González, José M. 2013. The Epic Rhapsode and His Craft: Homeric Performance in a Diachronic Perspective. Hellenic Studies Series 47. Washington, DC: Center for Hellenic Studies. http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:hul.ebook:CHS_GonzalezJ.The_Epic_Rhapsode_and_his_Craft.2013.
10. The Rhapsode in Performance
10.1 Understanding the Rhapsode
ῥαπτῶν ἐπέων τὰ πόλλ’ ἀοιδοί
ἄρχονται, Διὸς ἐκ προοιμίου …
Here the nexus between ἀοιδοί and ῥαπτὰ ἔπεα seems entirely unproblematic, and Pindar even compares his own compositional technique to the frequent recourse the Homeridai have to proemial hymns to Zeus (Kurke 1991:42–43). No attention is drawn to a contrast between the creative poet Pindar and, insofar as rhapsodes, allegedly uncreative Homeridai. Nor is there a hint in this lofty opening of the contempt for rhapsodes we find in Xenophon’s writings.
πᾶσαν ὀρθώσαις ἀρετὰν κατὰ ῥάβδον ἔφρασεν
θεσπεσίων ἐπέων λοιποῖς ἀθύρειν.
Patzer (1952:316n2), however, remarks that ῥάβδος θεσπεσίων ἐπέων in the first instance cannot be the staff of the rhapsode. It is far more likely that these words point to the preeminent acceptation of ῥάβδος in the Homeric poems, the ‘wand’ with divine or magic powers that Hermes, Kirke, and Athena wield.  Metaphorically, the expression would amount to ‘according to/by the enchanting power of his divine poetry’.  As Patzer further notes, “[e]ine Anspielung auf den ‘stabhaltenden’ Rhapsoden liegt freilich vor, aber pindarische Anspielungen zeugen noch nicht für ein gangbares und auch für den Dichter geltendes etymologisches Bewußtsein.” Whether or not Patzer is right, the popular connection between the rhapsode and the ῥάβδος, the emblem of performative authority, is undeniable, even if, as alleged, for Pindar the tie was not etymological.
10.1.2 Stitching the song: creative work?
10.2 Understanding Rhapsodic Performance
10.2.1 Non-melodic recitation?
‘ἐκ δὲ Διὸς βασιλῆες’
[we say that] those who know well the tracks of the lyre belong to Phoibos
‘but basileis are from Zeus’
reprises Hesiod’s Theogony 94–96:
ἄνδρες ἀοιδοὶ ἔασιν ἐπὶ χθόνα καὶ κιθαρισταί,
ἐκ δὲ Διὸς βασιλῆες·
For from the Muses and far-shooting Apollo
there are men on the earth who sing and play the cithara,
but basileis are from Zeus.
At first, Kallimakhos’ reprise seems straightforward: cithara corresponds to lyre, and ἀοιδοί is glossed by εὖ εἰδότες οἴμους. But, as I make clear below (§10.2.3.5), the word οἶμος, intimately related to οἴμη, is peculiar not to the unmarked ἀοιδός but to the marked rhapsode. In effect, Kallimakhos has applied to the rhapsode and his craft the Hesiodic reference to the epic ‘singer’ and his instrument  —a refraction of the melic origins of the epic genre. By implicitly substituting the marked, narrower term for the unmarked, broader one while keeping the reference to melic delivery, Kallimakhos confirms that ‘rhapsode’ is not a late term coined for a reproducing reciter of textually fixed Homeric poems, but a label that focuses attention upon the rhapsodic craft of recomposition of traditional epic themes and diction in performance.
10.2.2 Ῥάπτω and Homeric artistry
485 ὑμεῖς γὰρ θεαί ἐστε πάρεστέ τε ἴστέ τε πάντα,
ἡμεῖς δὲ κλέος οἶον ἀκούομεν οὐδέ τι ἴδμεν·
οἵ τινες ἡγεμόνες Δαναῶν καὶ κοίρανοι ἦσαν·
πληθὺν δ’ οὐκ ἂν ἐγὼ μυθήσομαι οὐδ’ ὀνομήνω,
οὐδ’ εἴ μοι δέκα μὲν γλῶσσαι, δέκα δὲ στόματ’ εἶεν,
490 φωνὴ δ’ ἄρρηκτος, χάλκεον δέ μοι ἦτορ ἐνείη,
εἰ μὴ Ὀλυμπιάδες Μοῦσαι Διὸς αἰγιόχοιο
θυγατέρες μνησαίαθ’ ὅσοι ὑπὸ Ἴλιον ἦλθον·
ἀρχοὺς αὖ νηῶν ἐρέω νῆάς τε προπάσας.
