian and Russian imperial powers. These political realities profoundly affected musical development, creating conditions in which folk music served not merely aesthetic but also identity-preserving functions in the absence of political sovereignty.

Ottoman rule limited the development of institutional musical infrastructure, including conservatories, opera houses, and court music establishments of the kind that flourished in Western Europe. Yet it paradoxically allowed rural folk traditions to develop with relative autonomy. In the absence of centralized cultural institutions, village-level musical practices preserved regional dialects, local repertoires, and traditional performance contexts. Music became a repository of collective memory and cultural identity precisely because political structures did not impose standardized forms.11

Transylvania, under Habsburg rule from the late 17th century onward, experienced earlier and more intensive contact with Western European musical forms, including notation systems, polyphonic singing, and instruments such as the organ. This created regional variations in musical practice, with Transylvanian Romanian music showing greater Western influence while Moldavian and Wallachian traditions maintained stronger connections to Byzantine and Ottoman models.

Folk song thus functioned as a form of quiet resistance, not through explicit political content but through the preservation of language, memory, and identity when formal political sovereignty was fragile or absent. As Romanian nationalism developed in the 19th century, intellectuals and composers increasingly turned to folk music as a source of national identity, collecting and arranging folk songs as evidence of cultural continuity and distinctiveness.12

VII. Constantin Brăiloiu and Modern Ethnomusicology

In the 20th century, Constantin Brăiloiu (1893-1958) emerged as one of the foundational figures in ethnomusicology, developing methodological approaches that would influence the field internationally while preserving Romanian folk traditions through systematic field recording and analysis. Trained as a composer at the Paris Conservatory and later as a folklorist, Brăiloiu combined musical expertise with anthropological insight, approaching folk music not as primitive precursor to art music but as a sophisticated system governed by its own logic and aesthetic principles.

Between 1928 and 1943, Brăiloiu conducted extensive field recordings throughout Romania, documenting thousands of folk songs, instrumental pieces, and ritual performances using cylinder and disc recording technology. His methodological innovation lay in his development of synoptic transcription, a system for representing the essential melodic and rhythmic characteristics of a piece while acknowledging the variability inherent in oral transmission. This approach recognized that folk music exists not as fixed compositions but as fluid patterns subject to variation in each performance.13

Brăiloiu emphasized the ritual contexts in which folk music functioned: funerals, weddings, calendrical feasts (colinde at winter solstice, sânziene at summer solstice), and children's games. He argued that folkloric music could only be understood within "the framework of life itself," as integrated into work, celebration, mourning, and social bonding rather than as separated aesthetic performance.14 This perspective challenged earlier romantic nationalism that had treated folk music as raw material to be refined into art music, instead recognizing folk traditions as complete and sophisticated systems in their own right.

For Brăiloiu, Romanian folk music represented collective memory made audible, a living archive of social structures, cosmological beliefs, and emotional registers passed down through generations not through notation but through embodied practice. His work ensured that these traditions would not vanish under the pressures of modernization, urbanization, and political transformation, preserving them for both scholarly study and cultural continuity.

Conclusion

Romanian music represents a continuous dialogue between permanence and change, between preservation and adaptation, across more than two millennia of historical transformation. From pre-Christian ritual practices through Byzantine liturgical synthesis, from Cantemir's pioneering documentation to Brăiloiu's ethnomusicological systematization, Romanian musical culture reveals a system rooted in collective memory rather than individual authorship, in functional necessity rather than aesthetic autonomy.

The instruments that define Romanian folk music reflect geography and economic structures. Shepherd flutes echo across mountain valleys, hammered dulcimers accompany village weddings, and funeral laments are sung by women at wakes. The rituals that contextualize this music reflect cosmological beliefs and social organization. Solar celebrations merge with Christian feasts, healing dances are performed by initiated groups, and calendrical songs mark agricultural cycles. The forms themselves reflect adaptation under political and economic constraint. Lăutari musicians navigate patron demands while preserving traditional repertoire, and folk songs serve as repositories of identity during periods when political sovereignty is contested or absent.

For me personally, engaging with this history has been an act of return, not merely intellectual, but embodied and emotional. As a musician, sound healer, and student beginning formal music studies in Los Angeles, I now understand my artistic path as participation in a much older lineage. The instinct to use sound for healing, to sing within ceremonial contexts, and to value communal emotional experience over individual performance is not incidental to my practice; it is inherited, carried forward from ancestors who understood music as medicine, as ritual, as social glue.

