Music has long found inspiration in the natural world, often mimicking its sounds—birdsong, rainfall, or the thunderous roar of waves. But beneath these evocative sounds lie deeper, more profound lessons: the structures and forms that govern natural phenomena. Unlike human-made music, with its reliance on repetition and resolution, natural forces unfold as continuous, transformative events. They resist predictability, embracing constant motion and irreversible change.
Storms rage and dissipate unpredictably, volcanoes build tension over decades before unleashing transformative eruptions, and glaciers slowly carve entire landscapes over millennia. For composers, these processes offer a treasure trove of structural inspiration. Rather than recreating the literal sound of thunder or volcanic eruptions, the challenge lies in adopting the form and flow of these phenomena—exploring how they evolve, disrupt, and transform the environment they touch.
Storms: Rhythmic Chaos and Unpredictable Dynamics
Storms are defined by their unpredictability, a characteristic that makes them an ideal metaphor for breaking free from conventional compositional forms. They develop spontaneously, grow with bursts of energy, and move unpredictably across the landscape, leaving a trail of transformation in their wake.
Chaotic Rhythms and Layered Textures
A storm’s power lies in its ability to blend simultaneous, independent forces—gusts of wind, crackling lightning, torrential rain—into a cohesive but chaotic whole. For composers, this suggests a layered approach, where independent musical elements interact dynamically without strict synchronization. Strings might represent the continuous push of wind, while brass instruments punctuate with thunderous outbursts, and percussion mirrors the irregular drumming of rain.
The goal is not to align these elements but to allow them to coexist in dynamic tension. The unpredictable relationships between layers create an ever-shifting texture that mimics the storm’s chaotic yet natural flow.
Forward Motion Without Repetition
Unlike traditional musical forms, which often cycle back to earlier themes, a storm-inspired composition would avoid direct repetition. Once a gust of wind passes, it does not return—it moves forward, evolving and dissipating. A storm-driven piece might use asymmetrical phrases, sudden shifts in dynamics, and irregular rhythms to maintain a sense of forward motion. Each moment builds on the last, driving the piece toward an inevitable, unpredictable conclusion.
Volcanoes: Tension, Release, and Evolution
Where storms thrive on chaos, volcanoes represent the immense power of tension and release. Their cycles of dormancy and eruption offer a unique model for compositions that balance restraint with explosive transformation.
The Long Tension
Volcanoes often lie dormant for centuries, with little external activity betraying the pressure building below. In a musical context, this dormancy might inspire passages of subtle tension, where the energy is palpable but not yet unleashed. This could involve extended drones, microtonal dissonances, or gradual shifts in texture that create a sense of unease. The buildup is slow, almost imperceptible, but the listener feels the weight of what is to come.
Irreversible Eruptions
When a volcano erupts, it does so with overwhelming force, forever altering the landscape. Musically, this could take the form of sudden, chaotic outbursts—wild improvisation, extreme dynamics, or dissonant clusters of sound. The eruption is not just a climactic moment but a transformative one: the music shifts permanently, with new textures and ideas emerging from the wreckage.
Unlike a storm, which dissipates quickly, the aftermath of a volcanic eruption lingers. The music might settle into a quieter, reflective phase, but it would carry the scars of the eruption, incorporating fragments of the earlier chaos in a fundamentally altered form. Each eruption leaves the piece more complex, layering its history into the present.
Glaciers: Monumental Patience and Irreversible Transformation
While storms and volcanoes are dramatic and immediate, glaciers operate on a scale of quiet inevitability. Their motion is almost imperceptible, yet over thousands of years, they shape valleys, carve mountains, and create entire ecosystems. For composers, glaciers offer a model of music that prioritizes time, subtlety, and cumulative transformation.
Expanding Time Horizons
Glaciers move at a pace so slow it defies comprehension. For a composer, this offers an opportunity to explore forms that stretch beyond traditional temporal frameworks. Instead of focusing on short-term contrasts or climaxes, a glacier-inspired composition might unfold over an extended duration, with changes so gradual they are only noticeable in hindsight.
This could be achieved through the slow evolution of timbre or harmony, where individual shifts are almost imperceptible but accumulate to create a profound transformation. A drone might serve as the foundation, with overtones subtly morphing over time, mirroring the glacier’s relentless, glacial pace.
Carving the Musical Landscape
Glaciers are not static; they shape the land through constant pressure and erosion. Their progress is marked by the valleys and fjords they leave behind—evidence of their irreversible impact. In music, this might translate to a form where each phase leaves an indelible mark on the next. Themes could emerge subtly from the texture, only to be reshaped and eroded over time, leaving behind traces that influence the piece’s later development.
For instance, a single motif might be introduced early in the composition, only to be stretched, fragmented, and transformed over the course of the piece. By the end, the motif is unrecognizable, yet its influence is felt in every layer of the music.
Growth and Retreat
Glaciers not only advance but also recede, melting back and exposing the terrain they once covered. This dual motion of growth and retreat could inspire a dynamic form where musical textures expand and contract, revealing new layers or returning to earlier states in altered forms. The interplay of expansion and dissolution creates a sense of inevitability, where every motion feels tied to the larger, irreversible arc of the piece.
The Compositional Challenge: Embracing Irreversibility
Nature’s forces teach us that change is constant, forward-moving, and irrevocable. Storms demonstrate the beauty of chaos and unpredictability, volcanoes reveal the power of tension and release, and glaciers remind us of the profound impact of time and patience. For composers, these natural models offer a challenge: to create music that mirrors these processes, rejecting the cyclical resolutions of tradition in favor of continuous evolution.
Storms inspire layered unpredictability, where the interplay of independent forces creates dynamic textures and rhythms.
Volcanoes embody the tension between restraint and eruption, with moments of chaos leaving permanent marks on the music.
Glaciers offer a framework for slow, cumulative transformation, where change is subtle but irreversible.
By focusing on the structural and formal qualities of these natural phenomena, rather than their literal sounds, composers can push the boundaries of their craft. These models invite us to see music not as a static art form but as a living process, capable of reshaping the listener’s emotional landscape—just as nature reshapes the world itself.
Eric Satie, in the Paris of the late 19th century, was the type of man you might not notice at first glance—a thin figure in a bowler hat, walking alone along the cobbled streets of Montmartre. But look a little closer, and you’d see a world brimming with contradiction. Satie, the Velvet Gentleman, with his somber gray suits and enigmatic smile, carried a quiet defiance that set him apart from the riotous energy of Impressionist salons and the grandiosity of the Romantic stage. While others were composing symphonic epics, Satie was penning Gymnopédies, pieces so understated they felt almost like whispers in a crowded room.
