A New Way of Thinking About Music Composition Technique

I am going to try and set out an argument here which I don’t feel is totally developed in my mind yet, but it is also something that I haven’t read anywhere else. So I feel a strong need to try and put it into words, if only for myself. I feel like it is the end of a path of thought that I’ve been following since I started doing my PhD 3 years ago, and everything I’ve thought, read, and done over that time has gradually added pieces to the puzzle. I’m drawing on the ideas of McLuhan, Heidegger, and other theorists, and I think it’s important to say that I feel I may not completely understand their ideas. So if anyone has a better grasp than me on these theorists, feel free to pull me up. In fact the reason I’m writing this is in the hope that people who know a lot more than me (of whom I’m sure there are many) will read it and point out the flaws in it, which will help me to refine it.

Here’s a quote from an Alan Watts lecture which I hope will prime the reader for the argument I’m about to put forward.

‘Do you have to an idea how it’s done to be able to do it? After all, you can open and close your hand perfectly easily. And you say, “I know how to open my hand, I know how to close my hand, because I can do it!” 

“But how do you do it?”

“I don’t know, I’m not a physiologist.”
“Well the physiologist says he knows how he does it but he can’t do it any better than you can.”

So you’re opening and closing your hand, aren’t you. You don’t know how you do it. Maybe you’re blueing your eyes too. You don’t know how you do it. Because, when you say “I don’t know how I do it,” all you are saying is, “I do know how to do it but I can’t put it into words. I cannot, in other words, translate the activity called ‘opening and closing my hand’ into an exact system of symbols. Into thinking.” That’s all. And actually to translate the opening and closing of your hand into an exact system of symbols would take forever. Because trying to understand the world, purely by thinking about it is as clumsy a process as trying to drink the pacific ocean out of a pint beer mug.’

- Alan Watts

My argument is that for centuries we have misunderstood the usefulness of rules for music composition. Any theory, technique or ruleset which has been distilled into language and passed on through generations of musicians inherently lacks the incredible detail and complexity of the true experience of music. Music which moves us continues to be made in abundance by composers who lack these codified rules, and composers who know every theory and technique ever devised are not guaranteed to ever write any music of great value.

The simple answer to this is that creativity, not theory, is key to good composition. The rules simply augment creativity, by allowing the composer a foothold in the otherwise murky territory of arranging a few sounds from the infinity of possible sounds, in order to create a specific emotion. I wouldn’t disagree with this. But I believe there is a more important purpose: to provide a game, a challenge, in which the composer can become immersed and allow an instinctive creativity to flow. I believe that this effect increases both the quality and quantity of music we write, and is far more important than, and unrelated to, the actual content of the rules.

Premise 1: The true experience of music is far more complex than any theory can tell us.

Music is incredibly complex and chaotic. In our musical education, where theories are passed down using language, it is impossible to address every aspect of music, and things must be simplified in order to be put into words and understood. A good theory of music or compositional technique should be a systematised mirror of a listener’s music perception. The rules are supposed to represent the internal reality of the music listening experience, so that we have an instant shortcut to evoking any mood or effect we wish by simply applying the technique which we know has the desired translation in the listener’s mind.

Theories, like road maps, can only present a small amount of information, for a limited purpose and from a limited perspective. Any theory must prioritise some musical elements over others, in the way that some traditional classical text-books may focus largely on pitch and rhythm, at the expense of timbre, texture, instrumentation and form. Music theory often completely omits context, social and cultural meaning, performative aspects, medium, time, and many other elements which I would argue are equally important parts of what makes up music. And even if all of these elements could be considered at once, a true theory of music would also have to incorporate the complex relationships between all of these elements, and beyond that, the relationships between one piece of music and every other piece of music ever written.

An analogy I often come back to here is weather. We know a lot about the weather, so much so that we can take measurements and create computer models of it, which can predict what it will do next. But we can’t predict very far ahead, because the reality is always infinitely more complex and chaotic than the model we can create. A truly accurate weather model would have to be at least the size of the actual world, and would need to contain data about everything that has happened on earth since the big bang. 

I believe that music is like this, and that the people who are most blind to this fact are composers. Despite its clunkiness, conscious thought tends to override our more sensitive instincts. In the same way that a golfer who suddenly thinks about her technique mid-swing will almost certainly mess it up, so we trained composers can lose touch with the true nature of music when we have access to a simplified theoretical version of it. Edmund Husserl began the philosophical school of Phenomenology because he felt that philosophers had pushed so far into the realm of semantics that they had lost touch with the actual experience of the world. He directed the attention back to the “the things themselves”. I feel that music theory is in need of a similar reality check. But I digress - the important point here is that music is infinitely complex beyond what any theory can describe, and that theory can hide this complexity from us.

For the purpose of the argument I am dividing musical knowledge into two categories: codified and tacit. Codified knowledge is applied consciously, and is necessarily a simplified version of reality. Tacit knowledge is applied instinctively and unconsciously, and addresses reality in a higher degree of detail. Through repetition and experience, codified knowledge can become Tacit knowledge. We often don’t give tacit knowledge the respect it deserves, instead prioritising that which can be expressed in words. 