Folk song, dance, and lament functioned not only as artistic expressions but as mechanisms of survival, identity preservation, and emotional regulation. As Brăiloiu emphasized, folklore exists only within the framework of life itself. It cannot be separated from the work, mourning, celebration, and resistance that give it meaning. To study Romanian music is therefore to study lived experience in its full complexity: the sound of winter fires and wedding dances, of funeral laments and healing rituals, of shepherds calling across mountain passes and professional musicians adapting to survive.

This project transformed what began as academic research into an act of remembrance. Through it, Romanian music ceased to be distant history and became present again in my life: in the body's memory of rhythm and gesture, in the voice's recognition of melodic contour, and in the quiet understanding that sound has always functioned as both archive and medicine. The music carries forward not despite historical disruption but through it, adapting and surviving, a living testament to the power of collective memory transmitted through sound.

Notes

1. Constantin Brăiloiu, Schița unei metode de folclor muzical (Bucharest: Editura Muzicală, 1931), 15.

2. Ion Grumeza, Dacia: Land of Transylvania, Cornerstone of Ancient Eastern Europe (Lanham, MD: Hamilton Books, 2009), 87-103.

3. Grumeza, Dacia, 95-98.

4. Dimitrie Cantemir, Descriptio Moldaviae, in Kantemir: Romanian Music (Bucharest: Editura Muzicală, 1993), 156.

5. For a comprehensive treatment of Byzantine musical influence in Romanian territories, see Irina Zamfirescu, Byzantine Music in the Romanian Principalities: History and Practice (Bucharest: Editura Academiei Române, 2007).

6. Constantin Brăiloiu, Problems of Ethnomusicology, trans. A. L. Lloyd (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 78-92.

7. For detailed organological descriptions of Romanian folk instruments, see Speranța Rădulescu, Romanian Traditional Music (Bucharest: Ethnological Publishing House, 2004), 45-78.

8. Cantemir, Descriptio Moldaviae, 145-178.

9. Owen Wright, "Dimitrie Cantemir and the Transmission of Ottoman Music," Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 9, no. 3 (1999): 391-409.

10. Margaret Beissinger, The Art of the Lăutar: The Epic Tradition of Romania (New York: Garland Publishing, 1991), 23-67.

11. For analysis of Ottoman influence on Romanian musical development, see Walter Feldman, "Ottoman Sources on the Development of the Taksim," Yearbook for Traditional Music 25 (1993): 1-28.

12. Katherine Verdery, National Ideology Under Socialism: Identity and Cultural Politics in Ceaușescu's Romania (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991), 102-125.

13. Brăiloiu, Problems of Ethnomusicology, 25-44.

14. Brăiloiu, Schița unei metode, 22.

Bibliography

Beissinger, Margaret. The Art of the Lăutar: The Epic Tradition of Romania. New York: Garland Publishing, 1991.

Brăiloiu, Constantin. Problems of Ethnomusicology. Translated by A. L. Lloyd. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984.

Cantemir, Dimitrie. Descriptio Moldaviae. In Kantemir: Romanian Music. Bucharest: Editura Muzicală, 1993.

Feldman, Walter. "Ottoman Sources on the Development of the Taksim." Yearbook for Traditional Music 25 (1993): 1-28.

Grumeza, Ion. Dacia: Land of Transylvania, Cornerstone of Ancient Eastern Europe. Lanham, MD: Hamilton Books, 2009.

Rădulescu, Speranța. Romanian Traditional Music. Bucharest: Ethnological Publishing House, 2004.

Verdery, Katherine. National Ideology Under Socialism: Identity and Cultural Politics in Ceaușescu's Romania. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991.

Wright, Owen. "Dimitrie Cantemir and the Transmission of Ottoman Music." Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society 9, no. 3 (1999): 391-409.

When I enrolled in music school, I thought I was there to learn notes, chords and theory. I did not realize I was stepping into a kind of monastery of sound, a place where the metronome teaches patience and the piano mirrors the mind.