AI representation of Boulevard Montmartre
In Paris, the Boulevard Montmartre was alive with possibilities. Cafés buzzed with chatter, cigarette smoke curling into the air, artists sketching ideas on napkins. Satie was there, of course, scribbling in the margins of a notebook. He was perpetually on the edge of things—not quite part of the bohemian chaos, not entirely removed. Critics labeled his work too simple, his melodies too spare, but Satie’s music was always coherent in its own way, exploratory and unhurried. He wasn’t trying to dazzle; he was trying to make you feel something. And for those who listened carefully, his music lingered like the memory of a dream.
Satie didn’t live a loud life, but it was punctuated by odd details that feel cinematic in retrospect. The identical umbrellas he carried but never seemed to use. The tiny apartment in Arcueil, stacked high with papers he called “memory tablets.” The long walks through Paris, sometimes in the rain, always alone. His world was filled with small rebellions—his refusal to conform to the conventions of the Paris Conservatoire, his rejections of musical trends, and his peculiar habit of eating only white foods.
In the early morning, Montmartre had its own rhythm. The city was quieter then, the shops still shuttered, the flower-sellers arranging their blooms. Satie would walk these streets, his footsteps a soft metronome against the stones. You can imagine him humming under his breath, some half-formed melody that might later find its way into Gnossienne. His music was not about grandeur; it was about moments, like the warm glow of lamplight on a rainy evening or the sound of a piano drifting through an open window.
He once wrote, “I am for music that we do not listen to deliberately, music that creates an atmosphere.” This wasn’t just a philosophy—it was a quiet revolution. Satie’s work wasn’t meant to compete with the world around it; it was meant to live beside it, to be the soundtrack to unspoken thoughts and fleeting emotions. In his time, it made him an outsider. Now, it makes him timeless.
A Life of Contradictions
Eric Satie’s life, much like his music, was a study in contrasts: stability and upheaval, affection and solitude, simplicity and mystery. Born in the coastal town of Honfleur, France, in 1866, Satie’s early years were shaped by loss. His mother, a musically inclined woman who may have planted the seeds of his future career, died when he was just six years old. Shortly after, his father remarried and sent Eric and his brother to live with their grandparents. This period of instability—constant movement between homes, and later schools—seemed to foreshadow the nomadic and unconventional life he would lead as an adult.
Honfleur to Paris
Despite these early disruptions, Satie displayed a clear aptitude for music. Family anecdotes suggest he had a knack for improvising melodies on the piano, but when he entered the Paris Conservatoire in 1879, the establishment rejected his potential. Professors derided his talent, calling him “lazy” and “insignificant,” unable—or unwilling—to conform to the rigorous expectations of classical music training. Satie, for his part, seemed uninterested in playing by the rules. He would later quip,
“My role is not to be a servant to tradition, but to question it.”
This refusal to adhere to convention marked Satie’s entire career. It also shaped his personal life. Unlike the social butterflies of Montmartre’s artistic circles, Satie remained a private, solitary figure. His only known romantic relationship was with Suzanne Valadon, an artist and free spirit who shared his love for unconventionality. Valadon, famously the first woman admitted to the Société Nationale des Beaux-Arts, painted Satie’s portrait during their brief affair. In turn, he referred to her as his “great love,” and after their relationship ended, he claimed to have built a shrine to her in his tiny Parisian apartment.
Valadon, however, moved on quickly, leaving Satie heartbroken. The abrupt end of their relationship seemed to seal his fate as a lifelong loner. He never pursued another romantic attachment and instead turned inward, pouring his energy into his music and peculiar daily rituals. By the time he settled in Arcueil, a suburb of Paris, Satie’s life had taken on an almost monastic quality.
A Portrait of Solitude
Eric Satie’s life in solitude was one of contrasts. He was both intensely private and a fixture of Parisian bohemia, a man who frequented the cafés of Montmartre but lived 10 kilometers away in a stark apartment in Arcueil. There, far from the bustling city center, Satie crafted some of his most introspective works, music that mirrored the stillness and mystery of his surroundings. His solitude, far from being a mere quirk, became the crucible in which his genius quietly flourished.
His apartment, as small as it was, felt like an extension of Satie himself. It was sparsely furnished—barely more than a bed, a table, and supposedly two upright pianos stacked on top of each other and both unplayable!—and filled with oddities. Stacks of identical gray umbrellas leaned in corners, and papers filled with cryptic notations and sketches, hinted at the restless creativity that simmered beneath his composed exterior. After his death in 1925, friends and fellow composers (Darius Milhaud) who ventured into the apartment found strange, almost otherworldly artifacts: bizarre drawings, unpublished manuscripts, and an assortment of mundane objects that seemed laden with hidden meaning. The home offered no comfort in the traditional sense, but it was a sanctuary for his peculiar and singular mind.
Satie’s daily life followed an almost ritualistic pattern. Each morning, he set out from Arcueil to Montmartre, a nearly ten-kilometer walk that he undertook in all weather. He would walk alone, often in his signature gray velvet suit, his long strides echoing the rhythm of his thoughts. These walks, as mundane as they might seem, were essential to him. They were a time for observation, reflection, and perhaps even composition. The city streets became a canvas for his inner world, and in the quiet of his long walks, ideas began to take shape.
Despite this self-imposed isolation, Satie was no hermit. In Montmartre, he frequented cafés where artists and musicians gathered, and his wit made him a memorable presence. But even in these social settings, he remained somewhat apart. He preferred his meals alone and adhered to peculiar habits, such as a diet composed exclusively of “white foods”—eggs, rice pudding, and sugar among them. The reasons for these choices remain unclear, but they underline the deliberate nature of Satie’s life. Everything he did seemed to follow a private logic that only he fully understood.
This solitude deeply infused his music. The Gnossiennes—those wandering, otherworldly piano pieces—feel like an aural representation of his long walks through Paris. Lacking traditional bar lines or time signatures, they unfold with an introspective fluidity, inviting both performer and listener into a realm where time and structure dissolve. Pianist Anne Queffélec once said of Satie, “To play him is to hold silence in your hands.” This is perhaps most evident in Gnossienne No. 4, a piece that meanders gently, like footsteps on a quiet street, its dissonances and right hand pauses suggesting the unpredictability of thought during a solitary walk. It’s music that feels deeply personal, as though Satie were whispering his secrets directly to the listener.