485 —for you are goddesses and are present and know all things
but we only hear the report and know nothing—
who the leaders and chiefs of the Danaans were.
But the host I could neither narrate nor name,
not even if I had ten mouths and tongues,
490 an unbreakable voice and a heart of bronze,
unless the Olympian Muses, daughters of aegis-bearing Zeus,
should mention all those who came beneath Ilios.
I will tell in turn of all the ships and their leaders.
Some scholars, like West (1999a:189–190), have condemned verses 491–492 (or 491–493) without any textual support on the presumption that a later interpolator must have misunderstood the meaning of πληθύς as the number of the ἡγεμόνες Δαναῶν καὶ κοίρανοι (Β 487); since the bard does go on to enumerate and name them—so goes their conjecture—the interpolator would have felt the need for the exception ‘unless the Olympian Muses’ etc. I find this hypothesis unnecessary. The αὖ of Β 493 marks a contrast between the (allegedly misunderstood) πληθύς and the ἀρχοί. It seems clear to me that the logic of the thought is as follows: 1) tell me, Muses, who the leaders of the Danaans were (Β 484 487); 2) I could not list them without you (implied), for you alone were eyewitnesses and can convey the verbal report (κλέος) that we, in turn, hear (as I declare it) (Β 485–486); 3) the host I could not tell, regardless of personal vigor and skill—so many were they (Β 488–490); 4) unless the Muses chose to mention them too (Β 491–492); 5) but I will tell the catalog of leaders, for the Muses, whose speech I relay, are enumerating them to me as I speak (Β 493). In other words, in 485–486 the singer acknowledges the necessary mediation of the Muses for the catalog of the leaders; ἐρέω at 493 implies that the Muses are answering his request in 484–487 for this catalog. The intervening 488–490 serve rhetorically to underline the immensity of the Greek contingent that sailed to Troy: the singer’s abilities—the strength of his voice, his courage—would be insufficient to enumerate them all. Hence, he shies away from the task (which is mentioned solely for rhetorical purposes) and only asks for the leaders. But an allowance must be made for the overriding will of the inspiring goddesses. Who is the singer to limit what a god can or cannot do? Or to limit what the god can or cannot require him to do? Whether we accept the text as uniformly transmitted or as emended by West and others, there remains a rhetorical contrast between the skill and abilities of the poet—which cannot surmount the barrier of time, compensate for his lack of autopsy, and is physically unable to detail in full the massive undertaking of the Trojan expedition—and the capacities of the Muses, who can supply his need and make him equal to the task if so they choose. Individual skill and inspiration must ultimately cooperate in public delivery. They are distinct and complementary, in mutual tension to a degree, although priority is piously assigned to the divine element.
εἵατ’ ἀκούοντες· ὁ δ’ Ἀχαιῶν νόστον ἄειδε
λυγρόν, ὃν ἐκ Τροίης ἐπετείλατο Παλλὰς Ἀθήνη.
For them sang the famous singer, and they in silence
sat and listened; he sang of the return of the Akhaians,
the woeful return from Troy which Pallas Athena laid upon them.
Penelope hears the song and bursts into tears (α 337–341):
ἔργ’ ἀνδρῶν τε θεῶν τε, τά τε κλείουσιν ἀοιδοί·
τῶν ἕν γέ σφιν ἄειδε παρήμενος, οἱ δὲ σιωπῇ
340 οἶνον πινόντων· ταύτης δ’ ἀποπαύε’ ἀοιδῆς
Phemios, since you know many other subjects spellbinding to mortals,
deeds of men and gods that singers celebrate in song,
sing for them one of these as you sit here, and let them in silence
340 drink their wine; but cease from this woeful song …
To this Telemakhos replies (α 346–352):
τέρπειν ὅππῃ οἱ νόος ὄρνυται; οὔ νύ τ’ ἀοιδοὶ
αἴτιοι, ἀλλά ποθι Ζεὺς αἴτιος, ὅς τε δίδωσιν
ἀνδράσιν ἀλφηστῇσιν ὅπως ἐθέλῃσιν ἑκάστῳ.