Every day, I sit before 88 keys that do not lie. They reveal whether I practiced, listened or rushed. There is no shortcut to mastery: only repetition, reflection and surrender. I used to think discipline meant rigidity. Now I understand it as devotion. Progress in music doesn’t come from inspiration alone, but from showing up when no one is watching. It is in the quiet hours when scales sound mechanical, when hands ache and when the superego whispers that you are not talented enough. That’s where transformation begins.

Discipline is not a cage, but a path. It’s the bridge between chaos and clarity, between sound and silence. Each scale I practice is a form of meditation. The notes are mantras that train not only my fingers, but also my attention.

In an era obsessed with instant gratification, music school feels like rebellion. You cannot hack muscle memory. You cannot outsource rhythm. Technology can simulate almost everything except presence. And presence, I’ve discovered, is the true curriculum here.

Some days, I fail. My fingers slip, my mind wanders, my rhythm falls apart. But even in those moments, there is a lesson: mastery is not about perfection. It’s about returning again and again to the instrument, to the breath, to yourself.

The more I learn about music, the more I learn about myself. Every scale is a map of patience. Every chord progression reminds me that tension and release are essential to harmony in music and in life.

More than 100 students and staff attended a midday celebration to mark the 96th Founder’s Day of Los Angeles City College on Sept. 9 in front of the Student Union Building.

Photo credit: Jeremy Cuenca, LACC Student

Students waited in line to receive bright red T-shirts and ice cream from Associated Student Government members. LACC mascot Cubby drew a crowd as students approached him for hugs and a fun picture moment.  

The event honored LACC’s nearly century-long role as a cornerstone of education and community in Los Angeles. The college offers more than 100 academic and vocational programs for over 27 degrees and majors. LACC attracts students from across 70 countries, according to the college website.

The college’s 18th president, Dr. Amanuel Gebru kicked off the celebration. 

“Today is our 96th birthday,” he said. “We’re excited to represent the community, our past, our future, [and] all the good things LACC does for our students. Our faculty and staff are phenomenal. We call ourselves the city’s college because we serve the city of L.A., and we’re proud."

For some students, Founder’s Day was an unexpected highlight. A second-year psychology student said he stumbled upon the celebration on his way to class. He reflected on the support he received during his first year, when navigating college life was especially difficult. 

“First year was a bit challenging and luckily there were people who told me about different resources,” he said. “L.A. City has so much to offer. Now it’s smoother sailing.”

With its 100th anniversary now on the horizon, Founder’s Day serves as both a reminder of LACC’s legacy and a preview of celebrations to come. In its 96th year, the celebration continues to strengthen the bond between generations of Los Angeles City College students and the community.

When classical voice major Elliana Claudio arrived at Los Angeles City College, she expected to study music. She did not expect the experience to reshape her life.

Claudio is in her third semester at the Herb Alpert Music Center. She hopes to transfer to a four-year university after completing her studies at LACC, with USC and the Manhattan School of Music high on her list.

Photo Credit: Raluca Topor. In the photo: From left to right, Dr. Irene Kim, Director of Choral Studies, Piano, Music Theory and student Elliana Claudio, Los Angeles City College Herb Alpert Music Center

She discovered the music department online while searching for colleges in Los Angeles. She said the school stood out immediately.

“I loved how it focused on artistry,” she said. “They had a songwriting program, which I did not see at other schools, and the Herb Alpert Scholarship Program offered free private lessons with instructors. That was an amazing opportunity.”

Outside of her classes, Claudio works as a tutor in music theory and musicianship. She meets with students who need help understanding the material, preparing for exams, or building confidence in foundational skills.

“It has been one of the most rewarding things I have ever done,” she said. “Tutoring has inspired me to pursue more teaching opportunities. I really love guiding other students.”

A vocalist first, Claudio also studies piano at LACC and plays a little guitar. She sings in the college choir, one of the many ensembles open to students.

“The choir is such a beautiful community,” she said. “We sing everything from secular music to jazz. It gives us exposure to different genres and different ways of using the voice.”

Claudio said her life shifted in profound ways after she decided to study music full time.

“My life has changed drastically,” she said. “I have grown so much as a musician, but also as a person. Being here sparked a love of knowledge I did not have before. I have a wonderful support system from both staff and peers. The person I was when I started and the person I am now are completely different in the best way.”

She credits the Herb Alpert Music Center for helping her discover that growth.

“This program is truly something special,” she said. “I have learned so much here.”