Gnossienne No. 4 Opening
Yet his isolation was not devoid of humor or playfulness. Satie’s eccentricities were part of his charm, and this whimsy often seeped into his work. In Embryons desséchés (Dried Embryos), for instance, he included absurd instructions in the score—phrases like “on the edge of your tongue” or “open your head.” These annotations poke fun at the seriousness of classical music traditions, offering a glimpse of Satie’s mischievous side. He seemed to find ways to challenge convention, infusing his work with a touch of irreverence.
There was a defiance in Satie’s solitude. It was not the solitude of retreat but of quiet rebellion. In an era dominated by grand symphonies and public spectacle, he turned inward, stripping music to its barest essentials. His was a rebellion of silence and stillness, a deliberate rejection of the overwrought in favor of the understated. And yet, his solitude was not lonely. It was filled with creativity, humor, and a profound connection to his own inner world.
Listening to Satie’s music today, one can sense the echoes of his life in Arcueil—the sound of footsteps on cobblestones, the creak of his piano bench in the stillness of the night, the quiet hum of a man lost in thought. His solitude, far from being a limitation, became the foundation of his genius, reminding us that in stillness and simplicity, there is often a profound richness.
Musical Simplicity or Radical Innovation?
Eric Satie’s music, much like the man himself, defied convention. His compositions were often dismissed as “simple” or “rudimentary” by critics who failed to look beyond their surface. To them, works like the Gymnopédies (1888) and Gnossiennes (1890) lacked the dense harmonies and technical brilliance that marked the great Romantic works of the time. What they missed, however, was the quiet revolution unfolding in these sparse, meditative pieces. Far from being simplistic, Satie’s music was an intentional rejection of the overwrought drama of Wagner or the virtuosic excesses of Liszt. It offered, instead, a new way of listening—a music that invited contemplation and connection rather than awe.
Opening bars of Gymnopedie No. 1
Take the opening bars of Gymnopédie No. 1. The piece begins with a lilting, steady rhythm in the bass, over which the melody unfolds in soft, measured steps. There is no rush, no grand flourish—just a gentle, almost weightless progression that feels like floating. It’s music that asks nothing of the listener but to exist within its quiet beauty. Pianist Alfred Cortot once described the Gymnopédies as “music that asks you to dream.” It is a fitting observation. These works don’t demand attention; they subtly invite it, creating an atmosphere that seems to dissolve the barriers between sound and silence.
Satie himself saw this as the essence of his approach. “I am not seeking to delight the ear, but to touch the soul,” he wrote. The Gymnopédies achieve precisely that, with their soft dissonances and open harmonies that leave space for the listener’s imagination. In their simplicity, they reveal a depth that many missed during his lifetime but which resonates profoundly with modern audiences.
Gnossiennes No. 1 opening notation
The Gnossiennes, written shortly after, push this idea even further. These works lack traditional time signatures, freeing the performer to interpret their rhythms and pauses intuitively. This was radical for its time, a quiet rebellion against the rigid structures of classical music. The result is music that feels organic and alive, as though it is being composed in the moment. Gnossienne No. 1, for example, has a haunting, almost improvisational quality. Its unresolved harmonies and meandering melody seem to wander through uncharted emotional terrain. To play it is to experience a kind of vulnerability, as though you are tracing the contours of your own thoughts.
Critics of Satie’s era mistook this openness for incompleteness. They saw his sparse textures and unadorned melodies as evidence of a lack of skill, rather than a deliberate artistic choice. But Satie’s innovations were not about complexity for its own sake. They were about creating space—space for the listener to breathe, to reflect, to feel. In this way, his work anticipated entire movements that would emerge decades later. Minimalism, ambient music, even film scoring owe a debt to Satie’s ability to strip music down to its essence.
Consider his concept of musique d’ameublement, or “furniture music.” Satie envisioned these pieces not as concert works to be listened to intently, but as background music that would blend into the environment. He was, in essence, creating the blueprint for ambient music long before it had a name. Brian Eno, often credited as the father of ambient music, cited Satie as a major influence, noting that his work “changed the way we think about music entirely.”
Yet even in this pursuit of simplicity, Satie’s music never feels empty. It is filled with subtle details—the gentle dissonances in Gymnopédie No. 2, the unexpected rhythmic shifts in Gnossienne No. 3—that reveal themselves only through careful listening. This is music that rewards patience, that grows deeper with each encounter. Satie’s genius lay in his ability to say so much with so little, to create works that feel timeless in their restraint.
For those new to Satie’s music, the Gymnopédies and Gnossiennes are the perfect starting point. Listen to them in a quiet room, without distraction, and let their understated beauty unfold. As you do, you may find that Satie’s true innovation was not in what he added, but in what he chose to leave out. In a world often filled with noise—both literal and figurative—his music offers a rare gift: the chance to pause, to reflect, and to dream.
Rejection and Resilience
Eric Satie’s career unfolded on the margins, where ridicule often replaced recognition. Despite the early promise of his collaborations with Claude Debussy, who orchestrated two of the Gymnopédies (I think the piano version is much better), Satie remained an outsider in the Parisian music scene. Critics dismissed him as unserious, and his compositions were often labeled as oddities rather than masterpieces.
Financial hardship followed him throughout his life. He lived in near-poverty for much of it, performing odd jobs, such as playing piano at cabarets, to make ends meet. Yet Satie never allowed these struggles to diminish his creative spirit. In fact, his rejection by the establishment seemed to fuel his resolve to push boundaries. His life was a quiet testament to resilience: a refusal to bend to convention and a commitment to his own artistic vision, no matter the cost.
This determination culminated in one of the most audacious collaborations of his career: the 1917 ballet Parade. Satie worked alongside Pablo Picasso, who designed the sets and costumes, and Jean Cocteau, who wrote the libretto. The ballet’s premiere was a scandal. Audiences were baffled by its surreal aesthetic and unconventional score, which incorporated the sounds of typewriters, sirens, and gunshots. Critics were quick to condemn it, calling it chaotic and absurd. But Parade was more than a ballet; it was a statement. It challenged the boundaries of what music, art, and performance could be, laying the groundwork for the avant-garde movements that followed.