Premise 2: The millions of decisions we make while composing are largely hidden from us.

Music composition involves much more decision-making than we could ever imagine. Very few of these decisions are made consciously. At every moment while creating music we make make hundreds of decisions, though we may only be conscious of the most basic, such as which note to choose next. Nevertheless it is the hidden decisions that our brains make for us, which really define the quality of a musical work. Our conscious minds are like a bottle-neck, only able to consider a handful of things at once, whereas our unconscious minds bring all of our knowledge and experience to bear on the situation, all at once. Consciousness may be an amazing and baffling part of human beings, but the majority of our brain to which we have no conscious access is also incredibly powerful.

Martin Heidegger wrote on the nature of human expertise, his classic example being the master carpenter, for whom the hammer is no longer an object, but an extension of himself. The difference between an expert and a mere novice, is that the novice must apply rules. The rules by their very nature must ignore subtlety for the sake of simplicity. However with experience, a master is able to transcend the rules and respond to a situation in all of its uniqueness. As every moment as composers we are faced with situations which are ever so slightly different to any other situation. To respond reflexively to what emerges within our own creations, without obscuring this with the prejudice of theory, is to be truly engaged in making music.

Another important and often overlooked aspect is the effect of our equipment on what we do. Marshall McLuhan’s famous quip “the medium is the message” refers to the fact that the technology we employ shapes our behaviour and personality on a very deep level. So just as Heidegger’s carpenter welcomes the hammer as a transparent extension of himself, we can also say that the carpenter takes on the characteristics of the hammer. It follows that if we only use traditional notation to engage with music, we take on the priorities, prejudices and characteristics of that medium. I mentioned above the mind-boggling amount of unconscious decisions made at any given moment while composing; in selecting a medium, we enter that medium’s mode of thinking, and by doing so we determine many of these choices in advance without even realising.

Given that codified knowledge is likely to be much more coarse and clumsy than tacit knowledge, to create music in an entirely conscious way would result in a music which is not responsive to the subtleties of actual experience. I believe that this is the origin of the characteristic which we informally refer to as “forcedness” in music. As a listener it is very difficult to explain why a piece of music sounds “forced” – it is something we feel intuitively. I believe that this intuition comes from the sense that the music is too much a product of a conscious mind – a mind which is simply applying codified knowledge rather than responding to the fine intricacies of a unique situation.

Premise 3: Being in a “flow” state taps into tacit knowledge, and increases the quality and quantity of work.

After extensive research on creativity, Csikszentmihalyi introduced the the theory of “flow” - a heightened state of creative engagement with a task. He describes it as an “almost automatic, effortless, yet highly focused state of consciousness”. It’s interesting here that Csikszentmihalyi uses the word “automatic” as this highlights for me that the flow state is one where the powerful sum of our brain power – not just our conscious mind – can be applied. The unconscious parts of the mind are free to come to the fore, and we can proceed more subtly and intuitively than normal. Flow is also a very enjoyable experience, and being in it allows us to focus intensely for long periods of time without fatiguing, and having little sense of how much time has passed.

The two aspects of flow I have mentioned above – its automatic nature and enjoyability – are key to successful music creation. Firstly as I discussed above, unfettering the unconscious mind allows to respond more sensitively and specifically, therefore increasing the quality of the work. In addition to this, the euphoric nature of the flow experience simply ensures that more music is done. To produce great work, it is important to produce a lot, and spend a great amount of time doing it. Whether a work is discarded or presented, it is important not to ignore the factor of whether it will actually be written at all.

Finally it is a key part of this argument that the conditions required to reach this flow state are the perfect balance between challenge and ability. If a task is too easy, it will be tedious and boring, making it difficult to truly engage. If a task is too difficult it will simply provoke frustration. Video game developers understand this very well, carefully planning the game to increase the challenge in perfect synchrony with the increasing skill of the player, keeping them in a constant flow state. Unfortunately these conditions are difficult to manufacture in real life, and we often find ourselves unable to get lost in tasks which are too hard or too easy. We are not as creative, and we give up more easily. Flow is an important catalyst for how much and how well we create.

The point: Rules are important, but for a different reasons to what we have always assumed.

My argument is that the content of rules is secondary to their ability to induce flow. The content of a theory – its  ability to guide us in making effective compositional decisions – can  be important in learning to write music. But I argue that a “road map” as such is far less useful to us than any strategy which will challenge and engage the mind, facilitate the flow state, and allow the creator to proceed instinctively, with an awareness of subtlety that the conscious mind cannot achieve. I propose that regardless of the content of any ruleset, its value is not in what musical materials it guides us to select, but on how effectively the task engages the mind, and on whether the music actually comes into being at all.

It’s often observed anecdotally that restrictions and limitations can inspire creativity. Some of these restrictions might be completely arbitrary - using only a handful of notes, locking yourself into a certain pre-determined structure or form, or even using a method such as Brian Eno’s Oblique Strategies. I believe that these attempts to draw out creative thinking are exactly the same as the phenomena I am talking about. But the difference is that it in their case, the arbitrariness is obvious. We know that these methods are subjective and simply provide a means to a creative end. However compositional theories and techniques which have been passed down by tradition, and claim to be an accurate road map of musical effectiveness, are not so easily recognised for their true use, which I propose is no different to the arbitrary strategies mentioned above. They are a means to an end, and provide a mental challenge to engage creativity.