As for students who may not know LACC has a music department or prospective students comparing schools, Claudio offered a clear message.

When I received the news that I was disqualified from federal financial aid because of a foreign bachelor’s degree I earned 20 years ago in Romania, I felt a familiar mix of disbelief and determination. It was not the first time I learned that the education I worked for in my home country would not open doors in the United States. But it was the first time I realized that it could also close them. 

This fall, after enrolling full time at Los Angeles City College and pursuing a new academic path in music, I applied for the same financial support offered to thousands of community college students across the state. Instead, I was notified that I did not qualify for aid because federal guidelines consider me already a college graduate. The degree that disqualified me is the same degree American employers, licensing boards and institutions rarely recognize, a contradiction that many immigrants quietly carry but rarely speak about. 

Photo Source: Unsplash.com

Under federal rules, a student who already holds a bachelor’s degree cannot receive the Pell Grant. That policy was created to prevent duplicate funding for students seeking multiple four-year degrees. But for immigrants whose foreign diplomas are often treated as non-equivalent, the rule creates an unintended barrier. The degree they worked for abroad counts against them in the financial aid office but not in the workforce. 

In my case, the Romanian degree I earned in 2005 has never translated into meaningful professional access in the United States. I completed my studies in communication and public relations before immigrating, but the credential has been treated as symbolic rather than functional. Over the years, employers have told me it does not meet United States requirements. Credential evaluators have noted that some course structures do not align with American standards. And when applying for new programs or opportunities, I have often been asked to start over, to rebuild my academic life from the foundation. 

That reality is not unique. Many immigrants arrive with diplomas that represent years of sacrifice, only to find that their credentials are considered too foreign to be useful. Yet when these same students seek to pursue a new major at a community college, the foreign degree becomes a disqualifying factor. 

At Los Angeles City College, I am enrolled in the music program and a full-time course load that includes theory, applied lessons and ensemble work. Like many students, I balance rent, transportation, class requirements, and basic living expenses. But Pell Grant ineligibility immediately placed me at a disadvantage, forcing me to rely on student wages, Lyft driving and emergency support programs to stay afloat. 

The policy gap has tangible consequences. Foreign educated students who want to pursue a new field have limited pathways for federal assistance. Many are older, financially independent, and responsible for full living costs. Some support families. Others, like me, are rebuilding careers after years in unrelated fields. Without Pell Grant access, the burden of financing college rests entirely on the student, even when the foreign degree cannot be used to secure stable income. 

Aid staff at Los Angeles City College were helpful and empathetic, but they are bound by federal regulations that leave little room for nuance. A foreign bachelor’s degree is still a bachelor’s degree on paper, even if it functions as something closer to a partial transcript in the United States. No pathway exists for students to petition based on non-equivalence or lack of employability. The system has no mechanism for acknowledging the disconnect. 

Educational advocates have long argued that financial aid policies fail to reflect the realities of immigrant and refugee students. Many completed their studies in countries facing war, political instability, or economic collapse. Others come from nations whose academic structures differ significantly from American institutions. These students often seek community colleges specifically because the programs are accessible, affordable and hands on, a chance to train in a field that aligns with their lives in the United States rather than the lives they are left behind. 

But when foreign educated students are excluded from the Pell Grant, they are blocked from one of the most critical support systems available to low-income Americans. The rule does not consider whether the prior degree is recognized, equivalent, or usable. It simply counts. 

For me, disqualification created a practical and emotional crossroads. I came to community college because I wanted to start again, to study music, to train formally, to build the foundation I never had the chance to build as a young immigrant working multiple jobs to survive. Learning that my past education could deny me access to the resources I need in the present made the path heavier but not impossible. 

I continue to study full time, work, write, and build a new academic identity. I am advocating for clearer policies, transparent communication, and better support for students with foreign degrees who are navigating a system that was not designed with them in mind. 

The truth is simple. A diploma earned in another country should not be a barrier to learning in the United States, especially when that diploma is not recognized here in the first place. Immigrant students deserve a pathway to rebuild, retrain and reimagine their futures without being penalized for the education they already fought for. 

Director Sisa Quispe brings the spirit of Ayacucho, Peru to Los Angeles, CA weaving a story where memory, community and song carry the weight of healing.