Cocteau described Satie as “a gentle genius,” someone whose ideas were “too forward-thinking” for his contemporaries. Indeed, Satie’s work often felt like a puzzle the world wasn’t ready to solve. Yet he never wavered, embracing his role as an innovator and provocateur. His resilience was not just a matter of survival—it was an act of defiance, a refusal to let rejection define him.
Legacy of a Maverick
Eric Satie’s influence, once barely acknowledged, has now permeated nearly every corner of modern music. The experimental composer John Cage famously called Satie “indispensable,” citing him as a profound inspiration for his own groundbreaking work. Cage was particularly drawn to Satie’s concept of musique d’ameublement (furniture music)—a radical idea that music could serve as a background element, blending into the environment rather than demanding attention. As mentioned above, this concept laid the foundation for the ambient music movement spearheaded by Brian Eno decades later. Eno himself credited Satie as a pioneer, noting that his ideas “transformed the way we think about sound and space.”
Satie’s pared-down approach to composition also presaged the minimalist movement of the mid-20th century. Composers like Philip Glass and Steve Reich adopted the clarity and repetition that Satie had explored in works like the Gymnopédies and Gnossiennes. Reich once remarked that Satie’s music “embraced restraint without losing its humanity,” a quality that became a hallmark of minimalism. Where Romantic composers sought grandeur, Satie sought intimacy. Where others pursued complexity, he found beauty in simplicity.
But Satie’s influence extends beyond his structural innovations. His playful spirit, seen in works like Embryons desséchés, has inspired countless artists to approach their craft with humor and irreverence. His use of unconventional sounds in Parade paved the way for composers to explore nontraditional instruments and found sounds. And his insistence on individuality—on creating music that was unapologetically his own—remains a powerful example for artists in any medium.
Today, Satie’s music is performed in concert halls, used in films, and studied in conservatories around the world. Pieces like Gymnopédie No. 1 and Gnossienne No. 1 have become timeless, their quiet beauty resonating perhaps more deeply now as when they were first written. For listeners, Satie’s work offers not just an escape from the noise of the world but an invitation to pause, to reflect, and to find meaning in stillness.
Satie himself once wrote, “I am not here to please others. I am here to express what is in me.” His legacy is proof that art born from such authenticity, no matter how misunderstood in its time, will find its place in the hearts of future generations.
Erik Satie Listening Recommendations
For readers new to Satie’s music, start with:
Gymnopédies (particularly No. 1) for its haunting beauty.
Gnossiennes for their enigmatic and improvisational quality.
Parade for a glimpse into his avant-garde collaborations.
Musique d’ameublement to appreciate his revolutionary concept of background music.
Through these works, one can hear not only the notes of a misunderstood genius but also the echoes of a man who dared to dream differently.
I’d like to add a short note regarding Musique d’ameublement because as a composer, what Satie was doing is just too fantastic to not comment on!
musique d’ameublement (furniture music)
Érik Satie’s concept of musique d’ameublement (furniture music) was groundbreaking for its time, proposing music designed not for focused listening but to blend seamlessly into the background, like functional decor. The term was first coined by Satie in 1917 and expanded on in 1920. He composed five pieces within this framework, each with a specific purpose tied to a mundane, everyday setting. Here are the titles and their meanings:
1. “Tapisserie en Fer Forgé” (Wrought Iron Tapestry)
Purpose: This piece was intended as background music for a social gathering in an art gallery or living room.
Meaning: The title evokes the image of delicate yet functional craftsmanship, like wrought iron decor. The music itself reflects a sense of structural simplicity, meant to “decorate” a space without drawing attention to itself.
2. “Carrelage Phonique” (Phonic Tiling)
Purpose: Written to provide aural “tiling” for a hallway, similar to how decorative tiles cover walls or floors.
Meaning: The title emphasizes the functional, architectural nature of the music. It was meant to “cover” the auditory space in a similar way that tiling covers a surface, creating a cohesive, subtle auditory background.
3. “Remplissage Sonore pour un Cabinet Préfectoral” (Sound Filler for a Prefect’s Office)
Purpose: Designed as filler music for a bureaucratic office, specifically a prefectural government office.
Meaning: The title highlights the utilitarian nature of the composition, intended to provide a pleasant sonic backdrop to mundane, administrative activities.
4. “Musique d’ameublement: Pour un Avion” (Furniture Music: For an Airplane)
Purpose: Though not officially documented, this piece is often associated with public or transport-related spaces, such as an airport or an airplane hangar.
Meaning: The title reflects Satie’s forward-thinking vision, imagining functional music for emerging modern environments like air travel.
5. “Sonorités Nouvellement et Opportunément Meublées” (Newly and Opportunely Furnished Sonorities)
Purpose: Likely intended as a flexible, adaptable composition for a variety of spaces.
Meaning: The playful title suggests a freshly designed auditory “furniture,” meant to enhance the mood of a space opportunistically, fitting the specific needs of the environment.
Philosophy and Reception
Satie introduced these works as part of his collaboration with Dadaist and avant-garde artists. When first performed during a public event in 1920, Satie encouraged the audience to talk over the music and ignore it, emphasizing its role as background ambiance. However, the audience misunderstood and actively tried to listen, much to Satie’s frustration.
The pieces reflected Satie’s vision for music as part of daily life, stripped of its traditional prestige or formality. Although musique d’ameublement was not widely embraced in his time, the concept profoundly influenced 20th-century ambient music and sound design.
There was an evening in Florence that feels as vivid now as the moment it happened. It was a night of rain, the kind that hushes a city, softening its machines and animals. The rock-streets glistened, reflecting hazy pools of light from the lanterns overhead. I’d wandered aimlessly until I decided on getting some dinner at a trattoria—one of those unmarked places that seemed to hover between worlds, tucked away from the usual bustle of tourists and noise. It felt like an old secret waiting patiently to be found.
Outside under the awning, the air was cooling, scented with rosemary and olive oil, quiet except for the murmur of voices scattered along the alley. A single candle flickered on my table, casting soft light over the white tablecloth, worn soft by countless hands over countless years. I settled into a chair that felt molded to its place, as if it had always been there, unmovable.
When I ordered the house pasta, it was mostly out of habit, without much expectation. A comfort food, something to pass the time. But when the bowl arrived, I couldn’t help but grin. Here was the chef’s pride—a bowl of golden pasta with nothing but a trickle of olive oil and a dusting of Parmesan. It looked perfect in its simplicity.