350 τούτῳ δ’ οὐ νέμεσις Δαναῶν κακὸν οἶτον ἀείδειν·
τὴν γὰρ ἀοιδὴν μᾶλλον ἐπικλείουσ’ ἄνθρωποι,
ἥ τις ἀκουόντεσσι νεωτάτη ἀμφιπέληται.
My mother, why do you begrudge the trusty singer
to delight as his mind is stirred? It is not the singers
that are to blame but Zeus, perhaps, who gives
to men who eat grain, to each one as he will.
350 There is no cause for anger that this man here sings the evil doom of the Danaans;
for men applaud more whichever song
comes the newest to their ears.
The search for news is the motivation for Telemakhos’ journey, first to Nestor and then to Menelaos (α 281–286). It would have been rhetorically ill-advised for the bard to portray Phemios as song-stitching in performance a well-known and well-loved story.  Homeric poetry, then, adopts the rhetorical conceit, made effectual by the authoritative mimesis of performance, that it narrates history in progress. Not only are Odysseus’ woes the type of novel song that people love; Helen, too, in Ζ 357–358 adopts the perspective of present actors who, in a moment of quiet reflection, ponder how they will be regarded by future generations.  This conceit rules out an explicit self-reference to the performance of Homeric poetry as traditional in theme and diction. There are hints here and there that, in point of fact, it was traditional: Demodokos in the far-flung court of Alkinoos (ζ 8 204–205) has heard of the Trojan War (θ 489–491), and so have the Sirens (μ 189–190).  The metapoetic appreciation that marks the reception of traditional poetry allows us to take even Helen’s words in Ζ 357–358, and many a reference to κλέος, as affirmations of traditionality (González 2015). But the performance rhetoric of the profoundly traditional Homeric stories is that they are ever new in the telling.
10.2.3 Rhapsodic sequencing and relay poetics
καλῇ δαιδαλέῃ, ἐπὶ δ’ ἀργύρεον ζυγὸν ἦεν,
τὴν ἄρετ’ ἐξ ἐνάρων πόλιν Ἠετίωνος ὀλέσσας·
τῇ ὅ γε θυμὸν ἔτερπεν, ἄειδε δ’ ἄρα κλέα ἀνδρῶν.
190 Πάτροκλος δέ οἱ οἶος ἐναντίος ἧστο σιωπῇ,
δέγμενος  Αἰακίδην ὁπότε λήξειεν ἀείδων.
Him they found, delighting his mind with the clear-sounding phorminx,
beautiful, ornamented, and upon it was a silver bridge;
this he won from the spoils after he destroyed the city of Eëtion.
He was delighting his heart with it and was singing the glorious deeds of warriors,
190 and Patroklos alone sat facing him, in silence,
waiting for when the son of Aiakos would leave off singing.
This description, which inspired the choice of cover for this book, raises the question of what Patroklos was waiting for. Was he simply waiting for Akhilleus to end his song so that, leaving the phorminx behind, both should move on to other things? Or is he singled out as ‘alone opposite him’ (οἱ οἶος ἐναντίος), waiting in silence, because he intended next to take the phorminx and continue the singing? The latter, I believe, is the point of the passage. The κιθαρῳδός (and κιθαριστής—it is usually impossible to distinguish them in the artistic record) could perform while sitting.  Patroklos is forcefully marked out as alone on a level with his leader, his attention fully engaged in his performance while he waits for him to end. As the scholia ad loc. long ago noted, ‘[Patroklos] is not alone in the hut, but he alone sat waiting for the son of Aiakos opposite him; for also Automedon was in the hut’ (190a Erbse).  It is no coincidence that this pair, the thematic heart of the poem in course, should have been selected to enact an inset of hypoleptic performance. The word ἐναντίος, which can be read as a simple marker of position, inevitably retains a measure of the antagonistic connotations that make it common in the context of hostile engagement. Its deliberate choice lends Patroklos’ waiting the competitive undertone that is the hallmark of even the most cooperative kind of relay performance.  An audience sensitive to Patroklos’ role in the poem and attuned to the hypoleptic performance practiced by competing rhapsodes would have no trouble understanding why he alone is singled out and why he is said to wait specifically for when Akhilleus would leave off singing. The audience would readily detect the metapoetic meaning. Without this motivation, the narrative’s focus on the waiting remains puzzling.  