NewFilmmakers Los Angeles or NFMLA screened the Andean short film “Kusi Sonrie,” also known as “Kusi Smiles, 2025,” last month as part of its Indigenous Film Festival monthly program. The film, directed by Peruvian filmmaker Sisa Quispe, offers an intimate look at the emotional and cultural landscapes of the Andes.

The title role is performed by Renata Flores, a Peruvian singer and songwriter based in Ayacucho. Flores blends Andean music with modern genres such as hip hop, trap and rap, bridging cultures across South and North America and singing in Quechua, Spanish and English. More about her work can be found on Instagram at @renatafloresrivera.

Ayacucho is located high in the south-central Peruvian Andes and is known for its Quechua communities, weaving traditions and ceremonial songs. The region provides grounding for the world in which the film unfolds.

In Quechua, Ayacucho is called Ayakuchu, a name formed from aya meaning “death” or “soul” and kuchu meaning “corner,” a reference to the historic Battle of Ayacucho. The city was founded in 1540 as San Juan de la Frontera de Huamanga and was known as Huamanga, or Wamanga in Quechua, until 1825. It is the capital of both the Ayacucho Region and the Huamanga Province in Peru.

During the post screening Q&A, Quispe explained that the story grew from returning to her home community of Llactahuran, a small Andean village nearly three hours from the nearest city. The way of life in this region centers on singing, dancing, and daily reciprocity with the land.

“We live in ayni, which in my culture means reciprocity,” she said.

She noted that many films about Indigenous communities portray only pain or oppression. With “Kusi Sonrie,” the intention was different.

“This film was about looking at what we are afraid of and remembering who we are,” Quispe said. “Kusi is remembering she is a Quechua woman. She needs to reclaim her language. Our language is our memory.”

One of the film’s most striking moments highlights this sense of continuity across generations. In Quechua, there is no word for goodbye. Instead, people say “Tupananchiskama,” which means “until we meet again.” Within the narrative, Kusi learns that her mother did not disappear from her life even after death. The presence of ancestors remains near and reminds viewers that separation is not final in the Andean worldview.

The film emerged through a collaborative process with the community of Llactahuran. Quispe described the partnership as one built on trust rather than extraction.

“We developed a relationship based on reciprocity. I was not taking from them and they were not taking from me,” Quispe said.

Together they shaped a story rooted in communal grief, ancestral knowledge and the healing power of music.

“In the Andes, people cope with pain and loss through singing and dancing, that is how we conserve knowledge through our music and our textiles,’ says Quispe.

Singing also became part of Quispe’s own healing process during production.

“When you sing, you release. You vibrate, and it is like giving birth, that vibration is what made me heal.”

Quispe added that music flows through the film because it flows through Andean life itself.

“Everyone in the community sings, plays music, dances. It is part of our life.”

The production relied mostly on local talent.

“It was a 90 percent Andean crew, mostly led by women from Ayacucho,” Quispe said. She added that many crew members were self-taught artists who developed their craft through online resources and community learning. Their cultural grounding shaped the film from its earliest stages and kept the storytelling aligned with Andean worldviews.

When the screen faded to black, the film left behind a quiet echo, like the thin high mountain air that lingers after a song. “Tupananchiskama” became more than a phrase. In Quispe’s hands, it carried a promise that memory endures, that ancestors remain close and that their songs continue to rise wherever their people walk.

Kusi Smiles received the Best Indigenous Narrative Short at deadCenter Film Festival 2025 and First Prize for Best Indigenous Film at the Rhode Island International Film Festival (Flickers/RIIFF) 2025.

The film was developed through the Latino Film Institute Inclusion Fellowship sponsored by Netflix, which is a competitive fellowship selection even though it is not itself a festival “award.”

Follow Sisa Quispe on Instagram: @sisa_quispe and @kusi_sonrie.

Before joining the journalism department at Los Angeles City College, my writing experience lived mostly in the worlds of PR, communication and career coaching. I spent years writing resumes, cover letters and LinkedIn profile optimizations for clients. I entered the program in September 2025 with that background and now, as I finish my first semester, I can see how far the work has carried me.