I took a bite, and the world tilted. The pasta was rich without being heavy; filling my mouth with flavors that seemed to grow and bloom with each taste. There was an unassuming depth to it, a subtlety that wasn’t designed to dazzle but to invite. I found myself slowing down, savoring each bite, listening to the soft patter of rain on the stones. It felt like a ritual, as though I’d been ushered into a kind of meditation, and the pasta was somehow the teacher.
As I sat there, marveling at the flavor, the chef wandered over, wiping his hands on his apron, and he must have seen the curiosity on my face. I asked him, half-jokingly, how something so simple could feel so alive. He smiled—a slow, patient smile, and he placed his hands on the table with a kind of reverence, as if the wood itself held memories.
“Pasta is a simple thing,” he said, almost to himself. “But simplicity, in the right hands, can carry the weight of generations. It’s not about what I add,” he said quietly, “but about understanding what’s already there. Every ingredient carries a story. I just listen.”
And there it was. This bowl of pasta wasn’t just flour, eggs, and oil. It was wheat that had been cultivated by countless hands across countless ages, olive oil pressed from trees that had stood for centuries, their roots winding into the hillside. The eggs were from chickens, themselves part of a lineage as ancient as the land. It wasn’t that ancient was better; it was that the chef knew this history, understood the reverence it deserved. He wasn’t just cooking; he was bearing witness to something much older, much larger than himself. His work, in that moment, was the next step in a journey that began long before he was born.
I left Florence, but that night stayed with me, trailing me back home, haunting me in the quiet, early hours as I sat at my piano, tracing the lines of melodies that seemed so pale and weightless by comparison. What would it mean, I wondered, to create music with that same kind of reverence? To strip down the artifice and discover what lay beneath, to find a way to make music that, like that pasta, could carry its own quiet power, even in the absence of embellishment?
My fingers rested on the keys, feeling the solid weight beneath them. What were the ingredients of music, really? Not the notes themselves but the forces that shaped them? I thought of time first, not as a sequence of beats, but as a kind of inheritance—a pulse that connected each note to every rhythm that had come before it. Time was to music what flour was to pasta; it held everything together. I pressed a key and let the note ring out, listening to the silence that followed, feeling how it filled the room. I’d always used music to fill space, to keep things moving. But now, I could hear the fullness of that space in the vibrations and the connection of space and time – the room and the time notes occupied the room. I was relearning to listen to time. My music typically has a “spaciousness” to it – I rarely write “busy” music. But re-engaging with time in such a holistic way was something I needed.
As I sunk into the vibrations of the sounds and the space, I rediscovered a depth to each note and the combinations of vibrations. This I call “Quality” of sound. This is the timbre, pitch, dynamics, and other qualities to a sound that communicates so directly. After studying Music Composition and Theory, I’d often chased layers, harmonies, articulations, thinking that being clever or erudite was the answer. But what if I added another meaning to my term “quality”? Just as the chef had chosen his ingredients not for their flash but for their depth, what if sound, too, had a kind of lineage, a resonance that went beyond pitch or tone? I played a single note and let it linger, hearing its timbre, its weight, the way it seemed to stretch beyond the physical key. I began to understand that each note due to they way it’s produced had a kind of spirit, a color that was clearer, fuller when left alone, when not muddied by unnecessary “over composing”. This is not to say I wanted to become an extreme minimalist, it’s more about understanding the vibrations as intimately and deeply as possible. Just like the chef knowing which farm raised the wheat and what variety and when it was harvested and how it was milled and wha the season was like and on and on to finally inform his use of the flour in his pasta.
Though I turned a new ear to Time and Quality, I realized I’d been missing a piece – Intention. The chef wasn’t simply feeding people; he was inviting them to pause, to taste something timeless. There was a purpose behind his simplicity, a mission woven into every dish he served. He wanted to educate people to pay attention to what they are eating. To pay attention to how what we eat not only affects our bodies, but also the world around us. Of course, music is more than sound (but at the same time it is not!). Music is an invitation to connect, to listen not just with the ears but with something deeper. I realized, in that moment, that my purpose wasn’t to impress or to dazzle but to offer something real, something that could reach people in a way that words never could.
But it was more than that. Music, like that bowl of pasta, needed a setting, a ritual, a respect for the space it inhabited. I thought of that trattoria, the flickering candlelight, the soft murmur of voices, how everything in that environment seemed to pull you into a slower rhythm. Just as that meal had been something to savor, music, too, needs its own sanctuary. Without that space, it becomes diluted, like Muzak in the background, filling a room without meaning, cheapening itself in the process.
When music is reduced to background noise, it’s like junk food—there to fill the silence, to clutter the mind. And like junk food, it leaves the spirit empty, unfulfilled. In that trattoria, I had tasted something that felt sacred, something that asked for reverence. Music deserves the same respect, a kind of ritual that invites the listener to pause, to be still, to let the sound fill them without rush or distraction. I was taken back to my high school and college days when I’d give music that space and time. I’d quiet the room and prepare to listen intently. I’d share the space with friends and experience something together. In particular I remember the first time my friend and I sat and listened to Alfred Schnittke’s Concerto Grosso No. 1 and I was simply blown away. But it wasn’t just the music it was the tea we prepared before settling in. It was dimming the lights. It was adjusting the volume before pressing play so that everything came across perfectly. It was 30 minutes of being focused and awash in sound in a sacred setting.
In the days that followed my trip to Florence, I returned to my piano, letting each note settle, each phrase find its own breath. The music didn’t need to be stripped of its complexity; it needed to find its own shape, its own natural form, much like that bowl of pasta wasn’t simply thrown together but crafted, each ingredient honored. A complex piece could still feel simple, I realized, if it respected the core elements—rhythm, tone, and purpose. It wasn’t about reducing music to the fewest notes but about choosing the right ones, letting each sound emerge with a clarity and fullness that honored its place.
Just having fun with the AI images!
Now, when I compose, I feel that lineage under my hands—the heartbeat of time, the weight of sound, the quiet urgency of intention. My notes are simpler, yes, but they are not bare; they are full, rounded by the history and care that shapes them. I have come to trust in the depth of simplicity, whether it emerges as a single line or a layered composition, letting the music speak for itself, carrying the weight of generations, one note at a time.And so I play, listening for the ever-present vibrations beneath, trusting that each note, each pause, holds a story all its own—a story that, like that bowl of pasta, reaches back to something timeless, something beyond words, asking only that we listen.
Pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Music Theory and Composition was one of the most fulfilling and transformative experiences of my life. It wasn’t just about becoming a better musician; it was an immersion into the depths of sound, creativity, and intellectual rigor. As I reflect on my four years of study, several key moments stand out—each one shaping me both as a composer and as a person.
Musical Bootcamp: Surviving the First Two Years
The first two years of my degree felt like a musical bootcamp. The intensity of these early classes, especially in music theory, was a significant factor behind the high dropout rate. Our classes began at 7:00 a.m. every weekday morning, a time when most people were still waking up, and yet we were already diving into harmonic analysis, counterpoint, and ear training. This grueling schedule tested our discipline and mental endurance. For many, it was simply overwhelming. The complexity of the material, combined with the sheer volume of work, caused many students to give up.
I called it “musical bootcamp” because it truly felt like an endurance test. For me, though, it was exhilarating. Each day was a challenge to master abstract theoretical concepts that most people never encounter. I had a natural affinity for theory, which helped me thrive where others struggled. That may have been part of why I chose music theory as my major—I loved the intellectual aspect of it. But the bond that developed between those of us who endured these early years was powerful. The shared struggle created a camaraderie that made us stronger, and we came to see that music theory wasn’t just a necessary academic hurdle—it was the foundation for our creativity as composers. My class of Music Theory and Composition graduates was comprised of only four or five people!
Creating in an Academic Environment and the Fear of Accessibility
As I progressed in my studies, I finally began taking composition lessons. This was the part I had looked forward to most, and it didn’t disappoint. There was an intense pressure to create music—not just any music, but compositions that pushed boundaries and challenged conventions. I loved composing, and I eagerly anticipated the feedback from my professors and classmates. But in the academic environment, there was an unspoken rule: if your music was too “accessible”—if it resonated too easily with listeners—it couldn’t be taken seriously.
This ethos was something I encountered not only at my school but across composition programs everywhere. Complexity, dissonance, and innovation were seen as the hallmarks of a “serious” composer. If your music was melodic or easy to listen to, it was often dismissed as too simple or insufficiently sophisticated. While I understood the value of experimentation and intellectual rigor, this pressure to create music that alienated casual listeners sometimes felt stifling.
One day, during a composition lesson, I was struggling to explain why I had written a particular section of my piece in the way I had. My professor could see I was wrestling with how to justify it in theoretical terms. He stopped me and said, “If it sounds good, it is good.” That simple statement had a profound impact on me. His advice was liberating. It reminded me to trust my ear and my instincts, even if I couldn’t articulate the reasoning behind every musical decision. Sometimes, if it sounds right, it is right.
Try your best but realize you are not creating your Magnus opus!
This lesson helped relieve some of the pressure to create music of staggering genius and allowed me to simply create. The process of writing music, getting it from my head to the page, and then into a performer’s hands was far more important than endlessly laboring over a score, only to let it languish unheard.
Bridging Rock and Pop with Classical Performance
Throughout my studies, I found ways to integrate my background in rock and pop music into the world of classical composition. One of my most memorable performances occurred during a Wednesday concert—a weekly showcase where students performed their work. For this particular piece, I combined a pre-recorded electronic track with a live violin performance. It was unconventional in its presentation: I began playing my unamplified violin at the back of the auditorium, walking slowly down the aisle until I reached the stage.
The combination of the electronic track with the acoustic sound of the violin created a unique texture that felt distinctly modern, and my peers responded positively. Several students compared my piece to the sound of Sigur Rós, a comparison I welcomed. For me, it was a validation of my belief that different musical genres don’t need to be separated. By blending my rock and pop sensibilities with classical techniques, I found a way to express myself authentically, and that resonated with my fellow students.
Realizing How Much I Didn’t Know
One of the most humbling experiences during my studies came when I composed a graphic score with elements of indeterminism—a piece where performers had freedom to interpret certain sections. I was proud of my innovation and eager to share it with my professor. He appreciated the piece and gave me constructive feedback. However, near the end of our discussion, he casually mentioned, “This looks a lot like the music coming out of the late 60s.”
That comment hit me hard. I had believed I was creating something groundbreaking, only to realize I was decades behind. It was a critical learning moment for me. While my education had given me a strong foundation, there was still so much music history I had yet to explore. I realized that I didn’t know what I didn’t know—a humbling but necessary revelation. It became clear that to truly innovate, I needed to immerse myself in the music that came before me and expand my understanding of the broader musical landscape.
Performance of my piece Waves for two pianos.
The Narrowing Path of Music Theory
As I neared the end of my degree, I found myself growing disillusioned with the extreme end of music theory. I took an advanced course on the relationship between math and music, which focused on abstract structures and patterns. While I could appreciate the intellectual challenge, it felt increasingly disconnected from what had drawn me to music in the first place. The research papers I wrote on obscure theoretical topics often felt pointless, and I frequently found myself wondering, “Who cares?”
For some, this deep theoretical work was fulfilling, but for me, it was a departure from the emotional and expressive core of music. I realized that my passion lay in creating music, not analyzing it to death. I wanted to trust my ear and my creative instincts more than I wanted to spend my time dissecting mathematical patterns in pitch relationships. Composition felt like a more authentic expression of who I was as a musician.
A Glimpse into the Academic Future
Looking toward the future, I considered a career in academia. I had great respect for my professors, but I also saw the harsh realities of that career path. Many of my professors were highly educated and talented, yet they struggled to make ends meet. One professor even worked as a bartender on the side to supplement his income. It became clear to me that pursuing a career as a university professor in music would likely mean facing similar challenges.
The financial aspect wasn’t the only issue. The academic system itself seemed difficult to navigate, with few opportunities for upward mobility. Many musicians and composers were stuck in entry-level teaching positions, earning barely enough to live on. While I was passionate about music, the prospect of spending years fighting for a stable position in academia didn’t appeal to me.
On top of that, I witnessed the fierce fight my professors went through in order to have their pieces performed! Writing grants, submitting to competitions and symposiums…basically desperate for performances. Not that I’ve been able to navigate this piece of the puzzle very well, but I think if your goal is to write music and get it out to a wide audience, remaining in academia is not the optimal path.