It is doubtless true, as some have suggested, that we may see in Patroklos the narrative equivalent of the rhapsodic audience.  This much can be derived from Ι 190. But there is no reason why the text could not have made clear that he was merely listening to the singing: why the otherwise odd focus on ‘waiting for when Akhilleus would leave off singing’?  This suggests that, the very moment Akhilleus should leave off singing, Patroklos was going to do something specific, the identity of which would have been readily inferable by the audience. This, I submit, is to take up the lyre and continue the song right where Akhilleus had left off. It never comes to pass, of course, since the embassy arrives to interrupt the relay performance.  Perceau (2005:71) objects that “in epic only solos are mentioned, never relay singing by several singers.”  She is right, of course, if she means singing by characters identified as professional ἀοιδοί. But this is too simplistic an approach to the intricate metapoetic texture and mimetic pragmatics of Homeric epic. I need only cite here the remarks by Tarditi (1968:140) concerning Andromakhe’s, Hekabe’s, and Helen’s laments for Hektor at Ω 720–776: “Ciascuna delle tre donne esprime il suo dolore e rievoca un aspetto dell’umanità o dell’eroismo di Ettore, ciascuna ‘cuce’ il suo canto in quella, potremmo chiamarla, rapsodia trenodica che viene cosí composta.” 
μέλπεο καὶ κιθάριζε καὶ ἀγλαΐας ἀλέγυνε
δέγμενος ἐξ ἐμέθεν· …
But since your heart is crazy about playing the lyre,
sing and play it and heed splendid festivity
taking it  up from me; …
The key word is δέγμενος, and in context its object must be all that Hermes’ τέχνη encompasses—preeminently the lyre, the focus of Apollo’s wonder, but also the ‘divine song’ (442) that the lyre accompanies and perhaps even dancing. Apollo is portrayed as permanently entering upon the art of Hermes (464–465), whose succession is enacted by an archetypal hypoleptic transfer in the course of a rhapsodic hymnic performance. Adopting the manner of a commercial exchange of divine τιμαί, the ceded privileges become the permanent property of the god who receives them. 
Of especial significance here is the claim that, by singing Homeric poetry rhapsodically, performers refashioned it into a certain thematic sequence (εἱρμός τις) or stitch-work (ῥαφή). This reshaping is imagined as a cooperative endeavor that results in the artistic unity exhibited by the poems. The scholiast further underlines in the alternative account the collaborative nature of hypoleptic performance by his use of ἀκεῖσθαι, ‘to heal’ or ‘cure’, as a metaphor for ‘mending’ and ‘repairing’. Whereas formerly the poetry had been transmitted, and was correspondingly performed, piecemeal, with an overriding competitive focus on individual prize-winning and a consequent ‘willful’ injury to the notional integrity of the poems, once the outward circumstances of performance—the introduction of the poems—enforced the ‘correct’ sequence, the stitching of the contestants was reconceived as reparative, i.e. as the integrative recomposition of the erstwhile scattered members. Hence, the performers were no longer called arnōidoi, after the prize that was emblematic of their rivalry, but ῥαψῳδοί, after the corrective stitching enforced by the mandatory adherence to the notional canonical sequence. However anachronistic, this elucidation of the terms ἀρνῳδός and ῥαψῳδός (on which see Durbec 2003) illuminates the competitive and cooperative dimensions of rhapsodic performance. In particular, it tellingly acknowledges that, even when such performance was unconstrained and the rhapsode sang whichever parts he wanted, still the practice of his craft effected a narrative whole that exhibited a particular thematic sequence and resembled a kind of stitch-work. In other words, the aesthetics of rhapsodic performance may have moved its emphasis from competition to cooperation, but thematic stitching was, and remained, at the heart of the rhapsode’s craft.
τῶν μὲν μηδὲν ἄειδε, σὺ δ’ ἄλλης μνῆσαι ἀοιδῆς.
ὁ δὲ Ὅμηρος βουλόμενος ἀκολούθως τὸ ἄπορον λῦσαι φησίν·
οὐδέ ποτ’ ἀμφὶ Διὸς τύμβῳ καναχήποδες ἵπποι
ἅρματα συντρίψουσιν ἐρίζοντες περὶ νίκης.