Raluca Topor, LA based Arts and Entertainment Journalist and Musician

This semester became a rapid apprenticeship. I reviewed The Intruder, a play put together by the LACC Theatre Academy and learned how to pair personal insight with clear, structured analysis. I reviewed Kusi Smiles (2005), an indigenous short film centered on cultural identity and the strength that ancestors provide to the younger generation beyond time and space. I examined the impact of delayed financial aid on first-semester students, focusing on how late disbursements affect housing, textbooks and well-being. Each assignment stretched me in a different direction and taught me how to shift tone, tighten language and stay grounded in facts.

Throughout these months, I also collaborated with various departments across campus, meeting students, staff and faculty who helped shape the stories. Interview by interview, I grew more confident asking precise questions and approaching people in any setting. Journalism taught me to listen deeply, gather information with care and organize it into concise, accurate reporting.

by Raluca Topor

There is a truth I have learned from music, from ceremony and from the quiet hours spent at the piano when the world finally slows enough to listen. We are the medicine. 

Humans create sound long before we create spoken language. Rhythm is our first memory. Vibration is our first form of communication. The piano, with its simple pattern of black and white keys, becomes a doorway into something far deeper than performance. It becomes a doorway into healing. 

Neuroscience confirms what musicians and sound practitioners have understood for generations. Music reshapes the brain. Piano study in particular has been linked to measurable changes in memory, emotional regulation, and multisensory integration. 

The Steinway organization summarizes these ideas clearly: 

“The physical and mental benefits of playing music have long been recognized. The piano, in particular, has been an unparalleled outlet for those seeking escape, creative expression and simply fun and joy. Recent years have only seen more evidence of the benefits of piano come to light, linking music making to a healthy body, a healthy mind and a healthy life.” 

These claims are supported by independent scientific research. A study from the University of Bath published in Nature Scientific Reports in 2022 found that adults who took one hour of weekly piano lessons for eleven weeks showed significant improvements in how the brain processes sound and sight. According to the study: 

Beginners who took piano lessons for an hour a week for eleven weeks showed improvements in audio and visual processing. Musical training also lifted mood and reduced symptoms of stress and anxiety. 

The Bath researchers reported that piano students became more accurate in detecting whether sound and visual events occurred at the same time. These improvements did not appear in participants who only listened to music or completed homework. 

Beyond cognition, the study also documented reduced depression, anxiety, and stress scores after the training period. Cognitive psychologist Karin Petrini noted that learning the piano strengthens multisensory processing in adulthood, even when brain plasticity is reduced. 

Scientific leaders in the field of music medicine are expanding these findings. One of the most influential voices is Dr. Mei Rui, a Yale trained molecular biochemist, concert pianist and Assistant Professor of Neurosurgery at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston. She directs the Music in Medicine Initiative, where she studies how music affects clinical patients, surgical performance, stroke recovery, and stress reduction. 

Dr. Rui often speaks about the bridge between science and artistic practice. In interviews she said: 

“I feel privileged to have roots and connections in both the performing arts world as well as the medical community, and I envision my role here is to bring these two communities together and to develop new paradigms in music medicine research that will help fill the knowledge gap.” 

Her work demonstrates that music is not a luxury. It is a biological event. Her studies show that listening to piano music, including Mozart sonatas, can increase growth hormone levels and reduce biomarkers of stress in critically ill patients. During the pandemic she led Musicare, an initiative that organized more than four hundred bedside concerts for hospital staff and ICU patients. Participants reported measurable improvements in mood and well-being. 

Dr. Rui’s research also investigates how brainwaves synchronize during live music. She explained: 

“We are trying to look at the reaction between a performer and an audience member, but also between musicians playing duets. This has never been done before, to my knowledge, in the world.” 

She also noted: 

“Now the technology allows us not just to look at structural and functional changes, but to also track in real time neurotransmitter releases.” 

These perspectives echo what I witness every day as a community college music student and sound practitioner. A student sits at the piano and their breathing deepens. Their posture softens. Their nervous system steadies. Someone who arrived overwhelmed finds a new anchor in the rhythm beneath their hands. 

This is why music programs at community colleges should not be treated as optional. They are essential. They support cognitive development, emotional regulation, and long-term mental health. A piano lab is not only a practice room. It is a classroom where resilience, focus, and confidence are strengthened. 

If colleges recognized the scientific importance of music education, they would protect and expand these programs. Studying piano is more than an artistic pursuit. It is an investment in human health and in the emotional and cognitive stability of future generations.