A New Path: Ethnomusicology in Thailand
After graduation, I decided against pursuing a master’s degree in Music Composition. The cost simply wasn’t justifiable. Instead, I set off on a new adventure: moving to Thailand to study Ethnomusicology at Mahidol University College of Music. I was the first Western student to attend the program, and I flew over on a one-way ticket, excited for the unknown.
It was the right decision. I had spent four years deeply immersed in Western classical music, but I was ready to broaden my horizons and explore new musical traditions. Studying Ethnomusicology in Thailand exposed me to a world of sounds and ideas that I had never encountered before. It was a transformative experience that enriched my understanding of music on a global scale.
I quickly learned a couple things about music by studying Thai court music: 1) harmonic analysis and melodic analysis tools I used all the time in my undergraduate work were more or less useless when investigating music that doesn’t share the same formative forces (structures, goals, etc.). And 2) I learned that the relationship between teacher and student can be dramatically different. In my American mind, offering opinions and disagreeing and engaging with professors is a sign that you are excited and interested in a topic. It’s a sign of respect to engage with a professor. However in Thailand, I learned that students are more or less expected to offer opinions when asked and the teacher is more or less always right. It’s more of a parental relationship than a colleague relationship – both have their pros and cons.
Conclusion: Re-engaging with My Passion
Looking back on my time studying Music Theory and Composition, I feel an immense sense of gratitude. It was a challenging, sometimes grueling experience, but it shaped me as both a musician and a person. During those four years, my life revolved around music—whether I was composing, performing, or simply discussing music with friends.
Over the intervening years after graduation I dropped away from music. Music would pop back up in my life here and there, so it never truly left, but I haven’t been engaging with it like I did when I was in the University system. Today, I’m working to re-engage with that same passion. My education was solid, and my professors pushed me to strive for excellence. But with age, I’ve come to understand that music is about more than theory, more than analysis, and more than academia. It’s about creating something that feels true to me and connects with others, whether it’s complex or simple, popular or avant-garde. In the end, if it sounds good, it is good.
I learned about voice leading from a very academic angle. It was introduced to me through counterpoint and then through four-part writing. I was never a singer, except for my first year of college where I had to be in the choir, and though voice leading pertains to all instruments, it’s very clear when singing. When singing part of a choir you see/feel where your melodic line fits and moves within the music – i.e., voice leading.
Voice leading is the way that individual parts in a musical composition move, or “lead,” between different pitches and chords. It refers to the smooth and logical progression of individual voices within a piece of music, and is an important aspect of counterpoint, which is the art of combining melodies in a way that is harmonically interesting and pleasing to the ear.
In a piece of music that has multiple voices or parts, voice leading helps to create coherence and continuity by ensuring that the individual lines flow smoothly and logically from one chord to the next. It can involve the use of various techniques, such as smooth movement by step (minor 2nd or major 2nds), leaps (anything larger than an interval of a 3rd), or scale degree, or the use of voice exchange, where two voices swap melodic material – like the alto taking over from the soprano line.
Good voice leading can help create a sense of forward momentum and direction in a piece of music and can also contribute to its overall structural coherence. It’s an important aspect of composition and is often considered in conjunction with other factors such as melody, harmony, and form.
Voice leading in Baroque, Classical, and Romantic music?
Voice leading is an important aspect of music composition in many different musical styles and periods. In Baroque music, which flourished in Europe from the late 16th to the early 18th century, voice leading was often used to create intricate and complex counterpoint (checkout my articles on counterpoint), with multiple voices interacting and interweaving with one another in a highly structured manner.
In classical music, which emerged in the late 18th century, voice leading continued to be an important factor in composition. Classical composers such as Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven often used voice leading to create smooth and logical progressions between chords, and to ensure that the individual voices in a piece of music moved in a cohesive and coherent manner.
In Romantic music, which emerged in the 19th century, voice leading played a somewhat different role. Romantic composers such as Wagner, Liszt, and Chopin often used voice leading to create more expressive and emotional effects, and to create a sense of drama and tension in their music. In Romantic music, voice leading was often used to heighten the emotional impact of a piece by creating more dissonant and expressive progressions between chords, or by using larger leaps and more chromatic movement in the individual voices.
Overall, the role of voice leading in different musical styles and periods has varied somewhat, but it has remained an important factor in the creation of well-crafted and harmonically interesting music.
Voice leading in contemporary pop music
Voice leading is an important aspect of music composition in many different styles and genres, including contemporary pop music. In pop music, voice leading is often used to create smooth and logical progressions between chords, and to ensure that the individual voices in a piece of music move in a cohesive and coherent manner.
In pop music, voice leading is often used in conjunction with other techniques such as chord progressions and melodies to create a specific emotional or stylistic effect. For example, a pop song might use voice leading to create a sense of tension or resolution, or to add depth and complexity to the harmonies.
In contemporary pop music, voice leading is often used in combination with electronic instrumentation and production techniques, such as synthesizers and drum machines. These tools allow for a wide range of creative possibilities in terms of voicing and arranging the individual parts in a piece of music, and can be used to create intricate and expressive voice leading patterns.
Voice leading is an important aspect of contemporary pop music and is used by songwriters and producers to create harmonically interesting and emotionally impactful music.
Voice leading and its evolution from Gregorian chant to today
Voice leading in music has evolved significantly over time, and the ways in which it has been used and understood have varied significantly between different musical styles and periods.
One of the earliest forms of Western music that made use of voice leading was Gregorian chant, which flourished in the Western Church from the 9th to the 12th centuries. In Gregorian chant, voice leading was often used to create a sense of unity and coherence within a piece of music, with the individual voices moving in a smooth and logical manner between different pitches and chords. Voices during this period were limited, not by any rule but by what they found to be pleasing, to a small set of intervals – unison, perfect fourths, perfect fifths, and octaves.
As Western music developed over the centuries, the ways in which voice leading was used and understood continued to evolve. By the time we reach the 21st century all bets are off when it comes to voice leading but in pop music there are overarching trends.
In contemporary music, voice leading continues to be an important aspect of music composition and is used in a wide range of styles and genres, including pop, rock, electronic, and more. The ways in which it is used and understood have continued to evolve over time, and today, voice leading is a vital part of the musical language. Voice leading sensibilities have been shaped by at least a thousand years of composers paying attention to how polyphonic voices interact.
Voice leading outside the Western music tradition
Voice leading is a concept that is relevant to many different musical traditions, and is not limited to the Western musical tradition. In fact, voice leading has been an important aspect of music composition in many different cultures and musical styles around the world.