Come now, Muse, to me what is, shall be, and was before—
of these, sing nothing; but you [Homer?] give heed to the rest of the song.
Homer, wishing to solve the conundrum in a manner that was consistent [with Hesiod’s invocation], said:
Never shall horses with sounding hoofs around the tomb of Zeus
shatter chariots as they vie for victory.
Note the explicit focus on sequence: Homer wishes his solution to ‘follow’ (ἀκολούθως 99) Hesiod’s challenge.  Note also, incidentally, conclusive proof that ἄλλης in the common hymnic transition καὶ ἄλλης μνήσομ’ ἀοιδῆς (e.g. Hymn to Demeter 495) does not mean ‘another song’ but ‘the rest of the song’:  Hesiod is not challenging Homer to think of another song, but to take up the song where he left off and build the following lines upon his anti-invocation.
⟨Ὁ.⟩ ἔκλυον ἱδρώοντας, ἐπεὶ πολέμοιο κορέσθην.
Hesiod: Then they dined on beef and the horses’ necks
Homer: sweating, they unyoked after they had their fill of fighting.
The corresponding account in Diogenes Laertios 1.57 runs as follows:
In the Hipparkhos, the key terms are ‘by relay’ (ἐξ ὑπολήψεως) and ‘in sequence’ (ἐφεξῆς). The former is unproblematic: each rhapsode takes up (ὑπολαμβάνω) where the former left off.  This expression corresponds closely to ἐκ διαδοχῆς, which the scholia D to Α 604 uses to gloss ἀμειβόμεναι: ἐξ ἀμοιβῆς καὶ διαδοχῆς ᾄδουσαι. Like ἐξ ὑπολήψεως, ἐκ διαδοχῆς could be understood not only synchronically but also diachronically: ‘Of old they called Homeridai those in the line of Homer who also sang his poetry in [genealogical] succession’ (i.e. as his successors).  What ‘in sequence’ (ἐφεξῆς) refers to is not so clear: either to the rhapsodes (one rhapsode after another) or to the subject matter (one episode after another). Collins (2004:193n4) thinks that it refers to “the sequence of performance by rhapsodes, i.e. one after another, rather than to the sequence of poetic material.”  But unless one can plausibly suggest alternative modes of singing that the specification ‘in sequence’ is supposed to rule out, what could out-of-sequence rhapsodes be? Is the point simply to rule out the unpredictable sequence that obtains for the singing of skolia at a symposium? Collins’s view depends on the notion that rhapsodes were enrolled to compete in a particular order agreed to in advance, from which they were not to depart once before the public. That performers participated in some pre-arranged order seems beyond question, but that there was a felt need to rule out a departure from this order seems improbable.  Far more likely, especially in view of the scholia to Nemean 2 reviewed above (§10.2.3.3), both ἐφεξῆς and ἐξ ὑπολήψεως regard the sequencing of the subject matter: the former requires that episodes follow one another in agreement with an established traditional order;  the latter, that there be no thematic gap between two consecutive performances. The Panathenaic rule ascribes what must have been the late-classical and Hellenistic practice to an archaic πρῶτος εὑρετής, either Hipparkhos or Solon. Whether such a rule ever existed and was enforced is beside the point. What matters is that the thematic sequencing fundamental to rhapsodic practice and responsible for the artistic unity of the Homeric poems is re-imagined as the outcome of performance standards that force rhapsodes to recompose (in the sense of ‘ordering as an organic whole’) an otherwise scattered and disorderly body of Homeric material.
πάντων μὲν κρατέειν ἐθέλει, πάντεσσι δ’ ἀνάσσειν,
πᾶσι δὲ σημαίνειν, ἅ τιν’ οὐ πείσεσθαι ὀΐω.
But this fellow here wants to be above all others,
wants to rule all, lord it over all,
to boss all around—wherein I think someone will not obey him.
Akhilleus’ retort reacts closely to the formulation of Agamemnon’s contemptuous charges (Α 293–296):
εἰ δὴ σοὶ πᾶν ἔργον ὑπείξομαι ὅττί κεν εἴπῃς·
295 ἄλλοισιν δὴ ταῦτ’ ἐπιτέλλεο, μὴ γὰρ ἔμοιγε
σήμαιν’· οὐ γὰρ ἔγωγ’ ἔτι σοὶ πείσεσθαι ὀΐω.