Perhaps the most important implication of this argument is that which particular set of rules you employ is unimportant. I’d like to draw upon three illustrations to make this clear: firstly the twelve-tone system employed by atonal composers in the early 20th century; sencondly the Schillinger method, an incredibly complex numerical system for creating musical patterns and variations, utilised by Gershwin and other tin-pan alley composers and more recently post-minimalists such as Mikel Rouse; and finally modulation in traditional Western classical forms. These instances mainly deal with the western art music tradition, though I feel there are many examples elsewhere, which I may write on at some other time.

Illustration 1: Serialism

Twelve-tone serialism is a difficult example, as the unique sonic character of its products threatens to undermine my argument, however I think it highlights my point well. My view is that the rules of serialism have little to do with an acute understanding of musical reality as we experience it. As a road map, they are almost useless. But in the wake of tonality, and in the absence of any other rules, a system – it could have been any system – was necessary. Without the intense rigour of the twelve-tone system, and the engaging challenge it presents, perhaps none of its proponents would have been able to engage so fully in the practice of composition. 

The counter-argument here is of course that some (myself included) may complain that serialist works are not harmonically and melodically pleasing, due to the content of that particular ruleset. I concede that the rules one chooses to follow are not completely arbitrary, they will of course determine to a greater or lesser extent the sound of the work. However in the case of serialism, the innovations of form, the incredible use of timbre and creative orchestration was certainly not built into the serialist system – these aspects were a product of the composers’ instinctual creativity, unlocked by the challenge presented by the system.

Illustration  2: The Schillinger System

Another interesting example is the similarly labyrinthine and rational method of composition developed in the 1930s by Joseph Schillinger. Set out in two giant volumes, it sets out an extensive method of numerical pattern making for rhythm, melody, harmony, form, and even orchestration. Many of the procedures involve starting with a “seed” or a few integers in a particular order, say, 5, 2, 3, and then applying rules over and over until it is elaborated into a whole piece. I was lucky enough to spend some time with Jeremy Arden, a world expert on the method, to take a sort of crash course. Of course my knowledge of the system is only rudimentary, but I was able to apply certain aspects of it to my composition almost immediately. 

On reflecting upon my use of the system, I mostly remember being absorbed in the game of it. Scribbling down numbers, drawing graphs, and trying to make the pieces fit in an elegant way was a fun and engaging activity that just happened to result in a musical product. It may not be surprising however, that the product was recognisable as my own in style. The fact that my own compositional idiosyncrasies shone through so clearly was obviously not due to the system itself, but I do not remember clearly making the types of decisions that would lead to that result. Those decisions were not made consciously, and may not have been made at all had my creativity not been engaged in the number games of the Schillinger system.

Illustration 3: Modulation in Classical Forms

When one has reached a certain level of theoretical knowledge, one of the most satisfying and clear-cut problem-solving activities is modulation. The goal is clear, and the composer must employ both the rational knowledge of what works, and a creative flair to do it innovatively. The practice of modulating to a target key seems to resemble a chess game more than any other musical practice. 

In many classical forms, it is considered important to return to your starting key. It is thought to be crucial to creating a feeling of resolution at the end of a large-scale work. But Nicholas Cook has shown evidence that this is not the case – in a large-scale work the listener is unable to perceive the return to the original key. With a whole journey of complex musical material to separate the beginning from the end, we simply don’t have the cognitive capacity to retain the sense of the starting key. Therefore, ending in any key would be equally satisfying so long as the ending itself provides closure with respect to whatever key it happens to find itself in (This excludes of course listeners with perfect pitch, though I suspect even for them it may be consciously perceived as unusual rather than emotionally felt as unsatisfying). 

If this seemingly important practice is of no use at all to anyone, one might expect it to die out. And though it is true that contemporary music places much less importance on return to the original key, it is still taught and practiced in the classical world. I would argue that it is of use, but not to the listener as many have thought. It is of use to the composer in that the problem-solving challenge of returning to the original key sustains an engaged attitude through which creativity can flow into all other aspects of composition.

Conclusion:

Musical composition, like any art practice, emerges from deep parts of the mind in ways which are largely ineffable. Despite this complexity, we pass down practices and traditions which are necessarily simplified, and cannot truly reflect the complex reality of musical experience. It may seem in this article that I am downplaying the importance of these traditions, but this is not the case. The rules are not so much a guide or a map, but something much more creative. They are a catalyst for creativity. 

Our current paradigm sees music theory as a tool set, which we can pull from and use in the way a mechanic might use a screwdriver. But I think this is an inaccurate understanding. In my view, to use a slightly dramatic analogy, the unconscious mind is like a wild horse, powerful and creative, yet extremely difficult to control, and rules and theories are simply the reins and saddle with which we can coerce the horse in a certain direction.