In non-Western musical traditions, voice leading is often used to create specific musical effects and to achieve specific musical goals. For example, in traditional Indian music, voice leading is often used to create complex and intricate melodies, and to achieve specific emotional and expressive effects.
In African music, voice leading is often used to create a sense of unity and coherence within a piece of music, and to create a sense of group identity and collective expression. In many African musical traditions, voice leading is closely tied to the use of call and response patterns, where one voice or instrument leads and the others respond.
Two examples of well-known voice leading
“Canon in D” by Johann Pachelbel
Canon in D is a piece of music that is widely known for its excellent voice leading. The piece is a canon, which means that it is built on a repeating melody that is played by different voices at different times. In “Canon in D,” the main melody is played by the first violin, while the second violin, viola, and cello provide accompanying lines that follow and respond to the main melody.
One of the things that makes the voice leading in “Canon in D” so effective is the way that the different voices move smoothly and logically between different chords. The main melody moves by step, while the accompanying voices move in a more flowing and legato style. This creates a sense of unity and coherence within the piece and helps to give it a sense of forward momentum and direction.
“Moonlight Sonata” by Ludwig van Beethoven
“Moonlight Sonata” by Ludwig van Beethoven is a piece of music that is known for its excellent voice leading. The first movement of the sonata, which is the most well-known part of the piece, is built around a series of arpeggios, or broken chords, that move smoothly and logically between different chords. Logical movement means the melody and the harmony move according to long established chord progressions and utilize intervals suited to the tastes of the day.
One of the things that makes the voice leading in “Moonlight Sonata” so effective is the way that the different voices move smoothly and logically between different chords. The main melody is played by the right hand, and moves in a flowing and legato style, while the left hand plays a series of arpeggios that provide a harmonic foundation for the piece. This creates a sense of unity and coherence within the piece and adds to its overall structure and flow.
There are many great articles and videos discussing the technical side of timbre (pronounced “tam” + “bur”), so I wanted to address timbre from a different angle. I was reading The Musical Human by Michael Spitzer and found a section that brought up the issue of timbre to be interesting.
Spitzer pointed out that a change in timbre completely changes the meaning of a word. Nothing real novel except that he was referencing apes, not humans. He argues that timbre above melody, grammar, or syntax is what drives the meaning in communication. What I take from that is, timbre is the prime mover of meaning and emotions in music.
What is Timbre?
Before diving into this topic, I want to quickly go over what timbre is. Timbre is what makes each sound have a unique and identifiable sound. It’s how we can tell our mom’s voice from our sister’s voice. Or how we can tell the difference between a piano playing the pitch A and an oboe playing the same note. It’s the physical differences of the instrument or object and how vibrations interact with that object that gives everything a different timbre. A vibrating string versus vibrating vocal cords will sound very different even if they are creating the same pitch.
Timbre is related to words we use to describe sounds like bright, dark, round, tinny, warm, etc. Each of those words is describing the frequencies that are produced by that particular instrument. Timbre can be very apparent and very subtle. It’s obvious to hear the difference between the sound striking a rock makes versus a gong. But it can be extremely difficult to hear the difference between a $40,000 brand new cello and an $800,000 cello made 200 years ago. The difference is there but more difficult to articulate.
Why is timbre so important?
Back to why timbre is perhaps the most important part of music. I say this because it may be the most ancient part of music that came to modern humans via apes. Spitzer points out that humans don’t come from a long line of music-making ancestors. Primates don’t have a sense of rhythm like insects, melodies like birds, or a repertoire of songs that adapt and are passed down like whales. Primates, aside from humans, don’t use vocalization as their primary way of communication – they use body language. But if we look at what does matter to our primate cousins it’s timbre or “tone of voice.”
Spitzer’s example is of a species of Old World monkey from Ethiopia called geladas. Geladas have a wide range of calls that are typically used to “keep the peace within their harems.” Here is a short clip showing the sounds the geladas make.
According to research by Bruce Richman, the geladas can have multiple meanings for the same series of sounds (word). One example he gave was of the sound that meant “a male’s friendly approach.” But he also witnessed this same series of sounds that were made with a tight voice that expressed the male had just engaged in a bout of threats with competing bachelor males. Richman says the gelada is expressing two emotional states at the same time by changing the tone of voice. Spitzer claims this is evidence that the emotional tone, contour, rhythm, and pace of voice are more important to the origin of language than previously thought. I think this also shows that the parameters that music manipulates (tone, contour, rhythm, etc.) have deep communicative power stemming from our evolutionary roots.
I have truly enjoyed reading Spitzer’s book, The Musical Human, and highly recommend those interested in music to give it a read.
The difference between calls and music
Spitzer discusses the difference between a call and music. Some primates sound like they sing songs, but some key features make these calls and not music.
“Male and female gibbons sing love duets, intricate and beautiful, sometimes lasting an hour. We also know of song in tarsiers, indri and langurs. The point is, however, that gibbons, tarsiers, indri and langurs are born knowing these sounds, they are the same across the habitat, and they never change. They are calls, not music.”
Spitzer, michael. the musical human. 2021. pg 305
My thoughts on this are that humans have hung on to this ear for timbre and rely on it heavily in speech as well as music. Composers think long and hard about what instruments they want playing which parts. But perhaps renewed emphasis on timbre will emerge with the knowledge that different timbres communicate at a deeper level. Timbre speaks to our emotions more readily than even rhythm, harmony, or melody.
Examples of timbre
Many pieces of music explore timbre and many traditions of music value timbre above other aspects of the music – particularly vocal music. Listen to these Tuvan throat singers and how they exploit a very specific timbre the voice can produce.
Now compare that timbre to this Native American pow wow music. It’s more than a difference in style or pitch, it’s a difference in timbre choice.
The examples could go on and on because there are virtually an infinite number of distinct timbres. Here is an example from Indian music. The singer’s timbre is more nasal and “pinched” than is typical in Western music.
Concluding thoughts on timbre
Timbre communicates before melody, rhythm, or any other musical factor. Think of how parents can tell the differences between cries of pain, hunger, fear, and frustration, that come from their children. The “words” are the same. There is no melody or rhythm to speak of. It is the timbre of the cry that conveys so much meaning.
When listening to or writing your own music, consider the extreme power of timbre and how it can enhance your work and experience.