Well might I be called a coward and a nobody
if I yield to you in everything you say.
295 Enjoin these things on others, but do not boss me around;
for I, at least, am minded no longer to obey you.
Agamemnon has said, in effect: ‘who does he think he is, bossing everybody around?’ With his rhetorical question at Α 290–291, he further implies that, because Akhilleus owes to the gods his stature as a fighter, his greatness gives him no leave to insult others.  To paraphrase Akhilleus’ retort: ‘You will be right that I am a nobody if I yield to you and you still get to boss me around. I am the one who will not obey you!’ As Monro (1958:255) observes, “Achilles echoes l. 289, mockingly.” Akhilleus’ ‘reactive’ performance contains strong thematic and verbal echoes that closely mirror the words of the performer (Agamemnon) who has just left off speaking. This amply justifies the narrator’s recourse to ὑποβλήδην to qualify the manner of Akhilleus’ answer.
10.2.4 Earliest attestations of ῥαψῳδός
In the face of such uncertainty, Lesky asserts that, although the Sphinx was doubtless featured in the Oidipodeia, it was no riddling monster defeated by Oidipous’ cleverness, rather, one he vanquished by sheer force (1966:320).  But what is the proof that such was the Sphinx of Theban cyclical epic? Lesky refers to the “certain impression” that the Sphinx in the much debated scholion of Peisandros  “did not pose riddles, but like other mythic pests merely picked its victims arbitrarily” (320). This comment seems at first incompatible with the scholion’s explicit language that “[Oidipous] then married his mother after he solved the riddle.”  Evidently, Lesky deems this statement one of those small interpolations that can be readily removed from the coherent subject matter of the scholion. 
πεῖραρ ἐπαλλάξαντες ἐπ’ ἀμφοτέροισι τάνυσσαν
ἄρρηκτόν τ’ ἄλυτόν τε, τὸ πολλῶν γούνατ’ ἔλυσεν.
alternating it over both [camps] they tensed,
unbreakable, impossible to undo, which undid the knees of many.
This passage was already a crux in ancient times and the attempts to solve it are numerous.  Space prevents me from entering into a detailed exegesis here. I will only make the interpretive choices necessary for my present argument, which focuses on the word ἐπαλλάσσω. Homeric parallels and context show that the subject τοί must be Zeus and Poseidon (the plural can stand for the expected dual τώ).  This identification is confirmed by ἀμφοτέροισι; had τοί stood for the warring camps (Krates’ reading), this would privilege the alternative ἀλλήλοισι, apparently reported as a variant by Aristarkhos.  πεῖραρ is used metaphorically for the instrument that applies ‘strife’ and ‘war’ to both camps  and it is effectively a synonym of τέλος (Υ 101; cf. Β 121–122 Γ 291 Π 630). That it is conceived as a rope that effects conflict is clear from the adjectives ἄρρηκτον and ἄλυτον at Ν 360. The main verb τάνυσσαν conveys the tension of war and strife as it is wielded by the rival gods. It suggests the tensing of a bowstring (Δ 124) and is eminently suitable for a rope pulled in opposite directions. τείνω and τανύω are even used directly with ἔρις (Ξ 389 Π 662), πτόλεμος (Μ 436 Ο 413), μάχη (Μ 436 Λ 336 Ο 413), and πόνος (Ρ 400–401).
10.2.5 The differentia of the rhapsodic craft
10.2.6 Stitching or weaving?
μέλπομεν, ἐν νεαροῖς ὕμνοις ῥάψαντες ἀοιδὴν,
Φοῖβον Ἀπόλλωνα χρυσάορον, ὃν τέκε Λητώ. 
Marx (1925:399) construed the syntax as μέλπομεν ἐν νεαροῖς ὕμνοις … | Φοῖβον Ἀπόλλωνα and rendered it, “[i]n Delos haben damals zuerst ich und Homeros, die Dichter, besungen in neuen Hymnen, nachdem wir das Lied ersonnen hatten, den Phoibos Apollon.” But this translation depends on Fränkel’s unincisive “ersinnen” and entails the implausible view that ‘Hesiod’ is drawing attention to a compositional phase before the performance, at which the song(s) would have been stitched. There is a much better explanation for the aorist participle (see below). Clearly the focus of the fragment is on the performance in Delos, not on any preliminaries.